The Light Is Sweet

I

SHE sat very close to me on the edge of the little white bed, her face toward the open window.

‘I must go soon or I’ll be missing my train,’ she murmured. But I knew from the way she said it that she had no intention of going.

The late afternoon sun streamed in across my useless legs. It was reflected dazzlingly from the white counterpane, making me narrow my eyes, long unaccustomed to the brighter glare of outdoors, as I studied her expression for some clue to her thoughts. Afraid of disturbing her mood, I lay perfectly still. It is not hard to lie perfectly still when you can’t do anything else. The only sound was the buzzing of the locusts or the occasional whir of some passing automobile.

Presently my eye was caught by the pale gleam of a small yellow butterfly which came fluttering down toward the bed of pink petunias just outside my window. Suddenly another butterfly, just like the first, came sliding down toward the other. They circled round each other several times, then were borne swiftly aloft together on a rising current of air. The breeze was singing wistfully of half-remembered tales from the Vienna woods, while the trees danced, transparently gay in their silver spangles. The swaying of the branches tempted me with fascinating glimpses of lovely, everchanging vistas and hinted of strange, delightful mysteries hidden far back among the dark green shadows which live near the heart of a tree. But I could not keep my eyes from her face.

In breathless awe I gazed at her. Her face was all aglow with a warm, clear radiance as if lighted from within by blazing torches. I had always thought of her hair as being quite black, but now I saw that it was really a rich reddish-brown. It looked actually alive. All at once the years fell away and I recognized that same youthfully naïve, eager expression she had worn that first day at the seashore. Suddenly I found myself laughing aloud.

‘Why are you laughing?’ she said, staring at me with the solemn, mildly puzzled look of a cat disturbed in its dozing.

‘Because you look so nice and shiny.’ And I laughed all the louder.

Then she smiled too, and stared into my eyes a long time before turning back to the window. I was not much surprised when in a little while she said, ‘I wish we were on the beach together right now. Don’t you love it this time of day after everyone else has gone home? Do you remember how we used to lie in our bathing suits on the hot sand staring out at the water with our chins on our hands?’

‘Yes. We never talked much,— just a lazy word or a grunt now and then, — but all the time the sun was beating down on us and somehow I used to feel that we were very close to each other.’

She gave me an odd look then which I did not understand. ‘We were,’ she said simply, and, after a moment, ‘We had such a little time before you — ’ She stopped abruptly and we both stared out of the window. I knew she too was thinking of what might have been. A bee was hovering over the petunias now. As I watched it dart in lightly with glittering wings to each flower in turn, I thought of the tiny seeds waiting so patiently down inside for the pollen that would give them life.

‘That was longer ago than I care to think about,’ I said absently, my mind still full of the dream.

Then I looked at her and saw that her eyes were misty. Instantly my dream slipped away and I went all tight inside. I laid my fingers on her arm. ‘You must not feel sorry for me,’ I said.

She shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m not sorry for you.’ But her eyes still glistened and her upper lip was trembling. I began to talk very fast.

‘I mean it.’ I laughed, arrogantly. ‘In lots of ways I get more fun out of life now than I did in the old days when I was able to go places and do things. Have n’t I got you here now? And are n’t we closer to-day than we ever were then? And I have those other memories of you besides. I’m really better off now than I was then. Do you remember how some days you did n’t come to the beach? Well, I used to wait around for you till I saw you were n’t coming, and then, for want of something better to do, I used to take a long run up the beach as far as that lonely shack where the fishermen kept their nets. As I jogged along close to the water’s edge, at times splashing through a wave that came up a little farther than the rest, my thoughts were all of you. In fact, I scarcely noticed where I was. Yet I must have absorbed a good deal of my surroundings just the same, because now I can see every detail of that scene as vividly as if I were actually there.

‘On one side the bare yellow dunes, with here and there a clump of long grass; on the other the broad blue ocean, throbbing and sparkling in the sun. I can see the blue waves rolling in, with their curling white tops and rainbows flashing in the spray above them, and trailing their wide white ribbons of foam behind, with a fish hawk or perhaps several gulls soaring and swooping up above. I can hear the soft rustle of the water sliding over the sand and pebbles. I can feel the hard wet cold sand on the soles of my feet and feel the cool water splashing round my ankles. I can see the forlorn fringes of stranded driftwood, dried seaweed, and broken bits of shells and pebbles that marked high tide. I can see the brown nets spread out to dry on the dunes and can even smell that pungent smell of salt and tar and fish which always clings to that part of the beach. But you know how desolate it is along there. At the time I felt bored and — I can still feel it now just as I did then — faintly unhappy. Thoroughly commonplace emotions in thoroughly commonplace surroundings. Yet somehow memory transforms that moment and gives it an entirely new meaning. Now, whenever I recall that moment, it brings me a strange feeling of peace. It makes me very happy. So,’ and again I laughed in my exultation, ‘you must not feel sorry for me, because, don’t you see, I’m not at all sorry for myself.’

