The Project Gutenberg eBook of Victoria
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Victoria
A love story
Author: Knut Hamsun
Translator: Arthur G. Chater
Release date: September 22, 2024 [eBook #74458]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Gyldendal
Credits: Peter Becker, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VICTORIA ***
Victoria
Translated from the Norwegian of
Knut Hamsun
By Arthur G. Chater
New York
Alfred A Knopf
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
_Published, April, 1923
Second Printing, June, 1923_
_Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co.,
Binghamton, N. Y._
_Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York._
_Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York._
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Victoria
I
The Miller's son walked in thought. He was a big lad of fourteen,
tanned by sun and wind and full of all manner of ideas.
When he grew up he would go to work in a match factory. It was so jolly
and dangerous; he might get his fingers covered with sulphur so that
nobody would dare shake hands with him. He would be thought a lot of by
his chums on account of his lurid trade.
He looked about in the wood for his birds. For he knew them all, knew
where their nests were, understood their cries and had different calls
to answer them. More than once he had given them dough balls made of
flour from his father's mill.
All these trees along the path were good friends of his. In spring he
had drawn their sap and in winter had been a little father to them,
freeing them of snow and helping them to hold up their boughs. And even
up in the abandoned granite quarry there wasn't a stone that was a
stranger to him, he had cut letters and signs on them and set them up,
arranged them like a congregation around their parson. All kinds of
strange things happened in that old granite quarry.
He turned off and came down to the mill-dam. The mill was at work; an
immense and ponderous noise surrounded him. He was in the habit of
wandering about here, talking to himself aloud. Every bead of foam
seemed to have a little life to talk about, and over by the sluice the
water fell straight down and looked like a shining sheet of stuff hung
out to dry. In the pool below the fall there were fish; he had stood
there with his rod many a time.
When he grew up he would be a diver. That was it. Then he would step
down into the sea from the deck of a ship and enter strange realms and
countries where great and wonderful forests stood swaying and a castle
of coral lay at the bottom. And the Princess beckoned to him from a
window and said "Come in!"
Then he heard his name called; his father stood behind him and shouted
"Johannes!"
"There's a message for you from the Castle. You're to row the children
over to the island!"
He went off in a hurry. A new favour and a great one had been
vouchsafed to the Miller's son.
* * * * *
"The Mansion" looked like a little castle in the green landscape,
indeed it was like a stupendous palace in its solitude. The house was
built of wood and painted white, with many bow-windows in its walls
and roof, and a flag flew on the round tower when there were visitors.
People called it the Castle. And outside its grounds lay the bay to one
side, and to the other the great forests; far away some little farms
were to be seen.
Johannes appeared at the landing-stage and got the young people into
the boat. He knew them of old; they were the children of the "Castle"
and their friends from town. They all had on high boots for wading; but
Victoria, who only had little shoes on and besides was not more than
ten, she had to be carried ashore when they reached the island.
"Shall I carry you?" asked Johannes.
"Let me!" said Otto, the gentleman from town, a man nearly old enough
to leave school, and he took her in his arms.
Johannes stood and watched her being carried high up on land and heard
her thanks. Then Otto looked back:
"Well, you'll look after the boat--what was his name?"
"Johannes," answered Victoria. "Yes, he'll look after the boat."
He was left behind. The others went off into the island, carrying
baskets for collecting eggs. He stood pondering for a while; he would
have liked to go with the others and they could have dragged the boat
ashore for the matter of that. Too heavy? It wasn't too heavy. And he
laid his fist on the boat and hauled it up a little way.
He heard the laughter and chatter of the young party growing fainter.
All right, good-bye for the present. But they might have taken him with
them. He knew of nests that he could have taken them to, wonderful
hidden holes in the rock, where lived birds of prey with tufts on their
beaks. And once he had seen a stoat.
He shoved the boat off and started to row round to the other side of
the island. He had rowed a good way when they shouted to him:
"Row back. You're scaring the birds."
"I only wanted to show you where the stoat lives?" he answered
tentatively. He waited a moment. "And then we could smoke out the
snakes' nest? I've got some matches."
He got no answer. Then he turned the boat and rowed back to the
landing-place. He drew the boat up.
When he grew up he would buy an island of the Sultan and forbid any one
to approach it. A gunboat should guard his shores. Your Lordship, the
slaves would come and tell him, there's a boat aground on the reef;
she has struck, the young people in her will perish. Let them perish!
he answers. Your Lordship, they are calling for help; we can save them
yet and there is a woman in white among them. Save them! he commands
in a voice of thunder. Then he meets the children of the Castle again
after many years and Victoria throws herself at his feet and thanks
him for her rescue. Nothing to thank me for, it was but my duty, he
answers; go freely where you will within my domains. And then he has
the gates of the palace thrown open to the company and feasts them on
golden dishes and three hundred brown slave girls sing and dance the
whole night long. But when it is time for the children of the Castle to
leave, Victoria cannot go. She throws herself in the dust before him
and sobs because she loves him. Let me stay here, thrust me not away,
Your Lordship, let me be one of your slaves....
He began to walk quickly across the island, thrilled through with
emotion. Very well, he would rescue the Castle children. Who knows,
perhaps they had lost their way? Perhaps Victoria had got stuck between
two rocks and could not get out? He would only have to reach out his
arm to set her free.
But the children looked at him in astonishment when he came. Had he
left the boat?
"I hold you responsible for the boat," said Otto.
"I could show you where there are some wild raspberries?" suggested
Johannes.
Silence among the party. Victoria came to the rescue.
"No? Where are they?"
But the gentleman from town put temptation aside and said:
"We can't bother about that now."
Johannes said:
"I know where we can find mussels, too."
Silence again.
"Are there pearls in them?" asked Otto.
"Fancy, if there were!" said Victoria.
Johannes replied, No, he didn't know about that; but the mussels were
a long way out on the white sand; they would have to have the boat and
dive for them.
That finished that idea, and Otto remarked:
"Yes, you look like a diver, don't you?"
Johannes began to breathe heavily.
"If you like I can go up the rocks there and roll a big stone down into
the sea," he said.
"What for?"
"Oh nothing. But you could watch it."
But that proposal was not accepted either and Johannes held his tongue
and felt ashamed. Then he went off to look for eggs a long way from the
others, in another part of the island.
When the whole party came together again down by the boat Johannes had
many more eggs than the rest; he carried them carefully in his cap.
"How is it that you found so many?" asked Otto.
"I know where the nests are," answered Johannes, feeling happy. "Now
I'll put them with yours, Victoria."
"Stop!" cried Otto. "What are you doing that for?"
Everybody looked at him. Otto pointed to his cap and said:
"How am I to know that that cap is clean?"
Johannes said nothing. His happiness came to an abrupt end. Then he
began walking up the island again, taking the eggs with him.
"What's the matter with him? Where's he going?" said Otto impatiently.
"Where are you going, Johannes?" cried Victoria running after him.
He stopped and answered quietly:
"I'm going to put the eggs back in the nests."
They stood for a moment looking at each other.
"And then I'm going up to the quarry this afternoon," he said.
She made no answer.
"Then I could show you the cave."
"Oh, but I'm so frightened," she answered. "You said it was so dark."
Then Johannes smiled in spite of his great sorrow and said courageously:
"Yes, but I shall be with you."
* * * * *
All his life he had played in the old granite quarry. People had
heard him working and holding forth up there though he was all alone;
sometimes he had been a parson and had held a service.
The place had been abandoned long ago, moss grew on the stones and the
marks of boring and blasting were almost obliterated. But the Miller's
son had cleared the inside of the secret cave and decked it out most
ingeniously, and there he dwelt, chief of the world's bravest robber
band.
He rings a silver bell. A little manikin, a dwarf with a diamond clasp
in his cap, hops in. This is his servant. He bows to the dust. When
Princess Victoria comes, bring her in! says Johannes in a loud voice.
The dwarf bows to the dust again and vanishes. Johannes stretches
himself comfortably on the soft divan and thinks. There he would lead
her to a seat and offer her costly dishes of gold and silver plate; a
blazing fire should light up the cave; behind the heavy curtain of gold
brocade at the back of the cave her couch should be prepared and twelve
knights should stand on guard....
Johannes got up, crept out of the cave and listened. There was a
rustling of twigs and leaves on the path.
"Victoria!" he called.
"Yes," came the answer.
He went to meet her.
"I hardly dare," she said.
He swayed his shoulders and answered:
"I've just been in there. I've only just come out."
They went into the cave. He showed her to a seat on a stone and said:
"That's the stone the giant was sitting on."
"Ugh, stop, don't tell me! Weren't you frightened?"
"No."
"Well, but you said he only had one eye; then he must have been a
troll."
Johannes thought a moment.
"He had two eyes, but he was blind of one. He said so himself."
"What else did he say? No, don't tell me!"
"He asked if I would serve him."
"Oh, but you wouldn't, would you? How awful!"
"Well I didn't say no. Not right out."
"Are you mad? Do you want to be shut up inside the mountain?"
"Well, I don't know. Things are pretty bad on earth too."
Pause.
"Since these town boys came you spend all your time with them," he said.
Another pause.
Johannes went on:
"But I have more strength to lift you out of the boat and carry you
than any of them. I'm sure I'm strong enough to hold you up a whole
hour. Look here."
He took her in his arms and lifted her up. She held on to his neck.
"There, now you mustn't hold me any longer."
He put her down. She said:
"Yes, but Otto is strong too. And he has fought grown-up men too."
Johannes asked doubtfully:
"Grown-up men?"
"Yes, he has. In town."
Pause. Johannes was thinking.
"Very well, that's the end of that," he said. "I know what I shall do."
"What will you do?"
"I shall take service with the giant."
"Oh, but you're mad, do you hear!" screamed Victoria.
"Oh well, it's all the same to me. I shall do it."
Victoria was thinking of a way out.
"Yes, but perhaps he won't come back again?"
Johannes answered:
"He'll come."
"Here?" she asked quickly.
"Yes."
Victoria got up and made for the entrance.
"Come along, we'd better go out again."
"There's no hurry," said Johannes, who had turned pale himself. "He
won't come before tonight. At the hour of midnight."
Victoria felt reassured and was going to sit down again. But Johannes
didn't find it easy to lay the uncanny feeling he had himself called
up, the cave was getting too dangerous for him and he said:
"If you really want to go out again I have a stone out there with your
name on it. I'll show it you."
They crept out of the cave and found the stone. Victoria was proud of
it and happy. Johannes was touched, he could have cried, and he said:
"When you look at it you must think of me sometimes when I am gone.
Give me a kind thought."
"Of course," answered Victoria. "But you'll come back, won't you?"
"Oh, goodness knows. No, I don't suppose I shall."
They began to walk homewards. Johannes was near to tears.
"Well, good-bye," said Victoria.
"No, I can go with you a little farther."
But her heartlessness in being so ready to bid him good-bye had made
him bitter, stirred up the wrath in his wounded heart. He stopped
abruptly and said with righteous indignation: "But I'll tell you this,
Victoria, you won't get anybody who would have been so kind to you as I
should. That's all I've got to say."
"Well, but Otto is kind too," she objected.
"All right, take him."
They went a few paces in silence.
"I shall have a splendid time. Don't be afraid about that. You don't
even know what my reward's going to be."
"No. What is it going to be?"
"Half of the kingdom. That was the first thing."
"Fancy, are you going to have that?"
"And then I'm to get the Princess."
Victoria stopped still.
"That's not true, is it?"
"Yes, it is," he said.
Pause. Victoria remarked absently:
"I wonder what she looks like?"
"Oh, bless you, she's prettier than any one on earth. And that we knew
before."
Victoria was conquered.
"Will you take her then?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, "that's what it will come to." But as Victoria was
really moved he added: "But maybe I'll come back some time. I might
come up to earth for a trip again."
"Well, but don't bring her with you then," she begged. "Why should you
bring her with you?"
"No, I could come by myself, I dare say."
"Will you promise me that?"
"Oh yes, I can promise that. But what does it matter to you? I can't
expect you to care."
"You mustn't say that, do you hear?" answered Victoria. "I'm certain
she isn't so fond of you as I am."
A glow of rapture thrilled his young heart. He could have sunk into
the earth from joy and bashfulness at her words. He dared not look at
her, he looked away. Then he picked up a stick off the ground, scraped
off its bark and hit himself on the hand with it. At last he began to
whistle in his embarrassment.
"Well, I shall have to be going home," he said.
"Good-bye then," she answered and gave him her hand.
II
The Miller's son went away. He stayed away a long time, went to school
and learned a great deal, grew up, big and strong, and got down on his
upper lip. It was so far to town, the journey there and back cost so
much, that the thrifty Miller kept his son in town summer and winter
for many years. He studied all the time.
But now he was grown into a man; he was eighteen or twenty.
Then one afternoon in spring he landed from the steamer. The flag was
flying at the Castle in honour of the son who had also come home for
his holidays by the same boat; a carriage had been sent down to the
pier to fetch him. Johannes bowed to the Master and Mistress of the
Castle and Victoria. How big and tall Victoria had grown! She did not
return his greeting.
He took off his cap again and heard her ask her brother:
"Look, Ditlef, who's that bowing?"
Her brother answered:
"That's Johannes. Johannes Miller."
She darted her eyes at him again; but he was too bashful to bow any
more. Then the carriage drove off.
Johannes took himself home.
Dear me, what a funny little place it was! He could hardly get into the
door without stooping. His parents brought out wine for the occasion.
His feelings gripped him, it was all so dear and so touching, his
father and mother so good and so grey, they gave him their hands in
turn and welcomed him home again.
The very same evening he walked round and looked at everything, the
mill, the quarry and the place where he used to fish, listened with a
touch of sadness to the birds he knew which were already building their
nests in the trees, and took a turn round by the big anthill in the
woods. The ants were gone, the hill was deserted. He dug into it, there
was not a sign of life. As he wandered about he noticed that a lot of
trees had been cut down in the Castle woods.
"Do you recognize the place again?" his father asked jokingly. "Have
you found your old thrushes?"
"I find some changes. There's been some felling."
"It's the Master's wood," his father answered. "It's not for us to
count his trees. Anybody may be in want of money; the Master wants a
deal of money."
The days came and went, mild, lovely days, wonderful hours of solitude,
with gentle memories of childhood, the call of earth and sky, of air
and hills.
* * * * *
He walked along the road to the Castle. He had been stung by a wasp
that morning and his upper lip was swollen; if he met any one he would
just bow and pass on. He met nobody. In the Castle garden he saw a
lady; when he came nearer he bowed deeply and passed on. It was the
Lady of the house. His heart still beat as of old when he went past
the Castle. Respect for the big house, the many windows, the Master's
severe and dignified person was still in his blood.
He took the road to the pier.
Then suddenly he met Ditlef and Victoria. Johannes felt uncomfortable;
they might think he had gone to look for them. Besides, he had a
swollen upper lip. He reduced his pace, uncertain whether to go on. He
went on. While still a long way off he took off his cap and carried
it in his hand as he passed. They both acknowledged his greeting in
silence and walked slowly past. Victoria looked straight at him; her
face changed a little.
Johannes went on down to the quay; a restlessness had taken hold of
him, his steps became nervous. Why, what a big girl Victoria was now,
quite grown up, lovelier than ever. Her eye-brows nearly met above her
nose, they were like two fine velvet strokes. Her eyes had got darker,
very dark blue.
On his way home he struck into a path which led through the wood,
avoiding the Castle garden. Nobody should say that he dogged the steps
of the Castle children. He came up a hill, found a stone and sat down.
The birds kept up a wild and passionate music, calling and chasing each
other, and flew with twigs in their beaks. A sweet smell of mould, of
bursting buds and decaying trees filled the air.
He had strayed into Victoria's path, she was coming straight towards
him from the opposite direction.
A helpless feeling of annoyance seized him, he wished himself far,
far away; of course she must think this time that he had followed her.
Should he greet her again? He might perhaps look another way; besides,
he had this wasp sting.
But when she came near enough he got up and took his cap off. She
smiled and nodded.
"Good evening. Welcome back," she said.
Again her lips seemed to quiver a little; but she recovered herself at
once.
He said:
"It looks rather funny, Victoria; but I didn't know you were here."
"Naturally you didn't," she replied. "It was just a whim of mine; I
thought I would walk round here."
Whew! he'd been too familiar.
"How long are you going to stay at home?" she asked.
"Till the holidays are over."
It was hard work answering her, she seemed all of a sudden to have gone
so far away. Then why had she spoken to him?
"Ditlef says you're so clever, Johannes. You always come out top. And
he says you write poetry too; is that true?"
He answered curtly with a squirm:
"Yes, of course. Everybody does."
Now, he thought, she wouldn't stay much longer, for she said nothing
more.
"Did you ever see anything like it, I was stung by a wasp this
morning," he said, showing his mouth. "That's why I look like this."
"Then you've been away too long, the wasps don't recognize you."
It made no difference to her whether he had been disfigured by a wasp
or not. All right. She stood there twirling a red gold-mounted parasol
on her shoulder and nothing else mattered to her. And yet he had
carried her ladyship in his arms more than once.
"I don't recognize the wasps," he answered; "they used to be friends of
mine."
But she didn't see the deep meaning in his words; she didn't answer.
Oh, but it was so deep.
"I don't recognize anything here now. Even the woods have been cut
down."
A little twitch passed over her face.
"Then perhaps you can't write poetry here," she answered. "Fancy if you
would write me a poem some day. No, what am I talking about! That shows
you how little I know about it."
He looked at the ground, stung and silent. She was making a fool of
him in the friendliest way, she talked patronizingly and watched him
for the effect. Begging her pardon, he hadn't wasted all his time in
writing, he had studied more than most....
