Chapter 4

“Oh, for no reason at all. It has been there two nights now. That was all... Thanks, thanks for coming this evening, love. I sat here, expecting you this evening, or the next, looking forward to it, when you came.”

“And I have been waiting too. I think of you, and I have picked up the pieces of the glass you upset once, and kept them--do you remember? Father went away last night. I could not come, there was so much to do with the packing, and reminding him of things. I knew you were waiting here in the woods, and I cried, and went on packing.”

But it is two evenings, I thought to myself. What was she doing the first evening? And why is there less joy in her eyes now than before?

An hour passed. The bird up in the hills was silent, the woods lay dead. No, no, nothing wrong; all as before; she gave me her hand to say good-night, and looked at me with love in her eyes.

“To-morrow?” I said.

“No, not to-morrow,” she answered.

I did not ask her why.

“To-morrow is our party,” she said with a laugh. “I was only going to surprise you, but you looked so miserable, I had to tell you at once. I was going to send you an invitation all on paper.”

And my heart was lightened unspeakably.

She went off, nodding farewell.

“One thing more,” said I, standing where I was. “How long is it since you gathered up the pieces of that glass and put them away?”

“Why--a week ago, perhaps, or a fortnight. Yes, perhaps a fortnight. But why do you ask? Well, I will tell you the truth--it was yesterday.”

Yesterday! No longer ago than yesterday she had thought of me. All was well again now.

XV

The two boats lay ready, and we stepped on board. Talking and singing. The place, Korholmerne, lay out beyond the islands; it took a good while to row across, and on the way we talked, one party with another, from boat to boat. The Doctor wore light things, as the ladies did; I had never seen him so pleased before; he talked with the rest, instead of listening in silence. I had an idea he had been drinking a little, and so was in good humor to-day. When we landed, he craved the attention of the party for a moment, and bade us welcome. I thought to myself: This means that Edwarda has asked him to act as host.

He fell to entertaining the ladies in the most amiable manner. To Edwarda he was polite and kind, often fatherly, and pedantically instructive, as he had been so many times before. She spoke of some date or other, saying: “I was born in '38,” and he asked, “Eighteen hundred and thirty-eight, I suppose you mean?” And if she had answered, “No, in nineteen hundred and thirty-eight,” he would have shown no embarrassment, but only corrected her again, and said, “I think you must be mistaken.” When I said anything myself, he listened politely and attentively, and did not ignore me.

A young girl came up to me with a greeting. I did not recognize her; I could not remember her at all, and I said a few words in surprise, and she laughed. It was one of the Dean's daughters. I had met her the day we went to the island before, and had invited her to my hut. We talked together a little.

An hour or so passed by. I was feeling dull, and drank from the wine poured out for me, and mixed with the others, chatting with them all. Again I made a mistake here and there: I was on doubtful ground, and could not tell at the moment how to answer any little civility; now and then I talked incoherently, or even found nothing at all to say, and this troubled me. Over by the big rock which we were using as a table sat the Doctor, gesticulating.

“Soul--what is the soul?” he was saying. The Dean's daughter had accused him of being a free-thinker--well, and should not a man think freely? People imagined hell as a sort of house down under the ground, with the devil as host--or rather as sovereign lord. Then he spoke of the altar picture in the chapel, a figure of the Christ, with a few Jews and Jewesses; water into wine--well and good. But Christ had a halo round His head. And what was a halo? Simply a yellow hoop fixed on three hairs.

Two of the ladies clasped their hands aghast, but the Doctor extricated himself, and said jestingly:

“Sounds horrible, doesn't it? I admit it. But if you repeat it and repeat it again to yourself seven or eight times, and then think it over a little, it soon sounds easier... Ladies, your very good health!”

And he knelt on the grass before the two ladies, and instead of taking his hat off and laying it before him he held it straight up in the air with one hand, and emptied his glass with his head bent back. I was altogether carried away by his wonderful ease of manner, and would have drunk with him myself but that his glass was empty.

