 THE MOUSE by James Kerwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE MOUSE by James Kerwood Why, you honoury little cuss," said Faulkner, pausing with a fork full of beans halfway to his mouth. Where in God Almighty's name did you come from? It was against all of Jim's crude but honest ethics of the big wilderness to take the Lord's name in vain, and the words he uttered were filled more with the softness of a prayer than the harshness of profanity. He was big, and his hands were hard and knotted, and his face was covered with a coarse red scrub of beard. But his hair was blonde, and his eyes were blue, and just now were filled with unbounded amazement. Slowly the fork loaded with beans descended to his plate, and he said again, barely above a whisper, Where in God Almighty's name did you come from? There was nothing human in the one room of his wilderness cabin to speak of. At first glance there was nothing alive in the room, with the exception of Jim Faulkner himself. There was not even a dog, for Jim had lost his dog weeks before. And yet he spoke, and his eyes glistened, and for a full minute after that he sat as motionless as a rock. Then something moved, at the farther end of the rough-board table. It was a mouse, a soft, brown, bright-eyed little mouse, not as large as his thumb. It was not like the mice Jim had been accustomed to see in the north woods, the larger, sharp-nosed, rat-like creatures which sprung his traps now and then, and he gave a sort of gasp through his beard. I'm crazy as a loon if it isn't a sure-enough down-home mouse, just like we used to catch in the kitchen down in Ohio, he told himself. And for the third time he asked, Now where in God Almighty's name did you come from? The mouse made no answer. It humped itself up in a little ball, and was eyeing Jim with the keenest of suspicion. You're a thousand miles from home, old man, Faulkner addressed it, still without a movement. You're a clean thousand mile straight north of the kind of civilization you was born in, and I want to know how you got here. By George, is it possible you got mixed up in that box of stuff she sent up? Did you come from her? He made a sudden movement, as if he expected an answer, and in a flash the mouse had scurried off the table and disappeared under his bunk. The little cuss said Faulkner, he sure got his nerve. He went on eating his beans, and when he was done he lighted a lamp, for the half-arctic darkness was falling early, and began to clear away the dishes. When he had done he put a scrap of bannock, and a few beans on the corner of the table. I'll bet he's hungry, the little cuss, he said, a thousand miles in that box. He sat down close to the sheet-iron box stove, which was glowing red-hot and filled his pipe. Kerosene was a precious commodity, and he had turned down the lamp-wick until he was mostly in gloom. Outside, a storm was wailing down across the barons from the north. He could hear the swish of the spruce boughs overhead, and those moaning, half-shrinking sounds which always came with a storm out of the north, and sometimes even fooled him into thinking they were human cries. They had seemed more and more human to him during the past three days, and he was growing afraid. Once, or twice, strange thoughts had come into his head, and he had tried to fight them down. He had known of men whom loneliness had driven mad, and he was terribly lonely. He shivered as a piercing blast of wind filled with a morning wail swept over the cabin. And that day, too, he had been taken with a touch of fever. It burned more hotly in his blood to-night, and he knew that it was the loneliness, the emptiness of the world about him, the despair and black foreboding that came to him with the first early twilight of the long night. For he was in the edge of that long night. For weeks he would only now and then catch a glimpse of the sun. He shuddered. A hundred and fifty miles to the south and east there was Hudson's Bay Post. Eighty miles south was the nearest trappers' cabin he knew of. Two months before he had gone down to the post, with a thick beard to cover his face, and brought back supplies, and the box. His wife had sent up the box to him, only it had come to him as John Blake instead of Jim Faulkner, his right name. There were things in it for him to wear, and pictures of the sweet-faced wife who was still filled with prayer and hope for him, and of the kid, their boy. He is walking now, she had written to him, and a dozen times a day he goes to your picture and says, Papa, Papa, and every night we talk about you before we go to bed, and pray God to send you back to us soon. God bless him, breathe, Jim. He had not lighted his pipe, and there was something in his eyes that shimmered and glistened in the dull light. And then, as he sat silent, his eyes clearing, he saw that the little mouse had climbed back onto the edge of the table. It did not eat the food that he placed there for it, but humped itself in a tiny ball again, and its tiny, shining eyes looked in his direction. You're not hungry, said Jim, and he spoke aloud. You're lonely, too. That's it. A strange thrill shot through him at the thought, and he wondered again if he was mad at the longing that filled him, the desire to reach out and snuggle the little creature in his hand, and hold it close up to his bearded face, and to talk to it. He laughed, and drew his stool a little more into the light. The mouse did not run. He edged, nearer and nearer, until his elbow rested on the table, and a curious feeling of pleasure took the place of the loneliness when he saw the mouse was looking at him, and yet seemed unafraid. Don't be scared, he said softly, speaking directly to it. I won't hurt you. No siree. I'd cut off my hand before I'd do that. I ain't had any company but you for two months. I ain't seen a human face, or heard a human voice. Nothing. Nothing but them shrieks and wails and baby cryings out there in the wind. I won't hurt you. His voice was almost pleading in its gentleness. And for the tenth time that day he felt, with his fever, a sickening dizziness in his head. For a moment or two, his vision was blurred, but he could still see the mouse, farther away it seemed to him. I don't suppose you've killed anyone, or anything, he said, and his voice seemed thick and distant to him. Mice don't kill, do they? They live on cheese. But I have. I've killed. I killed a man. That's why I'm here. His dizziness overcame him, and he leaned heavily against the table. Still, the mouse did not move. Still, he could see it through the strange God's veil before his eyes. I killed a man, he repeated, and now he was wondering why the mouse did not say something at that remarkable confession. I killed him, old man, and you'd have done the same if you'd have been in my place. I didn't mean to. I struck too hard. But I found him in my cabin, and she was fighting. Fighting until her face was scratched and her clothes were torn. God bless her heart. Fighting him to the last breath, and I came in just in time. He didn't think I'd be back for a day. A blackhearted devil we fed when he came to our door hungry. I killed him. And they've hunted me ever since. They'll put a rope round my neck and choke me to death if they catch me. As I came in time to save her, that's law. But they won't find me. I've been up here a year now, and in the spring I'm going down, where you came from, back to the girl and the kid. The policeman won't be looking for me then, and we're going to some other part of the world, and live happy. She's waiting for me. She and the kid. They know I'm coming in the spring. Yes, sir, I killed a man. And they want to kill me for it. That's the law. Canadian law. The law that wants an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. And where there ain't no extinuate in circumstances. They call it murder. But it wasn't. Was it? He waited for an answer. The mouse seemed going farther and farther away from him. He leaned more heavily on the table. It wasn't. Was it? He persisted. His arms reached out, his head dropped forward, and the little mouse scurried to the floor. But Faulkner did not know it had gone. I killed him, and I guess I'd do it again, he said, and his words were only a whisper. And tonight they're praying for me down there, she and the kid, and he's saying, Papa, Papa, and they sent you up to keep me company. His head dropped wearily upon his arms. The red stove crackled and turned slowly black. In the cabinet grew darker, except where the dim light burned on the table. Outside the storm wailed and screeched down across the barren. And after a time the mouse came back. It looked at Jim Faulkner. It came nearer until it touched the unconscious man's sleeve. More daringly it ran over his arm. It smelled of his fingers. Then the mouse returned to the corner of the table and began eating the food that Faulkner had placed there for it. The wick of the lamp had burned low when Faulkner raised his head. The stove was black and cold. Outside the storm still