"Well, we shall meet another time. Good-bye for the present."
He took off his cap and went without making a reply.
If she only knew it, it was to her and no one else he had written his
poems, every one of them, even the one to Night, even the one to the
Spirit of the Mere. She should never find that out.
On Sunday Ditlef called and wanted him to come over to the island. I'm
to be boatman again, he thought. He went. There was a group of Sunday
idlers on the pier, otherwise all was quiet and the sun was bright and
warm. Suddenly a distant sound of music came from over the water, from
the islands outside; the mail-boat swung in towards the pier in a great
curve; there was a band on board.
Johannes cast off the boat and took the oars. He was in a yielding,
pliant mood, this bright day and the music from the ship were weaving a
tissue of flowers and golden grain before his eyes....
Why didn't Ditlef come? He was standing on shore looking at the people
and the ship as if he didn't mean to go any farther. Johannes thought:
I'm not going to sit holding these oars any longer, I'm going ashore.
He began to turn the boat.
Then he suddenly saw a gleam of white and heard a splash; a desperate
cry of many voices rose from the ship and from people ashore and
hands and eyes all pointed to the place where the white flash had
disappeared. The band stopped playing at once.
In an instant Johannes was on the spot. He acted altogether
instinctively, without thinking, without making up his mind. He did
not hear the screams of the mother on deck: "My girl, my girl!" He no
longer saw anybody. He jumped straight away out of the boat and dived.
For a moment he was gone, a minute; they could see the water seething
where he had jumped in and knew he was at work. The cries of distress
still came from the ship.
Then he came up again, farther out, several fathoms from the scene of
the accident. They shouted to him, pointing like mad: "No, _here_ it
was, _here_!"
And he dived again.
Another interval of torture, an unbroken cry of anguish from a woman
and a man on deck wringing their hands. Another man dived off the ship,
the mate who had thrown off his jacket and shoes. He carefully searched
the place where the girl had gone down and they all set their hopes on
him.
Then Johannes' head appeared again above the surface, still farther
out, many fathoms farther than before. He had lost his cap and his
head shone like a seal's in the sunlight. They could see that he was
struggling with something, he swam with difficulty, one of his hands
was hampered. A moment later he had got hold of something in his mouth,
between his teeth, a huge bundle; it was the girl. Shouts of surprise
reached him from the ship and from the shore, even the mate must have
heard the difference; he put his head out of the water and looked
around.
At last Johannes reached the boat, which had drifted off; he got the
girl on board and climbed in himself; all without any stopping to
think. They saw him bend over the girl and literally tear the clothes
upon her back, then he grasped the oars and pulled furiously to the
ship. When the victim was seized and dragged on board everybody cheered
wildly.
"What made you try so far out?" they asked him.
He answered:
"I know the shoals. And there's a current here. I knew that."
A man forced his way to the side of the ship; he was pale as death,
with a tortured smile and tears hanging on his eyelashes.
"Come on board a moment!" he called down. "I want to thank you. We owe
you so many thanks. Only a moment."
And the man left the rail again, pale as death.
The gangway was thrown open and Johannes climbed on board.
He did not stay long; he gave his name and address, a woman embraced
him, soaking as he was; the pale, distracted man pressed his watch into
his hand. Johannes found himself in a cabin where two men were busy
with the drowning girl. They said: "Now she's coming round, her pulse
is going!" Johannes looked at the sufferer, a fair young girl in a
short frock; her frock was all torn open at the back. Then a man put a
hat on his head and he was led out.
He did not know exactly how he got ashore and pulled the boat up. He
heard another cheer raised and the band playing a gay tune as the ship
steamed away. A luxurious wave of rapture, cold and sweet, rolled
through him from head to foot; he smiled and moved his lips.
"No row for us today then," said Ditlef. He looked annoyed about it.
Victoria had come, she joined them and said quickly:
"What are you thinking of? He must go home and change his clothes."
Ah, what an event, in his nineteenth year!
Johannes started off home. The music and the loud cheering still rang
in his ears, a powerful emotion drove him on and on. He went past his
home and took the path through the wood to the quarry. Here he looked
out for a good place were the sun was warm. His clothes were steaming.
He sat down. A wild, blissful unrest made him get up and walk about
again. How full of happiness he was! He fell on his knees and thanked
God with hot tears for this day. She was standing below there, she had
heard the cheering. Go home and put on dry clothes, she said.
He sat down and laughed again and again, rapt with joy. Yes, she had
seen him do it, this heroic deed; she had watched him with pride as he
came back with the drowning girl in his teeth. Victoria, Victoria!
Did she know how unspeakably he was hers every minute of his life? He
would be her servant and her slave and sweep a way for her with his
shoulders. And he would kiss her little shoes and draw her carriage
and put logs in her stove on cold days. Gilt logs he would put in her
stove, Victoria.
He looked around. Nobody heard him, he was all by himself. In his hand
he held the valuable watch, it was ticking, it went.
Thanks, thanks for this good day! He patted the moss on the stones and
the fallen twigs. Victoria had not smiled at him; no, but that was not
her way. She simply stood on the pier; a little tinge of red flew over
her cheeks. Perhaps she would have liked his watch if he had given it
her?
The sun sank and the warmth began to fail. He felt he was wet. And then
he ran home, light as a feather.
* * * * *
There were summer visitors at the Castle, a party from town, with
dancing and revelry. And the flag flew night and day from the round
tower for a week.
And there was the hay to be carried, but the horses were all taken up
by the holiday makers and the hay was left out. And there were fields
and fields of uncut grass, but all the farm hands were pressed into
service as coachmen and boatmen and the grass was left to spoil.
And the music never ceased in the yellow drawing-room.
The old Miller stopped his mill and locked it up while this went on.
He had learnt wisdom, for he had known the times when the rollicking
townspeople had come in a body and played practical jokes with his
sacks of corn. For the nights were so warm and light and they invented
all manner of diversions. The rich Chamberlain in his young days had
once with his very own hands carried an ant-heap in a trough into the
mill and left it there. Now the Chamberlain was well on in years but
Otto his son still came to the Castle and found strange ways of amusing
himself. Many tales were told about him....
The sound of hoofs and shouting come through the wood. The young people
were out for a ride and the Castle horses were glossy and fresh. The
party came up to the Miller's house, knocked with their whips and
wanted to ride in. The door was so low and yet they wanted to ride in.
"Good day, good day," they cried. "We came to say how d'ye do."
The Miller laughed obsequiously at the joke.
Then they dismounted, tied up their horses and started the mill.
"The hopper's empty!" yelled the Miller. "You'll smash up the mill."
But nobody heard him in the roar.
"Johannes!" shouted the Miller with the full force of his lungs in the
direction of the quarry.
Johannes came.
"They're grinding up my millstones," his father cried, pointing.
Johannes went quietly towards the group. He was fearfully pale and the
veins on his temples grew bigger. He recognized Otto, the Chamberlain's
son, who was in cadet's uniform; there were two others besides him. One
of them smiled a greeting to smooth things over.
Johannes made no sound or sign, but went on. He was making straight for
Otto. At that moment he saw two ladies on horseback coming out of the
wood; one of them was Victoria. She had on a green habit and was riding
the white mare from the Castle. She did not get off, but sat watching
them all with questioning eyes.
Then Johannes altered his course; he turned off, went up on the weir
and opened the sluice; the noise gradually subsided, the mill stopped.
Otto called out:
"No, let it go on. What are you doing that for? Let the mill go on, I
tell you."
"Was it you who started the mill?" asked Victoria.
"Yes," he answered with a laugh. "What's it stopped for? Why mayn't it
go on?"
"Because it's empty," answered Johannes, with a catch in his breath,
looking at him. "Do you understand? The mill is empty."
"It was empty, do you hear?" Victoria repeated.
"How was I to know that?" asked Otto laughing. "Why was it empty I want
to know. Wasn't there any corn in it?"
"Get up again!" broke in one of his companions, to put an end to it.
They mounted. One of them apologized to Johannes before they rode off.
Victoria was the last. When she had gone a little way she turned her
horse and came back.
"You must please ask your father to excuse this," she said.
"It would have been more proper if the Cadet had done that himself,"
answered Johannes.
"I know. Of course, but--He is always taking things into his head....
How long it is since I saw you, Johannes!"
He looked up at her, wondering if he had heard aright. Had she
forgotten last Sunday, his great day!
He answered:
"I saw you on the pier on Sunday."
"Oh yes," she said at once. "What a lucky thing you were able to help
the mate with the dragging. You found the girl, didn't you?"
He answered shortly in a hurt tone:
"Yes, we found the girl."
"Or how was it?" she went on, as though something had struck her; "was
it you alone.... Oh, it doesn't matter. Well then, I hope you'll speak
to your father about that. Good-night."
She nodded with a smile, picked up her reins and rode away.
When Victoria was out of sight Johannes wandered on into the wood,
indignant and restless. He found Victoria standing by a tree quite
alone. She was leaning against the tree and sobbing.
Had she fallen off? had she hurt herself?
He went up to her and asked:
"Is there anything wrong?"
She took a step towards him, spread out her arms and gave him a
radiant look. Then she stopped, let her arms drop and answered:
"No, there's nothing wrong with me; I got off and let the mare go home
by herself.... Johannes, you mustn't look at me like that. You were
looking at me down by the pond. What do you want?"
He stammered:
"What do I want? I don't understand...."
"You're so broad there," she said, suddenly laying her hand on his.
"You're so broad there, about the wrist. And then you're quite brown
with the sun, brown as a berry...."
He moved his hand, trying to take hers. Then she picked up her habit
and said:
"No, there was nothing the matter, you see. I only thought I'd go home
on foot. Good-night."
III
Johannes went back to town. And days and years passed, a long, eventful
time of work and dreams, of lectures and verse. He was getting on well,
he had succeeded in writing a poem about Esther, "a Jew Girl who was
made Queen of Persia," a work which was printed and for which he got
paid. A second poem, "Love's Labyrinth," which he put into the mouth of
Friar Vendt, made his name known.
Ah, what was Love? A breeze whispering in the roses; no, a yellow
phosphorescence in the blood. Love was a music hot as hell which stirs
even old men's hearts to dance. It was like the daisy that opens wide
to the coming of night, and it was like the anemone that closes at a
breath and dies at a touch.
Such a thing was Love.
It might ruin its man, raise him up again and brand him anew; it might
love me today, you tomorrow and him tomorrow night, so inconstant was
it. But again it might hold like an unbreakable seal and burn with an
unquenchable flame even to the hour of death, for so eternal was it.
How then was Love?
Oh, Love is the summer night with stars in the sky and fragrance on
the earth. But why does it make the youth seek hidden paths and why
does it make the greybeard stand tiptoe in his lonely chamber? Ah, Love
turns the heart of man to a garden of fungus, a luxuriant and shameless
garden wherein mysterious and immodest toadstools raise their heads.
Does it not lead the friar to slink into closed gardens and glue his
eyes to the windows of the sleepers at night? And does it not possess
the nun with folly and darken the understanding of the princess? It
casts the king's head to the ground so that his hair sweeps all the
dust of the highway, and he whispers unseemly words to himself the
while and laughs and puts out his tongue.
Such was Love.
No, no, it was again something very different and it was like nothing
else in the whole world. It came to earth one spring night when a youth
saw two eyes, two eyes. He gazed and saw. He kissed a mouth, and then
it was as though two lights met in his heart, a sun flashing towards a
star. He fell into an embrace, and then he heard and saw no more in all
the world.
Love is the first word of God, the first thought that sailed through
his brain. He said: Let there be light! and then Love was. And all that
he had made was very good and he wished none of it unmade again. And
Love became the origin of the world and its ruler; but all its ways are
full of blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.
* * * * *
A September day.
This out-of-the-way street was his daily walk; he went up and down it
as in his own room, because he never met any one and it had gardens on
both sides and trees with red and yellow leaves.
Why was Victoria walking here? how could this lie in her way? He was
not mistaken, it was she, and perhaps it was she who had been walking
here the evening before when he looked out of his window.
His heart beat violently. He knew Victoria was in town, he had heard
so; but she mixed in circles which were closed to the Miller's son. He
never met Ditlef either.
He pulled himself together and went to meet the lady. Didn't she know
him? She walked on, serious and full of her thoughts, carrying her
head proudly on her long neck.
He bowed.
"Good afternoon," she said, quite low.
She made no sign of stopping and he passed by in silence. His legs gave
a jerk. At the end of the little road he turned round, as he always
did. I shall keep my eyes fixed on the pavement and not look up, he
thought. Not till he had gone a dozen paces did he look up.
She had stopped in front of a window.
Should he steal away, into the next street? What was she standing there
for? The window was a poor one, a little shop-window which showed some
crass bars of red soap, a glass jar of meal, and some foreign stamps
for sale.
Perhaps he could go on another dozen paces and then turn.
Then she looked at him and suddenly came towards him again. She walked
quickly, as though she had plucked up courage, and when she spoke her
breath came with difficulty. She smiled nervously.
"Good afternoon. I'm so glad to meet you."
Heavens, what a struggle there was in his heart; it wasn't beating,
it shivered. He tried to say something but didn't succeed, only his
lips moved. A fragrance issued from her clothes, her yellow dress,
or perhaps it was from her mouth. At that moment he had no clear
impression of her face; but he recognized her fine shoulders and her
long, slender hand on the handle of her parasol. It was her right hand.
There was a ring on it.
For the first few seconds he did not reflect upon this and had no
feeling of disaster. But her hand was wonderfully beautiful.
"I've been a whole week in town," she went on; "but I haven't seen you.
Oh yes, I saw you once in the street; somebody told me it was you.
You've grown so much."
He muttered:
"I knew you were in town. Are you staying long?"
"A few days. No, not long. I'm going home again."
"Thank you for stopping to talk to me," said he.
Pause.
"Oh, by the bye, I've lost my way," she said again. "I'm staying at the
Chamberlain's; how do I get there from here?"
"I'll take you there if you'll let me."
They began to walk.
"Is Otto at home?" he asked for the sake of saying something.
"Yes, he's at home," she answered shortly.
Some men came out of a doorway carrying a piano between them and
barring the pavement. Victoria turned off to the left, leaning her
whole side against her companion. Johannes looked at her.
"I beg your pardon," she said.
A voluptuous feeling swept through him at the contact; for an instant
her breath came straight against his cheek.
"I see you're wearing a ring," he said. And he smiled and put on an air
of indifference. "Perhaps I am to congratulate you?"
What would she answer? He did not look at her, but held his breath.
"And you?" she answered, "haven't you a ring? No? I'm sure somebody
told me.... One hears so much about you nowadays, your name is in the
papers."
"It's some poems I have written," he answered. "But you won't have seen
them."
"Wasn't it a whole book? I thought...."
"Yes, there was a little book too."
They came to a square, she was in no hurry though she had to go to the
Chamberlain's; she sat down on a seat. He stood in front of her.
Then she suddenly put out her hand to him and said:
"Sit down too."
And only when he had sat down did she release his hand.
Now or never! he thought. He made another attempt to assume a light and
indifferent tone, he smiled, looked up into the air. Good.
"So then you're engaged and won't even tell me. And I'm your neighbor
at home."
She thought a moment.
"That was not exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today," she
answered.
He at once became serious and said in a low voice:
"Well well, I dare say I know all about it."
Pause.
He began again:
"Of course I knew all the time that it couldn't be any use ... I mean,
that it was not I who ... I was only the Miller's son, and you.... Of
course that is so. And I can't even make out how I dare sit here beside
you and hint at it. I ought to stand before you, or kneel over there,
on the ground. That's how it ought to be. But somehow.... And then all
these years I have been away have made a difference. I seem to have
more confidence now. For I know that I'm no longer a child and I know
that you can't throw me into prison, if you wanted to. That gives me
courage to speak. But you mustn't be angry with me; I'd rather keep it
to myself."
"No, go on. Say what you want to say."
"May I? What I want to say? If you mean that, then your ring is not to
stop me."
"No," she said in a low voice, "it is not to stop you. No."
"What? Well, but what does it mean? Oh, God bless you, Victoria, can I
be right?" He sprang up and leaned over to look her in the face. "Tell
me, doesn't the ring mean anything?"
"Sit down again."
He sat down.
"Oh, but if you knew how much I have thought about you; heavens, has
there ever been another scrap of thought in my heart? Of all the people
I saw or heard of there was nobody in the world but you. I simply
couldn't have any thought but this--Victoria is the most beautiful, the
most glorious of all, and I know her! _Miss_ Victoria, you always were
to me. Though of course I saw that no one was farther from you than I;
but I knew you were there--and that meant so much to me--that there you
were, alive, and perhaps you remembered me sometimes. Of course you did
not remember me; but I have sat in my chair so often in the evening and
thought perhaps you remembered me sometimes. Do you know, that seemed
to throw heaven open to me, Miss Victoria, and then I wrote poems to
you and bought flowers for you with all I possessed and brought them
home and put them in vases. All my poems are to you, there are only a
few that are not, and they are not printed. But you won't have read
those that are printed either. Now I've begun on a big book. God, how
thankful I am to you, for I am so full of you and that is all my joy.
At every moment of the day, at night too, I see or hear something that
reminds me of you. I have written your name on the ceiling and I lie
and look at it; but the girl who does my room can't see it, I have
written it so small to keep it to myself. It brings me a kind of joy."
She turned away, opened the bosom of her dress and took out a paper.
"Look here!" she said, breathing heavily. "I cut it out and kept it.
You may as well know it, I read it at night. Papa showed it me first
and I took it to the window to read. 'Where is it? I can't find it,' I
said and turned over the paper. But I had found it and read it at once.
And I was so glad."
