Treasures of the Snow (9 page)

He certainly had everything to make him happy; the village saw to that. They had loved his pretty, delicate mother who had grown up amongst them, and when she died they were all prepared to love her children—especially Dani, who had eyes as blue as forget-me-nots and a voice like a bird and was altogether as adorable as a five-year-old can be.

Dani, who had always taken love for granted, was not spoiled by it. He was just pleased and excited, for with so many wonderful presents and visits, he hardly missed his freedom at first.

The village children wandered up the mountains in search of the first alpine flowers for him until the table by his bed looked like an alpine flower garden. Because Dani loved to see them, Grandmother cheerfully put up with the noise and the muddy boots until the veranda, out of school hours, became a sort of public playground where Dani was in charge.

Then there was the schoolmaster, who sent fascinating picture books, and the innkeeper who sent brown speckled eggs, and the baker who made golden doughboys with currant eyes and candied peel buttons. He used to slip them in Annette’s bread basket with a wink, and that was why Dani always insisted on unpacking the shopping-basket himself. He never knew what he might find—and whatever it was, he was quite certain it was for him.

But the postman was best of all. The Burnier family hardly ever received a letter, so the postman himself decided to write Dani a picture postcard each week, and trudged up the hill to deliver it himself. He came a different day each week, so every morning Dani got excited in case he should come.

The postman was never in a hurry, and always saw to it that the postcard was at the very bottom of the sack. He enjoyed Dani’s squeals of excitement as he burrowed among the letters and read the names on all the cards in search of his own. And if the post that day was a little marked and crumpled, no one minded or asked questions.

J
ust as the village supported Dani and did all they could to comfort him, they also shunned Lucien, and did all they could to show how much they despised him.

For a few days he was really tormented. The schoolmaster made a speech about him in school, showing everyone what a bully and coward he was. The children chased him out of the playground and threw mud at him. But they soon gave that up and simply settled down to ignore him. When teams were picked he was always left till last. There was one extra single desk in the classroom, which he had to sit in. Everyone else sat in pairs.

Even the tiny children got out of his way, for their mothers had warned them to have nothing to do with him. “He is a cruel bully and may harm you as he harmed little Dani Burnier,” they said. The little ones looked on him as some kind of monster and ran away whenever he came near them.

Down at the village, the shopkeepers handed over the things he bought without speaking to him. The milkman never chatted with him, and the grocer’s wife never slipped trimmings of gingerbread into his hand as she did for the other children. They never spoke unkindly to him; they just took no notice of him.

Lucien, who was too shy to try to do anything to make them like him, drifted into a lonely little world of his own. He walked to and from school alone, he shopped alone, and in the playground he usually played alone. It was not that the children would not have him, for children forgive and forget quickly. It was simply his shame that kept him from joining in. Always he saw their dislike of him in their faces and imagined they were thinking of Dani. Gradually he grew to be afraid of them, from the milkman right down to the youngest child in the school.

Lucien himself was always thinking of Dani. The thought haunted him, and he longed to ask Annette what the doctor had said. But Annette had neither looked at him nor spoken to him since the day of the accident, and he dared not speak to her.

At home his mother found him more silent but more hard-working, for he had suddenly discovered that only by hard work could he forget his loneliness. Instead of being lazy like he used to be, he started working very hard on the farm. His mother praised him loudly, and his sister became kinder, for she herself was a hard-working girl and Lucien’s laziness had always annoyed her greatly.

There was one place, and one only, where Lucien was completely happy, and that was in the forest. Here the kindly trees shut him in, and the world that disliked him was shut out. Here Lucien fled whenever he had any spare time. Squatting against a tree trunk or boulder, he would carve away at his little figures and forget everything else in the joy of carving. Sitting beneath the pine trees, he would feel the sun on his hair and hands as he worked, and the peace and beauty of the forest in early summer soothed and comforted him.

High up on the borders of the forest there stood a small chalet where a very old man lived by himself. He had retired there long ago and lived alone with his goat, his hens and his cat. He was a strange old man and everyone in the village was afraid of him. He didn’t come down to the village to shop very often, but when he did, the children ran away from him. They called him “the old man of the mountain.” Some said he was a miser, some that he was hiding from the police, and others that he was crazy and bad. Whatever the real reason, no one had ever been inside his home, and no one ever passed that way after dark.

Lucien had wandered farther than usual up the mountain one half holiday from school, and sat as usual working hard on his carving. He was carving a squirrel holding a nut between its paws when he suddenly became aware of heavy breathing behind him.

He turned quickly to see the old man of the mountain looking over his shoulder.

He was certainly a terrifying sight. His huge, tangled, grey beard covered his chest, and his hooked brown nose made him look like some fierce bird of prey. But as Lucien gazed up, startled, into his eyes, he noticed that they were bright and kind and full of interest, and he decided not to run away after all. Besides, his great loneliness made him less afraid than he would have been otherwise. This old man might be odd, or even wicked, but at least he knew nothing about what Lucien had done.

So he said, “Bonjour, Monsieur,” as boldly as he could and waited to see what would happen next.

The old man put out a hand like a brown claw and picked up the little carved squirrel. He examined it and turned it over several times, then he remarked, “You carve well for a child. Who is your teacher?”

“Monsieur, I have no teacher. I taught myself.” “Then you yourself are a good teacher, and you deserve proper tools. With a little training you might start to earn your living. This squirrel looks almost as if it is alive.”

“Monsieur, I have no tools, and I don’t have the money to buy them.”

