A misty February twilight is descending over the ocean. The newly fallen snow has melted and the warm air is heavy and damp. The northwestern wind from the sea is driving it silently toward the mainland, bringing in its wake a sharply fragrant mixture of brine, of boundless space, of undisturbed, free and mysterious distances.
In the sky, where the sun is setting, a noiseless destruction of an unknown city, of an unknown land, is taking place; structures, magnificent palaces with towers, are crumbling; mountains are silently splitting asunder and, bending slowly, are tumbling down. But no cry, no moan, no crash of the fall reaches the earth—the monstrous play of shadows is noiseless; and the great surface of the ocean, as though ready for something, as though waiting for something, reflecting it faintly, listens to it in silence.
Silence reigns also in the fishermen’s settlement. The fishermen have gone fishing; the children are sleeping and only the restless women, gathered in front of the houses, are talking softly, lingering before going to sleep, beyond which there is always the unknown.
The light of the sea and the sky behind the houses, and the houses and their bark roofs are black and sharp, and there is no perspective: the houses that are far and those that are near seem to stand side by side as if attached to one another, the roofs and the walls embracing one another, pressing close to one another, seized with the same uneasiness before the eternal unknown.
Right here there is also a little church, its side wall formed crudely of rough granite, with a deep window which seems to be concealing itself.
A cautious sound of women’s voices is heard, softened by uneasiness and by the approaching night.
“We can sleep peacefully to-night. The sea is calm and the rollers are breaking like the clock in the steeple of old Dan.”
“They will come back with the morning tide. My husband told me that they will come back with the morning tide.”
“Perhaps they will come back with the evening tide. It is better for us to think they will come back in the evening, so that our waiting will not be in vain.
“But I must build a fire in the stove.”
“When the men are away from home, one does not feel like starting a fire. I never build a fire, even when I am awake; it seems to me that fire brings a storm. It is better to be quiet and silent.”
“And listen to the wind? No, that is terrible.”
“I love the fire. I should like to sleep near the fire, but my husband does not allow it.”
“Why doesn’t old Dan come here? It is time to strike the hour.”
“Old Dan will play in the church to-night; he cannot bear such silence as this. When the sea is roaring, old Dan hides himself and is silent—he is afraid of the sea. But, as soon as the waves calm down, Dan crawls out quietly and sits down to play his organ.”
The women laugh softly.
“He reproaches the sea.”
“He is complaining to God against it. He knows how to complain well. One feels like crying when he tells God about those who have perished at sea. Mariet, have you seen Dan to-day? Why are you silent, Mariet?”
Mariet is the adopted daughter of the abbot, in whose house old Dan, the organist, lives. Absorbed in thought, she does not hear the question.
“Mariet, do you hear? Anna is asking you whether you have seen Dan to-day.”
“Yes, I think I have. I don’t remember. He is in his room. He does not like to leave his room when father goes fishing.”
“Dan is fond of the city priests. He cannot get used to the idea of a priest who goes fishing, like an ordinary fisherman, and who goes to sea with our husbands.”
“He is simply afraid of the sea.”
“You may say what you like, but I believe we have the very best priest in the world.”
“That’s true. I fear him, but I love him as a father.”
“May God forgive me, but I would have been proud and always happy, if I were his adopted daughter. Do you hear, Mariet?”
The women laugh softly and tenderly.
“Do you hear, Mariet?”
“I do. But aren’t you tired of always laughing at the same thing? Yes, I am his daughter—Is it so funny that you will laugh all your life at it?”
The women commence to justify themselves confusedly.
“But he laughs at it himself.”
“The abbot is fond of jesting. He says so comically: ‘My adopted daughter,’ and then he strikes himself with his fist and shouts: ‘She’s my real daughter, not my adopted daughter. She’s my real daughter.’”
“I have never known my mother, but this laughter would have been unpleasant to her. I feel it,” says Mariet.
The women grow silent. The breakers strike against the shore dully with the regularity of a great pendulum. The unknown city, wrapped with fire and smoke, is still being destroyed in the sky; yet it does not fall down completely; and the sea is waiting. Mariet lifts her lowered head.
“What were you going to say, Mariet?”
“Didn’t he pass here?” asks Mariet in a low voice.
Another woman answers timidly:
“Hush! Why do you speak of him? I fear him. No, he did not pass this way.”
“He did. I saw from the window that he passed by.”
“You are mistaken; it was some one else.”
“Who else could that be? Is it possible to make a mistake, if you have once seen him walk? No one walks as he does.”
“Naval officers, Englishmen, walk like that.”
“No. Haven’t I seen naval officers in the city? They walk firmly, but openly; even a girl could trust them.”
