Біла пташка
A Night-Piece
Theyexpecthimtobejustashewaswhentheylefthim,andtheyareeasilybewildered,andsearchforhimfromroomtoroom,andhatetheunknownboyhehasbecome.Poor,passionatesouls,theymayevendohimaninjury.Thesearetheghoststhatgowailingaboutoldhouses,andfoolishwildstoriesareinventedtoexplainwhatisallsopatheticandsimple.Iknowofamanwho,afterwanderingfar,returnedtohisearlyhometopasstheeveningofhisdaysinit,andsometimesfromhischairbythefirehesawthedooropensoftlyandawoman’sfaceappear.Shealwayslookedathimveryvindictively,andthenvanished.Strangethingshappenedinthishouse.Windowswereopenedinthenight.Thecurtainsofhisbedweresetfireto.Asteponthestairwasloosened.Thecoveringofanoldwellinacorridorwherehewalkedwascunninglyremoved.Andwhenhefellillthewrongpotionwasputintheglassbyhisbedside,andhedied.Howcouldtheprettyyoungmotherknowthatthisgrizzledinterloperwasthechildofwhomshewasinsearch?
Allournotionsaboutghostsarewrong.Itisnothingsopettyaslostwillsordeedsofviolencethatbringsthemback,andwearenotnearlysoafraidofthemastheyareofus.
Onebyonethelightsofthestreetwentout,butstillalampburnedsteadilyinthelittlewindowacrosstheway.Iknownothowithappened,whetherIhadcrossedfirsttohimorhetome,but,afterbeingforalongtimeastheechoofeachother’ssteps,weweretogethernow.
