I am nearly at my goal.
Sunday evening I lay in a watchman's hut not far from Øvrebø, so as to be on the place early Monday morning. By nine o'clock every one would be up, then surely I must be lucky enough to meet the one I sought.
I had grown dreadfully nervous, and kept imagining ugly things. I had written a nice letter to Falkenberg, using no sharp words, but the Captain might after all have been offended at my fixing the date like that; giving him so and so much time.... If only I had never written at all!
Coming up towards the house I stoop more and more, and make myself small, though indeed I had done no wrong. I turn off from the road up, and go round so as to reach the outbuildings first—and there I come upon Falkenberg. He is washing down the carriage. We gave each other greeting, and were the same good comrades as before.
Was he going out with the carriage?
No, just come back the night before. Been to the railway station.
Who had gone away, then?
Fruen.
Fruen?
Fruen, yes.
Pause.
Really? And where was Fruen gone to?
Gone to stay in town for a bit.
Pause.
“Stranger man's been here writing in the papers about that machine of yours,” says Falkenberg.
“Is the Captain gone away too?”
“No, Captain's at home. You should have seen his face when your letter came.”
I got Falkenberg to come up to the old loft. I had still two bottles of wine in my sack, and I took them out and we started on them together; eh, those bottles that I had carried backward and forward, mile after mile, and had to be so careful with, they served me well just now. Save for them Falkenberg would never have said so much.
“What was that about the Captain and my letter? Did he see it?”
“Well, it began like this,” said Falkenberg. “Fruen was in the kitchen when I came in with the post. 'What letter's that with all those stamps on?' she says. I opened it, and said it was from you, to say you were coming on the 11th.”
“And what did she say?”
“She didn't say any more. Yes, she asked once again, 'Coming on the 11th, is he?' And I said yes, he was.”
“And then, a couple of days after, you got orders to drive her to the station?”
“Why, yes, it must have been about a couple of days. Well, then, I thought, if Fruen knows about the letter, then Captain surely knows too. D'you know what he said when I brought it in?”
I made no answer to this, but thought and thought. There must be something behind all this. Was she running away from me? Madman! the Captain's Lady at Øvrebø would not run away from one of her labourers. But the whole thing seemed so strange. I had hoped all along she would give me leave to speak with her, since I was forbidden to write.
Falkenberg went on, a little awkwardly:
“Well, I showed the Captain your letter, though you didn't say I was to. Was there any harm in that?”
“It doesn't matter. What did he say?”
“'Yes, look after the machine, do,' he said, and made a face. 'In case any one comes to steal it,' he said.”
“Then the Captain's angry with me now?”
“Nay, I shouldn't think so. I've heard no more about it since that day.”
It mattered little after all about the Captain. When Falkenberg had taken a deal of wine, I asked him if he knew where Fruen was staying in town. No, but Emma might, perhaps. We get hold of Emma, treat her to wine, talk a lot of nonsense, and work gradually round to the point; at last asking in a delicate way. No, Emma didn't know the address. But Fruen had gone to buy things for Christmas, and she was going with Frøken Elisabeth from the vicarage, so they'd know the address there. What did I want it for, by the way?
Well, it was only about a filigree brooch I had got hold of, and wanted to ask if she'd care to buy it.
“Let's look.”
Luckily I was able to show her the brooch; it was a beautiful piece of old work; I had bought it of one of the maids at Hersæt.
“Fruen wouldn't have it,” said Emma. “I wouldn't have it myself.”
“Not if you got me into the bargain, Emma, what?” And I forced myself to jest again.
Emma goes off. I try drawing out Falkenberg again. Falkenberg was sharp enough at times to understand people.
Did he still sing for Fruen?
Lord, no; that was all over. Falkenberg wished he hadn't taken service here at all; 'twas nothing but trouble and misery about the place.
Trouble and misery? Weren't they friends, then, the Captain and his Lady?
Oh yes, they were friends. In the same old way. Last Saturday she had been crying all day.
“Funny thing it should be like that,” say I, “when they're so upright and considerate towards each other.” And I watch to see what Falkenberg says to that.
“Eh, but they're ever weary,” says Falkenberg in his Valdres dialect. “And she's losing her looks too. Only in the time you've been gone, she's got all pale and thin.”