“Oh, look out!”
Frightened and cautious laughter.
“No, don’t laugh. He walks without looking at the ground; he puts his feet down as if the ground itself must take them cautiously and place them.”
“But if there’s a stone on the road? We have many stones here.”
“He does not bend down, nor does he hide his head when a strong wind blows.”
“Of course not. Of course not. He does not hide his head.”
“Is it true that he is handsome? Who has seen him at close range?”
“I,” says Mariet.
“No, no, don’t speak of him; I shall not be able to sleep all night. Since they settled on that hill, in that accursed castle, I know no rest; I am dying of fear. You are also afraid. Confess it.”
“Well, not all of us are afraid.”
“What have they come here for? There are two of them. What is there for them to do here in our poor land, where we have nothing but stones and the sea?”
“They drink gin. The sailor comes every morning for gin.”
“They are simply drunkards who don’t want anybody to disturb their drinking. When the sailor passes along the street he leaves behind him an odour as of an open bottle of rum.”
“But is that their business—drinking gin? I fear them. Where is the ship that brought them here? They came from the sea.”
“I saw the ship,” says Mariet.
The women begin to question her in amazement.
“You? Why, then, didn’t you say anything about it? Tell us what you know.”
Mariet maintains silence. Suddenly one of the women exclaims:
“Ah, look! They have lit a lamp. There is a light in the castle!”
On the left, about half a mile away from the village, a faint light flares up, a red little coal in the dark blue of the twilight and the distance. There upon a high rock, overhanging the sea, stands an ancient castle, a grim heritage of grey and mysterious antiquity. Long destroyed, long ruined, it blends with the rocks, continuing and delusively ending them by the broken, dented line of its batteries, its shattered roofs, its half-crumbled towers. Now the rocks and the castle are covered with a smoky shroud of twilight. They seem airy, devoid of any weight, and almost as fantastic as those monstrous heaps of structures which are piled up and which are falling so noiselessly in the sky. But while the others are falling this one stands, and a live light reddens against the deep blue—and it is just as strange a sight as if a human hand were to kindle a light in the clouds.
Turning their heads in that direction, the women look on with frightened eyes.
“Do you see,” says one of them. “It is even worse than a light on a cemetery. Who needs a light among the tombstones?”
“It is getting cold toward night and the sailor must have thrown some branches into the fireplace, that’s all. At least, I think so,” says Mariet.
“And I think that the abbot should have gone there with holy water long ago.”
“Or with the gendarmes! If that isn’t the devil himself, it is surely one of his assistants.”
“It is impossible to live peacefully with such neighbours close by.”
“I am afraid for the children.”
“And for your soul?”
Two elderly women rise silently and go away. Then a third, an old woman, also rises.
“We must ask the abbot whether it isn’t a sin to look at such a light.”
She goes off. The smoke in the sky is ever increasing and the fire is subsiding, and the unknown city is already near its dark end. The sea odour is growing ever sharper and stronger. Night is coming from the shore.
Their heads turned, the women watch the departing old woman. Then they turn again toward the light.
Mariet, as though defending some one, says softly:
“There can’t be anything bad in light. For there is light in the candles on God’s altar.”
“But there is also fire for Satan in hell,” says another old woman, heavily and angrily, and then goes off. Now four remain, all young girls.
“I am afraid,” says one, pressing close to her companion.
The noiseless and cold conflagration in the sky is ended; the city is destroyed; the unknown land is in ruins. There are no longer any walls or falling towers; a heap of pale blue gigantic shapes have fallen silently into the abyss of the ocean and the night. A young little star glances at the earth with frightened eyes; it feels like coming out of the clouds near the castle, and because of its inmost neighbourship the heavy castle grows darker, and the light in its window seems redder and darker.
“Good night, Mariet,” says the girl who sat alone, and then she goes off.
“Let us also go; it is getting cold,” say the other two, rising. “Good night, Mariet.”
“Good night.”
“Why are you alone, Mariet? Why are you alone, Mariet, in the daytime and at night, on week days and on merry holidays? Do you love to think of your betrothed?”
“Yes, I do. I love to think of Philipp.”
The girl laughs.
“But you don’t want to see him. When he goes out to sea, you look at the sea for hours; when he comes back—you are not there. Where are you hiding yourself?”
“I love to think of Philipp.”
“Like a blind man he gropes among the houses, forever calling: ‘Mariet! Mariet! Have you not seen Mariet?’”
They go off laughing and repeating:
“Good night, Mariet. ‘Have you not seen Mariet! Mariet!’”
The girl is left alone. She looks at the light in the castle. She hears soft, irresolute footsteps.
