Chapter 8

The Baron still had the ladies constantly round him. He regretted that his collections were packed away, so that he could not show them--that bunch of weed from the White Sea, the clay from Korholmerne, highly interesting stone formations from the bottom of the sea. The ladies peeped curiously at his shirt studs, the five-pointed coronets--they meant that he was a Baron, of course. All this time the Doctor created no sensation; even his witty oath, _Död og Pinsel_, no longer had any effect. But when Edwarda was speaking, he was always on the spot, correcting her language, embarrassing her with little shades of meaning, keeping her down with calm superiority.

She said:

“... until I go over the valley of death.”

And the Doctor asked:

“Over what?”

“The valley of death. Isn't that what it's called--the valley of death?”

“I have heard of the river of death. I presume that is what you mean.”

Later on, she talked of having something guarded like a ...

“Dragon,” put in the Doctor.

“Yes, like a dragon,” she answered.

But the Doctor said:

“You can thank me for saving you there. I am sure you were going to say Argus.”

The Baron raised his eyebrows and looked at the Doctor in surprise through his thick glasses, as if he had never heard such ridiculous things. But the Doctor paid no heed. What did he care for the Baron?

I still lurked by the door. The dancers swept through the room. I managed to start a conversation with the governess from the vicarage. We talked about the war, the state of affairs in the Crimea, the happenings in France, Napoleon as Emperor, his protection of the Turks; the young lady had read the papers that summer, and could tell me the news. At last we sat down on a sofa and went on talking.

Edwarda, passing, stopped in front of us. Suddenly she said:

“You must forgive me, Lieutenant, for surprising you outside like that. I will never do it again.”

And she laughed again, and did not look at me.

“Edwarda,” I said, “do stop.”

She had spoken very formally, which meant no good, and her look was malicious. I thought of the Doctor, and shrugged my shoulders carelessly, as he would have done. She said:

“But why don't you go out in the kitchen? Eva is there. I think you ought to stay there.”

And there was hate in her eyes.

I had not been to parties often; certainly I had never before heard such a tone at any of the few I had been to. I said:

“Aren't you afraid of being misunderstood, Edwarda?”

“Oh, but how? Possibly, of course, but how?”

“You sometimes speak without thinking. Just now, for instance, it _seemed_ to me as if you were actually telling me to go to the kitchen and stay there; and that, of course, must be a misunderstanding--I know quite well that you did not intend to be so rude.”

She walked a few paces away from us. I could see by her manner that she was thinking all the time of what I had said. She turned round, came back, and said breathlessly:

“It was no misunderstanding, Lieutenant; you heard correctly--I did tell you to go to the kitchen.”

“Oh, Edwarda!” broke out the terrified governess.

And I began talking again about the war and the state of affairs in the Crimea; but my thoughts were far distant. I was no longer intoxicated, only hopelessly confused. The earth seemed fading from under my feet, and I lost my composure, as at so many unfortunate times before. I got up from the sofa and made as if to go out. The Doctor stopped me.

“I have just been hearing your praises,” he said.

“Praises! From whom?”

“From Edwarda. She is still standing away off there in the corner, looking at you with glowing eyes. I shall never forget it; her eyes were absolutely in love, and she said out loud that she admired you.”

“Good,” I said with a laugh. Alas, there was not a clear thought in my head.

I went up to the Baron, bent over him as if to whisper something--and when I was close enough, I spat in his ear. He sprang up and stared idiotically at me. Afterwards I saw him telling Edwarda what had occurred; I saw how disgusted she was. She thought, perhaps, of her shoe that I had thrown into the water, of the cups and glasses I had so unfortunately managed to break, and of all the other breaches of good taste I had committed; doubtless all those things flashed into her mind again. I was ashamed. It was all over with me; whichever way I turned, I met frightened and astonished looks. And I stole away from Sirilund, without a word of leave-taking or of thanks.

XXVII

The Baron is going away. Well and good: I will load my gun, go up into the hills, and fire a salvo in his honour and Edwarda's. I will bore a deep hole in a rock and blow up a mountain in his honour and Edwarda's. And a great boulder shall roll down the hillside and dash mightily into the sea just as his ship is passing by. I know a spot--a channel down the hillside--where rocks have rolled before and made a clean road to the sea. Far below there is a little boat-house.