I sat up in the loft for a couple of hours, keeping an eye on the main building from my window, but the Captain did not appear. Why didn't he go out? It was hopeless to wait any longer; I should have to go without making my excuses to the Captain. I could have found good grounds enough; I might have put the blame on to the first article in the paper, and said it had rather turned my head for the moment—and there was some truth in that. Well, all I had to do now was to tie up the machine in a bundle, cover it up as far as possible with my sack, and start off on my wanderings again.
Emma stole some food for me before I went.
It was another long journey this time; first to the vicarage—though that was but a little out of the way—and then on to the railway station. A little snow was falling, which made it rather heavy walking; and what was more, I could not take it easy now, but must get on as fast as I could. The ladies were only staying in town for their Christmas shopping, and they had a good start already.
On the following afternoon I came to the vicarage. I had reckoned out it would be best to speak with Fruen.
“I'm on my way into town,” I told her. “And I've this machine thing with me; if I might leave the heaviest of the woodwork here meanwhile?”
“Are you going into town?” says Fruen. “But you'll stay here till tomorrow, surely?”
“No, thanks all the same. I've got to be in town tomorrow.”
Fruen thinks for a bit and then says:
“Elisabeth's in town. You might take a parcel in for her—something she's forgotten.”
That gives me the address! I thought to myself.
“But I've got to get it ready first.”
“Then Frøken Elisabeth might be gone again before I got there?”
“Oh no, she's with Fru Falkenberg, and they're staying in town for the week.”
This was grand news, joyous news. Now I had both the address and the time.
Fruen stands watching me sideways, and says:
“Well, then, you'll stay the night, won't you? You see, it's something I've got to get ready first....”
I was given a room in the main building, because it was too cold to sleep in the barn. And when all the household had gone to rest that night, and everything was quiet, came Fruen to my room with the parcel, and said:
“Excuse my coming so late. But I thought you might be going early to-morrow morning before I was up.”
So here I am once more in the crush and noise of a city, with its newspapers and people. I have been away from all this for many months now, and find it not unpleasant. I spend a morning taking it all in; get hold of some other clothes, and set off to find Frøken Elisabeth at her address. She was staying with some relatives.
And now—should I be lucky enough to meet the other one? I am restless as a boy. My hands are vulgarly unused to gloves, and I pull them off; then going up the step I notice that my hands do not go at all well with the clothes I am wearing, and I put on my gloves again. Then I ring the bell.
“Frøken Elisabeth? Yes, would you wait a moment?”
Frøken Elisabeth comes out. “Goddag. You wished to speak to.... Oh, is it you?”
I had brought a parcel from her mother.Værsaagod.
She tears open the parcel and looks inside. “Oh, fancy Mama thinking of that. The opera-glasses! We've been to the theatre already.... I didn't recognize you at first.”
“Really! It's not so very long since....”
“No, but.... Tell me, isn't there any one else you'd like to inquire about? Haha!”
“Yes,” said I.
“Well, she's not here. I'm only staying here with my relations. No, she's at the Victoria.”
“Well, the parcel was for you,” said I, trying to master my disappointment.
“Wait a minute. I was just going out again; we can go together.”
Frøken Elisabeth puts on some over-things, calls out through a door to say she won't be very long, and goes out with me. We take a cab and drive to a quiet café. Frøken Elisabeth says yes, she loves going to cafés. But there's nothing very amusing about this one.
Would she rather go somewhere else?
“Yes. To the Grand.”
I hesitated; it might be hardly safe. I had been away for a long time now, and if we met any one I knew I might have to talk to them. But Frøkenen insisted on Grand. She had had but a few days' practice in the capital, and had already gained a deal of self-assurance. But I liked her so much before.
We drove off again to Grand. It was getting towards evening. Frøkenen picks out a seat right in the brightest spot, beaming all over herself at the fun of it. I ordered some wine.
“What fine clothes you're wearing now,” she says, with a laugh.
“I couldn't very well come in here in a workman's blouse.”
“No, of course not. But, honestly, that blouse ... shall I tell you what I think?”
“Yes, do.”
“The blouse suited you better.”
There! Devil take these town clothes! I sat there with my head full of other things, and did not care for this sort of talk.
“Are you staying long in town?” I asked.
“As long as Lovise does. We've finished our shopping. No, I'm sorry; it's all too short.” Then she turns gay once more, and asks laughingly: “Did you like being with us out in the country?”
