The Dover Anthology of American Literature Volume II (97 page)

But grandmother took the news in a manner that astonished us all. When I looked at her over my mother's shoulder, after the
letter
was read, I saw her sitting at the table in her usual position. Her head was bent low and a little to one side, and her hands were folded in her lap. Very quietly she sat, not a word, not a tear came from her.

Even grandfather, who never took any notice of her except to scold, looked at her in surprise.

“Well, Baila!” he said. “Have you wept yourself dry? Or perhaps you have come to your senses at last and realise how useless tears are. Remember, that you are sending your child away yourself. I can always take care of my needs but you will die in the poorhouse.”

Grandfather and grandmother were always quarrelling. Grandfather claimed that she wept her eyes out. And grandmother said that all her troubles came because of his impiety. But when I grew older I learned that there was a deeper reason for their quarrels.

As a rule when grandfather scolded, grandmother would retort with great spirit. But this time it was as if she did not hear him.

She called me and dictated a letter to Aunt Masha, to come home at once. Then she went to her trunk and took out the ball of fine linen thread which she had been saving for years. And while starting a pair of stockings for Aunt Masha I heard her figuring quietly, what we would need for the journey, how long it would take us to get ready, and what day we would start.

As for me, I became suddenly a very important person. At home I was looked upon as a guest. Now mother never pressed me to do any work. On the contrary, as soon as I would start to do something, she would say,

“Run out and play, you will work hard enough pretty soon.” Neither did I find it necessary to feign illness as I had often done before that I might be fondled and caressed. No, indeed; now mother would often put baby down to take me on her lap.

And the young women of the village, who never took any notice of me before, would stop to speak to me.

One day, at sundown, I sat on our gate munching a bit of carrot, and watching the red sun disappearing gradually behind the treetops, when I became aware of some one standing in back of me. I turned around and saw Miriam. She was a pretty, gypsy-like young woman whose dark eyes always looked moist and a little red as though she had just been crying.

“So you are going to America,” she said, looking at me wistfully, “you are very fortunate. Of course you are too young to
realise
it now but you will, later, when you grow older and think of this.” She pointed to Siomka's half-tumbled hut, and the little pig who stood at the door and squealed to be let in.

“No,” she continued, almost in a whisper, “your life won't be wasted like—.” Here Siomka's little pig squealed louder than ever and Miriam turned suddenly and went away. I sat for a long while wondering what the last word might have been. Then I jumped down from the gate and ran into the house to look at the steamer tickets, perhaps for the tenth time that day.

I do not know whether I considered myself fortunate in going to America or not. But I do remember that when I convinced myself, by looking at the tickets often, that it was not a dream like many others I had had, that I would really start for America in a month or six weeks, I felt a great joy. Of course I was a little ashamed of this joy. I saw that mother was unhappy. And grandmother's sorrow, very awful, in its calmness, was double now. For I felt that I was almost as dear to her as Aunt Masha.

When a week passed we cleaned the house as thoroughly as if it were for Easter, in honour of Aunt Masha's coming.

During the five years that she had been away she visited us twice. The last time had been three years before. And so we were all excited and eager to see her.

As the days passed and the time drew near for her coming, grandmother became so impatient and nervous that she would jump at the least outdoor sound, asking excitedly,

“What is that? I think I hear the rumbling of wheels. Isn't that some one coming?” Then we would all rush to the door and windows and find that it was only a cart passing on the road, or a pig scratching his back against the sharp corner of the house.

One day we really heard a cart drive up to the door. When we ran out we saw a small, plump, pretty young woman in a brown dress jump lightly to the ground.

“Oh, grandmother, quickly come, it is Aunt Masha.”

In a moment grandmother tumbled out of bed, but before she could reach the door she was in Aunt Masha's arms. And for a while there was sobbing in every corner of the room.

X.

