Front matter

Translated from the Norwegian of Knut Hamsun By Arthur G. Chater

New York Alfred A Knopf 1923

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

Published, April, 1923 Second Printing, June, 1923

Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.

Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York. Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Victoria

I

The Miller's son walked in thought. He was a big lad of fourteen, tanned by sun and wind and full of all manner of ideas.

When he grew up he would go to work in a match factory. It was so jolly and dangerous; he might get his fingers covered with sulphur so that nobody would dare shake hands with him. He would be thought a lot of by his chums on account of his lurid trade.

He looked about in the wood for his birds. For he knew them all, knew where their nests were, understood their cries and had different calls to answer them. More than once he had given them dough balls made of flour from his father's mill.

All these trees along the path were good friends of his. In spring he had drawn their sap and in winter had been a little father to them, freeing them of snow and helping them to hold up their boughs. And even up in the abandoned granite quarry there wasn't a stone that was a stranger to him, he had cut letters and signs on them and set them up, arranged them like a congregation around their parson. All kinds of strange things happened in that old granite quarry.

He turned off and came down to the mill-dam. The mill was at work; an immense and ponderous noise surrounded him. He was in the habit of wandering about here, talking to himself aloud. Every bead of foam seemed to have a little life to talk about, and over by the sluice the water fell straight down and looked like a shining sheet of stuff hung out to dry. In the pool below the fall there were fish; he had stood there with his rod many a time.

When he grew up he would be a diver. That was it. Then he would step down into the sea from the deck of a ship and enter strange realms and countries where great and wonderful forests stood swaying and a castle of coral lay at the bottom. And the Princess beckoned to him from a window and said "Come in!"

Then he heard his name called; his father stood behind him and shouted "Johannes!"

"There's a message for you from the Castle. You're to row the children over to the island!"

He went off in a hurry. A new favour and a great one had been vouchsafed to the Miller's son.

"The Mansion" looked like a little castle in the green landscape, indeed it was like a stupendous palace in its solitude. The house was built of wood and painted white, with many bow-windows in its walls and roof, and a flag flew on the round tower when there were visitors. People called it the Castle. And outside its grounds lay the bay to one side, and to the other the great forests; far away some little farms were to be seen.

Johannes appeared at the landing-stage and got the young people into the boat. He knew them of old; they were the children of the "Castle" and their friends from town. They all had on high boots for wading; but Victoria, who only had little shoes on and besides was not more than ten, she had to be carried ashore when they reached the island.

"Shall I carry you?" asked Johannes.

"Let me!" said Otto, the gentleman from town, a man nearly old enough to leave school, and he took her in his arms.

Johannes stood and watched her being carried high up on land and heard her thanks. Then Otto looked back:

"Well, you'll look after the boat—what was his name?"

"Johannes," answered Victoria. "Yes, he'll look after the boat."

He was left behind. The others went off into the island, carrying baskets for collecting eggs. He stood pondering for a while; he would have liked to go with the others and they could have dragged the boat ashore for the matter of that. Too heavy? It wasn't too heavy. And he laid his fist on the boat and hauled it up a little way.

He heard the laughter and chatter of the young party growing fainter. All right, good-bye for the present. But they might have taken him with them. He knew of nests that he could have taken them to, wonderful hidden holes in the rock, where lived birds of prey with tufts on their beaks. And once he had seen a stoat.

He shoved the boat off and started to row round to the other side of the island. He had rowed a good way when they shouted to him:

"Row back. You're scaring the birds."

"I only wanted to show you where the stoat lives?" he answered tentatively. He waited a moment. "And then we could smoke out the snakes' nest? I've got some matches."

He got no answer. Then he turned the boat and rowed back to the landing-place. He drew the boat up.

When he grew up he would buy an island of the Sultan and forbid any one to approach it. A gunboat should guard his shores. Your Lordship, the slaves would come and tell him, there's a boat aground on the reef; she has struck, the young people in her will perish. Let them perish! he answers. Your Lordship, they are calling for help; we can save them yet and there is a woman in white among them. Save them! he commands in a voice of thunder. Then he meets the children of the Castle again after many years and Victoria throws herself at his feet and thanks him for her rescue. Nothing to thank me for, it was but my duty, he answers; go freely where you will within my domains. And then he has the gates of the palace thrown open to the company and feasts them on golden dishes and three hundred brown slave girls sing and dance the whole night long. But when it is time for the children of the Castle to leave, Victoria cannot go. She throws herself in the dust before him and sobs because she loves him. Let me stay here, thrust me not away, Your Lordship, let me be one of your slaves....

He began to walk quickly across the island, thrilled through with emotion. Very well, he would rescue the Castle children. Who knows, perhaps they had lost their way? Perhaps Victoria had got stuck between two rocks and could not get out? He would only have to reach out his arm to set her free.

But the children looked at him in astonishment when he came. Had he left the boat?

"I hold you responsible for the boat," said Otto.

"I could show you where there are some wild raspberries?" suggested Johannes.

Silence among the party. Victoria came to the rescue.

"No? Where are they?"

But the gentleman from town put temptation aside and said:

"We can't bother about that now."

Johannes said:

"I know where we can find mussels, too."

Silence again.

"Are there pearls in them?" asked Otto.

"Fancy, if there were!" said Victoria.

Johannes replied, No, he didn't know about that; but the mussels were a long way out on the white sand; they would have to have the boat and dive for them.

That finished that idea, and Otto remarked:

"Yes, you look like a diver, don't you?"

Johannes began to breathe heavily.

"If you like I can go up the rocks there and roll a big stone down into the sea," he said.

"What for?"

"Oh nothing. But you could watch it."

But that proposal was not accepted either and Johannes held his tongue and felt ashamed. Then he went off to look for eggs a long way from the others, in another part of the island.

When the whole party came together again down by the boat Johannes had many more eggs than the rest; he carried them carefully in his cap.

"How is it that you found so many?" asked Otto.

"I know where the nests are," answered Johannes, feeling happy. "Now I'll put them with yours, Victoria."

"Stop!" cried Otto. "What are you doing that for?"

Everybody looked at him. Otto pointed to his cap and said:

"How am I to know that that cap is clean?"

Johannes said nothing. His happiness came to an abrupt end. Then he began walking up the island again, taking the eggs with him.

"What's the matter with him? Where's he going?" said Otto impatiently.

"Where are you going, Johannes?" cried Victoria running after him.

He stopped and answered quietly:

"I'm going to put the eggs back in the nests."

They stood for a moment looking at each other.

"And then I'm going up to the quarry this afternoon," he said.

She made no answer.

"Then I could show you the cave."

"Oh, but I'm so frightened," she answered. "You said it was so dark."

Then Johannes smiled in spite of his great sorrow and said courageously:

"Yes, but I shall be with you."

