The work is ended. Having lost its gloss, the last neglected fish lies on the ground; even the children are too lazy to pick it up; and an indifferent, satiated foot treads it into the mud. A quiet, fatigued conversation goes on, mingled with gay and peaceful laughter.
“What kind of a prayer is our abbot going to say to-day? It is already time for him to come.”
“And do you think it is so easy to compose a good prayer? He is thinking.”
“Selly’s basket broke and the fish were falling out. We laughed so much! It seems so funny to me even now!”
Laughter. Two fishermen look at the sail in the distance.
“All my life I have seen large ships sailing past us. Where are they going? They disappear beyond the horizon, and I go off to sleep; and I sleep, while they are forever going, going. Where are they going? Do you know?”
“To America.”
“I should like to go with them. When they speak of America my heart begins to ring. Did you say America on purpose, or is that the truth?”
Several old women are whispering:
“Wild Gart is angry again at his sailor. Have you noticed it?”
“The sailor is displeased. Look, how wan his face is.”
“Yes, he looks like the evil one when he is compelled to listen to a psalm. But I don’t like Wild Gart, either. No. Where did he come from?”
They resume their whispers. Haggart complains softly:
“Why have you the same name, Mariet, for everybody? It should not be so in a truthful land.”
Mariet speaks with restrained force, pressing both hands to her breast:
“I love you so dearly, Gart; when you go out to sea, I set my teeth together and do not open them until you come back. When you are away, I eat nothing and drink nothing; when you are away, I am silent, and the women laugh: ‘Mute Mariet!’ But I would be insane if I spoke when I am alone.”
HAGGART—Here you are again compelling me to smile. You must not, Mariet—I am forever smiling.
MARIET—I love you so dearly, Gart. Every hour of the day and the night I am thinking only of what I could still give to you, Gart. Have I not given you everything? But that is so little—everything! There is but one thing I want to do—to keep on giving to you, giving! When the sun sets, I present you the sunset; when the sun rises, I present you the sunrise—take it, Gart! And are not all the storms yours? Ah, Haggart, how I love you!
HAGGART—I am going to toss little Noni so high to-day that I will toss him up to the clouds. Do you want me to do it? Let us laugh, dear little sister Mariet. You are exactly like myself. When you stand that way, it seems to me that I am standing there—I have to rub my eyes. Let us laugh! Some day I may suddenly mix things up—I may wake up and say to you: “Good morning, Haggart!”
MARIET—Good morning, Mariet.
HAGGART—I will call you Haggart. Isn’t that a good idea?
MARIET—And I will call you Mariet.
HAGGART—Yes—no. You had better call me Haggart, too.
“You don’t want me to call you Mariet?” asks Mariet sadly.
The abbot and old Dan appear. The abbot says in a loud, deep voice:
“Here I am. Here I am bringing you a prayer, children. I have just composed it; it has even made me feel hot. Dan, why doesn’t the boy ring the bell? Oh, yes, he is ringing. The fool—he isn’t swinging the right rope, but that doesn’t matter; that’s good enough, too. Isn’t it, Mariet?”
Two thin but merry bells are ringing.
Mariet is silent and Haggart answers for her:
“That’s good enough. But what are the bells saying, abbot?”
The fishermen who have gathered about them are already prepared to laugh—the same undying jest is always repeated.
“Will you tell no one about it?” says the abbot, in a deep voice, slily winking his eye. “Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!”
The fishermen laugh merrily.
“This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Haggart, “is my favourite man! He has given me a grandson, and I wrote the Pope about it in Latin. But that wasn’t so hard; isn’t that true, Mariet? But he knows how to look at the water. He foretells a storm as if he himself caused it. Gart, do you produce the storm yourself? Where does the wind come from? You are the wind yourself.”
All laugh approval. An old fisherman says:
“That’s true, father. Ever since he has been here, we have never been caught in a storm.”
“Of course it is true, if I say it. ‘Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!’”
Old Dan walks over to Khorre and says something to him. Khorre nods his head negatively. The abbot, singing “Pope’s a rogue,” goes around the crowd, throws out brief remarks, and claps some people on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Hello, Katerina, you are getting stout. Oho! Are you all ready? And Thomas is missing again—this is the second time he has stayed away from prayer. Anna, you are rather sad—that isn’t good. One must live merrily, one must live merrily! I think that it is jolly even in hell, but in a different way. It is two years since you have stopped growing, Philipp. That isn’t good.”
Philipp answers gruffly:
“Grass also stops growing if a stone falls upon it.”
“What is still worse than that—worms begin to breed under the rock.”
Mariet says softly, sadly and entreatingly:
“Don’t you want me to call you Mariet?”
Haggart answers obstinately and sternly:
“I don’t. If my name will be Mariet, I shall never kill that man. He disturbs my life. Make me a present of his life, Mariet. He kissed you.”
“How can I present you that which is not mine? His life belongs to God and to himself.”
“That is not true. He kissed you; do I not see the burns upon your lips? Let me kill him, and you will feel as joyful and care-free as a seagull. Say ‘yes,’ Mariet.”
“No; you shouldn’t do it, Gart. It will be painful to you.”
Haggart looks at her and speaks with deep irony.
“Is that it? Well, then, it is not true that you give me anything. You don’t know how to give, woman.”
“I am your wife.”
“No! A man has no wife when another man, and not his wife, grinds his knife. My knife is dull, Mariet!”
Mariet looks at him with horror and sorrow.
“What did you say, Haggart? Wake up; it is a terrible dream, Haggart! It is I—look at me. Open your eyes wider, wider, until you see me well. Do you see me, Gart?”
Haggart slowly rubs his brow.
