Part 9

When he met her out with the children, and took them to the confectioner's, he had the greatest desire to speak out; but her manner prevented it. It was her trustful innocence that was the principal hindrance, and he dared not startle her. All the energy in him drove him to action; but his love for her lent itself to her wish for a poetical pastime where love might not be mentioned, although everything was symbolical of it. There was a charm about their intercourse the like of which he had never experienced.

On a certain evening, once every week, she took part in a private concert, or something of the kind, at the house of some of her husband's relations, the same house, in fact, where she had gone to that dance. Kallem made his way in to these evenings, through his fellow-student, her nephew. Of course he went there solely and entirely so as to be able to walk home with her at night. At this time the snow was gone and the streets were full of ice. When he told her that he was going to be there, too, and would be allowed to see her home (at which she was very pleased), it was an understood thing that he always had either a sledge or carriage for her.

They were about to start for home after a long evening when there had been a great deal too much music for those small rooms; she hastened to get on her wraps and get away. Here he took her arm. "It is fortunate," said he, "that the moon is just up." She thought they would have got into one of the sledges that stood waiting there, or into a carriage that just then drove up; she gave a little scream, as it was quite smooth ice just by the door, yet she went on bravely. Meanwhile they passed by one sledge after the other, and the carriage, too. None seemed to be theirs. "Are we not going to drive?" asked she. The rogue laughed; it was he who had planned this walk. She tried to hide her disappointment; but, after a few vain efforts, begged to be allowed to drive. Then he recollected how frightened she had been that first time; his conscience pricked him, and he declared they would go to the very first stand, which was not far off. The road was not so very slippery, but it was steep; she clung to his arm, staring nervously before her, with an occasional little scream. Matters did not mend as they advanced, for at times the whole road was covered with ice, though there were always one or two safe spots. He rather lost courage; especially as he no longer heard her little screams. He had never seen anyone so frightened before. As a matter of course, they made their way slowly, step by step, with many and long pauses.

Some of the gardens and fields round about them were bare, and some were covered with snow and ice; it was to these she tried to make her way; but he showed her that the way was stopped either by a house or a garden; it was not like in the country. The fields looked broken up, the sky, too, for long, narrow, cloudlets were floating through the dark-blue atmosphere above, exactly like ice down below here with gaps between. The moon seemed to be racing after the cloudlets at full speed, trying to overtake them, pass through and hurry still farther on; there must be a perfect hurricane up above; down below all was quiet. Kallem's mistake made him feel both uneasy and unhappy. The unsteady light there was over the whole of nature, with its scattered colouring only increased this feeling; surely something would go wrong. And never did that feeling come over him without its bringing back to his remembrance that night of terror from his childhood, with all its consequences. Was this to follow him all through life, this terrifying forewarning of his own wrong-doings? He was greatly excited; for she must not be allowed to fall. If it had not been for her timidity he would have gone down the hills in a merry, sliding dance; now her being frightened made him frightened too. Each slippery place became a real danger, from which he was only saved by passing on to a fresh one; they neither looked at each other nor did they utter a word, they were impatient and afraid. They were several minutes in doing what otherwise would have taken a few seconds; the one secretly blamed the other, struggling on as though for dear life. There was just an occasional gasping, "Good heavens!" or "Take care here!" or a despairing "No, no, it's no use!" and then a "Try again! Come along!"--at last not even that. She might groan and lament, almost cry, he no longer answered her. She was so taken up by her own fright that she never noticed the change.

But at last they saw salvation in front of them, namely, high houses on each side which had kept off the sun and prevented the snow melting. The question was now to get thus far; the stand was close by. At last they succeeded. She stopped and drew breath and tried to laugh, but without success. "Let us wait a little," she said, and drew a long breath again. They turned and looked on either side; farther away they heard sleigh bells and listened. "I hope the last horse has not left the stand," said she; "it is late." She took his arm and they walked on. The road was not quite all; right here either; the snow was trodden down hard, but there had been sand strewn on the pavement; they walked quicker, and by degrees with greater assurance. "Thank God!" said she, as much relieved as though she had come out of a sea of ice. Hardly had she said the words before down she fell. They had come to a deceptive place where there had been water, which was now frozen and covered with hoar frost. She slipped, and up against one of his feet, so that he too slipped and fell--the one on top of the other. He swore a tremendous oath in the fulness of his heart, and sprang to his feet again in order to help her; but she lay there immovable with closed eyes.

