Speaker 1: The Worker in Sandalwood by Marjorie L. C. Pickthall. The
Good Cure of Terminaison says that this tale of Yasant's
is all a dream. But then Madame points triumphantly to
the little cabinet of sandalwood in the corner of her room.
It had stood there for many years now, and the
dust has gathered in the fine lines of the little
bird's feathers, and softened the petals of the lilies carved
at the corners, and the wood has taken on a
golden gleam, like the memory of a sunset. What of that,
my friend, says Madame, pointing to the cabinet, and the
old Cure bows his head. It may be so, God
is very good, he says gently, but he is never
quite sure what he may believe. On that winter day
long ago, Yasant was quite sure of one thing, and
that was that the workshop was very cold. There was
no fire in it, and only one little lamp. When
the early dark drew on, the tools were so cold
they scorched. His fingers and feet were so cold he
danced clumsily in the shavings to warm them. He was
a great clumsy boy of fourteen dark faced, dull eyed,
and uncared for. He was clumsy because it is impossible
to be graceful when you are growing very fast and
have not enough to eat. He was dull eyed because
all eyes met his unlovingly. He was uncared for because
no one knew the beauty of his soul. But his
heavy young hands could carve things like birds and flowers perfectly.
On this winter evening, he was just wondering if he
might lay aside the tools and creep home to the
cold loft where he slept, when he heard Pierre L'read's
voice shouting outside. Be quick, be quick, and open a door.
Thou imbecile, It is I thy master. We momet, said Yasance,
and he shambled to the door and opened it slow worm,
cried Pierre, and he cuffed Yasant as he passed in.
Yasance rubbed his head and said nothing. He was used
to blows. He wondered why his master was in the
workshop at that time of day instead of drinking brandy
at the sank Chateau. Pierre Loread had a small heavy
bundle under his arm, wrapped in sacking, then in burlap,
and then in fine soft cloths. He laid it on
a pile of shavings and unfolded it carefully, and a
dim sweetness filled the dark shed and hung heavily in
the thin winter sunbeams. It is a piece of wood,
said Yasance, in slow surprise. He knew that such wood
had never been seen in Terminaison. Pierre Loreard rubbed the
wood respectfully with his knobby fingers. It is sandalwood, he
explained to Yasance, pride of knowledge, making him quite amiable,
A most precious wood that grows in warm countries. Thou
great goblin, smell it, idiot. It is sweeter than cedar.
It is to make a cabinet for the old Madame
at the big house. We mommet, said the dull Yasance.
Thy great hands shall shape and smooth the wood, nigor,
and I will render it beautiful, said Pierre, puffing out
his chest. Yes, Master, answered Yasance humbly. And when is
it to be ready for madame? Madame will want it?
Perhaps next week, for that is Christmas. It is to
be finished and ready for the holy festival, Great Sluggard,
hearest thou, and he cuffed Yasant's ears again furiously. Yasantin
knew that the making of the cabinet would fall to him,
as most of the other work did. When Pierre Laread
was gone. He touched the strange sweet wood, and at
last Lady's cheek against it, while the fragrance caught his breath.
How it is beautiful, said Yasans, and for a moment
his eyes glowed and he was happy. Then the light passed,
and with bent head, he shuffled back to his bench
through a foam of white shavings, curling almost to his knees.
Madame will want the cabinet for Christmas, repeated Yasance to himself,
and fell to work harder than ever, though it was
so cold in the shed that his breath hung in
the air like a little silvery cloud. There was a
time any window on his right, through which, when it
was clear of frost, one looked on Terminaison, and that
was cheerful and made him whistle. But on the left,
through the chink of the ill fitting door, there was
nothing to be seen but the forest and the road
dying under the snow. Brandy was good at the sant Chateau,
and Pierre Loreard gave Yasans plenty of directions, but no
further help with the cabinet that is to be finished
for Madame at the festival. Sluggard said he every day
cuffing Yasance about the head finished, and with a prettiness
about the corners. Hearest thou roussint, Yes, Monsieur, said Yarsance,
in his slow way. I will try to finish it,
but if I hurry, I shall spoil it. Pierre's little
eyes flickered. See that it is done, and done properly.