Old Dan, of small stature, slim, a coughing old man with a clean-shaven face, comes out from behind the church. Because of his irresoluteness, or because of the weakness of his eyes, he steps uncertainly, touching the ground cautiously and with a certain degree of fear.
“Oho! Oho!”
“Is that you, Dan?”
“The sea is calm, Dan. Are you going to play to-night?”
“Oho! I shall ring the bell seven times. Seven times I shall ring it and send to God seven of His holy hours.”
He takes the rope of the bell and strikes the hour—seven ringing and slow strokes. The wind plays with them, it drops them to the ground, but before they touch it, it catches them tenderly, sways them softly and with a light accompaniment of whistling carries them off to the dark coast.
“Oh, no!” mutters Dan. “Bad hours, they fall to the ground. They are not His holy hours and He will send them back. Oh, a storm is coming! O Lord, have mercy on those who are perishing at sea!”
He mutters and coughs.
“Dan, I have seen the ship again to-day. Do you hear, Dan?”
“Many ships are going out to sea.”
“But this one had black sails. It was again going toward the sun.”
“Many ships are going out to sea. Listen, Mariet, there was once a wise king—Oh, how wise he was!—and he commanded that the sea be lashed with chains. Oho!”
“I know, Dan. You told me about it.”
“Oho, with chains! But it did not occur to him to christen the sea. Why did it not occur to him to do that, Mariet? Ah, why did he not think of it? We have no such kings now.”
“What would have happened, Dan?”
“Oho!”
He whispers softly:
“All the rivers and the streams have already been christened, and the cross of the Lord has touched even many stagnant swamps; only the sea remained—that nasty, salty, deep pool.”
“Why do you scold it? It does not like to be scolded,” Mariet reproaches him.
“Oho! Let the sea not like it—I am not afraid of it. The sea thinks it is also an organ and music for God. It is a nasty, hissing, furious pool. A salty spit of satan. Fie! Fie! Fie!”
He goes to the doors at the entrance of the church muttering angrily, threatening, as though celebrating some victory:
“Oho! Oho!”
“Dan!”
“Go home.”
“Dan! Why don’t you light candles when you play? Dan, I don’t love my betrothed. Do you hear, Dan?”
Dan turns his head unwillingly.
“I have heard it long ago, Mariet. Tell it to your father.”
“Where is my mother, Dan?”
“Oho! You are mad again, Mariet? You are gazing too much at the sea—yes. I am going to tell—I am going to tell your father, yes.”
He enters the church. Soon the sounds of the organ are heard. Faint in the first, long-drawn, deeply pensive chords, they rapidly gain strength. And with a passionate sadness, their human melodies now wrestle with the dull and gloomy plaintiveness of the tireless surf. Like seagulls in a storm, the sounds soar amidst the high waves, unable to rise higher on their overburdened wings. The stern ocean holds them captive by its wild and eternal charms. But when they have risen, the lowered ocean roars more dully; now they rise still higher—and the heavy, almost voiceless pile of water is shaking helplessly. Varied voices resound through the expanse of the resplendent distances. Day has one sorrow, night has another sorrow, and the proud, ever rebellious, black ocean suddenly seems to become an eternal slave.
Her cheek pressed against the cold stone of the wall, Mariet is listening, all alone. She is growing reconciled to something; she is grieving ever more quietly.
Suddenly, firm footsteps are heard on the road; the cobblestones are creaking under the vigorous steps—and a man appears from behind the church. He walks slowly and sternly, like those who do not roam in vain, and who know the earth from end to end. He carries his hat in his hands; he is thinking of something, looking ahead. On his broad shoulders is set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark profile is stern and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is dressed in a partly military uniform, he does not subject his body to the discipline of his clothes, but masters it as a free man. The folds of his clothes fall submissively.
Mariet greets him:
“Good evening.”
He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly. He waits silently, as though regretting to part with his silence.
“Did you say ‘Good evening’ to me?” he asks at last.
“Yes, to you. Good evening.”
He looks at her silently.
“Well, good evening. This is the first time I have been greeted in this land, and I was surprised when I heard your voice. Come nearer to me. Why don’t you sleep when all are sleeping? Who are you?”
“I am the daughter of the abbot of this place.”
He laughs:
“Have priests children? Or are there special priests in your land?”
“Yes, the priests are different here.”
“Now, I recall, Khorre told me something about the priest of this place.”
“Who is Khorre?”
“My sailor. The one who buys gin in your settlement.”
He suddenly laughs again and continues:
“Yes, he told me something. Was it your father who cursed the Pope and declared his own church independent?”
“Yes.”
“And he makes his own prayers? And goes to sea with the fishermen? And punishes with his own hands those who disobey him?”
