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The Night's School by James Hopper.
Having laid my last hope beneath heavy flowers,

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I had drifted back to the village
of my youth. The little village

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was now a large city, a
clamorous city. And on the first day

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I met Dorman. It was on
a stone sidewalk beneath a pale, faint

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sun. How he recognized me,
God only knows. We both had grown

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very old, and at first I
could see nothing in him of the boy

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with whom I had gone to school. He stopped and fixed me silently.

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Then from the folds of his cloak, his arms stretched out and gripped me

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as with a claw. You are
Halton, he said, Jack Halton,

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whose desk was next to mine at
school. I am, I said,

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I am Jack Halton. He stood
there, looking at me with eyes gray

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and round, beneath the bristles of
his heavy brows. I am Dorman,

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he said, Not Dorman, who
sat next to you at school. Of

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late age has been in wrapping me
with its frigid haze, and I have

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taken to the resource of the old. I stare persistently at the golden days

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that are gone, and so I
remembered I remember, I said. His

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hand was still on my arm.
His eyes were on my eyes. You

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have a wife, children, he
asked, I have had a wife.

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I have no wife. I answered, I've had children. I have no

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children. I have never had either
wife or children, he said. We

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stood there on the stone sidewalk beneath
the cheerless sun. Wife nor children.

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He nodded, wife nor children.
But it was on my answer. He

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pondered for Finally he said, come
with me to my house to night.

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A vast indifference held me. I
said, very well, I will go

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with you to your house for to
night. He raised his stick, and

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a carriage, which had been wheeling
slowly back and forth, rushed in sudden

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animation to the curb. We sank
upon the dark cushions within. The door

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shut upon us. As we rolled
along the streets I had known. Now

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unknown to me, I noticed that
his hands folded beneath his chin. On

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the top of his cane trembled incessantly. How old he is? I thought

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it was a palace, his house
of stone, thick wall, the interior

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full of fine somber things, and
muffled with elastic carpets. We dined in

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a high sealed oaken hall before a
blazing grate. We held up our glasses

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to the flame and looked at the
golden sun of our youth, the ruby

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blood of our youth. We drank
the sun, We drank the blood,

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but our veins remained cold. We
went upstairs to his room. Two beds

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heavily curtained, were in it,
against opposite walls. There are two beds.

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He said, you will sleep here
with me in my room. I

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did not care. I answered,
yes, I will sleep here in your

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room with you. I slept badly. The bed was heaped with blankets,

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but they were as heavy as a
lid. And between the sheets I was

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as cold as in the tomb.
I dreamed. A bell was ringing somewhere

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in someone's hand. It had a
brazen, persistent sound. When it had

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ceased with the last rattle of clapper, a drum began to beat. Feet

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march to the beat, many of
them light feet, marching a little shufflingly.

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I could hear their passing from crunched
gravel to a resonance of hollow wood.

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They united in a rhythmic murmur,
above which, like gulls eddying over

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the sea, sharp cries of command
hovered female cries of women. A door

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slam too, with a clack as
of a whip. The drum died abruptly.

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There was a silence. Then a
charse of fresh, young voices rose

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in song, a song which my
bearded critical self judged harshly, but which

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was soft to the heart of my
youth. Though I thought that I must

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be asleep, thought that my eyes
must be closed, I was aware of

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my host in white, standing at
one of the three southern windows. He

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too, seemed to listen to the
song. I heard him sigh, a

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long, dolorous sigh. Then he
must have returned to his bed. The

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song trailed away in a last,
long, gentle note. And now I

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slept undisturbed, a tenderness tugging at
my soul. I awoke after the long

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night. The room was still dark, but when to my gesture a curtained

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word opened with a noise as of
wings, the day came in, warm

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with sun. I stood at the
window and looked out. I was looking

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deep into a large bare yard.
Children were playing there, many children,

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brown headed and yellow haired boys and
girls. Above them, the layers of

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air, striated with suns, seemed
liquid. They were like goldfish in an

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aquarium. They zigzagged like butterflies in
their bright garments. Their cries, muffled

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to me, came as the little
cries of birds. The front of the

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yard, to my right was a
big brick building, pierced with many windows.