raged, and it was the shivering shriek of it over the cabin that Faulkner first heard. He felt terribly dizzy, and there was a sharp, knife-like pain just back of his eyes. By the gray light that came through the window he knew that what was left of the Arctic Day had come. He rose to his feet and staggered about like a drunken man as he rebuilt the fire, and he tried to laugh as the truth dawned upon him that he had been sick and that he had rested for hours with his head on the table. He seemed broken. His legs were numb and hurt when he stepped on them. He swung his arms a little to bring back the circulation, and rubbed his hands over the fire that began to crackle in the stove. It was the sickness that had overcome him. He knew that. But the thought of it did not appall him as it had yesterday, and the day before. There seemed to be something in the cabin now that comforted and soothed him, something that took away part of the loneliness that was driving him mad. Even as he searched about him, peering into the dark corners and the bare walls, a word formed on his lips, and he half smiled. It was a woman's name. Hester. A warmth entered into him. The pain left his head. For the first time in weeks he felt different, and slowly he began to realize what had wrought the change. He was not alone. A message had come to him from one who was waiting for him miles away. Something that lived, and breathed, and was as lonely as himself. It was the little mouse. He looked about eagerly, his eyes brightening, but the mouse was gone. He could not hear it. There seemed nothing unusual to him in the words he spoke aloud to himself. I'm going to call it after the kid, he chuckled. I'm going to call it Little Jim. I wonder if it's a girl-mouse or a boy-mouse. He placed a pan of snow-water on the stove, and began making his simple preparations for breakfast. For the first time in many days he felt actually hungry. And then all at once he stopped, and a low cry that was half joy and half wonder broke from his lips. With tensely gripped hands and eyes that shone with a strange light he stared straight at the blank surface of the log wall, threw it, and a thousand miles away. He remembered that day, years ago, the scenes of which came to him now as though they had been but yesterday. It was afternoon, in the glorious summer, and he had gone to Hester's home. Only the day before Hester had promised to be his wife, and he remembered how fidgety and uneasy and yet wondrously happy he was as he sat out on the big white veranda, waiting for her to put on her pink muslin dress, which went so well with the gold of her hair, and the blue of her eyes. And as he sat there, Hester's malty's pet came up the steps, bringing in its jaws a tiny, quivering brown mouse. It was playing with the almost lifeless little creature when Hester came through the door. He heard again the low cry that came from her lips then. In an instant she had snatched the tiny, limp thing from between the cat's paws, and it faced him. He was laughing at her, but the glow in her blue eyes sobered him. I didn't think you would take pleasure in that, Jim," she said. It's only a mouse, but it's alive, and I can feel its poor little heart beating. They had saved it, and he, a little ashamed of the smallness of the act, had gone with Hester to the barn, and made a nest for it in the hay. But the wonderful words that he remembered were these. Perhaps some day a little mouse will help you, Jim? Hester had spoken laughingly, and her words had come true. All the time that Faulkner was preparing and eating his breakfast he watched for the mouse, but it did not appear. Then he went to the door. It swung outward, and it took all his weight to force it open. On one side of the cabin the snow was drifted almost to the roof. Ahead of him he could barely make out the dark shadow of the scrub's spruce forest beyond the little clearing he had made. He could hear the spruce tops wailing and twisting in the storm, and the snow and the wind stung his face, and half blinded him. It was dark, dark with the gray and maddening gloom that yesterday would have driven him still nearer to the merge of madness. But this morning he laughed as he listened to the wailings in the air, and stared out into the ghostly chaos. It was not the thought of his loneliness that came to him now, but the thought that he was safe. The law could not reach him now, even if it knew where he was. And before it began its hunt for him again in the spring he would be hiking southward, to the girl and the baby, and it would still be hunting for him when they three would be making a new life for themselves in some other part of the world. For the first time in months he was almost happy. He closed and bolted the door and began to whistle. He was amazed at the change in himself and wonderingly he stared at his reflection in the cracked bit of mirror against the wall. He grinned and addressed himself aloud. You need a shave, he told himself. You'd scare the Fitz out of anything alive. Now that we've got company we've got a spruce up and look civilized. It took him an hour to get rid of his heavy beard. His face looked almost boyish again. He was inspecting himself in the mirror when he heard a sound and turned slowly toward the table. The little mouse was nosing about his tin plate. For a few moments Faulkner watched it, fearing to move. Then he cautiously began to approach the table. Hello there, old chap, he said, trying to make his voice soft and ingratiating. Pretty late for breakfast, ain't you? At his approach the mouse humped itself into a motionless ball and watched him. To Faulkner's delight it did not run away when he reached the table and sat down. He laughed softly. You ain't afraid, are you, he asked? We're going to be chums, ain't we? Yes, sir, we're going to be chums. For a full minute the mouse and the man looked steadily at each other. Then the mouse moved deliberately to a crumb of bannock and began nibbling at its breakfast. For ten days there was only an occasional lull in the storm that came out of the north. Before those ten days were half over Jim and the mouse understood each other. The little mouse itself solved the problem of their near acquaintance by running up Faulkner's leg one morning while he was at breakfast, and coolly investigating him from the strings of his moccasins to the collar of his blue shirt. After that it showed no fear of him, and a few days later would nestle in the hollow of his hand and nibble fearlessly at the bannock which Faulkner would offer it. Then Jim took to carrying it about in his coat pocket. That seemed to suit the mouse immensely. And when Jim went to bed nights, or it grew too warm for him in the cabin, he would hang the coat over his bunk with the mouse still in it so that it was not long before the little creature made up its mind to take full possession of the pocket. It intimated as much to Faulkner on the tenth and last day of the storm when it began very business-like operations of building a nest of paper and rabbits for in the coat pocket. Jim's heart gave a big and sudden jump of delight when he saw the work going on. "'Bless my soul! I wonder if it's a girl mouse, and we're going to have babies,' he gasped. After that he did not wear the coat through fear of disturbing the nest. The two became more and more friendly until finally the mouse would sit on Jim's shoulder at mealtime and nibble at the bannock. What little trouble the mouse caused only added to Faulkner's love for it. He's a human little cuss,' he told himself one day as he watched the mouse busy at work cashing scraps of food, which it carried through a crack in the sapling floor. "'He's that human. I've got to put all my grub in ten cans, or we'll go short before spring.' His chief trouble was keeping his snowshoes out of his tiny companion's reach. The mouse had developed an unholy passion for babbage, the caribou skin thongs used in the webs of his shoes, and one of the webs was half eaten away before Faulkner discovered what was going on. At last he was compelled to suspend the shoes from a nail driven in one of the roof beams. In the evening, when the stove glowed hot and a cotton wick sputtered in a pan of caribou grease on the table, Faulkner's chief diversion was to tell the mouse all about his plans, and hopes, and what had happened in the past. He took an almost boyish pleasure in these one-sided entertainments, and yet, after all, they were not entirely one-sided, for the mouse would keep its bright, serious looking little eyes on Faulkner's face. It seemed to understand, if it could not talk. Faulkner loved to tell the little fellow of wonderful days of four or five years ago, a way down in the sunny Ohio Valley where he courted the girl, and where they lived before they moved to the farm in Canada. He tried to impress on little Jim's mind what it meant for a great big, unhandsome fellow like himself to be loved by a tender slip of a girl whose hair was like gold and whose eyes were as blue as the wood-violets. One