Chapter 3

“How can you venture into the woods so late?” I said--“you so slight and young?”

She laughed, and said:

“I am not so young--I am nineteen.”

But she could not be nineteen; I am certain she was lying by at least two years, and was only seventeen. But why should she lie to seem older?

“Sit down,” I said, “and tell me your name.”

And she sat down, blushing, by my side, and told me her name was Henriette.

Then I asked her:

“Have you a lover, Henriette, and has he ever taken you in his arms?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling shyly.

“How many times?”

She was silent.

“How many times?” I asked her again.

“Twice,” she answered softly.

I drew her to me and said:

“How did he do it? Was it like this?”

“Yes,” she whispered, trembling.

IX

I had some talk with Edwarda.

“We shall have rain before long,” I said.

“What time is it?” she asked.

I looked at the sun and answered:

“About five.”

She asked:

“Can you tell so nearly by the sun?”

“Yes,” I answered; “I can.”

Pause.

“But when you can't see the sun, how do you tell the time then?”

“Then I can tell by other things. There's high tide and low tide, and the grass that lies over at certain hours, and the song of the birds that changes; some birds begin to sing when others leave off. Then, I can tell the time by flowers that close in the afternoon, and leaves that are bright green at some times and dull green at others--and then, besides, I can feel it.”

“I see.”

Now I was expecting rain, and for Edwarda's sake I would not keep her there any longer on the road; I raised my cap. But she stopped me suddenly with a new question, and I stayed. She blushed, and asked me why I had come to the place at all? Why I went out shooting, and why this and why that? For I never shot more than I needed for food, and left my dog idle...

She looked flushed and humble. I understood that someone had been talking about me, and she had heard it; she was not speaking for herself. And something about her called up a feeling of tenderness in me; she looked so helpless, I remembered that she had no mother; her thin arms gave her an ill-cared-for appearance. I could not help feeling it so.

Well, I did not go out shooting just to murder things, but to live. I had need of one grouse to-day, and so I did not shoot two, but would shoot the other to-morrow. Why kill more? I lived in the woods, as a son of the woods. And from the first of June it was closed time for hare and ptarmigan; there was but little left for me to shoot at all now. Well and good: then I could go fishing, and live on fish. I would borrow her father's boat and row out in that. No, indeed, I did no go out shooting for the lust of killing things, but only to live in the woods. It was a good place for me; I could lie down on the ground at meals, instead of sitting upright on a chair; I did not upset my glass there. In the woods I could do as I pleased; I could lie down flat on my back and close my eyes if I pleased, and I could say whatever I liked to say. Often one might feel a wish to say something, to speak aloud, and in the woods it sounded like speech from the very heart...

When I asked her if she understood all this, she said, “Yes.”

And I went on, and told her more, because her eyes were on me. “If you only knew all that I see out in the wilds!” I said. “In winter, I come walking along, and see, perhaps, the tracks of ptarmigan in the snow. Suddenly the track disappears; the bird has taken wing. But from the marks of the wings I can see which way the game has flown, and before long I have tracked it down again. There is always a touch of newness in that for me. In autumn, many a time there are shooting stars to watch. Then I think to myself, being all alone, What was that? A world seized with convulsions all of a sudden? A world going all to pieces before my eyes? To think that I--that _I_ should be granted the sight of shooting stars in my life! And when summer comes, then perhaps there may be a little living creature on every leaf; I can see that some of them have no wings; they can make no great way in the world, but must live and die on that one little leaf where they came into the world.

“Then sometimes I see the blue flies. But it all seems such a little thing to talk about--I don't know if you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“Good. Well, then sometimes I look at the grass, and perhaps the grass is looking at me again--who can say? I look at a single blade of grass; it quivers a little, maybe, and thinks me something. And I think to myself: Here is a little blade of grass all a-quivering. Or if it happens to be a fir tree I look at, then maybe the tree has one branch that makes me think of it a little, too. And sometimes I meet people up on the moors; it happens at times.”

I looked at her; she stood bending forward, listening. I hardly knew her. So lost in attention she was that she took no heed of herself, but was ugly, foolish looking; her underlip hung far down.

