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1I.—EARLY SPRING.
We seem to have been up since early morning. We seem to have been
astir and busy like
people preparing for something pleasant—a feast or a wedding
party. As the postman
stumbled down our stairs this morning he bawled to the servant girl:
"That chestnut tree is a
mass of buds this morning. I tell you, it's a mass." We heard
him. We opened the windows.
He must have told the other three houses for windows flew up and
heads came through to
stare at the chestnut tree with the sticky buds shining in the sun
as though coated with honey.
The chestnut tree grows in the middle of the court. There is a stone
bench round it where the
children chatter and scuffle by day and where the old people sit
in the evening time, very
quiet and close, counting the stars shining through the leaves as
though the chestnut tree were
their own fruit tree growing in a moonshiny orchard. On dark, warm
nights the boys and girls
meet there. They are quieter than the old people. We leaned far
out of the windows. We
shouted and laughed. "Good morning—yes, the postman spoke
the truth." "Yes, indeed the
sun is shining, praise the Lord." "Now the warm days won't
be long." "That tree will be green
before we can take off our coats." "Oh, my soul, what
a winter it has been!" Only the old
people were silent. They stood at the windows, nodding to one another,
and sipping the air.
Each moment the sun grew warmer. It fell on our starved hair and
lips and hands like kisses.
It made us drunk with joy. " I t ' s going to be a fine year:
the spring has started early. That's a
sign." "One has a chance when the sun shines." "We'll
be sitting outside within a week." " I
must alter Marya's cotton pelisse." "As for me I never
cough in the summer." "You know
that's a very fine tree, even as trees go." We talked like
rich people; we preened ourselves
like birds. Suddenly some one shouted. "Hoo! I say, look at
the students' window." The
Russian students had a room in the top floor of the biggest house.
Three of them shared
it—two men and a girl. They were scarcely ever seen, except
behind the window, pacing up
and down and talking with great gestures, or at dusk half running
across the court. They were
desperately poor. We had not seen them all through the winter. To-day
their window was
closed. A coat hung across it. The sleeves of the coat must have
been pinned to the walls. It
looked very strange as though trying to shield the room from our
view. It made us angry.
"Now that's a disgraceful room," bawled a woman. "
Pretty goings on there must be inside
there." " We don't want to see their filthiness."
"Nice thing for a girl to live with two fellows
and no curtain on the window." " Garr ! who's seen them
lately?" And a child yelled,
laughing, "perhaps they're
all dead." The high little squeaking voice silenced and frightened
us suddenly quiet. After all
why shouldn't they be dead. Nobody went near them. And the window
closed down and the
coat stretched across it wasn't natural on a day like this. You
never knew what students might
do. The girl always looked funny, too. A wind blew into the court
shaking the boughs of the
chestnut tree. The long shadow of it quivered on the stones. And
then while we gloomed and
wondered the door of the biggest house opened. The Russian girl
came out. She wore a black
jersey and a skirt up to the knees. She blinked and peered at the
light like a little animal.
When she saw the people leaning from the windows she drew back—just
for a moment, then
she set her lips and walked out of the shadow. She looked at nobody.
She kept her dark eyes
fixed on the chestnut tree and the shining buds. And at the sight
of her we leaned out,
laughed, shook and screamed with laughter, holding our sides. Dead—
were they! God in
Heaven, that was good! The swine—they'd take some killing.
"Look at her. There she goes!"
And we jeered and pointed at the swollen distorted body of the girl
moving through the
sunlight.
II.—THE FOLLOWING AFTER.
That's enough—that's enough! he shouted. He sprang from his
seat, pulled his coat from the
door peg and began dragging it on. For a moment she was so amazed
and terrified that she
could not speak. Then she stuttered "where are you g-going
to, Mark?" " Gar- r ! " he cried,
throwing up his arms. " I 'm going to end the whole bloody
business." He turned to her. She
saw his face, grey and quivering. With the effort not to cry his
face looked distorted; he stood
grimacing at her. " Mark ! Mark, come here! Mark—listen!"
He was gone. She heard his
steps clatter down the stone stairs. She heard the outer door rattle
and burst open and slam to.
