Short Fiction by Kate Chopin (love story books to read .txt) 📕

and stared blankly before him through the window, into the darkness. But I think he saw nothing save his own heart that was sore and tired, and did not care to beat any longer and keep him alive. It seemed to him as if the world had pushed him aside; as if mankind had shut him out from a share in their common existence, and left him alone with a misery that he could no longer bear. The truth is, he wanted to die, and he was so reckless he never thought if the good God wanted him to go or not, before he was called. He just wanted to die; and he had something in his pocket that was going to help him end his unhappy life.”

“I know; it was a pistol, and he was going to shoot himself.”

“No, Ernst, it was not a pistol. He had none; nor money to buy one either. It was only a little white deadly powder. On the mantle-shelf there was a cracked tea cup, and an end of candle which he lighted. He wiped out the cup⁠—for it was dusty, and he wanted that his poison be clean, at least⁠—and in it he emptied the powder. Then he went to the pitcher to get water to pour on it; but the water was all frozen, through and through. However a little thing like that was not going to stop him. He took a rusty poker; held it in the flame of the candle till it was pretty hot, and with it he melted a little of the ice at a time, till he had what water he needed. Never mind the poker, Ernst; put it down. We don’t want to heat that one; and you scatter the ashes that Sophie just swept so nicely. Well, he went back to the table and seated himself; this time with the cup before him, and he closed his eyes a moment⁠—not hesitatingly⁠—only while he might bid goodbye to life, as it were. As he sat thus, there suddenly broke upon the stillness, a long low wail, like the voice of a soul that begs. Oh! but it was soft and exquisite, and it sent a quiver through the frame of the poor wretch who heard it. The sweetness of sound seemed to swell and grow broader till it filled the little room with melody such as you never heard in your lives, children. Such a blending of tones! pleading, chiding, singing out in the night. He at the table sat spellbound; now with wide-open eyes; for he was no longer in his cold bleak room. His blood tingled with a genial warmth. Hundreds of lights were blazing. He was a boy again, happy of heart seated between father and mother in a grand theater, and listening to the same wonderful music that came to him now. Ah! that would have been a moment to die in. But this enchanting voice had made him forget that he wanted to die. It had brought youth, and love, and trust, back to his old heart.”

“Papa Konrad, it must have been the angels, singing on Christmas eve!”

“That is what the poor creature thought at first himself, Sophie. What he did was to get up, and dash his cup of poison into the empty fireplace. Then he fell on his knees and wept, and thanked the good God who had chosen this way to speak to him. When he arose, he crept close, close to the door to listen, for those heavenly sounds were coming from the next room. When the music had ended, I’m sure I don’t know how he found courage to do it⁠—he rapped gently on the door.”

“Wasn’t he afraid, Papa Konrad? Suppose it had been real angels! oh my!”

“Well, he knew it wasn’t such angels as we see in the picture books, Ernst. When he knocked a second time, the door opened, and there stood the young man whose picture you see hanging over the mantlepiece. Standing just that way, with his violin under his arm, his long black hair hanging over his forehead, and his dark eyes full of kindness. He looked puzzled at first; then threw the door wide open, and drew the unhappy man into his room. A lamp was burning brightly, and there was a good fire in the grate. Not such a fine one, to be sure, as Ernst has been making us; but it was like the glow of warm sunlight to the desolate old man. The young musician said nothing, but drew his chair up and looked fixedly at his strange guest. Then he arose, went to the cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of beer.”

“And butter and jam? Papa Konrad?”

“No, Grissel, I’m afraid there was neither butter nor jam; but I’m sure it tasted like nectar and ambrosia. Make me think to tell you about nectar and ambrosia at our little talk next Sunday. Before the poor devil went to bed that night, he had told everything to the young violin-player, and from that moment he never wanted for a friend again.”

“That was a grand, rich young man, wasn’t he? And he gave the poor old man plenty of money?”

“No, he wasn’t rich, Ernst. He had only a little himself; but that little he shared with the other till darkness was past. If we only have patience to wait through the night, children, be sure that day will break at the close of it.”

“Where is the young man now, Papa Konrad? Is he dead, and has he got real wings on in heaven?”

“Oh! no, Sophie. Thank God he isn’t dead! He is coming to eat his Christmas dinner with me tomorrow.”

“But I thought that Herr Ludwig, the great leader of the opera, was coming to eat dinner with you; and that was why you were going to have such a grand dinner; and said we might come in and have coffee