The paper was fragrant of her bosom; she opened it herself and showed
it to him, one of his first poems, four little verses addressed to her,
to the Lady on the White Horse. It was a heart's simple and passionate
confession, an outburst not to be restrained, which flashed out from
the lines like stars at evening.
"Yes," he said, "I wrote that. It was a long time ago, one night when
there was such a rustling in the poplars outside my window, that was
when I wrote it. No, are you really going to keep it? Thanks I You have
kept it. Oh!" he broke out in sudden rapture, and his voice was quite
low, "to think that you are sitting so close to me now. I feel your
arm against mine, I feel a warmth from you. Many a time when I have
been alone and thought of you I've shivered with emotion; but now I am
warm. When I was home last you were lovely, but you are lovelier now.
It is your eyes and your eye-brows, your smile--oh, I don't know, it's
everything, everything about you."
She smiled and looked at him with half-closed eyes, there was a
dark-blue gleam under the long lashes. A warm tinge was over her. She
seemed to be a prey to the most intense joy, and with an unconscious
movement she felt for his hand.
"Thanks!" she said.
"No, Victoria, don't thank me," he answered. All his soul welled out
to her and he wanted to say more, say more; nothing came but confused
and broken outbursts, he was as though intoxicated. "Ah but, Victoria,
if you care for me a little ... I don't know, but say you do even if
it is not so. Do, please! Oh, I promise you I would do things, great
things, unheard-of things almost. You have no idea what I could do; I
ponder over it sometimes and feel that I am simply full of things to be
done. Often and often it pours out of me, at night I swing up and down
my room because I am so full of visions. There's a man in the room next
to me, he can't sleep, he knocks on the wall. When it begins to dawn he
comes into my room and he's furious. That doesn't matter, I don't worry
about him, for then I have thought so long about you that you seem to
be with me. I go to the window and sing, it begins to get light, the
poplars are rustling outside. Good-night! I say to the day. That is
for you. Now she's asleep, I think, good-night, God bless her! Then I
go to bed. So it is night after night. But I have never thought you
were so lovely as you are. Now I shall remember you like this when you
have gone; as you are now. I shall remember you so clearly...."
"Are you not coming home?"
"No. I'm not ready. Yes, I'll come. I shall leave now. I'm not ready,
but I'll do anything in the world. Do you sometimes stroll in the
garden at home now? Do you ever go out in the evening? I might see you,
I might be able to greet you perhaps, nothing more. But if you care for
me a little, if you can bear me, if you don't hate me, then say ... let
me have that comfort.... Do you know, there is a palm that flowers only
once in its lifetime, though it lives seventy years--the talipot palm.
But it only flowers once. Now is my flowering time. Yes, I'll get some
money and go home. I'll sell what I've written; I'm writing a big book,
you know, and I'll sell it now, tomorrow morning, all I have finished.
I shall get a lot for it. Do you want me to come home?"
"Yes."
"Thanks, thanks! Forgive me if I hope too much, believe too much; it
is so lovely to believe beyond all bounds. This is the happiest day I
have known...."
He took his hat off and laid it beside him.
Victoria looked about her, a lady was coming down the street and
farther off a woman with a basket. Victoria grew uneasy, she took out
her watch.
"Must you go now?" he asked. "Say something before you go, let me hear
your.... I love you and tell you so now. It will depend on your answer
whether I ... I am so utterly in your hands. What is your answer?"
Pause.
He dropped his head.
"No, don't say it!" he begged.
"Not here," she answered. "When we get there."
They walked on.
"They say you're going to marry that little girl, that girl whose life
you saved; what was her name?"
"Camilla, do you mean?"
"Camilla Seier. They say you are going to marry her."
"Do they? Why do you ask that? She is not grown up. I have been to her
home, it is a big, fine house, a castle like your own; I have been
there many times. No, she is not grown up."
"She is fifteen. I have met her, we have been together. I was much
taken with her. How charming she is!"
"I am not going to marry her," he said.
"Indeed."
He looked at her. His face twitched.
"But why do you say that now? Is it because you want to call my
attention to another?"
She went on with rapid steps and did not answer. They found themselves
outside the Chamberlain's. She took his hand and drew him into the
gateway and up the stairs.
"I'm not going in," he said, half surprised.
She pressed the bell, then turned to him, and her bosom was heaving.
"I love you," she said. "Do you understand? It is you I love."
Suddenly she drew him downstairs again, quickly, three or four steps,
threw her arms around him and kissed him. She trembled against him.
"It is you I love," she said.
The hall door opened above. She tore herself from him and hurried up
the stairs.
IV
It was getting on for morning; day dawned, a purple, quivering
September morning.
There was a gentle murmur among the poplars in the garden. A window
was thrown open, a man leaned out of it humming. He had no coat on,
he looked out upon the world like a dishevelled maniac who had been
drinking himself drunk in happiness all night.
He suddenly turned away from the window and looked towards his door;
somebody had knocked. He called: "Come In!" A man entered.
"Good-morning," he greeted the visitor.
It was an elderly man, he was pale with fury and carried a lamp in his
hand as it was not yet full daylight.
"I put it to you once more, Mr. Miller, Mr. Johannes Miller, do you
call this reasonable behaviour?" the man stammered with indignation.
"No," answered Johannes, "you are right. I've been writing something,
it came so easily; look, I've written all that, I've been lucky
tonight. But now I have finished. I opened the window and sang a
little."
"You roared," said the man. "It was the loudest song I have ever heard,
I tell you. And it's still the middle of the night."
Johannes plunged his hands among the papers on his table and picked up
a handful of sheets large and small.
"Look here!" he cried. "I tell you, I've never done so well. It was
like one long flash of lightning. I once saw a flash run along a
telegraph wire; God help you, it looked like a sheet of fire. That's
how it has been streaming through me tonight. What am I to do? I don't
think you will be angry with me any more when you hear all about it.
I sat here writing, you see, I didn't move; I remembered you and kept
quiet. Then there came a moment when I didn't remember it any longer,
my breast was ready to burst, perhaps I got up then, perhaps I got up
once more in the course of the night and walked round the room a few
times. I was so happy."
"I didn't hear you so much tonight," said the man. "But it is
altogether unpardonable of you to open the window at this time of night
and yell like that."
"Oh yes. It is unpardonable, no doubt. But now I have explained. I've
had a night like no other night, I tell you. Something happened to me
yesterday. I was walking in the street and I met the joy of my life;
oh, listen to me, I met my star and my joy. And then, do you know, she
kissed me. Her mouth was so red, and I love her; she kissed me and
made me intoxicated. Has your mouth ever trembled so that you could
not speak? I could not speak, my heart shook my whole body. I ran home
and fell asleep; I sat here in this chair and slept. When evening came
I awoke. My soul was swinging up and down in me with emotion and I
began to write. What did I write? Here it is! I was under the sway of
a strange and glorious train of ideas, the heavens were opened, it was
like a warm summer day to my soul, an angel brought me wine, I drank
it, it was strong wine, I drank it from a cup of garnet. Did I hear the
clock strike? Did I see that the lamp went out? God grant you could
understand! I lived it all over again, I walked again with my beloved
in the street and every one turned to look at her. We went into the
Park, we met the King, I took my hat off and swept the ground from
joy, and the King turned to look at my beloved, for she is so tall and
lovely. We went down into the town again and all the school-children
turned to look at her, for she is young and has a light dress. Then
we came to a red brick house and went in. I followed her upstairs and
wanted to kneel to her. Then she threw her arms about me and kissed
me. This happened to me yesterday evening, no longer ago than that. If
you asked me what I have written, it is one continuous song to joy,
to happiness. It was as though joy lay naked before me with a long,
laughing throat and was coming to me."
"Well, I really can't listen to you any longer," said the man, in
despair and irritation. "I have spoken to you for the last time."
Johannes stopped him at the door.
"Wait a moment. Oh, you ought to have seen how your face lighted up. I
saw it as you turned, it was the lamp, it sent a gleam of sunshine over
your forehead. You were not so angry any more, I saw that. I opened the
window, I know, and I sang too loud. I was the happy brother of all the
world. It sometimes happens like that. One takes leave of one's senses.
I ought to have thought that you were still asleep...."
"The whole town is still asleep."
"Yes, it's early. I should like to make you a present. Will you accept
this? It is silver, it was given to me. A little girl whose life I once
saved gave it me. Please take it. It holds twenty cigarettes. You won't
have it? I see, you don't smoke, but you ought to learn. May I come and
see you tomorrow and make my excuses? I should like to do something,
beg your forgiveness...."
"Good-night."
"Good-night. I'm going to bed now, I promise you that. You shan't hear
another sound. And in future I'll be more careful."
The man went.
Johannes suddenly opened the door again and added:
"By the bye, I'm leaving. I shan't disturb you any more. I'm leaving
tomorrow. I forgot to tell you."
* * * * *
He did not leave. Various things kept him, he had business to do,
things to buy, bills to pay, the morning passed and evening came. He
rushed about as though out of his wits.
At last he rang at the Chamberlain's door. Was Victoria at home?
Victoria was out shopping.
He explained that they came from the same place, Miss Victoria and he,
he only wanted to pay her his compliments if she had been in, to take
the liberty of paying his compliments. There was a message he wanted to
send home. All right.
Then he went into the town. Perhaps there was a chance of meeting her,
coming across her; she might be sitting in a carriage. He wandered
about till the evening. Outside the Theatre he saw her; he bowed,
smiled and bowed, and she returned his greeting. He was going up to
her, a few paces away--when he saw that she was not alone, she had Otto
with her, the Chamberlain's son. He was in lieutenant's uniform.
Johannes thought: now perhaps she'll give me a sign, a little glance of
the eyes? She hurried into the theatre, blushing, with her head bowed,
as though she did not wish to be seen.
Perhaps he could see her inside? He took a ticket and went in.
He knew where the Chamberlain's box was; of course, these rich people,
they had boxes. There she sat in all her glory looking about her. Did
she look at him? Never!
When the act was over he waited for her outside in the corridor. He
bowed again; she looked at him, rather surprised, and nodded.
"This is where you can get a glass of water," said Otto, pointing.
They walked past.
Johannes followed them with his eyes. A strange twilight settled about
him. All these people were annoyed with him and shoved him as they
passed; he mechanically excused himself and stayed where he was. She
had disappeared.
When she came back she bowed deeply and said:
"Excuse me...."
"It's Johannes," she said, introducing him. "Do you recognize him?"
Otto made some answer and puckered his eyes as he looked at him.
"I suppose you want to know how your people are," she continued, and
her face was calm and handsome. "I really don't know, but I expect
they're quite well. Very well indeed. I'll give them your love."
"Thank you. Are you going home soon, Miss Victoria?"
"One of these days. All right, I'll give them your love."
She nodded and passed on.
Johannes' eyes followed her again till she had vanished, then he went
out. He killed time with an everlasting ramble, a dull and dismal tramp
up one street and down another. At ten o'clock he was waiting outside
the Chamberlain's house. Now the theatres would soon be over, now she
would come. He might open the carriage door perhaps, and take his hat
off, open the carriage door and bow to the ground.
At last, half an hour later, she came. Could he stand by the gateway
and remind her once more of his existence? He hastened up the street
without looking round. He heard the gates of the Chamberlain's house
being thrown open, the carriage driving in and the gates closing again.
Then he turned.
He continued to stroll up and down in front of the house for an hour.
He was not waiting for anybody and had no message to give. Suddenly the
gate was opened from within and Victoria stepped out into the street.
She had no hat on and had only thrown a shawl over her shoulders. She
smiled, half afraid and half embarrassed, and asked as an opening:
"Are you walking about with your thoughts?"
"No," he answered. "My thoughts? No, I'm just walking here."
"I saw you walking up and down outside here and I wanted to.... I saw
you from my window. I must go in again directly."
"Thank you for coming, Victoria. I was in such despair a little while
ago and now it is gone. Excuse me for speaking to you at the theatre;
I'm sorry to say I asked for you here at the Chamberlain's too, I
wanted to see you and find out what you meant, what your meaning was."
"Well," she said, "you must know that. I said so much the day before
yesterday that you couldn't misunderstand me."
"I am still quite uncertain about it all."
"Don't let us talk any more about it. I have said enough, I have said
much too much, and now I am hurting you. I love you, I was not telling
you a lie the other day and I'm not telling you one now; but there is
so much that keeps us apart. I am very fond of you, I like talking
to you, would rather talk to you than to any one else, but.... Well,
I daren't stay here any longer, they can see us from the windows.
Johannes, there are so many reasons that you don't know, so you must
not ask me any more what I mean. I have thought of it night and day; I
mean what I said. But it will be impossible."
"What will be impossible?"
"The whole thing. All of it. Look here, Johannes, you must not force me
to have pride for both of us."
"Very well. All right, I'll spare you that! But it comes to this, that
you made a fool of me the other day. It so happened that you met me in
the street and you were in good humour and so...."
She turned and was going in.
"Have I done anything wrong?" he asked. His face was pale and
unrecognizable. "I mean, how have I forfeited your.... Have I committed
any crime in these two days and two nights?"
"No. That's not it. I have thought it over, that's all; haven't you
done the same? It has been impossible all along, you know. I am fond of
you, appreciate you...."
"And respect you."
She looked at him, his smile offended her and she continued with more
heat:
"Good heavens, don't you see yourself that Papa would forbid it? Why do
you force me to say it? You know it yourself. What could it have led
to? Am I not right?"
Pause.
"Yes," he answered.
"Besides," she went on, "there are so many reasons.... No, you really
mustn't follow me into the theatre any more, you frightened me. You
must never do it again."
"No," he said.
She took his hand.
"Can't you come home for a bit? I should look forward to it very much.
How warm your hand is; I'm freezing. No, I must go now. Good-night."
"Good-night," he answered.
The street lay cold and grey before him, looking like a belt of sand,
an everlasting road to traverse. He came upon a boy who was selling
old spoilt roses; he called to him, took a rose, gave the boy a little
five-crown piece in gold for a present, and went on. Soon after he saw
a group of children playing about a doorway. A boy of ten was sitting
still and looking on; he had old blue eyes which followed the game,
hollow cheeks and a square chin, and on his head was a linen cap. It
was the lining of a cap. This child wore a wig, a skin disease had
disfigured his head for life. Perhaps his soul was also withered.
All this he noticed though he had no clear idea of what part of the
town he was in or where he was going. It began to rain too, he didn't
feel it and didn't put up his umbrella, though he had carried it all
day.
When at last he came to a square where there were seats he sat down.
It was raining more and more, he put up his umbrella unconsciously and
remained seated. After a short time an invincible drowsiness came over
him, he shut his eyes and began to nod and doze.
A little while after he was roused by the loud voices of some
passers-by. He got up and wandered on. His brain had cleared, he
remembered what had happened, every incident, even the boy to whom he
had given five crowns for a rose. He pictured to himself the little
man's delight when he discovered this wonderful coin among his coppers
and saw that it was not a nickel but a five-crown piece in gold. God be
with him!
And the other children had perhaps been driven into the doorway by the
rain and were going on with their game there, playing hop-scotch or
marbles. And the disfigured old man of ten sat looking on. Who knows,
perhaps he was feeling pleased about something, perhaps he had some toy
in the little backyard room, a jack-in-the-box or a pegtop. Perhaps
he had not lost the whole of life, there might be hope in his withered
soul.
A slight and graceful lady came in view ahead of him. He gave a start
and stopped. No, he didn't know her. She had come from a side street
and was hurrying along and she had no umbrella though the rain was
pouring down. He caught up with her, looked at her and walked past. How
dainty she was and young! She was getting wet, she would catch cold
and he dared not approach her. Then he closed his umbrella so that she
should not be the only one to get wet. When he got home it was past
midnight.
There was a letter on his table, a card; it was an invitation. The
Seiers would be glad if he could come to them tomorrow evening. He
would meet people he knew, amongst others--could he guess?--Victoria,
from the Castle. Kind regards.
He fell asleep in his chair. An hour or two later he woke up feeling
cold. Half awake, half asleep, shivering all over, wearied with the
day's reverses, he sat down at the table and tried to answer the card,
this invitation that he did not intend to accept.
He wrote his answer and was going to take it down and post it.
Suddenly it struck him that Victoria was also invited. So that was it,
she had said nothing to him, she had been afraid he might come, she
wanted to be rid of him amongst these strangers.
He tore up his letter, wrote another thanking them, he would come. His
hand trembled with internal excitement, a peculiar happy exasperation
seized him. Why shouldn't he go? why should he hide himself? Enough.
His violent emotions ran away with him. With one wrench he tore off
a handful of leaves from his date pad on the wall and put himself
on a week. He imagined to himself that he was glad about something,
delighted beyond measure; he would enjoy this hour, he would light his
pipe, sit in his chair and hug himself. His pipe was hopelessly stopped
up, he searched in vain for a knife, a scraper, and suddenly pulled
one of the hands off the clock in the corner to clean his pipe with.
The sight of the mischief he had done did him good, it made him laugh
inwardly, and he looked about to see what else he could make a mess of.
The time went on. At last he threw himself on his bed in all his wet
clothes and fell asleep.
When he awoke the day was far advanced. It was still raining, the
street was wet. His head was in disorder, scraps of his dreams were
confused with the events of the day before; he felt no fever, on the
contrary, his heat had subsided, a coolness surrounded him as though he
had been wandering in a sultry forest and had now come to the borders
of a lake.
There was a knock, the postman brought him a letter. He opened it,
looked at it, read it and had difficulty in understanding it. It was
from Victoria, a note, a half sheet; she had forgotten to tell him
that she was going to the Seiers' this evening; she wanted to meet him
there, she would explain things better to him, ask him to forget her,
to take it like a man. Excuse the wretched paper. Kind regards.