He turned like ice. Was it concussion of the brain? He laid her on his knee, pulled off his right-hand glove with his teeth, and then untied the strings under' her chin. Her arms hung loosely down, her face was pale as death, he opened her cloak, he wanted to give her air. Then she moved. "Ragni!" whispered he; "Ragni!" and bent down still nearer to her. "Dear, darling Ragni! Forgive me!" She opened her eyes. "Do you hear? Can you forgive me?" The colour came back to her cheeks, her hand went up to her cloak, which was unfastened; then she must have felt it, she had only been dazed with fright. He could no longer control his joy, he pressed her head to him and kissed her one, two, three times. "Oh, how I love you!" whispered he, and kissed her again. He felt she wanted to move, so he got up at once and helped her up as well. But she was not able to stand alone, and nearly fell, so he supported her to the garden railing just in front of the house; she caught hold of it and leaned against it as if she could not bear her own weight. He let go his hold of her to see if she could stand without help, which she was able to do. "I'll run for a sledge," said he, and away he went. As he ran along he bethought himself that he might have done that at once and all would have been avoided. But would he be able to get a sledge? If not there, he would run on farther. If only she could stand and nobody go by.... He ran and he flew, and when he saw a horse and sledge standing there, he jumped in, and would have had the coachman drive off at the top of his speed without knowing where he was to go to. When that was rectified and the sledge had started, he realized what he had said and done as he held her in his arms! He had felt it all along, though it had only been as it were in soft and gentle tones, now it burst out into full, rich melody.

"Drive on, faster! She is standing over there to the right. We fell down, and she hurt herself. There she is!" He jumped out and hurried up to her, while the coachman turned and drove the sledge close up to them. She was still leaning against the railing, half sideways; she had fastened her cloak again and drawn down her veil. She gave him her hand when he came, that she might have support; he took it, put his other hand on her waist so as to guide her in front of him; he did not wish to risk being upset again. There was no further accident, he put her in the sledge, wrapped her up carefully, paid the coachman and told him where to go. She begged him not to drive with her; she never said good-bye; never looked up. They drove off.

At once he felt--now she was leaving him. Nothing annoys a sensible man more than his own stupidity and want of control. He wandered about the streets that night by the hour, and sneaked home like a beaten hound. He dared not inquire of the servant next morning, but in the evening she told him, unasked, that her mistress had not been well; she had been sick and was still in bed, but was rather better. Marie's conscious smile put him into a towering passion. And she had the impudence, too, to examine his face closely. All the same, he was obliged to go and inquire the next day; her mistress was up and quite well again. But neither that day nor the next did he get a glimpse of her, or hear a sound from any of the children. Neither did she play in the evening, he made an excuse to stay at home and listen. Neither she nor the children passed that way when they were going out; they went down the back-stairs. He never met her. She chose new ways and roads.

Until then his love had been a secret happiness full of many plans. But now he had used violence and broken into the sanctuary, and his bright days and healthy nights gave way to ceaseless dreaming and useless ponderings. He went through all that happened, and each time with self-torturing pangs. He despised himself, allowed himself to be led into all sorts of dissipation and then despised himself all the more. From the moment he had touched her lips and had offended her ears there was, as it were, a veil drawn across her image; he no longer saw the pure, dove-like whiteness, borne in all its charms and helplessness by music; he only saw one he longed for. But his was a healthy nature and he had a strong sense of the comic side of things; he would not let himself be eaten up by this self-torture and stupid longing; he would move away immediately and would do it under pretence that he was going to travel. In that way he thought to overcome all difficulties as he would leap over a fence of split sticks. He could not bear her having closed her door to him; he could not even bear the servant's impertinent smile.

He was struck now by so much in this moving of his which was like the time when Rendalen had moved. He had not borne it one single day, either! Surely it could never have been for the same reason? He laughed aloud; of course it must be exactly the same thing that had happened to him!

Rendalen's mother had been in town and had lived there; at that time Ragni had been with them a great deal; Rendalen and she had played duets together. They kept this up after his mother had left, and it was always on his piano; he knew that for certain.... This seemed to him a most humiliating coincidence.

Kallem knew no higher or nobler nature than Rendalen's; he would never have allowed himself any liberties. But that she could succeed in so completely disturbing his peace of mind that he had been obliged to move? There must be something strange in her thus to unsettle them. He excused himself in this way, but what was worse was that he felt an ever-increasing temptation. The same evening he said to Marie that he was going to leave either the next day or the day after, he was not sure which it would be; but she was to ask for his bill--as a matter of course, he would pay for the whole quarter. The girl looked at him, she guessed the hidden meaning at once; did she enjoy it or had she something to tell? In her usual modest way, she asked if he wanted his bill at once? No, he did not.

