O friends, I've served ye food and
O Friends, the mist is rising wet;
Then bide a moment, O my dead,
Where, lonely, I must linger yet!...
Because man goeth to his long home,
And the mourners go about the streets.
When he had finished his pipe
he tapped the brier bowl against the chimney until the ashes powdered the
charred log smouldering across the andirons. Then he sank back in his chair,
absently touching the hot pipe-bowl with the tip of each finger until it
grew cool enough to be dropped into his coat pocket.
Twice he raised his eyes to the
little American clock ticking upon the mantel. He had half an hour to wait.
The three candles that lighted
the room might be trimmed to advantage; this would give him something to
do. A pair scissors lay open upon the bureau, and he rose and picked them
up. For a while he stood dreamily shutting and opening the scissors, his
eyes roaming about the room. There was an easel in the corner, and a pile
of dusty canvases behind it; behind the canvases there was a shadow---
that gray, menacing shadow that never moved.
When he had trimmed each candle
he wiped the smoky scissors on a paint rag and flung them on the bureau
again. The clock pointed to ten; he had been occupied exactly three minutes.
The bureau was littered with
neckties, pipes, combs and brushes, matches, reels and fly-books, collars,
shirt studs, a new pair of Scotch shooting stockings, and a woman's workbasket.
He picked out all the neckties,
folded them once, and hung them over a bit of twine that stretched across
the looking-glass; the shirt studs he shovelled into the top drawer along
with brushes, combs, and stockings; the reels and fly-books he dusted with
his handkerchief and placed methodically along the mantel shelf. Twice
he stretched out his hand toward the woman's workbasket, but his hand fell
to his side again, and he turned away into the room staring at the dying
Outside the snow-sealed window
a shutter broke loose and banged monotonously, until he flung open the
panes and fastened it. The soft, wet snow, that had choked the window-panes
all day, was frozen hard now, and he had to break the polished crust before
he could find the rusty shutter hinge.
He leaned out for a moment, his
numbed hands resting on the snow, the roar of a rising snow-squall in his
ears; and out across the desolate garden and stark hedgerow he saw the
flat black river spreading through the gloom.
A candle sputtered and snapped
behind him; a sheet of drawing-paper fluttered across the floor, and he
closed the panes and turned back into the room, both hands in his worn
The little American clock on
the mantel ticked and ticked, but the hands lagged, for he had not been
occupied five minutes in all. He went up to the mantel and watched the
hands of the clock. A minute--- longer than a year to him--- crept by.
Around the room the furniture
stood ranged--- a chair or two of yellow pine, a table, the easel, and
in one corner the broad curtained bed; and behind each lay shadows, menacing
shadows that never moved.
A little pale flame started up
from the smoking log on the andirons; the room sang with the sudden hiss
of escaping wood gases. After a little the back of the log caught fire;
jets of blue flame flared up here and there with mellow sounds like the
lighting of gas-burners in a row, and in a moment a thin sheet of yellow
flame wrapped the whole charred log.
Then the shadows moved; not the
shadows behind the furniture--- they never moved--- but other shadows,
thin, gray, confusing, that came and spread their slim patterns all around
him, and trembled and trembled.
He dared not step or tread upon
them, they were too real; they meshed the floor around his feet, they ensnared
his knees, they fell across his breast like ropes. Some night, in the silence
of the moors, when wind and river were still, he feared these strands of
shadow might tighten--- creep higher around his throat and tighten. But
even then he knew that those other shadows would never move, those gray
shapes that knelt crouching in every corner.
When he looked up at the clock
again ten minutes had straggled past. Time was disturbed in the room; the
strands of shadow seemed entangled among the hands of the clock, dragging
them back from their rotation. He wondered if the shadows would strangle
Time, some still night when the wind and the flat river were silent.
There grew a sudden chill across
the floor; the cracks of the boards let it in. He leaned down and drew
his sabots toward him from their place near the andirons, and slipped them
over his chaussons; and as he straightened up, his eyes mechanically sought
the mantel above, where in the dusk another pair of sabots stood, little,
slender, delicate sabots, carved from red beach. A year's dust grayed their
surface; a year's rust dulled the silver bank across the instep. He said
this to himself aloud, knowing that it was within a few minutes of the
His own sabots came from Mort-Dieu;
they were shaved square and banded with steel. But in days past he had
thought that no sabot in Mort-Dieu was delicate enough to touch the instep
of the Mort-Dieu passeur. So he sent to the shore lighthouse, and they
sent to Lorient, where the women are coquettish and show their hair under
the coiffe, and wear dainty sabots; and in this town, there vanity corrupts
and their is much lace in coiffe and collarette, a pair of delicate sabots
was found, banded with silver and chiselled in red beach. The sabots stood
on the mantel above the fire now, dusty and tarnished.