“Two mining drills,” I say to the smith.

And the smith whets two drills...

Eva has been put to driving back and forth between the mill and the quay, with one of Herr Mack's horses. She has to do a man's work, transporting sacks of corn and flour. I meet her; her face is wonderfully fresh and glowing. Dear God, how tender and warm is her smile! Every evening I meet her.

“You look as if you had no troubles, Eva, my love.”

“You call me your love! I am an ignorant woman, but I will be true to you. I will be true to you if I should die for it. Herr Mack grows harsher and harsher every day, but I do not mind it; he is furious, but I do not answer him. He took hold of my arm and went grey with fury. One thing troubles me.”

“And what is it that troubles you?” “Herr Mack threatens you. He says to me: 'Aha, it's that lieutenant you've got in your head all the time!' I answer: 'Yes, I am his.' Then he says: 'Ah, you wait. I'll soon get rid of him.' He said that yesterday.”

“It doesn't matter; let him threaten...” And with closed eyes she throws her arms about my neck. A quiver passes through her. The horse stands waiting.

XXVIII

I sit up in the hills, mining. The autumn air is crystal about me. The strokes of my drill ring steady and even. Æsop looks at me with wondering eyes. Wave after wave of content swells through my breast. No one knows that I am here among the lonely hills.

The birds of passage have gone; a happy journey and welcome back again! Titmouse and blackcap and a hedge-sparrow or so live now alone in the bush and undergrowth: tuitui! All is so curiously changed--the dwarf birch bleeds redly against the grey stones, a harebell here and there shows among the heather, swaying and whispering a little song: sh! But high above all hovers an eagle with outstretched neck, on his way to the inland ridges.

And the evening comes; I lay my drill and my hammer in under the rock and stop to rest. All things are glooming now. The moon glides up in the north; the rocks cast gigantic shadows. The moon is full; it looks like a glowing island, like a round riddle of brass that I pass by and wonder at. Æsop gets up and is restless.

“What is it, Æsop? As for me, I am tired of my sorrow; I will forget it, drown it. Lie still, Æsop, I tell you; I will not be pestered. Eva asks: 'Do you think of me sometimes?' I answer: 'Always.' Eva asks again: 'And is it any joy to you, to think of me?' I answer: 'Always a joy, never anything but a joy.' Then says Eva: 'Your hair is turning grey.' I answer: 'Yes, it is beginning to turn grey.' But Eva says: 'Is it something you think about, that is turning it grey?' And to that I answer: 'Maybe.' At last Eva says: 'Then you do not think only of me...' Æsop, lie still; I will tell you about something else instead...”

But Æsop stands sniffing excitedly down towards the valley, pointing, and dragging at my clothes. When at last I get up and follow, he cannot get along fast enough. A flush of red shows in the sky above the woods. I go on faster; and there before my eyes is a glow, a huge fire. I stop and stare at it, go on a few steps and stare again.

My hut is ablaze.

XXIX

The fire was Herr Mack's doing. I saw through it from the first. I lost my skins and my birds' wings, I lost my stuffed eagle; everything was destroyed. What now? I lay out for two nights under the open sky, without going to Sirilund to ask for shelter. At last I rented a deserted fisher-hut by the quay. I stopped the cracks with dried moss, and slept on a load of red horseberry ling from the hills. Once more my needs were filled.

Edwarda sent me a message to say she had heard of my misfortune and that she offered me, on her father's behalf, a room at Sirilund. Edwarda touched! Edwarda generous! I sent no answer. Thank Heaven, I was no longer without shelter, and it gave me a proud joy to make no answer to Edwarda's offer. I met her on the road, with the Baron; they were walking arm in arm. I looked them both in the face and bowed as I passed. She stopped, and asked:

“So you will not come and stay with us, Lieutenant?”

“I am already settled in my new place,” I said, and stopped also.

She looked at me; her bosom was heaving. “You would have lost nothing by coming to us,” she said.

Thankfulness moved in my heart, but I could not speak.

The Baron walked on slowly.

“Perhaps you do not want to see me any more,” she said.

