VI.
"Here you all are," began the prince, "settling yourselves down
to listen to me with so much curiosity, that if I do not satisfy
you you will probably be angry with me. No, no! I'm only
joking!" he added, hastily, with a smile.
"Well, then--they were all children there, and I was always among
children and only with children. They were the children of the
village in which I lived, and they went to the school there--all
of them. I did not teach them, oh no; there was a master for
that, one Jules Thibaut. I may have taught them some things, but
I was among them just as an outsider, and I passed all four years
of my life there among them. I wished for nothing better; I used
to tell them everything and hid nothing from them. Their fathers
and relations were very angry with me, because the children could
do nothing without me at last, and used to throng after me at all
times. The schoolmaster was my greatest enemy in the end! I had
many enemies, and all because of the children. Even Schneider
reproached me. What were they afraid of? One can tell a child
everything, anything. I have often been struck by the fact that
parents know their children so little. They should not conceal so
much from them. How well even little children understand that
their parents conceal things from them, because they consider
them too young to understand! Children are capable of giving
advice in the most important matters. How can one deceive these
dear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly and
confidingly? I call them birds because there is nothing in the
world better than birds!
"However, most of the people were angry with me about one and the
same thing; but Thibaut simply was jealous of me. At first he had
wagged his head and wondered how it was that the children
understood what I told them so well, and could not learn from
him; and he laughed like anything when I replied that neither he
nor I could teach them very much, but that THEY might teach us a
good deal.
"How he could hate me and tell scandalous stories about me,
living among children as he did, is what I cannot understand.
Children soothe and heal the wounded heart. I remember there was
one poor fellow at our professor's who was being treated for
madness, and you have no idea what those children did for
him, eventually. I don't think he was mad, but only terribly
unhappy. But I'll tell you all about him another day. Now I must
get on with this story.
"The children did not love me at first; I was such a sickly,
awkward kind of a fellow then--and I know I am ugly. Besides, I
was a foreigner. The children used to laugh at me, at first; and
they even went so far as to throw stones at me, when they saw me
kiss Marie. I only kissed her once in my life--no, no, don't
laugh!" The prince hastened to suppress the smiles of his
audience at this point. "It was not a matter of LOVE at all! If
only you knew what a miserable creature she was, you would have
pitied her, just as I did. She belonged to our village. Her
mother was an old, old woman, and they used to sell string and
thread, and soap and tobacco, out of the window of their little
house, and lived on the pittance they gained by this trade. The
old woman was ill and very old, and could hardly move. Marie was
her daughter, a girl of twenty, weak and thin and consumptive;
but still she did heavy work at the houses around, day by day.
Well, one fine day a commercial traveller betrayed her and
carried her off; and a week later he deserted her. She came home
dirty, draggled, and shoeless; she had walked for a whole week
without shoes; she had slept in the fields, and caught a terrible
cold; her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands torn and
scratched all over. She never had been pretty even before; but
her eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes.
"She was very quiet always--and I remember once, when she had
suddenly begun singing at her work, everyone said, 'Marie tried
to sing today!' and she got so chaffed that she was silent for
ever after. She had been treated kindly in the place before; but
when she came back now--ill and shunned and miserable--not one of
them all had the slightest sympathy for her. Cruel people! Oh,
what hazy understandings they have on such matters! Her mother
was the first to show the way. She received her wrathfully,
unkindly, and with contempt. 'You have disgraced me,' she said.
She was the first to cast her into ignominy; but when they all
heard that Marie had returned to the village, they ran out to see
her and crowded into the little cottage--old men, children, women,
girls--such a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd. Marie was
lying on the floor at the old woman's feet, hungry, torn,
draggled, crying, miserable.
"When everyone crowded into the room she hid her face in her
dishevelled hair and lay cowering on the floor. Everyone looked
at her as though she were a piece of dirt off the road. The old
men scolded and condemned, and the young ones laughed at her. The
women condemned her too, and looked at her contemptuously, just
as though she were some loathsome insect.
