Story of the Month: Return

A living picture drawn from the very heart of reality, dedicated to those who labor hard to create a better society — in the hope that in their principles of reform there may be some share for these unfortunates.

"How greatly all this has changed!" Raouf said it slowly, standing dazed, his eyes moving here and there. And in what he said he was truthful: yes, how greatly all this had changed. The long, wide street had not been so grand as it now was. These massive buildings, these crowded shops, those cafés spread along the two sides — all this was new to him, for none of it had existed nine years before... Truly, everything had changed.

But why wonder, when the hand of change had reached out to him as well? He had not been at all what he was now. He had been... he had been... oh, how hard it is to remember... no — how bitter the memory was to him. The man thrust his hand into his inner pocket and drew out, from among a bundle of papers, a photograph of himself that showed him a young man, the water of life dripping from his face, and in his eyes a smile courted by wishes and caressed by wide hopes. He could hardly believe that this face had ever been his.

He sighed with anguish and returned the picture to its place in his shabby pocket... and began to pass his hand over his face, feeling it; then he cast a sorrowful glance at the suit he wore, which had once had its share of elegance. Now it was faded in color, its tightness straining against his frame.

Yes, the hand of change had reached even his body. He had been slender and light; but now, what had that slenderness to do with this coarse body? Where was the fineness in these bulging muscles? Where indeed was that comely, handsome youth in this man who still bore on his face and his head the marks of prison — the face that had not known a razor for days, and the head that had been written upon with the razor whenever its hair grew a few millimeters long?

Oh, a curse upon life — how much he had hoped of it, and how utterly it had disowned him.

The man heaved a sigh, then pushed himself forward and walked. Where to? He did not know. It was good to walk and walk — turning now and then to see whether he was being followed by that rough soldier who, with his terrible rifle, had been bound to him closer than his shadow for nine years; and when he made certain the man was not there, a smile would break from his lips, assuring him that he had truly become free... So he must enjoy this freedom that had been showered upon him that morning, now that he had paid the prison his debt to the last minute...

In his walking Raouf covered most of the streets of the city, hurrying at times and slowing at others, gathering up everything he met with a look of curiosity — like a small child whose eyes have opened on worlds where everything is new to him.

At last, after seven unbroken hours of walking, weariness took him. He looked about him for a place where he might find rest and recover the vigor of his legs, and he chose a seat near a planted hedge surrounding a fragrant garden, in the middle of which stood an elegant villa.

He rested in the shade for an hour and more, snatching a short doze, after which he rose to continue on his way to any place where something to eat might be found, for he felt hunger gnawing at his bowels. He possessed the price of a few meals with which to silence the call of his stomach for two or three days, and after that... But he liked to think only of the present — the very near present — and afterward he would see how matters stood between him and this world...

He walked a few steps along the curb, his gaze straying beyond the trellised hedge, until he came level with the garden's iron gate, on which was fixed a small brass plate bearing some name.

He read the name out of mere habit. He took one more step, then at once drew back and read the name a second time, a third, a fourth, staring in astonishment. Good God... this name... it meant things to him. It was the turning point of his life... The man's head spun and his eyes were nailed to the shining brass plate, as if he were reviewing on

its surface armies of memories that seemed to look out at him through that plate.

*

A young boy, bending over his books, devouring their lines, hardly lifting his strained eyes except to catch sight of his mother stooped over the sewing machine — and he would give her a look of tenderness. Then he would bend over his books again: the least he could do was reward his mother with his success. She had toiled for his sake sixteen unbroken years, ever since his father died without leaving him anything but the mercy of God — this mother who had spent of her youth and her health to secure for him what would meet the demands of life.

The boy finished his studies and came back to her one day waving his diploma, tears of joy scattering from his eyes as he cried: "Mother, put this cursed machine aside... no more work after today... for I am your man."

After that, life went along with him smoothly and without excess. He obtained a post in one of the banks, and there he came to know Najib, and was bound to him by a bond of friendship and affection; each of them was closer to the other than his own shadow. Raouf saw in him an elder brother who gave him sincere counsel and took charge of his guidance. Would that he had never known him! Then his road would have run straight, and he could well have done without crooked counsel and mined guidance — and without that whispering which Najib so long poured into Raouf's ear, and against which Raouf so long stopped his ears. "No" was his one weapon in the face of temptation... What? Take part in an embezzlement? No, and a thousand times no. He rejected it with all his force; he could not picture himself attempting it — he trembled at the mere thought of the thing...

But the temptation went on, strong and insistent. It lasted days and months, and the "No" began to lose that firm, decisive ring... Softness crept into Raouf's firmness, and integrity began to die in his soul little by little...

