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 clockhasstruck 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 hadveryfine 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?"
"CouldI, 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 aflamein 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."