When one lives in a row of houses, it is interesting to think of the things which are being done and said on the other side of the wall of the very rooms one is living in. Sara was fond of amusing herself by trying to imagine the things hidden by the wall which divided the Select Seminary from the Indian gentleman’s house. She knew that the schoolroom was next to the Indian gentleman’s study, and she hoped that the wall was thick so that the noise made sometimes after lesson hours would not disturb him.
“I am growing quite fond of him,” she said to Ermengarde; “I should not like him to be disturbed. I have adopted him for a friend. You can do that with people you never speak to at all. You can just watch them, and think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like relations. I’m quite anxious sometimes when I see the doctor call twice a day.”
“I have very few relations,” said Ermengarde, reflectively, “and I’m very glad of it. I don’t like those I have. My two aunts are always saying, Dear me, Ermengarde! You are very fat. You shouldn’t eat sweets,’ and my uncle is always asking me things like, When did Edward the Third ascend the throne?’ and, Who died of a surfeit of lampreys?’” Sara laughed. “People you never speak to can’t ask you questions like that,” she said; “and I’m sure the Indian gentleman wouldn’t even if he was quite intimate with you. I am fond of him.” She had become fond of the Large Family because they looked happy; but she had become fond of the Indian gentleman because he looked unhappy. He had evidently not fully recovered from some very severe illness. In the kitchen—where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious means, knew everything—there was much discussion of his case. He was not an Indian gentleman really, but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and disgraced forever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died of brain fever; and ever since he had been shattered in health, though his fortunes had changed and all his possessions had been restored to him. His trouble and peril had been connected with mines. “And mines with diamonds in ‘em!” said the cook. “No savin’s of mine never goes into no mines—particular diamond ones”— with a side glance at Sara. “We all know somethin’ of them.” “He felt as my papa felt,” Sara thought. “He was ill as my papa was; but he did not die.” So her heart was more drawn to him than before. When she was sent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, because there was always a chance that the curtains of the house next door might not yet be closed and she could look into the warm room and see her adopted friend. When no one was about she used sometimes to stop, and, holding to the iron railings, wish him good night as if he could hear her. “Perhaps you can feel if you can’t hear,” was her fancy. “Perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even through windows and doors and walls. Perhaps you feel a little warm and comforted, and don’t know why, when I am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well and happy again. I am so sorry for you,” she would whisper in an intense little voice. “I wish you had a Little Missus’ who could pet you as I used to pet papa when he had a headache. I should like to be your Little Missus’ myself, poor dear! Good night—good night. God bless you!” She would go away, feeling quite comforted and a little warmer herself. Her sympathy was so strong that it seemed as if it must reach him somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire, nearly always in a great dressing gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire. He looked to Sara like a man who had a trouble on his mind still, not merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past. “He always seems as if he were thinking of something that hurts him now”, she said to herself, “but he has got his money back and he will get over his brain fever in time, so he ought not to look like that. I wonder if there is something else.” If there was something else—something even servants did not hear of—she could not help believing that the father of the Large Family knew it—the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency. Mr. Montmorency went to see him often, and Mrs. Montmorency and all the little Montmorencys went, too, though less often. He seemed particularly fond of the two elder little girls—the Janet and Nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother Donald had given Sara his sixpence. He had, in fact, a very tender place in his heart for all children, and particularly for little girls. Janet and Nora were as fond of him as he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest pleasure to the afternoons when they were allowed to cross the square and make their well-behaved little visits to him. They were extremely decorous little visits because he was an invalid. “He is a poor thing,” said Janet, “and he says we cheer him up. We try to cheer him up very quietly.” Janet was the head of the family, and kept the rest of it in order. It was she who decided when it was discreet to ask the Indian gentleman to tell stories about India, and it was she who saw when he was tired and it was the time to steal quietly away and tell Ram Dass to go to him. They were very fond of Ram Dass. He could have told any number of stories if he had been able to speak anything but Hindustani. The Indian gentleman’s real name was Mr. Carrisford, and Janet told Mr. Carrisford about the encounter with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. He was very much interested, and all the more so when he heard from Ram Dass of the adventure of the monkey on the roof. Ram Dass made for him a very clear picture of the attic and its desolateness—of the bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty, empty grate, and the hard, narrow bed. “Carmichael,” he said to the father of the Large Family, after he had heard this description, “I wonder how many of the attics in this square are like that one, and how many wretched little servant girls sleep on such beds, while I toss on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, most of it—not mine.” “My dear fellow,” Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, “the sooner you cease tormenting yourself the better it will be for you. If you possessed all the wealth of all the Indies, you could not set right all the discomforts in the world, and if you began to refurnish all the attics in this square, there would still remain all the attics in all the other squares and streets to put in order. And there you are!” Mr. Carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the glowing bed of coals in the grate. “Do you suppose,” he said slowly, after a pause—”do you think it is possible that the other child—the child I never cease thinking of, I believe—could be—could possibly be reduced to any such condition as the poor little soul next door?” Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily. He knew that the worst thing the man could do for himself, for his reason and his health, was to begin to think in the particular way of this particular subject. “If the child at Madame Pascal’s school in Paris was the one you are in search of,” he answered soothingly, “she would seem to be in the hands of people who can afford to take care of her. They adopted her because she had been the favorite companion of their little daughter who died. They had no other children, and Madame Pascal said that they were extremely well-to-do Russians.” “And the wretched woman actually did not know where they had taken her!” exclaimed Mr. Carrisford. Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders. “She was a shrewd, worldly Frenchwoman, and was evidently only too glad to get the child so comfortably off her hands when the father’s death left her totally unprovided for. Women of her type do not trouble themselves about the futures of children who might prove burdens. The adopted parents apparently disappeared and left no trace.” “But you say if the child was the one I am in search of. You say ‘if.’ We are not sure. There was a difference in the name.”