All his life he had played in the old granite quarry. People had heard him working and holding forth up there though he was all alone; sometimes he had been a parson and had held a service.

The place had been abandoned long ago, moss grew on the stones and the marks of boring and blasting were almost obliterated. But the Miller's son had cleared the inside of the secret cave and decked it out most ingeniously, and there he dwelt, chief of the world's bravest robber band.

He rings a silver bell. A little manikin, a dwarf with a diamond clasp in his cap, hops in. This is his servant. He bows to the dust. When Princess Victoria comes, bring her in! says Johannes in a loud voice. The dwarf bows to the dust again and vanishes. Johannes stretches himself comfortably on the soft divan and thinks. There he would lead her to a seat and offer her costly dishes of gold and silver plate; a blazing fire should light up the cave; behind the heavy curtain of gold brocade at the back of the cave her couch should be prepared and twelve knights should stand on guard....

Johannes got up, crept out of the cave and listened. There was a rustling of twigs and leaves on the path.

"Victoria!" he called.

"Yes," came the answer.

He went to meet her.

"I hardly dare," she said.

He swayed his shoulders and answered:

"I've just been in there. I've only just come out."

They went into the cave. He showed her to a seat on a stone and said:

"That's the stone the giant was sitting on."

"Ugh, stop, don't tell me! Weren't you frightened?"

"No."

"Well, but you said he only had one eye; then he must have been a troll."

Johannes thought a moment.

"He had two eyes, but he was blind of one. He said so himself."

"What else did he say? No, don't tell me!"

"He asked if I would serve him."

"Oh, but you wouldn't, would you? How awful!"

"Well I didn't say no. Not right out."

"Are you mad? Do you want to be shut up inside the mountain?"

"Well, I don't know. Things are pretty bad on earth too."

Pause.

"Since these town boys came you spend all your time with them," he said.

Another pause.

Johannes went on:

"But I have more strength to lift you out of the boat and carry you than any of them. I'm sure I'm strong enough to hold you up a whole hour. Look here."

He took her in his arms and lifted her up. She held on to his neck.

"There, now you mustn't hold me any longer."

He put her down. She said:

"Yes, but Otto is strong too. And he has fought grown-up men too."

Johannes asked doubtfully:

"Grown-up men?"

"Yes, he has. In town."

Pause. Johannes was thinking.

"Very well, that's the end of that," he said. "I know what I shall do."

"What will you do?"

"I shall take service with the giant."

"Oh, but you're mad, do you hear!" screamed Victoria.

"Oh well, it's all the same to me. I shall do it."

Victoria was thinking of a way out.

"Yes, but perhaps he won't come back again?"

Johannes answered:

"He'll come."

"Here?" she asked quickly.

"Yes."

Victoria got up and made for the entrance.

"Come along, we'd better go out again."

"There's no hurry," said Johannes, who had turned pale himself. "He won't come before tonight. At the hour of midnight."

Victoria felt reassured and was going to sit down again. But Johannes didn't find it easy to lay the uncanny feeling he had himself called up, the cave was getting too dangerous for him and he said:

"If you really want to go out again I have a stone out there with your name on it. I'll show it you."

They crept out of the cave and found the stone. Victoria was proud of it and happy. Johannes was touched, he could have cried, and he said:

"When you look at it you must think of me sometimes when I am gone. Give me a kind thought."

"Of course," answered Victoria. "But you'll come back, won't you?"

"Oh, goodness knows. No, I don't suppose I shall."

They began to walk homewards. Johannes was near to tears.

"Well, good-bye," said Victoria.

"No, I can go with you a little farther."

But her heartlessness in being so ready to bid him good-bye had made him bitter, stirred up the wrath in his wounded heart. He stopped abruptly and said with righteous indignation: "But I'll tell you this, Victoria, you won't get anybody who would have been so kind to you as I should. That's all I've got to say."

"Well, but Otto is kind too," she objected.

"All right, take him."

They went a few paces in silence.

"I shall have a splendid time. Don't be afraid about that. You don't even know what my reward's going to be."

"No. What is it going to be?"

"Half of the kingdom. That was the first thing."

"Fancy, are you going to have that?"

"And then I'm to get the Princess."

Victoria stopped still.

"That's not true, is it?"

"Yes, it is," he said.

Pause. Victoria remarked absently:

"I wonder what she looks like?"

"Oh, bless you, she's prettier than any one on earth. And that we knew before."

Victoria was conquered.

"Will you take her then?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, "that's what it will come to." But as Victoria was really moved he added: "But maybe I'll come back some time. I might come up to earth for a trip again."

"Well, but don't bring her with you then," she begged. "Why should you bring her with you?"

"No, I could come by myself, I dare say."

"Will you promise me that?"

"Oh yes, I can promise that. But what does it matter to you? I can't expect you to care."

"You mustn't say that, do you hear?" answered Victoria. "I'm certain she isn't so fond of you as I am."

A glow of rapture thrilled his young heart. He could have sunk into the earth from joy and bashfulness at her words. He dared not look at her, he looked away. Then he picked up a stick off the ground, scraped off its bark and hit himself on the hand with it. At last he began to whistle in his embarrassment.

"Well, I shall have to be going home," he said.

"Good-bye then," she answered and gave him her hand.

II

The Miller's son went away. He stayed away a long time, went to school and learned a great deal, grew up, big and strong, and got down on his upper lip. It was so far to town, the journey there and back cost so much, that the thrifty Miller kept his son in town summer and winter for many years. He studied all the time.

But now he was grown into a man; he was eighteen or twenty.

Then one afternoon in spring he landed from the steamer. The flag was flying at the Castle in honour of the son who had also come home for his holidays by the same boat; a carriage had been sent down to the pier to fetch him. Johannes bowed to the Master and Mistress of the Castle and Victoria. How big and tall Victoria had grown! She did not return his greeting.

He took off his cap again and heard her ask her brother:

"Look, Ditlef, who's that bowing?"

Her brother answered:

"That's Johannes. Johannes Miller."

She darted her eyes at him again; but he was too bashful to bow any more. Then the carriage drove off.

Johannes took himself home.

Dear me, what a funny little place it was! He could hardly get into the door without stooping. His parents brought out wine for the occasion. His feelings gripped him, it was all so dear and so touching, his father and mother so good and so grey, they gave him their hands in turn and welcomed him home again.

The very same evening he walked round and looked at everything, the mill, the quarry and the place where he used to fish, listened with a touch of sadness to the birds he knew which were already building their nests in the trees, and took a turn round by the big anthill in the woods. The ants were gone, the hill was deserted. He dug into it, there was not a sign of life. As he wandered about he noticed that a lot of trees had been cut down in the Castle woods.

