Chapter 15
When they came in again, Uncle’s dog came to meet them. It was a tiny, little thing on the thinnest legs, with fluttering ears and gazelle-like eyes; a nothing with a shrill, little voice.
“You wonder, perhaps, that I have such a little dog,” Uncle Theodore had said.
“I suppose I do,” she had answered.
“But, you see, it is not I who have chosen Jenny for my dog, but Jenny who has taken me as a master. You would like to hear the story, Downie?” That name he had instantly seized upon.
Yes, she would like it, although she understood that it would be something irritating he would say.
“Well, you see, when Jenny came here the first time she lay on the knees of a fine lady from the town, and had a blanket on her back and a cloth about her head. Hush, Jenny; it is true that you had it! And I thought what a little rat it was. But do you know when that little creature was put down on the ground here some memories of her childhood or something must have wakened in her. She scratched, and kicked, and tried to rub off her blanket. And then she behaved like the big dogs here; so we said that Jenny must have grown up in the country.
“She lay out on the doorstep and never even looked at the parlor sofa, and she chased the chickens, and stole the cat’s milk, and barked at beggars, and darted about the horses’ legs when we had guests. It was a pleasure and a joy to us to see how she behaved. You must understand, a little thing that had only lain in a basket and been carried on the arm! It was wonderful. And so when they were going to leave, Jenny would not go. She stood on the steps and whined so pitifully and jumped up on me, and really asked to be allowed to stay. So there was nothing for us to do but to let her stay. We were touched by the little creature; it was so small, and yet wished to be a country dog. But I had never thought that I should ever keep a lap-dog. Soon, perhaps, I shall get a wife too.”
Oh, how hard it is to be shy, to be uneducated! She wondered if Uncle had been very surprised when she rushed away so hurriedly. But she had felt as if he had meant her when he spoke of Jenny. And perhaps he had not at all. But any way—yes she had been so embarrassed. She could not have stayed.
But it was not then “it” came, not then.
Perhaps it was in the evening at the ball. Never had she had such a good time at any ball! But if any one had asked her if she had danced much, she would have needed to reconsider and acknowledge that she had not. But it was the best proof that she had really enjoyed herself when she had not even noticed that she had been a little neglected.
She had so much enjoyed looking at Maurits. Just because she had been a little bit severe to him at breakfast and laughed at him yesterday, it was such a pleasure to her to see him at the ball. He had never seemed to her so handsome and so superior.
He had seemed to feel that she would consider herself injured because he had not talked and danced only with her. But it had been pleasure enough for her to see how every one liked Maurits. As if she had wished to exhibit their love to the general gaze! Oh, Downie was not so foolish!
Maurits danced many dances with the beautiful Elizabeth Westling. But that had not troubled her at all, for Maurits had time after time come up and whispered: “You see, I can’t get away from her. We are old friends. Here in the country they are so unaccustomed to have a partner who has been in society and can both dance and talk. You must lend me to the daughters of the county magnates for this evening, Anne-Marie.”
But Uncle, too, gave way to Maurits. “Be host for this evening,” he said to him, and Maurits was. He was everywhere. He led the dance, he led the drinking, and he made a speech for the county and for the ladies. He was wonderful. Both Uncle and she had watched Maurits, and then their eyes had met. Uncle had smiled and nodded to her. Uncle certainly was proud of Maurits. She had felt badly that Uncle did not really do justice to his nephew. Towards morning Uncle had been loud and quarrelsome. He had wanted to join the dance, but the girls drew back from him when he came up to them and pretended to be engaged.
“Dance with Anne-Marie,” Maurits had said to his uncle, and it had sounded rather patronising. She was so frightened that she quite shrank together.
Uncle was offended too, turned on his heel and went into the smoking-room.
Maurits came up to her and said with a hard, hard voice:—
“You are ruining everything, Anne-Marie. Must you look like that when Uncle wishes to dance with you? If you could know what he said to me yesterday about you! You must do something too, Anne-Marie. Do you think it is right to leave everything to me?”
“What do you wish me to do, Maurits?”
“Oh, now there is nothing; now the game is spoiled. Think all I had won this evening! But it is lost now.”
“I will gladly ask Uncle’s pardon, if you like, Maurits.” And she really meant it. She was honestly sorry to have hurt Uncle.
“That is of course the only right thing to do; but one can ask nothing of any one as ridiculously shy as you are.”
She had not answered, but had gone straight to the smoking-room, which was almost empty. Uncle had thrown himself down in an arm-chair.
“Why will you not dance with me?” she had asked.
Uncle Theodore’s eyes were closed. He opened them and looked long at her. It was a look full of pain that she met. It made her understand how a prisoner must feel when he thinks of his chains. It made her sorry for Uncle. It seemed as if he had needed her much more than Maurits, for Maurits needed no one. He was very well as he was. So she laid her hand on Uncle Theodore’s arm quite gently and caressingly.