“Madame Pascal pronounced it as if it were Carew instead of Crewe—but that might be merely a matter of pronunciation. The circumstances were curiously similar. An English officer in India had placed his motherless little girl at the school. He had died suddenly after losing his fortune.” Mr. Carmichael paused a moment, as if a new thought had occurred to him. “Are you sure the child was left at a school in Paris? Are you sure it was Paris?”
“My dear fellow,” broke forth Carrisford, with restless bitterness, “I am sure of nothing. I never saw either the child or her mother. Ralph Crewe and I loved each other as boys, but we had not met since our school days, until we met in India. I was absorbed in the magnificent promise of the mines. He became absorbed, too. The whole thing was so huge and glittering that we half lost our heads. When we met we scarcely spoke of anything else. I only knew that the child had been sent to school somewhere. I do not even remember, now, how I knew it.”
He was beginning to be excited. He always became excited when his still weakened brain was stirred by memories of the catastrophes of the past.
Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously. It was necessary to ask some questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution.
“But you had reason to think the school was in Paris?”
“Yes,” was the answer, “because her mother was a Frenchwoman, and I had heard that she wished her child to be educated in Paris. It seemed only likely that she would be there.”
“Yes,” Mr. Carmichael said, “it seems more than probable.”
The Indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the table with a long, wasted hand.
“Carmichael,” he said, “I must find her. If she is alive, she is somewhere. If she is friendless and penniless, it is through my fault. How is a man to get back his nerve with a thing like that on his mind? This sudden change of luck at the mines has made realities of all our most fantastic dreams, and poor Crewe’s child may be begging in the street!”
“No, no,” said Carmichael. “Try to be calm. Console yourself with the fact that when she is found you have a fortune to hand over to her.”
“Why was I not man enough to stand my ground when things looked black?” Carrisford groaned in petulant misery. “I believe I should have stood my ground if I had not been responsible for other people’s money as well as my own. Poor Crewe had put into the scheme every penny that he owned. He trusted me—he loved me. And he died thinking I had ruined him—I—Tom Carrisford, who played cricket at Eton with him. What a villain he must have thought me!”
“Don’t reproach yourself so bitterly.”
“I don’t reproach myself because the speculation threatened to fail—I reproach myself for losing my courage. I ran away like a swindler and a thief, because I could not face my best friend and tell him I had ruined him and his child.”
The good-hearted father of the Large Family put his hand on his shoulder comfortingly.
“You ran away because your brain had given way under the strain of mental torture,” he said. “You were half delirious already. If you had not been you would have stayed and fought it out. You were in a hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brain fever, two days after you left the place. Remember that.”
Carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands.
“Good God! Yes,” he said. “I was driven mad with dread and horror. I had not slept for weeks. The night I staggered out of my house all the air seemed full of hideous things mocking and mouthing at me.”
“That is explanation enough in itself,” said Mr. Carmichael. “How could a man on the verge of brain fever judge sanely!”
Carrisford shook his drooping head.
“And when I returned to consciousness poor Crewe was dead—and buried. And I seemed to remember nothing. I did not remember the child for months and months. Even when I began to recall her existence everything seemed in a sort of haze.”
He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead. “It sometimes seems so now when I try to remember. Surely I must sometime have heard Crewe speak of the school she was sent to. Don’t you think so?”
“He might not have spoken of it definitely. You never seem even to have heard her real name.”
