The Lost Prince E-Book

Frances Hodgson Burnett

• Herausgeber: Frances Hodgson Burnett
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

This book is about Marco Loristan, his father Stefan, and his friend, a street urchin nicknamed The Rat. Marco's father, Stefan, is a Samavian patriot working to overthrow the cruel dictatorship in the kingdom of Samavia. Marco and his father come to London where Marco strikes up a friendship with a crippled street urchin known as The Rat who is transformed through friendship. Stefan, realizing that two boys are less likely to be noticed, entrusts them with a mission to travel across Europe giving a secret sign. Who is The Lost Prince? Will he regain the throne? This story ends with an interesting twist. Marco’s relationship with his father and his unswerving loyalty and faith in him are very touching. The story of a revolution and the adventures two boys have bringing it about. An enjoyable read for people of all ages.

Leseprobe

Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Lost Prince

First digital edition 2017 by Anna Ruggieri

I -THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE

There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of London, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been more attractive, butthat had been so long ago that no one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates were set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with ``Sacred to the Memory of.'' Another had piles of old lumber in it, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. The insides of the houses were as gloomy as the outside. They wereall exactly alike. In each a dark entrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom looked out on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat on the copingof the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless on the brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was themost forlorn place in London.

At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the iron railings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this story begins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by his father to live as a lodger in the back sitting-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 they have looked at him once. In the first place, he was a very big boy--tall forhis years, and with a particularly strong frame. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were long and powerful. He was quite used to hearing people say, as they glanced at him, ``What a fine, big lad!'' And then they always looked again at his face. It was not an English face or an American one, and was very dark in coloring. His features were strong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes were large and deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. He was as un- English a boy as one could imagine, and an observing person would have been struck atonce by a sort of SILENT look expressed by his whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talked much.

This look was specially noticeable this morning as hestood before the iron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely to bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression.

He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and their old soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the last few days--the journey from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage, they had dashed across the Continent as if something important or terrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London as if they were going to live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew, however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probable that, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken him from his sleep and say, ``Get up-- dress yourself quickly. We must go at once.'' A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna, or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby and comfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place.

He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it andwatched the busses. His strange life and his close association with his father had made him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and set him to deep wondering.

In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whose life was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which they spent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played with other boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, and the journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to make a few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existence was a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own silence and discretion.

This was because of the promises he had made to his father, and they had been the first thing he remembered. Not that he had ever regretted anything connected with his father. He threw his black head up as he thought of that. None of the other boys had such a father, not one of them. His father was his idol and his chief. He had scarcely ever seen him when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also never seen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stood out among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable of them. When he walked down a street, people turned to look at him even oftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of disobeying him. Yet Marco had never seen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one country or another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the few people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearly always stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sit down.

``It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected,'' the boy had told himself.

He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his own country of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His father had talked to him about it ever since that day when hehad made the promises. He had taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of it--maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He had told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings and strugglesfor liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. When they talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned and leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father's eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, they had been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians had stood centuries before.

``Why do we not live there,'' Marco had cried on the day the promises were made. ``Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be a soldier and die for Samavia.''

``Weare of those who must LIVE for Samavia--working day and night,'' his father had answered; ``denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our people and our country. Even exiles may 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 on Samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since 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, knew he must not ask the question again.

The next words his father said were about the promises. Marco wasquite a little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were 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 be burdened. But you must do your part. A child sometimes forgets that words may be dangerous. You must promise never to forget this. Wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. You must not speak of what Ido, or of the people who come to see me. You must not mention the things in your life which make it different from the lives of other boys. You must keep inyour mind that a secret exists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are a Samavian, and there have been Samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather than betray a secret. You must learn to obey without question, as if you were a soldier. Now you must take your oath of allegiance.''

He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. Heknelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from 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 body stiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. He was to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were a man. He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them.

Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him.

``Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!'' he commanded.

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 of my life--for Samavia.

``Here grows a man for Samavia.

``God be thanked!''

Then Loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his dark face 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 broken iron railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour.

II -A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

He had been inLondon more than once before, but not to thelodgings in Philibert Place. When he was brought a second or thirdtime to a town or city, he always knew that the house he was takento would be in a quarter new to him, and he should not see againthe people he had seen before. Such slight links of acquaintance assometimes formed themselves between him and other children asshabby and poor as himself were easilybroken. His father, however,had never forbidden him to make chance acquaintances. He had, infact,told him that he had reasons for not wishing him to holdhimself aloof from other boys. The only barrier which must existbetween them must be the barrier of silence concerning hiswanderings from country to country. Other boys as poor as he wasdid not make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothingfrom his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. When hewas in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russianpeople and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, orEngland, he must do the same thing. When he had learned English,French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had seemedto grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemedfamiliar to him, as languages are familiar to children who havelived with them until one scarcely seems less familiar thananother. He did remember, however, that his father had always beenunswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method ofspeaking the language of any country they chanced to be livingin.

``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 fatherwas one,'' 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 ora tailor--and I didn't know what totell them.'' He had been out playing in a London street, and he puta grubby little hand on his father's arm, and clutched and almostfiercely shook it. ``I wanted to say that you were not like theirfathers, not at all. I knew you were not, though you were quite aspoor. You are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, but a patriot--youcould not be only a bricklayer--you!'' He said it grandly and witha queer indignation, his black head held up and his 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 could makeour clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker,your toes would not be makingtheir way into the world as they arenow.'' He was smiling, but Marco saw his head held itself high,too, and his eyes were glowing as he touched his shoulder. ``I knowyou did not tell them I was a patriot,'' he ended. ``What was ityou 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 say thatonce 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,hisfather's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simpleenough and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread.

