Chapter 7

I had thought it all over during the night, and taken my resolve. Why should I let myself be dazzled any longer by this creature of moods, a fisher-girl, a thing of no culture? Had not her name fastened for long enough on my heart, sucking it dry? Enough of that!--though it struck me that, perhaps, I had come nearer to her by treating her with indifference and scorn. Oh, how grandly I had scorned her--after she had made a long speech of several minutes, to say calmly: “Yes? You had something to say to me...?”

She was standing by the big stone. She was in great excitement, and would have run towards me; her arms were already opened. But she stopped, and stood there wringing her hands. I took off my cap and bowed to her without a word.

“Just one thing I wanted to say to you to-day, Glahn,” she said entreatingly. And I did not move, but waited, just to hear what she would say next. “I hear you have been down at the blacksmith's. One evening it was. Eva was alone in the house.”

I started at that, and answered:

“Who told you that?”

“I don't go about spying,” she cried. “I heard it last evening; my father told me. When I got home all wet through last night, my father said: 'You were rude to the Baron to-day.' 'No,' I answered. 'Where have you been now?' he asked again. I answered: 'With Glahn.'

“And then my father told me.”

I struggled with my despair; I said:

“What is more, Eva has been here.”

“Has she been here? In the hut?”

“More than once. I made her go in. We talked together.”

“Here too?”

Pause. “Be firm!” I said to myself; and then, aloud:

“Since you are so kind as to mix yourself up in my affairs, I will not be behindhand. I suggested yesterday that you should take the Doctor; have you thought it over? For really, you know, the prince is simply impossible.”

Her eyes lit with anger. “He is not, I tell you,” she cried passionately. “No, he is better than you; he can move about in a house without breaking cups and glasses; he leaves my shoes alone. Yes! He knows how to move in society; but you are ridiculous--I am ashamed of you--you are unendurable--do you understand that?”

Her words struck deep; I bowed my head and said:

“You are right; I am not good at moving in society. Be merciful. You do not understand me; I live in the woods by choice--that is my happiness. Here, where I am all alone, it can hurt no one that I am as I am; but when I go among others, I have to use all my will power to be as I should. For two years now I have been so little among people at all...”

“There's no saying what mad thing you will do next,” she went on. “And it is intolerable to be constantly looking after you.”

How mercilessly she said it! A very bitter pain passed through me. I almost toppled before her violence. Edwarda had not yet done; she went on:

“You might get Eva to look after you, perhaps. It's a pity though, that she's married.”

“Eva! Eva married, did you say?”

“Yes, married!”

“Why, who is her husband?”

“Surely you know that. She is the blacksmith's wife.”

“I thought she was his daughter.”

“No, she is his wife. Do you think I am lying to you?”

I had not thought about it at all; I was simply astonished. I just stood there thinking: Is Eva married?

“So you have made a happy choice,” says Edwarda.

Well, there seemed no end to the business. I was trembling with indignation, and I said:

“But you had better take the Doctor, as I said. Take a friend's advice; that prince of yours is an old fool.” And in my excitement I lied about him, exaggerated his age, declared he was bald, that he was almost totally blind; I asserted, moreover, that he wore that coronet thing in his shirt front wholly and solely to show off his nobility. “As for me, I have not cared to make his acquaintance, there is nothing in him of mark at all; he lacks the first principles; he is nothing.”

“But he is something, he is something,” she cried, and her voice broke with anger. “He is far more than you think, you thing of the woods. You wait. Oh, he shall talk to you--I will ask him myself. You don't believe I love him, but you shall see you are mistaken. I will marry him; I will think of him night and day. Mark what I say: I love him. Let Eva come if she likes--hahaha! Heavens, let her come--it is less than nothing to me. And now let me get away from here...”

She began walking down the path from the hut; she took a few small hurried steps, turned round, her face still pale as death, and moaned: “And let me never see your face again.”