“I don’t know. It is true I love you, Mariet. But how incomprehensible your land is—in your land a man sees dreams even when he is not asleep. Perhaps I am smiling already. Look, Mariet.”
The abbot stops in front of Khorre.
“Ah, old friend, how do you do? You are smiling already. Look, Mariet.”
“I don’t want to work,” ejaculates the sailor sternly.
“You want your own way? This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Khorre, “thinks that he is an atheist. But he is simply a fool; he does not understand that he is also praying to God—but he is doing it the wrong way, like a crab. Even a fish prays to God, my children; I have seen it myself. When you will be in hell, old man, give my regards to the Pope. Well, children, come closer, and don’t gnash your teeth. I am going to start at once. Eh, you, Mathias—you needn’t put out the fire in your pipe; isn’t it the same to God what smoke it is, incense or tobacco, if it is only well meant. Why do you shake your head, woman?”
WOMAN—His tobacco is contraband.
YOUNG FISHERMAN—God wouldn’t bother with such trifles. The abbot thinks a while:
“No; hold on. I think contraband tobacco is not quite so good. That’s an inferior grade. Look here; you better drop your pipe meanwhile, Mathias; I’ll think the matter over later. Now, silence, perfect silence. Let God take a look at us first.”
All stand silent and serious. Only a few have lowered their heads. Most of the people are looking ahead with wide-open, motionless eyes, as though they really saw God in the blue of the sky, in the boundless, radiant, distant surface of the sea. The sea is approaching with a caressing murmur; high tide has set in.
“My God and the God of all these people! Don’t judge us for praying, not in Latin but in our own language, which our mothers have taught us. Our God! Save us from all kinds of terrors, from unknown sea monsters; protect us against storms and hurricanes, against tempests and gales. Give us calm weather and a kind wind, a clear sun and peaceful waves. And another thing, O Lord! we ask You; don’t allow the devil, to come close to our bedside when we are asleep. In our sleep we are defenceless, O Lord! and the devil terrifies us, tortures us to convulsions, torments us to the very blood of our heart. And there is another thing, O Lord! Old Rikke, whom You know, is beginning to extinguish Your light in his eyes and he can make nets no longer—”
Rikke frequently shakes his head in assent.
“I can’t, I can’t!”
“Prolong, then, O Lord! Your bright day and bid the night wait. Am I right, Rikke?”
“Yes.”
“And here is still another, the last request, O Lord. I shall not ask any more: The tears do not dry up in the eyes of our old women crying for those who have perished. Take their memory away, O Lord, and give them strong forgetfulness. There are still other trifles, O Lord, but let the others pray whose turn has come before You. Amen.”
Silence. Old Dan tugs the abbot by the sleeve, and whispers something in his ear.
ABBOT—Dan is asking me to pray for those who perished at sea.
The women exclaim in plaintive chorus:
“For those who perished at sea! For those who died at sea!”
Some of them kneel. The abbot looks tenderly at their bowed heads, exhausted with waiting and fear, and says:
“No priest should pray for those who died at sea—these women should pray. Make it so, O Lord, that they should not weep so much!”
Silence. The incoming tide roars more loudly—the ocean is carrying to the earth its noise, its secrets, its bitter, briny taste of unexplored depths.
Soft voices say:
“The sea is coming.”
“High tide has started.”
“The sea is coming.”
Mariet kisses her father’s hand.
“Woman!” says the priest tenderly. “Listen, Gart, isn’t it strange that this—a woman”—he strokes his daughter tenderly with his finger on her pure forehead—“should be born of me, a man?”
Haggart smiles.
“And is it not strange that this should have become a wife to me, a man?” He embraces Mariet, bending her frail shoulders.
“Let us go to eat, Gart, my son. Whoever she may be, I know one thing well. She has prepared for you and me an excellent dinner.”
The people disperse quickly. Mariet says confusedly and cheerfully:
“I’ll run first.”
“Run, run,” answers the abbot. “Gart, my son, call the atheist to dinner. I’ll hit him with a spoon on the forehead; an atheist understands a sermon best of all if you hit him with a spoon.”
He waits and mutters:
“The boy has commenced to ring the bells again. He does it for himself, the rogue. If we did not lock the steeple, they would pray there from morning until night.”
Haggart goes over to Khorre, near whom Dan is sitting.
“Khorre! Let us go to eat—the priest called you.”
“I don’t want to go, Noni.”
“So? What are you going to do here on shore?”
“I will think, Noni, think. I have so much to think to be able to understand at least something.”
Haggart turns around silently. The abbot calls from the distance:
“He is not coming? Well, then, let him stay there. And Dan—never call Dan, my son”—says the priest in his deep whisper, “he eats at night like a rat. Mariet purposely puts something away for him in the closet for the night; when she looks for it in the morning, it is gone. Just think of it, no one ever hears when he takes it. Does he fly?”
Both go off. Only the two old men, seated in a friendly manner on two neighbouring rocks, remain on the deserted shore. And the old men resemble each other so closely, and whatever they may say to each other, the whiteness of their hair, the deep lines of their wrinkles, make them kin.
The tide is coming.
“They have all gone away,” mutters Khorre. “Thus will they cook hot soup on the wrecks of our ship, too. Eh, Dan! Do you know he ordered me to drink no gin for three days. Let the old dog croak! Isn’t that so, Noni?”
“Of those who died at sea... Those who died at sea,” mutters Dan. “A son taken from his father, a son from his father. The father said go, and the son perished in the sea. Oi, oi, oi!”
“What are you prating there, old man? I say, he ordered me to drink no gin. Soon he will order, like that King of yours, that the sea be lashed with chains.”