He went into the town, dined, went home again and finally wrote
refusing the Seiers'; he could not come, he would look forward to
seeing them some other evening, tomorrow for instance.
This letter he sent by hand.
V
Autumn came, Victoria had gone home and the little out-of-the-way
street and its houses was as quiet as before. At night there was a
light in Johannes' room. It made its appearance with the stars at
evening and was extinguished when day dawned. He was working with all
his might, writing his great book.
Weeks and months passed; he was alone and visited nobody, he no longer
went to the Seiers'. Often his imagination played him tricks and
slipped irrelevant fancies into his book which he afterwards had to
strike out and throw away. This put him back a great deal. A sudden
noise in the stillness of the night, the rumbling of a cart in the
street, might give his thoughts a jolt and throw them off the line:
Out of the way of this cart in the street, look out there!
Why? Why should one look out for this cart anyway? It was rolling
past, perhaps it had now reached the corner. Perhaps there's a man
standing there with no overcoat, no cap, he stoops down and meets the
cart with his head, he will be run over, hopelessly mangled, killed.
The man wants to die, that is his affair. He won't button his shirt
any more and he has given up tying his shoes in the morning, he wears
everything open, his chest is bare and skinny; he is to die.... A man
was lying at the point of death, he wrote a letter to a friend, a note,
a little request. The man died and left this letter. It had a date and
signature, it was written with capitals and small letters although
he who wrote it was to die in an hour. That was so strange. He had
even put the usual flourish under his name. And an hour later he was
dead.... There was another man. He was lying alone in a little room
which was wood-panelled and painted blue. What then? Nothing. In the
whole wide world he is the one who has got to die. That fills his mind;
he thinks about it till he is worn out. He sees that it is evening,
that it is eight by the clock on the wall, and he can't make out why
it doesn't strike. Poor man, his brain is already falling asleep;
the clock _has_ struck and he didn't notice it. Then he makes a hole
through his mother's portrait on the wall--what does he want with this
picture now, and why should it be left whole when he is gone? His tired
eyes fall upon the flower-pot on the table and he reaches out his hand
and pulls the big flower-pot slowly and deliberately so that it falls
on the floor and is smashed to pieces. Why should it be left unbroken?
Then he throws his amber cigarette-holder out of the window. What does
he want with it any more? It seems so obvious to him that he need not
leave it behind. And in a week the man was dead....
Johannes got up and walked up and down his room. His neighbour in the
next room woke up, his snoring ceased and a sigh was heard, a tortured
groan. Johannes went on tiptoe to the table and sat down again. The
wind howling in the poplars outside his window made him feel cold. The
old poplars were stripped of leaves and looked like sad monstrosities;
a few knotted branches scraped against the wall of the house with a
creaking sound, like a piece of wooden machinery, a cracked stamp-mill
which worked on and on.
He dropped his eyes on his papers and read them over. Well well, his
fancy had run away with him again. He had nothing to do with death
and a passing cart. He was writing about a garden, a green luxuriant
garden by his home, the Castle garden. That was what he was writing
about. It was lying dead and snowed under now, but he was writing
about it all the same, and not of winter and snow at all, but spring
and fragrance and mild breezes. And it was evening. The water below
lay deep and still, like a leaden lake; the lilacs shed their perfume,
hedge after hedge was in bud and green leaves, and the air was so still
that the blackcock could be heard calling on the other side of the
bay. On one of the paths of the garden stood Victoria, she was alone,
dressed in white, twenty years old. There she stood. Taller than the
tallest rose-bushes, she looked out over the water, out to the forests,
to the sleeping mountains in the distance; she seemed like a white soul
in the midst of the green garden. Footsteps sounded on the road below,
she took a few steps forward to the lonely summer-house, leaned her
elbows on the wall and looked down. The man in the road took his hat
off almost to the ground and bowed. She nodded back. The man looked
about him, there was nobody on the road watching him and he advanced
towards the wall. Then she retreated, crying, "No, no!" and she waved
him off with her hand. "Victoria," he said, "what you said once was
the real truth, I can't have imagined it, that is impossible." "Yes,"
she answered, "but what do you want?" He was now quite close to her,
only the wall separated them, and he answered: "What do I want? Oh, you
know, I only want to stay here a minute. It's the last time. I want to
come as near to you as I can; now I'm not far away!" She said nothing.
So that minute passed. "Good-night," he said, taking off his hat again
and sweeping the ground with it. "Good-night," she answered. And he
went away without looking back....
What had he to do with death? He crumpled up the written sheets and
threw them away to the stove. Other written sheets were lying there
waiting to be burnt, all the fugitive waste of an imagination that
overflowed its banks. And he began again to write of the man on the
road, a wanderer who bowed and said good-bye when his minute was done.
And he left the girl behind in the garden, and she was dressed in white
and twenty years old. She would not have him; no, she wouldn't. But he
had stood against the wall behind which she lived. As close as that to
her he had been.
* * * * *
Again weeks and months went by and spring came. The snow was already
gone, far out in space was a foaming of freed waters. The swallows had
come and the woods outside the town quickened with the life of all
kinds of hopping beasts and birds with foreign note. A fresh, sweet
smell floated up from the ground.
His work had taken him all the winter. Night and day the dry branches
of the poplars had lashed the wall with their refrain; now spring had
come, the storms were over and the mill had creaked to a standstill.
He opened the window and looked out; the street was quiet already
though it was not yet midnight, the stars blinked in a cloudless sky,
it looked like a warm, bright day tomorrow. He heard the roar of the
town blended with the everlasting hum of the distance. Suddenly a
steam-whistle shrieked, the night train's signal; it sounded like a
single cockcrow in the stillness of the night. Now it was time for
work; that train-whistle had been like an order to him the whole winter.
And he shut the window and sat down again at his table. He threw aside
the books he had been reading and got out his papers. He took up his
pen.
Now his great work was nearly finished, it only wanted a final
chapter, a farewell message from a ship under way, and he had it
already in his head:
A man was sitting in a roadside inn, he was passing through and was
on a long, long journey. His hair and beard were grey and many years
had passed over him; but he was still big and strong and scarcely so
old as he looked. His carriage stood outside, the horses were resting,
the driver was happy and pleased, for the stranger had given him wine
and food. When the traveller entered his name the host recognized him,
bowed and showed him great honour. "Who lives at the Castle now?" the
stranger asked. The host replied: "The Captain; he is very rich. His
lady is kind to every one." To every one? the traveller asks himself
with a curious smile--to me too? And he sat down and began to write
something, and when it was finished he read it over; it was a poem,
mournful and calm, but with many bitter words. But presently he tore
the paper to pieces and went on tearing it into still smaller pieces as
he sat there. Then there was a knock at his door and a woman dressed
in yellow walked in. She threw off her veil, it was the lady of the
Castle, the Lady Victoria. There was a majesty about her. The man
rose abruptly; at the same instant his dark soul was illumined as if
by torch-light. "You are so kind to every one," he said bitterly. "You
even come to me." She made no answer, simply stood looking at him and
her face turned dark red. "What do you want?" he asked as bitterly
as before; "have you come to remind me of the past? If so, it is for
the last time, my lady, for now I am going away for ever." And still
the young mistress of the Castle made no answer, but her lips were
trembling. He said: "If you are not satisfied with my acknowledging my
folly once, then listen, I do it again: my heart was set upon you, but
I was not worthy of you--are you satisfied now?" He went on with rising
vehemence: "You gave me No, you took another; I was a clown, a bear, a
barbarian who in my boyhood had stumbled into a royal preserve!" But
then the man threw himself into a chair sobbing and begging her: "Oh,
go! forgive me, go away!" Now all the flush had left the lady's cheeks.
And she spoke, and uttered the words so slowly and so well: "I love
you; do not misunderstand me any longer, it is you I love. Farewell!"
And it was the Castle lady fair, she flung hands before her face
and fled out of the door.... He laid down his pen and leaned back.
There--full stop, Finis. There was the book, all the sheets he had
written, nine months' work. A warm ripple of satisfaction ran through
him at the finishing of his work. And as he sat there looking towards
the window through which day was dawning, there was a throbbing in his
head and his spirit went on working. He was full of ideas and feelings,
his brain was like a wild ungathered garden with mists rising from the
ground:
In some mysterious way he has come into a deep, deserted valley where
no living thing is to be seen. Far away, alone and forgotten, an
organ is playing. He goes nearer, examines it; the organ is bleeding,
blood runs out of its side as it plays. Farther on he comes to a
market-place. It is all deserted, not a tree to be seen, not a sound
to be heard, it is nothing but a deserted market-place. But in the
sand are prints of people's shoes and the air seems still to hold
the last words spoken in the place, so lately was it abandoned. A
strange feeling comes over him; these words left in the air over the
market-place alarm him, they come nearer, press upon him. He casts them
off and they come again; they are not words, they are old men, a group
of old men dancing; he sees them now. Why are they dancing, and why
are they not the least gay when they dance? A cold air blows from this
company of old men, they do not see him, they are blind, and when he
calls to them they do not hear him, they are dead. He wanders towards
the east, towards the sun, and he comes to a mountain. A voice cries:
Are you at a mountain? Yes, he answers, I am standing by a mountain.
Then says the voice: The mountain you are standing by is my foot; I am
lying bound in the uttermost land, come and set me free! So he sets off
to the uttermost land. At a bridge stands a man waiting for him, he is
collecting shadows; the man is of musk. A freezing terror seizes him at
the sight of this man who wants to take his shadow. He spits at him and
threatens him with clenched fists; the man does not budge but stands
waiting for him. Turn back! cries a voice behind him. He turns and sees
a head rolling along the road and showing him the way. The head is a
human head and now and then laughs quietly and silently. He follows
it. It rolls for days and nights and he follows it; by the seashore it
slips into the ground and hides. He wades out into the sea and dives.
He finds himself in front of a huge doorway and meets a great barking
fish. It has a mane on its back and it barks at him like a dog. Behind
the fish stands Victoria. He stretches out his hands to her, she has no
clothes on, she laughs to him and a storm blows through her hair. Then
he calls to her, he hears his own cry--and wakes.
Johannes rose and went to the window. It was almost light and in the
little mirror on the window-post he saw that his temples were red. He
put out the lamp and in the grey light of day read once more the last
page of his book. Then he lay down.
By the afternoon of the same day Johannes had paid for his room,
delivered his manuscript and left town. He had gone abroad, nobody knew
where.
VI
The great book was out, a kingdom, a little humming world of moods,
voices and visions. It was sold, read and laid aside. Some months
passed; when autumn came Johannes flung off a new book. What now? His
name was instantly on every one's lips, fortune followed him; this new
book was written far away, far from the events of home, and it was
still and strong as wine:
"Dear reader, here is the tale of Didrik and Iselin. Written in the
good season, in the days of small sorrows, when everything was easy to
bear, written with the very best intention about Didrik whom God smote
with love...."
Johannes was in a foreign country, no one knew where. And more than a
year passed before any one heard.
* * * * *
"I thought I heard a knock," said the old Miller one evening.
And his wife and he sat still and listened.
"No, it was nothing," she said after a while; "it's ten o'clock, it
will soon be night."
Several minutes passed.
Then there came a hard, decided knock at the door, as though some one
had plucked up courage to do it. The Miller opened. Outside stood the
young lady from the Castle.
"Don't be alarmed, it's only me," she said with a shy smile. She walked
in; they offered her a chair, but she did not sit down. She had only a
shawl over her head and on her feet little low shoes though it was not
yet springtime and the roads were not dry.
"I only wanted to tell you that the Lieutenant is coming this spring,"
she said; "the Lieutenant, you know, my fiancé. And perhaps he will
shoot woodcock out here. I thought I'd give you word about it, so that
you shouldn't be alarmed."
The Miller and his wife looked at the young lady in surprise. They had
never before had notice when visitors at the Castle were to shoot in
the woods and fields. They thanked her humbly; how kind it was of her!
Victoria went back to the door.
"That's all I wanted. I thought as you were old people there was no
harm in letting you know."
The Miller answered:
"So good of you, Miss. And now you have got your little shoes wet."
"No, the road's dry," she said shortly. "I was taking a turn round here
anyhow. Good-night."
"Good-night."
She raised the latch and went out. Then she turned in the doorway and
asked:
"By the bye--Johannes, have you heard from him?"
"No, nothing from him, thank you for asking. Nothing."
"I suppose he'll be coming soon. I thought you might have heard."
"No, not since last spring. Johannes is in foreign parts, it seems."
"Yes, in foreign parts. He is well. He writes himself in a book that he
is in the days of small sorrows. So he must be well."
"Oh yes, oh yes, God knows. We are waiting for him."
"Perhaps he is better off where he is, since his sorrows are small.
Well, that's his affair. I only wanted to know whether he was coming
home this spring. Good-night again."
"Good-night."
The Miller and his wife followed her out.
They saw her return to the Castle with her head held high, stepping
over the puddles in the muddy road with her thin shoes.
A day or two after a letter arrived from Johannes. He was coming home
in a little over a month, when he had finished another new book. He had
got on well all this time, his new work went rapidly, all life had been
surging through his brain....
The Miller betook himself to the Castle. On the way he found a pocket
handkerchief marked with Victoria's initials; she had dropped it the
other evening.
Miss Victoria was upstairs, but a maid offered to take her a
message--what was it?
The Miller declined. He would rather wait.
At last Victoria came. "I hear you want to speak to me?" she said,
opening the door of a room.
The Miller went in, handed her a handkerchief and said: "And then we
have had a letter from Johannes."
A bright look passed over her face for an instant, a brief instant. She
answered:
"Thank you very much. Yes, the handkerchief is mine."
"He is coming home again," the Miller went on, almost in a whisper.
Her look turned cold.
"Speak up, Miller; who is coming?" she said.
"Johannes."
"Johannes. Well, what then?"
"Oh, why--we thought I ought to tell you. We talked about it, my wife
and I, and she thought so too. You were asking the day before yesterday
if he was coming home this spring. Yes, he's coming."
"Then I am sure you must be glad," said the young lady. "When is he
coming?"
"In a month."
"I see. Well, there was nothing else?"
"No. We only thought, as you had asked.... No, there was nothing else.
It was only that."
The Miller had dropped his voice again.
She went out with him. In the passage they met her father and she said
to him as they passed, aloud and in a casual tone:
"The Miller tells me Johannes is coming home again. You remember
Johannes, don't you?"
And the Miller went out of the Castle gate and promised himself that
never, never again would he be such a fool as to listen to his wife
when she wanted to poke her nose into secrets. He'd let her know that.
VII
Once he had wanted to make a fishing-rod of the slender rowan tree by
the mill-pond; now many years had passed and the tree had grown thicker
than his arm. He looked at it in wonder and walked on.
The impenetrable wilderness of bracken still grew along the bank of the
stream, a whole forest on whose floor the cattle had trampled regular
paths over which the fronds of the bracken closed. He strode through
the wilderness as in the days of his childhood, swimming with his hands
and feeling his way with his feet. Insects and creeping things fled
before the mighty man.
Up by the granite quarry he found black-thorn, wood anemones and
violets. He plucked a quantity, their homely scent recalled to him
bygone days. In the distance the mountain ridges showed in a purple
haze and on the far side of the bay the cuckoo was beginning to call.
He sat down; after a while he began to hum. Then he heard footsteps on
the path below.
It was evening, the sun was down, but the air was still quivering with
warmth. An infinite peace lay over forest, mountain and bay. A woman
was coming up towards the quarry. It was Victoria. She was carrying a
basket.
Johannes rose, bowed and was going away.
"I didn't want to disturb you," she said. "I came to get some flowers."
He made no answer. And he never reflected that she had all kinds of
flowers in her garden.
"I brought a basket to put the flowers in," she went on. "But perhaps I
shan't find any. We want them for a party, for the table. We are going
to give a party."
"Here are anemones and violets," he said. "Higher up there are
generally hops. But perhaps it is too early in the year for them."
"You are paler than when I saw you last," she remarked to him. "That is
over two years ago. You have been away, I've heard. I have read your
books."
Still he did not answer. It occurred to him that perhaps he might say:
"Well, good evening, Miss Victoria," and go. From the place where he
stood it was one step down to the next stone and from there one to
her, and then he could withdraw as though quite naturally. She stood
right in his path. She had on a yellow dress and a red hat, she was
strangely beautiful; her throat was bare.
"I am blocking your way," he mumbled and stepped down. He controlled
himself so as not to show any emotion.
There was now one pace between them. She did not make way for him, but
stood still. They looked one another in the face. Suddenly she turned
very red, dropped her eyes and stepped aside; an irresolute expression
came over her face, but she smiled.
He went past her and stopped, her sad smile struck him, his heart flew
back to her and he said at random:
"Well, of course you have been in town many times since? Since that
time?... Now I know where there used to be flowers in old days: on the
knoll by your flagstaff."
She turned towards him and he saw with surprise that her face had
become pale and agitated.
"Will you come to us that evening?" she said. "Will you come to our
party? We are giving a party," she went on, and her face began to flush
again. "Some people are coming from town. It will be before long, but
I'll let you know. What is your answer?"
He did not answer. It was no party for him, his place was not at the
Castle.
"You mustn't say No. You won't be bored, I have thought about that and
I have a surprise for you."
Pause.
"You cannot surprise me any more," he answered.
She bit her lip; the despairing smile crossed her face again.
"What do you want of me?" she said in a toneless voice.
"I want nothing of you, Miss Victoria. I sat here on a stone and I
offered to move."
"Oh well, I was at home with nothing to do, I had been there the whole
day, and then I came here. I might have gone up the river another way,
then I shouldn't have come just here...."
"My dear Miss Victoria, the place is yours and not mine."