I suffer from a delicacy of the constitution and a
little feebleness of the legs these days, so that I
cannot handle the tools properly. I must leave this work
to thee gacheur, and stand up and touch a hand
to thy cap when I speak to thee slow worm, Yes, monsieur,
said Yasant wearily. It is hard to do all the
work and to be beaten into the bargain, and fourteen
is not very old. Yasanth worked on at the cabinet
with his slow and exquisite skill. But on Christmas Eve
he was still at work, and the cabinet unfinished. The
master will beat me, thought Yia Sanz, and he trembled
a little, for Pierre's beatings were cruel. But if I hurry,
I shall spoil the wood, and it is too beautiful
to be spoiled. But he trembled again when Pierre came
into the workshop, and he stood up and touched his cap.
Is the cabinet finished, Ambasil, asked Pierre, and yasanthe answered
in a low voice, No, it is not finished yet, monsieur.
Then work on it all night and show it to
me completed in the morning, or thy bone shall mourn
thine idleness, said Pierre, with a wicked look in his
little eyes, and he shut Yasanz into the shed with
the smoky lamp, his tools, and the sandalwood cabinet. It
was nothing unusual. He had been often left before to
finish a piece of work over night while Pierre went
off to his brandies. But this was Christmas Eve, and
he was very tired. Even the scent of the sandalwood
could not make him fancy. He was warm. The world
seemed to be a black place, full of suffering and despair.
In all the world, I have no friend, said Yasanz,
staring at the flame of the lamp. In all the world,
there is no one to care whether I live or
die in all the world, no place, no heart, no love,
O kind God, Is there a place a love for
me in another world. I hope you feel very sorry
for Yasant, lonely and cold and shut up in the
workshop on the eve of Christmas. He was but an overgrown,
unhappy child. And I think with old Madame that for
unhappy children at this season, no help seems too divine.
For faith. There is no one to care for me,
said Yasance. And he even looked at the chisel in
his hand, thinking that by a touch of that he
might lose it all and be at peace somewhere not
far from God. Only it was forbidden. Then came the
tears and great sobs that shook him so that he
scarcely heard the gentle rattling of the latch. He stumbled
to the door, opening it on the still woods and
the frosty stars, and a lad who stood outside in
the snow said, I see you are working late, comrade.
May I come in. Yasanth brushed his ragged sleeve across
his eyes and nodded, yes. Those little villages strung along
the great River see strange wayfarers at times and Yasins
said to himself that surely here was such a one.
Blinking into the stranger's eyes, he lost for a flash
the first impression of youth, and received one of incredible
age or sadness. But the wonderer's eyes were only quiet,
very quiet, like the little pools in the wood where
the wild doze went to drink. As he turned within
the door, smiling at Yasant and shaking some snow from
his cap, he did not seem to be more than
sixteen or so. It is very cold outside, he said.
There is a big oak tree on the edge of
the fields that had split in the frost and frightened
all the little squirrels asleep there. Next year it will
make an even better home for them. And see what
I found close by. He opened his fingers and showed
Hiasance a little sparrow lying unruffled in the palm. Pauvrette,
said the dull Yasance, Pauvrette. Is it then dead? He
touched it with a gentle forefinger. No, answered the strange boy,
it is not dead. We will put it here among
the shavings, not far from the lamp, and it will
be well by the morning. He smiled at Yasanth again,
and the shambling lad felt dimly as if the scent
of the sandalwood were sweeter and the lamp flame clearer.
But the stranger's eyes were only quiet. Quiet. Have you
come far, asked Yasance. It is a bad season for traveling,
and the wolves are out A long way, said the other,
A long long way. I heard a child cry. There
is no child here, put in Yasans. Monsieur Lerayad says
children cost too much money. But if you have come far,
you must need food and fire, and I have neither.
At the sant Chateau you will find both. The stranger
looked at him again with those quiet eyes, and Yasinth
fancied that his face was familiar. I will stay here,
he said. You are late at work, and you are unhappy.