Instantly new life awoke in his eyes. He began to stroke her hair with his big hand. “Little mother,” he had said.
Then “it” came over her while he stroked her hair. It came stealing, it came creeping, it came rushing, as when elves pass through dark woods.
III
One evening thin, soft clouds are floating in the sky; one evening all is still and mild; one evening the air is filled with fine white down from the aspens and poplars.
It is quite late, and no one is up except Uncle Theodore, who is walking in the garden and is considering how he can separate the young man and the young woman.
For never, never in the world shall it come to pass that Maurits leaves his house with her at his side while Uncle Theodore stands on the steps and wishes them a pleasant journey.
Is it a possibility to let her go at all, since she has filled the house for three days with merry chirping, since she in her quiet way has accustomed them to be cared for and petted by her, since they have all grown used to seeing that soft, supple little creature roving about everywhere. Uncle Theodore says to himself that it is not possible. He cannot live without her.
Just then he strikes against a dandelion which has gone to seed, and, like men’s resolutions and men’s promises, the white ball of down is scattered, its white floss flies out and is dispersed.
The night is not cold as the nights generally are in that part of the country. The warmth is kept in by the grey cloud blanket. The winds show themselves merciful for once and do not blow.
Uncle Theodore sees her, Downie. She is weeping because Maurits has forsaken her. But he draws her to him and kisses away her tears.
Soft and fine, the white down falls from the great ripe clusters of the trees,—so light that the air will scarcely let them fall, so fine and delicate that they hardly show on the ground.
Uncle Theodore laughs to himself when he thinks of Maurits. In thought he goes in to him the next morning while he is still lying in his bed. “Listen, Maurits,” he means to say to him. “I do not wish to inspire you with false hopes. If you marry this girl, you need not expect a penny from me. I will not help to ruin your future.”
“Do you think so badly of her, uncle?” Maurits will say.
“No, on the contrary; she is a nice girl, but still not the one for you. You shall have a woman like Elizabeth Westling. Be sensible, Maurits; what will become of you if you break off your studies and go into trade for that child’s sake. You are not suited to it, my boy. Something more is needed for such work than to be able to lift your hat gracefully from your head and to say: ‘Thank you, my children!’ You are cut out and made for a civil official. You can become minister.”
“If you have such a good opinion of me,” Maurits will answer, “help me with my examination and let us afterwards be married!”
“Not at all, not at all. What do you think would become of your career if you had such a weight as a wife? The horse which drags the bread wagon does not go fast ahead. Think of the girl from the bakery as a minister’s wife! No, you ought not to engage yourself for at least ten years, not before you have made your place. What would the result be if I helped you to be married? Every year you would come to me and beg for money. You and I would both weary of that.”
“But, uncle, I am a man of honor. I have engaged myself.”
“Listen, Maurits! Which is better? For her to go and wait for you for ten years, and then find that you will not marry her, or for you to break it off now? No, be decided, get up, take the chaise and go home before she wakes. It will never do at any rate for a betrothed couple to wander about the country by themselves. I will take care of the girl if you only give up this madness. My old friend will go home with her. You shall be supported by me so that you do not need to worry about your future. Now be sensible; you will please your parents by obeying me. Go now, without seeing her! I will talk to her. She will not stand in the way of your happiness. Do not try to see her before you leave, then you could grow soft-hearted, for she is sweet.”
And at those words Maurits makes an heroic decision and goes his way.
And when he has gone, what will happen then?
“Scoundrel,” sounds in the garden, loud and threateningly, as if to a thief. Uncle Theodore looks about him. Is it no one else? Is it only he calling so at himself?
What will happen afterwards? Oh, he will prepare her for Maurits’s departure; show her that Maurits was not worthy of her; make her despise him. And then when she has cried her heart out on his breast, he shall so carefully, so skilfully make her understand what he feels, lure her, win her.
The down still falls. Uncle Theodore stretches out his big hand and catches a bit of it.
So fine, so light, so delicate! He stands and looks at it.
It falls about him, flake after flake. What will become of them? They will be driven by the wind, soiled by the earth, trampled upon by heavy feet.
He begins to feel as if that light down fell upon him with the heaviest weight. Who will be the wind; who will be the earth; who will be the shoe when it is a question of such defenceless little things?
And as a result of his extraordinary knowledge of Nösselt’s “Popular Stories,” an episode from one of them occurred to him like what he had just been thinking.
It was an early morning, not falling night as now. It was a rocky shore, and down by the sea sat a beautiful youth with a panther skin over his shoulder, with vine leaves in his hair, with thyrsus in his hand. Who was he? Oh, the god Bacchus himself.