"I wronged you once, Johannes; I wanted to make it good again, to put
it right. I really have a surprise which I think ... I mean, which I
hope will please you. I can't say more. But I will ask you to come this
time."
"If it will give you any pleasure I shall come."
"Will you?"
"Yes; thank you for your kindness."
When he had come down into the wood he turned and looked back. She had
sat down; her basket lay by her side. He did not go home, but continued
to stroll up and down the road. A thousand thoughts were conflicting
within him. A surprise? That was what she said just now, only a moment
ago, and her voice trembled. A warm, nervous joy came over him, making
his heart beat violently, and he felt himself lifted up from the road
on which he was walking. And was it a mere chance that she was dressed
in yellow today again? He had looked at her hand where the ring had
been--she had no ring.
An hour passed. The scent of the woods and fields surrounded him,
penetrated his breath, entered his heart. He sat down, leaned back
with his hands clasped behind his neck and listened for a while to the
song of the cuckoo on the other side of the bay. All round him the air
thrilled with a passionate song of birds.
So once more it had happened! When she came up to him in the quarry
in her yellow dress and blood-red hat she looked like a wandering
butterfly that flitted from stone to stone and stopped before him. I
don't want to disturb you, she said, and smiled; her smile was red, her
whole face lit up, she strewed stars about her. She had delicate blue
veins on her neck and the few freckles under her eyes gave her a warm
tint. She was in her twentieth year.
A surprise? What did she intend? Would she perhaps show him his books,
produce those two or three volumes, to please him by showing that she
had bought them all and cut them? There, you see, a small attention, a
little bit of charity! Pray don't despise my poor contribution!
He rose impetuously and stood still. Victoria was coming back, her
basket was empty.
"You didn't find any flowers?" he asked absently.
"No, I gave it up. I wasn't looking for them either; I just sat there."
He said:
"While I remember it: you must not go on thinking that you have done
me any wrong. You have nothing to make good again with any kind of
charity."
"Haven't I?" she answered, taken aback. She thought it over again,
looked at him and pondered. "Haven't I? I thought that time.... I
didn't want you to go on bearing me a grudge for what happened."
"No, I don't bear you a grudge."
She thought again for a while. Suddenly she gave a cast of her neck.
"Then that's all right," she said. "Well, I might have known it. Of
course it didn't make so deep an impression as all that. Very well
then, we won't talk about it any more."
"Good-bye," she said. "Till we meet again."
"Good-bye," he answered.
They went their different ways. He stopped and turned. There she went.
He stretched out his hands and whispered tender words to himself: I
bear you no grudge, oh no, I do not; I love you still, I love you....
"Victoria!" he cried.
She heard; she started and turned round, but walked on.
Some days passed. Johannes was in a profoundly disturbed state and
could not work or sleep; he spent nearly the whole day in the woods. He
went up to the big fir-clad knoll where the Castle flagstaff stood; the
flag was hoisted. There was also a flag flying from the round tower of
the Castle.
A strange excitement seized him. Visitors were coming to the Castle,
there were to be great doings.
The afternoon was still and warm; the river ran like a pulse through
the heated landscape. A steamer glided in towards land, leaving a fan
of white streaks over the surface of the bay. Then four carriages drove
out of the Castle yard and took the road down to the pier.
The boat came alongside, some ladies and gentlemen landed and took
their seats in the carriages. Then a series of shots began to ring
out from the Castle; two men stood on the top of the round tower with
shot-guns, loading and firing by turns. By the time they had shot off
twenty-one rounds the carriages were rolling in through the gate and
the firing ceased.
Of course, there were to be great doings at the Castle; the flags and
salutes were in honor of the visitors. In the carriages were some
officers in uniform; perhaps Otto was among them, the Lieutenant.
Johannes came down from the knoll and was making for home. He was
overtaken by a man from the Castle who stopped him. The man had a
letter in his cap, he had been sent by Miss Victoria and wanted an
answer.
Johannes read the letter with a beating heart. Victoria invited him
after all, wrote in cordial terms and asked him to come. This was the
time she wanted him to come. Answer by the messenger.
A strange and unexpected joy came upon him. The blood mounted to his
head and he answered the man that he would come; yes, thanks, he would
come at once.
He handed the messenger a ridiculously big tip and hurried home to
dress.
VIII
For the first time in his life he entered the door of the Castle and
ascended the stairs to the first floor. A hum of voices came from
within; his heart was beating violently; he knocked and entered.
The Lady of the Castle, still young, came towards him and greeted him
in a friendly fashion, pressing his hand. Very glad to see him; she
remembered him when he was no higher than that; now he was a great
man.... And it seemed as though the Lady would have said more, she held
his hand a long time and looked at him searchingly.
Then the Master came up and gave him his hand. As his wife had said,
a great man, in more senses than one. A famous man. Very glad to see
him....
He was introduced to gentlemen and ladies, to the Chamberlain who was
wearing his orders, to the Chamberlain's Lady, to a neighbouring Laird,
to Otto, the Lieutenant. Victoria he did not see.
Some time went by. Victoria came in, pale, hesitating indeed; she
was leading a young girl by the hand. They made a round of the
drawing-room, shaking hands and saying something to every one. They
stopped at Johannes.
Victoria smiled and said:
"Look, here is Camilla, isn't this a surprise? You know one another."
She stood looking at them both for a moment, then she went out of the
room.
For the first instant Johannes stood motionless, stiff and dazed.
This was the surprise; Victoria had been kind enough to provide a
substitute. Look here, you two people, go and take each other! Spring
is in full bloom, the sun is shining; open the windows if you like,
for the garden is full of the scent of flowers and the starlings are
playing in the birch-tops. Why don't you talk to one another? Laugh,
for goodness' sake!
"Yes, we know each other," said Camilla frankly. "It was here you
pulled me out of the water that time."
She was young and fair, bright, dressed in a rose-coloured frock, and
was in her seventeenth year. Johannes clenched his teeth and laughed
and joked. Little by little her cheerful talk actually began to wake
him up; they talked a long time, the beating of his heart subsided.
She kept the charming habit she had had as a child of putting her
head on one side and listening expectantly when he said anything. He
recognized her, she was no surprise to him.
Victoria came in again; she took the Lieutenant's arm, carried him off
and said to Johannes:
"Do you know Otto--my fiancé? You remember him, don't you?"
The men remembered each other. They said the necessary words, made the
necessary bows and separated. Johannes and Victoria were left alone. He
said:
"Was that the surprise?"
"Yes," she answered, worried and impatient; "I did the best I could,
I didn't know of anything else to do. Don't be unreasonable now, you
ought rather to thank me; I could see you were glad."
"Thank you. Yes, I was glad."
An irreparable despair fell upon him, his face turned pale as a corpse.
If she had once wronged him it was now so abundantly made good and
healed. He was sincerely grateful to her.
"And then I notice that you have your ring on today," he said dully.
"Mind you don't take it off again."
Pause.
"No, now I am sure not to take it off any more," she answered.
They looked into each other's eyes. His lips quivered, he indicated the
Lieutenant with his head and said hoarsely and rudely:
"You have taste, Miss Victoria. He's a handsome man. His epaulettes
give him shoulders."
She gave him his answer very calmly:
"No, he is not handsome. But he is a well-bred man. And that means
something."
"That was one for me, thanks!" He laughed aloud and added with
insolence: "And there's money in his pockets; that means more."
She left him at once.
He drifted about from one wall to the other like an outlaw. Camilla
talked to him, asked a question and he did not hear it and made no
answer. Again she said something, touched his arm even and asked
another question in vain.
"Oh, now he's lost in thought," she cried with a laugh. "He's thinking,
he's thinking!"
Victoria heard and answered:
"He wants to be alone. He sent me away too." But suddenly she came
right up to him and said aloud: "I expect you're thinking out some
apology to me. You need not trouble about that. On the contrary, I
owe you an apology for sending you the invitation so late. It was very
neglectful of me. I forgot you till the very last, I nearly forgot you
altogether. But I hope you'll forgive me, for I had so much to think
about."
He stared at her speechless; even Camilla looked from one to the other
and seemed astonished. Victoria stood right in front of them with her
cold, pale face and looked satisfied. She had had her revenge.
"Now you can see our young men," she said to Camilla. "We mustn't
expect too much of them. Over there sits my fiancé talking about
elk-shooting and here is the poet deep in thought.... Say something,
poet!"
He gave a start; the veins in his temples swelled.
"Very well. You want me to say something? Very well."
"Oh, not if it's such an effort."
She was going already.
"To come straight to the point," he said slowly, smiling, but with a
quiver in his voice; "to begin right in the middle--have you been in
love lately, Miss Victoria?"
For a few seconds there was dead silence; all three could hear their
hearts beating. Camilla put in timidly:
"Of course Victoria is in love with her fiancé. She is just engaged,
don't you know that?"
The doors to the dining-room were thrown open.
* * * * *
Johannes found his place and was standing by it. The whole table heaved
up and down before his eyes, he saw a crowd of people and heard a buzz
of voices.
"Yes, that's right, that is your place," said the hostess kindly. "If
only everybody would sit down."
"Excuse me!" said Victoria suddenly, just behind him.
He stepped aside.
She took his card and moved it several places down, seven places down,
beside an old man who had once been tutor at the Castle and who was
supposed to drink. She brought back another card and sat down.
The hostess, much upset, found something to do on the other side of the
table and avoided looking at him.
His confusion became even worse than before and he withdrew bewildered
to his new place; his first seat was occupied by one of Ditlef's
friends from town, a young man with diamond studs in his shirt-front.
On his left sat Victoria, on his right Camilla.
And the dinner began.
The old Tutor remembered Johannes as a boy and a conversation was
started between them. He said that he too had written poetry in his
young days, he had kept his manuscripts, Johannes could read them some
day. Now they had sent for him on this great occasion that he might
participate in the joy of the family over Victoria's engagement. The
Master and Mistress of the Castle had given him this surprise for the
sake of old friendship.
"I have read nothing of yours," he said; "I read myself when I want to
read anything; I have a drawer full of poems and tales. They are to be
published when I am dead; after all, I should like the public to know
what manner of man I was. Ah yes, we who are somewhat older in the
craft are not in such a hurry to rush into print as they are nowadays.
Your health!"
The meal wore on. The Master rapped on his glass and stood up. His
thin, aristocratic face was alive with emotion and he gave the
impression of being very happy. Johannes bent his head low. There was
nothing in his glass and nobody gave him anything; he filled it himself
to the brim and bent down again. Now for it!
The speech was long and eloquent and was received with joyful cheers;
the engagement was announced. From all parts of the table good wishes
poured in upon the daughter of the Castle and the Chamberlain's son.
Johannes emptied his glass.
A few minutes later his agitation had vanished, his calm had returned;
the champagne glowed softly through his veins. He heard that the
Chamberlain also made a speech and that there were more bravos and
hurrahs and clinking of glasses. Once he looked towards Victoria's
place; she was pale and seemed distressed; she did not look up. But
Camilla nodded to him and smiled and he nodded back.
The Tutor by his side went on talking:
"It's a fine thing, it's a fine thing when two young people come
together. It did not fall to my lot. I was a young student, fine
prospects, great gifts; my father had an ancient name, a great home,
wealth, many, many ships. So I think I may say I had _very_ fine
prospects. She was young too and belonged to the best set. I come to
her and open my heart. _No_, she answers. Can you understand her?
No, she wouldn't, she said. So I did what I could, I went on with my
work and took it like a man. Then came my father's bad years, wrecks,
liabilities--to make a long story short, he went bankrupt. What did I
do then? Took it like a man again. And now she positively didn't hold
back any longer, the girl I'm talking about. She came back, hunted me
up in town. What did she want with me, you may ask? I was a poor man,
I had got a little job as a teacher, all my prospects had vanished and
my poems were thrown into a drawer--and now she came and said yes. Said
yes!"
The Tutor looked at Johannes and asked:
"Can you understand her?"
"But then it was you who wouldn't have it?"
"_Could_ I, I ask you? Cleaned out, stripped, a teacher's job, one pipe
of tobacco on Sundays--what are you thinking of? I couldn't do her such
a wrong. But all I say is: can you understand her?"
"And what became of her afterwards?"
"Good Lord, you don't answer my question! She married a captain. That
was the year after. A captain in the artillery. Your health!"
Johannes said:
"They say some women are always looking for an object for their
compassion. If the man is getting on well they hate him and think
themselves superfluous; if things go against him and he is down they
crow over him and say: here I am."
"But why didn't she accept me in the good days? I had the prospects of
a little god."
"Goodness knows. She wanted to wait till you were brought low."
"But I wasn't brought low. Never. I kept my pride and sent her about
her business. What do you say to that?"
Johannes said nothing.
"But perhaps you're right," said the old Tutor. "Yes, by God and all
his angels, what you say is right," he exclaimed with sudden excitement
and took another drink. "She took an old captain at last; she nurses
him, cuts up his food for him and is master of the house. A captain in
the artillery."
Johannes looked up. Victoria sat with her glass in her hand staring in
his direction. She held her glass high in the air. He felt a shock all
through him and seized his glass too. His hand shook.
Then she called aloud to his neighbour and laughed; it was the Tutor's
name she called.
Johannes put down his glass in humiliation and sat with an embarrassed
smile on his face. Everybody had looked at him.
The old Tutor was touched to tears by this friendly attention of his
pupil's. He made haste to empty his glass.
"And here I am, an old man," he continued, "here I am tramping the
earth, alone and unknown. That has been my lot. Nobody knows what there
is in me; but nobody has ever heard me grumble. How is that?--do you
know the turtledove? Isn't it the turtledove, that melancholy being
which makes the gay, bright spring water muddy before it drinks it?"
"I don't know."
"No, I dare say not. But it is. And I do the same. I did not get her
whom I should have had; but I am not altogether without joys for all
that. Only I stir up the mud in them. Every time I stir up the mud.
Then I can't be beaten by the disappointment afterwards. There you see
Victoria. She drank with me just now. I have been her tutor; now she's
to be married and I'm glad about it, it gives me a purely personal
sense of happiness as if she was my own daughter. Now perhaps I shall
be tutor to her children. Oh yes, there are really a number of joys
left in life. But what you said about compassion and woman and the man
brought low--the more I think about it, the more you are right. Yes,
God knows you are.... Excuse me a second."
He got up, seized his glass and went along to Victoria. He was already
a little unsteady on his legs and stooped a great deal.
More speeches were made, the Lieutenant made one, the neighbour Laird
gave the toast of the ladies, the Lady of the house. Suddenly the young
man with the diamond studs got up and spoke Johannes' name. He had
received permission for what he was doing, he wanted to hail the young
poet in the name of the young. His words were most friendly, a kindly
expression of thanks from contemporaries, full of appreciation and
admiration.
Johannes hardly believed his own ears. He whispered to the Tutor:
"Is it me he's talking about?"
The Tutor answered:
"Yes. He's forestalled me. I was going to do it myself; Victoria asked
me to some hours ago."
"Who asked you to, did you say?"
The Tutor stared at him.
"Nobody," he said.
During the speech the eyes of all were turned upon Johannes; even the
Master nodded to him, and the Chamberlain's Lady put up her glasses and
looked at him. When the speech was finished they all drank.
"Give it him back now," said the Tutor. "He stood up and made you that
speech. It ought to have fallen to one who is your senior in the craft.
Besides, I didn't agree with him at all. Not at all."
Johannes looked along the table to Victoria. It was she who had got the
young man with the diamond studs to speak; why had she done it? First
she had applied to another about it, quite early in the day she had had
it in her thoughts; why had she? Now she sat looking down and not a
muscle of her face betrayed her.
Suddenly his eyes were bedewed with a deep and violent emotion, he
could have thrown himself at her feet and thanked her, thanked her. He
would do it later, after dinner.
Camilla sat talking to right and left and smiling all over her face.
She was pleased, her seventeen years had brought her nothing but
happiness. She nodded again and again to Johannes and made signs to
him to get up.
He got up.
He spoke briefly, his voice sounded deep and stirred: On this occasion,
when the House was celebrating a joyful event, he too--who was entirely
outside the circle--was drawn from his obscurity. He wished to thank
the originator of this amiable suggestion and the speaker who had
addressed to him so many agreeable words. But at the same time he
could not fail to appreciate the kindness with which the whole company
had listened to his--the outsider's--praise. The only claim he had to
be present on this occasion was that he was the son of the Castle's
neighbour....
"Yes!" Victoria cried suddenly, with flaming eyes.
Everybody looked at her, her cheeks were red and her breast heaved up
and down. Johannes broke off. A painful silence ensued.
"Victoria?" said her father in surprise.
"Go on!" she cried again. "That is your only claim; but go on!" The
light in her eyes went out abruptly, she began to smile helplessly and
shake her head. Then she turned to her father and said: "I only meant
to exaggerate things. You see, he's exaggerating himself. No, I won't
interrupt...."
Johannes listened to this explanation and found a way out of the
difficulty; his heart was beating audibly. He noticed that Victoria's
mother was looking at her with tears in her eyes and with infinite
forbearance.
Yes, he had exaggerated, he said; Miss Victoria was right. She had
been so kind as to remind him that he was not only their neighbour's
son, but also the playmate of the Castle children, and it was to this
latter circumstance he owed his presence here. He thanked her, that was
how it was. He belonged to the place, the Castle woods were once his
whole world, beyond them loomed the unknown country, fairyland. But
in those days he would often have a message from Ditlef and Victoria
that they wanted him to join them in an excursion or a game--those
were the great events of his childhood. Later, when he had thought
over it, he was bound to acknowledge that those hours had had a
significance in his life which no one knew of, and if it was true--as
they had just heard--that what he wrote had sometimes a _flame_ in it,
that was because the memories of that time kindled him; it was the
reflection of that happiness his two playmates had bestowed on him in
childhood. Therefore they also had a great share in what he produced.