“Yes. That was a pleasant time.”
“And will you come again soon? Haha!”
She seemed to be making fun of me. Trying, of course, to show she saw through me: that I hadn't played—my part well enough as a country labourer. Child that she was! I could teach many a labourer his business, and had more than one trade at my finger-ends. Though in my true calling I manage to achieve just the next best of all I dream....
“Shall I ask Papa to put up a notice on the post next spring, to say you're willing to lay down water-pipes and so on?”
She closed her eyes and laughed—so heartily she laughed.
I am torn with excitement, and her merriment pains me, though it is all good-humoured enough. I glance round the place, trying to pull myself together; here and there an acquaintance nods to me, and I return it; it all seems so far away to me. I was sitting with a charming girl, and that made people notice us.
“You know these people, it seems?”
“Yes, one or two of them. Have you enjoyed yourself in town?”
“Oh yes, immensely. I've two boy cousins here, and then there were their friends as well.”
“Poor young Erik, out in the country,” said I jestingly.
“Oh, you with your young Erik. No, there's one here in town; his name's Bewer. But I'm not friends with him just now.”
“Oh, that won't last long.”
“Do you think so? Really, though, I'm rather serious about it. I've an idea he might be coming in here this evening.”
“You must point him out to me if he does.”
“I thought, as we drove out here, that you and I could sit here together, you know, and make him jealous.”
“Right, then, we will.”
“Yes, but.... No, you'd have to be a bit younger. I mean....”
I forced myself to laugh. Oh, we would manage all right. Don't despise us old ones, us ancient ones, we can be quite surprisingly useful at times. “Only you'd better let me sit on the sofa beside you there, so he can't see I'm bald at the back.”
Eh, but it is hard to take that perilous transition to old age in any quiet and beautiful way. There comes a forcedness, a play of jerky effort and grimaces, the fight against those younger than ourselves, and envy.
“Frøken....” I ask this of her now with all my heart. “Frøken, couldn't you ring up Fru Falkenberg and get her to come round here now?”
She thinks for a moment.
“Yes, we will,” she says generously.
We go out to the telephone, ring up the Victoria: Fruen is there.
“Is that you, Lovise? You'd never guess who I'm with now? Won't you come along? Oh, good! We're at the Grand. No, I can't tell you now. Yes, of course it's a man—only he's a gentleman now—I won't say who it is. Are you coming? Why, you said just now you would! Some people? Oh, well, do as you like, of course, but I do think.... Yes, he's standing here. You are in a hurry....”
Frøken Elisabeth rang off, and said shortly:
“She had to go and see some friends.”
We went back to our seat, and had some more wine; I tried to be cheerful, and suggested champagne. Yes, thanks. And then, as we're sitting there, Frøkenen says suddenly:
“Oh, there's Bewer! I'm so glad we're drinking champagne.”
But I have only one idea in my mind, and being now called upon to show what I can do, and charm this young lady to the ultimate advantage of some one else, I find myself saying one thing and thinking another. Which, of course, leads to disaster. I cannot get that telephone conversation out of my head; she must have had an idea—have realized that it was I who was waiting for her here. But what on earth had I done? Why had I been dismissed so suddenly from Øvrebø, and Falkenberg taken on in my place. Quite possibly the Captain and his wife were not always the best of friends, but the Captain had scented danger in my being there, and wished to save his wife at least from such an ignominious fall. And now, here she was, feeling ashamed that I had worked on her place, that she had used me to drive her carriage, and twice shared food with me by the way. And she was ashamed, too, of my being no longer young....
“This will never do,” says Frøken Elisabeth.
So I pull myself together again, and start saying all manner of foolish things, to make her laugh. I drink a good deal and that helps; at last, she really seems to fancy I am making myself agreeable to her on her own account. She looks at me curiously.
“No, really, though, do you think I'm nice?”
“Oh, please—don't you understand?—I was speaking of Fru Falkenberg.”
“Sh!” says Frøken Elisabeth. “Of course it is Fru Falkenberg; I know that perfectly well, but you need not say so.... I really think we're beginning to make an impression on him over there. Let's go on like we are doing, and look interested.”
So she hadn't imagined I was trying on my own account, after all. I was too old for that sort of thing, anyway. Devil take it, yes, of course.
“But you can't get Fru Falkenberg,” she says, beginning again. “It's simply hopeless.”