“Oho! With chains.”
“Your king was a fool. Was he married, your king?”
“The sea is coming, coming!” mutters Dan. “It brings along its noise, its secret, its deception. Oh, how the sea deceives man. Those who died at sea—yes, yes, yes. Those who died at sea.”
“Yes, the sea is coming. And you don’t like it?” asks Khorre, rejoicing maliciously. “Well, don’t you like it? I don’t like your music. Do you hear, Dan? I hate your music!”
“Oho! And why do you come to hear it? I know that you and Gart stood by the wall and listened.”
Khorre says sternly:
“It was he who got me out of bed.”
“He will get you out of bed again.”
“No!” roars Khorre furiously. “I will get up myself at night. Do you hear, Dan? I will get up at night and break your music.”
“And I will spit into your sea.”
“Try,” says the sailor distrustfully. “How will you spit?”
“This way,” and Dan, exasperated, spits in the direction of the sea. The frightened Khorre, in confusion, says hoarsely:
“Oh, what sort of man are you? You spat! Eh, Dan, look out; it will be bad for you—you yourself are talking about those who died at sea.”
Dan shouts, frightened:
“Who speaks of those that perished at sea? You, you dog!”
He goes away, grumbling and coughing, swinging his hand and stooping. Khorre is left alone before the entire vastness of the sea and the sky.
“He is gone. Then I am going to look at you, O sea, until my eyes will burst of thirst!”
The ocean, approaching, is roaring.
At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky shore, stands a man—a small, dark, motionless dot. Behind him is the cold, almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the ocean is rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness. Its mighty approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are rising from the depths. Even sniffing sounds are heard—it is as though a drove of monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying down on their backs, and panting contentedly, deriving their monstrous pleasures.
The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying seaweeds, of its grass. The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.
And there is but one little light in the black space of water and night—the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.
The rattle of cobblestones is heard from under a cautious step: Haggart is coming down to the sea along a steep path. He pauses, silent with restraint, breathing deeply after the strain of passing the dangerous slope, and goes forward. He is now at the edge—he straightens himself and looks for a long time at him who had long before taken his strange but customary place at the very edge of the deep. He makes a few steps forward and greets him irresolutely and gently—Haggart greets him even timidly:
“Good evening, stranger. Have you been here long?”
A sad, soft, and grave voice answers:
“Good evening, Haggart. Yes, I have been here long.”
“You are watching?”
“I am watching and listening.”
“Will you allow me to stand near you and look in the same direction you are looking? I am afraid that I am disturbing you by my uninvited presence—for when I came you were already here—but I am so fond of this spot. This place is isolated, and the sea is near, and the earth behind is silent; and here my eyes open. Like a night-owl, I see better in the dark; the light of day dazzles me. You know, I have grown up on the sea, sir.”
“No, you are not disturbing me, Haggart. But am I not disturbing you? Then I shall go away.”
“You are so polite, sir,” mutters Haggart.
“But I also love this spot,” continues the sad, grave voice. “I, too, like to feel that the cold and peaceful granite is behind me. You have grown up on the sea, Haggart—tell me, what is that faint light on the right?”
“That is the lighthouse of the Holy Cross.”
“Aha! The lighthouse of the Holy Cross. I didn’t know that. But can such a faint light help in time of a storm? I look and it always seems to me that the light is going out. I suppose it isn’t so.”
Haggart, agitated but restrained, says:
“You frighten me, sir. Why do you ask me what you know better than I do? You want to tempt me—you know everything.”
There is not a trace of a smile in the mournful voice—nothing but sadness.
“No, I know little. I know even less than you do, for I know more. Pardon my rather complicated phrase, Haggart, but the tongue responds with so much difficulty not only to our feeling, but also to our thought.”
“You are polite,” mutters Haggart agitated. “You are polite and always calm. You are always sad and you have a thin hand with rings upon it, and you speak like a very important personage. Who are you, sir?”
“I am he whom you called—the one who is always sad.”
“When I come, you are already here; when I go away, you remain. Why do you never want to go with me, sir?”
“There is one way for you, Haggart, and another for me.”
“I see you only at night. I know all the people around this settlement, and there is no one who looks like you. Sometimes I think that you are the owner of that old castle where I lived. If that is so I must tell you the castle was destroyed by the storm.”
“I don’t know of whom you speak.”
“I don’t understand how you know my name, Haggart. But I don’t want to deceive you. Although my wife Mariet calls me so, I invented that name myself. I have another name—my real name—of which no one has ever heard here.”
“I know your other name also, Haggart. I know your third name, too, which even you do not know. But it is hardly worth speaking of this. You had better look into this dark sea and tell me about your life. Is it true that it is so joyous? They say that you are forever smiling. They say that you are the bravest and most handsome fisherman on the coast. And they also say that you love your wife Mariet very dearly.”
“O sir!” exclaims Haggart with restraint, “my life is so sad that you could not find an image like it in this dark deep. O sir! my sufferings are so deep that you could not find a more terrible place in this dark abyss.”
“What is the cause of your sorrow and your sufferings, Haggart?”
“Life, sir. Here your noble and sad eyes look in the same direction my eyes look—into this terrible, dark distance. Tell me, then, what is stirring there? What is resting and waiting there, what is silent there, what is screaming and singing and complaining there in its own voices? What are the voices that agitate me and fill my soul with phantoms of sorrow, and yet say nothing? And whence comes this night? And whence comes my sorrow? Are you sighing, sir, or is it the sigh of the ocean blending with your voice? My hearing is beginning to fail me, my master, my dear master.”