evening he fumbled for a minute under his bunk, and came back to the table with a worn and finger-marked manella envelope from which he drew tenderly and almost trembling with care along, shining tress of golden hair. "'That's hers,' he said proudly, placing it on the table close to the mouse. And she's got so much of it you can't see her to the hips when she takes it down. And out in the sun it shines like—like glory!' The stove-door crashed open, and a number of coals fell out upon the floor. For a few minutes Faulkner was busy, and when he returned to the table he gave a gasp of astonishment. The curl and the mouse were gone. Little Jim had almost reached its nest, with its lovely burden when Faulkner captured it. "'You little cuss,' he breathed, "'now I know you come from her. I know it.' In the weeks that followed the storm Faulkner again followed his trap-lines, and scattered poisoned baits for the white foxes on the barren. Early in January the second great storm of the year came from out of the north. It gave no warning, and Faulkner was caught ten miles from camp. He was making a struggle for life before he reached the shack. He was exhausted, and half-blinded. He could hardly stand on his feet when he staggered up against his own door. He could see nothing when he entered. He stumbled over a stool and fell to the floor. Before he could rise a strange weight was upon him. He made no resistance, for the storm had driven the last ounce of strength from his body. "'It's been a long chase, but I've got you now, Faulkner,' he heard a triumphant voice say. And then came the dreaded formula, fear to the uttermost limits of the great northern wilderness. I warn you, you are my prisoner, in the name of His Majesty the King.' Corporal Carr, of the royal mounted of the northwest, was a man without human sympathies. His face was thin, with a square, bony jaw, and lips that formed a straight line. His eyes were greenish, like a cat's, and were constantly shifting. He was a beast of prey, as much as the wolf, the lynx, or the fox, and his prey was men. Only such a man as Carr alone would have braved the treacherous snows and the intense cold of the arctic winter to run him down. Faulkner knew that, as an hour later he looked over the roaring stove at his captor. About Carr there was something of the unpleasant quickness, the sinuous movement, of the white ermine, the outlaw of the wilderness. His eyes were merciless. At times Faulkner caught the same red glint in them. And above his despair, the utter hopelessness of his situation, there rose in him an intense hatred and loathing of the man. Faulkner's hands were then securely tied behind him. I'd put the irons on you, Carr had explained, a hard, emotionless voice, only I lost them somewhere back there. Beyond that he had not said a dozen words. He built up the fire, thought himself out, and helped himself to food. Now, for the first time, he loosened up a bit. I've had a devil of a chase, he said bitterly, a cold glitter in his eyes as he looked at Faulkner. I've been after you three months, and now I've got you this accursed storm is going to hold me up. And I left my dogs and my outfit a mile back in the scrub. Better go after them, replied Faulkner, if you don't there won't be any dogs and outfit by morning. Faulkner's whole car rose to his feet and went to the window. In a moment he turned. I'll do that, he said. Stretch yourself out on the bunk. I'll have to lace you down pretty tight to keep you from playing a trick on me. There was something so merciless and brutal in his eyes and voice that Faulkner felt like leaping upon him, even with his hands tied behind his back. He was glad, however, that Carr had decided to go. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to be rid of him, if only for an hour. He went to the bunk and lay down. Corporal Carr approached, pulling a roll of babbage cord from his pocket. If you don't mind, you might tie my hands in front instead of behind, suggested Faulkner. It's going to be mighty unpleasant to have him under me if I've got to lay here for an hour or two. Not on your life I won't tie him in front, snapped Carr, his little eyes glittering, and then he gave a cackling laugh, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. And it won't be half as unpleasant as having something around your neck, he joked. I wish I was free, breathed Faulkner, his chest heaving. I wish we could fight man to man. I'd be willing to hang then, just to have a chance to break your neck. You ain't a man of the law. You're a devil. Carr laughed, the sort of laugh that sends a chill up one's back, and drew the caribou skin cord tight about Faulkner's ankles. Can't blame me for being a little careful, he said in his revolting way. By your hangin' I become sergeant. That's my reward for running you down. He lighted the lamp and filled the stove before he left the cabin. From the door he looked back at Faulkner, and his face was not like a man's, but like that of some terrible death-spirit, ghostly and thin, and exultant in the dim glow of the lamp. As he opened the door the roar of the blizzard and a gust of snow filled the cabin. Then it closed, and a groaning curse fell from Faulkner's lips. He strained fiercely at the thongs that bound him, but after a few minutes he lay still, breathing hard, knowing that every effort he made only tightened the caribou skin cord that bound him. On his back he listened to the storm. It was filled with the same strange cries and moaning sounds that had almost driven him to madness, and now they sent through him a shivering chill that he had not felt before, even in the darkest and most hopeless hours of his loneliness and despair. A breath that was almost a sob broke from his lips as a vision of the girl and the kid came to shut out from his ears the moaning tumult of the wind. A few hours before he had been filled with hope almost happiness, and now he was lost. From such a man as car there was no hope for mercy or of escape. That on his back he closed his eyes and tried to think, to scheme something that might happen in his favor, to foresee an opportunity that might give him one last chance. And then suddenly he heard a sound. It traveled over the blanket that formed a pillow for his head. A cool, soft little nose touched his ear, and then tiny feet ran swiftly over his shoulder and halted on his breast. He opened his eyes and stared. "'You little cuss!' he breathed. A hundred times he had spoken those words, and each time they were of increasing wonder and adoration. "'You little cuss!' he whispered again, and chuckled aloud. The mouse was humped on its breast in that curious little ball that it made of itself, and was eyeing him, Jim thought, in a questioning sort of way. "'What's the matter with you?' it seemed to ask. "'Where are your hands?' Jim answered. "'They've got me, old man. Now what the dickens are we going to do?' The mouse began investigating. It examined his shoulder, to the end of his chin, and ran along his arm as far as it could go. "'Now what do you think of that?' Faulkner exclaimed softly. The little cuss is wondering where my hands are. Gently he rolled over on his side. "'There they are,' he said, hitched tighter and barked to a tree. He wiggled his fingers, and in a moment he felt the mouse. The little creature ran across the open palm of his hand to his wrist, and then every muscle in Faulkner's body grew tense, and one of the strangest cries that ever fell from human lips came from his. The mouse had found once more the dried hide flesh of which the snowshoe webs were made. It had found babish, and it had begun to gnaw. In the minutes that followed Faulkner scarcely breathed. He could feel the mouse when it worked. Of the stifled beating of his heart he could hear its tiny jaws. In those moments he knew that his last hope of life hung in the balance. Five, ten minutes passed, not until then that he strained at the thongs that bound his wrists. Was that the bed that snapped, or was it the breaking of one of the babish cords? He strained harder. The thongs were loosening. His wrists were freer. With a cry that sent the mouse scurrying to the floor, he doubled himself half erect, and fought like a madman. Five minutes later he was free. He staggered to his feet and looked at his wrists. They were torn and bleeding. His second thought was of corporal car and the weapon. The manhunter had taken the precaution to empty the chambers of Faulkner's revolver and rifle, and throw the cartridges out in the snow. But his skinning-knife was still in its sheath and belt, and he buckled it about his waist. He had no thought of killing Carr, though he hated the man almost to the point of murder. But his lips set in a grim smile as he thought of what he would do. He knew that when Carr returned he would not enter at once into the cabin. He was the sort of man who would never take an unnecessary chance. He would go first to the little window and look in. Faulkner turned the lampwick lower and placed the lamp on