House of One Room (Mary A. Douglas, 1916)

An old, old woman lived alone in a House of One Room. Once Beauty might have been her guest. No one could remember; no one had been told. No one cared.

Now the skin stretched like crackling parchment across her high cheek-bones and dropped in empty bags below her querulous chin. It creased in yellow folds upon her narrow forehead and drew tight like seamed old leather around her scraggy neck. Across the barren of her palsied head the tarnished white hair drifted in thinning patches. From the watery caverns beneath, her glazed eyes peered dimly through the mists of eternal tears. Above her mumbling mouth the thin beak of her nose groped downward to the pointed, quivering chin. Already the pale seal of the newly-dead was stamped upon the withered mockery of her face.

Yet the old, old woman found Life sweet and feared Death.

Once her light feet might have danced upon the red crest of Life's hot surge; once her eager fingers might have caught the bright foam as it flashed on the scarlet billows. Now her blood was stagnant water. Her weighted body sank numbly in the tainted pool; her dragging hands clutched at the floating blocks of ice, as her clumsy feet slipped upon the frozen, mossy stones below.

Yet the old, old woman found Life sweet and feared Death.

Once the pale rose of her cool cheek might have flamed to scarlet lights; the smoldering darkness of her veiled eyes have flashed in trails of shining sparks. Once her burning red lips might have clung to answering lips of flame; her soft, throbbing arms have been glowing links of fiery steel. Now her pale saffron cheek scorched beside the white blaze that chilled her brain. Now her burnt-out eyes floated in the bitter waters that had quenched their fires. Now her mumbling blue lips caressed soft food and drink. Now the rusted hinges of her rigid arms clashed and grated as she groaned and complained in the cold clasp of a wintry bed.

Now she was shrivelled, helpless, useless. Warm arms did not hover near her. Her twitching fingers shivered and shuddered along the wires of the nerves. Her mute eyes, slowly ever dripping, fell in blasting salt drops upon the brain. Over the hideous actuality of her face Beauty's magic could not be cast. Music grew dumb at the discords of a fretful voice. The World whirled dizzily from a corrupted body. Eternity shrank and the Grave beckoned at the sluggish thud of a dying heart.

Still the old, old woman found Life sweet and feared Death.

Once, in the House of Many Rooms, Hope might have looked afar through shining windows. Joy might have played among the flowers; Cheer feasted at the snowy tables; Mirth and Pleasure danced in the warm firelight. Peace might have rested in deep valleys and on purple hills.

No one could remember; no one had been told. No one cared.

Now, in the dark House of One Room, Silence and Unknown Echoes made their abode.

Death came one day to the House of One Room. His dim shape filled the silent, narrow space. His cloudy robes trailed far out in the dying light to the moss-covered stones where the old were forgotten; to the white graves of little children whose mothers wept. The soft radiance from his presence glowed in the darkening room; it glimmered gently down the hazy, winding road and gleamed in dull sparks high on the House of Happiness. His shadowy, entreating arms mingled with the dark waves of the sullen sea which dashed against the window of the House of One Room.

The old, old woman, cowering over a dying ember, covered her faint eyes and shrilly called for Life. A grating echo answered.

All the secrets of the Past, the Now, and the Yet-To-Be quivered and vibrated in the cold room; the winds that burst against the rending shell throbbed with mysteries, known and forgotten. The radiance deepened, until its pure luster fell softly on the sky, whose sun was set; it flashed in white splendor upon the black waters and shone like a burning star on the hills beyond the sea.

And the old, old woman crouched on the hearth, shivering and chattering.

A Voice—low as the fluttering breath, yet high as the lashing waters—beat against the hardening brain.

"Why do you love Life and fear Me?" it echoed into space.

The gray lips of the old, old woman muttered: "Life is sweet; Life is warm; Life gave me so much. Give me Life!"

"Life gave you so much!" echoed the voice of Death. "Life gave you birth: birth with its wailing cry. Life gave you the fog-wrapped brain of infancy; the heavy mists of childhood; youth with its mocking rainbow of illusions; long years of bruised and weary toiling over the jagged peaks that break through the cloud-banked horizon of the Unknown; the thickening skies of age. Life gave you hopes that floated and gleamed and mocked in the thicket beyond your struggling body; tender, loved illusions, trembling naked before the world; fair desires turned to jeering devils; pleasures tasted, then drenched with pain's acrid waters; ambitions ground to dust and flung in your burning eyes on the whirlwind of despair. Life freely gave sorrow, pain, anguish—a little joy. Come to me!"

The old, old woman stirred and moaned. "I loved Life. It was my life—mine—no other Life was like it. Give me Life, one year more of Life—my Life!"

Again Death answered: "Life has taken the red roundness of your cheek; the shining darkness of your hair; the glowing fire of your eye; the springing lightness of your footstep; the swaying lightness of your body. Life has taken riches, home, friends, youth, hope: all. Come to me!"

The bony arms groped for Life; the frigid lips quavered: "Leave me Life! One month, one day only, of dear Life—my Life!"

Softly Death whispered: "What has Life left you? A wornout body; a numb heart; a useless brain; an empty house. Come!"

But the old, old woman writhed toward the blackening coal and held her gaunt, shaking hands to its cold gleam, and her stiff lips formed the word, "Life!"

The Voice was still; the winds were silent; the waters rested. And Death's form was not. Softly the Radiance filled the room until the shell of the old house glowed with the fire of an opal. The single coal upon the hearth burned white with the steady clearness of a diamond.

And beside it lay a sleeping child. Upon its form the downy bloom of childhood rested lightly; the cool dew of early morning moistened its fresh cheeks and blossoming lips; the crisp air of a new day called at its ear. It awoke and reached out glad little hands to the rising sun.

And where the child had been there stood a slender girl. Flames of blue and green and gold shimmered in her hair and eyes. The opal fire blazed along her veins; the blood from its heart burned in her face; its white transparence lighted her body. Laughingly she sprang to greet the golden sun.

The light grew softer, whiter; and she, too, passed. From out the rainbow shadows there looked another face. The wistful eyes were filled with tender light. Deep in another's soul shone the reflection of the glad new sun; far in the distance hung the peaceful shadow of a setting sun. And the mother smiled.

In the fading light the faces came and went. Eyes that haunted; disillusioned eyes; eyes heavy with despair; eyes that knew not hope, looked forth. And save for the white glow upon the hearth the room was dark.

A shadow passed across the light. The white glow upon the hearth flared upward, bathing the worn old room in brilliancy. Nothing was there. And the House of One Room sank into blackness.

In the gray light of early morning a cinder crumbled upon the cold hearth of the House of One Room; beside it stretched the stiffened body of an old, old woman. Outside in the narrow road Life played.