“No, I can't get her. Nor you either.”
“Are you speaking to Fru Falkenberg now again?”
“No, it was to you this time.”
Pause.
“Do you know I was in love with you? Yes, when I was at home.”
“This is getting quite amusing,” said I, shifting up on the sofa. “Oh, we'll manage Bewer, never fear.”
“Yes, only fancy, I used to go up to the churchyard to meet you in the evenings. But you, foolish person, you didn't see it a bit.”
“Now you're talking to Bewer, of course,” said I.
“No, it's perfectly true. And I came over one day when you were working in the potato fields. It wasn't your young Erik I came to see, not a bit.”
“Only think, that it should have been me,” I say, putting on a melancholy air.
“Yes, of course you think it was strange. But really, you know, people who live in the country must have some one to be fond of too.”
“Does Fru Falkenberg say the same?”
“Fru Falkenberg? No, she says she doesn't want to be fond of anybody, only play her piano and that sort of thing. But I was speaking of myself. Do you know what I did once? No, really, I can't tell you that. Do you want to know?
“Yes, tell me.”
“Well, then ... for, after all, I'm only a child compared to you, so it doesn't matter. It was when you were sleeping in the barn; I went over there one day and laid your rugs together properly, and made a proper bed.”
“Was it you did that?” I burst out quite sincerely, forgetting to play my part.
“You ought to have seen me stealing in. Hahaha!”
But this young girl was—not artful enough, she changed colour at her little confession, and laughed forcedly to cover her confusion.
I try to help her out, and say:
“You're really good-hearted, you know. Fru Falkenberg would never have done a thing like that.”
“No; but then she's older. Did you think we were the same age?”
“Does Fru Falkenberg say she doesn'twantto be fond of anybody?”
“Yes. Oh no ... bother, I don't know. Fru Falkenberg's married, of course; she doesn't say anything. Now talk to me again a little.... Yes, and do you remember the time we went up to the store to buy things, you know? And I kept walking slower and slower for you to catch up....”
“Yes ... that was nice of you. And now I'll do something for you in return.”
I rose from my seat, and walked across to where young Bewer sat, and asked if he would not care to join us at our table. I brought him along; Frøken Elisabeth flushed hotly as he came up. Then I talked those two young people well together, which done, I suddenly remembered I had some business to do, and must go off at once. “I'm ever so sorry to leave just now. Frøken Elisabeth, I'm afraid you've turned my head, bewitched me completely; but I realize it's hopeless to think of it. It's a marvel to me, by the way....”
I shambled over to Raadhusgaten, and stood awhile by the cab stand, watching the entrance to the Victoria. But, of course, she had gone to see some friends. I drifted into the hotel, and got talking to the porter.
Yes, Fruen was in. Room No. 12, first floor.
Then she was not out visiting friends?
No.
Was she leaving shortly?
Fruen had not said so.
I went out into the street again, and the cabmen flung up their aprons, inviting my patronage. I picked out a cab and got in.
“Where to?”
“Just stay where you are. I'm hiring you by the hour.”
The cabmen walk about whispering, one suggesting this, another that: he's watching the place; out to catch his wife meeting some commercial traveller.
Yes, I am watching the place. There is a light in one or two of the rooms, and suddenly it strikes me that she might stand at a window and see me. “Wait,” I say to the cabman, and go into the hotel again.
“Whereabouts is No. 12?”
“First floor.”
“Looking out on to Raadhusgaten?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must have been my sister,” I say, inventing something in order to slip past the porter.
I go up the stairs, and, to give myself no chance of turning back, I knock at the door the moment I have seen the number. No answer. I knock again.
“Is it the maid?” comes a voice from within.
I could not answer yes; my voice would have betrayed me. I tried the handle—the door was locked. Perhaps she had been afraid I might come; possibly she had seen me outside.
“No, it's not the maid,” I say, and I can hear how the words quiver strangely.
I stand listening a long while after that; I can hear someone moving inside, but the door remains closed. Then come two short rings from one of the rooms down to the hall. It must be she, I say to myself; she is feeling uneasy, and has rung for the maid. I move away from her door, to avoid any awkwardness for her, and, when the maid comes, I walk past as if going downstairs. Then the maid says, “Yes, the maid,” and the door is opened.
“No, no.” says the maid; “only a gentleman going downstairs.”