"Her mother allowed all this to go on, and nodded her head and
encouraged them. The old woman was very ill at that time, and
knew she was dying (she really did die a couple of months later),
and though she felt the end approaching she never thought of
forgiving her daughter, to the very day of her death. She would
not even speak to her. She made her sleep on straw in a shed, and
hardly gave her food enough to support life.
"Marie was very gentle to her mother, and nursed her, and did
everything for her; but the old woman accepted all her services
without a word and never showed her the slightest kindness. Marie
bore all this; and I could see when I got to know her that she
thought it quite right and fitting, considering herself the
lowest and meanest of creatures.
"When the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old women
in the village sat with her by turns, as the custom is there; and
then Marie was quite driven out of the house. They gave her no
food at all, and she could not get any work in the village; none
would employ her. The men seemed to consider her no longer a
woman, they said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes on
Sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a
penny or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up the
money. She had began to spit blood at that time.
"At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she was
ashamed of appearing in the village any longer. The children used
to pelt her with mud; so she begged to be taken on as assistant
cowherd, but the cowherd would not have her. Then she took to
helping him without leave; and he saw how valuable her assistance
was to him, and did not drive her away again; on the contrary, he
occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread and
cheese. He considered that he was being very kind. When the
mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold Marie up
to public derision and shame. Marie was standing at the coffin's
head, in all her rags, crying.
"A crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry. The
parson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher,
began his sermon and pointed to Marie. 'There,' he said, 'there
is the cause of the death of this venerable woman'--(which was a
lie, because she had been ill for at least two years)--'there she
stands before you, and dares not lift her eyes from the ground,
because she knows that the finger of God is upon her. Look at her
tatters and rags--the badge of those who lose their virtue. Who
is she? her daughter!' and so on to the end.
"And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly.
Only the children had altered--for then they were all on my side
and had learned to love Marie.
"This is how it was: I had wished to do something for Marie; I
longed to give her some money, but I never had a farthing while I
was there. But I had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to a
travelling pedlar; he gave me eight francs for it--it was worth
at least forty.
"I long sought to meet Marie alone; and at last I did meet her,
on the hillside beyond the village. I gave her the eight francs
and asked her to take care of the money because I could get no
more; and then I kissed her and said that she was not to suppose
I kissed her with any evil motives or because I was in love with
her, for that I did so solely out of pity for her, and because
from the first I had not accounted her as guilty so much as
unfortunate. I longed to console and encourage her somehow, and
to assure her that she was not the low, base thing which she and
others strove to make out; but I don't think she understood me.
She stood before me, dreadfully ashamed of herself, and with
downcast eyes; and when I had finished she kissed my hand. I
would have kissed hers, but she drew it away. Just at this moment
the whole troop of children saw us. (I found out afterwards that
they had long kept a watch upon me.) They all began whistling and
clapping their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at once;
and when I tried to talk to them, they threw stones at me. All
the village heard of it the same day, and Marie's position became
worse than ever. The children would not let her pass now in the
streets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her more than before.
They used to run after her--she racing away with her poor feeble
lungs panting and gasping, and they pelting her and shouting
abuse at her.
"Once I had to interfere by force; and after that I took to
speaking to them every day and whenever I could. Occasionally
they stopped and listened; but they teased Marie all the same.
"I told them how unhappy Marie was, and after a while they
stopped their abuse of her, and let her go by silently. Little by
little we got into the way of conversing together, the children
and I. I concealed nothing from them, I told them all. They
listened very attentively and soon began to be sorry for Marie.
At last some of them took to saying 'Good-morning' to her,
kindly, when they met her. It is the custom there to salute
anyone you meet with 'Good-morning' whether acquainted or not. I
can imagine how astonished Marie was at these first greetings
from the children.
