When he got up to go upstairs again, she suddenly shouted:
“And when are you going to pay me? It’s two weeks since you have paid me.”
“But, Madame Boncour, I told you I had no money. If you wait a day or two, I’m sure to get some in the mail. It can’t be more than a day or two.”
“I’ve heard that story before.”
“I’ve even tried to get work at several farms round here.”
Madame Boncour threw back her head and laughed, showing the blackened teeth of her lower jaw.
“Look here,” she said at length, “after this week, it’s finished. You either pay me, or … And I sleep very lightly, Monsieur.” Her voice took on suddenly its usual sleek singsong tone.
Andrews broke away and ran upstairs to his room.
“I must fly the coop tonight,” he said to himself. But suppose then letters came with money the next day. He writhed in indecision all the afternoon.
That evening he took a long walk. In passing the Rods’ house he saw that the shutters were closed. It gave him a sort of relief to know that Geneviève no longer lived near him. His solitude was complete, now.
And why, instead of writing music that would have been worth while if he hadn’t been a deserter, he kept asking himself, hadn’t he tried long ago to act, to make a gesture, however feeble, however forlorn, for other people’s freedom? Half by accident he had managed to free himself from the treadmill. Couldn’t he have helped others? If he only had his life to live over again. No; he had not lived up to the name of John Brown.
It was dark when he got back to the village. He had decided to wait one more day.
The next morning he started working on the second movement. The lack of a piano made it very difficult to get ahead, yet he said to himself that he should put down what he could, as it would be long before he found leisure again.
One night he had blown out his candle and stood at the window watching the glint of the moon on the river. He heard a soft heavy step on the landing outside his room. A floorboard creaked, and the key turned in the lock. The step was heard again on the stairs. John Andrews laughed aloud. The window was only twenty feet from the ground, and there was a trellis. He got into bed contentedly. He must sleep well, for tomorrow night he would slip out of the window and make for Bordeaux.
Another morning. A brisk wind blew, fluttering Andrews’s papers as he worked. Outside the river was streaked blue and silver and slate-colored. The windmill’s arms waved fast against the piled clouds. The scent of the lindens came only intermittently on the sharp wind. In spite of himself, the tune of “John Brown’s Body” had crept in among his ideas. Andrews sat with a pencil at his lips, whistling softly, while in the back of his mind a vast chorus seemed singing:
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
But his soul goes marching on.”
If one could only find freedom by marching for it, came the thought. All at once he became rigid, his hands clutched the table edge.
There was an American voice under his window:
“D’you think she’s kiddin’ us, Charley?”
Andrews was blinded, falling from a dizzy height. God, could things repeat themselves like that? Would everything be repeated? And he seemed to hear voices whisper in his ears: “One of you men teach him how to salute.”
He jumped to his feet and pulled open the drawer. It was empty. The woman had taken the revolver. “It’s all planned, then. She knew,” he said aloud in a low voice.
He became suddenly calm.
A man in a boat was passing down the river. The boat was painted bright green; the man wore a curious jacket of burnt-brown color, and held a fishing pole.
Andrews sat in his chair again. The boat was out of sight now, but there was the windmill turning, turning against the piled white clouds.
There were steps on the stairs.
Two swallows, twittering, curved past the window, very near, so that Andrews could make out the markings on their wings and the way they folded their legs against their pale-grey bellies.
There was a knock.
“Come in,” said Andrews firmly.
“I beg yer pardon,” said a soldier with his hat, that had a band, in his hand. “Are you the American?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the woman down there said she thought your papers wasn’t in very good order.” The man stammered with embarrassment.
Their eyes met.
“No, I’m a deserter,” said Andrews.
The M.P. snatched for his whistle and blew it hard. There was an answering whistle from outside the window.
“Get your stuff together.”
“I have nothing.”
“All right, walk downstairs slowly in front of me.”
Outside the windmill was turning, turning, against the piled white clouds of the sky.
Andrews turned his eyes towards the door. The M.P. closed the door after them, and followed on his heels down the steps.
On John Andrews’s writing table the brisk wind rustled among the broad sheets of paper. First one sheet, then another, blew off the table, until the floor was littered with them.
1 Excerpted from “A Group of Books Worth Reading” by Heywood Broun published in The Bookman, December 1921, pp. 393–94. Brooklyn-born Heywood Broun (1888–1939) was a popular columnist for The Tribune and The World, and the author of dozens of short stories, articles and essays for, among others, Harper’s, The Bookman, and The American Mercury. He was also a passionate and outspoken advocate for the under-dog, believing that journalists could effectively fight for justice with the power of the pen. In 1933, he founded the American Newspaper Guild.
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