Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!
The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the 'etagere'. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the 'etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it—" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!
It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom!—Boom!—Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!
A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom!
Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the 'etagere' is no longer there. Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom!—Boom!—Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!
The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into the air and nods—forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green eyes stare into the air, and he nods—nods.
Tommy's soldiers march to battle,Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.Bayonets flash, and sabres glance—How the horses snort and prance!Cannon drawn up in a lineGlitter in the dizzy shineOf the morning sunlight. FlagsRipple colours in great jags.Red blows out, then blue, then green,Then all three—a weaving sheenOf prismed patriotism. MarchTommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,Boldly stepping to the rattleOf the drums, they go to battle.
Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers, and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet. Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods—nods. The fire makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.
Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.
Tommy's army's off to war—Not a soldier knows what for.But he knows about his rifle,How to shoot it, and a trifleOf the proper thing to doWhen it's he who is shot through.Like a cleverly trained flea,He can follow instantlyOrders, and some quick commandsReally make severe demandsOn a mind that's none too rapid,Leaden brains tend to the vapid.But how beautifully dressedIs this army! How impressedTommy is when at his heelAll his baggage wagons wheelAbout the patterned carpet, andMoving up his heavy gunsHe sees them glow with diamond sunsFlashing all along each barrel.And the gold and blue apparelOf his gunners is a joy.Tommy is a lucky boy.Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!
The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.
Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks glistening to the fire's shine.
The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its sparkles.
The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers all bright and new?
Tommy's leaden soldiers we,Glittering with efficiency.Not a button's out of place,Tons and tons of golden laceWind about our officers.Every manly bosom stirsAt the thought of killing—killing!Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.We are gaudy, savage, strong,And our loins so ripe we longFirst to kill, then procreate,Doubling so the laws of Fate.On their women we have swornTo graft our sons. And overborneThey'll rear us younger soldiers, soShall our race endure and grow,Waxing greater in the wombsBorrowed of them, while damp tombsRot their men. O Glorious War!Goad us with your points, Great Star!
The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and back—forward and back—and the red rose writhes and wriggles, thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured snakes.
The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old man nods.
Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new, gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.
Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted uniforms.
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers under his purple umbrella, and nods—forward and back, staring into the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood.
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
There was a manWho made his livingBy painting rosesUpon silk.He sat in an upper chamberAnd painted,And the noises of the streetMeant nothing to him.When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,He thought of red, and yellow, and white rosesBursting in the sunshine,And smiled as he worked.He thought only of roses,And silk.When he could get no more silkHe stopped paintingAnd only thoughtOf roses.The day the conquerorsEntered the city,The old manLay dying.He heard the bugles and drums,And wished he could paint the rosesBursting into sound.
Now what in the name of the sun and the starsIs the meaning of this most unholy of wars?Do men find life so full of humour and joyThat for want of excitement they smash up the toy?Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horsesAll bent upon killing, because their "of courses"Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears,And nine nations of women choking with tears.It is folly to think that the will of a kingCan force men to make ducks and drakes of a thingThey value, and life is, at least one supposes,Of some little interest, even if rosesHave not grown up between one foot and the other.What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smotherSuch quite elementary feelings, and tagA man with a number, and set him to wagHis legs and his arms at the word of commandOr the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned,Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold laceAnd an upturned moustache can set him to faceBullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases,Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases.If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say,With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day,"Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do?A king and his minions are really so few.Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor!But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, orThe dire results which could not be inflicted.With no one to execute sentence, convictedIs just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows.What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows!To be killing each other, unmercifully,At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea."Or is it that tasting the blood on their jawsThey lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and lawsSo patiently builded, are nothing to drinkingMore blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking.I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows,And, as to men—what are men, when their marrowsAre running with blood they have gulped; it is plainSuch excellent sport does not recollect pain.Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mastThe flags which meant order, for order is past.Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head,The civilization we've worked for is dead.Squeeze into this archway, the head of the lineHas just swung round the corner to 'Die Wacht am Rhein'.