"Do you recognize the place again?" his father asked jokingly. "Have you found your old thrushes?"

"I find some changes. There's been some felling."

"It's the Master's wood," his father answered. "It's not for us to count his trees. Anybody may be in want of money; the Master wants a deal of money."

The days came and went, mild, lovely days, wonderful hours of solitude, with gentle memories of childhood, the call of earth and sky, of air and hills.

He walked along the road to the Castle. He had been stung by a wasp that morning and his upper lip was swollen; if he met any one he would just bow and pass on. He met nobody. In the Castle garden he saw a lady; when he came nearer he bowed deeply and passed on. It was the Lady of the house. His heart still beat as of old when he went past the Castle. Respect for the big house, the many windows, the Master's severe and dignified person was still in his blood.

He took the road to the pier.

Then suddenly he met Ditlef and Victoria. Johannes felt uncomfortable; they might think he had gone to look for them. Besides, he had a swollen upper lip. He reduced his pace, uncertain whether to go on. He went on. While still a long way off he took off his cap and carried it in his hand as he passed. They both acknowledged his greeting in silence and walked slowly past. Victoria looked straight at him; her face changed a little.

Johannes went on down to the quay; a restlessness had taken hold of him, his steps became nervous. Why, what a big girl Victoria was now, quite grown up, lovelier than ever. Her eye-brows nearly met above her nose, they were like two fine velvet strokes. Her eyes had got darker, very dark blue.

On his way home he struck into a path which led through the wood, avoiding the Castle garden. Nobody should say that he dogged the steps of the Castle children. He came up a hill, found a stone and sat down. The birds kept up a wild and passionate music, calling and chasing each other, and flew with twigs in their beaks. A sweet smell of mould, of bursting buds and decaying trees filled the air.

He had strayed into Victoria's path, she was coming straight towards him from the opposite direction.

A helpless feeling of annoyance seized him, he wished himself far, far away; of course she must think this time that he had followed her. Should he greet her again? He might perhaps look another way; besides, he had this wasp sting.

But when she came near enough he got up and took his cap off. She smiled and nodded.

"Good evening. Welcome back," she said.

Again her lips seemed to quiver a little; but she recovered herself at once.

He said:

"It looks rather funny, Victoria; but I didn't know you were here."

"Naturally you didn't," she replied. "It was just a whim of mine; I thought I would walk round here."

Whew! he'd been too familiar.

"How long are you going to stay at home?" she asked.

"Till the holidays are over."

It was hard work answering her, she seemed all of a sudden to have gone so far away. Then why had she spoken to him?

"Ditlef says you're so clever, Johannes. You always come out top. And he says you write poetry too; is that true?"

He answered curtly with a squirm:

"Yes, of course. Everybody does."

Now, he thought, she wouldn't stay much longer, for she said nothing more.

"Did you ever see anything like it, I was stung by a wasp this morning," he said, showing his mouth. "That's why I look like this."

"Then you've been away too long, the wasps don't recognize you."

It made no difference to her whether he had been disfigured by a wasp or not. All right. She stood there twirling a red gold-mounted parasol on her shoulder and nothing else mattered to her. And yet he had carried her ladyship in his arms more than once.

"I don't recognize the wasps," he answered; "they used to be friends of mine."

But she didn't see the deep meaning in his words; she didn't answer. Oh, but it was so deep.

"I don't recognize anything here now. Even the woods have been cut down."

A little twitch passed over her face.

"Then perhaps you can't write poetry here," she answered. "Fancy if you would write me a poem some day. No, what am I talking about! That shows you how little I know about it."

He looked at the ground, stung and silent. She was making a fool of him in the friendliest way, she talked patronizingly and watched him for the effect. Begging her pardon, he hadn't wasted all his time in writing, he had studied more than most....

"Well, we shall meet another time. Good-bye for the present."

He took off his cap and went without making a reply.

If she only knew it, it was to her and no one else he had written his poems, every one of them, even the one to Night, even the one to the Spirit of the Mere. She should never find that out.

On Sunday Ditlef called and wanted him to come over to the island. I'm to be boatman again, he thought. He went. There was a group of Sunday idlers on the pier, otherwise all was quiet and the sun was bright and warm. Suddenly a distant sound of music came from over the water, from the islands outside; the mail-boat swung in towards the pier in a great curve; there was a band on board.

Johannes cast off the boat and took the oars. He was in a yielding, pliant mood, this bright day and the music from the ship were weaving a tissue of flowers and golden grain before his eyes....

Why didn't Ditlef come? He was standing on shore looking at the people and the ship as if he didn't mean to go any farther. Johannes thought: I'm not going to sit holding these oars any longer, I'm going ashore. He began to turn the boat.

Then he suddenly saw a gleam of white and heard a splash; a desperate cry of many voices rose from the ship and from people ashore and hands and eyes all pointed to the place where the white flash had disappeared. The band stopped playing at once.

In an instant Johannes was on the spot. He acted altogether instinctively, without thinking, without making up his mind. He did not hear the screams of the mother on deck: "My girl, my girl!" He no longer saw anybody. He jumped straight away out of the boat and dived.

For a moment he was gone, a minute; they could see the water seething where he had jumped in and knew he was at work. The cries of distress still came from the ship.

Then he came up again, farther out, several fathoms from the scene of the accident. They shouted to him, pointing like mad: "No, here it was, here!"

And he dived again.

Another interval of torture, an unbroken cry of anguish from a woman and a man on deck wringing their hands. Another man dived off the ship, the mate who had thrown off his jacket and shoes. He carefully searched the place where the girl had gone down and they all set their hopes on him.

Then Johannes' head appeared again above the surface, still farther out, many fathoms farther than before. He had lost his cap and his head shone like a seal's in the sunlight. They could see that he was struggling with something, he swam with difficulty, one of his hands was hampered. A moment later he had got hold of something in his mouth, between his teeth, a huge bundle; it was the girl. Shouts of surprise reached him from the ship and from the shore, even the mate must have heard the difference; he put his head out of the water and looked around.

At last Johannes reached the boat, which had drifted off; he got the girl on board and climbed in himself; all without any stopping to think. They saw him bend over the girl and literally tear the clothes upon her back, then he grasped the oars and pulled furiously to the ship. When the victim was seized and dragged on board everybody cheered wildly.

"What made you try so far out?" they asked him.

He answered:

"I know the shoals. And there's a current here. I knew that."

A man forced his way to the side of the ship; he was pale as death, with a tortured smile and tears hanging on his eyelashes.

"Come on board a moment!" he called down. "I want to thank you. We owe you so many thanks. Only a moment."

And the man left the rail again, pale as death.

The gangway was thrown open and Johannes climbed on board.

