  GIRL’S SONGNoble Kreider The heart’s an open inn, And from the four winds fare.... Vagrants blind with care, Waifs that limp with sin; Ghosts of what has been,... Wraiths of what may be:... But One shall bring the sacred gift And which ... is He? And with their wounds of care And with their scars of sin.... All these shall en-ter in To find a welcome there; And he who gives with prayer Shall be the richer host:... For surely unto him shall come The Holy Ghost. The last stanza same as second except in second “‘Tis he” at close of stanza take “he” on C for end. TWO MOTHERS EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES The combined living room and kitchen of a peasant house. Before an open fire, where supper is in preparation, stoops a girl of about sixteen. It is evening and dusk is growing. Vines hang outside and the light of a rising moon comes through the window. Girl (Singing.) The heart’s an open inn, And from the four winds fare Vagrants blind with care, Waifs that limp with sin; Ghosts of what has been, Wraiths of what may be: And which is he? And with their wounds of care And with their scars of sin, All these shall enter in To find a welcome there; And he who gives with prayer Shall be the richer host; For surely unto him shall come The Holy Ghost. (Ceases singing and stares into the fire.) What if he’d vanish like a dream one keeps No more than starshine when the morning breaks! I’ll look again. (Arises, goes softly to the open window and looks out into the garden.) How peacefully he sleeps! The red rose shields him from the moon that makes He came a stranger, yet he is not strange; For O, how often I have dreamed it so, Until a sudden, shivering gust of change Went over things, making the cow-sheds flare On fire with splendor while one might count three, And riding swiftly down the populous air, Prince-like he came for me. There were no banners when he really came, No clatter of brave steel chafing in the sheath, No trumpets blown to hoarseness with his fame. Silently trudging over the dusky heath, Clad in a weave of twilight, shod with dew, Weary he came and hungry to the door. The lifting latch made music, and I knew My prince was dream no more. (Sings low.) O weary heart and sore, A hand that drips with myrrh Is knocking at the door! The waiting time is o’er, Be glad, look up and see How splendid is a dream come true— ‘Tis he! ‘Tis he! (During the latter part of the song, the back door opens and the father and mother enter, stooped beneath heavy packs.) Mother What’s this, eh? Howling like a dog in heat, Snout to the moon! And not a bite to eat, And the pot scorching like the devil’s pit! Bestir yourself there, will you! Here you sit Tra-la-ing while the supper goes to rack, And your old father like to break his back, Tramping from market! Tut, tut! Girls must sing, And one burned supper is a little thing In seventy creeping years. Mother Ah, there it goes! My hunger makes no difference, I suppose! Tra-la, tut tut, and I can slave and slave Until my nose seems sniffing for a grave, I’m bent so—and it’s little that you care! Girl (Who has arisen from window and regards her mother as in a dream.) Hush, Mother dear, you’ll wake him! Mother Wake him? Where? Who sleeps that should not wake? Are you bewitched? Hush me again, and you’ll be soundly switched! I’ll talk my fill! Girl O Mother, he has come—— Mother (Her body straightening slightly from its habitual stoop) Eh? Who might come that I would care to know Since Ivan left?—He’s dead. Father Aye, years ago, And stubborn grieving is a foolish sin. Mother (With the old weary voice.) One’s head runs empty and the ghosts get in When one is old and stooped. (Peevishly to the girl.) Bestir yourself! Lay plates and light the candles on the shelf. No corpse lies here that it should be so dark. What ails the hussy? Father ‘Tis a crazy lark Sings in her head all day. Don’t be too rough. Come twenty winters, ‘twill be still enough, God knows! Mother (At the fireplace.) I heard no larks sing at her age. They put me in the field to earn a wage And be some use in the world. (To girl.) What! Dawdling yet? I’ll lark you in a way you won’t forget, Come forty winters! Speak! What do you mean? (Still staring at the window and speaking dreamily as to herself.) Up from the valley creeps the loving green Until the loneliest hill-top is a bride. Mother The girl’s gone daft! Father ‘Tis vapors. Let her bide. She’s weaving bride-veils with a woof of the moon, And every wind’s a husband. All too soon She’ll stitch at grave-clothes in a stuff more stern. Girl (Arousing suddenly.) I’m sorry that I let the supper burn— ‘Tis all so sweet, I scarce know what I do— He came—— Mother Who came? A stranger that I knew; And he was weary, so I took him in And gave him supper, thinking ‘twere a sin That anyone should want and be denied. And while he ate, the place seemed glorified, As though it were the Saviour sitting there! It could not be the sunset bound his hair Briefly with golden haloes—made his eyes Such depths to gaze in with a dumb surprise While one blinked thrice!—Then suddenly it passed, And he was some old friend returned at last After long years. Mother A pretty tale, indeed! And so it was our supper went to feed A sneaking ne’er-do-well, a shiftless scamp! Girl O Mother, wasn’t Jesus Christ a tramp? Hush, will you! hush! ‘Tis plain the Devil’s here! To think my only child should live to jeer At holy things! Father Come, don’t abuse the maid. They say He was a carpenter by trade, Yet no one ever saw the house He built. Mother So! Shield the minx! Make nothing of her guilt, And let the Devil get her—as he will! I’ll hold my tongue and work, and eat my fill From what the beggars leave, for all you care! Quick! Where’s this scoundrel? Girl ‘Sh! He’s sleeping there Out in the garden. (Shows a gold piece.) Mother, see, he paid We lose in taking, profit what we give. Mother (Taking the coin.) What! Gold? A clever bargain, as I live! It’s five times what the fowls brought!