To the general good wishes on the occasion of the engagement he would
therefore add his personal thanks to both the Castle children for the
good years of childhood, when neither time nor things had come between
them, the glad, short summer day....
A speech, a regular attempt at a speech. It was not amusing, but it
didn't go so badly, the company drank, went on eating and took up their
conversation again. Ditlef remarked dryly to his mother:
"I never knew it was really me that had written his books, what?"
But his mother did not laugh. She drank with her children and said:
"Thank him, thank him. It was very easy to understand, when he was so
lonely as a child.... What are you doing, Victoria?"
"I'm going to send the maid to him with this sprig of lilac for my
thanks. Mayn't I?"
"No," answered the Lieutenant.
* * * * *
After dinner the company scattered themselves about the rooms, the big
balcony and even the garden. Johannes went down to the ground floor
and entered the garden room. It was not empty, there were a couple of
men smoking, the Laird and another, and they were talking in undertones
about the Master's finances. His land was neglected, choked with weeds,
the fences were down, the timber shockingly thinned; it was said he
even had difficulty in paying the astonishingly high insurances on the
buildings and their contents.
"How much is the place insured for?"
The Laird mentioned the sum, a whacking sum.
For that matter money was never considered at the Castle, the sums
were always big there. What did a dinner like this cost, for instance?
But now according to all accounts the bottom had been reached, even of
their hostess's famous jewel-case, and so the son-in-law's money would
have to refill the coffers.
"What's he worth, do you suppose?"
"Oh tut! there's no counting it."
Johannes got up again and went out into the garden. The lilacs
were in bloom, a fragrant wave of auricula, narcissus, jasmine and
lily-of-the-valley swept round him. He found a corner by the wall and
sat down on a stone; a shrub hid him from all eyes. He was worn out by
emotion, thoroughly fagged, and his wits were clouded; he thought of
getting up and going home, but sat on in dull apathy. Then he heard a
murmur on the pathway, some one was coming; he recognized Victoria's
voice. He held his breath and waited a moment; then he caught a glimpse
of the Lieutenant's uniform through the leaves. The engaged couple were
walking together.
"It doesn't seem to me," he was saying, "that this will hold water. You
listen to what he says, you hang on to every word of his speech and
then shout out. What does it all mean?"
She stopped and stood before him at her full height.
"Do you want to know?" she asked.
"Yes."
She was silent.
"It's all the same to me if it meant nothing," he went on. "Then you
needn't tell me."
She collapsed again.
"No, it didn't mean anything," she answered.
They began to walk again. The Lieutenant shrugged his epaulettes
nervously and said aloud:
"He'd better look out, or he might feel an officer's hand about his
ears."
They went in the direction of the summer-house.
Johannes remained seated on the stone for some time, in the same dull
pain as before. It was all becoming indifferent to him. The Lieutenant
had taken it into his head to suspect him and his fiancé immediately
began to defend herself. She said what had to be said, calmed the
officer's heart, and walked on with him. And the starlings chattered
on the boughs above their heads. Very well. God vouchsafe them a long
life.... He had made her a speech at the dinner and torn his heart
out; it had cost him sorely to make good and cover up her insolent
interruption and she had not thanked him for doing so. She had seized
her glass and drunk. Here's your good health, look at me and see how
nicely I drink.... By the bye, you should always look at a woman from
the side when she's drinking. Let her drink of a cup, a glass, anything
you like, but look at her from the side. It's shocking to see what an
air she gives herself. She purses up her mouth and dips the extreme tip
of it into the drink and she gets desperate if you watch her hand while
she is doing it. You must never in any circumstances look at a woman's
hand. She can't stand it, she capitulates. She begins at once to draw
in her hand, to pose it more and more elegantly, always with the object
of concealing a wrinkle, a crookedness of the fingers or a rather
misshapen nail. At last she can bear it no longer and asks, quite
beside herself: what are you looking at?... She had once kissed him,
once, one summer. It was so long ago, God knew if it was even true. How
was it, weren't they sitting on a bench? They talked a long time and
when they walked away he came so close to her that he touched her arm.
On a staircase she had kissed him. I love you, she said.... Now they
had gone past, perhaps they were still sitting in the summer-house.
The Lieutenant would give him a box on the ears, he said. He heard
it quite plainly, he was not asleep, but still he did not get up and
come forward. An officer's hand, he said. Oh well, it didn't matter to
him....
He rose from the stone and went after them to the summer-house. It was
empty. Up in the verandah of the house stood Camilla calling for him:
Come along, there was coffee in the garden room. He followed her. The
engaged couple were sitting in the garden room; several others were
there besides. He took his coffee, retired and found a place.
Camilla began talking to him. Her face was so bright and her eyes
looked at him so frankly that he could not resist her; he talked too,
answered her questions and laughed. Where had he been? In the garden?
What a story! Why, she'd looked for him in the garden and couldn't find
him. Oh no, he hadn't been in the garden.
"Was he in the garden, Victoria?" she asked.
Victoria answered:
"No, I didn't see him."
The Lieutenant threw her a glance of annoyance, and to give his fiancé
a lesson he called over to the Laird in a needlessly loud voice:
"Didn't you say you'd let me join your shoot?"
"Yes, of course," answered the Laird. "You're welcome."
The Lieutenant looked at Victoria. She said nothing and sat as before,
making no attempt to keep him from joining the Laird's shooting party.
His face clouded over more and more, he pulled nervously at his
mustache.
Camilla addressed another question to Victoria.
Then the Lieutenant rose hastily and said to the Laird:
"All right then, I'll go with you this evening, at once."
With that he left the room.
The Laird and a few others followed.
There was a short pause.
Suddenly the door was thrown open and the Lieutenant came in again. He
was greatly excited.
"Have you forgotten something?" asked Victoria, getting up.
He danced about by the door as if unable to stand still and then went
straight up to Johannes and gave him a blow with his hand as though in
passing. After that he ran back to the door and danced about again.
"Look out, man, you hit me in the eye," said Johannes with a hollow
laugh.
"You're mistaken," answered the Lieutenant, "I gave you a box on the
ears. Understand? Understand?"
Johannes pulled out his handkerchief, dried his eye, and said:
"You don't mean that. You know I can double you up and put you in my
pocket."
As he said it he stood up.
Then the Lieutenant hurriedly opened the door and stepped outside.
"I do mean it!" he yelled back. "I do mean it, you clown!"
And he slammed the door.
Johannes sat down again.
Victoria was still standing near the middle of the room. She was
looking at him and was as pale as a corpse.
"Did he hit you?" asked Camilla in the greatest astonishment.
"By accident. He got me in the eye. Would you like to look?"
"Heavens, it's all red, there's blood. No, don't rub it, let me bathe
it with water. Your handkerchief is too coarse, look here, take it
back; I'll use my own. Did you ever hear such a thing, right in his
eye!"
Victoria held out her handkerchief too. Then she went quite slowly to
the glass door and stood there with her back to the room, looking out.
She was tearing her handkerchief into little strips. A few minutes
later she opened the door and left the room quietly and without saying
a word.
IX
Camilla came walking down to the Mill, frank and cheerful. She was
alone. She went straight into the little room and said with a titter:
"Excuse me for not knocking. The stream makes such a roar that I
thought it was no use." She looked about her and exclaimed: "How
awfully nice it is here, charming! Where's Johannes? I know Johannes.
How's his eye?"
She got a chair and sat down.
Johannes was fetched from the mill. His eye was sore and bloodshot.
"I've come of my own accord," said Camilla as soon as she saw him; "I
wanted to come down here. You must go on using cold water for your eye."
"It's all right," he answered. "But, God bless you, what brought you
here? Would you like to see the mill? Thanks for coming!" He took his
mother round the waist and brought her forward and said: "Here is my
mother."
They went into the mill. The old Miller took off his cap with a low bow
and said something; Camilla didn't hear what it was, but she smiled and
said at random:
"Thanks, thanks. Yes, I should like so much to see it."
The noise frightened her, she held Johannes' hand and glanced up at the
two men with big, listening eyes in case they should say something. She
looked like a deaf person. All the wheels and machinery of the mill
filled her with astonishment, she laughed, shook Johannes' hand in her
excitement and pointed in all directions. The mill was stopped and
started again so that she might see it.
Even for a good while after she had left the mill Camilla talked in a
comically loud voice, as though the noise were still in her ears.
Johannes walked with her back to the Castle.
"Can you imagine his daring to hit you in the eye?" she said. "But then
he went off at once, he left with the Laird to go shooting. It was a
frightfully unpleasant thing to happen. Victoria didn't sleep a wink
all night, she told me."
"Then she'll be able to sleep tonight," he answered. "When do you think
you'll be going home again?"
"Tomorrow. When are you coming to town?"
"In the autumn. Can I meet you this afternoon?"
She exclaimed:
"Oh yes, do! You told me about your cave; you must show me that."
"I'll come and fetch you," he said.
On his way home he sat for a long while on a stone and pondered. A warm
and happy idea had flashed upon him.
* * * * *
In the afternoon he walked up to the Castle, stopped outside and sent
in a message for Camilla. While he stood waiting Victoria appeared for
an instant at one of the first-floor windows; she stared down at him,
turned round and disappeared into the room.
Camilla came out and he took her to the quarry and the cave. He was in
an unusually calm and happy mood, the young girl amused him, her light,
cheerful talk fluttered about him like little blessings. Today the good
spirits were near....
"I remember, Camilla, that you once gave me a dagger. It had a silver
sheath. I put it away in a box with a lot of other things, as I had no
use for it."
"No, you had no use for it; but what then?"
"Well, you see, I've lost it."
"Oh I say, that was unlucky. But perhaps I can get a pair to it
somewhere. I'll try."
They walked towards home.
"And do you remember the big medallion you gave me once? It was a
thick, heavy gold one and stood in a frame. You had written some kind
of words on it."
"Yes, I remember."
"Last year while I was abroad I gave away that medallion, Camilla."
"Oh no, you didn't? Fancy your giving it away! Why did you?"
"It was a young friend of mine who had it as a souvenir. He was a
Russian. He fell on his knees and thanked me for it."
"Was he so glad as that? Oh, I'm sure he must have been wildly glad if
he fell on his knees! You shall have another medallion instead of it to
keep for yourself."
They had come to the road that ran between the Mill and the Castle.
Johannes stopped and said:
"Here by these bushes something happened to me once. I was walking
one evening as I so often did in my loneliness, and it was summer
and fine weather. I lay down behind the bushes and was lost in
thought. Then two people came quietly walking along the road. The
lady stopped. Her companion asked: why do you stop? And as he got no
answer he asked again: Is anything the matter? No, she answered; but
you mustn't look at me like that. I only looked at you, he said. Yes,
she answered, I know very well that you love me, but Papa won't allow
it, you understand; it is impossible. He murmured: Yes, I suppose it's
impossible. Then she said: You are so broad here, about the hand; you
have such oddly broad wrists! And then she took hold of his wrist."
"Well, what happened?" asked Camilla.
"I don't know," replied Johannes. "Why did she say that about his
wrists?"
"Perhaps they were nice. And then he had a white shirt above them--oh,
of course I know why. I expect she was fond of him too."
"Camilla!" he said; "if I was very fond of you and waited a few years,
I only ask.... In one word, I am not worthy of you; but do you think
you would be mine some day if I ask you next year or in two years'
time?"
Pause.
Camilla had suddenly turned fiery red with embarrassment, she twisted
her slight figure this way and that and clasped her hands. He put his
arm round her and asked:
"Do you think you could some day? Will you?"
"Yes," she answered, and fell into his arms.
* * * * *
The next day he saw her down to the pier. He kissed her little hands
with their childish, innocent expression and was full of thankfulness
and joy.
Victoria was not there.
"Why has nobody come with you?"
Camilla told him with scared eyes that the Castle was in the most
terrible trouble. A telegram had come in the morning, the Master had
gone as pale as death, the old Chamberlain and his wife had cried out
with pain--Otto had been killed out shooting the evening before.
Johannes seized Camilla's arm.
"Killed? The Lieutenant?"
"Yes. They're on the way with his body. It is terrible."
They walked on, lost in their own thoughts, and only woke at the sight
of the people on the pier and the sound of orders shouted from the
ship. Camilla bashfully gave him her hand; he kissed it and said:
"Well, well, I'm not worthy of you, Camilla, no, not in any sense. But
I shall be as good to you as I possibly can if you will be mine."
"I will be yours. I have wanted it the whole time, the whole time."
"I shall follow in a few days," he said. "In a week I shall see you
again."
She was on board. He waved to her, went on waving as long as he could
see her. When he turned to go home Victoria was standing behind him;
she too held her handkerchief in the air and waved to Camilla.
"I came a little too late," she said.
He did not answer. What was he to say? Condole with her loss,
congratulate her, press her hand? Her voice was so toneless and her
face showed such distraction, a tragic experience had left its mark
there.
People were leaving the pier.
"Your eye is still red," she said, as she began to walk away. She
looked round for him.
He was standing still.
Then all at once she turned round and went up to him.
"Otto is dead," she said in a hard voice, and her eyes were burning.
"You don't say a word, you are so superior. He was a hundred thousand
times better than you, do you hear? Do you know how he died? He was
shot, his whole head was blown to pieces, his whole silly little head.
He was a hundred thousand...."
She burst into sobs and began to walk towards home with long,
despairing steps.
* * * * *
Late that evening there was a knock at the Miller's door; Johannes
opened it and looked out; Victoria stood outside and beckoned to him.
He followed her. She seized his hand impetuously and led him up to the
road; her hand was icy cold.
"Sit down, won't you?" he said. "Sit down and rest a little. You are so
exhausted."
They sat down.
She murmured:
"What must you think of me, never leaving you in peace!"
"You are very unhappy," he said. "Now you must obey me and calm
yourself, Victoria. Can I help you in any way?"
"For God in Heaven's sake you must forgive me what I said today," she
begged. "Yes, I am very unhappy, I have been unhappy for many years.
I said he was a hundred thousand times better than you; that was not
true, forgive me! He is dead and he was my fiancé, that is all. Do you
think it was of my own free will? Johannes, do you see this? It is my
engagement ring, I was given it long ago--long, long ago; now I throw
it away--throw it away!" And she threw her ring into the wood; they
both heard it fall. "It was Papa who would have it. Papa is poor, he
is completely beggared, and Otto would have had so much money one day.
You've got to do it, said Papa to me. I won't, I answered. Think of
your parents, said he, think of the Castle, our old name, my honour.
Well then, I will, I answered; wait three years and then I will. Papa
thanked me and waited, Otto waited, they all waited; but I was given
the ring at once. Then a long time went by and I saw there was no help
for me. Why should we wait any longer, come along with my husband, I
said to Papa. God bless you, he said and thanked me again for what I
was going to do. Then Otto came. I didn't go to meet him at the pier,
I stood at my window and saw him drive up. Then I ran in to Mamma and
threw myself on my knees before her. What is the matter, my child?
she asked. I can't, I told her; no I can't take him; he's come, he's
waiting downstairs; but let us insure my life instead and then I will
be lost in the bay or the waterfall, it will be better for me. Mamma
turned as pale as death and wept over me. Papa came. Now then, my
dear Victoria, you must come down and receive him, he said. I can't,
I can't, I answered and repeated what I had said, that he should take
pity on me and insure my life. Papa did not answer a word, but sat down
on a chair and began to tremble at his thoughts. When I saw that I
said: Come along with my husband; I'll take him."
Victoria broke off. She was shaking. Johannes took her other hand in
his and warmed it.
"Thanks," she said. "Johannes, be kind to me and hold my hand fast. Do
me that kindness! Oh, how warm you are! I am so thankful to you. But
you must forgive me what I said on the pier."
"Yes, that's forgotten long ago. Would you like me to fetch you a
shawl?"
"No thanks. But I can't understand why I'm trembling, my head is so
hot. Johannes, I have to ask your forgiveness for so much...."
"No, no, don't do that. There, now you are calmer. Sit still."
"You made me a speech at the dinner. I didn't know a thing from the
time you got up till you sat down again; I simply heard your voice. It
was like an organ and I was desperate at the power it had over me. Papa
asked me why I called out to you and interrupted you; he was very sorry
about it. But Mamma didn't ask me, she understood. I had told Mamma
all, many years ago I told her, and two years ago I told her again,
when I came back from town. That was the time I met you."
"Don't let us talk about that."
"No, but forgive me, do you hear, be merciful! What in the world am I
to do? Now there is Papa at home, walking up and down his study, it is
such a terrible thing for him. It's Sunday tomorrow; he has decided
that all the servants are to have the day off; that is the only thing
he has decided today. He is grey in the face and he doesn't say a word,
so hard has his son-in-law's death hit him. I told Mamma that I was
going to you. You and I must both go to town with the Chamberlains
tomorrow, she answered. I am going to Johannes, I repeated. Papa can't
find the money for all three of us, he will stay here himself, she said
and went on talking about other things. Then I went to the door. Mamma
looked at me. Now I'm going to him, I said for the last time. Mamma
followed me to the door and kissed me and said: Well well, God bless
you both!"
Johannes dropped her hands and said:
"There, now you're warm."
"Thank you so much, yes, now I'm quite warm.... God bless you both,
she said. I have told Mamma all, she has known it the whole time. But
dear me, who is it you're in love with, child? she asked. Can you ask
me that again? I answered; it is Johannes I love, it is he alone I have
loved all my life, loved, loved...."
He made a movement.
"It's late. Don't you think they will be getting anxious about you at
home?"