the table directly between the window and the bunk. Then he rolled his blankets into something like a human form, and went to the window to see the effect. The bunk was in deep shadow. From the window Carr could not see beyond the lamp. Then Faulkner waited, out of range of the window, and close to the door. It was not long before he heard something above the wailing of the storm. It was the whine of a dog, and he knew that a moment later the corporal's ghostly face was peering in at the window. Then there came the sudden swift opening of the door, and Carr sprang in like a cat, his hand on the butt of his revolver, still obeying the first governing law of his merciless life, caution. Faulkner was so near that he could reach out and touch Carr, and in an instant he was at his enemy's throat. Not a cry fell from Carr's lips. There was death in the terrible grip of Faulkner's hands, and like one whose neck has been broken Carr sank to the floor. Faulkner's grip tightened, and it did not loosen until Carr was black in the face and his jaw fell open. Then Faulkner bound him hand and foot with the babish thongs, and dragged him to the bunk. Through the open door one of the sledge-dogs had thrust his head and shoulders. It was a barracks team, accustomed to warmth and shelter, and Faulkner had no difficulty in getting the leader and his three mates inside. To make friends with them he fed them chunks of raw caribou meat, and when Carr opened his eyes he was busy packing. He laughed joyously when he saw that the man-hunter had regained consciousness, and was staring at him with evident malice. Hello, Carr! he greeted affably. Feeling better? Table sort of turned, ain't they? Carr made no answer. His white lips were set like thin bands of steel. I'm getting ready to leave you, explained Faulkner, as he rolled up a blanket, and shoved it into his rubber-pack pouch. And you're going to stay here until spring. Do you get on to that? You've got to stay. I'm going to leave you marooned, so to speak. You couldn't travel a hundred yards without snowshoes, and I'm going to take your snowshoes. And I'm going to take your guns, and burn your pack, your coat, mittens, cap, and moccasins. Catch on? I'm not going to kill you, and I'm going to leave you with enough grub to last until spring. But you won't dare risk yourself out in the cold and snow. If you do, you'll freeze off your tootsies, and make your lungs sick. Don't you feel sort of pleasant? You, you devil! Six hours later Faulkner stood outside the cabin. The dogs were in their traces, and the sledge was packed. The storm had blown itself out, and a warmer temperature had followed in the path of the desert. He wore his coat now, and gently he felt of the bulging pocket, and laughed joyously as he faced the south. It's going to be a long hike, you little cuss, he said softly. It's going to be a darn long hike. But we'll make it, yes, sir, we'll make it. And won't they be surprised when we fall on them six months ahead of time? He examined the pocket carefully, making sure that he had buttoned down the flap. I wouldn't want to lose you, he chuckled. Next to her, and the kid. I wouldn't want to lose you. Then, slowly, a strange smile passed over his face, and he gazed questioningly for a moment at the pocket which he held in his hand. You nervy little cuss, he grinned. I wonder if you're a girl-mouse, and you're going to have a family on the way home. And—and— What the dickens do you feed, baby mice? He lowered the pocket, and with a sharp command to the waiting dogs, turned his face into the south. End of The Mouse by James Kerwood. Read by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences, failed hints that revealed in half-concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brentley Mallard's name leading the list of killed. He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself, she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all a quiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and the countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west, facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when the sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in his dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze were fixed away off yonder on one of the patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know. It was too subtle and elusive to name, but she felt it creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the colors that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possessor, and she was striving to beat it back with her will. As powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself, a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath. Free, free, free. The vacant stare and the look of tear that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw his kind, tender hands folded in death, the face that had never looked saved with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them and welcome. There would be no one to live for during the coming years. She would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers into that blind persistence that which men and women believe that they have the right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature. A kind intention or cruel intention made the ax seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him sometimes often she had not what didn't matter what could love the unsolved mystery count for in face of this possession of self assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being free body and soul free she kept whispering Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole imploring for admission Louise open the door I beg open the door you will make yourself ill what are you doing Louise for heaven's sakes open the door go away I'm not making myself ill no she was drinking in the very elixir of life through the open window her fancy was running ride along those days ahead of her spring days and summer days and all sorts of days that would be her own she breathed a quick prayer that life might be long it was only yesterday that she thought with a shutter that life might be long she rose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities there was a furious triumph in her eyes and she carried herself unwittingly like the goddess of victory she clasped her sister's waist and together they descended the stairs richard stood waiting for them at the bottom someone was opening the front door with a latch key it was brentley mallard who entered a little travel stain compositely carrying his grip sack and umbrella he had been far from the scene of the accident did not even know there had been one he stood amazed at josephine's piercing cry at richards quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife but richards was too late when the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease of the joy that kills end of story of an hour the model by gui de mo passant this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org this reading by paul curran in the hills of northern england the model by gui de mo passant curving like a crescent moon the little town of etra tower with its white cliffs its white shingli beach and its blue sea lay in the sunlight at high noon one july day at either extremity of this crescent it's two gates the small to the right the larger one at the left stretch forth one a dwarf and the other a colossal limb into the water and the bell tower almost as tall as the cliff wide below narrowing at the top raised its pointed summit to the sky on the sands beside the water a crowd was seated watching the bathers on the terrace of the casino another crowd seated or walking displayed beneath the brilliant sky a perfect flower patch of bright costumes with red and blue parasols embroidered with large flowers in silk on the walk at the end of the terrace other persons the restful quiet ones were walking slowly far from the dressy throng a young man well known and celebrated as a painter Jean Sumner was walking with a dejected air beside a wheelchair in which sat a young woman his wife a man's servant was gently pushing the chair and the crippled woman was gazing sadly at the brightness of the sky the gladness of the day and the happiness of others they did not speak they did not look at each other let us stop a while said the young woman they stopped and the painter sat down on a camp stool that the servant handed him those who were passing behind the silent emotionless couple looked at them compassionately a whole legend of devotion was attached to them he had married her in spite of her infirmity touched by her affection for him it was said not far from there two young men were chatting seated on a bench and looking out to the horizon no it's not true i tell you that i am well acquainted with john sumner but then why did he marry her for she was a cripple when she married was she not just so he married her he married her just as everyone marries pabla because he was an idiot but why but why but why my