Chapter I. The New Lodgers at No. 7 Philibert Place

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certainparts of London, but there certainly could not be any row moreugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that ithad once been more attractive, but that had been so long ago thatno one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrowstrips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railingswere supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a roadwhich was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays,and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed andlooked as if they were either going to hard work or coming fromit, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do tokeep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of thehouses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly alldirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all;the strips of ground, which had once been intended to growflowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which evenweeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as astone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slateswere set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with"Sacred to the Memory of." Another had piles of old lumber init, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteadylegs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in theircovering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. The insidesof the houses were as gloomy as the outside. They were allexactly alike. In each a dark entrance passage led to narrowstairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to abasement kitchen. The back bedroom looked out on small, sooty,flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat on the coping ofthe brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; thefront rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windowscame the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless onthe brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the mostforlorn place in London.At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the ironrailings watching the passers-by on the morning on which thisstory begins, which was also the morning after he had beenbrought by his father to live as a lodger in the backsitting-room of the house No. 7.He was a boy about twelve years old, his name was Marco Loristan,and he was the kind of boy people look at a second time when theyhave looked at him once. In the first place, he was a very bigboy--tall for his years, and with a particularly strong frame.His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were long andpowerful. He was quite used to hearing people say, as theyglanced at him, "What a fine, big lad!" And then they alwayslooked again at his face. It was not an English face or anAmerican one, and was very dark in coloring. His features werestrong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes werelarge and deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, blacklashes. He was as un- English a boy as one could imagine, and anobserving person would have been struck at once by a sort ofsilent look expressed by his whole face, a look which suggestedthat he was not a boy who talked much.This look was specially noticeable this morning as he stoodbefore the iron railings. The things he was thinking of were ofa kind likely to bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy anunboyish expression.He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his fatherand their old soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the lastfew days--the journey from Russia. Cramped in a closethird-class railway carriage, they had dashed across theContinent as if something important or terrible were drivingthem, and here they were, settled in London as if they were goingto live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew, however, thatthough they might stay a year, it was just as probable that, inthe middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken himfrom his sleep and say, "Get up-- dress yourself quickly. Wemust go at once." A few days later, he might be in St.Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna, or Budapest, huddled away in somepoor little house as shabby and comfortless as No. 7 PhilibertPlace.He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it andwatched the busses. His strange life and his close associationwith his father had made him much older than his years, but hewas only a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimesweighed heavily upon him, and set him to deep wondering.In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boywhose life was in the least like his own. Other boys had homesin which they spent year after year; they went to schoolregularly, and played with other boys, and talked openly of thethings which happened to them, and the journeys they made. Whenhe remained in a place long enough to make a few boy-friends, heknew he must never forget that his whole existence was a sort ofsecret whose safety depended upon his own silence and discretion.This was because of the promises he had made to his father, andthey had been the first thing he remembered. Not that he hadever regretted anything connected with his father. He threw hisblack head up as he thought of that. None of the other boys hadsuch a father, not one of them. His father was his idol and hischief. He had scarcely ever seen him when his clothes had notbeen poor and shabby, but he had also never seen him when,despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stood outamong all others as more distinguished than the most noticeableof them. When he walked down a street, people turned to look athim even oftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boyfelt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with ahandsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he hadbeen born to command armies, and as if no one would think ofdisobeying him. Yet Marco had never seen him command any one,and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and oftenenough ill-fed. But whether they were in one country or another,and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the fewpeople they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearlyalways stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade themsit down."It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots arerespected," the boy had told himself.He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen hisown country of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His fatherhad talked to him about it ever since that day when he had madethe promises. He had taught him to know it by helping him tostudy curious detailed maps of it--maps of its cities, maps ofits mountains, maps of its roads. He had told him stories of thewrongs done its people, of their sufferings and struggles forliberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. Whenthey talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned andleaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in hisfather's eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen hadbeen killed, they had been robbed, they had died by thousands ofcruelties and starvation, but their souls had never beenconquered, and, through all the years during which more powerfulnations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggleto free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians had stoodcenturies before."Why do we not live there," Marco had cried on the day thepromises were made. "Why do we not go back and fight? When Iam a man, I will be a soldier and die for Samavia.""We are of those who must live for Samavia--working day andnight," his father had answered; "denying ourselves, trainingour bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things whichare best to be done for our people and our country. Even exilesmay be Samavian soldiers--I am one, you must be one.""Are we exiles?" asked Marco."Yes," was the answer. "But even if we never set foot onSamavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I have given minesince I was sixteen. I shall give it until I die.""Have you never lived there?" said Marco.A strange look shot across his father's face."No," he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knewhe must not ask the question again.The next words his father said were about the promises. Marcowas quite a little fellow at the time, but he understood thesolemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if hewere a man."When you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know,"Loristan said. "Now you are a child, and your mind must not beburdened. But you must do your part. A child sometimes forgetsthat words may be dangerous. You must promise never to forgetthis. Wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you mustremember to be silent about many things. You must not speak ofwhat I do, or of the people who come to see me. You must notmention the things in your life which make it different from thelives of other boys. You must keep in your mind that a secretexists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are aSamavian, and there have been Samavians who have died a thousanddeaths rather than betray a secret. You must learn to obeywithout question, as if you were a soldier. Now you must takeyour oath of allegiance."He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. He kneltdown, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took somethingfrom beneath it. It was a sword, and, as he came back to Marco,he drew it out from its sheath. The child's strong, little bodystiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. Hewas to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were aman. He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with afierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for longcenturies past carried swords and fought with them.Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect beforehim."Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!" hecommanded.And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly."The sword in my hand--for Samavia!"The heart in my breast--for Samavia!"The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life ofmy life--for Samavia."Here grows a man for Samavia."God be thanked!"Then Loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his darkface looked almost fiercely proud."From this hour," he said, "you and I are comrades at arms."And from that day to the one on which he stood beside the brokeniron railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgottenfor one hour.