Hunter College High School - Argus Yearbook (New York, NY)

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been friends, although the other two had never seen him and scarcely knew him. He had seen the brown-locked one often, racing and playing with a golden-haired child and several boys-but he never knew them. His mother did not approve of playing in the street, but he hadn't minded-not much, with his books and music. Now, he was too old and sometimes, when the childish shrieks pierced the air, shrilly happy, he wished that he could have been like that, and played and shouted-like that one young Indian, the captain. But he was eighteen, and they weren't more than eight or ten, so he only noticed them incidentally. But one day Colden-locks moved away. Stark tragedy for Brownie! Richard, looking down on the weeping children, clasped in each others arms, almost wept in sympathy. Finally the car and trucks departed and a forlom Brownie sat down on the little Dutch stoop, and cried with the great catch- ing sobs of a baby. Richard wished someone would comfort her. Where was the gallant band, where was the dashing captain, where was her father with his trim twirling mustache? The street was quiet with late afternoon shadows. Suddenly Richard drew his magic bow across the strings, and the little fairy-like Minuet danced down to her. For a moment she didn't hear, but slowly her head lifted, and she listened, still catching deep sobs. It was the first time she had heard a violin and Richard played everything that was elfin and hauntingly sweet and delicately beautiful. He played and she listened--with only the interruptions that came from the Main Street of the world, just around the corner. And when her father came home, he found her sitting on the cold stone, her face tear-streaked but rapt. Richard saw him lift her tenderly, and knew he was explaining the fairy music and comforting her in her loss. After that, whenever he saw her sitting quietly, he would salute her with Minuet,' and play for her some- times. Soon she noticed the slmset serenade and almost every evening found her listening shyly in the shadow of some window. lt pleased his fancy to charm her and he never knew of the disappointment when he failed to play. But he had forgotten her, forgotten his music, beauty, dreams, ,when a miracle had torn him away from all his ideals and had filled his mind with War. He had left his cloisters, had joined an outfit, fought in France,- and lost his arm. lt had been a hard fight after that-his, parents were game, though, and helped him fight. They didn't understand that the only way he could was through that shell with which he had surrounded himself. It had been pretty easy to keep up that front during those ten years abroad and he had dared to come home. He gave a little laugh at himself--he was getting sentimental again. He looked out at the street that had stayed the same, at the little houses opposite, a man was going up the stoop, and yes, it was the man with the twirling mustache, only it was white now. Brownie still lived across the way! At that moment the sun touched the Hudson. Richard turned, almost ran out of the room. He broke into the living room and drowned his thoughts in the Hood of syncopation that was blaring from the loud-speaker. as wk wk it wk 4: :tr Page Thirty-two

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NOCTURNE EN years-almost eleven since he had left this same room. Ten years-making the difference between a boy and-almost a man. Richard had come home. He stood on the threshold of the room that had been his in 1918, the room he had left for France and drums and bugles and bally-hoo, the room he had forgotten, locked away in the cupboard with those other things that hurt. It was the same as he had left it-the sunlight playing thru the yellow curtains and on the creamy walls, sending shafts of beams over to the bookcase, making bright pools of maple light on the well-waxed floor. There was the rug, chewed a bit as to the end, fa memory of a perky terrier frisked across his mindj and the small mahogany bed, with its bright yellow cover. Dante and Beethoven still flanked the Winged Victory on the glistening top of the low bookcase. And there was a yellow canary Q surely not his gallant Coeur de Lionlj teetering and chirping at the stranger in his domain. It seemed but yesterday he had left, and here was his castle holding out its arms to him as if he were still the boy who had gone. It was, for an instant, an attack in an unguarded quarter, a breath-taking something ached in his throat, and a voice swelled from within, crying, Why?- Why?-Oh, God!--Why? That voice-for almost ten years it hadn't spoken-he had smothered it pretty thoroughly that first year in the hospital, and through the years had drowned its poignancy in a scintillant cynicism. Only a moment, then his well-schooled mouth twisted one corner and he gave a little bored laugh. He walked over to the window and stood, with his empty sleeve brushing the sill, looking out. He had forgotten, watching the sun in Italy, on the Riviera, in Spain, that the sun painted the streets of New York like this. Now he remembered, saw the familiar tracing of the cold autumn sunshine on the grey walls of the big apartment on the corner, saw it run in calm, preoccupied beams over the heads of the five little Dutch houses opposite. The street was placid, usual, unchanged. Here was something that had remained in his world of chaos. Ten years before the street had been the same, the room had been the same. A shy boy, with eyes deep with dreams, lost in the lovely maze of music, had studied there. He had stood at that window and watched the sun's painting, or the rain's sweeping line of march, and seen music and beauty. And when the sun had just set over the Hudson, when the sky was purpling crimson and the first stars were beginning to glimmer and the curb lamps were beginning to glow, he had played his beloved violin here- some tune to satisfy his mood-but most often the sweet Minuet in G, of Beethoven, or, torn by some grief that eighteen knows, played his own Nocturne He wondered if the distinguished-looking man with the twirled mus- tache, and the little girl with the brown curls, still lived opposite. They had Page Thirty-one

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Richard awoke to the matins that Coeur de Lion II was thrilling. It was much too early to get up, and that fool bird was murdering all thoughts of sleep. After a few minutes he yawned sullenly and got out of bed. He'd been such an idiot last night! He stretched languidly over to the window. People still got up early, then. The street showed more activity at the ungodly hour of eight A.M. than it did at night. He was about to turn away when the door of one of the little houses opened, and-was that Brownie? Tall, lithe, with hardly a wisp of those brown curls showing from under that smart little hat. She had some books on her arm and she gazed down the street expectantly. She must be eighteen now herself, a college girl! Suddenly a roadster swept up, a youngster opened the door and Brownie was off. Richard knew the boy, it was the captain of the band of ten year before. He looked at the street reproachfully, it had changed, it had played him false. xxxmxxx It was nearly five that afternoon when Brownie slowly came down the street. She could hardly see, for all the sunshine. Her eyes were full of tears and she leaned wearily against the stone before she went in. She looked at the sky purpling with the sunset and tried to dry her tears before Daddy should see her. Richard up in the window where he had waited for her return felt a mighty rebellion rise within him. It was his slmset hour-it was his Brownie standing over there crying, and here he was, a useless cripple, with nothing before him, except empty years of hearing others play, of seeing others comfort his Brownie, of seeing others do the things he had dreamt of. Through a blur of tears he saw the sun's last rays linger on the wom case of his beautiful, betrayed violin. He took it down reverently, took out the instrument. His last reserve was flung to the winds,-he caught it to his breast with a sob. The long-silent strings murmured a soft chord. He laid his cheek against the satiny wood and then caught his breath in wonder. Through the violet light that now Hlled the street, came the sobbing, throbbing song,-his own Nocturne, coming to him across the years. Who-? What-? Suddenly he knew! He laughed a half hysterical laugh from the depths of his gladness. Brownie was playing his Nocturne to him! Brownie had been carrying on for him! As the last notes quivered plaintively on the air he leaned far out the window, clutching his violin to his breast, longing to call out frantically: Brownie, Brownie, l'm back, I'm back here with you and the street that will never change! I'm whole again! Brownie! see me!,' Brownie saw, heard the silent call perhaps. For a moment there was a quivering stillnessg then elfin-wise, the Minuet in G came dreaming across to soothe and greet the tired ears, to find the waiting heart. Clara R. Steinhardt, Ag8 Page Thirty-three