Edwarda was following him with her eyes. I placed myself near her, and said:

“Shall we play '_Enke_' to-day?”

She started slightly, and got up.

“Be careful not to say '_Du_' to each other now,” she whispered.

Now I had not said “_Du_” at all. I walked away.

Another hour passed. The day was getting long; I would have rowed home alone long before if there had been a third boat; Æsop lay tied up in the hut, and perhaps he was thinking of me. Edwarda's thoughts must surely be far away from me; she talked of how lovely it would be to travel, and see strange places; her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she even stumbled in her speech:

“No one could be more happier than I the day ...”

“'More happier'...?” said the Doctor.

“What?” said she.

“'More happier.'”

“I don't understand.”

“You said 'more happier,' I think.”

“Did I? I'm sorry. No one could be happier than I the day I stood on board the ship. Sometimes I long for places I do not know myself.”

She longed to be away; she did not think of me. I stood there, and read in her face that she had forgotten me. Well, there was nothing to be said--but I stood there myself and saw it in her face. And the minutes dragged so miserably slowly by! I asked several of the others if we ought not to row back now; it was getting late, I said, and Æsop was tied up in the hut. But none of them wanted to go back.

I went over again to the Dean's daughter, for the third time; I thought she must be the one that had said I had eyes like an animal's. We drank together; she had quivering eyes, they were never still; she kept looking at me and then looking away, all the time.

“Fröken,” I said, “do you not think people here in these parts are like the short summer itself? In their feeling, I mean? Beautiful, but lasting only a little while?”

I spoke loudly, very loudly, and I did so on purpose. And I went on speaking loudly, and asked that young lady once more if she would not like to come up one day and see my hut. “Heaven bless you for it,” I said in my distress, and I was already thinking to myself how, perhaps, I might find something to give her as a present if she came. Perhaps I had nothing to give her but my powder-horn, I thought.

And she promised to come.

Edwarda sat with her face turned away and let me talk as much as I pleased. She listened to what the others said, putting in a word herself now and again. The Doctor told the young ladies' fortunes by their hands, and talked a lot; he himself had small, delicate hands, with a ring on one finger. I felt myself unwanted, and sat down by myself awhile on a stone. It was getting late in the afternoon. Here I am, I said to myself, sitting all alone on a stone, and the only creature that could make me move, she lets me sit. Well, then, I care no more than she.

A great feeling of forsakenness came over me. I could hear them talking behind me, and I heard how Edwarda laughed; and at that I got up suddenly and went over to the party. My excitement ran away with me.

“Just a moment,” I said. “It occurred to me while I was sitting there that perhaps you might like to see my fly-book.” And I took it out. “I am sorry I did not think of it before. Just look through it, if you please; I should be only too delighted. You must all see it; there are both red and yellow flies in it.” And I held my cap in my hand as I spoke. I was myself aware that I had taken off my cap, and I knew that this was wrong, so I put it on again at once.

There was deep silence for a moment, and no one offered to take the book. At last the Doctor reached out his hand for it and said politely:

“Thanks very much; let us look at the things. It's always been a marvel to me how those flies were put together.”

“I make them myself,” I said, full of gratitude. And I went on at once to explain how it was done. It was simple enough: I bought the feathers and the hooks. They were not well made, but they were only for my own use. One could get ready-made flies in the shops, and they were beautiful things.

Edwarda cast one careless glance at me and my book, and went on talking with her girl friends.

“Ah, here are some of the feathers,” said the Doctor. “Look, these are really fine.”

Edwarda looked up.

“The green ones are pretty,” she said; “let me look, Doctor.”

“Keep them,” I cried. “Yes, do, I beg you, now. Two green feathers. Do, as a kindness, let them be a keepsake.”

She looked at them and said:

“They are green and gold, as you turn them in the sun. Thank you, if you will give me them.”

“I should be glad to,” I said.

And she took the feathers.

A little later the Doctor handed me the book and thanked me. Then he got up and asked if it were not nearly time to be getting back.