There was a sound from the window,
the soft murmur of snow blotting glass panes. The wind, too, muttered under
the roof eaves. Presently it would begin to whisper to him from the chimney---
he knew it--- and he held his hands over his ears and stared at the clock.
In the hamlet of Mort-Dieu the
pines sing all day of the sea secrets, but in the night the ghosts of little
gray birds fill the branches, singing of the sunshine of past years. He
heard the song as he sat, and he rushed his hands over his ears; but the
gray birds joined with the wind in the chimney, and he heard all that he
dared not hear, and he thought all that he dared not hope or think, and
the swift tears scalded his eyes.
In Mort-Dieu the nights are longer
than anywhere on earth; he knew it--- why should he not know? This had
been so for a year; it was different before. There were so many things
different before; days and nights vanished like minutes then; the pines
told no secrets of the sea, and the gray birds had not yet come to Mort-Dieu.
Also, thee Jeanne, passeur at the Carmes.
When he first saw her she was
poling the square, flat-bottomed ferry skiff from the Carmes to Mort-Dieu,
a red handkerchief bound across her silky black hair, a red skirt fluttering
just below her knees. The next time he saw her he had to call to her across
the placid river, "Ohé! Ohé, passeur!" She came, poling the
flat skiff, her deep blue eyes fixed pensively on him, the scarlet skirt
and kerchief idly flapping in the April wind. Then day followed day when
the far call "Passeur!" grew clearer and more joyous, and the faint answering
cry, "I come!
rippled across the water like
music tinged with laughter. Then spring came, and with spring came love---
love, carried free across the ferry from the Carmes to Mort-Dieu.
The flame above the scarred log
whistled, flickered, and went out in a jet of wood vapour, only to play
like lightning above the gas and relight again. The clock ticked more loudly,
and the song from the pines filled the room. But in his straining eyes
a summer landscape was reflected, where white clouds sailed and white foam
curled under the square bow of a little skiff. And he pressed his numbed
hands tighter to his ears to drown the cry, "Passeur! Passeur!"
And now for a moment the clock
ceased ticking. It was time to go--- who but he should know it, he who
went out into the night swinging his lantern? And he went. He had gone
each night from the first--- from that first strange winter evening when
a strange voice had answered him across the river, the voice of the new
passeur. He had never heard her voice again.
So he passed down the windy wooden
stairs, lantern hanging lighted in his hand, and stepped out into the storm.
Through sheets of drifting snow, over heaps of frozen seaweed and icy drift
he moved, shifting the lantern right and left, until its glimmer on the
water warned him. Then he called out into the night, "Passeur!" The frozen
spray spattered his face and crusted the lantern; he heard the distant
boom of breakers beyond the bar, and the noise of mighty winds among the
Across the broad flat river,
black as a sea of pitch, a tiny light sparkled a moment. Again he cried,
He turned ghastly white, for
it was her voice--- or was he crazy?--- and he sprang waist deep into the
icy current and cried out again, but his voice ended in a sob.
Slowly through the snow the flat
skiff took shape, creeping nearer and nearer. But she was not at the pole---
he saw that; there was only a tall, thin man, shrouded to the eyes in oilskins;
and he leaped into the boat and bade the ferryman hasten.
Halfway across he rose in the
skiff, and called, "Jeanne!" But the roar of the storm and the thrashing
of icy waves drowned his voice. Yet he heard her again, and she called
to him by name.
When at last the boat grated
upon the invisible shore, he lifted his lantern, trembling, stumbling among
the rocks, and calling to her as though his voice could silence the voice
that had spoken a year ago that night. And it could not. He sank shivering
upon his knees, and looked out into the darkness, where an ocean rolled
across the world. Then his stiff lips moved, and he repeated her name;
but the hand of the ferryman fell gently upon his head.
And when he raised his eyes he
saw that the ferryman was Death.