"Do you like her?"
"No, madam."
"Why not? She seemed a nice little girl."
There was no response. She tried again.
"Are you tired, dear?"
"No, madam."
"Are you glad you are going into the country and away from the hot,
dirty city?"
"No, madam."
"Would you rather stay here?"
"No, madam."
The quality of the negative was the same in all.
Miss Clarkson gave him up. When they entered the car she sank into a
depressed silence, which endured until they reached the Grand Central
Station. There, after she had sent off several telegrams and bought
their tickets, and established herself and her charge comfortably side
by side on the end seat in a drawing-room car, she again essayed
sprightly conversation adapted to the understanding of the young.
"Do you know the country, Ivan?" she asked, ingratiatingly. "Have you
ever been there to see the grass and the cows and the blue skies?"
"No, madam."
"You will like them very much. All little boys and girls like the
country, and are very happy there."
"Yes, madam."
"Do you like to play?"
"No, madam."
"Do you like to--to--look at picture-books?"
"No, madam."
"What do you like to do?"
There was no reply. Miss Clarkson groaned inwardly. Was he only a
little monosyllabic machine? The infant regarded with calm eyes the
sweep of the New York landscape across which the train was passing. His
patron opened the new novel with which she had happily provided
herself, plunged into its pages, and let herself rest by forgetting him
for a while. He sat by her side motionless, observant, continuing to
exude infinite patience.
"He ought to be planted on the Egyptian sands," reflected Miss Clarkson
once, as she glanced at him. "He'd make a dear little brother to the
Sphinx." She stopped a train-boy passing through the car and bought him
a small box of chocolates, which he ate uninterruptedly, somewhat as
the tiny hand of a clock marks the seconds. Later she presented him
with a copy of a picture-paper. He surveyed its illustrations with
studious intentness for five minutes, and then laid the paper on the
seat beside him. Miss Clarkson again fled to sanctuary in her novel,
wondering how long pure negation could enlist interest.
At the small station where they left the train the tension of the
situation was slightly lessened. A plump little woman, with a round
pink face, keen, very direct blue eyes, and live gray hair, deftly
tooled a fat pony up to the asphalt, and greeted them with cheerful
informality.
"Get in," she said, briskly, after a brief handshake with Miss
Clarkson. "There's plenty of room in the phaeton. We pack five in
sometimes. I was sorely tempted to bring two of the children; they
begged to come to meet the new boy; but it seemed best not to rush him
in the beginning, don't you know, so I left Josephine squalling behind
the wood-pile, and Augustus Adolphus strangling manfully on a glass of
lemonade intended to comfort him."
She laughed as she spoke, but her blue eyes surveyed the boy
appraisingly as she tucked him into the space between herself and Miss
Clarkson. He had stood cap in hand during the meeting between the
ladies; now he replaced his cap upon his head, fixed his black eyes on
the restless tail of the fat pony, and remained submerged under the
encroaching summer garments of both women. Mrs. Eltner, presiding
genius of the Lotus Brotherhood Colony, exchanged an eloquent glance
with Miss Clarkson as she started the pony along the winding ribbon of
the country road. The New-Yorker's heart lightened. She had infinite
faith in the plump, capable hands that held the reins; she believed
them equal to anything, even to the perplexing task of guiding the
infant career of Ivanovitch. Mrs. Eltner prattled on.
"Well," she quoted, in answer to Miss Clarkson's question, "they are so
well that Fraulein von Hoffman is in despair over them. She has some
new theories she's anxious to try when they're ill, but throughout the
year she hasn't had one chance. Every blessed child is flamboyantly
robust. Goodness! Why shouldn't they be? In the sunshine from eight in
the morning until six at night. They have their lessons in a little
roofed summer-house in the open air, their meals in another, and they
almost sleep in the open air. There are ten of them now--counting your
boy"--she nodded toward the unconscious Ivan--"four girls and six boys.
None of the parents interferes with them. They sleep in the dormitory
with Fraulein, she teaches them a few hours a day, and the rest of the
time we leave them alone. Fraulein assures me that the influence on
their developing souls is wonderful." Mrs. Eltner laughed comfortably.
"It's all an experiment," she went on, more seriously. "Who can tell
how it will end? But one thing is certain: we have taken these poor
waifs from the New York streets, and we have at least made them healthy
and happy to begin with. The rest must come later."
