The Orphans' Gift

I

The chamber's full of shadow, one vaguely hears two infants' sad and gentle murmurs. Their foreheads slope yet, weighed down in a dream, under the long, blank curtains that shiver and swell. Outside the birds huddle together in the cold, and their wings are going numb beneath the sky's grey pitch; the New Year, with her wintry entourage, leaving the folds of her snowy robe to drag, smiles ice and chants the Northern Wind.

II

But the children, under the floating curtain, mutter softly as you might on a silent night. They listen, pensively, as if to a far-off murmur...

They often wince at a clear, golden voice, of matinal timber, ringing once again its metallic refrain through the glassy sphere...

And the room is frozen...

You see them, lying on the floor, scattered across the beds, the veils of grief: winter's sour wind, lamenting up to the threshold, sighs upon the lodging with a morose breath! You feel, amidst it all, that something is missing...

Is there a mother in the house, with a mother's tender smile and ecstatic eyes? Then she forgot, last night, alone and bereaved, to urge a flame upon the the arrested cinders, and to tuck the children into their sheets and eder-down, before leaving them and calling, 'Goodnight'. And couldn't she foresee the morning's cold, or shut the door to winter's wind? The mother dreams of warm covers, the nest of cotton where the children, covered, as beautiful birds balanced on the limbs of trees, sleep the gentle sleep of snow-white dreams...

And there – it's like a nest without feathers, no heat, where the nestlings are cold, can't sleep, are scared; a nest that winter's kiss must have frozen...

III

You knew it in your hearts, these infants have no mother, no more mother in this house, and the father's well off too. So an old servant keeps them. The little ones are all alone in the icy house, orphans four years old, and now in their minds a laughing memory awakens by degrees...

Like a rosary wracked with prayers. Oh what a beautiful morning, this dawn of gifts! Each, during the night, had dreamt of his own in some strange dream of toys, gold-wreathed candies, sparkling gems, all twirling about and dancing their sonorous dance, then hiding under the curtains, then turning up once more! So they awake the next morning, jump out of bed, lips curled up in a grin, batting their eyes...

And off they go, all bouncing ringlets and eyes a-glow, as if at holiday, their little, naked feet brushing the ground, then gently knock on their parents' door...

And they enter...

Then all their pleading...

And still in gowns, kisses sought again, this joy allowed.

IV

Oh, so charming, those words repeated how often!

But how it has changed, this oft-home: a great, clear fire was fizzling out the chimney, the whole old room was brightened; and the rosy glow, leaving the hearth, used to frolick on the varnished chairs...

The armoir was locked, locked, the great armoir! They often watched its brown and blackened door...

Locked!...

How strange!...

They'd dreamt so often of the mysteries sleeping between its wooden flanks, and believed that they heard, from behind the braying lock, a far-off sound, a vague and happy whsiper.

The parents' bedrooms well empty now: no rosy reflection glistens under their door; not a parent, hearth, or hidden key anywhere, no kisses, no gentle secrets! Oh, how sad the New Year is for them! And so, pensively, while from their big, blue eyes a small tear falls in silence, they mutter, "When is mother coming back?"

V

Now the little ones are sleeping sadly: you would say, to see them, that they were crying in their sleep, so swollen are their eyes, so wracked their breath! Such small children with such tender hearts!

But the angel of cradles is coming to shut their eyes and put a happy dream in dreadful sleep, a dream so happy that their half-closed lips, smiling, will seem to murmur something...

They are going to dream, leaning on their small, curved arms, the gentle vision's gesture, that they lift up their foreheads, and gaze ahead...

They will believe that they were tucked into a rosy paradise...

In the hearth full of flickering light the fire sings a joyous song...

By the window you see, below, a pretty azure; nature wakes herself, drunk on rays...

The earth, half-naked, happy to revive, trembles with joy at the kisses of the sun...

And everything is rose and heat in the old home; the somber vestments no longer heap the ground, the wind beneath the threshold has died down...

One would say that a fairy came by!...

The children, in utter joy, release new cries...

There, near the mother's bed, under a beautiful, pink arc of light, there beneath the full covers, something is shining...

Silvery medallions, white and black, mother of pearl and jade, scintillating brilliance – little black gifts, glass crowns, with three words inscribed in gold: "For our mom!"