II

The sun cut its way swiftly through a sea of drifting ice to drown itself at last in a low-lying gray cloud bank. When it burst free of the clouds a few minutes later it seemed to drop toward the horizon at an even dizzier pace than before.

‘Don’t, let me miss this next train,’ she said, ‘I told them not to expect me for dinner, but I must be home early. I have n’t even begun to pack yet. . . . When the sun sets I ’ll have to go.’

But I did n’t believe her. I could n’t believe the moment of parting had come so soon. I refused even to think of the possibility of her going. She was very close to me — that was all that mattered. I watched her in a lazy glow of almost miraculous well-being and contentment, fascinated by the iridescent flashes from the diamond on her finger while she concentrated on the endless figure eight which she was tracing on the counterpane. I said to myself, ‘This is a rare moment. I must try to remember her as she is now, with the sun on her face and hair and dancing in her eyes, so that in the long and lonely days to come I may have the memory of this moment to comfort me.’

I lay very still, but every nerve was tingling in a singing ecstasy of wonder. And I strained all my senses, which were somehow marvelously alert, in an effort to absorb into my being, to fix indelibly in my mind, every detail of her appearance: the color of her hair, so rich and living, and her checks glowing like torches in the sun. But the only effect of the intense concentration was to make my sight grow blurred.

Over her shoulder then I became aware of a shadow on the opposite wall. I watched it grow slowly taller, stretching up and up grotesquely toward the ceiling. But before it could reach the ceiling it had faded away, almost imperceptibly. Still she made no move to go. Neither of us spoke. We had long ago said all there was to say. The lower edge of the cloud bank was now a mass of flickering flames. As the flames soared higher and higher, I fancied I could hear the Magic Fire Music a long way off roaring upward with them. At that moment two birds, flying low and close together, passed unscathed through the wall of fire and sped unswervingly across my tiny patch of sky. Then almost before I realized it the flames had burnt themselves out. Now the shadows began to creep down boldly out of the corners of the room.

Presently she sighed and turned to me. ‘ By this time to-morrow,’ she said, ‘I’ll be many miles from here. . . . I wish you were going too.’

Suddenly, for one fleeting instant, a door flew open and I caught a glimpse of the vast black emptiness of her absence. I shuddered inwardly and stared straight ahead at nothing.

‘I wish I could,’ I murmured slowly.

Quickly she placed her hand on mine. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I did n’t mean to say that . . . ’

‘But why not?’ I laughed, proudly. ‘ Because, after all, I will be going with you — in my mind. Do you know, I think in many ways I get more fun out of life than you people who take your ability to go places and do things so much for granted. Really, you must not feel sorry for me.’

A bright, golden glow still lingered close to the horizon. Above, a mass of dark clouds obscured all the sky. The breeze had dropped, so all the trees stood still in a hush of expectancy, the only movement a slow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of the boughs. I thought of Brünnehilde asleep on her mountain top, waiting, waiting. . . .

‘Look over there,’ I said. ‘Do you see that roof and chimney just showing above that group of trees? See how clearly they stand out against the sky. See that tall pine in front and that other large tree off a little to one side, like black lace on cloth of gold. And over there a little farther, do you see that row of poplars? Now imagine you are on some ranch in Wyoming or at a camp in Maine or at your favorite resort in Normandy or Brittany. Is there anything in what you can see — or, in fact, so far as any of your senses can tell — to show that you ’re not there? But, you say, in my mind I know I’m not in any of those places. That’s just the point. How do you know? How can you prove it? It’s all in your mind. Life is just a series of mental pictures painted by the five senses. We see only what we are capable of seeing. When I look at that house and those trees silhouetted against the sky like that, I can imagine myself wherever I want to be, and immediately I am there. And, what’s more, probably having a better time than I should if I were actually there in the flesh. I have all the enjoyment of traveling with none of the discomfort. And every night, if I like, I can go to a different place. Every five minutes, I should say.

‘Last night, for instance, the clouds were just right. You know how sometimes they look like a distant mountain range with the snow-capped peaks touched by the setting sun? I don’t expect you will believe me, but it took a real mental effort to make myself feel I was not in Darjeeling, or in the Vale of Chamonix, or on the shores of Lake Titicaca. But in a little while the sun was gone from the peaks. Then they were changed before my eyes into a painting by Rockwell Kent of some bleak coast in Alaska or Tierra del Fuego. Later still I was transported to some fantastic landscape which existed nowhere but in my imagination, unless perhaps on some other planet — a landscape of distant black peaks, of gray ghostly valleys and vast plains over which weird red lights flickered ominously.

‘What more could I want? Within the frame of my window I can see more great pictures in a few minutes than you could see at any art gallery in several hours, and without budging an inch. But think of all the people you know who are scattered all over the world on their vacations. What are they doing at this very minute? Probably rushing frantically somewhere or other in search of pleasures which somehow give no pleasure when they find them. No, I don’t envy them. So,’ and again I laughed, feeling very well pleased with myself, ‘you must not feel sorry for me, because, don’t you see, I’m not at all sorry for myself.’