He did not stay long; he gave his name and address, a woman embraced him, soaking as he was; the pale, distracted man pressed his watch into his hand. Johannes found himself in a cabin where two men were busy with the drowning girl. They said: "Now she's coming round, her pulse is going!" Johannes looked at the sufferer, a fair young girl in a short frock; her frock was all torn open at the back. Then a man put a hat on his head and he was led out.

He did not know exactly how he got ashore and pulled the boat up. He heard another cheer raised and the band playing a gay tune as the ship steamed away. A luxurious wave of rapture, cold and sweet, rolled through him from head to foot; he smiled and moved his lips.

"No row for us today then," said Ditlef. He looked annoyed about it.

Victoria had come, she joined them and said quickly:

"What are you thinking of? He must go home and change his clothes."

Ah, what an event, in his nineteenth year!

Johannes started off home. The music and the loud cheering still rang in his ears, a powerful emotion drove him on and on. He went past his home and took the path through the wood to the quarry. Here he looked out for a good place were the sun was warm. His clothes were steaming. He sat down. A wild, blissful unrest made him get up and walk about again. How full of happiness he was! He fell on his knees and thanked God with hot tears for this day. She was standing below there, she had heard the cheering. Go home and put on dry clothes, she said.

He sat down and laughed again and again, rapt with joy. Yes, she had seen him do it, this heroic deed; she had watched him with pride as he came back with the drowning girl in his teeth. Victoria, Victoria! Did she know how unspeakably he was hers every minute of his life? He would be her servant and her slave and sweep a way for her with his shoulders. And he would kiss her little shoes and draw her carriage and put logs in her stove on cold days. Gilt logs he would put in her stove, Victoria.

He looked around. Nobody heard him, he was all by himself. In his hand he held the valuable watch, it was ticking, it went.

Thanks, thanks for this good day! He patted the moss on the stones and the fallen twigs. Victoria had not smiled at him; no, but that was not her way. She simply stood on the pier; a little tinge of red flew over her cheeks. Perhaps she would have liked his watch if he had given it her?

The sun sank and the warmth began to fail. He felt he was wet. And then he ran home, light as a feather.

There were summer visitors at the Castle, a party from town, with dancing and revelry. And the flag flew night and day from the round tower for a week.

And there was the hay to be carried, but the horses were all taken up by the holiday makers and the hay was left out. And there were fields and fields of uncut grass, but all the farm hands were pressed into service as coachmen and boatmen and the grass was left to spoil.

And the music never ceased in the yellow drawing-room.

The old Miller stopped his mill and locked it up while this went on. He had learnt wisdom, for he had known the times when the rollicking townspeople had come in a body and played practical jokes with his sacks of corn. For the nights were so warm and light and they invented all manner of diversions. The rich Chamberlain in his young days had once with his very own hands carried an ant-heap in a trough into the mill and left it there. Now the Chamberlain was well on in years but Otto his son still came to the Castle and found strange ways of amusing himself. Many tales were told about him....

The sound of hoofs and shouting come through the wood. The young people were out for a ride and the Castle horses were glossy and fresh. The party came up to the Miller's house, knocked with their whips and wanted to ride in. The door was so low and yet they wanted to ride in.

"Good day, good day," they cried. "We came to say how d'ye do."

The Miller laughed obsequiously at the joke.

Then they dismounted, tied up their horses and started the mill.

"The hopper's empty!" yelled the Miller. "You'll smash up the mill."

But nobody heard him in the roar.

"Johannes!" shouted the Miller with the full force of his lungs in the direction of the quarry.

Johannes came.

"They're grinding up my millstones," his father cried, pointing.

Johannes went quietly towards the group. He was fearfully pale and the veins on his temples grew bigger. He recognized Otto, the Chamberlain's son, who was in cadet's uniform; there were two others besides him. One of them smiled a greeting to smooth things over.

Johannes made no sound or sign, but went on. He was making straight for Otto. At that moment he saw two ladies on horseback coming out of the wood; one of them was Victoria. She had on a green habit and was riding the white mare from the Castle. She did not get off, but sat watching them all with questioning eyes.

Then Johannes altered his course; he turned off, went up on the weir and opened the sluice; the noise gradually subsided, the mill stopped.

Otto called out:

"No, let it go on. What are you doing that for? Let the mill go on, I tell you."

"Was it you who started the mill?" asked Victoria.

"Yes," he answered with a laugh. "What's it stopped for? Why mayn't it go on?"

"Because it's empty," answered Johannes, with a catch in his breath, looking at him. "Do you understand? The mill is empty."

"It was empty, do you hear?" Victoria repeated.

"How was I to know that?" asked Otto laughing. "Why was it empty I want to know. Wasn't there any corn in it?"

"Get up again!" broke in one of his companions, to put an end to it.

They mounted. One of them apologized to Johannes before they rode off.

Victoria was the last. When she had gone a little way she turned her horse and came back.

"You must please ask your father to excuse this," she said.

"It would have been more proper if the Cadet had done that himself," answered Johannes.

"I know. Of course, but—He is always taking things into his head.... How long it is since I saw you, Johannes!"

He looked up at her, wondering if he had heard aright. Had she forgotten last Sunday, his great day!

He answered:

"I saw you on the pier on Sunday."

"Oh yes," she said at once. "What a lucky thing you were able to help the mate with the dragging. You found the girl, didn't you?"

He answered shortly in a hurt tone:

"Yes, we found the girl."

"Or how was it?" she went on, as though something had struck her; "was it you alone.... Oh, it doesn't matter. Well then, I hope you'll speak to your father about that. Good-night."

She nodded with a smile, picked up her reins and rode away.

When Victoria was out of sight Johannes wandered on into the wood, indignant and restless. He found Victoria standing by a tree quite alone. She was leaning against the tree and sobbing.

Had she fallen off? had she hurt herself?

He went up to her and asked:

"Is there anything wrong?"

She took a step towards him, spread out her arms and gave him a radiant look. Then she stopped, let her arms drop and answered:

"No, there's nothing wrong with me; I got off and let the mare go home by herself.... Johannes, you mustn't look at me like that. You were looking at me down by the pond. What do you want?"

He stammered:

"What do I want? I don't understand...."

"You're so broad there," she said, suddenly laying her hand on his. "You're so broad there, about the wrist. And then you're quite brown with the sun, brown as a berry...."

He moved his hand, trying to take hers. Then she picked up her habit and said:

"No, there was nothing the matter, you see. I only thought I'd go home on foot. Good-night."

III

Johannes went back to town. And days and years passed, a long, eventful time of work and dreams, of lectures and verse. He was getting on well, he had succeeded in writing a poem about Esther, "a Jew Girl who was made Queen of Persia," a work which was printed and for which he got paid. A second poem, "Love's Labyrinth," which he put into the mouth of Friar Vendt, made his name known.