friend there is no why people do stupid things just because they do stupid things and besides you know very well that painters make a speciality of foolish marriages they almost always marry models former sweethearts in fact women of doubtful reputation frequently why do they do this who can say one would suppose that constant association with the general run of models would disgust them forever with that class of women not at all after having posed them they marry them read that little book so true so cruel and so beautiful by alfonso dode artist's wives in the case of the couple you see over there the accident occurred in a special and remarkable manner the woman played a frightful comedy or rather tragedy she risked all to win all was she sincere did she love genre shall we ever know who is able to determine precisely how much is put on and how much is real in the actions of a woman they are always sincere in an eternal mobility of impressions they're furious criminal devoted admirable and base in obedience to intangible emotions they tell lies incessantly without intention without knowing or understanding why and in spite of it all are absolutely frank in their feelings and sentiments which they display by violent unexpected incomprehensible foolish resolutions which overthrow our arguments our customary poise and all our selfish plans the unforeseenness and suddenness of their determinations will always render them undecipherable enigmas as far as we are concerned we continually ask ourselves are they sincere are they pretending but my friend they are sincere and insincere at one and the same time because it is their nature to be extremists in both and to be neither one nor the other see the methods that even the best of them employ to get what they desire they're complex and simple these methods so complex that we can never guess them beforehand and so simple that after having been victimized we cannot help being astonished and exclaiming what did she make a fool of me so easily as that and they always succeed old man especially when it is a question of getting married but this is Sumner's story the little woman was a model of course she posed for him she was pretty very stylish looking and had a divine figure it seems he fancied that he loved her with his whole soul that is another strange thing as soon as one likes a woman sincerely believes that they could not get along without her for the rest of their life one knows that one has felt the same way before and that disgust invariably succeeded gratification that in order to pass one's existence side by side with another there must be not a brutal physical passion which soon dies out but a sympathy of soul temperament and temper one should know how to determine in the enchantment to which one is subjected whether it proceeds from the physical from a certain sensuous intoxication or from a deep spiritual charm well he believed himself in love he made her no end of promises of fidelity and was devoted to her she was really attractive gifted with that fashionable flippancy that little Parisians so readily affect she chattered babbled made foolish remarks that sounded witty from the manner in which they were uttered she used graceful gestures which were calculated to attract a painter's eye when she raised her arms when she bent over when she got into a carriage when she held out her hand to you her gestures were perfect and appropriate for three months Jean never noticed that in reality she was like all other models he rented a little house for her for the summer at Andresi I was there one evening when for the first time doubts came into my friend's mind as it was a beautiful evening we thought we would take a stroll along the bank of the river the moon poured a flood of light over the trembling water scattering yellow gleams along its ripples in the currents and all along the course of the wide slow river we strolled along the bank a little enthused by that vague exaltation that these dream evenings produce in us we would have liked to undertake some wonderful task to love some unknown deliciously poetic being we felt ourselves vibrating with raptures longings strange aspirations and we were silent our beings pervaded by the serene and living coolness of the beautiful night the coolness of the moonlight which seemed to penetrate one's body permeate it soothe one's spirit fill it with fragrance and steep it in happiness suddenly Josephine that is her name uttered an exclamation oh did you see the big fish that jumped over there he replied without looking without thinking yes dear she was angry no you did not see it for your back was turned he smiled yes that's true it is so delightful that i'm not thinking of anything she was silent but at the end of a minute she felt as if she must say something and asked are you going to paris tomorrow i do not know he replied she was annoyed again do you think it is very amusing to walk along without speaking people talk when they are not stupid he did not reply then feeling with her woman's instinct that she was going to make him angry she began to sing a popular air that had harassed our ears and our minds for two years shall i guard a unfair he murmured please keep quiet she replied angrily why do you wish me to keep quiet you'll spoil the landscape for us he said then followed a scene a hateful idiotic scene with unexpected reproaches unsuitable recriminations then tears nothing was left unsaid they went back to the house he had allowed her to talk without replying enervated by the beauty of the scene and dumbfounded by this storm of abuse three months later he strove wildly to free himself from those invincible and invisible bonds with which such a friendship changed our lives she kept him under her influence tyrannizing over him making his life a burden to him they quarrelled continually recuperating and finally fighting each other he wanted to break with her at any cost he sold all his canvases borrowed money from his friends realizing 20 000 francs he was not well known then and left them for her one morning with a note of farewell he came and took refuge with me about three o'clock that afternoon there was a ring at the bell i went to the door a woman sprang towards me pushed me aside came in and went into my atelier it was she he had risen when he saw her coming she threw the envelope containing the banknotes at his feet with a truly noble gesture and said in a quick tone there's your money i don't want it she was very pale trembling and ready undoubtedly to commit any folly as for him i saw him grow pale also pale with rage and exasperation ready also perhaps to commit any violence he asked what do you want she replied i do not choose to be treated like a common woman you implore me to accept you i asked you for nothing keep me with you he stamped his foot no that's a little too much if you think you are going i'd seized his arm keep still jean let me settle it i went towards her and quietly little by little i began to reason with her exhausting all the arguments that he used under similar circumstances she listened to me motionless with a fixed gaze obstinate and silent finally not knowing what more to say and seeing that there would be a scene i thought of a last resort and said he loves you still my dear but his family want him to marry someone and you understand she gave a start and exclaimed ah now i understand and turning toward him she said you are you are going to get married he replied decidedly yes she took a step forward if you marry i will kill myself do you hear he shrugged his shoulders and replied well then kill yourself she stammered out almost choking with her violent emotion what do you say what do you say what do you say say it again he repeated well then kill yourself if you like with her face almost livid she replied do not dare me i will throw myself from the window he began to laugh walked towards the window opened it and bowing with the gesture of one who desires to let someone else precede him he said this is the way after you she looked at him for a second with terrible wild staring eyes then taking a run as if she were going to jump a hedge in the country she rushed past me and passed him jumped over the sill and disappeared i shall never forget the impression made on me by that open window after i had seen that body pass through it to vault to the ground it appeared to me in a second to be as large as the heavens and as hollow as space and i drew back instinctively not daring to look at it as though i feared i might fall out myself john don't found it stood motionless they brought the poor girl in with both legs broken she will never walk again john wild with remorse and also possibly touched with gratitude made up his mind to marry her there you have it old man it was growing dusk the young woman felt chilly and wanted to go home and the servant wheeled the in-village chair in the direction of the village the painter walked beside his wife neither of them having exchanged a word for an hour this story appeared