Why as to that, answered Jasance, rubbing his cheeks and
ashamed of his tears. Most of us are sad at
one time or another. The good God knows. Stay here
and welcome if it pleases you, and you may take
a share of my bed, though it is no more
than a pile of balsam boughs and an old blanket
in the loft. But I must work at this cabinet,
for the drawers must be finished, and the handles put on,
and the corners carved, all by the holy morning, or
my wages will be paid with a stick. You have
a hard master, put in the other if he would
pay you with blows upon the feast of Noel. He
is hard enough, said Yasanth. But once he gave me
a dinner of sausages and white wine, and once in
the summer melons. If my eyes will stay open, I
will finish this by morning. Stay with me an hour
or so, comrade, and talk to me of your travels,
so that the time may pass more quickly. And while
Yasanth worked, he told of sunshine and dust, of the
shadow of vine leaves on the flat white walls of
a house, of rosy doves on the roof, of the
flowers that come out in the spring, and nemones, crimson
and blue and white sicklemen in the shadow of the rocks,
of the olive, the myrtle, and the almond, until Yasin's
fingers ceased working, and his steepy eyes blinked wonderingly. See
what you have done, comrade, he said, At last, you
have told me of such pretty things that I have
done but little work for an hour, and now the
cabinet will never be finished, and I shall be beaten.
Let me help you, smiled the other I also was
bred a carpenter. At first Yasanth would not, fearing to
trust the sweet wood out of his own hands. But
at length he allowed the stranger to fit in one
of the drawers. And so deftly was it done that
Yasanth pounded his fists on the bench in admiration. You
have a pretty knack, he cried. It seems as if
you did but hold a drawer in your hands a moment,
and hey, it jumped into its place. Let me fit
in the other little drawers while you rest. Awhile, said
the stranger. So Yasinth curled up among the shavings, and
the other boy fell to work upon the little cabinet
of sandalwood. Jasinth was very tired. He lay still among
the shavings and thought of all the boy had told him,
of the hillside flowers, the laughing leaves, the golden bloom
of the anise, and the golden sun upon the roads,
until he was warm. And all the time the boy
with the quiet eyes was at work upon the cabinet, smoothing, fitting, polishing.
You do better work than I, said Yasinth. Once, and
the stranger answered, I was lovingly taught. And again Jasinth said,
it is growing towards morning. In a little while I
will get up and help you. Lie still and rest,
said the other boy, and Yasinth lay still. His thoughts
began to slide into dreams, and he woke with a
little start, for there seemed to be music in the shed,
though he could not tell whether it came from the
strange boy's lips, or from the shabby tools as he
used them, or from the stars. The stars are much paler,
thought Yasance. Soon it will be morning, and the corners
are not carved. Yet. I must get up and help
this kind one. In a little moment, only the music
and the sweetness seemed to fold me close, so that
I may not move. Then behind the forest there shone
a pale glow of dawn, and in terminaison the church
bells began to ring. Day will soon be here, thought Hasans,
And with day will come Monsieur Loread and his stick.
I must get up and help, for even yet the
corners are not carved but the stranger looked at him,
smiling as though he loved him, and laid his brown
finger lightly on the four empty corners of the cabinet,
and Yasinth saw the squares of reddish wood ripple and
heave and break as little clouds when the wind goes
through the sky, and one of them thrust forth the
little birds, and after them the lilies for a moment living.
But even as Yasant looked, settling back into the sweet
reddish brown wood, then the stranger smiled again, laid all
the tools in order, and opening the door, went away
into the woods. Yasanth crept slowly to the door. The
winter sun, half risen, filled all the frosty air with
splendid gold. Far down the road a figure seemed to
move amid the glory, But the splendor was such that
Yasanth was blinded. His breath came sharply as the glow
beat on the wretched, shed on the old shavings on
the cabinet, with the little birds and the lilies carved
at the corners. He was too pure of heart to
feel afraid. But blessed be the Lord, whispered Yasath, clasping
his slow hands for he hath visited and redeemed his people.
But who will believe? Then? The Son of Christ's stay
rose gloriously, and the little sparrow came from his nest
among the shavings, and shook his wings to the light
end of The Worker in Sandalwood by Marjorie L. C.
Pickthall