"An achievement," agreed Miss Clarkson. "I hope you will be as
successful with my small charge. He is not healthy, and I doubt if he
has ever known a moment of happiness. Possibly he can never take it in.
I don't know--he puzzles me."
Her friend nodded, and they drove on in silence. It was almost sunset
when the fat pony turned into an open gate leading to a big white
colonial house, whose wide verandas held hammocks, easy-chairs, and one
fat little girl asleep on a door-mat. On the sweeping lawn before the
house an old man lounged comfortably in a garden-chair, surveying with
quiet approval the efforts of a pretty girl in a wide sunbonnet who was
weeding a flower-bed near him. Through the open window of a distant
room came the sound of a piano. At the left of the house a solitary
peacock strutted, his spreading tail alive in the sun's last rays. The
effect of the place was deliriously "homey." With eyes slightly
distended, Ivan surveyed the monstrous fowl, turning his head to follow
its progress as the phaeton rolled around the drive and stopped before
the wide front door. The two women again exchanged glances.
"Absolutely the first evidence of human interest," remarked Miss
Clarkson, with hushed solemnity. The other smiled with quiet
confidence. "It will come," she predicted; "it will come all right. We
do wonders with them here."
As they entered the wide hall a picturesque group disintegrated
suddenly. A slender German woman, tall, gray-haired, slightly bent,
detached herself from an encircling mass of childish hands and arms and
legs, gave a hurried greeting to Miss Clarkson, of whom she rather
disapproved, and turned eyes alight with interest on the new claimant
for her ministrations. Cap in hand, Ivan looked up at her. Mrs. Eltner
introduced them briefly.
"Your new little boy, Fraulein," she said, "Ivan Ivanovitch. He speaks
English and French and Russian. He is going to love his new teacher and
his new little friends, and be very happy here."
Fraulein von Hoffman bent down and kissed the chilling surface of
Ivan's pale cheek.
"But yes," she cried, "of a certainty he shall be happy. We are all
happy here--all, all. He shall have his place, his lessons, his little
duties--but, ach, he is so young! He is the youngest of us. Still, he
must have his duty." She checked her rapid English for a courteous
explanation to Miss Clarkson.
"Each has his duties," she told that lady, while the line of children
lent polite interest to her words, drinking them in, apparently, with
open mouths. "Each of us must be useful to the community in some way,
however small. That is our principle. Yes. Little Josephine waters
every day the flowers in the dining-room, and they bloom gratefully for
little Josephine--ach, how they bloom! Augustus Adolphus keeps the
wood-box filled. It is Henry's task to water the garden plants, and
Henry never forgets. So, too, it is with the others. But Ivan--Ivan is
very young. He is but seven, you say. Yes, yes, what shall one do at
seven?"
Her rapid, broken English ceased again as she surveyed the child, her
blond brows knit in deep reflection. Then her thin face lit suddenly.
"Ach," she cried, enthusiastically, "an inspiration I have! He is too
young to work as yet, this little Ivan, but he shall have his task,
like the rest. He shall be our little sunbeam. He shall laugh and play
and make us happy."
With a common hysterical impulse Miss Clarkson and Mrs. Eltner turned
their heads to avoid each other's eyes, the former making a desperate
effort at self-control as she gazed severely through a window near her.
It was not funny, this thing, she reminded herself sternly; it was too
ghastly to be funny, but there was no question that the selection of
Ivan Ivanovitch as the joyous, all-pervasive sunbeam of the community
at Locust Hall was slightly incongruous. When she could trust herself
she glanced at him. He stood as he had stood before, his small, old,
unchildish face turned up to the German, his black eyes fixed
unwaveringly upon her gray ones. Under the glance Fraulein's expression
changed. For an instant there was a look of bewilderment on her face,
of a doubt of the wisdom of her choice of a mission for this unusual
new-comer, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. With recovered
serenity she addressed him and those around him.
"But he need not begin to-night," she added, kindly, "not when he is
tired. He shall eat, he shall rest, he shall sleep. Then to-morrow he
shall take his place among us and be the little sunbeam. Yes,
yes--think how far the sunbeam has to travel!" she murmured,
inspirationally.
Miss Clarkson knelt down before the boy and gathered him into her arms.
The act was spontaneous and sincere, but as she did it she realized
that in the eyes of the German, and even in those of Mrs. Eltner, it
seemed theatrical. It was one of the things Fraulein von Hoffman
disapproved in her--this tendency to moments of emotion.