“Yes. I am his daughter. My name is Mariet. And what is your name?”
“I have many names. Which one shall I tell you?”
“The one by which you were christened.”
“What makes you think that I was christened?”
“Then tell me the name by which your mother called you.”
“What makes you think that I had a mother? I do not know my mother.”
Mariet says softly:
“Neither do I know my mother.”
Both are silent. They look at each other kindly.
“Is that so?” he says. “You, too, don’t know your mother? Well, then, call me Haggart.”
“Haggart?”
“Yes. Do you like the name? I have invented it myself—Haggart. It’s a pity that you have been named already. I would have invented a fine name for you.”
Suddenly he frowned.
“Tell me, Mariet, why is your land so mournful? I walk along your paths and only the cobblestones creak under my feet. And on both sides are huge rocks.”
“That is on the road to the castle—none of us ever go there. Is it true that these stones stop the passersby with the question: ‘Where are you going?’”
“No, they are mute. Why is your land so mournful? It is almost a week since I’ve seen my shadow. It is impossible! I don’t see my shadow.”
“Our land is very cheerful and full of joy. It is still winter now, but soon spring will come, and sunshine will come back with it. You shall see it, Haggart.”
He speaks with contempt:
“And you are sitting and waiting calmly for its return? You must be a fine set of people! Ah, if I only had a ship!”
“What would you have done?”
He looks at her morosely and shakes his head suspiciously.
“You are too inquisitive, little girl. Has any one sent you over to me?”
“No. What do you need a ship for?”
Haggart laughs good-naturedly and ironically:
“She asks what a man needs a ship for. You must be a fine set of people. You don’t know what a man needs a ship for! And you speak seriously? If I had a ship I would have rushed toward the sun. And it would not matter how it sets its golden sails, I would overtake it with my black sails. And I would force it to outline my shadow on the deck of my ship. And I would put my foot upon it this way!”
He stamps his foot firmly. Then Mariet asks, cautiously:
“Did you say with black sails?”
“That’s what I said. Why do you always ask questions? I have no ship, you know. Good-bye.”
He puts on his hat, but does not move. Mariet maintains silence. Then he says, very angrily:
“Perhaps you, too, like the music of your old Dan, that old fool?”
“You know his name?”
“Khorre told me it. I don’t like his music, no, no. Bring me a good, honest dog, or beast, and he will howl. You will say that he knows no music—he does, but he can’t bear falsehood. Here is music. Listen!”
He takes Mariet by the hand and turns her roughly, her face toward the ocean.
“Do you hear? This is music. Your Dan has robbed the sea and the wind. No, he is worse than a thief, he is a deceiver! He should be hanged on a sailyard—your Dan! Good-bye!”
He goes, but after taking two steps he turns around.
“I said good-bye to you. Go home. Let this fool play alone. Well, go.”
Mariet is silent, motionless. Haggart laughs:
“Are you afraid perhaps that I have forgotten your name? I remember it. Your name is Mariet. Go, Mariet.”
She says softly:
“I have seen your ship.”
Haggart advances to her quickly and bends down. His face is terrible.
“It is not true. When?”
“Last evening.”
“It is not true! Which way was it going?”
“Toward the sun.”
“Last evening I was drunk and I slept. But this is not true. I have never seen it. You are testing me. Beware!”
“Shall I tell you if I see it again?”
“How can you tell me?”
“I shall come up your hill.”
Haggart looks at her attentively.
“If you are only telling me the truth. What sort of people are there in your land—false or not? In the lands I know, all the people are false. Has any one else seen that ship?”
“I don’t know. I was alone on the shore. Now I see that it was not your ship. You are not glad to hear of it.”
Haggart is silent, as though he has forgotten her presence.
“You have a pretty uniform. You are silent? I shall come up to you.”
Haggart is silent. His dark profile is stern and wildly gloomy; every motion of his powerful body, every fold of his clothes, is full of the dull silence of the taciturnity of long hours, or days, or perhaps of a lifetime.
“Your sailor will not kill me? You are silent. I have a betrothed. His name is Philipp, but I don’t love him. You are now like that rock which lies on the road leading to the castle.”
Haggart turns around silently and starts.
“I also remember your name. Your name is Haggart.”
He goes away.
“Haggart!” calls Mariet, but he has already disappeared behind the house. Only the creaking of the scattered cobblestones is heard, dying away in the misty air. Dan, who has taken a rest, is playing again; he is telling God about those who have perished at sea.
The night is growing darker. Neither the rock nor the castle is visible now; only the light in the window is redder and brighter.
The dull thuds of the tireless breakers are telling the story of different lives.
