Day's End and Other Stories Read Online Free

itself like children’s curls.
    The tree looked no longer like a bird, but a statue which had fallen and smashed itself, face to earth. To Israel the labour of sawing up the wood was already tedious and fatiguing. The sound of the saw, a drone sometimes sharp, then low and mournful, became hard to bear. And then even the sound of larks singing, of the wind bearing the voices of sheep, cows and men over the hill, became sharp too and seemed to penetrate his head, multiply and set up others with no meaning to them. When he stood still an odd whistling in his ears began again, sometimes like an echo of the saw, and then softer and deeper, like the moan of a thresher far away.
    Now he stood still more often, watching the oddest things. On the river, below, puffing dark smoke, a barge appeared, drawn against the stream. Before it vanished nearly half an hour passed, yet he watched solemnly and without moving, the way it turned each bend, negotiated a bridge and pulled itself out of sight at last, and when this had gone he could not resist gazing with an expression of soft, abstract longing at the shining, empty stream, the bank fringed with willows and dark green reeds. And as he didthis he remembered how as a boy he had in winter skated on the frozen marshes and in summer bathed there, chased otters and voles, and caught eels before it was dawn.
    Then suddenly the thought of the letter returned and he remembered that he must make an answer to it before night. And he began to go about repeating odd phrases of it, until some strange awful additional ache was formed in his head.
    And at dinner and later in the afternoon Henrietta began to say again: ‘Do give it up – you must live,’ until this became an ache too.
    Now his trouble was not what he must do but only that he must gain courage and do it. And as evening approached and dusk began to fall like the bluish shadow of an enormous leaf unfolding itself overhead, restlessness seized him. He began to wander about the kitchen, looking needlessly in cupboards and drawers, to make purposeless journeys to the barns, taking with him a candle and peering at the horses, the cow, and the hens blinking solemnly at him in the candlelight. And it was as if he were taking a last desperate look at these things before doing the thing which he knew would take them from him.
    He was not conscious of being unhappy or unnerved. Only an odd feeling of dread possessed him, such as if he were about to cause himself a physical injury without knowing how much harm or how much good would follow.
    At last he found himself arguing thus: ‘If I tell Henrietta, she will write the letter. Why haven’t I told her before?’ And he longed so deeply for her guidance that he knew he must tell her.
    Going into the kitchen he found the letter, opened it tremblingly and spread it before her. He fully expected her to rebuke him with expressions like ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? How silly you get!’ but having read the letter Henrietta’s eyes only seemed to shine oddly through her spectacles, and the way she touched her hair, fingered the letter and looked at him seemed to suggest only a sort of shy, unexpected relief.
    He saw, however, that she was waiting for him to speak. So he said, a little huskily:
    â€˜Write a letter saying – we’ll let things go, that’s all. Yes, that’ll do.’
    He sat down meekly and with some difficulty to wait until she had finished. He heard the laborious scratch of the pen, the rustle of paper, her breathing and the sound of the clock. There seemed to pass a long hush. Then Henrietta’s dress swished, she rose and said:
    â€˜There it is. That’s finished. And thank God.’
    She folded the letter and with a touch in which he felt there to be thankfulness and joy, stroked her hand backwards and forwards across his hair. Then she stopped, and immediately it seemed to him that from henceforth he was a man