Le Journee Est Finie
Once upon a time--
It was a very long time ago, and neither you nor I nor anyone else can remember back that far; so there's no use asking when. It was a very long time ago, and in a city in France there lived a boy and his little sister, whom he loved dearly.
They had no parents and no family, and no house or fireplace. There was nowhere for them to go in the winter, when it was cold, and nothing for them to eat in the summer, when other people bought fresh things at the outdoor market. In the spring, they were warm enough to sleep in an alley, and in the autumn, they sometimes stole apples from the farms outside the city. Most of the time, though, they were hungry, and they were always alone.
One day, the boy grew tired of living in the city, trying desperately to stay alive and watching his sister get thinner and thinner every day. Her eyes got very large and dark because they stood out so in her little face, and her fingers were always cold. She danced, sometimes, and people threw coins at her, but she was really not a very good dancer, and especially not when she was so tired all the time from being hungry, and mainly the passers-by ignored her. The only real talent she knew was how to write her own name, because the boy had taught her. There was no way, then, for them to feed themselves, and the boy grew tired of watching his sister die before him.
He decided to leave the city.
He took his sister by one of her cold hands and went away to the south, where there was a tall gate out of the city that nobody ever used. As they started away down the dusty dirt road, someone called after them cruelly,--
"Aha! I shouldn't go down that road were I you! That is the road of circles and years! Ah, but it is too late, too late! They have gone down the road! Good-bye!"
The boy turned around quickly, looking for the person who had shouted, but he saw nothing. His sister tugged on his ragged sleeve and asked,--
"Who was that?"
"It was no one, Djali," he told her. "No one at all. Don't worry." Suddenly he picked her up and sat her on his shoulder, because she liked it and she would smile. "We are going away to a new city where everyone is happy, and then you shall have pretty clothes and we will never be hungry."
"Oh!" said the little girl, snuggling her cold hands in his hair. "Oh, it will be nice!"
"Yes. It will be nice," he said forcefully, because he knew it would be. He believed it would be.
Then they walked.
They walked along the dirt road for a long time, and sometimes it rained, and sometimes the sun was out. Sometimes they walked under the moon, and the boy's sister pointed at the stars and said, "That one is smiling! That one I will wish on!" and the boy told her that wishes made on the stars were the best kind. They did not often sleep, because his sister wanted to get to the city as soon as they could, and the boy wouldn't disappoint her--but they had no food and nothing to drink, and had to be content with eating grass roots and digging dandelions, and they were both terribly hungry. It was all the more reason to hurry.
One day they saw a stone trough by the road, a water basin for the animals to drink at. It was full, because it had rained the day before, and the little girl pointed at it excitedly.
"Oh, I am thirsty! May I have a drink?"
The boy wouldn't disappoint her, but he shook his curly head and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. "No, no, you cannot drink there. That's where the animals drink. If you drink there, you'll turn into a little goat, you know, because the goats drank there last. There are their footprints! It's dirty water. Don't drink it."
"But I'm so thirsty!" said his sister sadly. "It's water... I don't believe that anything will happen."
"It's true, though. Come along. I'll carry you again."
But the little girl was dreadfully thirsty, and she rushed away from him over to the stone trough and put her head down. She drank deeply, until she wasn't thirsty any more, and never thought she'd felt so good; but when she lifted her head again, a little goat looked around at the boy. She turned to tell him that it was good water, and fell forward suddenly onto her two front hooves.
The boy cried out, and ran to her, and the little goat bleated happily and sat on his lap. He gathered her close, and found that her little hooves were cold.
"Oh, Djali, Djali, what are we going to do?" he wept; but the little goat only bleated and licked his face.
After a while, he stood resolutely, and picked the goat up in his arms, and continued along the road. Now he was more determined than ever to get to the city. Along the way, sometimes the goat trotted with him, and sometimes he held her; she ate the grass and drank up the rain and danced about him on her hind feet, badly; and wrote her name in the dust with her front hoof. Sometimes the boy looked at her and wept.