"Once two little girls got hold of some food and took it to her,
and came back and told me. They said she had burst into tears,
and that they loved her very much now. Very soon after that they
all became fond of Marie, and at the same time they began to
develop the greatest affection for myself. They often came to me
and begged me to tell them stories. I think I must have told
stories well, for they did so love to hear them. At last I took
to reading up interesting things on purpose to pass them on to
the little ones, and this went on for all the rest of my time
there, three years. Later, when everyone--even Schneider--was
angry with me for hiding nothing from the children, I pointed out
how foolish it was, for they always knew things, only they learnt
them in a way that soiled their minds but not so from me. One has
only to remember one's own childhood to admit the truth of this.
But nobody was convinced. . . It was two weeks before her
mother died that I had kissed Marie; and when the clergyman
preached that sermon the children were all on my side.
"When I told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as he
had done, and explained my reason, they were so angry that some
of them went and broke his windows with stones. Of course I
stopped them, for that was not right, but all the village heard
of it, and how I caught it for spoiling the children! Everyone
discovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond of
Marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed; but Marie was so
happy. The children were forbidden to meet her; but they used to
run out of the village to the herd and take her food and things;
and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said, 'Je
vous aime, Marie!' and then trotted back again. They imagined
that I was in love with Marie, and this was the only point on
which I did not undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of
it. And what delicacy and tenderness they showed!
"In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There was a spot
there which was quite closed in and hidden from view by large
trees; and to this spot the children used to come to me. They
could not bear that their dear Leon should love a poor girl
without shoes to her feet and dressed all in rags and tatters.
So, would you believe it, they actually clubbed together,
somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen, and
even a dress! I can't understand how they managed it, but they
did it, all together. When I asked them about it they only
laughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and
kissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie secretly, too. She had
become very ill, and could hardly walk. She still went with the
herd, but could not help the herdsman any longer. She used to sit
on a stone near, and wait there almost motionless all day, till
the herd went home. Her consumption was so advanced, and she was
so weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathing
heavily. Her face was as thin as a skeleton's, and sweat used to
stand on her white brow in large drops. I always found her
sitting just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her;
but Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently as
she kissed my hands. I did not take my hand away because it made
her happy to have it, and so she would sit and cry quietly.
Sometimes she tried to speak; but it was very difficult to
understand her. She was almost like a madwoman, with excitement
and ecstasy, whenever I came. Occasionally the children came with
me; when they did so, they would stand some way off and keep
guard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This was a
great pleasure to them.
"When we left her, Marie used to relapse at once into her old
condition, and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs. One day
she could not go out at all, and remained at home all alone in
the empty hut; but the children very soon became aware of the
fact, and nearly all of them visited her that day as she lay
alone and helpless in her miserable bed.
"For two days the children looked after her, and then, when the
village people got to know that Marie was really dying, some of
the old women came and took it in turns to sit by her and look
after her a bit. I think they began to be a little sorry for her
in the village at last; at all events they did not interfere with
the children any more, on her account.
"Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while;
she coughed dreadfully. The old women would not let the children
stay in the room; but they all collected outside the window each
morning, if only for a moment, and shouted 'Bon jour, notre
bonne Marie!' and Marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard them,
and she became quite animated at once, and, in spite of the old
women, would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at them,
and thank them. The little ones used to bring her nice things and
sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything. Thanks to
them, I assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy. She
almost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as a
sort of symbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceased
to consider herself a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter at
her window just like little birds, calling out: 'Nous t'aimons,
Marie!'
"She died very soon; I had thought she would live much longer.
The day before her death I went to see her for the last time,
just before sunset. I think she recognized me, for she pressed my
hand.
"Next morning they came and told me that Marie was dead. The
children could not be restrained now; they went and covered her
coffin with flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her
head. The pastor did not throw any more shameful words at the
poor dead woman; but there were very few people at the funeral.
However, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the children
rushed up, to carry it themselves. Of course they could not do it
alone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside and
behind, crying.
"They have planted roses all round her grave, and every year they
look alter the flowers and make Marie's resting-place as
beautiful as they can. I was in ill odour after all this with the
parents of the children, and especially with the parson and
schoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to promise that I should not
meet them and talk to them; but we conversed from a distance by
signs, and they used to write me sweet little notes. Afterwards I
came closer than ever to those little souls, but even then it was
very dear to me, to have them so fond of me.