I said: “Yes, for Heaven's sake. I have a dog tied up at home; look you, I have a dog, and he is my friend; he lies there thinking of me, and when I come home he stands with his forepaws at the window to greet me. It has been a lovely day, and now it is nearly over; let us go back. I am grateful to you all.”

I waited on the shore to see which boat Edwarda chose, and made up my mind to go in the other one myself. Suddenly she called me. I looked at her in surprise; her face was flushed. Then she came up to me, held out her hand, and said tenderly:

“Thank you for the feathers. You will come in the boat with me, won't you?”

“If you wish it,” I said.

We got into the boat, and she sat down beside me on the same seat, her knee touching mine. I looked at her, and she glanced at me for a moment in return. I began to feel myself repaid for that bitter day, and was growing happy again, when she suddenly changed her position, turned her back to me, and began talking to the Doctor, who was sitting at the rudder.

For a full quarter of an hour I did not exist for her. Then I did something I repent of, and have not yet forgotten. Her shoe fell off: I snatched it up and flung it far out into the water, for pure joy that she was near, or from some impulse to make myself remarked, to remind her of my existence--I do not know. It all happened so suddenly I did not think, only felt that impulse.

The ladies set up a cry. I myself was as if paralyzed by what I had done, but what was the good of that? It was done. The Doctor came to my help; he cried “Row,” and steered towards the shoe. And the next moment the boatman had caught hold of the shoe just as it had filled with water and was sinking; the man's arm was wet up to the elbow. Then there was a shout of “Hurra” from many in the boats, because the shoe was saved.

I was deeply ashamed, and felt that my face changed color and winced, as I wiped the shoe with my handkerchief. Edwarda took it without a word. Not till a little while after did she say:

“I never saw such a thing!”

“No, did you ever?” I said. And I smiled and pulled myself together, making as if I had played that trick for some particular reason--as if there were something behind it. But what could there be? The Doctor looked at me, for the first time, contemptuously.

A little time passed; the boats glided homeward; the feeling of awkwardness among the party disappeared; we sang; we were nearing the land. Edwarda said:

“Oh, we haven't finished the wine: there is ever so much left. We must have another party, a new party later on; we must have a dance, a ball in the big room.”

When we went ashore I made an apology to Edwarda.

“If you knew how I wished myself back in my hut!” I said. “This has been a long and painful day.”

“Has it been a painful day for you, Lieutenant?”

“I mean,” said I, trying to pass it off, “I mean, I have caused unpleasantness both to myself and others. I threw your shoe into the water.”

“Yes--an extraordinary thing to do.”

“Forgive me,” I said.

XVI

What worse things might still happen? I resolved to keep calm, whatever might come; Heaven is my witness. Was it I who had forced myself on her from the first? No, no; never! I was but standing in her way one week-day as she passed. What a summer it was here in the north! Already the cockchafers had ceased to fly, and people were grown more and more difficult to understand, for all that the sun shone on them day and night. What were their blue eyes looking for, and what were they thinking behind their mysterious lashes? Well, after all, they were all equally indifferent to me. I took out my lines and went fishing for two days, four days; but at night I lay with open eyes in the hut...

“Edwarda, I have not seen you for four days.”

“Four days, yes--so it is. Oh, but I have been so busy. Come and look.”

She led me into the big room. The tables had been moved out, the chairs set round the walls, everything shifted; the chandelier, the stove, and the walls were fantastically decorated with heather and black stuff from the store. The piano stood in one corner.

These were her preparations for “the ball.”

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” I said.

We went out of the room.

I said: “Listen, Edwarda--have you quite forgotten me?”

“I can't understand you,” she answered in surprise. “You saw all I had been doing--how could I come and see you at the same time?”

“No,” I agreed; “perhaps you couldn't.” I was sick and exhausted with want of sleep, my speech grew meaningless and uncontrolled; I had been miserable the whole day. “No, of course you could not come. But I was going to say ... in a word, something has changed; there is something wrong. Yes. But I cannot read in your face what it is. There is something very strange about your brow, Edwarda. Yes, I can see it now.”