You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer?My! ain't men blinder'n moles?It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that.Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seedMe changin' under your very nose,Each day a little diff'rent.But you never see nothin', you don't.Don't touch me, Jake,Don't you dars't to touch me,I ain't in no humour.That's what's come over me;Jest a change clear through.You lay still, an' I'll tell yer,I've had it on my mind to tell yerFer some time.It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night,An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now.An' don't make any mistake about one thing,When I married yer I loved yer.Why, your voice 'ud makeMe go hot and cold all over,An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'.Lord! I was a silly fool.But that's the way 'twas.Well, I married yerAn' thought Heav'n was comin'To set on the door-step.Heav'n didn't do no settin',Though the first year warn't so bad.The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess,An' then I took her death real hard,An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man.I ain't blamin' yer exactly.But that's how 'twas.Do lay quiet,I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought.There come a time when I got to beMore wife agin than mother.The mother part was sort of a wasteWhen we didn't have no other child.But you'd got used ter lots o' things,An' you was all took up with the farm.Many's the time I've laid awakeWatchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree,Out o' sight.I'd foller yer around like a dog,An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in,Jest to feel its arms around me,So long's I didn't have yours.It preyed on me, I guess,Longin' and longin'While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night.Yes, I know you're wide awake now,But now ain't then,An' I guess you'll think diff'rentWhen I'm done.Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock?I didn't want to stay home for reasons,But you said someone 'd have to be here'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone.An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer,Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes,Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'.But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin',An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter!'Twas a lovely mornin'.The apple-trees was jest elegantWith their blossoms all flared out,An' there warn't a cloud in the sky.You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said,An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile,The air was so still.Then Elmer come.It's no use your frettin', Jake,I'll tell you all about it.I know what I'm doin',An' what's worse, I know what I done.Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits,An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go,An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either,I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer,An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin'An' gittin' no comfort.I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things.He stayed to dinner,An' he helped me do the dishes,An' he said a home was a fine thing,An' I said dishes warn't a homeNor yet the room they're in.He said a lot o' things,An' I fended him off at first,But he got talkin' all around me,Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin',What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake,You know.He got all he wanted,An' I give it to him,An' what's more, I'm glad!I ain't dead, anyway,An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'.Keep away, Jake,You can kill me to-morrer if you want to,But I'm goin' to have my say.Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man.Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months.I don't want to pretend nothin',Mebbe if he'd be'n latelyI shouldn't have told yer.I'll go away in the mornin', o' course.What you want the light fer?I don't look no diff'rent.Ain't the moon bright enoughTo look at a woman that's deceived yer by?Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now!It ain't a question of forgiveness.Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute;It ain't decent.Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way!
Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest.I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye.Yes, it's all over.All my things is packedAn' every last one o' them boxesIs on Bradley's teamBein' hauled over to th' depot.No, I ain't goin' back agin.I'm stoppin' over to French's fer to-night,And goin' down first train in th' mornin'.Yes, it do seem kinder queerNot to be goin' to see Cherry's Orchard no more,But Land Sakes! When a change's comin',Why, I al'ays say it can't come too quick.Now, that's real kind o' you,Your doughnuts is always so tasty.Yes, I'm goin' to Chicago,To my niece,She's married to a fine man, hardware business,An' doin' real well, she tells me.Lizzie's be'n at me to go out ther for the longest while.She ain't got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you knowShe's rented me a real nice little flat,Same house as hers,An' I'm goin' to try that city livin' folks say's so pleasant.Oh, yes, he was