I thought of taking a room at the hotel, but the idea was distasteful to me; she was not a runaway wife meeting commercial travellers. When I came down, I remarked to the porter as I passed that Fruen seemed to be lying down.
Then I went out and got into my cab again. The time passes, a whole hour; the cabman wants to know if I do not feel cold? Well, yes, a little. Was I waiting for some one? Yes.... He hands me down his rug from the box, and I tip him the price of a drink for his thoughtfulness.
Time goes on; hour after hour. The cabmen talk unrestrainedly now, saying openly one to another that I'm letting the horse freeze to death.
No, it was no good. I paid for the cab, went home, and wrote the following letter:
“You would not let me write to you; will you not let me see you once again? I will ask for you at the hotel at five to-morrow afternoon.”
Should I have fixed an earlier hour? But the light in the forenoon was so white; if I felt moved and my mouth twitched, I should look a dreadful sight.
I took the letter round myself to the hotel, and went home again.
A long night—oh, how long were those hours! Now, when I ought to sleep and stretch myself and feel refreshed, I could not. Day dawned, and I got up. After a long ramble through the streets I came back home again, and slept.
Hours pass. When I awake and come to my senses, I hurry anxiously to the telephone to ask if Fruen had left.
No, Fruen had not left.
Thank Heaven then, it seemed she did not wish to run away from me; she must have had my letter long since. No; I had called at an awkward hour the evening before, that was all.
I had something to eat, lay down, and slept again. When I woke it was past noon. I stumble in to the telephone again and ring up as before.
No, Fruen had not left yet. But her things were packed. She was out just now.
I got ready at once, and hurried round to Raadhusgaten to stand on watch. In the course of half an hour I saw a number of people pass in and out, not the one I sought. It was five o'clock now, and I went in and spoke to the porter.
Fruen was gone.
Gone?
“Was it you that rang up? She came just at that moment and took her things. But I've a letter here.”
I took the letter, and, without opening it, asked about the train.
“Train left at 4.45,” says the porter, looking at his watch. “It's five now.”
I had thrown away half an hour keeping watch outside.
I sit down on one of the steps, staring at the floor.
The porter keeps on talking. He must be well aware it was not my sister.
“I said to Fruen there was a gentleman had just rung up. But she only said she hadn't time, and would I give him this letter.”
“Was there another lady with her when she left?”
“No.”
I got up and went out. In the street I opened the letter and read:
“Youmustnot follow me about any more—”
Impassively I put the thing away. It had not surprised me, had made no new impression. Thoroughly womanly, hasty words, written on impulse, with underlining and a dash....
Then it occurred to me to go round to Frøken Elisabeth's address; there was still a glimmer of hope. I heard the door bell ring inside the house as I pressed, and stood listening as in a whirling desert.
Frøken Elisabeth had left an hour before.
Then wine, and then whisky. And then endless whisky. And altogether a twenty-one days' debauch, in the course of which a curtain falls and hides my earthly consciousness. In this state, it enters my head one day to send something to a little cottage in the country. It is a mirror, in a gay gilt frame. And it was for a little maid, by name Olga, a creature touching and sweet to watch as a young calf.
Ay, for I've not got over my neurasthenia yet.
The timber saw is in my room. But I cannot put it together, for the bulk of the wooden parts I left behind at a vicarage in the country. It matters little now, my love for the thing is dulled. My neurasthenic friends, believe me, folk of our sort are useless as human beings, and we should not even do for any kind of beast.
One day I suppose I shall grow tired of this unconsciousness, and go out and live on an island once again.
It looks to be a fine year for berries, yes; whortleberries, crowberries, and fintocks. A man can't live on berries; true enough. But it is good to have them growing all about, and a kindly thing to see. And many a thirsty and hungry man's been glad to find them.
I was thinking of this only yesterday evening.
There's two or three months yet till the late autumn berries are ripe; yes, I know. But there are other joys than berries in the wilds. Spring and summer they are still only in bloom, but there are harebells and ladyslippers, deep, windless woods, and the scent of trees, and stillness. There is a sound as of distant waters from the heavens; never so long-drawn a sound in all eternity. And a thrush may be singing as high as ever its voice can go, and then, just at its highest pitch, the note breaks suddenly at a right angle; clear and clean as if cut with a diamond; then softly and sweetly down the scale once more. Along the shore, too, there is life; guillemot, oyster-catcher, tern are busy there; the wagtail is out in search of food, advancing in little spurts, trim and pert with its pointed beak and swift little flick of a tail; after a while it flies up to perch on a fence and sing with the rest. But when the sun has set, may come the cry of a loon from some hill-tarn; a melancholy hurrah. That is the last; now there is only the grasshopper left. And there's nothing to say of a grasshopper, you never see it; it doesn't count, only he's there gritting his resiny teeth, as you might say.