Finally, one day, they reached the city. The road led in through a back way, and when they had got into the city and looked back, the boy could hardly see the crack in a wall at the end of an alley that they had come through. It had all but vanished, hiding the road from them. He turned firmly forward, straightened himself up, and went into the heart of the city.
The first person he met was a woman coming out of a candle shop, and he stopped her by laying a hand on her sleeve, the way he had stopped people when he was little. The woman started and swatted him.
"You bold fellow! Take your hands off me this instant!"
Suddenly, the boy realised that he was not a child any more. He was very tall and very thin, and his clothes didn't fit him any longer. Astonished, he asked the woman,--
"What is the year, Madame? What day is it? I have been travelling..."
"Travelling? You beggar! You have no more been travelling than I have been living in India! More likely you have been drunk since yesterday, and still are!"
"But you will please tell me what day it is?"
The woman glowered. "Why, the twelfth of December, as any fool knows."
"What is the year?"
"Idiot! It's 1481! Go sleep off your wine somewhere!"
The boy picked up the little goat in his arms and hurried off through the crowds, holding her tight. "Oh, Djali," he whispered, "It's been more than a hundred years! What happened? I can't remember when we left home! It was--Oh, Dieu, I'm only three years older than I was before! But three-hundred years have gone by! I don't understand at all--"
The goat licked his face and struggled a little in his arms, kicking with her tiny hooves. The boy ducked into an alleyway and stroked her head, and held her very close until he fell asleep. All night long he dreamt of Time passing. She had a long white robe on, and kind eyes, and touched his forehead three times before she went on, up a long dirt road that stretched out of sight.
When the boy awoke in the morning, his little goat was gone.
He searched the city for her, crying out her name and looking in every street corner, up every alley and back lane. He even went inside buildings where the doors were open, and ventured into caf�s. People laughed at him and kicked him and spat on him, but he could not find the goat. He never saw her again, and he never stopped believing that it was his own fault he had lost her. One day he learnt that there were cells for the penitent or mourning in a place called the Trou aux Rats, and asked to be shut up in one of them, but he was laughed at there, as well, and went back into the heart of the city. Finally, he tried to drown himself.
They pulled him out of the water at Vernon, where he could not remember anything about himself; not even his name. He certainly could not remember a frightening secret he had learned, which was that this new city looked exactly like the one they had left in every particular, save that parts of it were new and had not been there before.
Oh, he went to work for a man who lived in Vernon, and when he had made a name for himself as a good worker, and people came to trust him and like him, he married somebody's daughter and had twelve children, eight of whom died in infancy or early childhood. The story is not really about him.
It is about Djali.
In the night, she had gone wandering, though of course she did it very carefully, because the little-girl part of her still remembered that cities could be dangerous. Somewhere in the city, she got herself lost, and while she was trotting around in circles, bleating miserably, two long, slender arms reached down and two delicate, brown hands picked her up, and she was pressed against a soft, warm chest. She could feel the heartbeat, and because she was mostly a little goat now, she forgot to be mistrustful, and fell asleep in the arms, listening to the comforting thump, thump of the heartbeat.
She heard, vaguely, a pretty voice talking to an older one, and felt the arms move her about, and someone stroke along her back. She knew that they were talking about her, but she didn't really mind. She had forgotten all about the boy, except for a dull knowledge, somewhere back in her head, that it used to be someone else who took care of her.
In the morning, though, the brown hands fed her and petted her, and the pretty voice asked laughingly,--
"My little goat! I wonder what your name is, pray tell?"
Djali knew this. It was the only thing she did know. So she found a dirty spot on the floor of the place she now seemed to live, and wrote Djali with her little hoof.
The brown hands clapped and the pretty voice said, "Oh! Djali! What a clever lovely thing you are, Djali! Do you know anything else? Do you know what to-day is?"
But Djali didn't know, so she sat still and gazed down proudly at her name written in the dirt.