And the rocky shore was Naxos. It was the seas of Greece the god saw. The ship with the black sails swiftly sailing towards the horizon was steered by Theseus and in the grotto, the entrance of which opened high up in a projection of the steep cliff, slept Ariadne.
During the night the young god had thought: “Is this mortal youth worthy of that divine girl!” And to test Theseus he had in a dream frightened him with the loss of his life, if he did not instantly forsake Ariadne. Then the latter had risen up, hastened to the ship, and fled away over the waves without even waking the girl to say good-bye.
Now the god Bacchus sat there smiling, rocked by the tenderest hopes, and waited for Ariadne.
The sun rose, the morning breeze freshened. He abandoned himself to smiling dreams. He would know well how to console the forsaken one; he, the god Bacchus himself.
Then she came. She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile. Her eyes sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the anchoring-place of the ship, to the sea—to the black sails.
And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without hesitation, down into the waves, down to death and oblivion.
And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler.
So it was. Thus had it actually happened. Uncle Theodore remembers that Nösselt adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that Ariadne let herself be consoled by Bacchus. But the sympathizers were certainly wrong. Ariadne would not be consoled.
Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her, shall she for that reason be made unhappy!
As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because her soft little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had not been angry when he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be made unhappy?
For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned? Because she has shown him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have stood fine and clean and unoccupied all these years awaiting just such a tender and motherly little woman; or because she has already such power over him that he hardly dares to swear lest she hear it; or for what shall she be condemned?
Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore! It is not easy to have to do with such delicate, light bits of down.—They leap into the sea when they see the black sails.
Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red cheeks, coarse limbs.
Then another flake falls and it begins to speak: “It is I who would have followed you all your days. I would have whispered a warning in your ear at the card-table. I would have moved away the wineglass. You would have borne it from me.” “I would,” he whispers, “I would.”
Another comes and speaks too: “It is I who would have reigned over your big house and made it cheery and warm. It is I who would have followed you through the desert of old age. I would have lighted your fire, have been your eyes and your staff. Should I have been fit for that?” “Sweet little Downie,” he answers, “you would.”
Again a flake comes and says: “I am so to be pitied. To-morrow my betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. To-morrow I shall weep, weep all day long, for I shall feel the shame of not being good enough for Maurits. And when I come home—I do not know how I shall be able to come home; how I can cross my father’s threshold after this. The whole street will be full of whispering and gossip when I show myself. Every one will wonder what evil thing I have done, to be so badly treated. Is it my fault that you love me?” He answers with a sob in his throat: “Do not speak so, little Downie! It is too soon to speak so.”
He wanders there the whole night and towards midnight comes a little darkness. He is in great trouble; the heavy, sultry air seems to be still in terror of some crime which is to be committed in the morning.
He tries to calm the night by saying aloud: “I shall not do it.”
Then the most wonderful thing happens. The night is seized with a trembling dread. It is no longer the little flakes which are falling, but round about him rustle great and small wings. He hears something flying but does not know whither.
They rush by him; they graze his cheek; they touch his clothes and hands; and he understands what it is. The leaves are falling from the trees; the flowers flee from their stalks; the wings fly away from the butterflies; the song forsakes the birds.
And he understands that when the sun rises his garden will be a waste. Empty, cold, and silent winter shall reign there; no play of butterflies; no song of birds.
He remains until the light comes again, and he is almost astonished when he sees the thick masses of leaves on the trees. “What is it, then,” he says, “which is laid waste if it was not the garden? Not even a blade of grass is missing. It is I who must live in winter and cold hereafter, not the garden. It is as if the mainspring of life were gone. Ah, you old fool, this will pass like everything else. It is too much ado about a little girl.”
IV
How very improperly “it” behaved the morning they were to leave! During the two days after the ball “it” had been rather something inspiring, something exciting; but now when Downie is to leave, when “it” realizes that the end has come, that “it” will never play any part in her life, then it changes to a death thrust, to a deathly coldness.
She feels as if she were dragging a body of stone down the stairs to the breakfast-room. She stretches out a heavy, cold hand of stone when she says good-morning; she speaks with a slow tongue of stone; smiles with hard stone lips. It is a labor, a labor.
But who can help being glad when everything is arranged according to old-fashioned faith and honor.
Uncle Theodore turns to Downie at breakfast and explains with a strangely harsh voice that he has decided to give Maurits the position of manager at Laxohyttan; but as the aforesaid young man, continued Uncle, with a strained attempt to return to his usual manner, is not much at home in practical occupations, he may not enter upon the position until he has a wife at his side. Has she, Miss Downie, tended her myrtle so well that she can have a crown and wreath in September?
She feels how he is looking into her face. She knows that he wishes to have a glance as thanks, but she does not look up.