I sit and think of all these things; of how summer has its joys for a wanderer, so there's no sort of need to wait till autumn comes.
And here I am writing cool words of these quiet things—for all the world as if there were no violent and perilous happenings ahead. 'Tis a trick, and I learned it of a man in the southern hemisphere—of a Mexican called Rough. The brim of his huge hat was hung with tinkling sequins: that in itself was a thing to remember. And most of all, I remember how calmly he told the story of his first murder: “I'd a sweetheart once named Maria,” said Rough, with that patient look of his; “well, she was no more than sixteen, and I was nineteen then. She'd such little hands when you touched them; fingers thin and slight, you know the sort. One evening the master called her in from the fields to do some sewing for him. No help for it then; and it wasn't more than a day again before he calls her in same as before. Well, it went on like that a few weeks, and then stopped. Seven months after Maria died, and they buried her, little hands and all. I went to her brother Inez and said: 'At six tomorrow morning the master rides to town, and he'll be alone.' 'I know,' said he. 'You might lend me that little rifle of yours to shoot him with.' 'I shall be using it myself,' said he. Then we talked for a bit about other things: the crops, and a big new well we'd dug. And when I left, I reached down his rifle from the wall and took it with me. In the timber I heard Inez at my heels, calling to me to stop. We sat down and talked a bit more this way and that; then Inez snatched the rifle away from me and went home. Next morning I was up early, and out at the gate ready to open it for the master; Inez was there too, hiding in the bushes. I told him he'd better go on ahead; we didn't want to be two to one. 'He's pistols in his belt.' said Inez; 'but what about you?' 'I know,' said I; 'but I've a lump of lead here, and that makes no noise.' I showed him the lump of lead, and he thought for a bit; then he went home. Then the master came riding up; grey and old he was, sixty at least. 'Open the gate!' he called out. But I didn't. He thought I must be mad, no doubt, and lashed out at me with his whip, but I paid no heed. At last he had to get down himself to open the gate. Then I gave him the first blow: it got him just by one eye and cut a hole. He said, 'Augh!' and dropped. I said a few words to him, but he didn't understand; after a few more blows he was dead. He'd a deal of money on him; I took a little to help me on my way, then I mounted and rode off. Inez was standing in the doorway as I rode past his place. 'It's only three and a half days to the frontier,' he said.”
So Rough told his story, and sat staring coolly in front of him when it was ended.
I have no murders to tell of, but joys and sufferings and love. And love is no less violent and perilous than murder.
Green in all the woods now, I thought to myself this morning as I dressed. The snow is melting on the hills, and everywhere the cattle in their sheds are eager and anxious to be out; in houses and cottages the windows are opened wide. I open my shirt and let the wind blow in upon me, and I mark how I grow starstruck and uncontrollable within; ah, for a moment it is all as years ago, when I was young, and a wilder spirit than now. And I think to myself: maybe there's a tract of woodland somewhere east or west of this, where an old man can find himself as well bested as a young. I will go and look for it.
Rain and sun and wind by turns; I have been many days on the road already. Too cold yet to lie out in the open at night, but there is always shelter to be had at farmsteads by the way. One man thinks it strange that I should go tramping about like this for nothing; he takes me, no doubt, for somebody in disguise, just trying to be original like Wergeland. [Footnote: A Norwegian poet.]The man knows nothing of my plans, how I am on my way to a place I know, where live some people I have a fancy to see again. But he is a sensible fellow enough, and involuntarily I nod as if to agree there is something in what he says. There's a theatrical touch in most of us that makes us feel flattered at being taken for more than we are. Then up come his wife and daughter, good, ordinary souls, and carry all away with their kindly gossip; he's no beggar, they say; be paid for his supper and all. And at last I turn crafty and cowardly and say never a word, and let the man lay more to my charge and still never a word. And we three hearty souls outwin his reasoning sense, and he has to explain he was only jesting all the time; surely we could see that. I stayed a night and a day there, and greased my shoes with extra care, and mended my clothes.