real generous,Paid me a sight o' money fer the Orchard;I told him 'twouldn't yield nothin' but stones,But he ain't farmin' it.Lor', no, Mis' Priest,He's jest took it to set and look at the view.Mebbe he wouldn't be so stuck on the viewEf he'd seed it every mornin' and night for forty yearSame's as I have.I dessay it's pretty enough,But it's so pressed into meI c'n see't with my eyes shut.No. I ain't cold, Mis' Priest,Don't shut th' door.I'll be all right in a minit.But I ain't a mite sorry to leave that view.Well, mebbe 'tis queer to feel so,An' mebbe 'taint.My! But that tea's revivin'.Old things ain't always pleasant things, Mis' Priest.No, no, I don't cal'late on comin' back,That's why I'd ruther be to Chicago,Boston's too near.It ain't cold, Mis' Priest,It's jest my thoughts.I ain't sick, only—Mis' Priest, ef you've nothin' ter take yer time,An' have a mind to listen,Ther's somethin' I'd like ter speak aboutI ain't never mentioned it,But I'd like to tell yer 'fore I go.Would you mind lowerin' them shades,Fall twilight's awful grey,An' that fire's real cosy with the shades drawed.Well, I guess folks about here think I've be'n dret'ful onsociable.You needn't say 'taint so, 'cause I know diff'rent.An' what's more, it's true.Well, the reason is I've be'n scared out o' my life.Scared ev'ry minit o' th' time, fer eight year.Eight mortal year 'tis, come next June.'Twas on the eighteenth o' June,Six months after I'd buried my husband,That somethin' happened ter me.Mebbe you'll mind that afore thatI was a cheery body.Hiram was too,Al'ays liked to ask a neighbor in,An' ev'n when he died,Barrin' low sperrits, I warn't averse to seein' nobody.But that eighteenth o' June changed ev'rythin'.I was doin' most o' th' farmwork myself,With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, 'twas,Comin' in fer an hour or two.Well, that eighteenth o' JuneI was goin' round,Lockin' up and seein' to things 'fore I went to bed.I was jest steppin' out t' th' barn,Goin' round outside 'stead o' through the shed,'Cause there was such a sight o' moonlightSomehow or another I thought 'twould be pretty outdoors.I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess.I ain't stuck on 'em no more.Well, them laylock bushes side o' th' houseWas real lovely.Glitt'rin' and shakin' in the moonlight,An' the smell o' them rose right upAn' most took my breath away.The colour o' the spikes was all faded out,They never keep their colour when the moon's on 'em,But the smell fair 'toxicated me.I was al'ays partial to a sweet scent,An' I went close up t' th' bushesSo's to put my face right into a flower.Mis' Priest, jest's I got breathin' in that laylock bloomI saw, layin' right at my feet,A man's hand!It was as white's the side o' th' house,And sparklin' like that lum'nous paint they put on gate-posts.I screamed right out,I couldn't help it,An' I could hear my screamGoin' over an' overIn that echo be'ind th' barn.Hearin' it agin an' agin like thatScared me so, I dar'sn't scream any more.I jest stood ther,And looked at that hand.I thought the echo'd begin to hammer like my heart,But it didn't.There was only th' wind,Sighin' through the laylock leaves,An' slappin' 'em up agin the house.Well, I guess I looked at that handMost ten minits,An' it never moved,Jest lay there white as white.After a while I got to thinkin' that o' course'Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield.That calmed me some,An' I commenced to think I'd better git him outFrom under them laylocks.I planned to drag him in t' th' barnAn' lock him in ther till Clarence come in th' mornin'.I got so mad thinkin' o' that all-fired brazen trampAsleep in my laylocks,I jest stooped down and grabbed th' hand and give it an awful pull.Then I bumped right down settin' on the ground.Mis' Priest, ther warn't no body come with the hand.No, it ain't cold, it's jest that I can't abear thinkin' of it,Ev'n now.I'll take a sip o' tea.Thank you, Mis' Priest, that's better.I'd ruther finish now I've begun.Thank you, jest the same.I dropped the hand's ef it'd be'n red hot'Stead o' ice cold.Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grassPantin'.Then I up and run to them laylocksAn' pulled 'em every which way.True es I'm settin' here, Mis' Priest,Ther warn't nothin' ther.I peeked an' pryed all about 'em,But ther warn't no man therNeither livin' nor dead.But the hand was ther all right,Upside down, the way I'd dropped it,And glist'nin' fit to dazzle yer.I don't know how I done it,An' I don't know why I done it,But I wanted to git that dret'ful hand out o' sightI got in t' th' barn, somehow,An' felt roun' till I got a spade.I couldn't stop fer a lantern,Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience.Then I scooped that awful thing up in th' spade.I had a sight o' trouble doin' it.It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn't bearEv'n to touch it with my foot to prop it,But I done it somehow.Then I carried it off be'ind the barn,Clost to an old apple-treeWhere you couldn't see from the house,An' I buried it,Good an' deep.I don't rec'lect nothin' more o' that night.Clarence woke me up in th' mornin',Hollerin' fer me to come down and set th' milk.When he'd gone,I stole roun' to the apple-treeAnd seed the earth all new turnedWhere I left it in my hurry.I did a heap o' gardenin'That mornin'.I couldn't cut