“But I have not forgotten you,” she cried, blushing, and slipped her arm suddenly into mine.

“No? Well, perhaps you have not forgotten me. But if so, then I do not know what I am saying. One or the other.”

“You shall have an invitation to-morrow. You must dance with me. Oh, how we will dance!”

“Will you go a little way with me?” I asked.

“Now? No, I can't,” she answered. “The Doctor will be here presently. He's going to help me with something; there is a good deal still to be done. And you think the room will look all right as it is? But don't you think...?”

A carriage stops outside.

“Is the Doctor driving to-day?” I ask.

“Yes, I sent a horse for him. I wanted to ...”

“Spare his bad foot, yes. Well, I must be off. _Goddag, Goddag_, Doctor. Pleased to see you again. Well and fit, I hope? Excuse my running off...”

Once down the steps outside, I turned round. Edwarda was standing at the window watching me; she stood holding the curtains aside with both hands, to see; and her look was thoughtful. A foolish joy thrilled me; I hurried away from the house light-footed, with a darkness shading my eyes; my gun was light as a walking-stick in my hand. If I could win her, I should become a good man, I thought. I reached the woods and thought again: If I might win her, I would serve her more untiringly than any other; and even if she proved unworthy, if she took a fancy to demand impossibilities, I would yet do all that I could, and be glad that she was mine... I stopped, fell on my knees, and in humility and hope licked a few blades of grass by the roadside, and then got up again.

At last I began to feel almost sure. Her altered behavior of late--it was only her manner. She had stood looking after me when I went; stood at the window following with her eyes till I disappeared. What more could she do? My delight upset me altogether; I was hungry, and no longer felt it.

Æsop ran on ahead; a moment afterward he began to bark. I looked up; a woman with a white kerchief on her head was standing by the corner of the hut. It was Eva, the blacksmith's daughter.

“_Goddag_, Eva!” I called to her.

She stood by the big grey stone, her face all red, sucking one finger.

“Is it you, Eva? What is the matter?” I asked.

“Æsop has bitten me,” she answered, with some awkwardness, and cast down her eyes.

I looked at her finger. She had bitten it herself. A thought flashed into my mind, and I asked her:

“Have you been waiting here long?”

“No, not very long,” she answered.

And without a word more from either of us, I took her by the hand and let her into the hut.

XVII

I came from my fishing as usual, and appeared at the “ball” with the gun and bag--only I had put on my best leather suit. It was late when I got to Sirilund; I heard them dancing inside. Someone called out: “Here's the hunter, the Lieutenant.” A few of the young people crowded round me and wanted to see my catch; I had shot a brace of seabirds and caught a few haddock. Edwarda bade me welcome with a smile; she had been dancing, and was flushed.

“The first dance with me,” she said.

And we danced. Nothing awkward happened; I turned giddy, but did not fall. My heavy boots made a certain amount of noise; I could hear it myself, the noise, and resolved not to dance any more; I had even scratched their painted floor. But how glad I was that I had done nothing worse!

Herr Mack's two assistants from the store were there, laboriously and with a solemn concentration. The Doctor took part eagerly in the set dances. Besides these gentlemen, there were four other youngish men, sons of families belonging to the parish, the Dean, and the district surgeons. A stranger, a commercial traveller, was there too; he made himself remarked by his fine voice, and tralala'ed to the music; now and again he relieved the ladies at the piano.

I cannot remember now what happened the first few hours, but I remember everything from the latter part of the night. The sun shone redly in through the windows all the time, and the seabirds slept. We had wine and cakes, we talked loud and sang, Edwarda's laugh sounded fresh and careless through the room. But why had she never a word for me now? I went towards where she was sitting, and would have said something polite to her, as best I could; she was wearing a black dress, her confirmation dress, perhaps, and it was grown too short for her, but it suited her when she danced, and I thought to tell her so.

“That black dress...” I began.