The sad voice replies:
“It is my sigh, Haggart. My great sorrow is responding to your sorrow. You see at night like an owl, Haggart; then look at my thin hands and at my rings. Are they not pale? And look at my face—is it not pale? Is it not pale—is it not pale? Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”
They grieve silently. The heavy ocean is splashing, tossing about, spitting and snorting and sniffing peacefully. The sea is calm to-night and alone, as always.
“Tell Haggart—” says the sad voice.
“Very well. I will tell Haggart.”
“Tell Haggart that I love him.”
Silence—and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:
“If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something to Haggart? But no—I sense a different meaning in your words, and you frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real terror. Very well, I will tell Haggart everything you have said.”
“Adjust my cloak; my shoulder is cold. But it always seems to me that the light over there is going out. You called it the lighthouse of the Holy Cross, if I am not mistaken?”
“Yes, it is called so here.”
“Aha! It is called so here.”
Silence.
“Must I go now?” asks Haggart.
“Yes, go.”
“And you will remain here?”
“I will remain here.”
Haggart retreats several steps.
“Good-bye, sir.”
“Good-bye, Haggart.”
Again the cobblestones rattle under his cautious steps; without looking back, Haggart climbs the steep rocks.
Of what great sorrow speaks this night?
“Your hands are in blood, Haggart. Whom have you killed, Haggart?”
“Silence, Khorre, I killed that man. Be silent and listen—he will commence to play soon. I stood here and listened, but suddenly my heart sank, and I cannot stay here alone.”
“Don’t confuse my mind, Noni; don’t tempt me. I will run away from here. At night, when I am already fast asleep, you swoop down on me like a demon, grab me by the neck, and drag me over here—I can’t understand anything. Tell me, my boy, is it necessary to hide the body?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Why didn’t you throw it into the sea?”
“Silence! What are you prating about? I have nothing to throw into the sea.”
“But your hands are in blood.”
“Silence, Khorre! He will commence soon. Be silent and listen—I say to you—Are you a friend to me or not, Khorre?”
He drags him closer to the dark window of the church. Khorre mutters:
“How dark it is. If you raised me out of bed for this accursed music—”
“Yes, yes; for this accursed music.”
“Then you have disturbed my honest sleep in vain; I want no music, Noni.”
“So! Was I perhaps to run through the street, knock at the windows and shout: ‘Eh, who is there; where’s a living soul? Come and help Haggart, stand up with him against the cannons.’”
“You are confusing things, Noni. Drink some gin, my boy. What cannons?”
“Silence, sailor.”
He drags him away from the window.
“Oh, you shake me like a squall!”
“Silence! I think he looked at us from the window; something white flashed behind the window pane. You may laugh. Khorre—if he came out now I would scream like a woman.”
He laughs softly.
“Are you speaking of Dan? I don’t understand anything, Noni.”
“But is that Dan? Of course it is not Dan—it is some one else. Give me your hand, sailor.”
“I think that you simply drank too much, like that time—remember, in the castle? And your hand is quivering. But then the game was different—”
“Tss!”
Khorre lowers his voice:
“But your hand is really in blood. Oh, you are breaking my fingers!”
Haggart threatens:
“If you don’t keep still, dog, I’ll break every bone of your body! I’ll pull every vein out of your body, if you don’t keep still, you dog!”
Silence. The distant breakers are softly groaning, as if complaining—the sea has gone far away from the black earth. And the night is silent. It came no one knows whence and spread over the earth; it spread over the earth and is silent; it is silent, waiting for something. And ferocious mists have swung themselves to meet it—the sea breathed phantoms, driving to the earth a herd of headless submissive giants. A heavy fog is coming.
“Why doesn’t he light a lamp?” asks Khorre sternly but submissively.
“He needs no light.”
“Perhaps there is no one there any longer.”
“Yes, he’s there.”
“A fog is coming. How quiet it is! There’s something wrong in the air—what do you think, Noni?”
“Tss!”
The first soft sounds of the organ resound. Some one is sitting alone in the dark and is speaking to God in an incomprehensible language about the most important things. And however faint the sounds—suddenly the silence vanishes, the night trembles and stares into the dark church with all its myriads of phantom eyes. An agitated voice whispers:
“Listen! He always begins that way. He gets a hold of your soul at once! Where does he get the power? He gets a hold of your heart!”
“I don’t like it.”
“Listen! Now he makes believe he is Haggart, Khorre! Little Haggart in his mother’s lap. Look, all hands are filled with golden rays; little Haggart is playing with golden rays. Look!”
“I don’t see it, Noni. Leave my hand alone, it hurts.”
“Now he makes believe he is Haggart! Listen!”
The oppressive chords resound faintly. Haggart moans softly.
“What is it, Noni? Do you feel any pain?”
“Yes. Do you understand of what he speaks?”
“No.”
“He speaks of the most important—of the most vital, Khorre—if we could only understand it—I want to understand it. Listen, Khorre, listen! Why does he make believe that he is Haggart? It is not my soul. My soul does not know this.”
“What, Noni?”
“I don’t know. What terrible dreams there are in this land! Listen. There! Now he will cry and he will say: ‘It is Haggart crying.’ He will call God and will say: ‘Haggart is calling.’ He lies—Haggart did not call, Haggart does not know God.”
He moans again, trying to restrain himself.
“Do you feel any pain?”
“Yes—Be silent.”
Haggart exclaims in a muffled voice:
“Oh, Khorre!”
“What is it, Noni?”
“Why don’t you tell him that it isn’t Haggart? It is a lie!” whispers Haggart rapidly. “He thinks that he knows, but he does not know anything. He is a small, wretched old man with red eyes, like those of a rabbit, and to-morrow death will mow him down. Ha! He is dealing in diamonds, he throws them from one hand to the other like an old miser, and he himself is dying of hunger. It is a fraud, Khorre, a fraud. Let us shout loudly, Khorre, we are alone here.”