Ah, what was Love? A breeze whispering in the roses; no, a yellow phosphorescence in the blood. Love was a music hot as hell which stirs even old men's hearts to dance. It was like the daisy that opens wide to the coming of night, and it was like the anemone that closes at a breath and dies at a touch.

Such a thing was Love.

It might ruin its man, raise him up again and brand him anew; it might love me today, you tomorrow and him tomorrow night, so inconstant was it. But again it might hold like an unbreakable seal and burn with an unquenchable flame even to the hour of death, for so eternal was it. How then was Love?

Oh, Love is the summer night with stars in the sky and fragrance on the earth. But why does it make the youth seek hidden paths and why does it make the greybeard stand tiptoe in his lonely chamber? Ah, Love turns the heart of man to a garden of fungus, a luxuriant and shameless garden wherein mysterious and immodest toadstools raise their heads.

Does it not lead the friar to slink into closed gardens and glue his eyes to the windows of the sleepers at night? And does it not possess the nun with folly and darken the understanding of the princess? It casts the king's head to the ground so that his hair sweeps all the dust of the highway, and he whispers unseemly words to himself the while and laughs and puts out his tongue.

Such was Love.

No, no, it was again something very different and it was like nothing else in the whole world. It came to earth one spring night when a youth saw two eyes, two eyes. He gazed and saw. He kissed a mouth, and then it was as though two lights met in his heart, a sun flashing towards a star. He fell into an embrace, and then he heard and saw no more in all the world.

Love is the first word of God, the first thought that sailed through his brain. He said: Let there be light! and then Love was. And all that he had made was very good and he wished none of it unmade again. And Love became the origin of the world and its ruler; but all its ways are full of blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.

A September day.

This out-of-the-way street was his daily walk; he went up and down it as in his own room, because he never met any one and it had gardens on both sides and trees with red and yellow leaves.

Why was Victoria walking here? how could this lie in her way? He was not mistaken, it was she, and perhaps it was she who had been walking here the evening before when he looked out of his window.

His heart beat violently. He knew Victoria was in town, he had heard so; but she mixed in circles which were closed to the Miller's son. He never met Ditlef either.

He pulled himself together and went to meet the lady. Didn't she know him? She walked on, serious and full of her thoughts, carrying her head proudly on her long neck.

He bowed.

"Good afternoon," she said, quite low.

She made no sign of stopping and he passed by in silence. His legs gave a jerk. At the end of the little road he turned round, as he always did. I shall keep my eyes fixed on the pavement and not look up, he thought. Not till he had gone a dozen paces did he look up.

She had stopped in front of a window.

Should he steal away, into the next street? What was she standing there for? The window was a poor one, a little shop-window which showed some crass bars of red soap, a glass jar of meal, and some foreign stamps for sale.

Perhaps he could go on another dozen paces and then turn.

Then she looked at him and suddenly came towards him again. She walked quickly, as though she had plucked up courage, and when she spoke her breath came with difficulty. She smiled nervously.

"Good afternoon. I'm so glad to meet you."

Heavens, what a struggle there was in his heart; it wasn't beating, it shivered. He tried to say something but didn't succeed, only his lips moved. A fragrance issued from her clothes, her yellow dress, or perhaps it was from her mouth. At that moment he had no clear impression of her face; but he recognized her fine shoulders and her long, slender hand on the handle of her parasol. It was her right hand. There was a ring on it.

For the first few seconds he did not reflect upon this and had no feeling of disaster. But her hand was wonderfully beautiful.

"I've been a whole week in town," she went on; "but I haven't seen you. Oh yes, I saw you once in the street; somebody told me it was you. You've grown so much."

He muttered:

"I knew you were in town. Are you staying long?"

"A few days. No, not long. I'm going home again."

"Thank you for stopping to talk to me," said he.

Pause.

"Oh, by the bye, I've lost my way," she said again. "I'm staying at the Chamberlain's; how do I get there from here?"

"I'll take you there if you'll let me."

They began to walk.

"Is Otto at home?" he asked for the sake of saying something.

"Yes, he's at home," she answered shortly.

Some men came out of a doorway carrying a piano between them and barring the pavement. Victoria turned off to the left, leaning her whole side against her companion. Johannes looked at her.

"I beg your pardon," she said.

A voluptuous feeling swept through him at the contact; for an instant her breath came straight against his cheek.

"I see you're wearing a ring," he said. And he smiled and put on an air of indifference. "Perhaps I am to congratulate you?"

What would she answer? He did not look at her, but held his breath.

"And you?" she answered, "haven't you a ring? No? I'm sure somebody told me.... One hears so much about you nowadays, your name is in the papers."

"It's some poems I have written," he answered. "But you won't have seen them."

"Wasn't it a whole book? I thought...."

"Yes, there was a little book too."

They came to a square, she was in no hurry though she had to go to the Chamberlain's; she sat down on a seat. He stood in front of her.

Then she suddenly put out her hand to him and said:

"Sit down too."

And only when he had sat down did she release his hand.

Now or never! he thought. He made another attempt to assume a light and indifferent tone, he smiled, looked up into the air. Good.

"So then you're engaged and won't even tell me. And I'm your neighbor at home."

She thought a moment.

"That was not exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today," she answered.

He at once became serious and said in a low voice:

"Well well, I dare say I know all about it."

Pause.

He began again:

"Of course I knew all the time that it couldn't be any use ... I mean, that it was not I who ... I was only the Miller's son, and you.... Of course that is so. And I can't even make out how I dare sit here beside you and hint at it. I ought to stand before you, or kneel over there, on the ground. That's how it ought to be. But somehow.... And then all these years I have been away have made a difference. I seem to have more confidence now. For I know that I'm no longer a child and I know that you can't throw me into prison, if you wanted to. That gives me courage to speak. But you mustn't be angry with me; I'd rather keep it to myself."

"No, go on. Say what you want to say."

"May I? What I want to say? If you mean that, then your ring is not to stop me."

"No," she said in a low voice, "it is not to stop you. No."

"What? Well, but what does it mean? Oh, God bless you, Victoria, can I be right?" He sprang up and leaned over to look her in the face. "Tell me, doesn't the ring mean anything?"

"Sit down again."

He sat down.