But then the man begins to suspect once more. “There'll be a handsome present for that girl of mine when you leave, I know,” says he. I made as if his words had no effect, and answered with a laugh: “You think so?” “Yes,” says he; “and then when you're gone we'll sit thinking you must have been somebody grand, after all.”
A detestable fellow this! I did the only thing I could: ignored his sarcasm and asked for work. I liked the place, I said, and he'd need of help; I could turn my hand to anything now in the busy time.
“You're a fool,” said he, “and the sooner you're off the place the better I'll be pleased.”
Clearly he had taken a dislike to me, and there was none of the womenfolk at hand to take my part. I looked at the man, at a loss to understand what was in his mind.
His glance was steady; it struck me suddenly that I had never seen such wisdom in the eyes of man or woman. But he carried his ill-will too far, and made a false step. He asked: “What shall we say your name was?” “No need to say anything at all,” I answered. “A wandering Eilert Sundt?” he suggested. And I entered into the jest and answered: “Yes, why not?” But at that he fired up and snapped out sharply: “Then I'm sorry for Fru Sundt, that's all.” I shrugged my shoulders in return, and said: “You're wrong there, my good man; I am not married.” And I turned to go. But with an unnatural readiness he called after me: “'Tis you that's wrong: I meant for the mother that bore you.”
A little way down the road I turned, and saw how his wife and daughter took him up. And I thought to myself: no, 'tis not all roses when one goes a-wandering.
At the next place I came to I learned that he had been with the army, as quartermaster-sergeant; then he went mad over a lawsuit he lost, and was shut up in an asylum for some time. Now in the spring his trouble broke out again; perhaps it was my coming that had given the final touch. But the lightning insight in his eyes at the moment when the madness came upon him! I think of him now and again; he was a lesson to me. 'Tis none so easy to judge of men, who are wise or mad. And God preserve us all from being known for what we are!
That day I passed by a house where a lad sat on the doorstep playing a mouth-organ. He was no musician to speak of, but a cheerful soul he must surely be, to sit there playing to himself like that. I would not disturb him, but simply raised one hand to my cap, and stood a little distance off. He took no notice of me, only wiped his mouth-organ and went on playing. This went on for some time; then at last, waiting till he stopped to wipe his instrument again, I coughed.
“That you, Ingeborg?” he called out. I thought he must be speaking to someone in the house behind him, and made no answer. “You there, I mean,” he said again.
I was confused at this. “Can't you see me?” I said.
He did not answer, but fumbled with his hands to either side, as if trying to get up, and I realized that he was blind, “Sit still; don't be afraid of me,” I said, and set myself down beside him.
We fell into talk: been blind since he was fourteen, it seemed; he would be eighteen now, and a big, strong fellow he was, with a thick growth of down on his chin. And, thank Heaven, he said, his health was good. But his eyesight, I asked; could he remember what the world looked like? Yes, indeed; there were many pleasant things he could remember from the time when he could see. He was happy and content enough. He was going in to Christiania this spring, to have an operation; then perhaps he might at least be able to see well enough to walk; ay, all would be well in time, no doubt. He was dull-witted, looked as if he ate a lot; was stout and strong as a beast. But there was something unhealthy-looking, something of the idiot about him; his acceptance of his fate was too unreasonable. To be hopeful in that way implies a certain foolishness, I thought to myself; a man must be lacking in sense to some degree if he can go ahead feeling always content with life, and even reckoning to get something new, some good out of it into the bargain.
But I was in the mood to learn something from all I chanced on in my wandering; even this poor creature on his doorstep made me the wiser by one little thing. How was it he could mistake me for a woman; the woman Ingeborg he had called by name? I must have walked up too quietly. I had forgotten the plodding cart-horse gait; my shoes were too light. I had lived too luxuriously these years past; I must work my way back to the peasant again.
Three more days now to the goal my curious fancy had set before me: to Øvrebø, to Captain Falkenberg's. It was an opportune time to walk up there just now and ask for work; there would be plenty to do on a big place like that in the spring. Six years since I was there last; time had passed, and for the last few weeks I had been letting my beard grow, so that none should recognize me now.