In reply the old man beckoned with his claw-like hand. Lucien, feeling like someone in a dream, got up and followed him through the dim wood. They climbed some way in silence until they came to the borders where the old man’s tiny chalet stood.

There was no outhouse except for a wooden barn where the hens roosted, and the goat shared the kitchen with the old man. So did the ginger cat who sat washing himself in the sunshine. The bedroom was also the hayloft, and the old man slept on sacks laid across the goat’s winter food supply of hay.

The kitchen and living room were poorly but strangely furnished. There was a stove, a milking bucket and stool, a table, one chair, and a cheese press. All around the walls, out of reach of the goat, were shelves covered with carved wooden figures— some beautiful, some ugly, but all the work of a real artist.

There were bears and cows and chamois and goats, St. Bernard dogs and squirrels. There were little men and women, gnomes and dwarfs, and dancing children. There were boxes with alpine flowers carved on their lids, and dishes with flowers carved around the rim. Best of all there was a Noah’s ark with a stream of tiny animals marching in. Lucien could not take his eyes off it. He just stared and stared.

“It’s just a hobby of mine,” said the old man. “They keep me company on winter evenings. Now, boy, if you will come and visit me from time to time, I will teach you how to use the tools.”

Lucien looked up eagerly. His whole face was alive, and he no longer looked ugly.

“Did you say, Monsieur,” he asked hesitatingly, “that perhaps I might soon earn my living?”

“In time,” said the old man, “yes. I have a friend who sells woodcraft at a good price. He sells many of my little figures, but some I get fond of and prefer to keep. In a short time he would start selling your best work for you. You will do much better with my tools than with your knife.”

Still Lucien gazed up at him. His heart was singing with thankfulness because this old man seemed to care for him and wanted to take an interest in him. Here at last was somebody whom he needn’t be afraid of, and who thought well of him. He grabbed hold of the old man’s hand.

“Oh, thank you, Monsieur,” he cried. “How very good you are to me!”

“Zut,” said the old man. “I am lonely, and I have no friends. We can carve together.”

“And I, too, am lonely and have no friends,” replied Lucien simply.

As Lucien walked home through the forest, his brain was full of ideas, but there was one big idea more important than all the others. He would make a Noah’s ark for Dani like the old man had done, with dozens of tiny figures—lions, elephants, rabbits, camels, and cows, and Mr. and Mrs. Noah. When it was quite perfect he would walk around to the Burniers’ chalet and give it to Dani as a peace offering. Surely no one could give Dani a better present than that! And after that, perhaps they might even allow him to be just a tiny bit friendly with Dani again.

His heart beat fast at the very thought of it. For two whole hours he had been completely happy, and his happiness lasted all the way through the forest until the trees parted and he saw the village below him. Tomorrow he would have to go back to school. Tomorrow he would feel lonely and frightened again. But today he had found a friend.

Three times a week after school Lucien bounded through the quiet pine forest and sat on the step of the old man’s chalet and worked on his Noah’s ark. It was a wonderful thing to use tools with their sharp blades and easy curves—very different from his old penknife.

The old man marveled at the boy’s skill. The Noah’s ark family grew and grew. Every visit Lucien made, he thought of some new animal to carve, and the procession grew longer and longer.

There was another excitement for Lucien just about then. An inspector came to school and set up a handcraft competition for the children. The girls were to see who could enter the best piece of knitting, needlework, or lacemaking, and the boys the best piece of wood carving. Many of them whittled away at wood in their spare time, and some were becoming quite skilful.

“But no one is as skilful as me,” whispered Lucien to himself as he plodded home alone. “I shall win the prize, and then they will know that I can do something well, even if I am stupid at lessons, and even if no one will play with me.”

Lucien sang on his way home that day. He saw himself walking up for his prize in front of the amazed school. Perhaps they would like him better after that.

He would carve a horse with a flowing mane, in full gallop, with its tail outstretched and its nostrils dilated. Lucien loved horses. The old man had carved one like that and Lucien had admired it greatly. The Noah’s ark would be finished very soon and then he could start on his little horse.

He ran straight up to the old man’s house to share the news. The old man was pleased and as sure as Lucien was himself that he would win the competition.

“But why try a horse?” he asked. “You could enter your Noah’s ark. It is very well done for a boy of your age.”

Lucien shook his head. “That is a present,” he said firmly.

“A present? Who for? Your little brother?” “For a little boy who has hurt himself and cannot walk.”

“Indeed? How did he do that?” “He fell over the ravine.” “Poor little chap. How did that happen?” Lucien did not answer for a moment, but the fact that this old man had become friends with him and been so nice to him made him want to speak the truth. He looked up at last and said, “It was my fault that he fell. I dropped his kitten over and he tried to get it.”

He could have bitten his tongue out as soon as he said it, for he felt sure the old man would hate him now and drive him away like everybody else.

But he didn’t. Instead, the old man said very gently, “So that is why you have no friends?”

“Yes.” “And are you hoping to make things right with this child by making this toy for him?”

“Yes.” “You are doing a good thing. It is hard work to win back love. But don’t give up. Those who persevere find more happiness in earning love than they do in gaining it.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said Lucien thoughtfully.

“I mean that if you spend your time putting the love of your heart into what you do for those who are not your friends, you may often be disappointed and discouraged. But if you keep on trying you will find your happiness in loving, whether you are loved back or not. You may think it strange that I who live alone and love no one should say all this to you, but I believe it all the same.”