in Le Galois december 17th 1883 the end of the model by Guy de Maupassant a practical joke by Guy de Maupassant this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Michael Robinson a practical joke by Guy de Maupassant the jokes that are played nowadays are somewhat dismal they are not like the inoffensive laughable jokes of our forefathers still there is nothing more amusing than to play a good joke on someone to force them to laugh at their own foolishness and if they get angry to punish them by playing a new joke on them I have played many a joke in my lifetime and I've had some played on me some very good ones too I have played some very laughable ones and some terrible ones one of my victims died of the consequences but it was no loss to anyone I will tell about it someday but it will not be an easy task as the joke was not at all a nice one it happened in the suburbs of Paris and those who witnessed it are laughing yet at the recollection of it though the victim died of it may he rest in peace I will narrate two today one in which I was the victim and another in which I was the instigator I will begin with the former as I do not find it so amusing being the victim myself I had been invited by some friends in Picardie to come and spend a few weeks they were fond of a joke like myself I would not have known them had they been otherwise they gave me a rousing reception on my arrival they fired guns they kissed me and made such a fuss over me that I became suspicious be careful old fox I said to myself there's something up during dinner they all laughed immoderately I thought to myself they are certainly projecting some good joke and intend to play it on me for they laugh at nothing apparently I was on my guard all evening and looked at everybody suspiciously even at the servants when bedtime came everybody escorted me to my room and bid me good night I wondered why and after shutting my door I stood in the middle of the room with the candle in my hand I could hear them outside in the hall whisper and laugh they were watching me no doubt I looked at the walls inspected the furniture the ceiling the floor but I found nothing suspicious I heard footsteps close to my door surely they were looking through the keyhole then it struck me that perhaps my light would go out suddenly and I would be left in the dark so I lighted all the candles and looked around once more but I discovered nothing after having inspected the windows and the shutters I closed the ladder with care then I drew the curtains and placed a chair against them if someone should try to come in that way I would be sure to hear them I thought then I sat down cautiously I thought the chair would give way beneath me but it was solid enough I did not dare go to bed but as it was getting late I realized that I was ridiculous if they were watching me as I suppose they were they certainly must laugh heartily at my uneasiness so I resolved to go to bed having made up my mind I approached the alcove the bed looked particularly suspicious to me and I drew the heavy curtains back pulled on them but they held fast perhaps a bucket of water is hidden on the top already to fall on me or else the bed may fall apart as soon as I lie on it I thought I racked my brain to try and remember all the different jokes I had played on others so as to guess what might be in store for me I was not going to be caught not I suddenly an idea struck me which I thought capital I gently pulled the mattress off the bed and it came toward me along with the sheets and blankets I dragged them in the middle of the room near the door and made my bed up again the best way I could put out all the lights and felt my way into bed I laid awake at least another hour starting at every little sound but everything seemed quiet so I at last went to sleep I must have slept profoundly for some time when suddenly I woke up with a start something heavy had fallen on me and at the same time a hot liquid streamed all over my neck and chest which made me scream with pain a terrible noise filled my ears as if a whole sideboard full of dishes had fallen in them I was suffocating under the weight so I reached out my hand to feel the object and I felt a face a nose and whiskers I gave that face a terrible blow with my fist but instantaneously I received a shower of blows which drove me out of bed in a hurry and out into the hall to my amazement I found it was broad daylight in everybody coming up the stairs to find out the cause of the noise what we found was the valet sprawled out on the bed struggling among the broken dishes and tray he had brought me some breakfast and having encountered my improvised couch had very unwillingly dropped the breakfast as well as himself on my face the precautions I had taken to close the shutters and curtains and asleep in the middle of the room had been my undoing the very thing I had so carefully avoided had happened they certainly had a good laugh on me that day the other joke I speak of dates back to my boyhood days I was spending my vacation at home as usual in the old castle in Picardy I had just finished my second term at college and had been particularly interested in chemistry and especially in a compound called phosphor decalcium which when thrown in water would catch fire explode followed by fumes of an offensive odor I had brought a few handfuls of this compound with me so as to have fun with it during my vacation an old lady named mademoiselle before often visited us she was a cranky vindictive horrid old thing I do not know why but somehow she hated me she misconstrued everything I did or said and she never missed a chance to tattle about me the old hag she wore a wig of beautiful brown hair although she was more than sixty and the most ridiculous little caps adorned with pink ribbons she was well thought of because she was rich but I hated her to the bottom of my heart and I resolved to revenge myself by playing a joke on her a cousin of mine who was of the same age as I was visiting us and I communicated my plan to him but my audacity frightened him one night when everybody was downstairs I sneaked into mademoiselle Dufour's room secured a receptacle into which I deposited a handful of the calcium phosphate having assured myself beforehand that it was perfectly dry and ran to the Garrett to await developments pretty soon I heard everybody coming upstairs to bed I waited until everything was still then I came downstairs barefooted holding my breath until I came to mademoiselle Dufour's door and looked at my enemy through the keyhole she was putting her things away and having taken her dress off she donned a white wrapper she then filled a glass with water and putting her whole hand in her mouth as if she were trying to tear her tongue out she pulled out something pink and white which she deposited in the glass I was horribly frightened but soon found it was only her false teeth she had taken out she then took off her wig and I perceived a few straggling white hairs on the top of her head they looked so comical that I almost burst out laughing she kneeled down to say her prayers got up and approached my instrument of vengeance I waited a while my heart beating with expectation suddenly I heard a slight sound then a series of explosions I looked at mademoiselle Dufour her face was a study she opened her eyes wide then shut them then open them again and looked the white substance was crackling exploding at the same time while a thick white smoke curled up mysteriously toward the ceiling perhaps the poor woman thought it was some satanic fireworks or perhaps that she had been suddenly afflicted with some horrible disease at all events she stood there speechless with fright her gaze riveted on the supernatural phenomenon suddenly she screamed and fell sooning to the floor I ran to my room jumped into bed and closed my eyes trying to convince myself I had not left my room and had seen nothing she is dead I said to myself I've killed her and I listened anxiously to the sound of footsteps I heard voices and laughter and the next thing I knew my father was soundly boxing my ears mademoiselle Dufour was very pale when she came down the next day and she drank glass after glass of water perhaps she was trying to extinguish the fire which she imagined was in her although the doctor had assured her that there was no danger since then when anyone speaks of disease in front of her she sighs and says oh if you only knew there are such strange diseases and of a practical joke recording by Michael Robinson Carbondale Illinois a painful case from Dubliners by James Joyce this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Mr. James Duffy lived in Chapelazoi because he wished to live as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean modern and pretentious he lived in an old somber house and from his windows he could look into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is built the lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures he had himself bought every article of