He did not leave the day following, but put it off till the next day. He meant to go away for a few days, but would first take lodgings somewhere and move all his possessions. He went out in the afternoon and found rooms, but quite in another part of the town. Then he speculated a little as to what reasons he should give for his moving--particularly to Rendalen; he came to the conclusion that he would tell him the whole truth; to others he would merely say that he had been disturbed in various ways at his old lodgings, which was the truth. He went home again about five o'clock, and in through the bedroom door, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, went into the next room and lay down on the sofa, where he fell fast asleep--he needed the rest. At seven o'clock the servant came in and lit the stove without his noticing it. He woke up a little later and heard the fire crackling and saw the light; he understood from that, that it must be past seven o'clock. His thoughts flew at once to her who was so near in those other rooms. He had a secret hope that, when she knew he was going away, he would be allowed to hear her play once more. So far he had been disappointed in this; but he could not give up his belief that his departure would trouble her. He lay on the sofa listening. Could he go and say good-bye to her just as if nothing had happened? Should he light his lamp? Should he go out again? He raised himself up and stared at the fire in the stove. Then he heard a door in the passage open, and voices--a couple of women's voices, with a strong north-country accent; from that he concluded that some newly arrived relations had been calling and were being escorted to the door; he heard the aunt's slow, drawling voice; he heard, too, a man's voice--was it Ole Tuft? But he could not hear her voice, the voice he was listening for. There were good-byes all round and the door was shut; then came the aunt's voice again, then Ole Tuft's, it really was his voice--he had evidently arrived just as the others were leaving; they went into the aunt's room and shut the door after them, at the same time a door was shut a little further away. Again there was a ring; again a door opened and out came--both the children, shouting with joy; they had seized the occasion to try and run into Kallem, but they were not allowed, so there was a chase after them down the corridor amid much laughter; they were captured and a door shut upon them; at the same moment, the entrance door was opened; one of those north-country ladies had forgotten her galoshes, and now he could hear Ragni's voice offering to fetch a light, as it was quite dark; but the offer was refused in the usual singsong style. Her galoshes were close by the door; but she could not get them on easily, they were so new! At last! Now they were on! Again was heard "Good-bye, good-bye!" and then the answer, "Very welcome on Friday?" This last was Ragni's voice. Did he deceive himself--or was it not just like the voice of one who feels danger is near? It did not sound like her voice. Did she speak of him perhaps against her will? Up he jumped, and was at the door before she had shut the outer one. Should he? He listened for some sign. He did not hear her go; perhaps she was still standing outside. His heart beat fast and loud, but his hand felt softly for the door-handle--he opened it noiselessly. To him who had been staring at the fire in his stove, the passage seemed pitch-dark. He put out his hands to feel for the door and got hold of the latch; he groped his way still further, but no one was there. Could she have gone out with the last visitor? But no, he heard her say good-bye and remind the others about Friday. How was it he had not heard her go? He never heard the inner door open again. She must be in the passage.

His heart beat so that he could almost hear it; but he was impelled onward. Then his hand touched some clothes; he turned to ice! but he came to his senses directly, for the garments were cold and empty. Some one was heard coughing and spitting in one of the rooms, it was Kate; then the children were heard talking in the kitchen or dining-room. He stood still, like any criminal, when he heard these accustomed every-day sounds. He ought never to have embarked on this proceeding. He heard the aunt's droning questions and Ole's clear answers; that is to say, he heard their voices, but not what they said. Was Ragni in the passage? She might have been looking for something and have stopped in her fright at seeing him. If he went on, he might startle her so that she might rush up to any door and open it. There he would be then visible to all!

Still, she was too timid for that. He advanced a few steps. He was in slippers, so his steps were hardly audible; but he hoped that she was not there. The children were talking in the room at the end of the passage; he could hear them so distinctly now the nearer he came; he seemed to see them kneeling each on her chair and building houses at the table. He was ashamed of himself; what business had he there? But though he asked himself that question, he went on all the same; he went from one side to the other, touching first a cloak, then a shawl, then the panel of a door, then one of the coloured passage windows, which he could just distinguish. A carriage rattled past; soon after there came a sound of sleigh-bells dying away in the distance; in this kind of half-thaw both carriages and sledges were used. Something fell down in the kitchen; Kate began to cough again; how long time must seem to him! probably he never used lights? Surely the door between the children's room and the kitchen was open, for they ran in there to find out what had fallen down; he heard the north-country servant answer with lazy good-nature; it was a wooden dish that fell, it tumbled out of the rack. Still he went on. If Ragni were there she must be in the extreme corner. How frightened she must be by this time! What must she think of him? Were he to turn back now, he would look like an unsuccessful thief. It was a little lighter by the window, but no further; no light came either from under or over the doors, not even through the keyholes, or from the children's room. Could she be standing there? He fancied he must see her were she there.