“Yes, yes,” she said, and drew herself up.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

“It is raining,” said I.

“Oh! Yes, it is raining,” she said, and went away on the instant.

I did not see her home; she went on her way alone; I hurried up to the hut. A few minutes passed. It began to rain heavily. Suddenly I heard someone running after me. I stopped short, and there was Edwarda.

“I forgot,” she said breathlessly. “We were going over to the islands--the drying grounds, you know. The Doctor is coming to-morrow; will you have time then?”

“To-morrow? Yes, indeed. I shall have time enough.”

“I forgot it,” she said again, and smiled.

As she went, I noticed her thin, pretty calves; they were wet far above the ankle. Her shoes were worn through.

X

There was another day which I remember well. It was the day my summer came. The sun began shining while it was still night, and dried up the wet ground for the morning. The air was soft and fine after the last rain.

In the afternoon I went down to the quay. The water was perfectly still; we could hear talking and laughter away over at the island, where men and girls were at work on the fish. It was a happy afternoon.

Ay, was it not a happy afternoon? We took hampers of food and wine with us; a big party we were, in two boats, with young women in light dresses. I was so happy that I hummed a tune.

And when we were in the boat, I fell to thinking where all these young people came from. There were the daughters of the Lensmand and the district surgeon, a governess or so, and the ladies from the vicarage. I had not seen them before; they were strangers to me; and yet, for all that, they were as friendly as if we had known each other for years. I made some mistakes! I had grown unaccustomed to being in society, and often said “Du” [Footnote: “Du"=thou, the familiar form of address (tutoyer), instead of “De"=you.] to the young ladies, but they did not seem offended. And once I said “dear,” or “my dear,” but they forgave me that as well, and took no notice of it.

Herr Mack had his unstarched shirt front on as usual, with the diamond stud. He seemed in excellent spirits, and called across to the other boat:

“Hi, look after the hamper with the bottles, you madcaps there. Doctor, I shall hold you responsible for the wine.”

“Right!” cried the Doctor. And just those few words from one boat to another seemed to me pleasant and merry to hear.

Edwarda was wearing the same dress she had, worn the day before, as if she had no other or did not care to put on another. Her shoes, too, were the same. I fancied her hands were not quite clean; but she wore a brand new hat, with feathers. She had taken her dyed jacket with her, and used it to sit on.

At Herr Mack's request I fired a shot just as we were about to land, in fact, two shots, both barrels--and they cheered. We rambled up over the island, the workers greeted us all, and Herr Mack stopped to speak to his folk. We found daisies and corn marigolds and put them in our button-holes; some found harebells.

And there was a host of seabirds chattering and screaming, in the air and on the shore.

We camped out on a patch of grass where there were a few stunted birches with white stems. The hampers were opened, and Herr Mack saw to the bottles. Light dresses, blue eyes, the ring of glasses, the sea, the white sails. And we sang a little.

And cheeks were flushed.

* * * * *

An hour later, my whole being was joy; even little things affected me. A veil fluttering from a hat, a girl's hair coming down, a pair of eyes closing in a laugh--and it touched me. That day, that day!

“I've heard you've such a queer little hut up there, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, a nest. And the very thing for me. Come and see me there one day; there's no such hut anywhere else. And the great forest behind it.”

Another came up and said kindly:

“You have not been up here in the north before?”

“No,” I answered. “But I know all about it already, ladies. At night I am face to face with the mountains, the earth, and the sun. But I will not try to use fine words. What a summer you have here! It bursts forth one night when everyone is asleep, and in the morning there it is. I looked out of my window and saw it myself. I have two little windows.”

A third came up. She was charming by reason of her voice and her small hands. How charming they all were! This one said:

“Shall we change flowers? It brings luck, they say.”

“Yes,” I answered, holding out my hand, “let us change flowers, and I thank you for it. How pretty you are! You have a lovely voice; I have been listening to it all the time.”

But she drew back her harebells and said curtly:

“What are you thinking about? It was not you I meant.”