"Oh, but if you knew how much I have thought about you; heavens, has there ever been another scrap of thought in my heart? Of all the people I saw or heard of there was nobody in the world but you. I simply couldn't have any thought but this—Victoria is the most beautiful, the most glorious of all, and I know her! Miss Victoria, you always were to me. Though of course I saw that no one was farther from you than I; but I knew you were there—and that meant so much to me—that there you were, alive, and perhaps you remembered me sometimes. Of course you did not remember me; but I have sat in my chair so often in the evening and thought perhaps you remembered me sometimes. Do you know, that seemed to throw heaven open to me, Miss Victoria, and then I wrote poems to you and bought flowers for you with all I possessed and brought them home and put them in vases. All my poems are to you, there are only a few that are not, and they are not printed. But you won't have read those that are printed either. Now I've begun on a big book. God, how thankful I am to you, for I am so full of you and that is all my joy. At every moment of the day, at night too, I see or hear something that reminds me of you. I have written your name on the ceiling and I lie and look at it; but the girl who does my room can't see it, I have written it so small to keep it to myself. It brings me a kind of joy."

She turned away, opened the bosom of her dress and took out a paper.

"Look here!" she said, breathing heavily. "I cut it out and kept it. You may as well know it, I read it at night. Papa showed it me first and I took it to the window to read. 'Where is it? I can't find it,' I said and turned over the paper. But I had found it and read it at once. And I was so glad."

The paper was fragrant of her bosom; she opened it herself and showed it to him, one of his first poems, four little verses addressed to her, to the Lady on the White Horse. It was a heart's simple and passionate confession, an outburst not to be restrained, which flashed out from the lines like stars at evening.

"Yes," he said, "I wrote that. It was a long time ago, one night when there was such a rustling in the poplars outside my window, that was when I wrote it. No, are you really going to keep it? Thanks I You have kept it. Oh!" he broke out in sudden rapture, and his voice was quite low, "to think that you are sitting so close to me now. I feel your arm against mine, I feel a warmth from you. Many a time when I have been alone and thought of you I've shivered with emotion; but now I am warm. When I was home last you were lovely, but you are lovelier now. It is your eyes and your eye-brows, your smile—oh, I don't know, it's everything, everything about you."

She smiled and looked at him with half-closed eyes, there was a dark-blue gleam under the long lashes. A warm tinge was over her. She seemed to be a prey to the most intense joy, and with an unconscious movement she felt for his hand.

"Thanks!" she said.

"No, Victoria, don't thank me," he answered. All his soul welled out to her and he wanted to say more, say more; nothing came but confused and broken outbursts, he was as though intoxicated. "Ah but, Victoria, if you care for me a little ... I don't know, but say you do even if it is not so. Do, please! Oh, I promise you I would do things, great things, unheard-of things almost. You have no idea what I could do; I ponder over it sometimes and feel that I am simply full of things to be done. Often and often it pours out of me, at night I swing up and down my room because I am so full of visions. There's a man in the room next to me, he can't sleep, he knocks on the wall. When it begins to dawn he comes into my room and he's furious. That doesn't matter, I don't worry about him, for then I have thought so long about you that you seem to be with me. I go to the window and sing, it begins to get light, the poplars are rustling outside. Good-night! I say to the day. That is for you. Now she's asleep, I think, good-night, God bless her! Then I go to bed. So it is night after night. But I have never thought you were so lovely as you are. Now I shall remember you like this when you have gone; as you are now. I shall remember you so clearly...."

"Are you not coming home?"

"No. I'm not ready. Yes, I'll come. I shall leave now. I'm not ready, but I'll do anything in the world. Do you sometimes stroll in the garden at home now? Do you ever go out in the evening? I might see you, I might be able to greet you perhaps, nothing more. But if you care for me a little, if you can bear me, if you don't hate me, then say ... let me have that comfort.... Do you know, there is a palm that flowers only once in its lifetime, though it lives seventy years—the talipot palm. But it only flowers once. Now is my flowering time. Yes, I'll get some money and go home. I'll sell what I've written; I'm writing a big book, you know, and I'll sell it now, tomorrow morning, all I have finished. I shall get a lot for it. Do you want me to come home?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, thanks! Forgive me if I hope too much, believe too much; it is so lovely to believe beyond all bounds. This is the happiest day I have known...."

He took his hat off and laid it beside him.

Victoria looked about her, a lady was coming down the street and farther off a woman with a basket. Victoria grew uneasy, she took out her watch.

"Must you go now?" he asked. "Say something before you go, let me hear your.... I love you and tell you so now. It will depend on your answer whether I ... I am so utterly in your hands. What is your answer?"

Pause.

He dropped his head.

"No, don't say it!" he begged.

"Not here," she answered. "When we get there."

They walked on.

"They say you're going to marry that little girl, that girl whose life you saved; what was her name?"

"Camilla, do you mean?"

"Camilla Seier. They say you are going to marry her."

"Do they? Why do you ask that? She is not grown up. I have been to her home, it is a big, fine house, a castle like your own; I have been there many times. No, she is not grown up."

"She is fifteen. I have met her, we have been together. I was much taken with her. How charming she is!"

"I am not going to marry her," he said.

"Indeed."

He looked at her. His face twitched.

"But why do you say that now? Is it because you want to call my attention to another?"

She went on with rapid steps and did not answer. They found themselves outside the Chamberlain's. She took his hand and drew him into the gateway and up the stairs.

"I'm not going in," he said, half surprised.

She pressed the bell, then turned to him, and her bosom was heaving.

"I love you," she said. "Do you understand? It is you I love."

Suddenly she drew him downstairs again, quickly, three or four steps, threw her arms around him and kissed him. She trembled against him.

"It is you I love," she said.

The hall door opened above. She tore herself from him and hurried up the stairs.

IV

It was getting on for morning; day dawned, a purple, quivering September morning.

There was a gentle murmur among the poplars in the garden. A window was thrown open, a man leaned out of it humming. He had no coat on, he looked out upon the world like a dishevelled maniac who had been drinking himself drunk in happiness all night.

He suddenly turned away from the window and looked towards his door; somebody had knocked. He called: "Come In!" A man entered.

"Good-morning," he greeted the visitor.

It was an elderly man, he was pale with fury and carried a lamp in his hand as it was not yet full daylight.

"I put it to you once more, Mr. Miller, Mr. Johannes Miller, do you call this reasonable behaviour?" the man stammered with indignation.

"No," answered Johannes, "you are right. I've been writing something, it came so easily; look, I've written all that, I've been lucky tonight. But now I have finished. I opened the window and sang a little."

"You roared," said the man. "It was the loudest song I have ever heard, I tell you. And it's still the middle of the night."

Johannes plunged his hands among the papers on his table and picked up a handful of sheets large and small.

"Look here!" he cried. "I tell you, I've never done so well. It was like one long flash of lightning. I once saw a flash run along a telegraph wire; God help you, it looked like a sheet of fire. That's how it has been streaming through me tonight. What am I to do? I don't think you will be angry with me any more when you hear all about it. I sat here writing, you see, I didn't move; I remembered you and kept quiet. Then there came a moment when I didn't remember it any longer, my breast was ready to burst, perhaps I got up then, perhaps I got up once more in the course of the night and walked round the room a few times. I was so happy."