But she stood up, put her arm round one of her girl friends, and walked off with her. This happened two or three times. Well, I thought to myself, if it's like that... But then why should she stand looking sorrowfully after me from the window when I go? Well, 'tis her affair!

A lady asked me to dance. Edwarda was sitting near, and I answered loudly:

“No; I am going home directly.”

Edwarda threw a questioning glance at me, and said: “Going? Oh, no, you mustn't go.”

I started, and felt that I was biting my lip. I got up.

“What you said then seemed very significant to me, Edwarda,” I said darkly, and made a few steps towards the door.

The Doctor put himself in my way, and Edwarda herself came hurrying up.

“Don't misunderstand me,” she said warmly. “I meant to say I hoped you would be the last to go, the very last. And besides, it's only one o'clock... Listen,” she went on with sparkling eyes, “you gave our boatmen five _daler_ for saving my shoe. It was too much.” And she laughed heartily and turned round to the rest.

I stood with open mouth, disarmed and confused.

“You are pleased to be witty,” I said. “I never gave your boatman five _daler_ at all.”

“Oh, didn't you?” She opened the door to the kitchen, and called the boatmen in. “Jakob, you remember the day you rowed us out to Korholmerne, and you picked up my shoe when it fell into the water?”

“Yes,” answered Jakob.

“And you were given five _daler_ for saving it?”

“Yes, you gave me...”

“Thanks, that will do, you can go.”

Now what did she mean by that trick? I thought she was trying to shame me. She should not succeed; I was not going to have that to blush for. And I said loudly and distinctly:

“I must point out to all here that this is either a mistake or a lie. I have never so much as thought of giving the boatman five _daler_ for your shoe. I ought to have done so, perhaps, but up to now it has not been done.”

“Whereupon we shall continue the dance,” she said, frowning. “Why aren't we dancing?”

“She owes me an explanation of this,” I said to myself, and watched for an opportunity to speak with her. She went into a side room, and I followed her.

“_Skaal_,” I said, and lifted a glass to drink with her.

“I have nothing in my glass,” she answered shortly.

But her glass was standing in front of her, quite full.

“I thought that was your glass.”

“No, it is not mine,” she answered, and turned away, and was in deep conversation with someone else.

“I beg your pardon then,” said I.

Several of the guests had noticed this little scene.

My heart was hissing within me. I said offendedly: “But at least you owe me an explanation...”

She rose, took both my hands, and said earnestly:

“But not to-day; not now. I am so miserable. Heavens, how you look at me. We were friends once...”

Overwhelmed, I turned right about, and went in to the dancers again.

A little after, Edwarda herself came in and took up her place by the piano, at which the travelling man was seated, playing a dance; her face at that moment was full of inward pain.

“I have never learned to play,” she said, looking at me with dark eyes. “If I only could!”

I could make no answer to this. But my heart flew out towards her once more, and I asked:

“Why are you so unhappy all at once, Edwarda? If you knew how it hurts me to see--”

“I don't know what it is,” she said. “Everything, perhaps. I wish all these people would go away at once, all of them. No, not you--remember, you must stay till the last.”

And again her words revived me, and my eyes saw the light in the sun-filled room. The Dean's daughter came over, and began talking to me; I wished her ever so far away, and gave her short answers. And I purposely kept from looking at her, for she had said that about my eyes being like an animal's. She turned to Edwarda and told her that once, somewhere abroad--in Riga I think it was--a man had followed her along the street.

“Kept walking after me, street after street, and smiling across at me,” she said.

“Why, was he blind, then?” I broke in, thinking to please Edwarda. And I shrugged my shoulders as well.

The young lady understood my coarseness at once, and answered:

“He must have been blind indeed, to run after any one so old and ugly as I am.”

But I gained no thanks from Edwarda for that: she drew her friend away; they whispered together and shook their heads. After that, I was left altogether to myself.

Another hour passed. The seabirds began to wake out on the reefs; their cries sounded in through the open windows. A spasm of joy went through me at this first calling of the birds, and I longed to be out there on the islands myself...