It was not me she meant! It hurt me to feel that I had been mistaken; I wished myself at home again, far away in my hut, where only the wind could speak to me. “I beg your pardon,” I said; “forgive me.” The other ladies looked at one another and moved away, so as not to humiliate me.

Just at that moment someone came quickly over towards us. All could see her--it was Edwarda. She came straight to me. She said something, and threw her arms round my neck; clasped her arms round my neck and kissed me again and again on the lips. Each time she said something, but I did not hear what it was. I could not understand it all; my heart stood still; I had only a feeling of her burning look. Then she slipped away from me; her little breast beat up and down. She stood there still, with her brown face and brown neck, tall and slender, with flashing eyes, altogether heedless. They were all looking at her. For the second time I was fascinated by her dark eyebrows, that curved high up into her forehead.

But, Heavens--the girl had kissed me openly in sight of them all!

“What is it, Edwarda?” I asked, and I could hear my blood beating; hear it as it were from down in my throat, so that I could not speak distinctly.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Only--that I wanted to. It doesn't matter.”

I took off my cap and brushed back my hair mechanically as I stood looking at her. “Doesn't matter...?”

Herr Mack was saying something, a good way off; we could not hear his words from where we were. But I was glad to think that Herr Mack had seen nothing, that he knew nothing of this. It was well indeed that he had been away from the party just then. I felt relieved at that, and I stepped over to the others and said with a laugh, and seeming quite indifferent:

“I would ask you all to forgive my unseemly behavior a moment ago; I am myself extremely sorry about it. Edwarda kindly offered to change flowers with me, and I forgot myself. I beg her pardon and yours. Put yourself in my place; I live all alone, and am not accustomed to the society of ladies; besides which, I have been drinking wine, and am not used to that either. You must make allowances for that.”

And I laughed, and showed great indifference to such a trifle, that it might be forgotten; but, inwardly, I was serious. Moreover, what I had said made no impression on Edwarda. She did not try to hide anything, to smooth over the effect of her hasty action: on the contrary, she sat down close to me and kept looking at me fixedly. Now and again she spoke to me. And afterwards, when we were playing “_Enke_,” she said:

“I shall have Lieutenant Glahn. I don't care to run after anyone else.”

“_Saa for Satan_, [Footnote: Expletive, equivalent to “The Devil!” or “Damnation!”] girl, be quiet!” I whispered, stamping my foot.

She gave me a look of surprise, made a wry face as if it hurt, and then smiled bashfully. I was deeply moved at that; the helpless look in her eyes and her little thin figure were more than I could resist; I was drawn to her in that moment, and I took her long, slight hand in mine.

“Afterwards,” I said, “No more now. We can meet again to-morrow.”

XI

In the night I heard Æsop get up from his corner and growl; I heard it through my sleep, but I was dreaming just then of shooting, the growl of the dog fitted into the dream, and it did not wake me, quite. When I stepped out of the hut next morning there were tracks in the grass of a pair of human feet; someone had been there--had gone first to one of my windows, then to the other. The tracks were lost again down on the road.

She came towards me with hot cheeks, with a face all beaming.

“Have you been waiting?” she said. “I was afraid you would have to wait.”

I had not been waiting; she was on the way before me.

“Have you slept well?” I asked. I hardly knew what to say.

“No, I haven't. I have been awake,” she answered. And she told me she had not slept that night, but had sat in a chair with her eyes closed. And she had been out of the house for a little walk.

“Someone was outside my hut last night,” I said. “I saw tracks in the grass this morning.”

And her face colored; she took my hand there, on the road, and made no answer. I looked at her, and said:

“Was it you, I wonder?”

“Yes,” she answered, pressing close to me. “It was I. I hope I didn't wake you--I stepped as quietly as I could. Yes, it was I. I was near you again. I am fond of you!”

XII

Every day, every day I met her. I will tell the truth: I was glad to meet her; aye, my heart flew. It is two years ago this year; now, I think of it only when I please, the whole story just amuses and distracts me. And as for the two green feathers, I will tell about them in good time.

