But Schneider talked to me a lot and argued with me about my harmful 'system' with the children.
What system did I have!
Finally Schneider told me one very strange thought of his. This was just before my departure. He told me he was fully convinced that I was a perfect child myself, that is, fully a child, that I resembled an adult only in size and looks, but in development, soul, character, and perhaps even mind, I was not an adult, and I would stay that way even if I lived to be sixty.
I laughed very much: he wasn't right, of course, because what's little about me?
But one thing is true, that I really don't like being with adults, with people, with grown-ups—and I noticed that long ago—I don't like it because I don't know how.
Whatever they say to me, however kind they are to me, still I'm always oppressed with them for some reason, and I'm terribly glad when I can go quickly to my comrades, and my comrades have always been children—not because I'm a child myself, but simply because I'm drawn to children.
When I'd meet them, back at the beginning of my life in the village—it was when I used to go and be sad alone in the mountains—when I'd be wandering alone and sometimes met the whole band of them, especially at noontime, when they were out of school, noisy, running, with their satchels and slates, shouting, laughing, playing— my whole soul would suddenly begin to yearn for them.
I don't know, but I began to feel some extremely strong and happy feeling each time I met them.
I'd stop and laugh with happiness, looking at their flashing and eternally running little feet, at the boys and girls running together, at their laughter and tears (because many of them had managed to have a fight, to cry, and to make peace again and play together on their way home from school), and then I'd forget all my sadness.
Afterwards, for all those three remaining years, I was unable to understand how people can be sad and what makes them sad.
My whole destiny went to them.
I never intended to leave the village, and it never occurred to me that I might someday return here, to Russia.
It seemed to me that I would always be there, but I saw, finally, that it was impossible for Schneider to keep me, and then something turned up which seemed so important that Schneider himself hurried me on my way and wrote a reply for me here.
I'll have to see what it is and consult with someone.
Maybe my fate will change completely, but that's all not it and not the main thing.
The main thing is that my whole life has changed already.
I left a lot there, too much. It's all vanished.
I sat on the train thinking:
'Now I'm going to be with people; maybe I don't know anything, but the new life has come.'
I decided to do my duty honestly and firmly.
Maybe it will be boring and painful for me to be with people.
In the first place I decided to be polite and candid with everybody; no one can ask more of me.
Maybe I'll be considered a child here, too—so be it!
Everybody also considers me an idiot for some reason, and in fact I was once so ill that I was like an idiot; but what sort of idiot am I now, when I myself understand that I'm considered an idiot?
I come in and think: 'They consider me an idiot, but I'm intelligent all the same, and they don't even suspect it . . .' I often have that thought.
When I was in Berlin and received several little letters they had already managed to write to me, it was only then that I realized how much I loved them.
Receiving the first letter was very hard!
How sad they were as they saw me off!
They began a month ahead:
'Leon s'en va, Leon s'en va pour toujours.'* Every evening we gathered by the waterfall as before and kept talking about our parting.
Sometimes it was as joyful as before; only when we broke up for the night, they started hugging me tightly and warmly, which they never did before.
Some came running to see me in secret from the rest, singly, only in order to hug me and kiss me alone, not in front of everybody.
When I was setting out, all of them, the whole swarm, saw me off to the station.
The railway station was about half a mile from the village.
They tried to keep from crying, but many failed and cried loudly, especially the girls.
We hurried so as not to be late, but one or another of the crowd would suddenly rush to me in the middle of the road, put his little arms around me, and kiss me, for which the whole crowd also had to stop; and though we were in a hurry, everybody stopped and waited for him to say good-bye to me.
When I got on the train and it started off, they all shouted 'Hurrah!' to me and stood there for a long time, until the train was quite gone.
I kept looking, too . . . Listen, when I came in here earlier and looked at your dear faces—I'm very attentive to faces now—and heard your first words, I felt light at heart for the first time since then.
I thought maybe I really am one of the lucky ones: I know it's not easy to meet people you can love at once, yet I met you as soon as I got off the train.
I know very well that it's shameful to talk about your feelings with everyone, * Leon is going away, Leon is going away forever! yet here I am talking with you, and with you I'm not ashamed.
I'm unsociable and may not visit you for a long time.
Don't take it as thinking ill: I'm not saying it because I don't value you, and you also mustn't think I've been offended in any way.
You asked me about your faces and what I observe in them.
I'll tell you with great pleasure.
Yours, Adelaida Ivanovna, is a happy face, the most sympathetic of the three.
Not only are you very pretty, but one looks at you and says:
'She has the face of a kind sister.'
You approach things simply and cheerfully, but you are also quick to know hearts.
That's what I think about your face.
Yours, Alexandra Ivanovna, is also a beautiful and very sweet face, but you may have some secret sorrow; your soul is no doubt very kind, but you are not joyful.