Antanas Vaiciulaitis
When Theresa lifted her head from the bed it was dark in the homestead. The wind murmured in the leaves of the oak tree, which brushed the roof. The wooden lever of the well creaked uncomfortably in the yard and the ash-grey cow mooed: its voice quickly dissipated in the storm, while inside the room a brisk and lively fire crackled. An ember fell through the slots, rolled down over the ashes and glittered on the dirt floor. The woman looked at the spark and recalled how she was forced to lie in bed because of sharp pains and tremendous exhaustion, which made her sight dim. But she was still alive! And to her, the spool of wool on the spindle and that little piece of sourdough bread in the tub in the corner seemed like new and distant things, things she had seen in childhood.
She lowered her legs to the floor. Shuffling, she went to the fireplace. Her head was spinning. Her chest was empty and heavy. A pot hissed, puffed and bubbled. She raised the lid, which rattled quietly. Busying herself around the fire, the old woman raked the wood chips that constantly twisted and scattered into a pile. It was peaceful here, though a blustery wind blew and rattled the roof; it was so strong that it was as if it wanted to split the earth’s crust down the middle and fling the heavy clouds about like a shawl.
Grandmother threw the sweepings into the flames. She was warmed up now and was satisfied like someone who had completed a useful task. She wiped the table with her apron and looked at the geraniums.
‘So!’ she said loudly. She scratched at the hardened, cracked soil in the vase and nodded her head: ‘They’ll certainly dry out.’
When she returned to the flowers with a cup of water, the geese squawked in the yard. Someone stamped their legs on the porch and banged their shoes against the doorstep. Maybe it’s Vincas, the woman thought.
The water sloshed and ran out of the cup, hiding in the cracks, popping in pale bubbles. Yes, she missed Vincas. He had been gone for a week already. Oh, those forests, those forests! And only he understood her and defended her from her daughter’s words.
The door screeched plaintively. Smiling, Theresa slowly turned her head, and having turned around, she almost shrieked. She caught the cup on the vase and it fell on the dirt floor and smashed.
Tall and slender, her daughter stood there saying nothing. She unwrapped her shawl. Her hair fell on her temples. She was angry. Good Lord! She was always angry and hard! Why do you hate me so, you, who I carried in my womb, she exclaimed in her mind.
Agne stood there and didn’t say a word.
Frightened, the old woman knelt down by the shards. Her eyes swam. She fumbled around with shaking fingers, raked up the pieces but could not grasp anything. She hunched her shoulders as if she were afraid of being hit.
Agne still stood there.
‘It’s wilting,’ Theresa spoke.
‘Without you mother, it would never be tidy in here! I’ve said that many times.’
‘My little Agne!’
‘My little Agne, my little Agne! You’d laze about better in bed.’
The old woman, kneeling and stooped over, raised her eyes at her daughter: ‘My dear, why do you hate me so much?’ she said.
She sat on her heels and wiped a tear from her wrinkled face with her sleeve.
‘What isn’t there to hate?’ Agne said rudely. ‘Just don’t get underfoot.’
‘I won’t be here long.’
‘Mama, no one’s keeping you here.’
Theresa rose, grasping onto the table, feeling weak and tired. She was jealous of the roof over her head! And gasping, so small and weak, she went to sit in the hallway between the barrels. It was cold there. The wind whipped about even more severely. It blew with full force and travelled from one end of the earth to the other. Yes, Vincas will return and find her here. She will complain to him, yes, she will complain. He will defend her. He will give that daughter of hers a good scolding. Rats scurried on the storey above, scratching and squeaking. The children, three boys, charged into the farmhouse. They hadn’t noticed her. But once inside the homestead, after clattering around for a few minutes, they began to ask:
‘Where’s grandmother?’
‘Did she go out somewhere?’Agne replied.
‘Uh-huh.’
Opening the door she spoke sharply, mocking her: ‘You’re going to have to wait a long time before Vincas comes back.’