A strong wind is tossing the fragment of a sail which is hanging over the large, open window. The sail is too small to cover the entire window, and, through the gaping hole, the dark night is breathing inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind, saturated with the sea, is heavy and damp.
Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are sleeping now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners of the room there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the only taburet is overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the sailor got up, lit a large illumination lamp, and was about to do more, but he was overcome by intoxication again and fell asleep upon his thin mattress of straw and seagrass. Tossed by the wind, the flame of the illumination-lamp is quivering in yellow, restless spots over the uneven, mutilated walls, losing itself in the dark opening of the door, which leads to the other rooms of the castle.
Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion, rush back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and uneven; from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes several weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast helplessly.
Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against the rocks—this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean. The ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the waves. It responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages. It whispers and mutters like an old woman.
The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary clothes, but is unable to wake up—his intoxication produced by a two days’ spree is heavy and severe. But now the wind whines more powerfully than before; something heaves a deep groan. Perhaps a part of a destroyed wall has sunk into the sea. The quivering yellow spots commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and Khorre awakes.
He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand anything.
The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting, scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking sensibly and rapidly—it seems that soon one will see a strange human face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold, brings Khorre to his senses.
“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a moment’s thought, he calls once more:
“Captain. Noni! Get up.”
But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters:
“Noni is drunk and he sleeps. Let him sleep. Oh, what a cold night it is. There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose. I am cold. I feel cold and lonesome, Noni. I can’t drink like that, although everybody knows I am a drunkard. But it is one thing to drink, and another to drown in gin—that’s an entirely different matter. Noni—you are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse. I feel ashamed for your sake, Noni. I shall drink now and—”
He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.
“A fine wind. They call this a storm—do you hear, Noni? They call this a storm. What will they call a real storm?”
He drinks again.
“A fine wind!”
He goes over to the window and, pushing aside the corner of the sail, looks out.
“Not a single light on the sea, or in the village. They have hidden themselves and are sleeping—they are waiting for the storm to pass. B-r-r, how cold! I would have driven them all out to sea; it is mean to go to sea only when the weather is calm. That is cheating the sea. I am a pirate, that’s true; my name is Khorre, and I should have been hanged long ago on a yard, that’s true, too—but I shall never allow myself such meanness as to cheat the sea. Why did you bring me to this hole, Noni?”
He picks up some brushwood, and throws it into the fireplace.
“I love you, Noni. I am now going to start a fire to warm your feet. I used to be your nurse, Noni; but you have lost your reason—that’s true. I am a wise man, but I don’t understand your conduct at all. Why did you drop your ship? You will be hanged, Noni, you will be hanged, and I will dangle by your side. You have lost your reason, that’s true!”
He starts a fire, then prepares food and drink.
“What will you say when you wake up? ‘Fire.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’ Then you will say, ‘Something to drink.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’ And then you will drink your fill again, and I will drink with you, and you will prate nonsense. How long is this going to last? We have lived this way two months now, or perhaps two years, or twenty years—I am drowning in gin—I don’t understand your conduct at all, Noni.”
He drinks.
“Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a ship is being wrecked near by. How they are crying!”
He looks out of the window.
“No, no one is here. It is the wind. The wind feels weary, and it plays all by itself. It has seen many shipwrecks, and now it is inventing. The wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the wind itself is laughing—the rogue! But if you think that this rag with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool! We are not going anywhere! We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”
He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.
“Get up, Noni. I feel lonesome. If we must drink, let’s drink together—I feel lonesome. Noni!”
Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes:
“Fire.”
“Here it is.”
“Something to drink.”
“Here it is! A fine wind, Noni. I looked out of the window, and the sea splashed into my eyes. It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up to the tower. I feel lonesome, Noni. I want to speak to you. Don’t be angry!”
“It’s cold.”
“Soon the fire will burn better. I don’t understand your actions. Don’t be angry, Noni, but I don’t understand your actions! I am afraid that you have lost your mind.”
“Did you drink again?”
“I did.”
“Give me some.”
He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace. He is not quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream. With each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and then the entire tower seems to dance—the last shadows melt and rush off into the open door.
“Don’t drink it all at once, Noni! Not all at once!” says the sailor and gently takes the bottle away from him. Haggart seats himself and clasps his head with both hands.
“I have a headache. What is that cry? Was there a shipwreck?”
“No, Noni. It is the wind playing roguishly.”
“Khorre!”
“Captain.”
“Give me the bottle.”
He drinks a little more and sets the bottle on the table. Then he paces the room, straightening his shoulders and his chest, and looks out of the window. Khorre looks over his shoulder and whispers:
“Not a single light. It is dark and deserted. Those who had to die have died already, and the cautious cowards are sitting on the solid earth.”