And at last the forbidden thing came to pass... But you lay your plans — and the fates laugh.

He was caught — or rather they were caught, for they were a group — as they were making ready to flee. It was a shameful scandal; many were the tears the mother shed in grief and anguish; and the young man's share (of the spoils...) was nine years to be spent as an honored guest... of a certain prison. As for Najib, he was the only one against whom

the evidence of the charge could not be established, and he came out of the melee acquitted... his skirts spotless.

*

Raouf lifted his eyes from the brass plate and turned suddenly at the sound of the motor of an elegant automobile coming to a stop; its door opened, and out of it stepped... Najib...

How strange coincidences are! It was he himself, his very figure — save for that coating of grandeur that clothed his face...

He advanced toward the door of the house, fixed the standing stranger with a look of pride, and said:
— What are you doing here, man?

Raouf smiled coldly and said: — Good heavens... don't you know me, Najib?

Najib's eyes bulged and he cried out, disbelieving his own eyes: ...Who? Raouf? I see you here... I... I mean, when did you leave your prison?
— Today.

Najib took hold of himself and said with resolve —
Very well, and what do you want?
— I ask your help.

— You ask my help? Ha ha... Listen, Raouf: I suppose you have been able to guess that I have become a man of position, and I suppose you will agree with me that it is not in my interest to couple my name with yours now. It is better for you to keep out of my way... Do you hear? And now, take this.

He put his hand into his pocket, took out a silver coin, and tossed it into the air; it came to rest at the feet of Raouf, who kept shifting his gaze between it and Najib's face, and then said, while the two forces of rage and resentment pulled at him:

— Keep it in your pocket, you scoundrel... I have no need of your generosity!

Raouf shook his head sorrowfully... and went on... But where was he to go? He had hoped for Najib's help; and now that this base man had dashed his hopes, no way remained before him but to turn to a cousin of his, and shelter under his roof for a few days until life should settle for him somehow.

He knocked at the cousin's door — would that he had not! — for the answer came harsher in its blow than the stab of knives:

— My roof shelters no criminals... Go back where you came from.

And he went on... knocking at doors in search of work... the same question and the same answer every time... Is there any post, sir?

The men in charge would look him over with searching eyes, and their eyes fell on nothing but an appearance whose shabbiness held nothing to inspire confidence... and the lips of each of them would part over a single word that cut the frail thread of hope from his soul: "Sorry"...

His feet grew weary with the seeking and his tongue dry with the asking...

And he began to go hungry — and hunger is an infidel — and he began to lose his taste for this freedom that had so long caressed him in his dreams.

Was this the world that the prison chaplain had painted for him — a tender mother blessing whoever comes to her repentant and asking forgiveness, burying his past in—

Oh, the betrayal of hopes... no, the beastliness of men! He could not bear the looks of contempt that poured down upon him, just as he had not borne that arrogance with which Najib had met him.

The wretch... he no longer knew him? He, who with the pickaxe of evil had torn down his life! Yes, he had torn it down, and it had collapsed into ruins, over whose remains perch the owl of despair and the raven of ill omen.

Two victims sentenced to pain: the mother, who died of grief and anguish; and he — after hopes had died in his breast, and still died a thousand deaths a day — while that villain lived life at its most smiling and prosperous, enjoying wealth and position and respect...

Let the tongues that prate of justice fall silent, for people know nothing of it but its name.

*

The poor man went hungry for days, and he would not ask people for a few morsels to keep body and soul together. He had come to hate all human beings — yes, all of them, for they were criminals, brutes, hard of heart... And a terrible idea began to haunt him: why should he not go back to prison, and set a barrier between himself and this world? There, at least, shelter and food would be his... The roughness of the prison bed was better than sleeping in the open... and that plain soup and dry black bread better than starvation... But how to find the way back?

He thought long... with his stomach... for reason does not dwell in a hungry man's head...! He listened long to the whispering of the devils... and smiled a savage smile as their "inspiration...!" descended upon him, and sprang up shouting like a madman: I will kill him... yes, I will kill him... and my revenge will be tremendous.

*

As for the end of the road, it came in the terrible iron cage, in the hall of the criminal court, where Raouf crouched in a corner of it, his lips pressed shut, parting only over the two words with which he answered the judge's question: Why did you try to kill him, man?

— Because I want it so! — and then he would return to his silence...

He did not know how much time had passed over him as he crouched in his corner before he heard the judge's voice split, with its ringing tones, the silence that had settled over the hall: So that is what you want? Back to prison, then... and let it be a life term this time!

And Raouf returned.