"Schneider said that I did the children great harm by my
pernicious 'system'; what nonsense that was! And what did he mean
by my system? He said afterwards that he believed I was a child
myself--just before I came away. 'You have the form and face of an
adult' he said, 'but as regards soul, and character, and perhaps
even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of the
word, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.' I laughed
very much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is a fact that
I do not care to be among grown-up people and much prefer the
society of children. However kind people may be to me, I never
feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back to
my little companions. Now my companions have always been
children, not because I was a child myself once, but because
young things attract me. On one of the first days of my stay in
Switzerland, I was strolling about alone and miserable, when I
came upon the children rushing noisily out of school, with their
slates and bags, and books, their games, their laughter and
shouts--and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed
happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Girls
and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of them
found time to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot my
troubles in looking at them. And then, all those three years, I
tried to understand why men should be for ever tormenting
themselves. I lived the life of a child there, and thought I
should never leave the little village; indeed, I was far from
thinking that I should ever return to Russia. But at last I
recognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me any longer.
And then something so important happened, that Schneider himself
urged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good advice
about it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not
the principal thing. The principal thing is the entire change
that has already come over me. I left many things behind me--too
many. They have gone. On the journey I said to myself, 'I am
going into the world of men. I don't know much, perhaps, but a
new life has begun for me.' I made up my mind to be honest, and
steadfast in accomplishing my task. Perhaps I shall meet with
troubles and many disappointments, but I have made up my mind to
be polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me.
People may consider me a child if they like. I am often called an
idiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I was nearly
as bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How can I possibly
be so when I know myself that I am considered one?
"When I received a letter from those dear little souls, while
passing through Berlin, I only then realized how much I loved
them. It was very, very painful, getting that first little
letter. How melancholy they had been when they saw me off! For a
month before, they had been talking of my departure and sorrowing
over it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted for
the night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me so warmly, far
more so than before. And every now and then they would turn up
one by one when I was alone, just to give me a kiss and a hug, to
show their love for me. The whole flock went with me to the
station, which was about a mile from the village, and every now
and then one of them would stop to throw his arms round me, and
all the little girls had tears in their voices, though they tried
hard not to cry. As the train steamed out of the station, I saw
them all standing on the platform waving to me and crying
'Hurrah!' till they were lost in the distance.
"I assure you, when I came in here just now and saw your kind
faces (I can read faces well) my heart felt light for the first
time since that moment of parting. I think I must be one of those
who are born to be in luck, for one does not often meet with
people whom one feels he can love from the first sight of their
faces; and yet, no sooner do I step out of the railway carriage
than I happen upon you!
"I know it is more or less a shamefaced thing to speak of one's
feelings before others; and yet here am I talking like this
to you, and am not a bit ashamed or shy. I am an unsociable
sort of fellow and shall very likely not come to see you again
for some time; but don't think the worse of me for that. It is
not that I do not value your society; and you must never suppose
that I have taken offence at anything.
"You asked me about your faces, and what I could read in them; I
will tell you with the greatest pleasure. You, Adelaida Ivanovna,
have a very happy face; it is the most sympathetic of the three.
Not to speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your face
and say to one's self, 'She has the face of a kind sister.' You
are simple and merry, but you can see into another's heart very
quickly. That's what I read in your face.
"You too, Alexandra Ivanovna, have a very lovely face; but I
think you may have some secret sorrow. Your heart is undoubtedly
a kind, good one, but you are not merry. There is a certain
suspicion of 'shadow' in your face, like in that of Holbein's
Madonna in Dresden. So much for your face. Have I guessed right?
"As for your face, Lizabetha Prokofievna, I not only think, but
am perfectly SURE, that you are an absolute child--in all, in
all, mind, both good and bad-and in spite of your years. Don't be
angry with me for saying so; you know what my feelings for
children are. And do not suppose that I am so candid out of pure
simplicity of soul. Oh dear no, it is by no means the case!
Perhaps I have my own very profound object in view."