"You don't? Oh, but I'll teach you!" The brown hands produced a soft brown thing made of leather and wood, with little bells and ribbons tied all over it. The hands tapped it, and the bells jingled. The hands turned it, and a wide ribbon made of a red velvet scrap faced her. This velvet ribbon the hands gestured to, and then they tapped upon the brown object once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen times.
Djali looked profoundly at the red ribbon, and tapped once with her hoof upon the brown object. Instantly, the brown hands clapped.
"Yes! Very good! Now tap again! It's the thirteenth of the month, you know."
So, very obediently, Djali tapped again. She tapped eleven more times after that, and every time the brown hands clapped for her and the pretty voice praised her. Soon she knew that she was meant to tap thirteen times without pausing every time she saw the red ribbon. Soon after that, she knew that she was meant to tap twelve times for the green ribbon. She was meant to tap seven times for the blue ribbons. For the big bell, she tapped one-four-eight-one times. She learnt very quickly, and the brown hands were overjoyed.
In the days that followed, she tapped outdoors, and people threw cold, hard circles at her, which the brown hands collected eagerly.
Not too long after that, she was taught how to walk about when she heard a certain name. She was taught when to dance on her hind legs, and when to do a tumble. She learnt that when there was a fire, she should lie to one side and watch two brown feet dancing beneath a coloured skirt, which belonged to the brown hands and the pretty voice.
When eighteen days had passed (she knew because of the tapping getting longer every day), the blue ribbon suddenly meant only one tap. The red ribbon changed every day anyway, so that didn't surprise her, but the big bell meant now one-four-eight-two, and she had a new name for which she had to learn walks and the proper bobbing of her head.
Really, though, she was quite good at what she was doing, and very quick at learning, and she made the pretty voice happy, which satisfied her.
Then, one day, a pair of shoes came to live with her and the brown hands. The pair of shoes belonged to a pair of trousers and a pair of clever hands with very long fingers, which loved her absurdly and ruffled her fur and stroked her nose, and a deeper voice than the pretty one which praised her endlessly. This new person was so fond of her that she could hardly help being fond of him, and she danced on her hooves for him when-ever he asked.
Not long after that, the brown hands gave her a bag full of wooden blocks and taught her to arrange them specially. Djali put the 'P' in front of the 'H' and the 'S' behind the 'U', and the pretty voice told her sweet, lovely things about her cleverness, but sounded sad saying the words. She worried and bleated, and the clever hands loved her until she was happy again.
They did the same things they had always done for quite a while, and she learnt that after so many taps at the red ribbon, the number of taps for the blue ribbon always changed, and she could thread between the trouser legs belonging to the clever hands without tripping them up when they were dancing in circles, which pleased the deep voice. Everyone loved her. She was happy to love everyone in return.
Of course, it could not go on this way. Things were abruptly changed, to Djali's astonishment. She was living in a little dark place far away from the brown hands and the clever hands. When she was let out again, she found the brown hands quickly, but the clever hands didn't come for a long time after that. When they did, she stayed with them constantly. Then she was taken away from them, and taken somewhere tall with the brown hands; then she lost the brown hands, and the clever hands took her again. It confused her and made her miserable, and she sat lostly and waited for things to make sense again. They did not. There was shouting and loud noises. There was burning smells and screaming.
Suddenly, it was all over.
The clever hands took her away in a boat, and she was never touched by the brown hands again. They never came back. The deep voice asked her sometimes to dance, but it was never anything more than that. She never tapped on the brown object with ribbons again.
For many years--Djali had learnt about years with the clever hands, because the deep voice talked to her often; perhaps almost constantly, unless the hands were working--for many years, Djali lived with them. Once in a year, the hands would hold her particularly close, and count up on the long fingers in the same manner she had tapped, once. It was thirty-four counts. It was forty-six. Fifty-one. Sixty-nine.
On the morning after the seventy-third count, Djali trotted into the clever hands' favourite room, and found that they were very cold. This confused her, so she rubbed against them, bleating hopefully; but they did not get any warmer. At last she gave up, and wandered downstairs. The woman who came to clean went in through the door, and a few moments later there were loud noises and a shaking kind of sound that throbbed, which confused Djali even more. People started coming into the house. In all the noise and movement, she slipped out through the door, and went into the city.