She ran to the window and saw him crossing the court in the falling
snow —running, with
head bent, and making wide foolish gestures as he ran. It was not
until he was out of sight
that the whole world changed. It died the moment he disappeared.
Yes, that was the court,
with the three white houses, and the white chestnut tree and the
ground white and thick under
the snow. And behind her the clock on the shelf was ticking and
the fire bars clinking in a
dead room. All—gone, all gone, all—gone! ticked the
clock. Her heart beat to it, but faster.
She began walking round the room on tiptoe keeping time to the ticking
of the clock and then
keeping time to her heart until suddenly she brushed against his
indoor jacket hanging on the
door peg. She flung her arms round it. She buried her face in it.
Long dry sobs dragged from
deep in her body, shaking and tearing. " Darling! darling,
darling!" she sobbed, walking to
and fro. And then she stood upright and tossed her head. "
I cannot bear this. I must go and
find him." She flung a shawl over her head and ran from the
room.
It was cold outside: the air smelled of ice. And the snow shook
over, blinding, persistent.
Lamps were lighted in the road. On either side the road seemed to
wind away for ever, white
with yellow pools. She had never seen a road like that before. The
crazy thought jagged in
her brain —it's like a white sauce with spots of melted butter.
Some one laughed —very
close beside her—down her own throat. Terrified, she started
to run and she did not stop
running until she came to the bridge where she and Mark used to
linger on their way home,
leaning over the parapet and watching the fairy fishes in the water—the
long, wavering
lights. To-night the river was dark. It was dead. So were the fairy
fish. She dug her nails
against the stone parapet and called out "Mark, Mark!"
and again the long dry sobs dragged
from deep in her body, shaking and tearing. Suddenly she saw some
one walking towards her
from the other side of the bridge. With swift, light steps he came.
It was Mark. He did not
speak to her—but he smiled upon her and beckoned her to follow.
She followed him down a
long street and past great houses, and through a frozen park, up
and down, in and out of
doorways, through little squares, past high walls and towering buildings—often
she longed to
cry to him to stop, but her mouth and chin were frozen and she could
not catch up to him
however hard she tried—she just could not touch him and beg
him to wait a moment. On and
on. She saw him raise his head and she looked up and saw that the
sky was light. They were
crossing a little court. They passed through a door up some stairs
into a room. The room was
touched with the pink light of morning. Mark lay on the bed—straight
and still. She was so
tired that for a moment she thought it was the sunrise staining
the pillow so red.
III.—BY MOONLIGHT.
?Feodor was passionately fond of poetry. He had written some pieces
himself from time to time
and he was resolved to write a great many more. "Just wait
a bit," he would say, "Just wait
until I get enough money to go off into the country with nothing
to do but lie in a field all day,
or sail in a little boat on a river and sleep in a haystack as snug
as a bee in a hive. I'll come
back with enough poems to last you a lifetime. Once I get the money."
. . . But it seemed quite
impossible that Feodor should ever have any money at all. Each day,
from nine o'clock in the
morning until seven o'clock in the evening, he stood outside a large
drapery establishment and
swung the door to the right for customers to enter and swung the
door to the left for customers
to pass out. He was tall and dark. He wore a bright blue coat with
red trimmings and a cap of
black patent leather. Sometimes the same ladies would go in and
out of the shop several times
in the day. But they made no impression on Feodor. In the evenings
he walked by the river or
strolled through the town until it was late. Then he went home to
his tiny room at the top of
the house and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling until
he fell asleep.
One summer night he came out of the street into the courtyard.
The moon was shining and the
tops of the houses shone like silver. The houses themselves, half
in light, half in shadow,
looked as though they were draped in velvet. White like marble shone
the courtyard and the
chestnut tree stood like an immense bird with green wings in the
pool of its own shadow.
Feodor breathed deeply with delight. He walked over to the chestnut
tree and sat down on the
little stone bench, folding his arms. He was not alone there. An
old man with white hair sat at
the other end of the bench, crouched forward, his hands held between
his knees. Feodor
glanced at him once and then forgot about him. He began composing
a poem. A feeling of
divine happiness possessed him; his heart seemed to expand as he
breathed. Suddenly he saw
the old man fumble in a pocket. He brought out something wrapped
in a linen handkerchief
and laid it on his knees. With infinite care he slowly parted the
folds of the handkerchief and
Feodor saw a book bound in parchment and tied with purple silk ribbons.