Theresa didn’t reply.
Then her daughter spoke again: ‘Well, are you there? Why aren’t you saying anything!’
Receiving no reply, she lit a match. The faint light flickered on the barrels and on the thick beams of the ceiling and that black opening leading up into the attic. Pale and looking out in front of her with eyes full of dread, the old woman squirmed as though she wanted to disappear completely. The flame rose a little, flared brightly and then went out.
A sharp voice spoke from out of the darkness.
‘Sit there if you like. But you should know Vincas isn’t coming today or tomorrow. He informed me through Francis from Stakniskes that he still has to finish up in the Didziagire birch forest and then he has go out to the Siksnine forest. You understand?’
And she slammed the door. In the hut, the children were quiet. The old woman hid there for another good hour and then said to herself: ‘Didziagire…’ She got up and went into the room, pulled a gnarled cane out of the corner and wrapped herself in a shawl. The little ones looked at her in the dark, afraid to utter a word. She turned around at the threshold and said: ‘Goodbye, children.’
No one answered her; only little Joseph started to cry.
It was brighter outside. In the west, far off near the edge of the valley, stretched a black cloud; the sky glistened through it and reddened in a plaintive and tearful way. Two ravens darted through the yard against the wind. They flew diagonally, climbing up and then rolling downwards and cawing. Now and again the storm hurled them backwards and the both of them stroked forward slowly, persistently, like a person swimming through water.
For a short while the old woman took shelter near the dovetailed corner joint of the cottage, afraid to go into the wind. Leaning on her cane for support she then opened the gate. A raucous blow hit her in the chest. She almost fell backwards. With her head thrust out, she descended down the slope. The river loomed below. It was wide now, flooding the meadows. Lanterns were already lit in the village. Ducks clambered onto the shore. They bowed to the side, talking and looking ashamed that they were coming back so late. Going past the old woman they cackled, pulled their heads back and bobbed their beaks up and down. ‘Didziagire, Didziagire,’ the woman repeated. She could not see the forest in front of her. It was black, totally mixed in with the clouds. It was only from a flickering lantern off in the distance that she understood where the white of the birch forest should come into view. There were puddles on the path, clouded and muddy like dirty sheets. Mud splashed out from under her clogs. So that she wouldn’t step into a rut or hole she, keeping her eyes glued on the path, fumbled about in front of her with her cane – the way the blind do when they walk by themselves. Out there, once again, the windows glowed.
And she thought about the people who were now sitting in their cottages. They were eating dinner. Children were squealing with delight while outside the wind whistled through the corner joints. The dogs lay in their doghouses, noses tucked between their paws, and the sparrows chirped and rested in their attics. All of them had their own homes. She stopped and bent over while gasping for breath. She coughed in that same hacking, whistling way as children suffering from whooping cough would do. When the attack subsided, she wiped her eyes and looked on in amazement. For one thing, the darkness was thicker. No, there was something there. She looked around fearfully, as if asking herself: where am I now? She wanted to see something familiar, be it a tree or a cross or at the very least the earth beneath her feet. She did not find anything familiar. But I was born and raised here, she thought. Eighty years. And now…
She shook her head and felt as if she were lost, as if she were in the wilderness. She imagined that there was nothing around her: go north or go south, you won’t find even one bonfire or a single animal or human being… except that one standing right in front of you. Theresa saw how he bent over, raised the lapels of his jacket and struck matches, trying to light his pipe. The sudden light flickered on his chin and nose, and then died out.
He managed to light his pipe.
Then he said: ‘I look at you, grandmother, and I am amazed.’
Theresa sighed. Yes, here was a good man. He spoke so slowly, as if he felt sorry for you.
‘Where are you going in such rainy weather?’
‘To my son-in-law’s.’
The passer-by was quiet for a while, as if he were meditating.
Then he said: ‘But you have a very bad cough.’