"Good-night, Ivan," she said. "I am going to stay until morning, so I
shall see you then. Sleep well. I am sure you will be a happy little
boy in this pleasant home."
The unfathomable eyes of Ivan Ivanovitch looked back into hers.
"Good-night, madam," he said, quietly. Then, as she was about to turn
away, his small face took on for an instant the dawn of an expression.
"Good-night, madam," he said again, more faintly.
Slight as the change had been, Miss Clarkson caught it. She swayed
toward him.
"Are you homesick, Ivan?" she asked, caressingly, almost lovingly.
"Would you like me to take you up-stairs and put you to bed?"
Fraulein von Hoffman broke in upon her speech.
"But they shall all go!" she cried. "It is their time. He will not be
alone. Josephine shall take him by the hand; Augustus Adolphus shall
lead the way. It will be a little procession--ach, yes! And he shall
have his supper in the nursery."
A chubby, confident little girl of nine detached herself from the group
near them and grasped the hand of Ivan Ivanovitch firmly within her
own. He regarded her stoically for an instant; then his eyes returned
to Miss Clarkson's, who had risen, and was watching him closely. There
was a faint flicker in them as he replied to her question.
"No, madam," he said, gravely. "Thank you, madam. Good-night, madam."
He bowed deeply, drawing the reluctant figure of the startled Josephine
into the salute as he did so. A sturdy German boy of eleven, with
snapping brown eyes, placed himself before the children, his feet
beating time, his head very high. "Forward, march!" he cried, in clear,
boyish tones. The triumphant Josephine obeyed the command, dragging her
charge after her. Thus convoyed, one companion leading, another
pulling, the rest following with many happy giggles, Ivan Ivanovitch
marched up-stairs to bed. His life as the community's sunbeam had begun.
The next morning Fraulein von Hoffman met Miss Clarkson in the hall,
and turned upon her the regard of a worried gray eye. Miss Clarkson
returned the look, her heart sinking as she did so.
"It is that child," the German began. "He is of an interest--and ach,
ja! of a discouragement," she added, with a gusty sigh. "Already I can
see it--what it will be. He speaks not; he plays not. He gazes always
from the window, and when one speaks, he says, 'Yes, madam'--only that.
This morning I looked to see him bright and happy, but it is not so. Is
it that his little heart breaks for his mother? Is it--that he is
always thus?"
Miss Clarkson shook her head and then nodded, forming thereby
unconsciously the sign of the cross. The combination seemed to answer
the German's questions. Fraulein von Hoffman nodded also, slowly, and
with comprehension.
"I don't know what you can do with him," said the American, frankly.
"He's like that all the time. I asked his mother, and she admitted it.
I brought him here because I hoped the other children might brighten
him up, and I knew you could arouse him if any one could."
The tribute, rare from Miss Clarkson, cheered Fraulein von Hoffman. Her
face cleared. She began to regain her self-confidence.
"Ach, well," she said, comfortably, "we will see. We will do our
best--yes, of a certainty. And we will see." She strolled away after
this oracular utterance, and Miss Clarkson went to breakfast. Thus
neither witnessed a scene taking place at that moment on the lawn near
the front veranda. Standing there with his back against a pillar,
surrounded by the other children of the community, was Ivan Ivanovitch.
In the foreground, facing him, stood Augustus Adolphus, addressing the
new-comer in firm accents, and emphasizing his remarks by waving a
grimy forefinger before Ivan Ivanovitch's uninterested face. The high,
positive tones of Augustus Adolphus filled the air.
"Well, then, why don't you do it?" he was asking, fiercely. "You _got_
to do it! You _have_ to! Fraulein says so. The rest of us has to do
ours. I filled my wood-boxes already, and Josie watered the flowers. We
did it early so we could watch you being a sunbeam, and now you ain't
being one. Why ain't you? You _got_ to! Why don't you begin?" The
continued unresponsiveness of Ivan Ivanovitch irritated him at this
point, and he turned excitedly to the others for support.
"'Ain't he got to?" he cried. "'Ain't he got to be a sunbeam? Fraulein
said he should begin this morning. Well, then, why don't he begin?"
A childish buzz of corroboration answered him. It was plain that the
assignment of Ivan's mission, publicly made as it had been the night
before, had deeply impressed the children of the community. They closed
around the two boys. The small Josephine laid a propelling hand upon
Ivan's shoulder and tried to push him forward, with a vague idea of
thus accelerating his task.