XXIII

Leaves were yellowing; the potato-plants had grown to full height and stood in flower; the shooting season came round again; I shot hare and ptarmigan and grouse; one day I shot an eagle. Calm, open sky, cool nights, many clear, clear tones and dear sounds in the woods and fields. The earth was resting, vast and peaceful...

“I have not heard anything from Herr Mack about the two guillemots I shot,” I said to the Doctor.

“You can thank Edwarda for that,” he said. “I know. I heard that she set herself against it.”

“I do not thank her for it,” said I...

Indian summer--Indian summer. The stars lay like belts in through the yellowing woods; a new star came every day. The moon showed like a shadow; a shadow of gold dipped in silver...

“Heaven help you, Eva, are you married?”

“Didn't you know that?”

“No, I didn't know.”

She pressed my hand silently.

“God help you, child, what are we to do now?” “What _you_ will. Perhaps you are not going away just yet; I will be happy as long as you are here.”

“No, Eva.”

“Yes, yes--only as long as you are here.”

She looked forsaken, kept pressing my hand.

“No, Eva. Go--never any more!”

* * * * *

Nights pass and days come--three days already since this last talk. Eva comes by with a load. How much wood has that child carried home from the forest this summer alone?

“Set the load down, Eva, and let me see if your eyes are as blue as ever.”

Her eyes were red.

“No--smile again, Eva! I can resist no more; I am your, I am yours...”

Evening. Eva sings, I hear her singing, and a warmth goes through me.

“You are singing this evening, child?”

“Yes, I am happy.”

And being smaller than I, she jumps up a little to put her arms round my neck.

“But, Eva, you have scratched your hands. _Herregud_! oh, if you had not scratched them so!”

“It doesn't matter.”

Her face beams wonderfully.

“Eva, have you spoken to Herr Mack?”

“Yes, once.”

“What did he say, and what did you?”

“He is so hard with us now; he makes my husband work day and night down at the quay, and keeps me at all sorts of jobs as well. He has ordered me to do man's work now.”

“Why does he do that?”

Eva looks down.

“Why does he do that, Eva?”

“Because I love you.”

“But how could he know?”

“I told him.”

Pause.

“Would to Heaven he were not so harsh with you, Eva.”

“But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all now.”

And her voice is like a little tremulous song in the woods.

* * * * *

The woods more yellow still. It is drawing towards autumn now; a few more stars have come in the sky, and from now on the moon looks like a shadow of silver dipped in gold. There is no cold; nothing, only a cool stillness and a flow of life in the woods. Every tree stands in silent thought. The berries are ripe.

Then--the twenty-second of August and the three iron nights. [Footnote: _Joernnætter_. Used of the nights in August when the first frosts appear.]

XXIV

The first iron night.

At nine the sun sets. A dull darkness settles over the earth, a star or so can be seen; two hours later there is a glow of the moon. I wander up in the woods with my gun and my dog. I light a fire, and the light of the flames shines in between the fir-trunks. There is no frost.

“The first iron night!” I say. And a confused, passionate delight in the time and the place sends a strange shiver through me...

“Hail, men and beasts and birds, to the lonely night in the woods, in the woods! Hail to the darkness and God's murmuring between the trees, to the sweet, simple melody of silence in my ears, to green leaves and yellow! Hail to the life-sound I hear; a snout against the grass, a dog sniffing over the ground! A wild hail to the wildcat lying crouched, sighting and ready to spring on a sparrow in the dark, in the dark! Hail to the merciful silence upon earth, to the stars and the half moon; ay, to them and to it!” ...

I rise and listen. No one has heard me. I sit down again.

“Thanks for the lonely night, for the hills, the rush of the darkness and the sea through my heart! Thanks for my life, for my breath, for the boon of being alive to-night; thanks from my heart for these! Hear, east and west, oh, hear. It is the eternal God. This silence murmuring in my ears is the blood of all Nature seething; it is God weaving through the world and me. I see a glistening gossamer thread in the light of my fire; I hear a boat rowing across the harbour; the northern lights flare over the heavens to the north. By my immortal soul, I am full of thanks that it is I who am sitting here!”