Theresa didn’t know what to say. She whispered timidly: ‘He’s in Didziagire… He’s working there…’
‘I know, I know, there was a fire there in the summer.’ Then he added: ‘However, at your age I wouldn’t be going alone at night and in such a storm. Are you really in that much of a hurry?’
She was ashamed. Yes, perhaps she had been too rash. However for years her daughter had been like a knife. Just think: I carried her in my body, and I suffered while giving birth to her. ‘This is what’s left of my life,’ she complained. ‘Did I think about this when I was young…’
‘Anyway, it’s on the way for both of us,’ the man said, redirecting the conversation.
And they continued on their way. It had become completely dark. Occasionally tiny sparks flashed from his pipe and died out right away. When now and again the storm died down one could hear the muffled murmuring of the river down below. The willows groaned and whistled. There was nothing else around. They were both alone in the night; the meadows were without grass and without crops. Theresa talked of her troubles and all those long years of hers full of work and worry. And old age! The sharp pains, the cough and death always loitering… And no shelter… The man listened attentively. He spoke good and well-worn words that struck her right in the heart.
It roared against them even more.
‘Here’s the forest,’ the traveller said. ‘Grandmother, you should go to the oak with the top broken off… Do you know it?’
How could she not! It was only at first that she had gotten so muddled that she had felt lost.
‘And from there you go along the path to the left…’
‘I know, I’m familiar with everything here…’
‘Goodbye. I need to travel along the edge of the forest.’
And the two of them parted company.
In the forest Theresa sighed. She felt like she was in a home of some sort there. The wind howled and tore at the treetops. But below there was none of that fury. Only occasionally did a small whirlwind break through. It would bump into her and disappear once again. The trees rustled and roared so loudly that the old woman experienced terror and longing. She thought that all the beasts in the vast forest were now slumbering in their dens and listening to the voice of the fir and linden trees, which has existed for centuries and would never subside. And the birds were crouched in their nests, beaks nestled under their wings, huddling together and occasionally chirping in their sleep.
Only she alone had to walk. And stopping, she thought: I have never been so weak before. The cane in her hand trembled as if someone were shaking it. She already wanted to lean against a tree and to press her head against that branch-rich linden in order to rest. Rest for a long time, until the storm quieted down, until the firs stopped waving in the wind and dawn came, so calm and good.
‘No, you have to find Vincas,’ she said loudly. ‘If you rest here you will never ever get there.’
Her voice was so weak, so trembling between the din of the firs and hornbeams. The woman coughed, as though gathering courage. Raising her cane, she fumbled for the path. There were roots sticking out in front of her that had been worn down on one end.
‘I would have stumbled,’ the old woman said to herself and was joyful that she had averted disaster.
She moved as fast as she could. It was so difficult, so very difficult to drag her feet. And how nimble, how quick she had been as a small child. And when she had grown up she scurried around like a titmouse. She would pass George, her husband, in all the races when he was courting her. What fair, curly hair he had. And his words: ‘My little Theresa, my little deer…’ If there were no clouds, the stars would twinkle high above in the sky. And Pleiades would shimmer… And then they had children. They died, all of them died… just that one was left. Like a viper. Goodness gracious, all of my sons and my daughter lay in the ground, just that one is alive, she thought. Will I ever see my little ones, I, a sinner… And what about my husband?
A bird shrieked overhead. Theresa gripped her cane tightly with both of her hands.
‘That’s a jay,’ she said, waiting for a little while.
She did not want to walk at all. Her heart beat slower and slower. It palpitated wearily, as if for the last time.
‘But the crossroads should be coming up soon,’ the old woman thought.
She shook her head watchfully, while at the same time she moved her cane from side to side: ‘I’ve been toiling for so long already…’
She glanced upwards. The sky was black.
‘What time is it now?’
No stars were twinkling up above, nor had the moon risen. Maybe it was still early, or maybe it was already midnight, when the evil spirits…
She laughed to herself: ‘They probably don’t need an old woman like me. All right, Theresa, get going. Don’t sit here like a bump on a log.’