Haggart turns around and says, wiping his face:
“When I am intoxicated, I hear voices and singing. Does that happen to you, too, Khorre? Who is that singing now?”
“The wind is singing, Noni—only the wind.”
“No, but who else? It seems to me a human being is singing, a woman is singing, and others are laughing and shouting something. Is that all nothing but the wind?”
“Only the wind.”
“Why does the wind deceive me?” says Haggart haughtily.
“It feels lonesome, Noni, just as I do, and it laughs at the human beings. Have you heard the wind lying like this and mocking in the open sea? There it tells the truth, but here—it frightens the people on shore and mocks them. The wind does not like cowards. You know it.”
Haggart says morosely:
“I heard their organist playing not long ago in church. He lies.”
“They are all liars.”
“No!” exclaims Haggart angrily. “Not all. There are some who tell the truth there, too. I shall cut your ears off if you will slander honest people. Do you hear?”
“Yes.”
They are silent; they listen to the wild music of the sea. The wind has evidently grown mad. Having taken into its embrace a multitude of instruments with which human beings produce their music—harps, reed-pipes, priceless violins, heavy drums and brass trumpets—it breaks them all, together with a wave, against the sharp rocks. It dashes them and bursts into laughter—only thus does the wind understand music—each time in the death of an instrument, each time in the breaking of strings, in the snapping of the clanging brass. Thus does the mad musician understand music. Haggart heaves a deep sigh and with some amazement, like a man just awakened from sleep, looks around on all sides. Then he commands shortly:
“Give me my pipe.”
“Here it is.”
Both commence to smoke.
“Don’t be angry, Noni,” says the sailor. “You have become so angry that one can’t come near you at all. May I chat with you?”
“There are some who do tell the truth there, too,” says Haggart sternly, emitting rings of smoke.
“How shall I say it you, Noni?” answers the sailor cautiously but stubbornly. “There are no truthful people there. It has been so ever since the deluge. At that time all the honest people went out to sea, and only the cowards and liars remained upon the solid earth.”
Haggart is silent for a minute; then he takes the pipe from his mouth and laughs gaily.
“Have you invented it yourself?”
“I think so,” says Khorre modestly.
“Clever! And it was worth teaching you sacred history for that! Were you taught by a priest?”
“Yes. In prison. At that time I was as innocent as a dove. That’s also from sacred scriptures, Noni. That’s what they always say there.”
“He was a fool! It was not necessary to teach you, but to hang you,” says Haggart, adding morosely: “Don’t talk nonsense, sailor. Hand me a bottle.”
They drink. Khorre stamps his foot against the stone floor and asks:
“Do you like this motionless floor?”
“I should have liked to have the deck of a ship dancing under my feet.”
“Noni!” exclaims the sailor enthusiastically. “Noni! Now I hear real words! Let us go away from here. I cannot live like this. I am drowning in gin. I don’t understand your actions at all, Noni! You have lost your mind. Reveal yourself to me, my boy. I was your nurse. I nursed you, Noni, when your father brought you on board ship. I remember how the city was burning then and we were putting out to sea, and I didn’t know what to do with you; you whined like a little pig in the cook’s room. I even wanted to throw you overboard—you annoyed me so much. Ah, Noni, it is all so touching that I can’t bear to recall it. I must have a drink. Take a drink, too, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once!”
They drink. Haggart paces the room heavily and slowly, like a man who is imprisoned in a dungeon but does not want to escape.
“I feel sad,” he says, without looking at Khorre. Khorre, as though understanding, shakes his head in assent.
“Sad? I understand. Since then?”
“Ever since then.”
“Ever since we drowned those people? They cried so loudly.”
“I did not hear their cry. But this I heard—something snapped in my heart, Khorre. Always sadness, everywhere sadness! Let me drink!”
He drinks.
“He who cried—am I perhaps afraid of him, Khorre? That would be fine! Tears were trickling from his eyes; he wept like one who is unfortunate. Why did he do that? Perhaps he came from a land where the people had never heard of death—what do you think, sailor?”
“I don’t remember him, Noni. You speak so much about him, while I don’t remember him.”
“He was a fool,” says Haggart. “He spoilt his death for himself, and spoilt me my life. I curse him, Khorre. May he be cursed. But that doesn’t matter, Khorre—no!”
Silence.
“They have good gin on this coast,” says Khorre. “He’ll pass easily, Noni. If you have cursed him there will be no delay; he’ll slip into hell like an oyster.”