It was exciting to be out again. She trotted through the streets, dancing on her hind legs and turning somersaults the way the brown hands had taught her, until she came to a street with a wall at the end of it. In this wall, there was a crack, and Djali went through curiously. There was a dirt road on the other side.
She followed it.
She walked for maybe a long time, maybe a short time; but certainly she walked, always down the dirt road, which went on until it was quite out of sight. There was no reason not to go down it, and the clever hands did not come to find her, so she went on. She drank the rain when it fell and ate the grass that grew in the road here and there.
Finally she came to a watering trough along the side of the road. It was made of stone and rather deep, and she was thirsty; so Djali danced over to it, and put her head down, and drank. When she lifted her head again, she realised that she was kneeling on the road, and her arms were leaning over the side of the trough, and her hair was quite wet. It was curly yellow hair that was cropped rather short, and it interested her to no end. She had never seen hair like this before, since her world was full of feet; but when she had seen the hair that went with the brown hands, it was black, and the hair that went with the clever hands was brown.
Djali stood, and found that she was much taller all of a sudden. She had long legs, but her arms were not as long as her legs, and her body was longer, too. She was not made to walk on four feet any longer, because she didn't have four feet. She had pale, cold little hands, just like the brown hands and the clever hands had. On her smooth, pale-coloured body she had very small parts where her front swelled out and then smoothed back again, and, lower down, a little ruffle of curly yellow hair, despite that her back just went down straight and flat. She stared, not a little confused.
But this was fun, too, she quickly realised. She could still dance, on little feet that had five little toes, just like the brown feet beneath the coloured skirt. The grass did not taste good any longer, but she could still drink the rain. She went on down the dirt road.
Soon after, she came to a city with tall buildings and interesting noises. She crept in through a crack in the back of a gate, and because she was cold, shivered and went looking for something to wrap about herself. In a moment, she stumbled across a neat little pile of clothes that had been left on the ground. She didn't know precisely what they were, but she remembered that the clever hands had a pair of trousers that looked a little like the ones in front of her. First she dressed in the white clothes, and then she put the grey ones on over top. She left the shoes and stockings, however, because her feet felt better on the ground, and she didn't see how she could dance in such big, clumsy things. Then Djali, with no hat and no shoes and no gloves, went into the city and danced.
The people in the city laughed at her and pointed at her and whispered behind their hands. They watched her and waited to see what the mad young fellow would do, after he had spun and bowed and balanced on his little naked feet and yet nobody spoke to him.
What he did was to walk up to a gentleman standing on a street corner and say, very unsurely, "Hello."
"Hello, boy," said the gentleman, who was good-humoured. "What are you about?"
"Where is this?" asked the boy, like one unaccustomed to speaking. The gentleman looked closely at him. He had a fresh, innocent, open face, and no beard; short, curly hair, and no hat; a well-made jacket and waistcoat and well-cut trousers, but no shoes or stockings; he looked peculiarly like a rich man's son who had never been outside before, but no rich man's son would ever go out without shoes. It occurred to the gentleman that he might have escaped from an asylum somewhere, but he decided to humour the boy for now.
"Paris, my boy. It's 1830."
"Where is--how many years--how many--" The poor boy looked terribly confused.
"Do you know where you are?"
The boy looked all around, and suddenly smiled and nodded. "Oh, yes! That tall place there, that's the crown of the place where brown hands used to dance! And I can find clever hands' house from here. I know where I am, but it all looks different."
This burst of eloquence quite stunned the gentleman. "What is your name?"
"Djali," said the boy.
"Joly?" the gentleman repeated. "But your first name, boy?"
"I don't know," came the reply.
"Have you anywhere to stay?"
"I don't know."
For a moment, the gentleman considered giving up on the little fellow, who was clearly addled in his wits, but his soul stung with the pangs of having to admit at confession that he had refused help to another human being in need. He took pity. "Come with me, Joly."