We children scarcely knew Aunt Masha. All I remembered of her two visits, was that both times she had come to stay a month, but
went
away at the end of a week, and that we felt depressed afterwards, and grandmother cried for days and days.

And so it was only now that we began to know her. When she had been home a short time we found that she was affectionate, but also severe, and hot-tempered. If we did not obey her promptly she scolded severely, or worse still, stopped speaking to us. Aunt Masha was also a painfully clean person and spent a great deal of time in washing us. Brother, whose skin was dark, often appeared, after she was through with him, with his neck red and tears in his eyes.

But the greatest trouble was caused by Aunt Masha's personal belongings. Nothing of hers must be touched. And as we were very curious about things that came from the city there was a world of trouble.

One morning I arose earlier than usual. All were asleep except mother and grandfather, who were out. As I passed Aunt Masha's bed I was attracted by her little shoes which stood close together on the floor beside her bed, looking like two soldiers keeping watch. They were the smallest things with high tops, pointed toes and elastic sides. Often I had longed to try them on. And once I even asked Aunt Masha if I might. But she said, “No, you would burst them.” Now as I stood looking at them and at my own clumsy lace shoes, made by our village shoemaker, I thought, “Yes, they would fit. Oh, how I should like to try them on, just for a moment.”

I glanced at Aunt Masha's face. The wrinkle between her eyebrows was there even now, and it was saying to me, “No!” But the lips which were partly open showing the white strong teeth, seemed to smile, “Yes.”

Very quietly I tiptoed over to the bed, took the shoes and hastened to the bench near the oven. My fingers trembled so, that I could not open my laces. They became knotted and it took me a long time to break them open. But at last my shoes were off.

I remember how rapidly my heart beat when I began to draw one of hers on. I thought, “If it does not go on easily, I won't force it.” But it did, and felt comfortable. And the elastic fitted snugly around the ankles. With a feeling of pleasure I stepped down on the floor to see how much taller I looked with high heels. As I stood up I glanced anxiously toward Aunt Masha's bed. What I saw sent the blood rushing to my face.

She was sitting up in bed looking as though she saw a ghost.

“
I suppose you have burst them. I told you not to put them on,” she said and frowned. This frown brought back my earliest recollections of her. I remembered how I feared it. Now as I stood looking at her it deepened and deepened until it seemed to darken her whole face, and reminded me of an angry cloud.

Quickly I took off her shoes, put them near her bed and ran from her as from an approaching storm.

Outside I met mother, who saw that something had happened, the minute she looked at me. When I told her she scolded.

“You should not have tried on the shoes when you were told not to do it. Now I think you had better go and apologise.”

I had never apologised in my life. In the days when I was given the choice between apologising and a spanking, I always chose the spanking. Now when I knew that no spanking was coming I certainly refused to do it. But mother coaxed and begged, and reasoned,

“You are going out into the wide world alone, among strangers. Don't harden your heart against your only friend. Oh, how I wish you had more sense!” She turned away and cried like a little child.

I was miserable. The very thought of apologising made my face burn. But here stood mother crying.

“I won't have many more chances of pleasing her,” I thought.

“Mother, I'll apologise, but—not now,” I begged. She turned to me. “That is a dear child,” she said, looking brighter, “but if you do it at all, do it now.”

“What shall I say?” I asked.

“Oh, just say you are sorry you disobeyed.”

We went into the house. Aunt Masha was dressed and stood at the window, combing out her beautiful brown hair. It fell all about her, covering almost half of her small body. When she heard the door close she parted her hair in front, as if it were a curtain, and looked. She dropped it quickly when she saw me and went on combing carefully. Slowly I went over to her. “Aunt Masha,” I said. My voice sounded strange to me. Again she parted her hair and looked at me. I thought I saw an expression of triumph in her steel grey eyes. This hurt me. And almost before I could think I blurted out, angrily,

“Aunt Masha, I'll never, never, touch anything of yours again, as if it were—swine!”