It was in the middle of the week; I must arrange to get there on the Saturday evening. Then the Captain would let me stay over the Sunday while he thought about taking me on. On Monday he would come and say yes or no.
Strangely enough, I felt no excitement at the thought of what was to come; nothing of unrest, no; calmly and comfortably I took my way by farmstead, wood, and meadow. I thought to myself how I had once, years ago, spent some adventurous weeks at that same Øvrebø, even to being in love with Fruen herself, with Fru Lovise. Ay, that I was. She had fair hair and grey, dark eyes; like a young girl she was. Six years gone, ay, so long it is ago; would she be greatly changed? Time has had its wear on me; I am grown dull and faded and indifferent; I look upon a woman now as literature, no more. It has come to the end. Well, and what then? Everything comes to an end. When first I entered on this stage I had a feeling as if I had lost something; as if I had been favoured by the caresses of a pickpocket. Then I set to and felt myself about, to see if I could bear myself after this; if I could endure myself as I was now. Oh well, yes, why not? Not the same as before, of course, but it all passed off so noiselessly, but peacefully, but surely. Everything comes to an end.
In old age one takes no real part in life, but keeps oneself on memories. We are like letters that have been delivered; we are no longer on the way, we have arrived. It is only a question whether we have whirled up joys and sorrows out of what was in us, or have made no impression at all. Thanks be for life; it was good to live!
But Woman, she was, as the wise aforetime knew, infinitely poor in mind, but rich in irresponsibility, in vanity, in wantonness. Like a child in many ways, but with nothing of its innocence.
I stand by the guide-post where the road turns off to Øvrebø. There is no emotion in me. The day lies broad and bright over meadow and woods; here and there is ploughing and harrowing in the fields, but all moves slowly, hardly seems to move at all, for it is full noon and a blazing sun. I walk a little way on beyond the post, dragging out the time before going up to the house. After an hour, I go into the woods and wander about there for a while; there are berries in flower and a scent of little green leaves. A crowd of thrushes go chasing a crow across the sky, making a great to-do, like a clattering confusion of faulty castanets. I lie down on my back, with my sack under my head, and drop off to sleep.
A little after I wake again, and walk over to the nearest ploughman. I want to find out something about the Falkenbergs, if they are still there and all well. The man answers cautiously; he stands blinking, with his little, crafty eyes, and says: “All depends if Captain's at home.”
“Is he often away, then?”
“Nay, he'll be at home.”
“Has he got the field work done?”
The man smiled: “Nay, I doubt it's not finished yet.”
“Are there hands enough to the place?”
“That's more than I can say; yes, I doubt there's hands enough. And the field work's done; leastways, the manure's all carted out.”
The man clicks to his horses and goes on ploughing; I walked on beside him. There was not much to be got out of him; next time the horses stopped for a breathing space I worried out of him a few more contradictions as to the family at Øvrebø. The Captain, it seemed was away on manoeuvres all through the summer, and Fruen was at home alone. Yes, they had always a heap of visitors, of course; but the Captain was away. That is to say, not because he wanted to; he liked best to stay at home, by all accounts, but, of course, he'd his duty as well. No, they'd no children as yet; didn't look as if Fruen was like to have any. What was I talking about? They might have children yet, of course; any amount of them for that. On again.
We plough on to the next stop. I am anxious not to arrive at an awkward time, and ask the man, therefore, if he thinks there would be visitors or anything of that sort up at the house today. No, he thought not. They'd parties and visitors now and again, but.... Ay, and music and playing and fine goings-on as often as could be, but.... And well they might, for that matter, seeing they were fine folks, and rich and well-to-do as they were.
He was a torment, was that ploughman. I tried to find out something about another Falkenberg, who could tune pianos at a pinch. On this the ploughman's information was more definite. Lars? Ay, he was here. Know him? Why, of course he knew Lars well enough. He'd finished with service at Øvrebø, but the Captain had given him a clearing of land to live on; he married Emma, that was maid at the house, and they'd a couple of children. Decent, hardworking folk, with feed for two cows already out of their clearing.
Here the furrow ended, and the man turned his team about. I thanked him, and went on my way.
When I came to the house, I recognized all the buildings; they wanted painting. The flagstaff I had helped to raise six years before, it stood there still; but there was no cord to it, and the knob at the top was gone.
Well, here I was, and that was four o'clock in the afternoon of the 26th day of April.
Old folk have a memory for dates.