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Do you recognize the place, Dorman
asked. I turned and saw him

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standing at the casement next to mine. He seemed speaking to the glass,

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not to me. It is a
school, is it? Not? I

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fenced? It is our school,
he said. I looked back far into

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my memory and saw that it indeed
must be the school to which we had

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when young. But it had changed. The yard had been much wider than

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without bonds, to the south,
where now rose a forest of chimneys and

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roofs. Then it had stretched away
to the south in a grassy meadow that

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sloped away gently to a brook,
And the schoolhouse had not been the big

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brick pile it now stood. I
shut my eyes and saw again the schoolhouse

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that had been. I saw clearly
the little wooden house, its overlapping board

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softly gray, its peaked roof as
green as moss, the red veins of

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the carpeting vine, and the long
outside stairway slanting upward to the gallery,

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along which we marched up to our
classroom under the twittering eaves. They have

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changed it our school, I exclaimed, absurdly resentful when I returned to this

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city, he said, I built
here next to the school. I don't

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know why I built here next to
the school. A bell began to ring

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in the yard beneath me. The
children's criss crossing play halted abruptly and petrified,

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and longed to chorus lines. A
drum began to beat, and the

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little ones marched into school. The
many little feet stamped the ground together.

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The lines flowed forward, They coiled, straightened rows, and slid like ribbons

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into the yawning portals. The drum
beat, the little feet tramped, tramp

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tramped along halls, up flights of
stairs. The whole building trembled to the

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tremendous union of their light, firm
tread. And above this basic rumor,

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the commands of the women teachers eddied
like the gull's nostalgic cry. The drum

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stopped, the outer doors clang shut. A silence followed. Then fresh young

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voices rose, and choral song.
Why it must be what I heard last

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night, I cried, but Dorman
said it was not they, you heard

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the others. I did not understand
him. I stayed again at Dorman's house,

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for he insisted, and I did
not care. My sleep was troubled

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again that night. The covers lay
upon me like a stone, and I

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was tomb cold. A bell began
to ring. It rang persistently. Its

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clangs winged off in brazen waves,
struck and rebounded to mingle with new clangs,

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till my brain pained. I rose
at length to its continued attack,

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and, groping through the velvet darkness, reached one of the windows. I

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parted the ponderous curtains, looked and
saw nothing. I was looking into the

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night and saw only night. Little
by little, through the fixity of my

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stare, the blackness seemed to recede, and at last I saw, in

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a brown obscurity, I saw a
yard and a schoolhouse. It was a

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small school house of wood. The
roof was peaked, vines veined one wall,

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stairs along another wall slanted upward to
a gallery beneath the eaves below me.

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The distinct floor of the yard was
dimly striated with lines. These were

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animated with a fluid pulsation. After
a time when I understood them. Children

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were lying there, grave, little
children, many of them with books under

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their arms, or swinging at the
end of straps. I tried to count

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the children, but there were too
many. I tried to count the lines,

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but they fluctuated like tide water.
There were many. They ran east

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and west from the little school house
to the fence at the back, then

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turned flexibly and streamed off to the
south, where in my youth the land

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lay open. I could not see
them end over there. My eyes followed

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them till they merged in the darkness. But even there, and beyond the

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void, held an undulation of fluid
multitudes. Multitudes of children waited in line.

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Over there, in the vague region, beyond the reading of my sight.

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The bell came to a stop with
a last wicked rattle, and a

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drum began to beat. A shiver
passed along the lines like a breeze,

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and the small forms bent slightly forward. The lines began to flow, and

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the night became filled with a measured, soft and tender tramping sound, which

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was as the muffled heartbeat of the
night. The lions passed by. They

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came glidingly from the void in the
south, swung into the yard with a

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lithe torsion of a fish that turns
crushed across the gravel, stamped up the

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planking of the stairs, flowed into
the yawn of the doors. They passed

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the children by hundreds, by thousands. The stairs shook, the frail building

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trembled. The night was rhythmic with
the soft beat of their feet, the

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drum beat they passed. And still
the vastness to the south palpitated obscurely,

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with unnumbered reserves above the basic rumor. The cries of women were sharp.

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It's our class coming now, our
own class, said a voice within the

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room. I turned toward it.
Dorman was at the window next to mine,

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seated in his rich red armchair.
He was looking as I looked,

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his brow against the pane. How
are class? How are our class?

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I said, peevishly. It is
our class, you see if it is

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not our class? And then it
was truly our class that passed the little

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companions of our childhood. They came
in line from the dim reservoir to the

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south, turned into the yard,
crunched upon its gravel, and rose along

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the stairway to the small room.
Beneath the eaves. Their familiar little feet

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hissed gently against the wooden steps,
and we stood there, the two old

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men, each at his window,
watching with cold brows upon the panes.

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Dorman, as they passed, told
them off to me one by one,

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their names and their fate. I
saw Jack Bennett, the butcher's son,

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and I remembered that I still owed
him a marble. I saw red headed

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Jack Sterns, with his pale,
up tilted nose, and the glass eye

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which had been our marvel and our
pride. And ruscolle Miller, who had

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become a banker and star who had
ended in the gutter. And Perry,

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who had wrecked himself against the things
it will not move. Up the other

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stairs, which we could not see, I guess the girls were passing,

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and I knew that among them was
a frail, blue eyed girl. Ah,

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how well I remembered her. But
I said, all those you tell

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me of have died. From his
window, Dorman said, I have noticed

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that all those that pass here have
died. He added, after a moment,

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and all those with whom we went
to school pass here. The class

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is almost complete. And still they
passed, and still Dorman told them off.

