Such genuine piety and courage increased my respect and regard immensely, and a few minutes later he added to both by one of the little acts that show character better than words.
He told me about the massacre, when five hundred Poles were shot down by Cossacks in the market-place, merely because they sung their national hymn.
'Play me that forbidden air,' I said, wishing to judge of his skill, for I had heard him practising softly in the afternoon.
He rose willingly, then glanced about the room and gave a little shrug which made me ask what he wanted.
'I look to see if the Baron is here. He is Russian, and to him my national air will not be pleasing.'
'Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I should rather enjoy that little insult to your bitter enemy,' said I, feeling very indignant with everything Russian just then.
'Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are also gentlemen,' returned the boy, proving that he at least was one.
I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as the Baron was not there he played the beautiful hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spite of the danger to his weak lungs. A true musician evidently, for, as he sung his pale face glowed, his eyes shone, and his lost vigor seemed restored to him.
From that evening we were fast friends; for the memory of certain dear lads at home made my heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me in return the most grateful affection and service. He begged me to call him 'Varjo,' as his mother did. He constituted himself my escort, errand-boy, French teacher, and private musician, making those weeks indefinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his charming little confidences, and faithful friendship.
We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped him about his English. With a great interest in free America, and an intense longing to hear about our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue did not long stand between us.