He shouts, turning to the thundering organ:
“Eh, musician! Even a fly cannot rise on your wings, even the smallest fly cannot rise on your wings. Eh, musician! Let me have your torn hat and I will throw a penny into it; your lie is worth no more. What are you prating there about God, you rabbit’s eyes? Be silent, I am shamed to listen to you. I swear, I am ashamed to listen to you! Don’t you believe me? You are still calling? Whither?”
“Strike them on the head, Noni.”
“Be silent, you dog! But what a terrible land! What are they doing here with the human heart? What terrible dreams there are in this land?”
He stops speaking. The organ sings solemnly.
“Why did you stop speaking, Noni?” asks the sailor with alarm.
“I am listening. It is good music, Khorre. Have I said anything?”
“You even shouted, Noni, and you forced me to shout with you.”
“That is not true. I have been silent all the time. Do you know, I haven’t even opened my mouth once! You must have been dreaming, Khorre. Perhaps you are thinking that you are near the church? You are simply sleeping in your bed, sailor. It is a dream.”
Khorre is terrified.
“Drink some gin, Noni.”
“I don’t need it. I drank something else already.”
“Your hands?”
“Be silent, Khorre. Don’t you see that everything is silent and is listening, and you alone are talking? The musician may feel offended!”
He laughs quietly. Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the triumphant conciliation between man and God. The fog is growing thicker.
A loud stamping of feet—some one runs through the deserted street in agitation.
“Noni!” whispers the sailor. “Who ran by?”
“I hear.”
“Noni! Another one is running. Something is wrong.”
Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night—the echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken, is running away somewhere. Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a lantern floats by.
“They have found him, Khorre. They have found the man I killed, sailor! I did not throw him into the sea; I brought him and set his head up against the door of his house. They have found him.”
Another lantern floats by, swinging from side to side. As if hearing the alarm, the organ breaks off at a high chord. An instant of silence, emptiness of dread waiting, and then a woman’s sob of despair fills it up to the brim.
The mist is growing thicker.
The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning. It is near sunrise. A large, clean, fisherman’s hut. A skilfully made little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set. Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look at it, study each familiar sail. Behind the dark curtain lies the body of Philipp—this hut belonged to him.
The people are waiting for Haggart—some have gone out to search for him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak meditatively and cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words. Whenever a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on the bench apparently feel embarrassed.
The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head lowered; when any one is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside with his hand. He is silent and knits his brows convulsively. Occasionally he glances at the door or at the window and listens.
The only woman present there is Mariet. She is sitting by the table and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes. She shudders slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the noise of distant footsteps.
At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth. And such perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross. Warning is thus given to the ships that have lost their way in the fog.
Some one in the corner says:
“Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him. Our people can’t strike like that. He stuck the knife here, then slashed over there, and almost cut his head off.”
“You can’t do that with a dull knife!”
“No. You can’t do it with a weak hand. I saw a murdered sailor on the wharf one day—he was cut up just like this.”
Silence.
“And where is his mother?” asks some one, nodding at the curtain.
“Selly is taking care of her. Selly took her to her house.”
An old fisherman quietly asks his neighbour:
“Who told you?”
“Francina woke me. Who told you, Marle?”
“Some one knocked on my window.”
“Who knocked on your window?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“How is it you don’t know? Who was the first to see?”
“Some one passed by and noticed him.”
“None of us passed by. There was nobody among us who passed by.”
A fisherman seated at the other end, says:
“There was nobody among us who passed by. Tell us, Thomas.”
Thomas takes out his pipe:
“I am a neighbour of Philipp’s, of that man there—” he points at the curtain. “Yes, yes, you all know that I am his neighbour. And if anybody does not know it—I’ll say it again, as in a court of justice: I am his neighbour—I live right next to him—” he turns to the window.
An elderly fisherman enters and forces himself silently into the line.
“Well, Tibo?” asks the abbot, stopping.
“Nothing.”
“Haven’t you found Haggart?”
“No. It is so foggy that they are afraid of losing themselves. They walk and call each other; some of them hold each other by the hand. Even a lantern can’t be seen ten feet away.”
The abbot lowers his head and resumes his pacing. The old fisherman speaks, without addressing any one in particular.
“There are many ships now staring helplessly in the sea.”
“I walked like a blind man,” says Tibo. “I heard the Holy Cross ringing. But it seems as if it changed its place. The sound comes from the left side.”
“The fog is deceitful.”
Old Desfoso says:
“This never happened here. Since Dugamel broke Jack’s head with a shaft. That was thirty—forty years ago.”
“What did you say, Desfoso?” the abbot stops.
“I say, since Dugamel broke Jack’s head—”
“Yes, yes!” says the abbot, and resumes pacing the room.
“Then Dugamel threw himself into the sea from a rock and was dashed to death—that’s how it happened. He threw himself down.”
Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with hatred. Silence.
“What did you say, Thomas?”
Thomas takes his pipe out of his mouth.
“Nothing. I only said that some one knocked at my window.”
“You don’t know who?”
“No. And you will never know. I came out, I looked—and there Philipp was sitting at his door. I wasn’t surprised—Philipp often roamed about at night ever since—”
He stops irresolutely. Mariet asks harshly:
“Since when? You said ‘since.’”
Silence. Desfoso replies frankly and heavily:
“Since your Haggart came. Go ahead, Thomas, tell us about it.”
“So I said to him: ‘Why did you knock, Philipp? Do you want anything?’ But he was silent.”