Silence. A fir cone falls dully to the ground. A fir cone fell! I think to myself. The moon is high, the fire flickers over the half-burned brands and is dying. And in the late night I wander home.

The second iron night; the same stillness and mild weather. My soul is pondering. I walk mechanically over to a tree, pull my cap deep down over my eyes, and lean against that tree, with hands clasped behind my neck. I gazed and think; the flame from my fire dazzles my eyes, and I do not feel it. I stand in that stupor for a while, looking at the fire; my legs fail me first, and grow tired; thoroughly stiff, I sit down. Not till then do I think of what I have been doing. Why should I stare so long at the fire?

Æsop lifts his head and listens; he hears footsteps; Eva appears among the trees.

“I am very thoughtful and sad this evening,” I say.

And in sympathy she makes no answer.

“I love three things,” I go on. “I love a dream of love I once had; I love you; and I love this spot of ground.”

“And which do you love most?”

“The dream.”

All still again. Æsop knows Eva; he lays his head on one side and looks at her. I murmur:

“I saw a girl on the road to-day; she walked arm in arm with her lover. The girl looked towards me, and could scarcely keep from laughing as I passed.”

“What was she laughing at?”

“I don't know. At me, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“Did you know her?”

“Yes. I bowed.”

“And didn't she know you?”

“No, she acted as if she didn't know me... But why do you sit there worming things out of me? It is not a nice thing to do. You will not get me to tell you her name.”

Pause.

I murmur again:

“What was she laughing at? She is a flirt; but what was she laughing at? What had I done to harm her?”

Eva answers:

“It was cruel of her to laugh at you.”

“No, it was not cruel of her,” I cry. “How dare you sit there speaking ill of her? She never did an unkind thing; it was only right that she should laugh at me. Be quiet, devil take you, and leave me in peace--do you hear?”

And Eva, terrified, leaves me in peace. I look at her, and repent my harsh words at once; I fall down before her; wringing my hands.

“Go home, Eva. It is you I love most; how could I love a dream? It was only a jest; it is you I love. But go home now; I will come to you to-morrow; remember, I am yours; yes, do not forget it. Good-night.”

And Eva goes home.

* * * * *

The third iron night, a night of extremes! tension. If only there were a little frost! Instead, still heat after the sun of the day; the night is like a lukewarm marsh. I light my fire...

“Eva, it can be a delight at times to be dragged by the hair. So strangely can the mind of a man be warped. He can be dragged by the hair over hill and dale, and if asked what is happening, can answer in ecstasy: 'I am being dragged by the hair!' And if anyone asks: 'But shall I not help you, release you?' he answers: 'No.' And if they ask: 'But how can you endure it?' he answers: 'I can endure it, for I love the hand that drags me.' Eva, do you know what it is to hope?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Look you, Eva, hope is a strange thing, a very strange thing. You can go out one morning along the road, hoping to meet one whom you are fond of. And do you? No. Why not? Because that one is busy that morning--is somewhere else, perhaps... Once I got to know an old blind Lapp up in the hills. For fifty-eight years he had seen nothing, and now he was over seventy. It seemed to him that his sight was getting better little by little; getting on gradually, he thought. If all went well he would be able to make out the sun in a few years' time. His hair was still black, but his eyes were quite white. When we sat in his hut, smoking, he would tell of all the things he had seen before he went blind. He was hardy and strong; without feeling, indestructible; and he kept his hope. When I was going, he came out with me, and began pointing in different ways. 'There's the south,' he said, 'and there's north. Now you go that way first, and when you get a little way down, turn off that way.' 'Quite right,' I said. And at that the Lapp laughed contentedly, and said: 'There! I did not know that forty or fifty years back, so I must see better now than I used to--yes, it is improving all the time.' And then he crouched down and crept into his hut again--the same old hut, his home on earth. And he sat down by the fire as before, full of hope that in some few years he would be able to make out the sun... Eva, 'tis strange about hope. Here am I, for instance, hoping all the time that I may forget the one I did not meet on the road this morning...”

“You talk so strangely.”