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Some had been poor, some had
been rich, some had been comic,

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and some tragic, but all had
died. Ralph Dorn passed by.

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He had been my best chalm at
school. Ralph Ralph went my lips,

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but made no sound, and he
did not hear. But I knew now

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that all my life I had missed
him, him and the frail blue eyed

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girl. I knew now what had
been ailing my life. He said,

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Dorman, watch him. He's always
funny. To the stairs came a hunchback

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boy. He toiled up with much
labor, but did not know that he

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toiled, for his eyes were ahead, far amid vapory visions. Beneath his

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cap, his hair was like a
wreath of gold. He wrote verse,

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and he starved, said Dorman.
I have his book in the library.

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It is funny. The poet boy
toiled up uncertainly. He zigzagged a bit

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from side to side. The cries
of the women teachers eddied over him.

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He slowed up the line and disordered
the march. His eyes were far.

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The boy behind him mischievously wiped his
feet upon his stockings, but he was

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unaware of it. The same boy
reached within his pocket and took his pencil

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and his knife, But still he
did not notice. He let a book

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slip from beneath his elbow, and
the boy behind trampled upon it. Finally,

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the boy behind gave him a push. The poet boy fell, his

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cap jerked off his head, his
books scattered down the stae. A woman

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teacher picked him up and shook him
ragefully, while the boy behind looked grave

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and reproachful. If I were there, I would protect him, I thought,

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If I were there, I would
understand him. Who is the boy

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behind, I asked Dorman. It's
Spike Martin. He answered, he has

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been the most successful of us.
All his sons are multi millionaires. I

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notice now that this was the end
of all the marching. This was the

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last line. A length of it
was still on the stairs, but the

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yard behind was already empty. It
is the end, I said, Yes,

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he answered, they have all passed
now. Our class is always the

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last. But wait, I said, here comes another boy. I think,

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Are you sure, said Dorman,
I have not missed anyone. Yes,

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yes, I am sure. From
the vague somberness to the south,

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a dim form was flitting towards us. It neared It was a boy running

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very fast, his books under his
arm, his cap in hand. Who

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is that boy? Who is that
boy? Dorman murmured. The boy was

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still in the twilight, not quite
distinct, but he was nearing very fast.

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He seemed to pant for his school
despite his fast running. His hair

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was orderly and a little damp,
with late combing, as though to the

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ring of the bell. He had
broken away from a mother's lingering touch.

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Who is that boy? Who is
that boy? Mumbled Dorman. The boy

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was near, and something about his
square shoulders, his sturdy legs, the

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way he swayed slightly from right to
left as he ran, gave my memory

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unrest Who is that boy? Who
is that boy? Dorman cried. It

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seems to me. I know,
it seems to me, I know,

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I said, my memory more and
more restless. Who is that boy?

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Halton? Who is that boy?
And suddenly I knew it is you,

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00:14:56,039 --> 00:15:01,440
Dorman, It is you, I
cried, No, no, Halton,

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00:15:01,480 --> 00:15:05,080
don't say that. Who is that
boy? It is you? It is

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00:15:05,480 --> 00:15:09,799
you, I cried. The boy
came swiftly across the yard, leaped up

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00:15:09,840 --> 00:15:13,960
the steps. He came to the
poet boy drew him aside eagerly took his

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00:15:15,120 --> 00:15:20,279
place. Then, with incredible quickness, he pulled aside boy after boy till

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00:15:20,360 --> 00:15:24,000
he was first, and at the
door he vanished within. The boys behind,

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00:15:24,120 --> 00:15:28,039
one after the other, vanished within. The poet boy, last of

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00:15:28,080 --> 00:15:33,039
the line, vanished within the door. Slap shut, the drums stopped beating.

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00:15:33,320 --> 00:15:37,240
There was a silence. I left
my window, and going up to

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00:15:37,279 --> 00:15:41,360
Dorman, placed a friendly hand upon
his shoulder, and he was dead,

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00:15:43,120 --> 00:15:48,039
dead there in his rich red armchair, his brow still upon the cold pane.

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00:15:48,639 --> 00:15:52,879
I think I shall stay here always, and stand at the window at

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00:15:52,960 --> 00:15:56,240
night till out of the vague region
to the south I see a boy come

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00:15:56,320 --> 00:16:03,200
running, A last late boy come
running to join his dear comrades. End

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00:16:03,240 --> 00:16:04,159
of the night school