He moved a little
nearer the old man, who untied the ribbons and spread the book open.
The pages were printed
with large, black letters. Each page had a blue letter at the top
embroidered in gold and by the
bright moonlight it was quite easy to read what was written. Feodor
moved nearer still. Then
he saw that each page was a poem. He leaned over the old man's shoulder
and read for himself
poems such as he had never dreamed of—poems that sounded in
his ears like bells ringing in
some splendid tower—like waves beating on warm sands —like
dark rivers falling down
forest-clad mountains. The old man suddenly put his hand over the
page and turned to Feodor.
His lips and his eyes smiled but his face drenched in the white
light of moon looked unreal,
like a face gleaming through water. "So you like poetry, young
man," he said, in a gentle, sad
voice. Feodor nodded twice without replying. Still smiling the old
man looked him up and
down. "Strange," he muttered, "Strange." He
took up his book and he began to read aloud.
Without moving, scarcely breathing, his eyes dark and shining, Feodor
listened to the old man.
A long time passed until the last poem was read and the old man
closed the book and tied
again the faded silk ribbons and laid it on the bench beside him.
Silence fell between the two.
Feodor slowly came to consciousness of his surroundings, and with
this consciousness to the
realization of his own poverty and helplessness and of his own longing
for a different life—of
his craving to go away from the city—far away—into that
country place with fields and rivers
and big yellow haystacks. "And soon it will all be too late,"
he thought, "soon I shall be sitting
on this bench—an old man with white hair—but with no
book of poems—with empty hands
I'll be sitting here, and all will be over." He began to breathe
sharply and painfully as though
he had been running a very long way, and tears gushed into his eyes
and flowed down his
trembling face. The old man paid no attention. He sat smoothing
the book under his hand as
though it were a little animal, and talking to the book as though
it were a little child. "My own,
my treasure, core of my heart, I will not part with thee. They think
I am a fool because I am
old, but all my years I have longed for thee and thou art mine for
ever. Sell us this, they say,
sell us this and you shall be a rich man for a year. Bah! I spit
in their faces. No one shall buy
?thee. Thou art my all in all until the end." It was like a
knife—the quick thought stabbing him.
The book is valuable. Now's your chance. He recoiled in horror.
No, there were things a fellow
did not do—steal from an old man was one. But what can the
old man do with it. He must be
nearly a hundred years old. An old brain is too feeble to feel a
loss. How can I get it? Ha! that's
the question. One can't fight an old man. . . . Perhaps if I told
him—if I explained he might
give it to me—no, I'm mad to think that. Yet he must have
taken a fancy to me. Why did he
start reading aloud? The memory of the poems and of the old man's
voice made it impossible
again for him to think of taking the book. Ask him for it—that's
what he'd do. He turned to the
old man. "You say your book is valuable," he said politely.
"That's interesting." The old man's
head was sunk on his breast. He was asleep. Soft as a cat Feodor
seized the book and crept
away from the chestnut tree—across the court—up to his
tiny room.
" I have done the right thing—that's certain. To-morrow
I shall sell it, and to-morrow evening I
shall be gone from here forever." He put the book under his
pillow and went to bed.
Feodor could not sleep. Hours passed—slowly passed. His bed
was hard as a dry field. And the
darkness moved as he moved, breathed to his breath, watched him
with a swarm of narrow
eyes. Finally he got up, lit a candle and taking the book crept
downstairs with it. "If the old
man is not there I shall keep the book—I shall have to keep
the book— but if he is there I shall
put it back again or give it to him." He was perfectly confident
that the old man would not be
there. He'd have gone hours ago. But this was a good idea of his,
otherwise he'd never have
rested in peace again. He slipped the bolt of the door and as the
door opened he saw in the
deep shadow the old man still there—under the tree. Feodor
went back to hisroom—threw the
book into a corner and fell fast asleep.
Maria Schulz ran down the passage. Her face was red, her hair tumbled.
"What's the matter,"
shouted Feodor. "There's an old man," said Maria. "The
police are in the courtyard now. An
old man—found on the bench this morning, dead and cold as
a stone." |