no big sodsFear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted 'em fer,So I got teeny bits o' turf here and ther,And no one couldn't tell ther'd be'n any diggin'When I got through.They was awful days after that, Mis' Priest,I used ter go every mornin' and poke about them bushes,An' up and down the fence,Ter find the body that hand come off of.But I couldn't never find nothin'.I'd lay awake nightsHearin' them laylocks blowin' and whiskin'.At last I had Clarence cut 'em downAn' make a big bonfire of 'em.I told him the smell made me sick,An' that warn't no lie,I can't abear the smell on 'em now;An' no wonder, es you say.I fretted somethin' awful 'bout that handI wondered, could it be Hiram's,But folks don't rob graveyards hereabouts.Besides, Hiram's hands warn't that awful, starin' white.I give up seein' people,I was afeared I'd say somethin'.You know what folks thought o' meBetter'n I do, I dessay,But mebbe now you'll see I couldn't do nothin' diff'rent.But I stuck it out,I warn't goin' to be downedBy no loose hand, no matter how it come therBut that ain't the worst, Mis' Priest,Not by a long ways.Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry's Orchard.Well, I'd got used to th' thought o' bein' sort o' blighted,An' I warn't scared no more.Lived down my fear, I guess.I'd kinder got used to th' thought o' that awful night,And I didn't mope much about it.Only I never went out o' doors by moonlight;That stuck.Well, when Mr. Densmore's offer come,I started thinkin' 'bout the placeAn' all the things that had gone on ther.Thinks I, I guess I'll go and see where I put the hand.I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by.I know'd the place real well,Fer I'd put it right in between two o' the apple roots.I don't know what possessed me, Mis' Priest,But I kinder wanted to knowThat the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway.It had sorter bothered me, thinkin' I might ha' imagined it.I took a mornin' when the sun was real pleasant and warm;I guessed I wouldn't jump for a few old bones.But I did jump, somethin' wicked.Ther warn't no bones!Ther warn't nothin'!Not ev'n the gold ring I'd minded bein' on the little finger.I don't know ef ther ever was anythin'.I've worried myself sick over it.I be'n diggin' and diggin' day in and day outTill Clarence ketched me at it.Oh, I know'd real well what you all thought,An' I ain't sayin' you're not right,But I ain't goin' to end in no county 'sylumIf I c'n help it.The shiv'rin' fits come on me sudden like.I know 'em, don't you trouble.I've fretted considerable about the 'sylum,I guess I be'n frettin' all the time I ain't be'n diggin'.But anyhow I can't dig to Chicago, can I?Thank you, Mis' Priest,I'm better now. I only dropped in in passin'.I'll jest be steppin' along down to French's.No, I won't be seein' nobody in the mornin',It's a pretty early start.Don't you stand ther, Mis' Priest,The wind'll blow yer lamp out,An' I c'n see easy, I got aholt o' the gate now.I ain't a mite tired, thank you.Good-night.
"Hullo, Alice!""Hullo, Leon!""Say, Alice, gi' me a coupleO' them two for five cigars,Will yer?""Where's your nickel?""My! Ain't you close!Can't trust a feller, can yer.""Trust you! WhyWhat you owe this storeWould set you up in business.I can't think why Father 'lows it.""Yer Father's a sight more neighbourlyThan you be. That's a fact.Besides, he knows I got a vote.""A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote!A lot o' good the Senate'll be to FatherWhen all his bank accountHas run away in credits.There's your cigars,If you can relish smokin'With all you owe us standin'.""I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent.You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't.I work when anythin's doin'.I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure.Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring.""Come Spring, and this December!I've no patience with you, Leon,Shilly-shallyin' the way you do.Here, lift over them crates o' orangesI wanter fix 'em in the winder.""It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work.You pepper up about it somethin' good.You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite.Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder.Th' oranges c'n wait,An' I don't like talkin' to yer back.""Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what you can git.Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon.They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em,Don't they?Now hand me them bananasAn' I'll string 'em right acrost.""What do yer mean'Bout me not havin' you to talk to?Are yer springin' somethin' on me?""I don't know 'bout springin'When I'm tellin' you right out.I'm goin' away, that's all.""Where? Why?What yer mean—goin' away?""I've took a placeDown to Boston, in a candy storeFor the holidays.""Good Land, Alice,What in the Heavens fer!""To earn some money,And to git away from here, I guess.""Ain't yer Father got enough?Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?""He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him.""He's rich I tell yer.I never figured he'd be close with you.""Oh, he ain't. Not close.That ain't why.But I must git away from here.I must! I must!""You got a lot o' reason in yerTo-night.How long d' you cal'lateYou'll be gone?""Maybe for always.""What ails yer, Alice?Talkin' wild like that.Ain't you an' me goin' to be marriedSome day.""Some day! Some day!I guess the sun'll never rise on some day.""So that's the trouble.Same old story.'