Perhaps she had gone from the passage in to see her aunt? Close by his own door? Or she might have left the door of Kate's or the children's room open when she went out, and have shut it again just as he opened his. Could she be sitting there dreaming? He felt sure of it; but that was because he wished it to be so. But still he went forward. At last close up to the door he could hear the children in their room and the servant bustling about in the kitchen to the left. He turned round and felt much relieved. He walked back much faster, keeping his hands in front of him; suddenly he took hold of a warm, firm arm. He shivered and trembled, sparks seemed to flash from his eyes; he stopped abruptly. But the arm scarcely moved, so he regained courage. He let his arm glide slowly down from the arm and round the waist, which he cautiously encircled. It felt soft and pliable; she stood quite still but trembled a little. He gave a faint pressure. With his other hand he took hold of her hand and gently pressed it; it trembled too. He pressed it again--and step by step they moved slowly forward--without resistance, but still not quite willingly. He could just hear his own footsteps, but hers not at all; the children were talking quietly now. There was not a sound to be heard either in Kule's, or in the aunt's room; but in front of them was an open chink at his door. They arrived there; he pushed it open gently and would have led her in; but here she stopped and tried to draw away her hand. He heard her breathing and felt her breath, could just make out the pale face as he gently pushed her to the threshold, then over it, and closed the door behind them. Here he let go his hold of her so as to shut the door as quietly as possible. She stood with her back to him just as he left her; but with her face buried in her hands; when he came up to her she began to cry. He put his arm round her to draw her closer to him; and her crying turned to sobbing. She sobbed so bitterly and grievously that his blood was sobered and a fresh train of thought set in. Unresistingly she let him lead her to the sofa; she sobbed so despairingly that he felt he must have a light, as one would if anyone were taken ill. So he made haste to trim the lamp, remembered though that the blinds must first be pulled down, so he did that and then lit the lamp.

No one could weep like that who had not been for days and nights shut in with their grief. The very table she leaned on shook with her sobs.

Hundreds of times he had made fun of those lovers who in novels and plays go down upon their knees; but now he pushed the end of the table a little to one side and let himself sink on his knees before her like the humblest sinner. He was trying to see her face, but with both hands she held her handkerchief up before it. Her head, shoulders, and bosom heaved with her violent weeping, he felt each movement, and begged and implored her to forgive him! He had not been master of himself when he spoke those words to her that night on the ice. He loved her, they belonged to each other. "Oh, do not weep so!" he entreated, "I cannot bear it!" He took her hands in his and sat down on the sofa beside her, he laid her head on his shoulder and put his arms round her; he kissed her hair, he pressed her tear-stained cheek against his own; but she cried just as much in this position as in the former one. He wanted to give her some wine. No, ho no!--but it was really terrible this crying. Could it be because he had brought her in to his room? He had been longing so to see her that he could not resist it when he heard her in the passage. Surely she would not have him leave without saying good-by? Was he never to see her again? She shook her head, and disengaging herself from his grasp, laid her head down on the table and sobbed into her handkerchief, more piteously than ever. "Do you wish me to leave?" he asked; but she did not hear him. He allowed her to cry on; after some little time he bent down to her and said: "I will do all you wish me to do." Then she raised herself in all her tears from the table and threw herself in his arms. He folded both arms round her, and felt, as he held her in that close embrace, that she took it in a higher and nobler way than he did.

But someone was at the door and it was opened; it was the servant with his supper. In a great fright he took away his arms and stood up; but Ragni merely laid herself down on the table again and sobbed. Carefully the servant put down the tray on the vacant edge of the table, with equal care she moved the lamp a little and pushed the tray further in. She was red in the face and did not look at either of them; but she had the usual smile which seemed to say: I have been expecting this for long! And now Kallem fancied there was a quiet roguish delight in that smile, so very differently can one look at one and the same thing. She came in very quietly and went out equally so, and shut the door as gently as though he himself had done it.

"Good God! Ragni!" he exclaimed. She answered not a word, it seemed to her a trifling matter, engrossed as she was in her own grief. Again he took her and drew her close to him, then she said: "Oh, how unhappy I am!"--and that was really the only thing she said all the time she sat there. He could answer nothing but what would have sounded very stupid. He tried to say something and took refuge in caresses; but she got up and drew herself away--she wished to leave him. He felt he was not able to keep her any longer, but took her to the door. Before she opened it, she turned to him with a look of sorrowing devotion, like one in death-agony. He put out the lamp and she slipped out.