A puddle lay in front of her. She needed to make her way along the shrubs to get around it. A blackthorn got caught on her dress. A thorn scratched her hand and it smarted a little. She understood from the murmuring of the trees that she had ended up in a fir grove. The firs, sagging down to the ground, always frightened her. It seemed like there was a beast, a person or some kind of spirit hiding under their branches.
Theresa hurried. Jabbing at the path with her cane, she tread as fast as she was able. She felt how her hair crept out from underneath her kerchief and fell into her eyes. Ach, even her hair was not braided nicely… It was warm, as if she had entered into a cottage where they were baking bread. Something shone in her temples, as though something blurry had suddenly become clear – whatever it was that should be appearing through the mist. And the old woman now imagined that she was trudging toward a day that would soon shine forth from beyond this darkness, shine so brightly and peacefully. Just another step, then another… And she pattered and bowed forward like that woodpecker who pecks at tree bark. As if someone were calling her, quietly but at the same time powerfully calling her to herself. Her shawl was slipping down onto her neck.
She thought that she needed to arrive on time.
‘It’s not good for me to be late and to run around at night,’ she said quickly.
Then she was quiet for a while.
‘I’m from a good home, after all,’ she said. ‘There’s not a lot of land, but to roam around like this…’
And she stopped and looked around. In her eyes it was brighter. She understood: ‘There’s the birch forest over there.’ Theresa looked around and was amazed: ‘Good Lord, how white those trunks are.’
No, she didn’t see those trunks. But nearby her, she saw a grey wall. The trees rustled their song, the one that is grand and eternal. The old woman listened, and it felt so good to rest here and listen to the ebb and flow wafting in from the lagoons and waters so far away. She touched the trunk of a birch tree.
‘How soft its bark is, like the palm of a child,’ Theresa whispered.
Her knees bent and her head hung towards the grey earth. And her eyes started to close. However, between the rows of off-white birches, she saw something dark looming. Theresa approached. There were branches – a large pile of them, as big as a granary. The woman leaned her cane against the pile, rubbed her hands together and slowly snuggled up into it.
‘What’s this?’ she said, astonished.
She found a hole so spacious and deep that a whole person could crawl inside. And it was warm in there and comfortable for the old woman. She reclined her head on a thick branch, rearranged some twigs underneath her head and whispered to herself quietly, as if she were afraid to wake someone: ‘I am finally home.’
She thought that she wanted to remember something, but she couldn’t. Outside, around the pile, the wind was blowing – loudly at first before softening to a mere squeak. And the trees continued to sough and sough.
And she thought for a long time, a very long time.
‘What’s that?’ she whispered and wondered.
She saw meadows so green and in them flowers blossomed elegantly. Over there her entire family were coming through the grass – George and all of her children, all of them who had died. They strode together hand in hand and she felt that they were so far away. And once again she saw, as if she were walking there herself, having given her hand to George. And she felt so good, so good…
Her head hung down onto her shoulder. Her hands were folded on her chest, as if she were praying.
‘It’s me… me, George… My children… we are all here,’ she murmured and fell asleep.
And she never woke again.
First published in Antanas Vaiciulaitis, Pelkiu takas, Kaunas: Zinija (1939).
Translated by Jayde Will from Tavo veido sviesa, Vilnius: Vaga (1989).
Antanas Vaiciulaitis (1906–1992) was a prose writer, poet, translator and diplomat. He taught at Kaunas Vytautas Magnus University and worked at the Lithuanian embassy in Rome, but on the eve of the Second World War he emigrated to the United States. In the inter-war period he became known in Lithuania as an erudite writer who had a deep knowledge of modern Western European literature and who rejected naturalism and chose, instead, an impressionist narrative style. With his the prize-winning poetic novel Valentina (1936), in which he related a story of a radiant, unrequited and tragic love, he confirmed his place in modern Lithuanian literature. After he emigrated to the United States he taught at Scranton University and worked at the Voice of America.