Chapter II. A Young Citizen of the World

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　He had been in London more than once before, but not to thelodgings in Philibert Place. When he was brought a second orthird time to a town or city, he always knew that the house hewas taken to would be in a quarter new to him, and he should notsee again the people he had seen before. Such slight links ofacquaintance as sometimes formed themselves between him and otherchildren as shabby and poor as himself were easily broken. Hisfather, however, had never forbidden him to make chanceacquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had reasons fornot wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The onlybarrier which must exist between them must be the barrier ofsilence concerning his wanderings from country to country. Otherboys as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, thereforethey would miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted allmention of his. When he was in Russia, he must speak only ofRussian places and Russian people and customs. When he was inFrance, Germany, Austria, or England, he must do the same thing.When he had learned English, French, German, Italian, and Russianhe did not know. He had seemed to grow up in the midst ofchanging tongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languagesare familiar to children who have lived with them until onescarcely seems less familiar than another. He did remember,however, that his father had always been unswerving in hisattention to his pronunciation and method of speaking thelanguage of any country they chanced to be living in."You must not seem a foreigner in any country," he had said tohim. "It is necessary that you should not. But when you are inEngland, you must not know French, or German, or anything butEnglish."Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked himwhat his father's work was."His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father wasone," Marco brought the story to Loristan. "I said you werenot. Then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one saidyou might be a bricklayer or a tailor--and I didn't know what totell them." He had been out playing in a London street, and heput a grubby little hand on his father's arm, and clutched andalmost fiercely shook it. "I wanted to say that you were notlike their fathers, not at all. I knew you were not, though youwere quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, buta patriot--you could not be only a bricklayer--you!" He said itgrandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up andhis eyes angry.Loristan laid his hand against his mouth."Hush! hush!" he said. "Is it an insult to a man to think hemay be a carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I couldmake our clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were ashoemaker, your toes would not be making their way into the worldas they are now." He was smiling, but Marco saw his head helditself high, too, and his eyes were glowing as he touched hisshoulder. "I know you did not tell them I was a patriot," heended. "What was it you said to them?""I remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawingmaps, and I said you were a writer, but I did not know what youwrote--and that you said it was a poor trade. I heard you saythat once to Lazarus. Was that a right thing to tell them?""Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poorfellows enough who write a thousand different things which bringthem little money. There is nothing strange in my being awriter."So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance,his father's means of livelihood were inquired into, it wassimple enough and true enough to say that he wrote to earn hisbread.In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco oftenwalked a great deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amusedhim to wander through unknown streets, and look at shops, andhouses, and people. He did not confine himself to the greatthoroughfares, but liked to branch off into the side streets andodd, deserted-looking squares, and even courts and alleyways. Heoften stopped to watch workmen and talk to them if they werefriendly. In this way he made stray acquaintances in hisstrollings, and learned a good many things. He had a fondnessfor wandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in hisyouth been a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number ofsongs in his strong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of thesongs of the people in several countries.It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he hadsomething to do or some one to speak to. To do nothing whateveris a depressing thing at all times, but perhaps it is moreespecially so when one is a big, healthy boy twelve years old.London as he saw it in the Marylebone Road seemed to him ahideous place. It was murky and shabby-looking, and full ofdreary-faced people. It was not the first time he had seen thesame things, and they always made him feel that he wished he hadsomething to do.Suddenly he turned away from the gate and went into the house tospeak to Lazarus. He found him in his dingy closet of a room onthe fourth floor at the back of the house."I am going for a walk," he announced to him. "Please tell myfather if he asks for me. He is busy, and I must not disturbhim."Lazarus was patching an old coat as he often patched things--even shoes sometimes. When Marco spoke, he stood up at once toanswer him. He was very obstinate and particular about certainforms of manner. Nothing would have obliged him to remain seatedwhen Loristan or Marco was near him. Marco thought it wasbecause he had been so strictly trained as a soldier. He knewthat his father had had great trouble to make him lay aside hishabit of saluting when they spoke to him."Perhaps," Marco had heard Loristan say to him almost severely,once when he had forgotten himself and had stood at salute whilehis master passed through a broken-down iron gate before anequally broken-down-looking lodging-house--"perhaps you canforce yourself to remember when I tell you that it is notsafe--it is not safe! You put us in danger!"It was evident that this helped the good fellow to controlhimself. Marco remembered that at the time he had actuallyturned pale, and had struck his forehead and poured forth atorrent of Samavian dialect in penitence and terror. But, thoughhe no longer saluted them in public, he omitted no other form ofreverence and