Haggart shakes his head:
“No, Khorre, no! I am sad. Ah, sailor, why have I stopped here, where I hear the sea? I should go away, far away on land, where the people don’t know the sea at all, where the people have never heard about the sea—a thousand miles away, five thousand miles away!”
“There is no such land.”
“There is, Khorre. Let us drink and laugh, Khorre. That organist lies. Sing something for me, Khorre—you sing well. In your hoarse voice I hear the creaking of ropes. Your refrain is like a sail that is torn by the storm. Sing, sailor!”
Khorre nods his head gloomily.
“No, I will not sing.”
“Then I shall force you to pray as they prayed!”
“You will not force me to pray, either. You are the Captain, and you may kill me, and here is your revolver. It is loaded, Noni. And now I am going to speak the truth, Captain! Khorre, the boatswain, speaks to you in the name of the entire crew.”
Haggart says:
“Drop this performance, Khorre. There is no crew here. You’d better drink something.”
He drinks.
“But the crew is waiting for you, you know it. Captain, is it your intention to return to the ship and assume command again?”
“No.”
“Captain, is it perhaps your intention to go to the people on the coast and live with them?”
“No.”
“I can’t understand your actions, Noni. What do you intend to do, Captain?”
Haggart drinks silently.
“Not all at once, Noni, not at once. Captain, do you intend to stay in this hole and wait until the police dogs come from the city? Then they will hang us, and not upon a mast, but simply on one of their foolish trees.”
“Yes. The wind is getting stronger. Do you hear, Khorre? The wind is getting stronger!”
“And the gold which we have buried here?” He points below, with his finger.
“The gold? Take it and go with it wherever you like.”
The sailor says angrily:
“You are a bad man, Noni. You have only set foot on earth a little while ago, and you already have the thoughts of a traitor. That’s what the earth is doing!”
“Be silent, Khorre. I am listening. Our sailors are singing. Do you hear? No, that’s the wine rushing to my head. I’ll be drunk soon. Give me another bottle.”
“Perhaps you will go to the priest? He would absolve your sins.”
“Silence!” roars Haggart, clutching at his revolver.
Silence. The storm is increasing. Haggart paces the room in agitation, striking against the walls. He mutters something abruptly. Suddenly he seizes the sail and tears it down furiously, admitting the salty wind. The illumination lamp is extinguished and the flame in the fireplace tosses about wildly—like Haggart.
“Why did you lock out the wind? It’s better now. Come here.”
“You were the terror of the seas!” says the sailor.
“Yes, I was the terror of the seas.”
“You were the terror of the coasts! Your famous name resounded like the surf over all the coasts, wherever people live. They saw you in their dreams. When they thought of the ocean, they thought of you. When they heard the storm, they heard you, Noni!”
“I burnt their cities. The deck of my ship is shaking under my feet, Khorre. The deck is shaking under me!”
He laughs wildly, as if losing his senses.
“You sank their ships. You sent to the bottom the Englishman who was chasing you.”
“He had ten guns more than I.”
“And you burnt and drowned him. Do you remember, Noni, how the wind laughed then? The night was as black as this night, but you made day of it, Noni. We were rocked by a sea of fire.”
Haggart stands pale-faced, his eyes closed. Suddenly he shouts commandingly:
“Boatswain!”
“Yes,” Khorre jumps up.
“Whistle for everybody to go up on deck.”
“Yes.”
The boatswain’s shrill whistle pierces sharply into the open body of the storm. Everything comes to life, and it looks as though they were upon the deck of a ship. The waves are crying with human voices. In semi-oblivion, Haggart is commanding passionately and angrily:
“To the shrouds!—The studding sails! Be ready, forepart! Aim at the ropes; I don’t want to sink them all at once. Starboard the helm, sail by the wind. Be ready now. Ah, fire! Ah, you are already burning! Board it now! Get the hooks ready.”
And Khorre tosses about violently, performing the mad instructions.
“Yes, yes.”
“Be braver, boys. Don’t be afraid of tears! Eh, who is crying there? Don’t dare cry when you are dying. I’ll dry your mean eyes upon the fire. Fire! Fire everywhere! Khorre—sailor! I am dying. They have poured molten tar into my chest. Oh, how it burns!”
“Don’t give way, Noni. Don’t give way. Recall your father. Strike them on the head, Noni!”
“I can’t, Khorre. My strength is failing. Where is my power?”
“Strike them on the head, Noni. Strike them on the head!”
“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart. There is no ship, Khorre—there is nothing. Cut out my heart, comrade—throw out the traitor from my breast.”
“I want to play some more, Noni. Strike them on the head!”
“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing—it is all a lie. I want to drink.”
He takes a bottle and laughs:
“Look, sailor—here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked. It is all a deception, Khorre!”
