nothing at all. He just went indoors and looked at the clock on the wall.
“I’m going up the mountain,” he said in a voice that tried hard to be steady. “I won’t be home for supper.”
He ran down the balcony steps and up through the hay field where the bundles of hay looked like waves in a green sea. His mother watched him with a troubled face until he disappeared into the forest. Then she went back and wept a few tears into the soup pot.
“Everything goes wrong for that boy,” she murmured sadly. “Will he ever succeed in anything?”
Lucien trudged through the forest, seeing nothing. He took no notice of the little grey squirrels that leapt from branch to branch. He could think of nothing at all but his lost prize and his bitter disappointment—how someone else would get the honor that he deserved, and he would continue to be disliked and despised. He would never get another chance to show them how good he was at carving. No one would be interested unless he won that prize.
“I wish I could go away,” he thought to himself, “and start all over again where nobody knew me, or knew what I’d done. If I could go and live in another valley, I shouldn’t feel afraid of everybody like I do here.”
His eyes rested on the Pass that ran between two opposite mountain peaks and led to the big town in the next valley where Marie worked. The sight of that Pass always fascinated him. It seemed like a road leading into another world, away from all that was safe and familiar. Twice he had crossed the Pass himself, in summer, when the sun was shining and the ground was covered with flowers. Now, gazing at it, it suddenly seemed like a door of escape from some prison.
Lucien saw the old man as he left the wood, long before the old man saw him. He was sitting at his front door, his chin resting on his hands, gazing at the mountains on the other side of the valley. He didn’t look up until Lucien was quite close to him.
“Ah,” said the old man in his deep, mumbling voice, “it’s you again. Well, how goes the carving, and when are you going to win that prize?”
“I am not going to win the prize,” replied Lucien sullenly. “My horse is smashed to pieces. I think the cat knocked it over the railing, and someone trampled on it.”
“I am so sorry,” said the old man gently. “But surely you can enter something else. What about that chamois you carved? That was a good piece of work for a boy.”
Lucien kicked savagely at the stones on the path. “I did it without proper tools,” he muttered, “and they would think it was my best work. No, if I cannot enter my little horse, I will enter nothing.”
“But does it matter what they think?” inquired the old man.
“Yes,” muttered Lucien again.
“Why?”
Lucien stared at the ground. What could he answer to that? But the old man was his friend, almost the only friend he had. Maybe he had better try to speak the truth.
“It matters very much,” he mumbled, “because they all hate me and think I’m stupid and bad. If I won a prize, and they saw I could carve better than any other boy in the valley, they might like me better.”
“They wouldn’t,” he said simply. “Your skill can never buy you love. It may win you admiration and envy, but never love. If that was what you were after, you have wasted your time.”
Lucien continued to stare at the ground. Then suddenly he looked up into the old man’s face, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Then it is all no good,” he whispered. “There seems no way to start again and to make them like me. I suppose they just never will.”
“If you want them to like you,” replied the old man steadily, “you must make yourself fit to be liked. And you must use your skill in loving and serving them. It will not happen all at once. It may even take years, but you must keep trying.”
Lucien stared up at the old man. He wondered why this strange old man, who seemed to know so much about the way of
“I’m going up the mountain,” he said in a voice that tried hard to be steady. “I won’t be home for supper.”
He ran down the balcony steps and up through the hay field where the bundles of hay looked like waves in a green sea. His mother watched him with a troubled face until he disappeared into the forest. Then she went back and wept a few tears into the soup pot.
“Everything goes wrong for that boy,” she murmured sadly. “Will he ever succeed in anything?”
Lucien trudged through the forest, seeing nothing. He took no notice of the little grey squirrels that leapt from branch to branch. He could think of nothing at all but his lost prize and his bitter disappointment—how someone else would get the honor that he deserved, and he would continue to be disliked and despised. He would never get another chance to show them how good he was at carving. No one would be interested unless he won that prize.
“I wish I could go away,” he thought to himself, “and start all over again where nobody knew me, or knew what I’d done. If I could go and live in another valley, I shouldn’t feel afraid of everybody like I do here.”
His eyes rested on the Pass that ran between two opposite mountain peaks and led to the big town in the next valley where Marie worked. The sight of that Pass always fascinated him. It seemed like a road leading into another world, away from all that was safe and familiar. Twice he had crossed the Pass himself, in summer, when the sun was shining and the ground was covered with flowers. Now, gazing at it, it suddenly seemed like a door of escape from some prison.
Lucien saw the old man as he left the wood, long before the old man saw him. He was sitting at his front door, his chin resting on his hands, gazing at the mountains on the other side of the valley. He didn’t look up until Lucien was quite close to him.
“Ah,” said the old man in his deep, mumbling voice, “it’s you again. Well, how goes the carving, and when are you going to win that prize?”
“I am not going to win the prize,” replied Lucien sullenly. “My horse is smashed to pieces. I think the cat knocked it over the railing, and someone trampled on it.”
“I am so sorry,” said the old man gently. “But surely you can enter something else. What about that chamois you carved? That was a good piece of work for a boy.”
Lucien kicked savagely at the stones on the path. “I did it without proper tools,” he muttered, “and they would think it was my best work. No, if I cannot enter my little horse, I will enter nothing.”
“But does it matter what they think?” inquired the old man.
“Yes,” muttered Lucien again.
“Why?”
Lucien stared at the ground. What could he answer to that? But the old man was his friend, almost the only friend he had. Maybe he had better try to speak the truth.
“It matters very much,” he mumbled, “because they all hate me and think I’m stupid and bad. If I won a prize, and they saw I could carve better than any other boy in the valley, they might like me better.”
“They wouldn’t,” he said simply. “Your skill can never buy you love. It may win you admiration and envy, but never love. If that was what you were after, you have wasted your time.”
Lucien continued to stare at the ground. Then suddenly he looked up into the old man’s face, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Then it is all no good,” he whispered. “There seems no way to start again and to make them like me. I suppose they just never will.”
“If you want them to like you,” replied the old man steadily, “you must make yourself fit to be liked. And you must use your skill in loving and serving them. It will not happen all at once. It may even take years, but you must keep trying.”
Lucien stared up at the old man. He wondered why this strange old man, who seemed to know so much about the way of
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