"I didn't hear you so much tonight," said the man. "But it is altogether unpardonable of you to open the window at this time of night and yell like that."

"Oh yes. It is unpardonable, no doubt. But now I have explained. I've had a night like no other night, I tell you. Something happened to me yesterday. I was walking in the street and I met the joy of my life; oh, listen to me, I met my star and my joy. And then, do you know, she kissed me. Her mouth was so red, and I love her; she kissed me and made me intoxicated. Has your mouth ever trembled so that you could not speak? I could not speak, my heart shook my whole body. I ran home and fell asleep; I sat here in this chair and slept. When evening came I awoke. My soul was swinging up and down in me with emotion and I began to write. What did I write? Here it is! I was under the sway of a strange and glorious train of ideas, the heavens were opened, it was like a warm summer day to my soul, an angel brought me wine, I drank it, it was strong wine, I drank it from a cup of garnet. Did I hear the clock strike? Did I see that the lamp went out? God grant you could understand! I lived it all over again, I walked again with my beloved in the street and every one turned to look at her. We went into the Park, we met the King, I took my hat off and swept the ground from joy, and the King turned to look at my beloved, for she is so tall and lovely. We went down into the town again and all the school-children turned to look at her, for she is young and has a light dress. Then we came to a red brick house and went in. I followed her upstairs and wanted to kneel to her. Then she threw her arms about me and kissed me. This happened to me yesterday evening, no longer ago than that. If you asked me what I have written, it is one continuous song to joy, to happiness. It was as though joy lay naked before me with a long, laughing throat and was coming to me."

"Well, I really can't listen to you any longer," said the man, in despair and irritation. "I have spoken to you for the last time."

Johannes stopped him at the door.

"Wait a moment. Oh, you ought to have seen how your face lighted up. I saw it as you turned, it was the lamp, it sent a gleam of sunshine over your forehead. You were not so angry any more, I saw that. I opened the window, I know, and I sang too loud. I was the happy brother of all the world. It sometimes happens like that. One takes leave of one's senses. I ought to have thought that you were still asleep...."

"The whole town is still asleep."

"Yes, it's early. I should like to make you a present. Will you accept this? It is silver, it was given to me. A little girl whose life I once saved gave it me. Please take it. It holds twenty cigarettes. You won't have it? I see, you don't smoke, but you ought to learn. May I come and see you tomorrow and make my excuses? I should like to do something, beg your forgiveness...."

"Good-night."

"Good-night. I'm going to bed now, I promise you that. You shan't hear another sound. And in future I'll be more careful."

The man went.

Johannes suddenly opened the door again and added:

"By the bye, I'm leaving. I shan't disturb you any more. I'm leaving tomorrow. I forgot to tell you."

He did not leave. Various things kept him, he had business to do, things to buy, bills to pay, the morning passed and evening came. He rushed about as though out of his wits.

At last he rang at the Chamberlain's door. Was Victoria at home?

Victoria was out shopping.

He explained that they came from the same place, Miss Victoria and he, he only wanted to pay her his compliments if she had been in, to take the liberty of paying his compliments. There was a message he wanted to send home. All right.

Then he went into the town. Perhaps there was a chance of meeting her, coming across her; she might be sitting in a carriage. He wandered about till the evening. Outside the Theatre he saw her; he bowed, smiled and bowed, and she returned his greeting. He was going up to her, a few paces away—when he saw that she was not alone, she had Otto with her, the Chamberlain's son. He was in lieutenant's uniform.

Johannes thought: now perhaps she'll give me a sign, a little glance of the eyes? She hurried into the theatre, blushing, with her head bowed, as though she did not wish to be seen.

Perhaps he could see her inside? He took a ticket and went in.

He knew where the Chamberlain's box was; of course, these rich people, they had boxes. There she sat in all her glory looking about her. Did she look at him? Never!

When the act was over he waited for her outside in the corridor. He bowed again; she looked at him, rather surprised, and nodded.

"This is where you can get a glass of water," said Otto, pointing.

They walked past.

Johannes followed them with his eyes. A strange twilight settled about him. All these people were annoyed with him and shoved him as they passed; he mechanically excused himself and stayed where he was. She had disappeared.

When she came back she bowed deeply and said:

"Excuse me...."

"It's Johannes," she said, introducing him. "Do you recognize him?"

Otto made some answer and puckered his eyes as he looked at him.

"I suppose you want to know how your people are," she continued, and her face was calm and handsome. "I really don't know, but I expect they're quite well. Very well indeed. I'll give them your love."

"Thank you. Are you going home soon, Miss Victoria?"

"One of these days. All right, I'll give them your love."

She nodded and passed on.

Johannes' eyes followed her again till she had vanished, then he went out. He killed time with an everlasting ramble, a dull and dismal tramp up one street and down another. At ten o'clock he was waiting outside the Chamberlain's house. Now the theatres would soon be over, now she would come. He might open the carriage door perhaps, and take his hat off, open the carriage door and bow to the ground.

At last, half an hour later, she came. Could he stand by the gateway and remind her once more of his existence? He hastened up the street without looking round. He heard the gates of the Chamberlain's house being thrown open, the carriage driving in and the gates closing again. Then he turned.

He continued to stroll up and down in front of the house for an hour. He was not waiting for anybody and had no message to give. Suddenly the gate was opened from within and Victoria stepped out into the street. She had no hat on and had only thrown a shawl over her shoulders. She smiled, half afraid and half embarrassed, and asked as an opening:

"Are you walking about with your thoughts?"

"No," he answered. "My thoughts? No, I'm just walking here."

"I saw you walking up and down outside here and I wanted to.... I saw you from my window. I must go in again directly."

"Thank you for coming, Victoria. I was in such despair a little while ago and now it is gone. Excuse me for speaking to you at the theatre; I'm sorry to say I asked for you here at the Chamberlain's too, I wanted to see you and find out what you meant, what your meaning was."

"Well," she said, "you must know that. I said so much the day before yesterday that you couldn't misunderstand me."

"I am still quite uncertain about it all."

"Don't let us talk any more about it. I have said enough, I have said much too much, and now I am hurting you. I love you, I was not telling you a lie the other day and I'm not telling you one now; but there is so much that keeps us apart. I am very fond of you, I like talking to you, would rather talk to you than to any one else, but.... Well, I daren't stay here any longer, they can see us from the windows. Johannes, there are so many reasons that you don't know, so you must not ask me any more what I mean. I have thought of it night and day; I mean what I said. But it will be impossible."

"What will be impossible?"

"The whole thing. All of it. Look here, Johannes, you must not force me to have pride for both of us."