“I want to play.”
“Here my sorrow is locked. Look! In the green glass it seems like water, but it isn’t water. Let us drink, Khorre—there on the bottom I see my laughter and your song. There is no ship—there is nothing! Who is coming?”
He seizes his revolver. The fire in the fire-place is burning faintly; the shadows are tossing about—but two of these shadows are darker than the others and they are walking. Khorre shouts:
“Halt!”
A man’s voice, heavy and deep, answers:
“Hush! Put down your weapons. I am the abbot of this place.”
“Fire, Noni, fire! They have come for you.”
“I have come to help you. Put down your knife, fool, or I will break every bone in your body without a knife. Coward, are you frightened by a woman and a priest?”
Haggart puts down his revolver and says ironically:
“A woman and a priest! Is there anything still more terrible? Pardon my sailor, Mr. abbot, he is drunk, and when he is drunk he is very reckless and he may kill you. Khorre, don’t turn your knife.”
“He has come after you, Noni.”
“I have come to warn you; the tower may fall. Go away from here!” says the abbot.
“Why are you hiding yourself, girl? I remember your name; your name is Mariet,” says Haggart.
“I am not hiding. I also remember your name—it is Haggart,” replies Mariet.
“Was it you who brought him here?”
“I.”
“I have told you that they are all traitors, Noni,” says Khorre.
“Silence!”
“It is very cold here. I will throw some wood into the fireplace. May I do it?” asks Mariet.
“Do it,” answers Haggart.
“The tower will fall down before long,” says the abbot. “Part of the wall has caved in already; it is all hollow underneath. Do you hear?”
He stamps his foot on the stone floor.
“Where will the tower fall?”
“Into the sea, I suppose! The castle is splitting the rocks.”
Haggart laughs:
“Do you hear, Khorre? This place is not as motionless as it seemed to you—while it cannot move, it can fall. How many people have you brought along with you, priest, and where have you hidden them?”
“Only two of us came, my father and I,” says Mariet.
“You are rude to a priest. I don’t like that,” says the abbot.
“You have come here uninvited. I don’t like that either,” says Haggart.
“Why did you lead me here, Mariet? Come,” says the abbot.
Haggart speaks ironically:
“And you leave us here to die? That is unChristian, Christian.”
“Although I am a priest, I am a poor Christian, and the Lord knows it,” says the abbot angrily. “I have no desire to save such a rude scamp. Let us go, Mariet.”
“Captain?” asks Khorre.
“Be silent, Khorre,” says Haggart. “So that’s the way you speak, abbot; so you are not a liar?”
“Come with me and you shall see.”
“Where shall I go with you?”
“To my house.”
“To your house? Do you hear, Khorre? To the priest! But do you know whom you are calling to your house?”
“No, I don’t know. But I see that you are young and strong. I see that although your face is gloomy, it is handsome, and I think that you could be as good a workman as others.”
“A workman? Khorre, do you hear what the priest says?”
Both laugh. The abbot says angrily:
“You are both drunk.”
“Yes, a little! But if I were sober I would have laughed still more,” answers Haggart.
“Don’t laugh, Haggart,” says Mariet.
Haggart replies angrily:
“I don’t like the tongues of false priests, Mariet—they are coated with truth on top, like a lure for flies. Take him away, and you, girl, go away, too! I have forgotten your name!”
He sits down and stares ahead sternly. His eyebrows move close together, and his hand is pressed down heavily by his lowered head, by his strong chin.
“He does not know you, father! Tell him about yourself. You speak so well. If you wish it, he will believe you, father. Haggart!”
Haggart maintains silence.
“Noni! Captain!”
Silence. Khorre whispers mysteriously:
“He feels sad. Girl, tell the priest that he feels sad.”
“Khorre,” begins Mariet. Haggart looks around quickly.
“What about Khorre? Why don’t you like him, Mariet? We are so much like each other.”
“He is like you?” says the woman with contempt. “No, Haggart! But here is what he did: He gave gin to little Noni again to-day. He moistened his finger and gave it to him. He will kill him, father.”
Haggart laughs:
“Is that so bad? He did the same to me.”
“And he dipped him in cold water. The boy is very weak,” says Mariet morosely.
“I don’t like to hear you speak of weakness. Our boy must be strong. Khorre! Three days without gin.”
He shows him three fingers.
“Who should be without gin? The boy or I?” asks Khorre gloomily.
“You!” replies Haggart furiously. “Begone!”
The sailor sullenly gathers his belongings—the pouch, the pipe, and the flask—and wabbling, goes off. But he does not go far—he sits down upon a neighbouring rock. Haggart and his wife look at him.