ceremony, and the boy had become accustomed tobeing treated as if he were anything but the shabby lad whosevery coat was patched by the old soldier who stood "atattention" before him."Yes, sir," Lazarus answered. "Where was it your wish togo?"Marco knitted his black brows a little in trying to recalldistinct memories of the last time he had been in London."I have been to so many places, and have seen so many thingssince I was here before, that I must begin to learn again aboutthe streets and buildings I do not quite remember.""Yes, sir," said Lazarus. "There have been so many. I alsoforget. You were but eight years old when you were last here.""I think I will go and find the royal palace, and then I willwalk about and learn the names of the streets," Marco said."Yes, sir," answered Lazarus, and this time he made hismilitary salute.Marco lifted his right hand in recognition, as if he had been ayoung officer. Most boys might have looked awkward or theatricalin making the gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease,because he had been familiar with the form since his babyhood.He had seen officers returning the salutes of their men when theyencountered each other by chance in the streets, he had seenprinces passing sentries on their way to their carriages, moreaugust personages raising the quiet, recognizing hand to theirhelmets as they rode through applauding crowds. He had seen manyroyal persons and many royal pageants, but always only as anill-clad boy standing on the edge of the crowd of common people.An energetic lad, however poor, cannot spend his days in goingfrom one country to another without, by mere every-day chance,becoming familiar with the outer life of royalties and courts.Marco had stood in continental thoroughfares when visitingemperors rode by with glittering soldiery before and behind them,and a populace shouting courteous welcomes. He knew where invarious great capitals the sentries stood before kingly orprincely palaces. He had seen certain royal faces often enoughto know them well, and to be ready to make his salute whenparticular quiet and unattended carriages passed him by."It is well to know them. It is well to observe everything andto train one's self to remember faces and circumstances," hisfather had said. "If you were a young prince or a young mantraining for a diplomatic career, you would be taught to noticeand remember people and things as you would be taught to speakyour own language with elegance. Such observation would be yourmost practical accomplishment and greatest power. It is aspractical for one man as another--for a poor lad in a patchedcoat as for one whose place is to be in courts. As you cannot beeducated in the ordinary way, you must learn from travel and theworld. You must lose nothing--forget nothing."It was his father who had taught him everything, and he hadlearned a great deal. Loristan had the power of making allthings interesting to fascination. To Marco it seemed that heknew everything in the world. They were not rich enough to buymany books, but Loristan knew the treasures of all great cities,the resources of the smallest towns. Together he and his boywalked through the endless galleries filled with the wonders ofthe world, the pictures before which through centuries anunbroken procession of almost worshiping eyes had passeduplifted. Because his father made the pictures seem the glowing,burning work of still-living men whom the centuries could notturn to dust, because he could tell the stories of their livingand laboring to triumph, stories of what they felt and sufferedand were, the boy became as familiar with the oldmasters--Italian, German, French, Dutch, English, Spanish--as hewas with most of the countries they had lived in. They were notmerely old masters to him, but men who were great, men who seemedto him to have wielded beautiful swords and held high, splendidlights. His father could not go often with him, but he alwaystook him for the first time to the galleries, museums, libraries,and historical places which were richest in treasures of art,beauty, or story. Then, having seen them once through his eyes,Marco went again and again alone, and so grew intimate with thewonders of the world. He knew that he was gratifying a wish ofhis father's when he tried to train himself to observe all thingsand forget nothing. These palaces of marvels were hisschool-rooms, and his strange but rich education was the mostinteresting part of his life. In time, he knew exactly theplaces where the great Rembrandts, Vandykes, Rubens, Raphaels,Tintorettos, or Frans Hals hung; he knew whether this masterpieceor that was in Vienna, in Paris, in Venice, or Munich, or Rome.He knew stories of splendid crown jewels, of old armor, ofancient crafts, and of Roman relics dug up from beneath thefoundations of old German cities. Any boy wandering to amusehimself through museums and palaces on "free days" could seewhat he saw, but boys living fuller and less lonely lives wouldhave been less likely to concentrate their entire minds on whatthey looked at, and also less likely to store away facts with thedetermination to be able to recall at any moment the mental shelfon which they were laid. Having no playmates and nothing to playwith, he began when he was a very little fellow to make a sort ofgame out of his rambles through picture-galleries, and the placeswhich, whether they called themselves museums or not, werestorehouses or relics of antiquity. There were always theblessed "free days," when he could climb any marble steps, andenter any great portal without paying an entrance fee. Onceinside, there were plenty of plainly and poorly dressed people tobe seen, but there were not often boys as young as himself whowere not attended by older companions. Quiet and orderly as hewas, he often found himself stared at. The game he had createdfor himself was as simple as it was absorbing. It was to try howmuch he could remember and clearly describe to his father whenthey sat together at night and talked of what he had seen. Thesenight talks filled his happiest hours. He never felt lonelythen, and when his father sat and watched him with a certaincurious and deep attention in his dark, reflective eyes, the boywas utterly comforted and content. Sometimes he brought backrough and crude sketches of objects he wished to ask questionsabout, and Loristan could always relate to him the full, richstory of the thing he wanted to know. They were stories made sosplendid and full of color in the telling that Marco could notforget them.