“I thank you, Edwarda, for offering me shelter when my house was burned,” I said. “It was the kinder of you, since your father was hardly willing.” And with bared head I thanked her for her offer.

“In God's name, will you not see me again, Glahn?” she said suddenly.

The Baron was calling.

“The Baron is calling,” I said, and took off my hat again respectfully.

And I went up into the hills, to my mining. Nothing, nothing should make me lose my self-possession any more. I met Eva. “There, what did I say?” I cried. “Herr Mack cannot drive me away. He has burned my hut, and I already have another hut...” She was carrying a tar-bucket and brush. “What now, Eva?”

Herr Mack had a boat in a shed under the cliff, and had ordered her to tar it. He watched her every step--she had to obey.

“But why in the shed there? Why not at the quay?”

“Herr Mack ordered it so..

“Eva, Eva, my love, they make a slave of you and you do not complain. See! now you are smiling again, and life streams through your smile, for all that you are a slave.”

When I got up to my mining work, I found a surprise. I could see that someone had been on the spot. I examined the tracks and recognised the print of Herr Mack's long, pointed shoes. What could he be ferreting about here for? I thought to myself, and looked round. No one to be seen--I had no suspicion.

And I fell to hammering with my drill, never dreaming what harm I did.

XXX

The mail-packet came; it brought my uniform; it was to take the Baron and all his cases of scales and seaweeds on board. Now it was loading up barrels of herrings and oil at the quay; towards evening it would be off again.

I took my gun and put a heavy load of powder in each barrel. When I had done that, I nodded to myself. I went up into the hills and filled my mine with powder as well; I nodded again. Now everything was ready. I lay down to wait.

I waited for hours. All the time I could hear the steamer's winches at work hoisting and lowering. It was already growing dusk. At last the whistle sounded: the cargo was on board, the ship was putting off. I still had some minutes to wait. The moon was not up, and I stared like a madman through the gloom of the evening.

When the first point of the bow thrust out past the islet, I lit my slow match and stepped hurriedly away. A minute passed. Suddenly there was a roar--a spurt of stone fragments in the air--the hillside trembled, and the rock hurtled crashing down the abyss. The hills all round gave echo. I picked up my gun and fired off one barrel; the echo answered time and time again. After a moment I fired the second barrel too; the air trembled at the salute, and the echo flung the noise out into the wide world; it was as if all the hills had united in a shout for the vessel sailing away.

A little time passed; the air grew still, the echoes died away in all the hills, and earth lay silent again. The ship disappeared in the gloom.

I was still trembling with a strange excitement. I took my drills and my gun under my arm and set off with slack knees down the hillside. I took the shortest way, marking the smoking track left by my avalanche. Æsop followed me, shaking his head all the time and sneezing at the smell of burning.

When I came down to the shed, I found a sight that filled me with violent emotion. A boat lay there, crushed by the falling rock. And Eva--Eva lay beside it, mangled and broken, dashed to pieces by the shock--torn beyond recognition. Eva--lying there, dead.

XXXI

What more have I to write? I fired no shot for many days; I had no food, and did not eat at all; I sat in my shed. Eva was carried to the church in Herr Mack's white-painted house-boat. I went there overland on foot...

Eva is dead. Do you remember her little girlish head, with hair like a nun's? She came so quietly, laid down her head and smiled. And did you see how full of life that smile was? Be still, Æsop; I remember a strange saga story, of four generations ago, of Iselin's time, when Stamer was a priest.

A girl sat captive in a stone tower. She loved a lord. Why? Ask the winds and the stars, ask the God of life, for there is none that knows such things. The lord was her friend and lover; but time went on, and one fine day he saw another and his liking changed.

Like a youth he loved his maid. Often he called her his blessing and his dove, and said: “Give me your heart!” And she did so. He said: “May I ask for something, love?” And, wild with joy, she answered “Yes.” And she gave him all, and yet he did not thank her.

The other he loved as a slave, as a madman and a beggar. Why? Ask the dust of the road and the leaves that fall, ask the mysterious God of life, for there is no other that knows such things. She gave him nothing--no, nothing did she give him--and yet he thanked her. She said, “Give me your peace and your understanding!” and he was only sorry that she did not ask his life.

And his maid was set in the tower...