“And he was silent?”
“He was silent. ‘If you don’t want anything, you had better go to sleep, my friend,’ said I. But he was silent. Then I looked at him—his throat was cut open.”
Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with aversion. Silence. Another fisherman enters, looks at the curtain and silently forces his way into the crowd. Women’s voices are heard behind the door; the abbot stops.
“Eh, Lebon! Chase the women away,” he says. “Tell them, there is nothing for them to do here.”
Lebon goes out.
“Wait,” the abbot stops. “Ask how the mother is feeling; Selly is taking care of her.”
Desfoso says:
“You say, chase away the women, abbot? And your daughter? She is here.”
The abbot looks at Mariet. She says:
“I am not going away from here.”
Silence. The abbot paces the room again; he looks at the little ship fastened to the ceiling and asks:
“Who made it?”
All look at the little ship.
“He,” answers Desfoso. “He made it when he wanted to go to America as a sailor. He was always asking me how a three-masted brig is fitted out.”
They look at the ship again, at its perfect little sails—at the little rags. Lebon returns.
“I don’t know how to tell you about it, abbot. The women say that Haggart and his sailor are being led over here. The women are afraid.”
Mariet shudders and looks at the door; the abbot pauses.
“Oho, it is daybreak already, the fog is turning blue!” says one fisherman to another, but his voice breaks off.
“Yes. Low tide has started,” replies the other dully.
Silence. Then uneven footsteps resound. Several young fishermen with excited faces bring in Haggart, who is bound, and push Khorre in after him, also bound. Haggart is calm; as soon as the sailor was bound, something wildly free appeared in his movements, in his manners, in the sharpness of his swift glances.
One of the men who brought Haggart says to the abbot in a low voice:
“He was near the church. Ten times we passed by and saw no one, until he called: ‘Aren’t you looking for me?’ It is so foggy, father.”
The abbot shakes his head silently and sits down. Mariet smiles to her husband with her pale lips, but he does not look at her. Like all the others, he has fixed his eyes in amazement on the toy ship.
“Hello, Haggart,” says the abbot.
“Hello, father.”
“You call me father?”
“Yes, you.”
“You are mistaken, Haggart. I am not your father.”
The fishermen exchanged glances contentedly.
“Well, then. Hello, abbot,” says Haggart with indifference, and resumes examining the little ship. Khorre mutters:
“That’s the way, be firm, Noni.”
“Who made this toy?” asks Haggart, but no one replies.
“Hello, Gart!” says Mariet, smiling. “It is I, your wife, Mariet. Let me untie your hands.”
With a smile, pretending that she does not notice the stains of blood, she unfastens the ropes. All look at her in silence. Haggart also looks at her bent, alarmed head.
“Thank you,” he says, straightening his hands.
“It would be a good thing to untie my hands, too,” said Khorre, but there is no answer.
ABBOT—Haggart, did you kill Philipp?
HAGGART—I.
ABBOT—Do you mean to say—eh, you, Haggart—that you yourself killed him with your own hands? Perhaps you said to the sailor: “Sailor, go and kill Philipp,” and he did it, for he loves you and respects you as his superior? Perhaps it happened that way! Tell me, Haggart. I called you my son, Haggart.
HAGGART—No, I did not order the sailor to do it. I killed Philipp with my own hand.
Silence.
KHORRE—Noni! Tell them to unfasten my hands and give me back my pipe.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” roars the priest. “Be bound awhile, drunkard! You had better be afraid of an untied rope—it may be formed into a noose.”
But obeying a certain swift movement or glance of Haggart, Mariet walks over to the sailor and opens the knots of the rope. And again all look in silence upon her bent, alarmed head. Then they turn their eyes upon Haggart. Just as they looked at the little ship before, so they now look at him. And he, too, has forgotten about the toy. As if aroused from sleep, he surveys the fishermen, and stares long at the dark curtain.
ABBOT—Haggart, I am asking you. Who carried Philipp’s body?
HAGGART—I. I brought it and put it near the door, his head against the door, his face against the sea. It was hard to set him that way, he was always falling down. But I did it.
ABBOT—Why did you do it?
HAGGART—I don’t know exactly. I heard that Philipp has a mother, an old woman, and I thought this might please them better—both him and his mother.
ABBOT—(With restraint.) You are laughing at us?
HAGGART—No. What makes you think I am laughing? I am just as serious as you are. Did he—did Philipp make this little ship?
No one answers. Mariet, rising and bending over to Haggart across the table, says:
“Didn’t you say this, Haggart: ‘My poor boy, I killed you because I had to kill you, and now I am going to take you to your mother, my dear boy’?”
“These are very sad words. Who told them to you, Mariet?” asks Haggart, surprised.
“I heard them. And didn’t you say further: ‘Mother, I have brought you your son, and put him down at your door—take your boy, mother’?”
Haggart maintains silence.
“I don’t know,” roars the abbot bitterly. “I don’t know; people don’t kill here, and we don’t know how it is done. Perhaps that is as it should be—to kill and then bring the murdered man to his mother’s threshold. What are you gaping at, you scarecrow?”
Khorre replies rudely:
“According to my opinion, he should have thrown him into the sea. Your Haggart is out of his mind; I have said it long ago.”
Suddenly old Desfoso shouts amid the loud approval of the others:
“Hold your tongue! We will send him to the city, but we will hang you like a cat ourselves, even if you did not kill him.”
“Silence, old man, silence!” the abbot stops him, while Khorre looks over their heads with silent contempt. “Haggart, I am asking you, why did you take Philipp’s life? He needed his life just as you need yours.”
“He was Mariet’s betrothed—and—”
“Well?”