"Begin now," she suggested, encouragingly. "Do it, and have it over.
That's the way I do."
In response to this maiden appeal the lips of Ivan Ivanovitch parted.
"I do not know how to do it," he announced, distinctly. "How shall I do
it?"
Augustus Adolphus broke in again. "Aw, say, go on," he urged. "You
_got_ to do it! Why _don't_ you, then?"
Ivan Ivanovitch turned upon him an eye in which the habitual expression
of patience was merely intensified.
"I do not know how to do it," he said again, speaking slowly and
painstakingly. "You tell me how; then I will do it."
Under the force of this counter-charge, Augustus Adolphus fell back.
"I--I--don't know, neither," he muttered, feebly. "I thought you knew.
You _got_ to know, 'cause you got to do it."
The eyes of the small Russian swept the little group, and lingered on
the round face of Josephine.
"You tell me," he said to her. "Then I will do it."
Josephine rose to the occasion.
"Why, why," she began, doubtfully, "_I_ know what it is. You be a
sunbeam, you know. I know what a sunbeam is. It's a little piece of the
sun. It is long and bright. It comes through the window and falls on
the floor. Sometimes it falls on us. Sometimes it falls on flowers."
Offered this choice, Ivan at once expressed his preference.
"I will fall on flowers," he announced, with decision.
The brown eyes of Augustus Adolphus glittered as he suddenly grasped
the possibilities of the situation.
"No, you won't, neither!" he cried, excitedly. "You got to do it _all!_
You better begin now. You can fall through that window; it's open." He
indicated, as he spoke, a low French window leading from the
living-room on to the broad veranda. "He's got to!" he cried, again.
"'Ain't he got to?" With a unanimous cry the meeting declared that he
had got to. Some of the children knew better; others did not; but all
knew Augustus Adolphus Schmidtt.
Without a word, Ivan turned, walked up the steps of the veranda,
entered the wide hall, swung to the left, crossed the living-room,
approached the window, and fell out, head first. There was something
deeply impressive in the silence and swiftness of his action, something
deliriously stimulating to the spectators in the thud of his small body
on the unyielding wood. A long sigh of happiness was exhaled by the
group of children. Certainly this was a new duty--a strange one, but
worthy, no doubt, since it emanated from Fraulein, and beyond question
interesting as a spectacle. Augustus Adolphus resolved in that instant
to attend to his personal tasks at an early hour each day, that he
might have uninterrupted leisure for getting new falls out of Ivan's.
That infant had now found his feet, and was methodically brushing the
dust from his clothes. There was a rapidly developing lump over one
eye, but his expression remained unchanged. Josephine approached him
with happy gurgles. Her heart was filled with womanly sympathy, but her
soul remained undaunted. She was of the Spartan stuff that sends sons
to the war, and holds a reception for them if they return--from
victory--on their shields. She cooed in conscious imitation of
Fraulein's best manner. "Now, you can fall on flowers."
Her victim followed her unresistingly to the spot she indicated, and,
having arrived, cast himself violently upon a bed of blazing
nasturtiums. The enthusiastic and approving group of children closed
around him as he rose. Even Augustus Adolphus, as he surveyed the wreck
that remained, yielded to Ivan's loyal devotion to his role the tribute
of an envious sigh.
"Now you can fall on us," he suggested, joyfully. Before the words had
left his innocent lips, Ivan had made his choice. The next instant the
air was full of arms, legs, caps, and hair.
"Lemme go!" shrieked Augustus Adolphus, battling wildly with the
unsuspected and terrible force that had suddenly assailed him. "Lemme
go, I tell you!"
The reply of Ivan came through set teeth as he planted one heel firmly
in the left ear of the recumbent youth. "I have to fall on you," he
explained, mildly, suiting the action to the word. "First I fall on
you; then I let you go."
There was no question in the minds of the spectators that this was the
most brilliant and successfully performed of the strange and
interesting tasks of Ivan. They clustered around to tell him so, while
Augustus Adolphus sought the dormitory for needed repairs. One of the
rules of the community was that the children should settle their little
disputes among themselves. Fortunately, perhaps, for Augustus Adolphus
he found the dormitory empty, and was able to remove from his person
the most obvious evidences of one hoisted by his own petard. In the
mean time Ivan Ivanovitch was experiencing a new sensation--the
pleasurable emotion caused by the praise of one's kind. But he did not
show that it was pleasant--he merely gazed and listened.