“What do you there, maiden, sitting and smiling?”

“I think of something ten years back. It was then I met him.”

“You remember him still?”

“I remember him still.”

And time goes on.

“What do you there, maiden? And why do you sit and smile?”

“I am embroidering his name on a cloth.”

“Whose name? His who shut you up here?”

“Yes, the one I met twenty years ago.”

“You remember him still?”

“I remember him as I did before.”

And time goes on...

“What do you there, prisoner?”

“I grow old, and can no longer see to sew; I scrape the plaster from the walls. And of that I am making an urn to be a little gift for him.”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Of my lover, who shut me in the tower.”

“And do you smile at that, because he locked you in the tower?”

“I am thinking of what he will say now. 'Look, look,' he will say, 'my maiden has sent me a little urn; she has not forgotten me in thirty years.'”

And time goes on...

“What, prisoner! sit you there idle, and smile?”

“I grow old, I grow old, my eyes are blind, I am only thinking.”

“Of him that you met forty years ago?”

“Of him whom I met when I was young. Maybe it was forty years ago.”

“But do you not know, then, that he is dead? ... Pale beldam, you do not answer; your lips are white, you breathe no more...”

There! That was the strange tale of the girl in the tower. Wait, Æsop, wait a little: there was something I forgot. One day she heard her lover's voice in the courtyard, and she fell on her knees and blushed. And that was when she was forty years...

I bury you, Eva, and in humility kiss the sand above your grave. A luxuriant, rose-red memory flowers in me when I think of you; I am as if drenched in blessing at the memory of your smile. You gave all; all did you give, and it cost you nothing, for you were the wild child of life itself. But others, the miserly ones who begrudge even a glance, can have all my thoughts. Why? Ask the twelve months and the ships on the sea; ask the mysterious God of the heart...

XXXII

A man said:

“You never go out shooting now? Æsop is running loose in the woods; he is after a hare.”

I said:

“Go and shoot it for me.”

Some days passed. Herr Mack looked me up. He was hollow-eyed; his face was grey. I thought: Is it true that I can see through my fellows, or is it not? I do not know, myself.

Herr Mack spoke of the landslip, the catastrophe. It was a misfortune, a sad accident; I was in no way to blame.

I said:

“If it was someone who wished to separate Eva and me at any price, he has gained his end. God's curse be on him!”

Herr Mack looked at me suspiciously. He murmured something about the fine funeral. Nothing had been spared.

I sat admiring the alertness of his mind. He would have no compensation for the boat that my landslide had crushed.

“Oh, but surely,” I said, “will you not have some payment for the boat and the tar-bucket and the brush?”

“No, my dear Lieutenant,” he answered. “How could you think of such a thing?” And he looked at me with hatred in his eyes.

For three weeks I saw nothing of Edwarda. Yes, once I met her at the store: when I went to buy some bread, she stood inside the counter looking over some different sorts of cloth stuff. Only the two assistants were there besides.

I greeted her aloud, and she looked up, but did not answer. It occurred to me that I could not ask for bread while she was there; I turned to the assistants and asked for powder and shot. While they were weighing it out, I watched her.

A grey dress, much too small for her, with the buttonholes worn; her flat breast heaved restlessly. How she had grown that summer! Her brow was knit in thought; those strangely curved eyebrows stood in her face like two riddles; all her movements were grown more mature. I looked at her hands; the contour of her long, delicate fingers moved me violently, made me tremble. She was still turning over the stuffs.

I stood wishing that Æsop would run to her behind the counter--then I could call him back at once and apologise. What would she say then?

“Here you are,” said the storekeeper.

I paid for the things, took up my parcels, and took my leave of her. She looked up, but again without speaking. Good, I thought to myself. She is the Baron's bride already, as like as not. And I went, without my bread.

When I got outside, I looked up at the window. No one was watching me.

XXXIII

Then one night the snow came, and it began to be cold in my hut. There was a fireplace where I cooked my food, but the wood burned poorly and it was very draughty, though I had caulked the walls as well as I could. The autumn was past, and the days were growing shorter. The first snow was still melting under the rays of the sun. Presently the ground was bare again, but the nights were cold, and the water froze. And all the grass and all the insects died.

