The Dedalus Book of Lithuianian Literature

by Almantas Samalavicius

  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 wer
e 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.

  The Red Slippers

  Jurgis Savickis

  Look at what spring does to people! It drives them mad. Take me, for instance. I’m getting on in years, but the minute I let my guard down, some demon brings my frozen blood back to life, making it boil. It’s as if I were a young man, donning my student’s cap for the first time. What audacity! And one is tempted to take all kinds of risks, which at the time seem so brave, so logical and so necessary. But, in reality, people think that you are trying to make them laugh. Because you are young.

  Take today, for instance – Sunday. Instead of heading to the chemist’s where my wife and doctor have sent me because the veins in my calves are swollen, I find myself walking down Kaunas Street, tailing a woman unfamiliar to me, indeed a complete stranger, dressed in a suit. She is one of those Sunday ‘widows’. I really should be getting to church. My choice is the cathedral; that’s where I go on Sundays because it’s more formal. And the priest’s sermons are better structured. Afterwards, as usual, there’s Sunday breakfast and supper at home. Breakfast is somewhat more formal; supper is simpler. I’m devout. This pleases me. But I’m not doctrinaire. I’m open to differing opinions. I’m generally considered a happy person. I sometimes even venture out alone for a good time. Of course I’m referring to cultural amusements. And, getting back to the ladies, I have never taken advantage of any ‘opportunities’. I’m a married man.

  But my wife is away and I’m home alone, free. No, not wickedly free. But I do find the city enticing today. Like a child is enticed by a toy. Even though normally I’m very respectable. In fact, I’m a professional of rather high rank. It’s hard to believe! Because right now nobody can see inside my soul. On the surface, I’m quite proper. I’m the departmental assistant director – no more, no less. And at this moment, looking at my suit and tie, you’d say I was dressed in my Sunday best like everybody else.

  I’m sensible and practical. I survey the street with a fresh perspective. It’s as if I suddenly find myself back in Paris in the old days – a quiet, empty Parisian street on a typical Sunday afternoon in summer. I haven’t been thinking about Paris lately, not even the Sorbonne where I went to university. Thinking about Paris doesn’t seem to be part of my job description these days. I have many responsibilities at the office; I’m known for my professional thoroughness. I deal with my people as necessary, often requiring my staff to work overtime. I sometimes think that without me the state apparatus couldn’t function. But the government employees do not complain. They understand that I give them work that is interesting.

  But today this former Sorbonne alumnus is in Paris – even though in front of me there is only a ‘Sobor’, an orthodox cathedral left behind for us by the Russians, an atrocity in brick. I see that the ‘widow’ is having a chat with an automobile owner. There aren’t many cars in our little city, even if we are the ‘temporary capital’, so we know almost every one of them by sight. They don’t chat for long and the car rattles away. Left alone, she stares at the store ceiling for a long time.

  A grey, stylish skirt pleasantly outlines the curves of her bottom as she whooshes along. Her lovely-shaped legs are fitted out in delicious stockings. What could be more beautiful than a woman’s attractive legs, so tempting that they might lead to your demise! If you were so inclined. She is tall in stature and has a not unintelligent profile. Two silver foxes rest heavily on her shoulders. Now she’ll probably buy herself a hunk of bread and go home to eat breakfast.

  Hello! She doesn’t say a word but pronounces this with her eyes. But still I can almost hear it. She’s probably already noticed that I’m searching for ‘Paris’ and am a bit unhinged. Who was that? Do I know her? A client? She acted with such ease and dignity. I’m not sure now if I haven’t met her at the club or the ministry at some point. But she’s walking away. With nothing better to do, I trudge off slowly, hobbling on my legs swollen at the calves. I don’t say anything to her or even smile. I walk by all flushed like someone cursed by God. Even the woman is left flustered because of me. She also turns and hurriedly disappears. Who was she? Might she be a lady of negotiable affections?

  There are people who mistreat these kinds of ladies. They don’t pay up or they intentionally hurt them in some way. And they’re rude on top of it all. Not me. I’m polite to everyone. Men like that should be beaten; under no circumstances do they deserve clemency. Some are even members of high society. Beat them, I say, with whatever is handy – canes or charred sticks pulled from the hearth. Those fat-cheeked, pampered men! They come home kissing their wives’ dainty little hands. Of course I’m not that kind of man.

  The goddess is gone. Here I am becoming sentimental and preaching sermons to myself. The religious Sunday air is getting the better of me. I don’t procure my medicine. All the pharmacies are closed. I return home but with so many thoughts that I could write a short story. I’ve lost my bearings. But it’s not as if I’m going to the ministry today.

  All the women are dressed to the nines because it’s spring. Everything is brighter, fresher. It’s as if everything in this community has been regulated to make it just so easy to live. It won’t rain today. The young people have left the city by whatever means available, mostly by bike, but some on foot. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, yelling at the tops of their lungs in jubilation. The day will be redeemed for us all. And for some the day will redeem the rest of their lives.

  Such is the mood today and such are the women. Some, it appears, weren’t able to get out of town. Or perhaps they’re waiting for their escorts. But today they all command quiet smiles. And their hairstyles are more carefully done because it’s Sunday. They are refreshed and enjoying their clothing caressing t
heir bodies; they are all so happy and interesting. And they all know how to reveal what is revealable and are even more aware of what should not be revealed. It must be their entire subject of study in school, this eternal coquetry.

  Home alone. Because my wife has gone abroad, as is to be expected in our newly-forming high society. ‘I need to get away from domestic life for a bit,’ she said, even though we live a very harmonious life together. But one requires one’s amusements. Besides, she said, she needed to do some shopping. After all, as we all know, money is easier spent abroad. And during her trip she might even manage to miss me. But where and for what reason she herself probably cannot not yet anticipate. As often happens with women, at some point along the way she will meet a lady similar to herself and then her itinerary will finally be determined. After she returns I will continue to pound the pavement to work as always, and she, along with other Kaunas ladies, will organise charitable teas which must be referred to as ‘five o’clocks’. And we will both be successful. And soon I will grow old. I cannot say that there is much passion in Kaunas. By the time I get old I will have reached the post of general secretary, which is much more important than assistant director or even director. Indeed, it’s almost as important as minister. Although I have connections in politically conservative circles, I have little interest in politics. I am not aiming to become a minister and have no desire to end up there. At least that’s my plan.