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now.You know I love yer,An' I'll marry yer as soonAs I c'n raise the money.""You've said that any time these five year,But you don't do nothin'.""Wot could I do?Ther ain't no work here Winters.Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't.""I guess you warn't born a carpenter.Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty.""I got a dret'ful tender throat;Dr. Smiles he told meI mustn't resk ice-cuttin'.""Why haven't you gone to Boston,And hunted up a job?""Have yer forgot the time I went expressin'In the American office, down ther?""And come back two weeks later!No, I ain't.""You didn't want I should git hurted,Did yer?I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work.My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas.Ef I was like yer brother now,I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago.But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer.I ain't got Arthur's luck.""Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks,And git locked up in jail!""Oh, come now, Alice,'Disgrace' is a mite strong.Why, the jail was a joke.Art's all right.""All right!All right to dance, and smirk, and lieFor a livin',And then in the endLead a silly girl to give youWhat warn't hers to giveBy pretendin' you'd marry her—And she a pupil.""He'd ha' married her right enough,Her folks was millionaires.""Yes, he'd ha' married her!Thank God, they saved her that.""Art's a fine feller.I wish I had his luck.Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits,And eatin' in rest'rants.But somebody's got to stick to the old place,Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop,Hey, Alice?""You admire him!You admire Arthur!You'd be like him only you can't dance.Oh, Shame! Shame!And I've been like that silly girl.Fooled with your promises,And I give you all I had.I knew it, oh, I knew it,But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it.You've shamed me through and through.Why couldn't you hold your tongue,And spared me seein' youAs you really are.""What the Devil's the row?I only said Art was lucky.What you spitfirin' at me fer?Ferget it, Alice.We've had good times, ain't we?I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer,And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time.""It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time.I've good cause to love it, ain't I?Many's the night I've hid my face in the darkTo shut out thinkin'!""Why, that ain't nothin'.You ain't be'n half so kind to meAs lots o' fellers' girls.Gi' me a kiss, Dear,And let's make up.""Make up!You poor fool.Do you suppose I care a ten cent pieceFor you now.You've killed yourself for me.Done it out o' your own mouth.You've took away my home,I hate the sight o' the place.You're all over it,Every stick an' stone means you,An' I hate 'em all.""Alice, I say,Don't go on like that.I can't marry yerBoardin' in one room,But I'll see Cleve to-morrer,I'll make him——""Oh, you fool!You terrible fool!""Alice, don't go yit,Wait a minit,I'll see Cleve——""You terrible fool!""Alice, don't go.Alice——" (Door slams)
The lawyer, are you?Well! I ain't got nothin' to say.Nothin'!I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'.They know'd real well 'twas me.Ther warn't no supposin',Ketchin' me in the woods as they did,An' me in my house dress.Folks don't walk miles an' milesIn the drifted snow,With no hat nor wrap on 'emEf everythin's all right, I guess.All right? Ha! Ha! Ha!Nothin' warn't right with me.Never was.Oh, Lord! Why did I do it?Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin?Many's the time I've set up with him nightsWhen he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'.I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby.I wouldn't hurt him, I love him!Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me!Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it.Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!Yes, Sir.No, Sir.I beg your pardon, I—I—Oh, I'm a wicked woman!An' I'm desolate, desolate!Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzedAfore my hands done it.Oh, my God, what shall I do!No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances,An' I don't want none.I want a bolt o' lightnin'To strike me dead right now!Oh, I'll tell yer.But it won't make no diff'rence.Nothin' will.Yes, I killed him.Why do yer make me say it?It's cruel! Cruel!I killed him because o' th' silence.The long, long silence,That watched all around me,And he wouldn't break it.I tried to make him,Time an' agin,But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was.He never spoke 'cept when he had to,An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no".You can't even guess what that silence was.I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears,An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick,An' al'ays comin' back.Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimesIt would ha' driven it away;But he never would.He didn't hear it same as I did.You see, Sir,Our farm was off'n the main road,And set away back under the mountain;And the village was seven mile off,Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane.We didn't have no hired man,'Cept in hayin' time;An' Dane's place,That was the nearest,Was clear way 'tother side the mountain.They used Marley post-officeAn' ours was Benton.Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer,An' it warn't above two mile that way,But it warn't never broke out Winters.I used to dread the Winters.Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin';Winter'd come so quick after that.You don't know what snow's like when yer with itDay in an' day out.Ed would be out all day loggin',An' I set at home and look at the snowLayin' over everythin';It 'ud dazzle me blind,Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink.Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my earsTill I most went mad listenin' to it.Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floorJest to hear it clatter.I was most frantic when dinner-time comeAn' Ed was back from the woods.I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak.But he'd never say a word till I asked himDid he like the raised biscuits or whatever,An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer.Then he'd go out agin,An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder.It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet himAn' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him.I got so I was scared o' th' trees.I thought they come nearer,Every day a little nearer,Closin' up round the house.I never went in t' th' woods Winters,Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough.It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us.He used to go sleddin' and skatin',An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pungAn' brought him back agin.We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy,We wanted him to have a education.We sent him to High School,An' then he went up to Boston to Technology.He was a minin' engineer,An' doin' real well,A credit to his bringin' up.But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine.And I'm glad! I'm glad!He ain't here to see me now.Neddy! Neddy!I'm your mother still, Neddy.Don't turn from me like that.I can't abear it. I can't! I can't!What did you say?Oh, yes, Sir.I'm here.I'm very sorry,I don't know what I'm sayin'.No, Sir,Not till after Neddy died.'Twas the next Winter the silence come,I don't remember noticin' it afore.That was five year ago,An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse.I asked Ed to put in a telephone.I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' onI could ring up some o' th' folks.But Ed wouldn't hear of it.He said we'd paid so much for NeddyWe couldn't hardly git along as 'twas.An' he never understood me wantin' to talk.Well, this year was worse'n all the others;We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather,An' the snow lay so thickYou couldn't see the fences even.Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand,Ther warn't a hump or a hollerFer as you could see.It was so quietThe snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lotSounded like pistol shots.Ed was out all daySame as usual.An' it seemed he talked less'n ever.He didn't even say 'Good-mornin'', once or twice,An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things.On Monday he said he'd got to go over to BentonFer some oats.I'd oughter ha' gone with him,But 'twas washin' dayAn' I was afeared the fine weather'd break,An' I couldn't do my dryin'.All my life I'd done my work punctual,An' I couldn't fix my conscienceTo go junketin' on a washin'-day.I can't tell you what that day was to me.It dragged an' dragged,Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middleFer dinner.Every time I stopped stirrin' the waterI heerd the whisperin' all about me.I stopped oftener'n I shouldTo see ef 'twas still ther,An' it al'ays was.An' gittin' louderIt seemed ter me.Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind.That seemed most alive somehow.But the woods looked so kind of menacin'I closed it quickAn' started to mangle's hard's I could,The squeakin' was comfortin'.Well, Ed come home 'bout four.I seen him down the road,An' I run out through the shed inter th' barnTo meet him quicker.I hollered out, 'Hullo!'But he didn't say nothin',He jest drove right inAn' climbed out o' th' sleighAn' commenced unharnessin'.I asked him a heap o' questions;Who he'd seedAn' what he'd done.Once in a while he'd nod or shake,But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'.'Twas gittin' dark then,An' I was in a state,With the lonelinessAn' Ed payin' no attentionLike somethin' warn't livin'.All of a sudden it come,I don't know what,But I jest couldn't stand no more.It didn't seem 's though that was Ed,An' it didn't seem as though I was me.I had to break a way out somehow,Somethin' was closin' inAn' I was stiflin'.Ed's loggin' axe was ther,An' I took it.Oh, my God!I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time.I run out inter th' woods,Seemed as ef they was pullin' me;An' all the time I was wadin' through the snowI seed Ed in front of meWhere I'd laid him.An' I see him now.There! There!What you holdin' me fer?I want ter go to Ed,He's bleedin'.Stop holdin' me.I got to go.I'm comin', Ed.I'll be ther in a minit.Oh, I'm so tired!(Faints)