“And—I don’t want to speak. Why didn’t you ask me before, when he was alive? Now I have killed him.”
“But”—says the abbot, and there is a note of entreaty in his heavy voice. “But it may be that you are already repenting, Haggart? You are a splendid man, Gart. I know you; when you are sober you cannot hurt even a fly. Perhaps you were intoxicated—that happens with young people—and Philipp may have said something to you, and you—”
“No.”
“No? Well, then, let it be no. Am I not right, children? But perhaps something strange came over you—it happens with people—suddenly a red mist will get into a man’s head, the beast will begin to howl in his breast, and—In such cases one word is enough—”
“No, Philipp did not say anything to me. He passed along the road, when I jumped out from behind a large rock and stuck a knife into his throat. He had no time even to be scared. But if you like—” Haggart surveys the fishermen with his eyes irresolutely—“I feel a little sorry for him. That is, just a little. Did he make this toy?”
The abbot lowers his head sternly. And Desfoso shouts again, amidst sobs of approval from the others:
“No! Abbot, you better ask him what he was doing at the church. Dan saw them from the window. Wouldn’t you tell us what you and your accursed sailor were doing at the church? What were you doing there? Speak.”
Haggart looks at the speaker steadfastly and says slowly:
“I talked with the devil.”
A muffled rumbling follows. The abbot jumps from his place and roars furiously:
“Then let him sit on your neck! Eh, Pierre, Jules, tie him down as fast as you can until morning. And the other one, too. And in the morning—in the morning, take him away to the city, to the Judges. I don’t know their accursed city laws”—cries the abbot in despair—“but they will hang you, Haggart! You will dangle on a rope, Haggart!”
Khorre rudely pushes aside the young fisherman who comes over to him with a rope, and says to Desfoso in a low voice:
“It’s an important matter, old man. Go away for a minute—he oughtn’t to hear it,” he nods at Haggart.
“I don’t trust you.”
“You needn’t. That’s nothing. Noni, there is a little matter here. Come, come, and don’t be afraid. I have no knife.”
The people step aside and whisper. Haggart is silently waiting to be bound, but no one comes over to him. All shudder when Mariet suddenly commences to speak:
“Perhaps you think that all this is just, father? Why, then, don’t you ask me about it? I am his wife. Don’t you believe that I am his wife? Then I will bring little Noni here. Do you want me to bring little Noni? He is sleeping, but I will wake him up. Once in his life he may wake up at night in order to say that this man whom you want to hang in the city is his father.”
“Don’t!” says Haggart.
“Very well,” replies Mariet obediently. “He commands and I must obey—he is my husband. Let little Noni sleep. But I am not sleeping, I am here. Why, then, didn’t you ask me: ‘Mariet, how was it possible that your husband, Haggart, should kill Philipp’?”
Silence. Desfoso, who has returned and who is agitated, decides:
“Let her speak. She is his wife.”
“You will not believe, Desfoso,” says Mariet, turning to the old fisherman with a tender and mournful smile. “Desfoso, you will not believe what strange and peculiar creatures we women are!”
Turning to all the people with the same smile, she continues:
“You will not believe what queer desires, what cunning, malicious little thoughts we women have. It was I who persuaded my husband to kill Philipp. Yes, yes—he did not want to do it, but I urged him; I cried so much and threatened him, so he consented. Men always give in—isn’t that true, Desfoso?”
Haggart looks at his wife in a state of great perplexity, his eyebrows brought close to each other. Mariet continues, without looking at him, still smiling as before:
“You will ask me, why I wanted Philipp’s death? Yes, yes, you will ask this question, I know it. He never did me any harm, that poor Philipp, isn’t that true? Then I will tell you: He was my betrothed. I don’t know whether you will be able to understand me. You, old Desfoso—you would not kill the girl you kissed one day? Of course not. But we women are such strange creatures—you can’t even imagine what strange, suspicious, peculiar creatures we are. Philipp was my betrothed, and he kissed me—”
She wipes her mouth and continues, laughing:
“Here I am wiping my mouth even now. You have all seen how I wiped my mouth. I am wiping away Philipp’s kisses. You are laughing. But ask your wife, Desfoso—does she want the life of the man who kissed her before you? Ask all women who love—even the old women! We never grow old in love. We are born so, we women.”
Haggart almost believes her. Advancing a step forward, he asks:
“You urged me? Perhaps it is true, Mariet—I don’t remember.”
Mariet laughs.
“Do you hear? He has forgotten. Go on, Gart. You may say that it was your own idea? That’s the way you men are—you forget everything. Will you say perhaps that I—”
“Mariet!” Haggart interrupts her threateningly.
Mariet, turning pale, looking sorrowfully at his terrible eyes which are now steadfastly fixed upon her, continues, still smiling:
“Go on, Gart! Will you say perhaps that I—Will you say perhaps that I dissuaded you? That would be funny—”
HAGGART—No, I will not say that. You lie, Mariet! Even I, Haggart—just think of it, people—even I believed her, so cleverly does this woman lie.
MARIET—Go—on—Haggart.
HAGGART—You are laughing? Abbot, I don’t want to be the husband of your daughter—she lies.
ABBOT—You are worse than the devil, Gart! That’s what I say—You are worse than the devil, Gart!
HAGGART—You are all foolish people! I don’t understand you; I don’t know now what to do with you. Shall I laugh? Shall I be angry? Shall I cry? You want to let me go—why, then, don’t you let me go? You are sorry for Philipp. Well, then, kill me—I have told you that it was I who killed the boy. Am I disputing? But you are making grimaces like monkeys that have found bananas—or have you such a game in your land? Then I don’t want to play it. And you, abbot, you are like a juggler in the marketplace. In one hand you have truth and in the other hand you have truth, and you are forever performing tricks. And now she is lying—she lies so well that my heart contracts with belief. Oh, she is doing it well!