"No," she answered. "You know that it is you I love, Johannes, you must
have seen that? I have longed so for you all these years, nobody knows
how much. I have walked along the road here and thought to myself, now
I'll go a little way into the wood by the side of the road, for that is
where _he_ used to go. And then I did so. The day I heard you had come
I put on a light dress, light yellow, I was sick with excitement and
longing and I kept going in and out of all the rooms. How radiant you
are today! said Mamma. I was saying to myself all the time: now he's
come home again! He is glorious and now he has come back, both those
things are true! The next day I could not endure it any longer, I put
on my light dress again and went up to the quarry to find you. Do you
remember? I found you, too, but I did not gather any flowers as I said
I would, and that was not why I came either. You were no longer glad to
see me again; but thanks all the same that I met you. It was getting on
for three years ago. You had a twig in your hand and sat switching with
it when I came; after you had gone I picked up the twig and hid it and
took it home with me...."
"Yes but, Victoria," he said in a shaking voice, "you mustn't say such
things to me any more."
"No," she answered uneasily, seizing his hand. "No, I mustn't. No, you
don't like it, I see." She began to pat his hand nervously. "No, I
can't expect you to. And besides, I have hurt you so much. Don't you
think you can forgive me in time?"
"Yes, yes, everything. It isn't that."
"What is it then?"
Pause.
"I am engaged," he answered.
X
The next day--Sunday--the Master of the Castle came in person to the
Miller and asked him to come up about noon and drive Lieutenant Otto's
body down to the steamer. The Miller could not understand and stared at
him; but the Master explained curtly that all his men had the day off
and had gone to church, none of his servants were at home.
The Master could not have slept that night, he looked like a dead man
and was unshaven besides. But he swung his walking-stick in his usual
way and held himself erect.
The Miller put on his best coat and went. When he had put the horses
in, the Master himself lent him a hand in getting the body into the
carriage. It was all done quietly, almost secretly, there was nobody to
look on.
The Miller drove away to the pier. After him came the Chamberlain and
his Lady, besides the Lady of the Castle and Victoria. They were all
on foot. The Master was seen standing alone on the steps and making
repeated gestures of farewell; the wind ruffled his grey hair.
When the body was carried on board the mourners followed. From the
railing the Lady of the Castle called ashore to the Miller that he was
to say good-bye to the Master for her, and Victoria asked him the same.
Then the boat steamed away. The Miller stood a long while watching her.
There was a stiff breeze and the bay was rough; it was a quarter of an
hour before the boat disappeared behind the islands. The Miller drove
home.
He put the horses in the stable, gave them a feed and was going in to
deliver the message he had for the Master. The kitchen door, however,
proved to be locked. He walked round the house and tried to get in
by the front door; that too was locked. It's the dinner hour and the
Master's asleep, he thought. But as he was a punctilious man and wished
to carry out what he had undertaken, he went into the servants' hall to
find somebody to whom he could give his messages. In the servants' hall
there was not a soul. He went out again, looked all about, and even
tried the maids' room. There was nobody there either. The whole place
was deserted.
He was just going out again when he saw the glimmer of a candle in
the Castle cellar. He stopped. Through the little barred windows he
could plainly see a man come into the cellar with a candle in one hand
and a chair upholstered in red silk in the other. It was the Master.
He was shaved and dressed as though for a great occasion. Perhaps I
might knock at the window and give him the Lady's message, thought the
Miller, but stood still.
The Master looked about him, held out the candle and looked about him.
He pulled forward a sack which seemed to be full of hay or straw and
laid it against the entrance door. Then he poured some liquid over
the sack from a can. After that he brought packing-cases, straw and a
discarded flower-stand up to the door and poured some of the liquid
over them; the Miller noticed that in doing so he was careful not to
soil his fingers or his clothes. He took the little candle-end, placed
it on top of the sack and carefully surrounded it with straw. Then the
Master sat down on the chair.
The Miller gazed at all these preparations with increasing amazement,
his eyes were glued to the cellar window and a dark suspicion fell upon
his soul. The Master sat quite quietly in his chair and watched the
candle burning lower and lower; he kept his hands folded. The Miller
saw him flip a speck of dust from the sleeve of his dress coat and fold
his arms again.
Then the terrified old Miller uttered a shriek.
The Master turned his head and looked out of the window. Suddenly he
jumped up and came close to the window, where he stood staring out. It
was a face in which a world of suffering was depicted. His mouth was
strangely distorted, he shook both his clenched fists at the window,
silently threatening; at last he only threatened with one hand as he
walked backwards across the cellar floor. As he struck against the
chair the candle upset. At the same instant a huge flame shot up.
The Miller shrieked and ran out. For a moment he tore about the yard
quite out of his wits and not knowing what to do. He ran to the cellar
window, kicked in the glass and shouted; then he stooped down, seized
the iron bars in his fists and shook them, bent them, tore them out.
Then he heard a voice from the cellar, a voice without words, a groan,
as from a dead man in the ground; it sounded twice, and the Miller fled
terror-struck from the window, across the yard, down the road and home.
He dared not look behind him.
When a few minutes later he and Johannes came to the place, the whole
Castle, the big old timber house, was in flames. A couple of men from
the pier had also come up; but they could not do anything either.
Everything was destroyed.
But the Miller's lips were silent as the grave.
XI
Ask of some what Love is and it will be no more than a breeze murmuring
among the roses and then dying away. But again it is often like an
inviolable seal that lasts for life, lasts till death. God has created
it of many kinds and seen it endure or perish:
Two mothers are walking along a road and talking together. One of them
is dressed in gay blue garments because her lover has come home from a
journey. The other is dressed in mourning. She had three daughters, two
of them dark, the third fair, and the fair one died. That is ten years
ago, ten whole years, and still the mother wears mourning for her.
"It is so glorious today!" cries the blue-clad mother exulting, and
claps her hands. "The warmth goes to my head, love has gone to my head,
I am full of happiness. I could strip myself naked here on the road and
stretch out my arms to the sun and send it kisses."
But the black-clad mother is silent and neither smiles nor makes reply.
"Are you still sorrowing for your little girl?" asks the Blue one in
the innocence of her heart. "Is it not ten years since she died?"
The Black one answers:
"Yes. She would have been fifteen now."
Then the Blue one says to console her:
"But you have other daughters alive, you have two left."
The Black one sobs:
"Yes. But neither of them is fair. She who died was so fair and bright."
And the two mothers part and go their several ways, each with her
love....
But the same two dark daughters had also, each her love, and they loved
the same man.
He came to the elder and said:
"I wish to ask your advice, for I love your sister. Yesterday I was
untrue to her, she surprised me kissing your servant girl in the
passage; she gave a little scream, it was like a whimper, and passed
by. What am I to do now? I love your sister; for Heaven's sake speak to
her and help me!"
And the elder sister paled and put her hand to her heart; but she
smiled as though she would bless him and answered:
"I will help you."
The next day he went to the younger and threw himself on his knees
before her and confessed his love.
She looked him up and down and answered:
"Unfortunately I can't spare more than ten shillings, if that is what
you mean. But go to my sister, she has more."
With that she left him, holding her head proudly.
But when she had reached her room she threw herself upon the floor and
wrung her hands with love.
* * * * *
It was winter and the streets were cold, with fog, dust and wind.
Johannes was back in town, in his old room where he heard the creaking
of the poplars against the wooden wall and from whose window he had
more than once greeted the dawning day. Now the sun was gone.
His work had occupied him the whole time, the big sheets he had filled,
growing and growing as the winter wore on. It was a series of fairy
tales from the land of his fancy, an endless night in a crimson sunset
glow.
But the days were not all alike, he had both good and bad, and
sometimes when his work was going best, a thought, a pair of eyes, a
word from the past might strike him and quench his inspiration at once.
Then he got up and began to pace his room from wall to wall; he had
done that so often that he had worn a white path across the floor and
it grew whiter every day....
"Today, as I cannot work, cannot think, cannot rest for memories, I
will set myself to describe what befell me one night. Dear Reader,
today I have had such a terribly bad day. It is snowing outside, there
are scarcely any people in the streets, everything is dismal and my
soul is so fearfully desolate. I have been walking in the street and
then for hours in my room and have tried to compose myself a little;
but now it is afternoon, and I am no better. I who should be warm am
cold and pale like a sunless day. Dear Reader, in this state I am
trying to describe a bright and thrilling night. For work forces calm
upon me and when a few more hours are past I shall perhaps be happy
again...."
There was a knock at the door and Camilla Seier, his young secret
fiancé, came in. He put down his pen and got up. They both smiled as
they shook hands.
"You don't ask me about the ball," she said at once, throwing herself
into a chair. "I danced every single dance. It lasted till three
o'clock. I danced with Richmond."
"Thank you so much for coming, Camilla. I am so miserably depressed and
you are so cheerful; that will help me. Fancy, and what did you wear at
the ball?"
"Red, of course. Oh dear, I can't remember, but I must have talked a
lot and laughed a lot. It was so jolly. Yes, I was in red, no sleeves,
not a hint of them. Richmond is at the Legation in London."
"I see."
"His people are English, but he was born here. What have you been doing
to your eyes? They're so red. Have you been crying?"
"No," he answered with a laugh; "but I have been staring into my
stories and there is so much sunshine there. Camilla, if you want to
be a really nice girl, don't tear up that paper any more than you have
done."
"Oh I say, how absent-minded I am. Excuse me, Johannes."
"It doesn't matter; it is only some notes. But let's hear now: I
suppose you had a rose in your hair?"
"Oh yes! A red rose; it was almost black. I'll tell you what,
Johannes, we might go to London for our wedding trip. It isn't nearly
so awful as people say and it's all nonsense about the fogs."
"Who told you that?"
"Richmond. He said so last night, and he knows. You know Richmond,
don't you?"
"No, I don't know him. He once proposed my health; he had diamond studs
in his shirt. That's all I remember about him."
"He's simply sweet. Oh, when he came up and bowed and said: I expect
you hardly remember me.... Do you know, I gave him the rose."
"Did you though? What rose?"
"The one I had in my hair. I gave it him."
"You must have been very taken with Richmond."
She turned red and protested warmly:
"Not a bit, far from it. Surely one can like a person, think them nice,
without.... For shame, Johannes, are you mad? I shall never mention his
name again."
"But, bless me, my dear Camilla, I didn't mean ... you mustn't
think.... On the contrary, I should like to thank him for having
entertained you."
"Yes, you just do it--you dare! For my part I'll never say another
word to him as long as I live."
Pause.
"Well, well, let's say no more about it," he said. "Are you going
already?"
"Yes, I can't stay any longer. How far have you got with your work now?
Mamma asked about it. Fancy, I haven't seen Victoria for several weeks
and I met her just now."
"Just now?"
"As I was coming here. She smiled. But my goodness, how she has
changed! Look here, aren't you coming to see us soon?"
"Yes, soon," he answered, jumping up. A flush had spread over his face.
"Perhaps in a day or two. I have to write something first, I've just
thought of it, a conclusion to my tales. Oh, I shall write something,
I tell you! Imagine the world as seen from above, like a rare and
splendid pontifical robe. In its folds people are walking about; they
walk in couples, it is evening and calm, the hour of love. I shall call
it 'The Race.' I think it will be great; I have had this vision so
often, and every time I feel as if my breast would burst and I could
embrace the earth. There they are, men and women, beasts and birds and
all of them have their hour of love, Camilla. A wave of rapture is
at hand, their eyes grow more ardent, their bosoms heave. Then a fine
blush rises from the earth; it is the blush of bashfulness from all
their naked hearts, and the night is stained a rosy red. But far away
in the background lie the great sleeping mountains; they have seen
nothing and heard nothing. And in the morning God throws his warm sun
over all. 'The Race' I shall call it."
"I see."
"Yes. And then I'll come when I've finished it. Thank you so much for
coming here, Camilla. And don't think any more about what I said. I
didn't mean any harm by it."
"I'm not thinking about it at all. But I shall never mention his name
again. Never."
* * * * *
The next morning Camilla came again. She was pale and in an unusual
state of excitement.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked.
"Me? Nothing," she answered quickly. "It's you I am fond of. You really
mustn't think there's anything the matter with me and that I'm not fond
of you. No, now I'll tell you what I've been thinking: we won't go to
London. What do we want there? He can't have known what he was talking
about, that man, there's more fog than he thinks. You're looking
at me, what makes you do that? I never mentioned his name. Such a
storyteller, he filled me up with lies; we won't go to London."
He looked at her, studied her attentively.
"No, we won't go to London," he said thoughtfully.
"That's all right! So that's settled. Have you written that thing about
the Race? I'm so frightfully interested. You must get it finished very
quickly and come and see us, Johannes. The hour of love, wasn't that
it? And a lovely papal robe with folds, and a rosy red night; heavens,
how well I remember what you told me about it. I haven't been here
so often lately, but now I'm going to come every day to hear whether
you've finished."
"I shall soon have finished," he said, still looking at her.
"Today I fetched your books and took them into my own room. I wanted to
read them over again; it won't tire me the least, I'm looking forward
to it. Look here, Johannes, you might be so kind as to see me home; I
don't know whether it's quite safe for me all the way home. I don't
know. Perhaps there's somebody waiting for me outside here, somebody
walking up and down perhaps...." Suddenly she burst into tears and
stammered: "I called him a storyteller, I didn't mean to say that. I'm
sorry I said it. He hasn't told me lies, on the contrary he was all
the time.... We're going to have some friends on Tuesday, but he's not
coming, but _you_ must come, do you hear? Will you promise? But all the
same I didn't want to say anything bad about him. I don't know what you
think of me...."
He answered:
"I am beginning to understand you."
She threw herself on his neck, hid her face on his breast, trembling
with agitation.
"Oh, but I'm fond of you too," she exclaimed. "You mustn't think
anything else. I don't love only him, it isn't so bad as that. When
you asked me last year I was so glad; but now he has come. I don't
understand it. Is it so awful of me, Johannes? Perhaps I love him a
tiny bit more than you; I can't help it, it has come over me. O dear,
I haven't slept for several nights since I saw him and I love him more
and more. What am I to do? You are so much older, you must tell me. He
walked here with me, he's standing outside waiting to see me home again
and now perhaps he's cold. Do you despise me, Johannes? I haven't
kissed him; no, I haven't, you must believe me; I've only given him my
rose. Why don't you answer, Johannes? You must tell me what I'm to do,
for I can't bear it any longer."
Johannes sat quite still and listened to her. He said:
"I have nothing to answer."
"Thanks, thanks, dear Johannes, it is so good of you not to be wild
with me," she said, drying her tears. "But you mustn't think I'm not
fond of you too. Goodness! I shall come and see you much oftener than I
have done and do everything you want. But the only thing is that it's
he I'm more fond of. It wasn't my doing. It's not my fault."
He got up in silence, put his hat on and said:
"Shall we go?"
They went downstairs.
Outside stood Richmond. He was a dark-haired young man with brown eyes
that sparkled with youth and life. The frost had reddened his cheeks.
"Are you cold?" said Camilla, flying up to him.
Her voice trembled with emotion. Suddenly she hurried back to
Johannes, put her arm through his and said:
"Excuse me for not asking whether _you_ were cold. You didn't put on
your overcoat; shall I go up and get it? No? Well, anyhow button your
jacket."
She buttoned his jacket.
Johannes offered his hand to Richmond. He was in a strangely absent
mood, as though what was happening did not concern him. He gave an
uncertain half-smile and muttered:
"Glad to meet you again."
Richmond showed no sign of guilt or of dissimulation. As he shook hands
the pleasure of recognition flashed across his face and he made a
polite bow.
"I saw one of your books the other day in a shop-window in London," he
said. "It had been translated. It was so jolly to see it there, like a
message from home."
Camilla walked in the middle and looked up at each of them in turn. At
last she said:
"Then you'll come on Tuesday, Johannes. Oh, excuse me for thinking only
of my own affairs," she added with a laugh. But the next moment she
repented and turned to Richmond, asking him to come too. He would only
meet people he knew, Victoria and her mother were asked, besides them
only about a dozen were coming.
Suddenly Johannes stopped and said:
"After all I may just as well go back."
"See you on Tuesday," Camilla answered.
Richmond took his hand and pressed it sincerely.
So the two young people went on their way, alone and happy.
XII
The blue-clad Mother was in the most terrible suspense; every moment
she expected a signal from the garden and the coast was not clear,
nobody could come through it so long as her husband would not leave the
house. Ah, that husband, that husband, with his forty years and his
bald head! What sinister thoughts could they be that made him so pale
this evening and kept him sitting in his chair, immovably, inexorably,
staring at his paper?
She had not a minute's peace; now it was eleven o'clock. The children
she had put to bed long ago; but the husband did not budge. What
if the signal came? The door would be opened with the dear little
latch-key--and two men would meet, stand face to face and look into
each other's eyes! She dared not finish the thought.
She went away to the darkest corner of the room, wrung her hands, and
at last said straight out:
"Now it's eleven. If you _are_ going to the club you must go now."
He got up at once, even paler than before, and went out of the room,
out of the house.
Outside the garden he stopped and listened to a whistle, a little
signal. Steps were heard on the gravel, a key was put into the latch
and turned--a moment later there were two shadows on the drawing-room
blind.
And he recognized the signal, the steps and the two shadows on the
blind, none of it was new to him.
He went to the club. It was open, there were lights in the windows; but
he did not go in. For half an hour he roamed about the streets and in
front of his garden, an endless half-hour. Let me wait another quarter
of an hour, he thought, and he prolonged it to three quarters. Then he
entered the garden, went up the steps and rang at his own door.
The maid came and opened it, just put her head out and said:
"Madam has long since...."
Then she stopped and saw who he was.
"I know, gone to bed," he answered. "Will you tell your mistress that
her husband has come home."