III

She stood up suddenly. The clouds had melted away as if by magic, leaving the sky that deep blue which, if you are lucky, you may see on certain clear evenings just before the final shutting down of night.

‘I’ve missed two trains, but I really can’t be missing this next one,’ she said. ‘ I ’ll have to go right away.’ But she stood still, staring across me toward the window. I could only look at her.

‘There’s the evening star,’ she said at last.

‘It seems brighter than usual tonight,’ I said, unable to take my eyes from her face.

Presently she turned to me and, with a little impulsive movement, reached down and took my hand. Her eyes were smiling wistfully, but she did not speak. I stared back at her and suddenly my mind was full of many things I wanted to tell her. I tightened my grip on her hand, for it seemed to me that my entire future happiness depended on my prolonging that moment, on my holding her there beside me until I could find the words to say what was in my mind. And I was certain I could read in her eyes signs of a similar struggle. I longed for some magic word which would break the spell that was on our tongues and roll away the barrier that was between us. But even as the thought came to me I remembered that it is the fate of all of us here on earth to walk alone, and I knew that we were as close at that moment as it was possible for us ever to get in this world.

She turned at length without a word and went slowly to the bureau, in front of which she began adjusting her hat — the little blue hat I liked so much. Our eyes met again in the mirror. ‘Hello,’ said her lips, though I could hear no sound. But all at once, where her face had been, I saw a fleshless, grinning skull. I was glad when she came and stood close to me again, even though I could not make her eyes meet mine.

‘It will be a long time — ’she began, and stopped. Then, ‘I hate to go,’ she pouted, and gave my arm a little push with her fingers.

I took hold of those fingers. ‘I wish you did n’t have to. ’ The words sounded terribly inadequate. ‘But, after all, it won’t be forever, will it?’ I felt a kind of shiver run through her then which made me go all empty inside. ‘Please! Don’t!’ I begged. ‘Be a good girl. Remember/ and I laughed exultantly, suddenly feeling very secure in her nearness, ‘you must not feel sorry for me.’

She shook her head once, slowly, but made no answer. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a swift glimmer of light. Was it a falling star or just a firefly flitting among the shrubs in the yard? She continued to stare across me at the window with an indecisive air as if debating something in her mind. Oh, I thought, if I only could, even though for just one second, see what was going on inside her head! But when she looked at me at last I saw that her eyes were glistening. I heard her draw a quick little breath. Then, with a startlingly abrupt movement, she bent toward me. I felt her cool fingers touch my cheek ever so lightly. Her lips melted into mine and I breathed deeply the fragrance of her hair. Then all at once she was halfway to the door.

‘Good-bye,’ I called, but my voice sounded very strange. She did not look back, but at the door she paused a moment and half turned to me. She lifted her free hand swiftly and made a little gesture in my direction with her fingers. Then she was gone.

As I stared at the empty door frame, hoping against hope that some miracle would bring her back, I strained for one mad instant against the dead weight of my legs. Then reason returned, and I lay back gasping on my pillow. Presently I began to follow her in my mind as I had promised to do.

It’s just a short walk to the station. She must be almost there by now. There’s the whistle of the train. Will she get there in time? I half hoped she would miss it, until I realized that that would not bring her back to me. I listened while the train drew to a stop and after a minute moved on again, gaining speed rapidly. I strained to hold its sound in my ears as long as I could, feeling that somehow she was not entirely lost to me so long as I could hear it, but soon it faded away into the distance.

Now she is sitting at the window staring at her reflection, but seeing nothing. The corners of her mouth curl upward now and then in that special little way which, from the first day I saw her, has always been one of my secret delights. I hugged the memory close, smiling inwardly. Perhaps, too, she dabs at her eyes occasionally with her handkerchief.

Forgetful of the speeding minutes, I let myself drift unresistingly on the current of my thoughts until suddenly I was jerked back to earth by the shrill laughter of a girl in a car which went whizzing by my window. I looked at my watch.

Now she has reached the city and is mingling with the hurrying crowds in the station. Unconsciously she begins to appraise the hats and dresses of the other women as she moves through the throng. Now she is in her taxi. She is caught up and engulfed in the surging waves of traffic. Her pulse quickens as she begins to look about her at the blinking, multicolored lights, at the hurrying, jostling crowds, at the brilliant shop windows. She feels the mysterious, irresistible pull of the city with its eternal movement, glitter, and noise, its towering, twinkling beauty, and its sprawling vastness. New thoughts creep in to take my place in her mind — thoughts of her little girl, of her husband, of her journey on the morrow. Now she has passed over completely into that other world which she loves and which loves her, that world into which I cannot ever hope to follow her.

I looked for the star, our star. But it was no longer visible. ‘I am less to her now than the stranger who is steering her homeward.’ I flung the words into the darkness. There was an intolerable ache in my throat. I clenched my fists and laughed, but silently, as I thought of the brave, proud words I had spoken such a short time before: ‘You must not feel sorry for me, because, don’t you see, I’m not at all sorry for myself.’