Futurist Stories Part 11

THIS is the last day for me. Tomorrow at this time many hours will have pa.s.sed since the iron door of my cell was unlocked and I was taken along the corridors of the prison and across the yard to the place of execution. Already I shall know for myself what lies on the other side, I shall have ceased forever, I hope, to count the bars of my iron door, my sole occupation and the one thing which keeps me from thinking too much of the past, so bitter.

WHY did they come today. Did they think they would ease my pain, did they think it was charity to play for us, here in the prison.

AT first their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice--

BUT I counted my iron bars--

SUDDENLY the pain, worse than any I had ever known,--remorse, sorrow, longing,--crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die.

A MAN at the piano was playing the melody my mother most often played.

My agony was beyond bearing. Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It had been many years since I had heard that old-fas.h.i.+oned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of memories rushed back to me.

I WAS once more a boy, in the library at home--lighted lamps and the curtains drawn--a fire blazed and crackled

MY younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames.

MY father was there

MY sisters and my mother too.

OH, _misericorde_!

WHAT pain at the sight of her--

SHE is there now-- before me at the piano, and I hear that melody.

AND who is that boy sitting there, --the hope and pride of his family. He is reading some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery--

HIS boyish soul is clean.

I AM sorrowful unto madness.

I MAY not live to see the hour of dawn,

THE hour of execution.

THIS grief will kill me --that melody!

LONG since the musicians have returned to their homes,

I STILL hear it, note for note.

MOTHER to welcome me--

PEACE in my soul.

FORGIVE, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep! I have strayed, my Lord, far--

I REPENT--I come--

ASHES

IT was a large house on the outskirts of the town.

IN the living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights--a contrast to the blizzard raging outside.

A SMALL gathering of people for informal afternoon tea.

LYDIA STUART had come in rather late. She sat comfortably on a huge divan near the fire.

A PICTURESQUE magnetic figure, dressed in purple, with beautiful warm furs.

RATHER dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life--

ASHES--

SOMETHING within her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself--

AGAINST him.

HER art had been created by the ashes of a dead love.

SHE had conquered.

ON the other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.

THE man who had once possessed her every waking hour.

SHE had fought. An inward battle--a brave struggle--

IN another town she had begged him not to see her--not to write.

THEN later they had met unexpectedly at a ball--

THERE was music--many flowers--brightness--laughter--

HIS arms had held her close as they danced--

A FLOOD of memories rushed across her mind.

FOR a moment she had stood with laughing lips--