—Not so bad! And yet—I’ll wager ‘tis not all he had— Eh? Girl No—eight hundred rubles in a sack! Mother Eight—hundred—rubles! Yet the times are slack, And coins don’t spawn like fishes, Goodness knows! I’ll warrant he’s some thief that comes and goes About the country with a ready smile And that soft speech that is the Devil’s guile, Nosing out hoards that reek with honest sweat! Ha, ha—there’s little here that he can get. Eight—hundred—rubles— Girl Mother, had you heard How loving kindness spoke in every word, You could not doubt him. O, his eyes were mild, And there were heavens in them when he smiled! Mother Satan can outsmile God. Girl No, no, I’m sure He brought some gift of good that shall endure And be a blessing to us! Mother So indeed! Eight—hundred—rubles—with the power to breed Litters of copecks till one need not work! Eight hundred hundred backaches somehow lurk (To the father.) What’s the thing to do? Father It would be pleasant with a pot of brew To talk until the windows glimmer pale. ‘Tis good to harken to a traveller’s tale Of things far off where almost no one goes. Mother As well to parley with a wind that blows Across fat fields, yet has no grain to share. Rubles are rubles, and a tale is air. I’ll have the rubles! Girl (Aghast.) Mother! Mother dear! What if ‘twere Ivan sleeping far from here, And some one else should do this sinful deed! Mother Had they not taken my son, I should not need And I’ll not live to vex it very long. Who work should take their wages where they can. It should have been my boy come back a man, With this same goodly hoard to bring us cheer. Now let some other mother peer and peer At her own window through a blurring pane, And see the world go out in salty rain, And start at every gust that shakes the door! What does a green girl know? You never bore A son that you should prate of wrong and right! I tell you, I have wakened in the night, Feeling his milk-teeth sharp upon my breast, And for one aching moment I was blest, Until I minded that ‘twas years ago These flattened paps went milkless—and I know! Girl O Mother! ‘twould be sin! Sin! What is that— When all the world prowls like a hungry cat, Mousing the little that could make us glad? Father Don’t be forever grieving for the lad. ‘Twas hard, but there are troubles worse than death. Let’s eat and think it over. Mother Save your breath, Or share your empty prate with one another! One moment makes a father, but a mother Is made by endless moments, load on load. (Pause: then to girl.) I left a bundle three bends down the road. Go fetch it. Girl (Pleadingly.) Mother, promise not to do This awful thing you think. (Seizing a stick from the fireplace.) I’ll promise you, And pay in welts—you simpering hussy! (The girl flees through back door. After a pause the woman turns to the man.) —Well? Eight hundred rubles, and no tale to tell— The fresh earth strewn with leaves—is that the plan? Father (Startled.) Eh?—That?—You mean—You would not kill a man? Not that! Mother Eight—hundred—rubles. Father It is much. Old folk might hobble far with less for crutch— squandered—‘tis a fearsome thing to kill! I know what rubles cost—they all come hard, But life’s the dearer. Mother Kill a hog for lard, A thief for gold—one reason and one knife! I tell you, gold is costlier than life! What price shall we have brought when we are gone? When Ivan died, the heartless world went on Breeding more sons that men might still be cheap. And who but I had any tears to weep? I mind ‘twas April when the tale was brought That he’d been lost at sea. I thought and thought About the way all things were mad to breed— One big hot itch to suckle or bear seed— And my boy dead! Life costly?—Cheap as mud! You want the rubles, sicken at the blood, Father Come now, Mother! I’d kill to live as lief as any other. You women don’t weigh matters like a man. I like the gold—‘tis true—but not the plan. Why not put pebbles where the rubles were, Then send him forth? Mother And set the place a-whir With a wind of tongues! I tell you, we must kill! No tale dies harder than a tale of ill. Once buried, he will tell none. Father Let me think— I’ll go down to the tavern for a drink To whet my wits—belike the dread will pass. (He goes out through the back door, shaking his head in perplexity) (Alone.) He’ll find a coward’s courage in his glass— Enough to dig a hole when he comes back. (She goes to shelf and snuffs the candles. The moon shines brightly through the window and the firelight glows. She takes a knife from a table drawer, feels the edge; goes to the window and peers out; turns about, uneasily scanning the room, then moves toward the side door, muttering.) Eight hundred shining rubles in a sack! (She goes out softly and closes the door. A cry is heard as of one in a nightmare. After a considerable interval the mother reËnters with a small bag which she is opening with nervous fingers. The moonlight falls upon her. Now and then she endeavors to shake something from her hands, which she finally wipes on her apron, muttering the while.) (She counts the coins in silence for awhile, then aloud.) Eight and twenty—nine and twenty—thirty— (Clutching a handful of gold, she suddenly stops counting and stares at the back door. There is the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The door flies open and the old man enters excitedly.) Father Mother! Mother! Wake him! Wake him—quick! ‘Tis Ivan with an old-time, merry trick— They told me at the tavern—‘tis our son! (Rushes toward the side door.) Ivan! Ivan! (Stops abruptly, aghast at the look of the woman. The coins jangle on the floor) God! What have you done! Girl (Outside.) O weary heart and sore, O yearning eyes that blur, A hand that drips with myrrh Is knocking at the door! The waiting time is o’er, Be glad, look up and see How splendid is a dream come true— ‘Tis he! ‘tis he! |
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