Maurits leaps up. He embraces Uncle and makes a great deal of noise. “But, Anne-Marie, why do you not thank Uncle? You must kiss Uncle Theodore, Anne-Marie. Laxohyttan is the most beautiful place in the world. Come now, Anne-Marie!”
She raises her eyes. There are tears in them, and through the tears a glance full of despair and reproach falls on Maurits. She cannot understand; he insists upon going with an uncovered light into the powder magazine. Then she turns to Uncle Theodore; but not with the shy, childish manner she had before, but with a certain nobleness, with something of the martyr, of an imprisoned queen.
“You are much too good to us,” she says only.
Thus is everything accomplished according to the demands of honor. There is not another word to be said in the matter. He has not robbed her of her faith in him whom she loves. She has not betrayed herself. She is faithful to him who has made her his betrothed, although she is only a poor girl from a little bakery in a back street.
And now the chaise can be brought up, the trunks be corded, the luncheon-basket filled.
Uncle Theodore leaves the table. He goes and places himself by a window. Ever since she has turned to him with that tearful glance he is out of his senses. He is quite mad, ready to throw himself upon her, press her to his breast and call to Maurits to come and tear her away if he can.
His hands are in his pockets. Through the clenched fists cramp-like convulsions are passing.
Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say goodbye to the old lady?
There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the beloved for himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully step forward and say: “I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrothed must choose between us. You are not married; there is no sin in trying to win her from you. Look well after her. I mean to use every expedient.”
Then he would be warned, and she would know what alternative lay before her.
His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists again. How Maurits would laugh at his old uncle when he stepped forward and explained that! And what would be the good of it? Would he frighten her, so that he would not even be allowed to help them in the future?
But how will it go now when she approaches to say good-bye to him? He almost screams to her to take care, to keep three paces away from him.
He remains at the window and turns his back on them all, while they are busy with their wraps and their luncheon-basket. Will they never be ready to go? He has already lived it through a thousand times. He has taken her hand, kissed her, helped her into the chaise. He has done it so many times that he believes she is already gone.
He has also wished her happiness. Happiness—Can she be happy with Maurits? She has not looked happy this morning. Oh yes, certainly she has. She wept with joy.
While he is standing there Maurits suddenly says to Anne-Marie: “What a dunce I am! I am quite forgetting to speak to Uncle about father’s shares.”
“I think it would be best if you did not,” Downie answers. “Perhaps it is not right.”
“Nonsense, Anne-Marie. The shares do not pay anything just now. But who knows if they will not be better some day? And besides, what does it matter to Uncle? Such a little thing—”
She interrupts with unusual eagerness, almost anxiously. “I beg of you, Maurits, do not do it. Give in to me this once.”
He looks at her, a little offended. “This once!—as if I were a tyrant over you. No, do you see, I cannot; just for that word I think that I ought not to yield.”
“Do not cling to a word, Maurits. This means more than polite phrases. I think it is not well of you to wish to cheat Uncle now when he has been so good to us.”
“Be quiet, Anne-Marie, be quiet! What do you understand of business?” His whole manner is now irritatingly calm and superior. He looks at her as a schoolmaster looks at a good pupil who is making a fool of himself at his examination.
“That you do not at all understand what is at stake!” she cries. And she strikes out despairingly with her hands.
“I really must talk to Uncle now,” says Maurits, “if for nothing else, to show him that there is no question of any deceit. You behave so that Uncle can believe that I and my father are veritable cheats.”
And he comes forward to his uncle and explains to him what these shares which his father wishes to sell him are. Uncle Theodore listens to him as well as he can. He understands instantly that his brother has made a bad speculation and wishes to protect himself from loss. But what of it, what of it? He is accustomed to render to the whole family connection such services. But he is not thinking of that, but of Downie. He wonders what is the meaning of that look of resentment she casts upon Maurits. It was not exactly love.
And so in the midst of his despair over the sacrifice he has to make, a faint glimmer of hope begins to rise up before him. He stands and stares at it like a man who is sleeping in a haunted room and sees a light mist rise from the floor and condense and grow and become a tangible reality.
“Come with me into my room, Maurits,” he says; “you shall have the money immediately.”
But while he speaks his eyes rest on Downie to see if the ghost can be prevailed upon to speak. But as yet he sees only dumb despair in her.
But he has hardly sat down by the desk in his room when the door opens and Anne-Marie comes in.
“Uncle Theodore,” she says, very firmly and decidedly, “do not buy those papers!”
Ah, such courage, Downie! Who would have believed it of you who had seen you three days ago, when you sat at Maurits’s side in the chaise and seemed to shrink and grow smaller for every word he said.
Now she needs all her courage, for Maurits is angry in earnest.
“Hold your tongue!” he hisses at her, and then roars to make himself heard by Uncle Theodore, who is sitting at his desk and counting notes.