“He used to call her by an odd pet name he had invented. He called her his Little Missus.’ But the wretched mines drove everything else out of our heads. We talked of nothing else. If he spoke of the school, I forgot—I forgot. And now I shall never remember.” “Come, come,” said Carmichael. “We shall find her yet. We will continue to search for Madame Pascal’s good-natured Russians. She seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in Moscow. We will take that as a clue. I will go to Moscow.” “If I were able to travel, I would go with you,” said Carrisford; “but I can only sit here wrapped in furs and stare at the fire. And when I look into it I seem to see Crewe’s gay young face gazing back at me. He looks as if he were asking me a question. Sometimes I dream of him at night, and he always stands before me and asks the same question in words. Can you guess what he says, Carmichael?” Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice. “Not exactly,” he said. “He always says, Tom, old man—Tom—where is the Little Missus?’” He caught at Carmichael’s hand and clung to it. “I must be able to answer him—I must!” he said. “Help me to find her. Help me.”
On the other side of the wall Sara was sitting in her garret talking to Melchisedec, who had come out for his evening meal.
“It has been hard to be a princess today, Melchisedec,” she said. “It has been harder than usual. It gets harder as the weather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy. When Lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in a flash—and I only just stopped myself in time. You can’t sneer back at people like that- -if you are a princess. But you have to bite your tongue to hold yourself in. I bit mine. It was a cold afternoon, Melchisedec. And it’s a cold night.”
Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often did when she was alone.
“Oh, papa,” she whispered, “what a long time it seems since I was your `Little Missus’!”
This was what happened that day on both sides of the wall.
背景介绍和作者介绍
这段摘录选自弗朗西丝·霍奇森·伯内特于1905年创作的经典小说《小公主》。伯内特是一位英裔美国作家，以其儿童文学作品而闻名，包括《秘密花园》和《小法兰克罗伊》。《小公主》讲述了萨拉·克鲁的故事，一个经历命运巨变的年轻女孩，但在逆境中始终保持着善良和尊严。
故事背景设定在维多利亚时代的英格兰，探讨了友谊、韧性、想象力和善良的力量等主题。萨拉富有想象力的精神和同情心使她能够在孤独和逆境中找到希望和联系。
详细解读和意义
这段话突出了萨拉的同情心和想象力，她观察着隔壁印度绅士的生活，她从未见过他，但对他感同身受。这反映了萨拉天生的善良以及她形成超越直接互动的情感联系的能力，展现了她对人类痛苦和友谊的成熟理解。
印度绅士关于失去、疾病和遗憾的故事与萨拉的童真形成了对比，但也与她自己的挣扎相呼应。他对迷路的孩子（他称之为“小夫人”）的关心，与小说中关于失去和救赎的更大主题联系在一起。叙事还触及了社会问题，如贫困、疾病以及贫富差距。
萨拉在受到拉维尼亚嘲笑时的自制力，展现了她坚强的性格以及即使面对残酷也要保持尊严和善良的重要性。她幻想成为印度绅士的“小夫人”，揭示了她对家庭和联系的渴望，这是贯穿小说始终的一个中心主题。
给学生的教训和见解
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同情心和怜悯心： 萨拉关心一个她从未见过的人的能力，教会了我们同情心的价值。学生们可以学会体谅和理解他人的感受，即使他们不认识他们。
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逆境中的韧性： 尽管面临孤独和困境，萨拉仍然保持着希望和善良。这鼓励年轻读者培养韧性，并在困难时期保持积极的态度。
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想象力是一种力量： 萨拉的想象力游戏帮助她应对环境。学生们可以欣赏创造力在带来安慰和快乐以及培养解决问题能力方面的力量。
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尊严和自制力： 萨拉决定不回应拉维尼亚的嘲笑，这表明了成熟。学生们可以学习在社交互动中自制和善良的重要性，即使受到挑衅。
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超越言语的友谊： 仅通过观察和思考就能建立友谊的想法，扩展了友谊的传统概念，鼓励学生在所有关系中保持细心和关怀。
在日常生活中应用这些教训
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在学校： 学生们可以通过倾听同学并提供帮助而不加评判来练习同情心。他们也可以在创意项目和解决问题中使用想象力。
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在社交场合： 面对嘲笑或欺凌时保持尊严和善良，有助于建立尊重和内在力量。
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在家庭生活中： 理解他人的挣扎并提供支持，即使是默默地，也能加强家庭纽带。
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个人成长： 通过以希望和善良面对挑战来培养韧性，可以塑造性格和情商。
从故事中培养积极的品质
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同情心： 鼓励学生想象他人在不同情况下的感受，培养同情心。
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想象力： 推广讲故事、绘画或角色扮演等创意活动，以培养想象力。
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韧性： 分享像萨拉这样克服困难的角色的故事，激发毅力。
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善良： 创造奖励善良和理解的课堂和家庭环境。
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自制力： 教授管理情绪的技巧，例如深呼吸或数到十，以处理嘲笑或愤怒。
通过阅读《小公主》，学生们不仅可以欣赏一个引人入胜的故事，还可以获得宝贵的生活技能和道德见解，帮助他们成长为有思想、有韧性、有同情心的人。