There were several places where we could meet--at the mill, on the road, even in my hut. She came wherever I would. _“Goddag!”_ she cried, always first, and I answered _“Goddag!”_

“You are happy to-day,” she says, and her eyes sparkle.

“Yes, I am happy,” I answer. “There is a speck there on your shoulder; it is dust, perhaps, a speck of mud from the road; I must kiss that little spot. No--let me--I will. Everything about you stirs me so! I am half out of my senses. I did not sleep last night.”

And that was true. Many a night I lay and could not sleep.

We walk side by side along the road.

“What do you think--am I as you like me to be?” she asks. “Perhaps I talk too much. No? Oh, but you must say what you really think. Sometimes I think to myself this can never come to any good...”

“What can never come to any good?” I ask.

“This between us. That it cannot come to any good. You may believe it or not, but I am shivering now with cold; I feel icy cold the moment I come to you. Just out of happiness.”

“It is the same with me,” I answer. “I feel a shiver, too, when I see you. But it will come to some good all the same. And, anyhow, let me pat you on the back, to warm you.”

And she lets me, half unwillingly, and then I hit a little harder, for a jest, and laugh, and ask if that doesn't make her feel better.

“Oh, please, don't when I ask you; _please_,” says she.

Those few words! There was something so helpless about her saying it so, the wrong way round: “Please don't when I ask you.”...

Then we went on along the road again. Was she displeased with me for my jest, I wondered? And thought to myself: Well, let us see. And I said:

“I just happened to think of something. Once when I was out on a sledge party, there was a young lady who took a silk kerchief from her neck and fastened it round mine. In the evening, I said to her: 'You shall have your kerchief again to-morrow; I will have it washed.' 'No,' she said, 'give it to me now; I will keep it just as it is, after you have worn it.' And I gave it to her. Three years after, I met the same young lady again. 'The kerchief,' I said. And she brought it out. It lay in a paper, just as before; I saw it myself.”

Edwarda glanced up at me.

“Yes? And what then?”

“That is all,” I said. “There was nothing more. But I thought it was nice of her.”

Pause.

“Where is that lady now?”

“Abroad.”

We spoke no more of that. But when it was time for her to go home, she said:

“Well, good-night. But you won't go thinking of that lady any more, will you? I don't think of anyone but you.”

I believed her. I saw that she meant what she said, and it was more than enough for me that she thought of no one else. I walked after her.

“Thank you, Edwarda,” I said. And then I added with all my heart: “You are all too good for me, but I am thankful that you will have me; God will reward you for that. I'm not so fine as many you could have, no doubt, but I am all yours--so endlessly yours, by my eternal soul.----What are you thinking of now, to bring tears to your eyes?”

“It was nothing,” she answered. “It sounded so strange--that God would reward me for that. You say things that I ... Oh, I love you so!”

And all at once she threw her arms round my neck, there in the middle of the road, and kissed me.

When she had gone, I stepped aside into the woods to hide, to be alone with my happiness. And then I hurried eagerly back to the road to see if anyone had noticed that I had gone in there. But I saw no one.

XIII

Summer nights and still water, and the woods endlessly still. No cry, no footsteps from the road. My heart seemed full as with dark wine.

Moths and night-flies came flying noiselessly in through my window, lured by the glow from the hearth and the smell of the bird I had just cooked. They dashed against the roof with a dull sound, fluttered past my ears, sending a cold shiver through me, and settled on my white powder-horn on the wall. I watched them; they sat trembling and looked at me--moths and spinners and burrowing things. Some of them looked like pansies on the wing.

I stepped outside the hut and listened. Nothing, no noise; all was asleep. The air was alight with flying insects, myriads of buzzing wings. Out at the edge of the wood were ferns and aconite, the trailing arbutus was in bloom, and I loved its tiny flowers... Thanks, my God, for every heather bloom I have ever seen; they have been like small roses on my way, and I weep for love of them... Somewhere near were wild carnations; I could not see them, but I could mark their scent.