And he laughs bitterly.
MARIET—Forgive me, Gart.
HAGGART—When I wanted to kill him, she hung on my hand like a rock, and now she says that she killed him. She steals from me this murder; she does not know that one has to earn that, too! Oh, there are queer people in your land!
“I wanted to deceive them, not you, Gart. I wanted to save you,” says Mariet.
Haggart replies:
“My father taught me: ‘Eh, Noni, beware! There is one truth and one law for all—for the sun, for the wind, for the waves, for the beasts—and only for man there is another truth. Beware of this truth of man, Noni!’ so said my father. Perhaps this is your truth? Then I am not afraid of it, but I feel very sad and very embittered. Mariet, if you sharpened my knife and said: ‘Go and kill that man’—it may be that I would not have cared to kill him. ‘What is the use of cutting down a withered tree?’—I would have said. But now—farewell, Mariet! Well, bind me and take me to the city.”
He waits haughtily, but no one approaches him. Mariet has lowered her head upon her hands, her shoulders are twitching. The abbot is also absorbed in thought, his large head lowered. Desfoso is carrying on a heated conversation in whispers with the fishermen. Khorre steps forward and speaks, glancing at Haggart askance:
“I had a little talk with them, Noni—they are all right, they are good fellows, Noni. Only the priest—but he is a good man, too—am I right, Noni? Don’t look so crossly at me, or I’ll mix up the whole thing! You see, kind people, it’s this way: this man, Haggart, and I have saved up a little sum of money, a little barrel of gold. We don’t need it, Noni, do we? Perhaps you will take it for yourselves? What do you think? Shall we give them the gold, Noni? You see, here I’ve entangled myself already.”
He winks slyly at Mariet, who has now lifted her head.
“What are you prating there, you scarecrow?” asks the abbot.
Khorre continues:
“Here it goes, Noni; I am straightening it out little by little! But where have we buried it, the barrel? Do you remember, Noni? I have forgotten. They say it’s from the gin, kind people; they say that one’s memory fails from too much gin. I am a drunkard, that’s true.”
“If you are not inventing—then you had better choke yourself with your gold, you dog!” says the abbot.
HAGGART—Khorre!
KHORRE—Yes.
HAGGART—To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes. Abbot, order a hundred lashes for him!
ABBOT—With pleasure, my son. With pleasure.
The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but there is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at their pipes, in the light quiver of their tanned hands. Some of them arise and look out of the window with feigned indifference.
“The fog is rising!” says one, looking out of the window. “Do you hear what I said about the fog?”
“It’s time to go to sleep. I say, it’s time to go to sleep!”
Desfoso comes forward and speaks cautiously:
“That isn’t quite so, abbot. It seems you didn’t say exactly what you ought to say, abbot. They seem to think differently. I don’t say anything for myself—I am simply talking about them. What do you say, Thomas?”
THOMAS—We ought to go to sleep, I say. Isn’t it true that it is time to go to sleep?
MARIET (softly)—Sit down, Gart. You are tired to-night. You don’t answer?
An old fisherman says:
“There used to be a custom in our land, I heard, that a murderer was to pay a fine for the man he killed. Have you heard about it, Desfoso?”
Another voice is heard:
“Philipp is dead. Philipp is dead already, do you hear, neighbour? Who is going to support his mother?”
“I haven’t enough even for my own! And the fog is rising, neighbour.”
“Abbot, did you hear us say: ‘Gart is a bad man; Gart is a good-for-nothing, a city trickster?’ No, we said: ‘This thing has never happened here before,’” says Desfoso.
Then a determined voice remarks:
“Gart is a good man! Wild Gart is a good man!”
DESFOSO—If you looked around, abbot, you couldn’t find a single, strong boat here. I haven’t enough tar for mine. And the church—is that the way a good church ought to look? I am not saying it myself, but it comes out that way—it can’t be helped, abbot.
Haggart turns to Mariet and says:
“Do you hear, woman?”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you spit into their faces?”
“I can’t. I love you, Haggart. Are there only ten Commandments of God? No, there is still another: ‘I love you, Haggart.’”
“What sad dreams there are in your land.”
The abbot rises and walks over to the fishermen.
“Well, what did you say about the church, old man? You said something interesting about the church, or was I mistaken?”
He casts a swift glance at Mariet and Haggart.
“It isn’t the church alone, abbot. There are four of us old men: Legran, Stoffle, Puasar, Kornu, and seven old women. Do I say that we are not going to feed them? Of course, we will, but don’t be angry, father—it is hard! You know it yourself, abbot—old age is no fun.”
“I am an old man, too!” begins old Rikke, lisping, but suddenly he flings his hat angrily to the ground. “Yes, I am an old man. I don’t want any more, that’s all! I worked, and now I don’t want to work. That’s all! I don’t want to work.”
He goes out, swinging his hand. All look sympathetically at his stooping back, at his white tufts of hair. And then they look again at Desfoso, at his mouth, from which their words come out. A voice says:
“There, Rikke doesn’t want to work any more.”
All laugh softly and forcedly.
“Suppose we send Gart to the city—what then?” Desfoso goes on, without looking at Haggart. “Well, the city people will hang him—and then what? The result will be that a man will be gone, a fisherman will be gone—you will lose a son, and Mariet will lose her husband, and the little boy his father. Is there any joy in that?”
“That’s right, that’s right!” nods the abbot, approvingly. “But what a mind you have, Desfoso!”