The boy followed obediently as he was led down streets and finally to a very nice house with a very nice door that had a very nice set of brass numbers nailed onto it.
The gentleman opened the door and called inside, "Pierre! Pierre, come down at once!"
A young man appeared in the doorway.
This young man was the most beautiful thing that Djali had ever seen. He had a pale face that looked a little flushed, and dark blue eyes and longish golden hair that seemed to Djali to shine, and he astonished her. It had been a long time since she was level with anybody's face, and it stunned her suddenly to see something so lovely.
"Pierre," the old gentleman said, "This is Joly. I have just met him on the street. He seems to be about your age, but he doesn't remember who he is or where he lives. Please try to help him recall it. It is very important we get him home again. Pierre," he added to Djali, "is my nephew. He is living with me while he goes to school at the University, because his parents wanted him to be with someone in the family. Do you know the University?"
"No!" said Djali, who remembered something from her days of living with the boy. "I'm not old enough to go to school!"
The gentleman coughed significantly, and disappeared out the front door. Pierre stared at her accusingly.
"Hello," she ventured.
"My name isn't actually Pierre; it's Enjolras. Do your parents and their friends call you Joly?"
"Everyone calls me Djali! That's my name!"
"Actually, it's--well, it suits you, at any rate. Where do you live?"
"I did live with clever hands, but someone let me out, and I've been walking. I found these things," she gestured at her clothes. "I've never worn anything like them before."
Pierre frowned. "Are you poor?" he asked bluntly.
"I don't think so. I used to earn money dancing, but here they don't seem to pay for it. I danced all through the street, but no one threw me a single denier Parisis. Don't you like it here?"
"We don't use denier Parisis any longer. It's been decades."
"Oh."
"What are you doing here?"
"I came down the road." Djali gestured awkwardly. "All the way from clever hands' house, because someone left the door open. I've begun to think he died. People do that, don't they? I can't think why I don't get any older. It was three years on the road when I came to Paris, and it's been four years coming back, but I spent--I must have spent fifty years in Paris! I'm not--how old am I?" she asked, making her eyes wide.
Pierre seemed to have given up trying to make sense of things. He simply looked over her for a moment, stood back and observed her again, and then said, thoughtfully, "I should say seventeen years."
"That's right! Why didn't the years in Paris count? Are there two Parises?"
"I've never been told so, but there could be. What is your Paris like?"
"Oh, it's beautiful! It's full of big, coloured skirts that dance, and patchwork trousers that do somersaults, and every once in a while someone important comes, and we all line the streets to watch. There are all kinds of feet, and all kinds of voices, and brown hands took care of me before clever hands. I used to dance for the crowds, and they threw denier Parisis to brown hands, and that pleased her very much."
"You were someone else's slave? You were exhibited?" Pierre sounded quite bothered, and Djali tried to placate him.
"No, no, she taught me things and took care of me. She danced too, of course. I am not as beautiful as her skirt and her hands and her feet, and people loved her. They loved me, too, but they loved her more. She went away one day, and I've not seen her in years. That's when clever hands took care of me."
"Who were these people?"
"Brown hands was a Zingara, and clever hands was a poet. That's what he told me."
"Were you a child?"
"I was thirteen years, I think. Perhaps twelve. I can count years. She taught me."
"For God's sake--you're quite mad, you know," said Pierre, looking at her oddly, with an expression that was half-exasperation, half-amusement.
"Me?" said Djali, blinking.
"You, Monsieur. What do you think you were?"
"I was a g--"
"No, no, don't even tell me. Don't begin. Let me tell you--I am mad, too. I am a man who does not believe in the government. I tell my friends that I want the people to rule, and truly I want no one to rule. Let me tell you--you're mad. I need someone to talk to, or I am going to go insane. I will teach you how you're expected to behave here, if you will be my companion."
"Ah, everyone's always loved me, and I've always loved everyone. Certainly, I'll be your companion. You will be fair hands." Djali dropped to one knee and took his hand. "I'm too tall. I used to come up to your knee, Monsieur, and you could have told me to walk like the Pope, and I would have. I must dance for someone. I'll be your companion."