furniture in the room a black iron bedstead an iron wash stand four cane chairs a clothes rack a coal scuttle a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk a bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of white wood the bed was clothed with white bed clothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the floor a little hand mirror hung above the wash stand and during the day a white shaded lamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece the books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk a complete wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth catechism sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook stood at one end of the top shelf writing materials were always on the desk in the desk lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer the stage directions of which were written in purple ink and a little sheaf of papers held together by a brass pin in these sheets a sentence was inscribed from time to time and in an ironical moment the headline of an advertisement for bile beans had been pasted onto the first sheet on lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped the fragrance of new cedar wood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten Mr. Duffy aboard anything which be tokened physical or mental disorder a medieval doctor would have called him Saturn nine his face which carried the entire tale of his years was of the brown tint of Dublin streets on his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and the Tony mustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth his cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character but there was no harshness in the eyes which looking at the world from under their Tony eyebrows gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed he lived at a little distance from his body regarding his own body with doubtful sight glances he had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense he never gave arms to beggars and walked firmly carrying a stout hazel he had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggett Street every morning he came in from chapelezoid by tram at midday he went to Dan Birx and took his lunch a bottle of lager beer and a small tray full of arrowroot biscuits at four o'clock he was set free he dined at an eating-house in Georgia Street where he felt himself safe from the society of Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare his evenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city his liking from Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert these were the only dissipations of his life he had neither companions nor friends church nor creed he lived his spiritual life without any communion with others visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died he performed these two social duties for old dignities sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life he allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his bank but as these circumstances never arose his life rolled out evenly an adventurous tale one evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the rotunda the house thinly peopled and silent gave distressing prophecy of failure the lady who sat next to him looked around at the deserted house once or twice and then said what a pity there is such a poor house tonight it's so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches he took the remark as an invitation to talk he was surprised that she seemed so little awkward while they talked he tried to fix her permanently in his memory when he learned that the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than himself her face which must have been handsome had remained intelligent it was an oval face with strongly marked features the eyes were very dark blue and steady their gaze began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility the pupil reasserted itself quickly this half-disclosed nature fell again under the rain of prudence and her astrakhan jacket molding a bosom of certain fullness struck the note of defiance more definitely he met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in earlsfort terrace and sees the moment when her daughter's attention was diverted to become intimate she alluded once or twice to her husband but her tone was not such as to make the illusion a warning her name was mrs sinneco her husband's great great grandfather had come from leghorn her husband was captain of a mercantile boat flying between dublin and holland and they had one child meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment she came this was the first of many meetings they met always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks together mr duffy however had a distaste for underhand ways and finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily he forced her to ask him to her house captain sinneco encouraged his visits thinking that his daughter's hand was in question he had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallantry of pleasures that he did not suspect that anyone else would take an interest in her as the husband was often away and the daughter out giving music lessons mr duffy had many opportunities of enjoying the lady's society neither he nor she had any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers he lent her books provided her with ideas shared his intellectual life with her she listened to all sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own life with almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the full she became his confessor he told her that for some time he had assisted at the meetings of an irish socialist party where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of somber workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil lamp when the party had divided into three sections each under its own leader and in its own garret he had discontinued his attendances the workman's discussions he said were too timorous the interest they took in the question of wages was inordinate he felt that they were hard featured realists and they resented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within their reach no social revolution he told her would be likely to strike a doublin for some centuries she asked him why he did not write out his thoughts for what he asked her with careful scorn to compete with phrase mongers incapable of thinking consecutively for 60 seconds to submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to the impresarios he went often to her little cottage outside doublin often they spent their evenings alone little by little as their thoughts entangled they spoke of subjects less remote her companionship was like a warm soil about an exotic many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them refraining from lighting the lamp the dark discreet room their isolation the music that still vibrated in their ears united them this union exalted him wore away the rough edges of his character emotionalized his mental life sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice he thought that in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature and as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognized as his own insisting on the soul's incurable loneliness we cannot give ourselves it said we are our own the end of these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every sign of unusual excitement mrs sinico caught up his hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek mr duffy was very much surprised her interpretation of his words disillusioned him he did not visit her for a week then he wrote to her asking her to meet him as he did not wish their last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruin confessional they met in a little cake shop near the park gate it was cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the park for nearly three hours they agreed to break off their intercourse every bond he said is a bond to sorrow when they came out of the park they walked in silence towards the tram but here she began to tremble so violently that fearing another collapse on her part he bade her goodbye quickly and left her a few days later he received the parcel containing his books and music four years passed mr duffy returned to his even way of life his room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind some new pieces of music encumbered the music stand in the lower room and on his shelves stood two volumes by nicha thus spake zarathustra and the gay science he wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk one of his sentences written two months after his last interview with mrs sinico read love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse he kept away from concerts lest he should meet her his father died the junior partner of the bank retired and still every morning he went into the city by tram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined moderately in georgia street and read the evening paper for