BROTHER SEBASTIAN’S FRIENDSHIP
BY HAROLD FREDERIC
[Footnote:  By permission of the “Utica Observer.”]

I who tell this story am called Brother Sebastian.  This name was given me more than forty years ago, while Louis Philippe was still king.  My other name has been buried so long that I have nearly forgotten it.  I think that my people are dead.  At least I have heard nothing from them in many years.  My reputation has always been that of a misanthrope—­if not that, then of a dreamer.  In the seminary I had no intimates.  In the order, for I am a Brother of the Christian Schools, my associates are polite—­nothing more.  I seem to be outside their social circles, their plans, their enjoyments.  True, I am an old man now.  But in other years it was the same.  All my life I have been in solitude.

To this there is a single exception—­one star shining in the blackness.  And my career has been so bleak that, although it ended in deeper sadness than I had known before, I look back to the epsiode with gratitude.  The bank of clouds which shut out this sole light of my life quickened its brilliancy before they submerged it.

After the terrible siege of ’71, when the last German was gone, and our houses had breasted the ordeal of the Commune, I was sent to the South.  The Superior thought my cheeks were ominously hollow, and suspected threats of consumption in my cough.  So I was to go to the Mediterranean, and try its milder air.  I liked the change.  Paris, with its gloss of noisy gayety and its substance of sceptical heartlessness, was repugnant to me.  Perhaps it was because of this that Brother Sebastian had been mured up in the capital two-thirds of his life.  If our surroundings are too congenial we neglect the work set before us.  But no matter; to the coast I went.

My new home was a long-established house, spacious, venerable, and dreary.  It was on the outskirts of an ancient town, which was of far more importance before our Lord was born than it has ever been since.  We had little to do.  There were nine brothers, a handful of resident orphans, and some threescore pupils.  Ragged, stupid, big-eyed urchins they were, altogether different from the keen Paris boys.  For that matter, every feature of my new home was odd.  The heat of the summer was scorching in its intensity.  The peasants were much more respectful to our cloth, and, as to appearance, looked like figures from Murillo’s canvases.  The foliage, the wine, the language, the manners of the people—­everything was changed.  This interested me, and my morbidness vanished.  The Director was delighted with my improved condition.  Poor man! he was positive that my cheeks had puffed out perceptibly after the first two months.  So the winter came—­a mild, wet, muggy winter, wholly unlike my favorite sharp season in the North.