Pierre pulled her up. "For heaven's sake, no 'monsieur'. Companions don't need terms of respect like that. Firstly, you must stop this about how things used to be. You may tell me when we are alone, but don't say it to anyone else. They'll have you locked up."
"It was much easier being a goat," Djali grumbled. "There weren't any rules."
"Shoes," said Pierre firmly. "You'll need shoes and stockings, and I dare say a hat. I'll give you some of my things for now. You'll need a coat, too, and that's a bit more difficult. We'll have to buy you one of those. Come with me."
As they climbed the stairs, Pierre said, "I didn't explain myself well enough before. I'm a revolutionary. I saw my father's servants mistreated by him, and I thought he was the supreme ruler, and thought that the only way to have them fairly treated was to dispose of him. Then I saw that the servants who had served longer mistreated the ones who were new, and I realised that having certain people rule is no good unless they change regularly, so that they can't impose their long standing on one another. Then I saw that the new stablehands mistreated the old ones until they cried like girl-children, and I realised that a Republic is no good. All people do is destroy one another. The only way I can see that it will be fair is if no one rules. Then they cannot hurt one another. Of course, there's still fallacy, because with no order and no law they'll go on attacking their fellow men because no one will stop them. Nothing works, I've found."
"Then what do you want?" Djali asked.
"I've settled on a Republic for now, because perhaps I can make something of it. I am trying to believe that my father's house was a cruel exception, and my friends already believe it. When we have a Republic, and I've seen what comes of us, I'll see what more can be made."
"Do you have an army?"
"What a foolish idea," said Pierre scathingly. "Only kings command armies, and I'm no king."
"But then how will you do anything with Paris? Don't you need an army to make rules? We had an archer's guard, and captains on horses, and they arrested and put people in prison and said what we were to do."
"That's oppression, damn it. Don't you understand it?" Pierre took Djali gently by the chin, and turned her face so he could look at her, frowning greatly. "Don't you see? No one should have that power over someone who hasn't the power to defend himself. Rules are only fair if there are exceptions to them, because there will never be a rule that is appropriate for every situation and every man on this earth."
"I don't understand." Djali shook his head. "How can you do anything without an army?"
"Ah, you and your army! I shall take you to meet Bahorel, and he'll have something to tell you!"
"But you haven't explained. Who are you, really?"
"Enjolras, the revolutionary. I have two names, just like any man, but I don't take the name my parents gave me. I take the name I gave myself."
"Then Pierre is your family name?"
"You ask the most absurd questions. Pierre is my given name."
"Oh... but your father is named Enjolras, then, too?"
"Quite the contrary. My father took the name away from my ancestors and dirtied it. My great, great, great-grandfather, who was a penniless man, was named Enjolras. My great, great-grandfather made himself rich honestly and continued the name honestly, by working for everything he had, as I would every man had the opportunity to do. It was my great-grandfather who made more money dishonestly, by injuring other people, who first destroyed his right to be named Enjolras. When I call myself by my last name, I remember my great, great, great-grandfather, whose name I am proud to have, and not my father, a coward who took it without deserving it."
Djali nodded. "I believe I understand."
"You will be called Joly, though perhaps you deserve the connection with your parents. I begin to think that you were a poor man once. I can't think how you got clothes."
"I found them; I told you."
"That would explain it. Let us see."
By this time, Djali had been given stockings and laced boots to wear, and she stared at them awkwardly. "I can't wear these."
"Whyever not?"
"I can't dance in them."
"You're not meant to."
"What am I to do, if I can't dance?"
"You're Joly. You're a medical student at the University, a first year's student. You carry a stick--we'll use one of Uncle's--and you have a peculiar habit... Let us see... You are a malade imaginaire. You'll always believe yourself ill."
"I'm never ill!" said Djali quickly.
"Precisely. You're never ill, but you are perpetually convinced that you're in the throes of some dread illness. Good. What else?"