"I think your new duties is nice," Josephine informed him, as she gazed
upon him with eyes humid with approval. "You have to do it every day,"
she added, gluttonously.
Ivan assented, but in his heart there lay a doubt. Seeking for light,
he approached Fraulein von Hoffman that afternoon as she dozed and
knitted under a sheltering tree.
He stopped before her and fixed her with his serious gaze.
"Does a sunbeam fall through windows?" he inquired, politely.
Fraulein von Hoffman regarded him with a drowsy lack of interest.
"But yes, surely, sometimes," she admitted.
"Does it fall always through the window--every day?"
"But yes, surely, if it is in the right place."
The community's sunbeam sighed.
"Does it fall on flowers and on boys and girls?" he persisted.
"But yes, it falls on everything that is near."
A look of pained surprise dawned upon the features of Ivan Ivanovitch.
"Always?" he asked, quickly. "Always--it falls on _everything_ that is
near?"
Fraulein von Hoffman placidly counted her stitches, confirming with a
sigh her suspicion that in dozing she had dropped three.
"Not always," she murmured, absently. "But no. Only when the sun is
shining."
Ivan carried this gleam of comfort with him when he went away, and it
is very possible that he longed for a darkened world. But if, indeed,
his daily task was difficult, as it frequently proved to be as the days
passed, there were compensations--in the school games, in the
companionships of his new friends, in the kindness of those around him.
Even Augustus Adolphus was good to him at times. Unquestioningly,
inscrutably, Ivan absorbed atmosphere, and did his share of the
community's work as he saw it.
The theories of the community were consistently carried out. In the
summer, after their few hours of study, the children were left to
themselves. Together they worked out the problems of their little
world; together they discussed, often with an uncanny insight, the
grown-ups around them. Sometimes the tasks of the others were
forgotten; frequently, in the stress of work and play, Augustus
Adolphus's wood-box remained unfulfilled; Josephine's flowers were
unwatered. But the mission of Ivan as a busy and strenuous sunbeam was
regularly and consistently carried out--all the children saw to that.
Regularly, that is, save on dark days. Here he drew the line.
"Fraulein says it only falls on things when the sun shines," he
explained, tersely, and he fulfilled his mission accordingly. Fraulein
wondered where he had accumulated the choice collection of bumps and
bruises that adorned his person; but he never told, and apparently
nobody else knew. Mrs. Eltner marvelled darkly over the destruction of
her favorite nasturtium-bed. Daily the stifled howls of Augustus
Adolphus continued to rend the ambient air when the sunbeam fell on
him; but he forbore to complain, suffering heroically this unpleasant
feature of the programme, that the rest might not be curtailed. Once,
indeed, he had rebelled.
"Why don't you fall on some one else?" he had demanded, sulkily. "You
don't have to fall on me all the time."
The reply of the sunbeam was convincing in its simple truth.
"I do," he explained. "Fraulein has said so. It must fall always on the
same place if it is there."
Augustus Adolphus was silenced. He was indeed there, always. It was
unfortunate, but seemed inevitable, that he should contribute his share
to the daily entertainment so deeply enjoyed by all.
It was, very appropriately, at Thanksgiving-time that Ivan's mission as
an active sunbeam ended. He was engaged in his usual profound
meditation in the presence of Miss Clarkson, who had come to see him,
and who was at the moment digesting the information she had received,
that not once in his months at Locust Hall had he been seen to smile.
True, he seemed well and contented. His thin little figure was fast
taking on plumpness; he was brown, bright-eyed. Studying him, Miss
Clarkson observed a small bruise on his chin, another on his
intellectual brow.
"How did you get those, Ivan?" she asked.
For some reason Ivan suddenly decided to tell her.
"I fell through the window. This one I got yesterday"--he touched
it--"this one I got Monday; this one I got last week." He revealed
another that she had not discovered, lurking behind his left ear.
"But surely you didn't fall through the window as often as that!"
gasped Miss Clarkson. The small boy surveyed her wearily.
"But yes," he murmured, in unconscious imitation of Praulein. "I must
fall through the window every day when the sun shines."
Miss Clarkson held him off at arm's-length and stared at him.
"In Heaven's name, _why?_" she demanded.