A secret stillness fell upon people; they pondered and were silent; their eyes awaited the winter. No more calling from the drying grounds: the harbour lay quiet. Everything was moving towards the eternal winter of the northern lights, when the sun sleeps in the sea. Dull came the sound of the oars from a lonely boat.

A girl came rowing.

“Where have you been, my girl?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere? Look, I recognize you: I met you last summer.”

She brought the boat in, stepped ashore, made fast.

“You were herding goats. You stopped to fasten your stocking. I met you one night.”

A little flush rose to her cheeks, and she laughed shyly.

“Little goat-girl, come into the hut and let me look at you. I knew your name, too--it is Henriette.”

But she walked past me without speaking. The autumn, the winter, had laid hold of her too; her senses drowsed.

Already the sun had gone to sea.

XXXIV

And I put on my uniform for the first time, and went down to Sirilund. My heart was beating.

I remembered everything from the day when Edwarda had come hurrying to me and embraced me before them all. Now she had thrown me hither and thither for many months, and made my hair turn grey. My own fault? Yes, my star had led me astray. I thought: How she would chuckle if I were to throw myself at her feet and tell her the secret of my heart to-day! She would offer me a chair and have wine brought in, and just as she was raising the glass to her lips to drink with me, she would say: “Lieutenant, I thank you for the time we have been together. I shall never forget it!” But when I grew glad and felt a little hope, she'd pretend to drink, and set down the glass untouched. And she wouldn't hide from me that she'd only been pretending to drink; she'd be careful to let me see it. That was her way.

Good--it was nearing the last hour now.

And as I walked down the road I thought further: My uniform will impress her; the trappings are new and handsome. The sword will rattle against the floor. A nervous joy thrilled me, and I whispered to myself: Who knows what may happen yet? I raised my head and threw out a hand. No more humility now--a man's honour and pride! Whatever came of it, I would make no more advances now. Pardon me, my fair one, for not asking your hand...

Herr Mack met me in the courtyard, greyer still, more hollow-eyed.

“Going away? So? I suppose you've not been very comfortable lately, eh? Your hut burned down...” And Herr Mack smiled.

In a moment it seemed as if the wisest man in the world stood before my eyes.

“Go indoors, Lieutenant; Edwarda is there. Well, I will say good-bye. See you on the quay, I suppose, when the vessel sails.” He walked off, with head bowed in thought, whistling.

Edwarda was sitting indoors, reading. At the instant of my entering, she started at my uniform; she looked at me sideways like a bird, and even blushed. She opened her mouth.

“I have come to say good-bye,” I managed to get out at last.

She rose quickly to her feet, and I saw that my words had had some effect.

“Glahn, are you going away? Now?”

“As soon as the boat comes.” I grasped her hand--both her hands--a senseless delight took possession of me--I burst out, “Edwarda!” and stared at her.

And in a moment she was cold--cold and defiant. Her whole being resisted me; she drew herself up. I found myself standing like a beggar before her. I loosed her hand and let her go. I remember that from that moment I stood repeating mechanically: “Edwarda, Edwarda!” again and again without thinking, and when she asked: “Yes? What were you going to say?” I explained nothing.

“To think you are going already,” she said again. “Who will come next year, I wonder?”

“Another,” I answered. “The hut will be built up again, no doubt.”

Pause. She was already reaching for her book.

“I am sorry my father is not in,” she said. “But I will tell him you were here.”

I made no answer to this. I stepped forward, took her hand once more, and said:

_“Farvel,_ Edwarda.”

_“Farvel,”_ she answered.

I opened the door as if to go. Already she was sitting with the book in her hand, reading--actually reading and turning the page. Nothing affected, not the least in the world affected by my saying good-bye.

I coughed.

She turned and said in surprise:

“Oh, are you not gone? I thought you were.”

Heaven alone knows, but it struck me that her surprise was too great; that she was not careful, that she overdid it. And it came into my head that perhaps she had known all the time that I was standing behind her.

“I am going now,” I said.

Then she rose and came over to me.

“I should like to have something to remember you by when you go,” she said. “I thought of asking you for something, but perhaps it is too much. Will you give me Æsop?”

I did not hesitate. I answered “Yes.”