But now, in the night hours, great white flowers have opened suddenly; their chalices are spread wide; they are breathing. And furry twilight moths slip down into their petals, making the whole plant quiver. I go from one flower to another. They are drunken flowers. I mark the stages of their intoxication.

Light footsteps, a human breathing, a happy “_Godaften_.”

And I answer, and throw myself down on the road.

“_Godaften_, Edwarda,” I say again, worn out with joy.

“That you should care for me so!” she whispers.

And I answered her: “If you knew how grateful I can be! You are mine, and my heart lies still within me all the day, thinking of you. You are the loveliest girl on earth, and I have kissed you. Often I go red with joy, only to think that I have kissed you.”

“Why are you so fond of me this evening?” she asks.

I was that for endless reasons; I needed only to think of her to feel so. That look of hers, from under the high-arched brows, and her rich, dark skin!

“Should I not be fond of you?” I say again. “I thank every tree in my path because you are well and strong. Once at a dance there was a young lady who sat out dance after dance, and they let her sit there alone. I didn't know her, but her face touched me, and I bowed to her. Well? But no, she shook her head. Would she not dance, I asked her? 'Can you imagine it?' she said. 'My father was a handsome man, and my mother a perfect beauty, and my father won her by storm. But I was born lame.'”

Edwarda looked at me.

“Let us sit down,” she said.

And we sat down in the heather.

“Do you know what my friend says about you?” she began. “Your eyes are like an animal's, she says, and when you look at her, it makes her mad. It is just as if you touched her, she says.”

A strange joy thrilled me when I heard that, not for my own sake, but for Edwarda's, and I thought to myself: There is only one whom I care for: what does that one say of the look in my eyes? And I asked her:

“Who was that, your friend?”

“I will not tell you,” she said. “But it was one of those that were out on the island that day.”

“Very well, then.”

And then we spoke of other things.

“My father is going to Russia in a few days,” she said. “And I am going to have a party. Have you been out to Korholmerne? We must have two hampers of wine; the ladies from the vicarage are coming again, and father has already given me the wine. And you won't look at her again, will you? My friend, I mean. Please, you won't, _will_ you? Or I shall not ask her at all.”

And with no more words she threw herself passionately about my neck, and looked at me, gazing into my face and breathing heavily. Her glance was sheer blackness.

I got up abruptly, and, in my confusion, could only say:

“So your father is going to Russia?”

“What did you get up like that for, so quickly?” she asked.

“Because it is late, Edwarda,” I said. “Now the white flowers are closing again. The sun is getting up; it will soon be day.”

I went with her through the woodland and stood watching her as long as I could; far down, she turned round and softly called good-night. Then she disappeared.

At the same moment the door of the blacksmith's house opened. A man with a white shirt front came out, looked round, pulled his hat down farther over his forehead, and took the road down to Sirilund.

Edwarda's good-night was still in my ears.

XIV

A man can be drunk with joy. I fire off my gun, and an unforgettable echo answers from hill to hill, floats out over the sea and rings in some sleepy helmsman's ears. And what have I to be joyful about? A thought that came to me, a memory; a sound in the woods, a human being. I think of her, I close my eyes and stand still there on the road, and think of her; I count the minutes.

Now I am thirsty, and drink from the stream; now I walk a hundred paces forward and a hundred paces back; it must be late by now, I say to myself.

Can there be anything wrong? A month has passed, and a month is no long time; there is nothing wrong. Heaven knows this month has been short. But the nights are often long, and I am driven to wet my cap in the stream and let it dry, only to pass the time, while I am waiting.

I reckoned my time by nights. Sometimes there would be an evening when Edwarda did not come--once she stayed away two evenings. Nothing wrong, no. But I felt then that perhaps my happiness had reached and passed its height.

And had it not?

“Can you hear, Edwarda, how restless it is in the woods to-night? Rustling incessantly in the undergrowth, and the big leaves trembling. Something brewing, maybe--but it was not that I had in mind to say. I hear a bird away up on the hill--only a tomtit, but it has sat there calling in the same place two nights now. Can you hear--the same, same note again?”

“Yes, I hear it. Why do you ask me that?”