19. The Happy Year

Christmas.

But of what has Maroussia been thinking for some time? Her golden head droops on her shoulder like a flower too heavy for its stem. She tries in vain to arouse herself in order not to grieve her good friend. A dream seems to overcome her and separate her from her friends, she is no more with them, her eyes look far away. Where do they look? What do they see? How can it be that even before Tchetchevik, his little friend is absent-minded? The heart of a little girl is like a dense forest, the good friend must have sharp eyes.

Can he, who does not trouble himself with the smallest sorrows of others, be truly great? Ah, believe me, the really strong are always the gentlest. One morning, Maroussia’s head drooped more than usual, and her eyes looked farther away into the distance, though the sun was shining brightly. From the window, where the child stood to see the country all covered with snow as it shone like a polished mirror beneath the brilliant light of the great luminary, it would seem that only bright and joyous thoughts ought to come to her. But no, she was silent; if she were unhappy, which seemed very probable, she did not wish to give pain to those whom she loved.

Tchetchevik exchanged a glance with Méphodiévna. The time to speak had come. Putting his hand on Maroussia’s shoulder, he roused her from her dream, and called her attention to a sleigh, which stood below the window.

“Do you not see him,” said the good friend, “do you not see your favorite Iskra? He is pawing the ground; he already wishes to start.”

“To take you away again,” said the child, much moved.

“To take me away? Yes,” he answered. “But there is, after all, room for two in this sleigh, and if someone whom I know very well wishes to accompany me, I will not go alone.”

“Someone,” said Maroussia, whose eyes were fixed on Méphodiévna: “someone?—” and the rest of this questioning look seemed to say: “then I shall be left without friends? Very well, if it is necessary,—leave me alone.” But this mute complaint was not expressed even by a sigh.

“It is not meant for me,” Méphodiévna said, smiling. “No, I must, on the contrary, stay here; and, besides, the second place is too small for a grown person like me.”

“To fill this place,” said the good friend, “I need a very small companion, whom I can, when necessary, forget in a fold of my furs, but whose little heart will keep me warm just the same during a long and rapid journey. I want a little companion decided to take the same journey as I do at one stretch, who is not afraid of winter with its red nose, and whom it will delight more than anyone else to go to the same place where I am going, to ascertain exactly with her own eyes and ears what is taking place down there, in the cottage with the cherry-trees,—you know it, Maroussia, the very one where we became acquainted, a father, a mother, little brothers and sisters, who perhaps fear that for the first time there will be an empty place at their table for the Christmas dinner.”

Maroussia understood,— a loud cry came from the depths of her heart, then a sob, she pressed herself against the breast of the Lion, but a smile shone through her tears, a smile so full of gratitude to her two friends, that their eyes also became moist.

“Ah, Christmas, Christmas in my father’s house! Christmas near my mother, her blessing once more on my head! Christmas with my little brothers and sisters about me! Ah, you guess everything. You knew that it was of this I have been thinking in spite of myself, ever since the day of the great feast has been drawing near,” and grateful tears bathed her happy face.

The preparations were soon made, the departure took place at once. At first sight all one could have seen was a man wrapped up in his furs, urging a vigorous horse, but through the ample wraps of the traveler, Méphodiévna, from the window, could see two large eyes, whose gentle glances came to her and plainly said: “Thank you.”

Four days afterward the sleigh returned.

Maroussia, with her heart filled with the happiness which she had given and received, Maroussia, blessed by her father and mother, eaten up with kisses by her little brothers and sisters, feasted by all the neighbors, honored by all the friends of her father, and by strangers themselves who knew that, little girl as she was, she had been with the Lion and the beautiful Méphodiévna, a faithful servant of Ukraine. Maroussia again took her post near her good friend. The proverb very well says: “A father’s house is a full cup to a thirsty child.”

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