Aunt Masha fairly gasped. And mother looked horrified. Indeed, I was horrified myself at what I had done. I turned to mother and tried to explain. But I could not make her understand me. I was
not
good at explanations when I myself was concerned. Quite miserable, I ran out of the house and wandered about in the fields for the rest of the morning.

Aunt Masha did not speak to me for three days. During that time when our eyes happened to meet, I tried to tell her, in a dumb way, that I was sorry. But she always turned her face away quickly. Once when we met near the door, our shoulders almost touching, I saw a smile come quivering to her lips. And so I waited, hoping she would speak to me. But the next moment she frowned it down and passed on as if she did not know me. On the fourth day, at twilight, I came up on her so suddenly, while she was outside, that she gave a little scream of fright. I, too, was frightened, and caught hold of her hand. And she let it stay in mine.

XI.

All through the Spring, while mother, grandmother and Aunt Masha were sewing and knitting stockings for Aunt Masha and me to take along to America, I wandered about in the fields, restless and unable to play at anything.

Early, while the flowers were still heavy with the morning dew, I would take baby, who was a little over a year old, on my back, tie him on to me with a shawl, so that I could rest my arms when they grew tired, and start out followed by the rest of the children. For hours we would wander about like gypsies.

More often than anywhere we went to the lake, where it was very lively at that time of the year, as the peasant women were bleaching their linens. There, sister and brother would go off digging for flagroot. And I would put the two little ones on the flat rock near the edge and climbing up beside them, we would all sit quietly for the longest while, watching, listening.

It was a pleasant spot. The clear blue water lay quietly rippling and sparkling in the sun. On the edge were the women with red kerchiefs on their heads and beads of many colours around their necks, swinging their wooden mallets in unison. And the neighborhood rang with the echoes which seemed to come from the dense, mysterious looking forest across the lake. While through the air floated the sweet odour of new wet linen.

But the time I loved this spot best was late in the afternoon, when the light grew soft and the women went away to their homes. Then came a peculiar hush, and yet there seemed to be a thousand voices in the air whispering softly. They came from
everywhere,
from the tall stately forest trees across the lake, the hazelnut bushes, the flags as the wind passed over them. And the lake, a deeper blue now in the soft light, rippled gently as if with laughter. Sometimes these fairy-like voices would be lost for a moment in the louder sound of a dry twig breaking and falling to the ground, the cuckoo of a bird or the splash of a fish.

I do not know what effect this had on the children. It made me unspeakably happy and sad at the same time. I remember that I used to want to laugh and cry and sing and dance, and very often I did. To dance I would clasp hands with the children, and we would spin around, and around, until we fell down breathless and dizzy.

At twilight we would start for home, walking very slowly and feeling very sad at the thought of bed time.

So the Spring passed.

As the second of June, the day for our departure to America, drew near, I stayed more in the house and followed mother about more closely. Gradually I became conscious of two things. One was the fear of going out into the world. Just what I feared I did not know. And the other was regret. I had not realised how dear to me were my people and home until I was about to leave them. But the one whom I regretted to leave most was grandmother.

Grandfather was not fond of me and so he cared little about my going away. And mother and the children I should see again. But that grandmother cared I knew. And I also knew and she knew that her I should never see again.

One day grandmother and I were alone in the house, at least, I think we were alone. For as I look back now I can see no one but the two of us. I am standing at the window, and she is walking across the room, with her slow, hesitating step, and her hands stretched in front of her for protection. Coming upon a bench in the middle of the room she sat down heavily, saying, with a sigh,

“It is strange, but the room seems to have grown larger.”

“What is that shadow at the window, Rahel? Come, child, let me lean on you. There, your shoulder just fits under my arm. Do you remember when you first began to lead me about? That was when you still called yourself by name.”

When we reached the window she raised her hand, shaded her eyes from the strong light and stood quietly for a while, looking out. Then she said,