“It is the third of the iron nights. I promise you, Eva, to be a different man to-morrow. Let me be alone now. You will not know me again to-morrow, I shall laugh and kiss you, my own sweet girl. Just think--only this one night more, a few hours--and then I shall be a different man. _Godnat_, Eva.”

_“Godnat.”_

I lie down closer to the fire, and look at the flames. A pine cone falls from the branch; a dry twig or so falls too. The night is like a boundless depth. I close my eyes.

After an hour, my senses begin swinging in a certain rhythm. I am ringing in tune with the great stillness--ringing with it. I look at the half-moon; it stands in the sky like a white scale, and I have a feeling of love for it; I can feel myself blushing. “It is the moon!” I say softly and passionately; “it is the moon!” and my heart strikes toward it in a soft throbbing. So for some minutes. It is blowing a little; a stranger wind comes to me a mysterious current of air. What is it? I look round, but see no one. The wind calls me, and my soul bows acknowledging the call; and I feel myself lifted into the air, pressed to an invisible breast; my eyes are dewed, I tremble--God is standing near, watching me. Again several minutes pass. I turn my head round; the stranger wind is gone, and I see something like the back of a spirit wandering silently in through the woods...

I struggle a short while with a heavy melancholy; I was worn out with emotions; I am deathly tired, and I sleep.

* * * * *

When I awoke the night was past. Alas, I had been going about for a long time in a sad state, full of fever, on the verge of falling down stricken with some sickness or other. Often things had seemed upside down. I had been looking at everything through inflamed eyes. A deep misery had possessed me.

It was over now.

XXV

It was autumn. The summer was gone. It passed as quickly as it had come; ah, how quickly it was gone! The days were cold now. I went out shooting and fishing--sang songs in the woods. And there were days with a thick mist that came floating in from the sea, damming up everything behind a wall of murk.

One such day something happened. I lost my way, blundered through into the woods of the annexe, and came to the Doctor's house. There were visitors there--the young ladies I had met before--young people dancing, just like madcap foals.

A carriage came rolling up and stopped outside the gate; Edwarda was in it. She started at sight of me. “Good-bye,” I said quietly. But the Doctor held me back. Edwarda was troubled by my presence at first, and looked down when I spoke; afterwards, she bore with me, and even went so far as to ask me a question about something or other. She was strikingly pale; the mist lay grey and cold upon her face. She did not get out of the carriage.

“I have come on an errand,” she said. “I come from the parish church, and none of you were there to-day; they said you were here. I have been driving for hours to find you. We are having a little party to-morrow--the Baron is going away next week--and I have been told to invite you all. There will be dancing too. To-morrow evening.”

They all bowed and thanked her.

To me, she went on:

“Now, don't stay away, will you? Don't send a note at the last minute making some excuse.” She did not say that to any of the others. A little after she drove away.

I was so moved by this unexpected meeting that for a little while I was secretly mad with joy. Then I took leave of the Doctor and his guests and set off for home. How gracious she was to me, how gracious she was to me! What could I do for her in return? My hands felt helpless; a sweet cold went through my wrists. _Herregud!_ I thought to myself, here am I with my limbs hanging helpless for joy; I cannot even clench my hands; I can only find tears in my eyes for my own helplessness. What is to be done about it?

It was late in the evening when I reached home. I went round by the quay and asked a fisherman if the post-packet would not be in by to-morrow evening. Alas, no, the post-packet would not be in till some time next week. I hurried up to the hut and began looking over my best suit. I cleaned it up and made it look decent; there were holes in it here and there, and I wept and darned them.

When I had finished, I lay down on the bed. This rest lasted only a moment. Then a thought struck me, and I sprang up and stood in the middle of the floor, dazed. The whole thing was just another trick! I should not have been invited if I had not happened to be there when the others were asked. And, moreover, she had given me the plainest possible hint to stay away--to send a note at the last moment, making some excuse...

I did not sleep all that night, and when morning came I went to the woods cold, sleepless, and feverish. Ho, having a party at Sirilund! What then? I would neither go nor send any excuse. Herr Mack was a very thoughtful man; he was giving this party for the Baron; but I was not going--let them understand that! ...