In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco oftenwalked a great deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused himtowander through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses,and people. He did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares,but liked to branch off into the side streets and odd,deserted-looking squares, and even courts and alleyways. He oftenstopped to watch workmen and talk to them if they were friendly. Inthis way he made stray acquaintances in his strollings, and learneda good many things. He had a fondness for wandering musicians, and,from an old Italian who had in his youth been a singer in opera, hehad learned to sing a number of songs in his strong, musicalboy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the people in severalcountries.

It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he hadsomething to do or some one to speak to. To do nothing whatever isa depressing thing at all times, but perhaps it is more especiallyso when one is a big, healthy boy twelve years old. London as hesaw it in the Marylebone Road seemed to him a hideous place. It wasmurky and shabby-looking, and full of dreary-faced people. It wasnot the first time he had seen the same things, and they alwaysmade him feel that he wished he had something 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 on thefourth 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 hehad been so strictly trained as a soldier. He knew that his fatherhad had great trouble to make him lay aside his habit of salutingwhen they spoke to him.

``Perhaps,'' Marco had heard Loristan say to him almostseverely, once when he had forgotten himself and had stood atsalute while his master passed through a broken-down iron gatebefore an equally broken-down-looking lodging-house--``perhaps youcan force 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 actually turnedpale, and had struck his forehead and poured forth a torrent ofSamavian dialect in penitence and terror. But, though he no longersaluted them in public, he omitted no other form of reverence andceremony, and the boy had become accustomed to being treated as ifhe were anything but the shabby lad whose very coat was patched bythe old soldier who stood ``at attention'' 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 manythingssince I was here before, that I must begin to learn againabout the 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 ayoungofficer. Most boys might have looked awkward or theatrical inmaking the gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease,because he had been familiar with the form since his babyhood. Hehad 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. Anenergetic lad, however poor, cannot spend his days in going fromone country to another without, by mere every-day chance, becomingfamiliar with the outer life of royalties and courts. Marco hadstood in continental thoroughfares when visiting emperors rode bywith glittering soldiery before and behind them, and a populaceshouting courteous welcomes. He knew where in various greatcapitals the sentries stood before kingly or princely palaces. Hehad seen certain royal faces often enough to know them well, and tobe ready to make his salute when particular quiet and unattendedcarriages 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 notice andremember people and things as you would be taught to speak your ownlanguage with elegance. Such observation would be your mostpractical accomplishment and greatest power. It is as practical forone man as another--for a poor lad in a patched coat as for onewhose place is to be in courts.As you cannot be educated in theordinary way, you must learn from travel and the world. You mustlose nothing--forget nothing.''

It was his father who had taught him everything, and he hadlearned a great deal. Loristan had the power of making allthingsinteresting to fascination. To Marco it seemed that he kneweverything in the world. They were not rich enough to buy manybooks, but Loristan knew the treasures of all great cities, theresources of the smallest towns. Together he and his boy walkedthrough the endless galleries filled with the wonders of the world,thepictures before which through centuries an unbroken processionof almost worshiping eyes had passed uplifted. Because his fathermade the pictures seem the glowing, burning work of still-livingmen whom the centuries could not turn to dust, because he couldtell the stories of their living and laboring to triumph, storiesof what they felt and suffered and were, the boy became as familiarwith the old masters--Italian, German, French, Dutch,English,Spanish--as he was with most of the countries they had lived in.They were not merely old masters to him, but men who were great,men who seemed to him to have wielded beautiful swords and heldhigh, splendid lights. His father could not go oftenwith him, buthe always took him for the first time to the galleries, museums,libraries, and historical places which were richest in treasures ofart, beauty, or story. Then, having seen them once through hiseyes, Marco went again and again alone, and so grew intimate withthe wonders 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 his school-rooms,and his strange but rich educationwas the most interesting part ofhis life. In time, he knew exactly the places where the greatRembrandts, Vandykes, Rubens, Raphaels, Tintorettos, or Frans Halshung; he knew whether this masterpiece or that was in Vienna, inParis, in Venice, or Munich,or Rome. He knew stories of splendidcrown jewels, of old armor, of ancient crafts, and of Roman relicsdug up from beneath the foundations of old German cities. Any boywandering to amuse himself through museums and palaces on ``freedays'' could see what he saw, but boys living fuller and lesslonely lives would have been less likely to concentrate theirentire minds on what they looked at, and also less likely to storeaway facts with the determination to be able to recall at anymoment the mental shelfon which they were laid. Having no playmatesand nothing to play with, he began when he was a very little fellowto make a sort of game out of his rambles throughpicture-galleries, and the places which, whether they calledthemselves museums or not, werestorehouses or relics of antiquity.There were always the blessed ``free days,'' when he could climbany marble steps, and enter any great portal without paying anentrance fee. Once inside, there were plenty of plainly and poorlydressed people to be seen, but there were not often boys as youngas himself who were not attended by older companions. Quiet andorderly as he was, he often found himself stared at. The game hehad created for himself was as simple as it was absorbing. It wasto try how much hecould remember and clearly describe to his fatherwhen they sat together at night and talked of what he had seen.These night 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 back roughand crude sketches of objects he wished to ask questions about, andLoristan could always relate to him the full, rich story of thething he wanted to know. They were stories made so splendid andfull of color in the telling that Marco could not forget them.