dessert one evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his hand stopped his eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the water carafe he replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the paragraph attentively then he drank a glass of water pushed his plate to one side doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again the cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on his plate the girl came over to him to ask was his dinner not properly cooked he said it was very good and ate a few mouthfuls of it with difficulty then he paid his bill and went out he walked along quickly through the november twilight his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly the fringe of the buff mail peeping out of a side pocket of his tight reefer overcoat on the lonely road which leads from the park gate to chapelizoid he slackened his pace his stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath issuing irregularly almost with a sighing sound condensed in the wintery air when he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and taking the paper from his pocket read the paragraph again by the failing light of the window he read it not allowed but moving his lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers say crato this was the paragraph death of a lady at sydney parade a painful case today at the city of dublin hospital the deputy coroner in the absence of mr leverett held an inquest on the body of mrs emily sinico aged 43 years who was killed at sydney parade station yesterday evening the evidence showed that the deceased lady while attempting to cross the line was knocked down by the engine of the 10 o'clock slow train from king's town thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to her death james lenon driver of the engine stated that he had been in the employment of the railway company for 15 years on hearing the guards whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries the train was going slowly p done railway porter stated that as the train was about to start he observed a woman attempting to cross the lines he ran towards her and shouted but before he could breach her she was caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground a juror you saw the lady fall witness yes police sergeant crowley deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased lying on the platform apparently dead he had the body taken to the waiting room pending the arrival of the ambulance constable 57e corroborated dr. halpin assistant house surgeon of the city of dublin hospital stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder the right side of the head had been injured in the fall the injuries were not sufficient to have caused death in a normal person death in his opinion had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action mr. hp paterson finley on behalf of the railway company expressed his deep regret at the accident the company had always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges both by placing notices at every station and by the use of patent spring gates at level crossing the deceased had been in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform to platform and in view of certain other circumstances of the case he did not think the railway officials were to blame captain sinico of leoville sydney parade husband of the deceased also gave evidence he stated that the deceased was his wife he was not in dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that morning from rotterdam they had been married for 22 years and had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits miss mary sinico said that of her late mother had been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits she witness had also tried to reason with her mother and had induced her to join a league she was not at home until an hour after the accident the jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated lenin from all blame the deputy coroner said it was a most painful case and expressed great sympathy with captain sinico and his daughter he urged on the railway company to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar accidents in the future no blame attached to anyone mr duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape the river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the lukin road what an end the whole narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred the threadbare phrases the inane expressions of sympathy the cautious words of a reporter one over to conceal the details of a common place vulgar death attacked his stomach not merely had she degraded herself she had degraded him he saw the squalid tract of her vice miserable and malodorous his soul's companion he thought of the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to be filled by the barman just god what an end evidently she had been unfit to live without any strength of purpose an easy prey to habits one of the wrecks on which civilization has been reared but that she could have sunk so low was it possible he had deceived himself so utterly about her he remembered her outbursts of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done he had no difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken as the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand touched his the shock which had first attacked his stomach was now attacking his nerves he put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went out the cold air met him on the threshold he crept into the sleeves of his coat when he came to the public house at chapelezoid bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch the proprietor served him up sequiously but did not venture to talk there were five or six working men in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's estate and county kildare they drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked spitting off and on the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots mr. duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them without seeing or hearing them after a while they went out and he called for another punch he sat a long time over it the shop was very quiet the proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the herald and yawning now and again a tram was heard swishing along the lonely road outside as he sat there living over his life with her and evoking alternately the two images in which he now conceived her he realized that she was dead that she had ceased to exist that she had become a memory he began to feel ill at ease he asked himself what else could he have done he could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her he could not have lived with her openly he had done what seemed to him best how was he to blame now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been sitting night after night alone in that room his life would be lonely too until he too died ceased to exist became a memory if anyone remembered him it was after nine o'clock when he left the shop the night was cold and gloomy he entered the park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees he walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before she seemed to be near him in the darkness at moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear her hand touch his he stood still to listen why had he withheld life from her why had he sentenced her to death he felt his moral nature falling to pieces when he gained the crest of the magazine hill he halted and looked along the river towards Dublin the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night he looked down the slope and at the base in the shadow of the wall of the park he saw some human figures lying those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair he knowed the rectitude of his life he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast one human being had seen to love him and he had denied her life and happiness he had sentenced her to ignominy a death of shame he knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone no one wanted him he was outcast from life's feast he turned his eyes to the gray gleaming river winding along towards Dublin beyond the river he saw a good strain winding out of Kingsbridge station like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness obstinately and laboriously it passed slowly out of sight but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name he turned back the way he had come the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears he began to doubt the reality of what memory told him he halted under the tree and allowed the rhythm to die away he could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touched his ear he waited for some minutes listening he could hear nothing the night was perfectly silent he listened again perfectly silent he felt that he was alone end of a painful case by James Joyce red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake this recording is in the public domain