The mist lay thick over valley and hills; a clammy rime gathered on my clothes and made them heavy, my face was cold and wet. Only now and then came a breath of wind to make the sleeping mists rise and fall, rise and fall.

It was late in the afternoon, and getting dark; the mist hid everything from my eyes, and I had no sun to show the way. I drifted about for hours on the way home, but there was no hurry. I took the wrong road with the greatest calmness, and came upon unknown places in the woods. At last I stood my gun against a tree and consulted my compass. I marked out my way carefully and started off. It would be about eight or nine o'clock.

Then something happened.

After half an hour, I heard music through the fog, and a few minutes later I knew where I was: quite close to the main building at Sirilund. Had my compass misled me to the very place I was trying to avoid? A well-known voice called me--the Doctor's. A minute later I was being led in.

My gun-barrel had perhaps affected the compass and, alas, set it wrong. The same thing has happened to me since--one day this year. I do not know what to think. Then, too, it may have been fate.

XXVI

All the evening I had a bitter feeling that I should not have come to that party. My coming was hardly noticed at all, they were all so occupied with one another; Edwarda hardly bade me welcome. I began drinking hard because I knew I was unwelcome; and yet I did not go away.

Herr Mack smiled a great deal and put on his most amiable expression; he was in evening dress, and looked well. He was now here, now there, mingling with his half a hundred guests, dancing one dance now and then, joking and laughing. There were secrets lurking in his eyes.

A whirl of music and voices sounded through the house. Five of the rooms were occupied by the guests, besides the big room where they were dancing. Supper was over when I arrived. Busy maids were running to and fro with glasses and wines, brightly polished coffee-pots, cigars and pipes, cakes and fruit. There was no sparing of anything. The chandeliers in the rooms were filled with extra-thick candles that had been made for the occasion; the new oil lamps were lit as well. Eva was helping in the kitchen; I caught a glimpse of her. To think that Eva should be here too!

The Baron received a great deal of attention, though he was quiet and modest and did not put himself forward. He, too, was in evening dress; the tails of his coat were miserably crushed from the packing. He talked a good deal with Edwarda, followed her with his eyes, drank with her, and called her Fröken, as he did the daughters of the Dean and of the district surgeon. I felt the same dislike of him as before, and could hardly look at him without turning my eyes away with a wretched silly grimace. When he spoke to me, I answered shortly and pressed my lips together after.

I happen to remember one detail of that evening. I stood talking to a young lady, a fair-haired girl; and I said something or told some story that made her laugh. It can hardly have been anything remarkable, but perhaps, in my excited state, I told it more amusingly than I remember now--at any rate, I have forgotten it. But when I turned round, there was Edwarda standing behind me. She gave me a glance of recognition.

Afterwards I noticed that she drew the fair girl aside to find out what I had said. I cannot say how that look of Edwarda's cheered me, after I had been going about from room to room like a sort of outcast all the evening; I felt better at once, and spoke to several people, and was entertaining. As far as I am aware, I did nothing awkward or wrong...

I was standing outside on the steps. Eva came carrying some things from one of the rooms. She saw me, came out, and touched my hands swiftly with one of hers; then she smiled and went in again. Neither of us had spoken. When I turned to go in after her, there was Edwarda in the passage, watching me. She also said nothing. I went into the room.

“Fancy--Lieutenant Glahn amuses himself having meetings with the servants on the steps!” said Edwarda suddenly, out loud. She was standing in the doorway. Several heard what she said. She laughed, as if speaking in jest, but her face was very pale.

I made no answer to this; I only murmured:

“It was accidental; she just came out, and we met in the passage...”

Some time passed--an hour, perhaps. A glass was upset over a lady's dress. As soon as Edwarda saw it, she cried:

“What has happened? That was Glahn, of course.”

I had not done it: I was standing at the other end of the room when it happened. After that I drank pretty hard again, and kept near the door, to be out of the way of the dancers.