In the wood attic, a little room divided from the main garret by wooden
bars, in which a quantity of split firewood and more finely chopped fir
sticks, smelling fresh and dry, are piled up in obliquely arranged
heaps, a little urchin with tightly closed mouth and obstinate
expression has, for more than two hours, been bearing his punishment of
being incarcerated there.
Several times already his anxious mother has sent the housemaid to ask
whether he will beg pardon yet, and he has only shaken his head. He is
hungry; for he was brought up here immediately after school. But he
will not give in, for he is in the right. It is not his fault that the
grown-up people cannot understand him. They do not know that what he is
suffering now is nothing to what he has had to suffer. It is true that
he would not go with the nurse and his little brother into the King's
Gardens. But what do Father and Mother know of the ignominy of hearing
all day from the other schoolboys: "Oh! so you are fetched by the
nurse!" or "Here comes your nurse to fetch you!" He is overwhelmed with
shame at the thought of the other boys' scorn. She is not _his_ nurse,
she is his brother's. He could find his way home well enough, but how
can he explain to the other boys that his parents will not trust him
with the little one yet, and so send for them both at the same time!
Now there shall be an end to it; he will not go to the King's Gardens
with the nurse again.
It is the housemaid, once more, come to ask if he will not beg pardon
now. In vain. Everything has been tried with him, scolding, and even a
box on the ear; but he has not been humbled. Now he stands here; he
will not give in.
But this time his kind mother has not let the girl come empty-handed.
His meal is passed through the bars and he eats it. It is so much the
easier to hold out. And some hours later he is brought down and put to
bed without having apologised.
Before I had so painfully become aware of the ignominy of going with
the maid to the King's Gardens, I had been exceedingly fond of the
place. What gardens they were for hide and seek, and puss in the
corner! What splendid alleys for playing Paradise, with Heaven and
Hell! To say nothing of playing at horses! A long piece of tape was
passed over and under the shoulders of two playfellows, and you drove
them with a tight rein and a whip in your hand. And if it were fun in
the old days when I only had tape for reins, it was ever so much
greater fun now that I had had a present from my father of splendid
broad reins of striped wool, with bells, that you could hear from far
enough when the pair came tearing down the wide avenues.
I was fond of the gardens, which were large and at that time much
larger than they are now; and of the trees, which were many, at that
time many more than now. And every part of the park had its own
attraction. The Hercules pavilion was mysterious; Hercules with the
lion, instructive and powerful. A pity that it had become such a
disgrace to go there!
I had not known it before. One day, not so long ago, I had felt
particularly happy there. I had been able for a long time to read
correctly in my reading-book and write on my slate. But one day Mr.
Voltelen had said to me: "You ought to learn to read writing." And from
that moment forth my ambition was set upon reading _writing_, an idea
which had never occurred to me before. When my tutor first showed me
_writing_, it had looked to me much as cuneiform inscriptions and
hieroglyphics would do to ordinary grown-up people, but by degrees I
managed to recognize the letters I was accustomed to in this their
freer, more frivolous disguise, running into one another and with their
regularity broken up. In the first main avenue of the King's Gardens I
had paced up and down, in my hand the thin exercise-book, folded over
in the middle,--the first book of writing I had ever seen,--and had
already spelt out the title, "Little Red Riding-Hood." The story was
certainly not very long; still, it filled several of the narrow pages,
and it was exciting to spell out the subject, for it was new to me. In
triumphant delight at having conquered some difficulties and being on
the verge of conquering others, I kept stopping in front of a strange
nurse-girl, showed her the book, and asked: "Can you read writing?"
Twenty-three years later I paced up and down the same avenue as a young
man, once more with a book of manuscript, that I was reading, in my
hand. I was fixing my first lecture in my mind, and I repeated it over
and over again to myself until I knew it almost by heart, only to
discover, to my disquiet, a few minutes later, that I had forgotten the
whole, and that was bad enough; for what I wished to say in my lecture
were things that I had very much at heart.
The King's Garden continued to occupy its place in my life. Later on,
for so many years, when Spring and Summer passed by and I was tied to
the town, and pined for trees and the scent of flowers, I used to go to
the park, cross it obliquely to the beds near the beautiful copper
beeches, by the entrance from the ramparts, where there were always
flowers, well cared for and sweet scented. I caressed them with my
eyes, and inhaled their perfume leaning forward over the railings.
But just now I preferred to be shut up in the wood-loft to being
fetched by the nurse from school to the Gardens. It was horrid, too, to
be obliged to walk so slowly with the girl, even though no longer
obliged to take hold of her skirt. How I envied the boys contemptuously
called street boys! They could run in and out of the courtyard, shout
and make as much noise as they liked, quarrel and fight out in the
street, and move about freely. I knew plenty of streets. If sent into
the town on an errand I should be able to find my way quite easily.
And at last I obtained permission. Happy, happy day! I flew off like an
arrow. I could not possibly have walked. And I ran home again at full
galop. From that day forth I always ran when I had to go out alone.
Yes, and I could not understand how grown-up people and other boys
could walk. I tried a few steps to see, but impatience got the better
of me and off I flew. It was fine fun to run till you positively felt
the hurry you were in, because you hit your back with your heels at
every step.
My father, though, could run very much faster. It was impossible to
compete with him on the grass. But it was astonishing how slow old
people were. Some of them could not run up a hill and called it trying
to climb stairs.