And the maid went. She knocked at her mistress's room and gave the
message through the closed door:
"I was to say that the master has come back."
Her mistress asked from within:
"What do you say, is your master come back? Who told you to say so?"
"The master himself. He's standing outside."
There are sounds of sore distraction in the mistress's room, hurried
whispers, a door opening and closing again. Then all is still.
And the master walks in. His wife receives him with death in her heart.
"The club was shut," he says at once, from pity and compassion. "I sent
you a message so as not to alarm you."
She falls into a chair, comforted, relieved, saved. The blissful
feeling makes her kind heart overflow and she is solicitous about her
husband:
"You are so pale. Is there anything wrong with you, dear?"
"I am not cold," he answers.
"But has anything happened? Your face looks so strangely drawn."
The husband answers:
"No, I'm smiling. This is going to be my way of smiling. I want this
grimace to be my special property."
She listens to his short, hoarse words and doesn't understand them,
can't make them out at all. What can he mean?
But suddenly he throws his arms around her with a grip of iron, with
terrible force, and whispers close against her face:
"What do you say to giving him a pair of horns ... the man who's just
gone ... give him a pair of horns, eh?"
She utters a scream and calls the maid. He lets her go with a quiet,
dry laugh, with his mouth agape and slapping both his thighs.
In the morning the wife's kind heart is again uppermost and she says to
her husband:
"You had an extraordinary attack last night; it's over now, but you're
still pale today."
"Yes," he replies, "it takes it out of one to be witty at my age. I'll
never do it again."
* * * * *
But, after having spoken of many kinds of Love, Friar Vendt tells of
yet another kind and says:
What rapture there is in _one_ kind of Love!
The young Lord and Lady had just come home, their long wedding tour
was at an end and they settled down to rest.
A shooting star fell above their roof.
In summer the young couple walked together and never left each other's
side. They plucked flowers, yellow, red and blue, and gave them to
each other; they saw the grass swaying in the wind and heard the birds
singing in the woods, and every word they spoke was like a caress. In
winter they drove with bells on their horses and the sky was blue and
high above them, the stars coursed over their everlasting plains.
Thus passed many, many years. The young couple had three children and
their hearts loved one another as on the first day, in the first kiss.
Then the proud Lord fell sick, of the sickness that chained him to his
bed so long and put his wife's patience to so stern a proof. The day
he was well and arose from his bed he did not know himself again; the
sickness had disfigured him and taken away his hair.
He suffered and brooded over it. Then one morning he said:
"Now you cannot love me any more."
But his wife threw her arms about him, blushing, and kissed him as
passionately as in the springtime of their youth and answered:
"I love you, love you still. I will never forget that it was I and no
other whom you chose and made so happy."
And she went into her chamber and cut off all her yellow hair, to be
like her husband whom she loved.
And again many, many years went by, the young couple were now old and
their children were grown up. They shared every happiness as before; in
summer they still walked in the fields and saw the waving grass and in
the winter they wrapped themselves in furs and drove beneath the starry
sky. And their hearts continued warm and glad as with a marvellous wine.
The Lady was paralysed. The old Lady could not walk, she had to be
drawn in a wheeled chair and the Lord himself drew her. But the Lady
suffered so unspeakably from her misfortune and her face was deeply
furrowed with sorrow.
Then she said one day:
"Now I would gladly die. I am so helpless and ugly and your face is so
handsome, you cannot kiss me any more and you cannot love me as you
used."
But her Lord embraced her, red with emotion, and answered:
"I love you more, more than my life, my dear one, love you as the first
day, the first hour, when you gave me the rose. Do you remember? You
handed me the rose and looked at me with your beautiful eyes; the rose
smelt like you, you blushed like it and all my senses were intoxicated.
But now I love you even more, you are more beautiful than in your youth
and my heart thanks you and blesses you for every day you have been
mine."
The Lord went into his chamber, threw acid on his face to disfigure it,
and said to his wife:
"I have had the misfortune to get some acid on my face, my cheeks are
covered with burns, and now you cannot love me any more?"
"Oh, my bridegroom, my beloved!" faltered the old woman, kissing his
hands. "You are more beautiful than any man on earth, your voice
kindles my heart even today and I love you till death."
XIII
Johannes met Camilla in the street; she was with her mother, her father
and Young Richmond; they stopped their carriage and talked to him in a
friendly way.
Camilla clutched his arm and said:
"You didn't come to our party. We had a great time, I can tell you; we
were expecting you to the very last, but you didn't come."
"I was prevented," he replied.
"Excuse me for not having been to see you since," she went on. "I shall
come one of these days, for certain, when Richmond has gone away. Oh,
what a time we had! Victoria was taken ill, she was driven home, have
you heard? I'm going up to her directly. I expect she's much better,
quite well again perhaps. I've given Richmond a medallion, almost the
same as yours. Look here, Johannes, you must promise me to look after
your stove; when you're writing you forget everything and your room
gets as cold as ice. You must ring for the girl."
"Yes, I'll ring for the girl," he answered.
Mrs. Seier spoke to him too, asked about his work, that piece about the
Race, how was it getting on? She was eagerly looking forward to his
next book.
Johannes gave the necessary answers, bowed very low and watched the
carriage drive away. How little all this concerned him, this carriage,
these people, this chatter! A cold and empty feeling came upon him and
haunted him all the way home. Outside his doorway a man was walking up
and down, an old acquaintance, the former Tutor at the Castle.
Johannes greeted him.
He was dressed in a long, warm overcoat which was carefully brushed and
there was a brisk and decided air about him.
"Here you see your friend and colleague," he said. "Give me your hand,
young man. God has guided my ways marvellously since we last met; I am
married, I have a home, a little garden, a wife. The days of miracles
are not yet past. Have you any observation to make on my last remark?"
Johannes looked at him in surprise.
"Agreed then. Yes, you see, I was giving lessons to her son. She has a
son, a young hopeful from her first marriage; of course she has been
married before, she was a widow. You see, I married a widow. You may
object that this was not arranged by my fairy godmother; but there it
is, I married a widow. The young hopeful she had already. It was like
this, I go there and look at the garden and the widow and for a while
I am absorbed in intense thought on the subject. Suddenly I have it
and I say to myself: well, I dare say it wasn't promised by your fairy
godmother and all that; but I'll do it all the same, I take it, for it
was probably written in the book of fate. You see, that's how it came
about."
"Congratulations!" said Johannes.
"Stop! not a word more. I know what you're going to say. What about the
first one, you will say, have you forgotten the eternal love of your
youth? That's exactly what you will say. May I then ask you, my good
sir, in my turn, what became of my first, only and eternal love? Didn't
she take a captain in the artillery? Moreover I will ask you another
little question: have you ever, ever seen a case of a man getting the
one he should have got? I haven't. There's a legend about a man whose
prayers God heard in the matter, so that he was given his first and
only love. But he didn't get much satisfaction out of it. Why not? you
will ask again, and behold, I answer you: for the simple reason that
she died immediately after--_immediately_ after, do you hear? ha-ha-ha,
instantly. So it is always. Naturally one doesn't get the right woman,
but if it happens once in a while out of pure cussedness, then she dies
straight away. There's always some trick in it. So then the man is
reduced to providing himself with another love of the best available
sort and there's no reason why he should die of the change. I tell you,
Nature has ordained it so wisely that he bears it remarkably well. Just
look at me."
Johannes said:
"I can see that you're doing well."
"Excellently for that matter. Look, feel and listen! Has a set of
unenticing troubles swept over my person? I have clothes, shoes,
house and home, wife and children--well, the hopeful anyhow. What was
I saying?--with regard to my poetry I'll answer the question on the
spot. Oh, my young colleague, I am older than you and perhaps a little
better equipped by Nature. I keep my poems in a drawer. They are to be
published after my death. But then you get no pleasure out of them, you
will object? You are wrong again there, for in the meantime I delight
my household with them. In the evening when the lamp is lit I unlock
the drawer, take out my poems and read them aloud to my wife and the
hopeful. One is forty, the other twelve, they are both enchanted. If
you come and see us one day you will find supper and toddy. Now I've
invited you. God preserve you from death."
He gave Johannes his hand. Suddenly he asked:
"Have you heard about Victoria?"
"About Victoria? No. Oh yes, I heard just now, a moment ago...."
"Haven't you seen her declining, getting greyer and greyer under the
eyes?"
"I haven't seen her since last spring at home. Is she still ill?"
The Tutor answered in a comically hard voice, stamping his foot:
"Yes."
"I heard just now.... No, I haven't seen her declining, I haven't met
her. Is she very ill?"
"Very. Probably dead by now, you understand."
Johannes gave a stunned look at the man, then at his door, wondered
whether he should go in or stay where he was; looked at the man again,
at his long coat, his hat; and he smiled in a confused and painful way
like one in distress.
The old Tutor resumed in a threatening tone:
"Another example; can you get away from it? _She_ did not get the right
one either, her sweet-heart from childhood's days, a splendid young
Lieutenant. He went shooting one evening, a shot hit him right in the
forehead and blew his head to pieces. There he lay, a victim of the
little trick God had a mind to play with him. Victoria, his bride,
began to decline, a worm was preying on her, cribbling her heart like a
sieve; we, her friends, could see it. Then a few days ago she went to
a party, to some people named Seier; by the bye, she told me you were
to have been there too, but didn't come. Be that as it may, at this
party she overtaxes her strength, thoughts of her beloved rush in upon
her and she is lively from sheer bravado; she dances, dances the whole
evening, dances like a mad person. Then she falls, the floor turns red
under her; they lift her up, carry her out, drive her home. She was
near the end."
The Tutor went close up to Johannes and said in a hard voice:
"Victoria is dead."
Johannes began fending vaguely with his arms just like a blind man.
"Dead? When did she die? Do you say Victoria is dead?"
"She is dead," replied the Tutor. "She died this morning, this very
forenoon." He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a thick
letter. "And she confided this letter to me to hand to you. Here it
is. After my death, she said. She is dead. I hand you this letter. My
mission is ended."
And without taking leave, without a word more, the Tutor turned and
strolled slowly down the street and vanished.
Johannes was left with the letter in his hand. Victoria was dead. He
spoke her name aloud again and again and his voice was without feeling,
almost callous. He looked at the letter and recognized the writing;
there were big and small letters, the lines were straight, and she who
had written them was dead!
Then he entered his doorway, went upstairs, found the right key to put
into his latch and opened his door. His room was cold and dark. He
sat down in the window and read Victoria's letter by the last of the
daylight.
"Dear Johannes," she wrote. "When you read this letter I shall be
dead. Everything is so strange to me now, I am no longer ashamed to
write to you again as though nothing had happened to prevent it.
Before, while I was altogether among the living, I would rather
have suffered night and day than written to you again; but now I
have begun to pass away I do not think so any longer. Strangers
have seen me bleed, the Doctor has examined me and found that I
have only a shred of a lung left; what is there to hold me back now?
"I have been thinking as I lay here in bed of the last words I said
to you. It was that evening in the wood. I never thought then that
they would be my last words, for then I would have said good-bye
to you at the same time and thanked you. Now I shall never see you
again, so now I am sorry I did not throw myself down and kiss your
shoe and the ground you trod on, to show you how unspeakably I have
loved you. I have lain here both yesterday and today wishing I
could be just well enough to go home again and walk in the wood and
find the place where we sat when you held both my hands; for then I
could lie down there and see if I could find the trace of you and
kiss all the heather about. But I cannot come home now, unless, as
Mamma thinks, I may possibly get a little better.
"Dear Johannes, it is so curious to think that all I have ever been
able to do was to come into the world and love you and now say
good-bye to life. It is strange indeed to lie here waiting for the
day and the hour. I am moving step by step away from life and the
people in the street and the noise of the traffic; I shall never
see spring again either, and these houses and streets and the trees
in the Park I shall leave behind. Today I was allowed to sit up in
bed and look out of the window a little while. Down at the corner
I saw two people meet, they stopped and shook hands and laughed
at what they said; but it seemed so strange to me that I who lay
and watched them was to die. It made me think--of course those two
people do not know that I am lying here waiting for my hour; but if
they did know it they would still stop and talk just as they are
doing now. Last night when it was dark I thought my last hour had
come, my heart began to stand still and I seemed to hear already
the distant roar of eternity coming towards me. But the next moment
I was back from somewhere a long way off and began to breathe
again. It was a feeling I can't describe at all. Mamma thinks it
was perhaps only the river and the waterfall at home that were in
my mind.
"O God, if you knew how I have loved you, Johannes. I have not been
able to show it to you, so many things have come in my way, and
above all my own nature. Papa was hard on himself in the same way
and I am his daughter. But now that I am to die and it is all too
late, I write to you once more and tell you so. I ask myself why
I do it, as it cannot make any difference to you, especially as I
shall not even be alive any more; but I want so much to be near you
to the last so that I may not feel more lonely than before, at any
rate. When you read this it is as though I can see your shoulders
and hands and watch every movement you make as you hold the letter
before you and read it. So we are not so far from each other, I
think to myself. I cannot send for you, I have no right to do that.
Mamma would have sent for you two days ago, but I would rather
write. And I would rather you should remember me as I was once,
before I began to be ill. I remember you ... [here some words are
omitted] ... my eyes and eye-brows; but even they are not as they
were. That is another reason why I would not have you come. And I
will ask you not to see me in my coffin either. I expect I am much
the same as when I was alive, only a little paler, and I am lying
in a yellow dress; but still you would regret it if you came and
saw me.
"Now I have been writing at this letter so many times today and
yet I have not been able to say a thousandth part of what I wanted
to say. It is so terrible for me to die, I do not want to, I am
still hoping so fervently to God that perhaps I might get a little
better, if only till the spring. Then the days are light and there
are leaves on the trees. If I got well again now I would never be
unkind to you any more, Johannes. How I have cried and thought
about that! Oh, I would go out and stroke all the stones in the
street and stop and thank every step of the stairs as I went by and
be good to all. It would not matter how badly off I was if I might
only live. I should never complain again about anything; no, I
would smile at any one who attacked me and struck me and thank and
praise God if I might live. My life is so unlived, I have not been
able to do anything for anybody, and this failure of a life is to
end now. If you knew how unwilling I was to die perhaps you would
do something, do all in your power. I don't suppose you can do
anything; but I thought that if you and every one else prayed for
me and would not let me go then God would grant me life. Oh, how
thankful I should be, I would never do harm to any one again, but
smile at whatever fell to my lot, if only I were allowed to live.
"Mamma is sitting here crying. She sat here all night and cried
for me. That does me a little good, it softens the bitterness
of my going. And today I was thinking--how would you take it, I
wonder, if I came straight up to you in the street one day when I
was nicely dressed, and did not say anything to hurt you as I have
done, but gave you a rose which I had bought on purpose? Then the
next moment I remembered that I could never again do what I wanted;
for I can never be well again before I die. I cry so often, I lie
still and cry ceaselessly and inconsolably; it does not hurt my
chest if I do not sob. Johannes, dear, dear friend, my only beloved
on earth, come to me now and be here a little while when it begins
to grow dark. I shall not cry then, but smile as well as I am able,
from sheer joy at your coming.
"Ah, where are my pride and my courage! I am not my father's
daughter now; but this is because my strength has left me. I have
suffered for a long time, Johannes, long before these last days.
When you were abroad I suffered, and afterwards, since I came to
town in the spring I have done nothing but suffer every day. I
have never known before how infinitely long the night can be. I
have seen you twice in the street during this time; once you were
humming as you passed me, but you did not see me. I had hope of
seeing you at the Seiers'; but you did not come. I should not have
spoken to you or come quite close to you, but should have been
grateful to be able to look at you a long way off. But you did not
come. Then I thought perhaps it was on my account you kept away. At
eleven o'clock I began to dance because I could not bear to wait
any longer. Ah, Johannes, I have loved you, loved only you all my
life. It is Victoria who writes this and God is reading it over my
shoulder.
"And now I must say good-bye, it is nearly dark and I cannot see
any more. Good-bye, Johannes, thanks for every day. When I fly away
from earth I shall still thank you to the last and say your name to
myself all the way. Farewell, be happy all your life and forgive me
the wrong I have done you and that I could not throw myself at your
feet and beg your forgiveness. I do so now in my heart. Farewell,
Johannes, and good-bye for ever. And thanks once more for every
single day and hour. I can no more.
Your
VICTORIA.
"Now I have had the lamp lit and it is all much brighter. I have
been lying in a trance and again been far away. Thank God, it was
not so uncanny as before, I even heard a little music and above all
it was not dark. I am so thankful. But now I have no more strength
to write. Good-bye, my beloved...."
THE END
* * * * *
_The Works of_
KNUT HAMSUN
_Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1920_
HUNGER [_Sult_] _Translated by George
Egerton. With an introduction by Edwin Björkman._
GROWTH OF THE SOIL
[_Markens Gröde_] _Translated, with an essay on Hamsun,
by W. W. Worster._
PAN _Translated by W. W. Worster. With an
introduction by Edwin Björkman._
SHALLOW SOIL [_Ny Jord_] _Translated,
with an introductory essay, by Carl Christian Hyllested._
DREAMERS [_Sværmere_] _Translated by
W. W. Worster._
WANDERERS [_Under Høststjærnen and
En Vandrer Spiller med Sordin._] _Translated by W.
W. Worster. With an introduction by Edwin Björkman._
VICTORIA _Translated by A. G. Chater._
_In preparation_
CHILDREN OF THE TIME
[_Børn av Tiden._]
THE VILLAGE OF SEGELFOSS
[_Segelfoss By._]
ROSA
BENONI
_ALFRED A KNOPF_
_PUBLISHER_ _NEW YORK_
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VICTORIA ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