"What else is needed? I've been changed from a dancer to a performer. Clever hands told me it degraded him--and he was a poet. I am a dancer! You want me to become--"
"That's excellent!" Pierre clapped. "Oh, you'll make a revolutionary yet, Joly. You already know when you're being oppressed unjustly, and when it's degrading to your body to be forced into something you weren't meant to be. Very good! All right, you needn't have anything else. What's already been decided will suffice."
Djali sighed, but she put on the stockings and laced up the boots, and took the stick when Pierre gave it to her. It had a cold, shiny top, and she rubbed her nose with it from time to time because she missed being able to nose hands held down to her as she had in the old days. She was already turning into a human, which she knew quite well; the change was as easy and natural as it had been to become a goat. She sighed, then, but she followed Pierre to the University and the caf� he went, and met with his friends, and played her part very well. During this time, he never discovered that she was a woman; it would have surprised her to realise that he would not expect it, so she hid nothing, but because she understood very little about being a woman, she thought it must be the same as being a man. When she bled, she wore a roll of cloth in her trousers and wrinkled her nose at the horrid smell of the blood, but didn't remark on it. She always slept in her own room, because Pierre's uncle insisted upon that. He called her a guest. So it went. She loved Pierre as deeply as she'd loved the brown hands and the clever hands, and was as ready to forget him the moment someone else began to take care of her.
This someone else turned out to be one of Pierre's friends, a man called Lesgles, who had short, crushed hands and a joking smile. This man, small hands, took her in for months, even for a year, and told her often that he adored her, but she didn't understand that, either. She smiled at being kissed, because the clever hands had kissed her often, but when he asked her if she loved him too, she told him she loved everyone, and went outside to look at the sky.
She knew a woman whom everyone called her mistress, whom she took to dinner and watched plays with, and treated as a sister.
It was a life as important only during the moment, as simple, as rhythmic, as life in the other Paris with the brown hands and the clever hands had been. She smiled through it, she enjoyed it; she obeyed the order of things that went with it; but she didn't know she would miss it if she left it behind. It didn't seem to matter.
It, like the life in the other Paris, fell to flaming pieces suddenly, though this time she understood it. Pierre wanted his revolution, which he talked about so eagerly, so gladly, to her, and so coldly, with such reserved passion, to his friends. In due course, he had it, with fire and blood and loud noises and screams and throbbing, full noises, which Djali now understood were called 'tears'. It was the same as the end of the other life. She left it, as she had before, by turning away when it got too loud, and strolling down a side street, where no one seemed to notice her leaving. No one but the small hands.
He ran after her, crying out, "Joly!"
Djali turned. "I'm here."
"Where are you going? You're leaving?"
"I left last time. It's too loud for me, you know." She smiled. "I'm going to walk on the road again. It's very strange, the road. The first time I went on it, I think someone called out and told me that it was the road of years and circles, and, you know, I think that was right. Yes, I am going, because it is just the same as it was with clever hands. You're not moving any longer."
"I'm--I'm not--?" The joking smile that went with the small hands froze, and blood bubbled over his lips.
"No. You see, you have not moved in moments. You're cold, too."
"I am?" The joking smile made a gasp, shuddering. "Perhaps you're--you're--right... that's--queer."
"Yes, you're cold. I'm going back on the road again."
"That's--queer--" The joking smiled gasped again, and a little bubble of blood burst, spattering Djali's nose. The small hands didn't move.
"Good-bye," said Djali, and she brought his hand to her nose. "I am going now."
Then she stood and went down to the road. Nobody seemed to see her, and she squeezed through the hole in the wall and saw the road again. With a broad smile, she began to walk.
Perhaps she's still walking. Why, I don't know. That's the end of the story of Djali, and the road of circles and years. It is a strange story, but there's magic in it, or it wouldn't be strange. There's the road, and perhaps someday you'll find the place where it begins. Perhaps Djali will come to Paris to-day. Who knows whether she'll be a goat or a woman or a dog or an old, old woman, by now? At any rate, it's over; I'm done.
That's the end of the story.
Back to the Index.