"Very well. All right, I'll spare you that! But it comes to this, that you made a fool of me the other day. It so happened that you met me in the street and you were in good humour and so...."

She turned and was going in.

"Have I done anything wrong?" he asked. His face was pale and unrecognizable. "I mean, how have I forfeited your.... Have I committed any crime in these two days and two nights?"

"No. That's not it. I have thought it over, that's all; haven't you done the same? It has been impossible all along, you know. I am fond of you, appreciate you...."

"And respect you."

She looked at him, his smile offended her and she continued with more heat:

"Good heavens, don't you see yourself that Papa would forbid it? Why do you force me to say it? You know it yourself. What could it have led to? Am I not right?"

Pause.

"Yes," he answered.

"Besides," she went on, "there are so many reasons.... No, you really mustn't follow me into the theatre any more, you frightened me. You must never do it again."

"No," he said.

She took his hand.

"Can't you come home for a bit? I should look forward to it very much. How warm your hand is; I'm freezing. No, I must go now. Good-night."

"Good-night," he answered.

The street lay cold and grey before him, looking like a belt of sand, an everlasting road to traverse. He came upon a boy who was selling old spoilt roses; he called to him, took a rose, gave the boy a little five-crown piece in gold for a present, and went on. Soon after he saw a group of children playing about a doorway. A boy of ten was sitting still and looking on; he had old blue eyes which followed the game, hollow cheeks and a square chin, and on his head was a linen cap. It was the lining of a cap. This child wore a wig, a skin disease had disfigured his head for life. Perhaps his soul was also withered.

All this he noticed though he had no clear idea of what part of the town he was in or where he was going. It began to rain too, he didn't feel it and didn't put up his umbrella, though he had carried it all day.

When at last he came to a square where there were seats he sat down. It was raining more and more, he put up his umbrella unconsciously and remained seated. After a short time an invincible drowsiness came over him, he shut his eyes and began to nod and doze.

A little while after he was roused by the loud voices of some passers-by. He got up and wandered on. His brain had cleared, he remembered what had happened, every incident, even the boy to whom he had given five crowns for a rose. He pictured to himself the little man's delight when he discovered this wonderful coin among his coppers and saw that it was not a nickel but a five-crown piece in gold. God be with him!

And the other children had perhaps been driven into the doorway by the rain and were going on with their game there, playing hop-scotch or marbles. And the disfigured old man of ten sat looking on. Who knows, perhaps he was feeling pleased about something, perhaps he had some toy in the little backyard room, a jack-in-the-box or a pegtop. Perhaps he had not lost the whole of life, there might be hope in his withered soul.

A slight and graceful lady came in view ahead of him. He gave a start and stopped. No, he didn't know her. She had come from a side street and was hurrying along and she had no umbrella though the rain was pouring down. He caught up with her, looked at her and walked past. How dainty she was and young! She was getting wet, she would catch cold and he dared not approach her. Then he closed his umbrella so that she should not be the only one to get wet. When he got home it was past midnight.

There was a letter on his table, a card; it was an invitation. The Seiers would be glad if he could come to them tomorrow evening. He would meet people he knew, amongst others—could he guess?—Victoria, from the Castle. Kind regards.

He fell asleep in his chair. An hour or two later he woke up feeling cold. Half awake, half asleep, shivering all over, wearied with the day's reverses, he sat down at the table and tried to answer the card, this invitation that he did not intend to accept.

He wrote his answer and was going to take it down and post it. Suddenly it struck him that Victoria was also invited. So that was it, she had said nothing to him, she had been afraid he might come, she wanted to be rid of him amongst these strangers.

He tore up his letter, wrote another thanking them, he would come. His hand trembled with internal excitement, a peculiar happy exasperation seized him. Why shouldn't he go? why should he hide himself? Enough.

His violent emotions ran away with him. With one wrench he tore off a handful of leaves from his date pad on the wall and put himself on a week. He imagined to himself that he was glad about something, delighted beyond measure; he would enjoy this hour, he would light his pipe, sit in his chair and hug himself. His pipe was hopelessly stopped up, he searched in vain for a knife, a scraper, and suddenly pulled one of the hands off the clock in the corner to clean his pipe with. The sight of the mischief he had done did him good, it made him laugh inwardly, and he looked about to see what else he could make a mess of.

The time went on. At last he threw himself on his bed in all his wet clothes and fell asleep.

When he awoke the day was far advanced. It was still raining, the street was wet. His head was in disorder, scraps of his dreams were confused with the events of the day before; he felt no fever, on the contrary, his heat had subsided, a coolness surrounded him as though he had been wandering in a sultry forest and had now come to the borders of a lake.

There was a knock, the postman brought him a letter. He opened it, looked at it, read it and had difficulty in understanding it. It was from Victoria, a note, a half sheet; she had forgotten to tell him that she was going to the Seiers' this evening; she wanted to meet him there, she would explain things better to him, ask him to forget her, to take it like a man. Excuse the wretched paper. Kind regards.

He went into the town, dined, went home again and finally wrote refusing the Seiers'; he could not come, he would look forward to seeing them some other evening, tomorrow for instance.

This letter he sent by hand.

V

Autumn came, Victoria had gone home and the little out-of-the-way street and its houses was as quiet as before. At night there was a light in Johannes' room. It made its appearance with the stars at evening and was extinguished when day dawned. He was working with all his might, writing his great book.

Weeks and months passed; he was alone and visited nobody, he no longer went to the Seiers'. Often his imagination played him tricks and slipped irrelevant fancies into his book which he afterwards had to strike out and throw away. This put him back a great deal. A sudden noise in the stillness of the night, the rumbling of a cart in the street, might give his thoughts a jolt and throw them off the line:

Out of the way of this cart in the street, look out there!

Why? Why should one look out for this cart anyway? It was rolling past, perhaps it had now reached the corner. Perhaps there's a man standing there with no overcoat, no cap, he stoops down and meets the cart with his head, he will be run over, hopelessly mangled, killed. The man wants to die, that is his affair. He won't button his shirt any more and he has given up tying his shoes in the morning, he wears everything open, his chest is bare and skinny; he is to die.... A man was lying at the point of death, he wrote a letter to a friend, a note, a little request. The man died and left this letter. It had a date and signature, it was written with capitals and small letters although he who wrote it was to die in an hour. That was so strange. He had even put the usual flourish under his name. And an hour later he was dead.... There was another man. He was lying alone in a little room which was wood-panelled and painted blue. What then? Nothing. In the whole wide world he is the one who has got to die. That fills his mind; he thinks about it till he is worn out. He sees that it is evening, that it is eight by the clock on the wall, and he can't make out why it doesn't strike. Poor man, his brain is already falling asleep; the clock has struck and he didn't notice it. Then he makes a hole through his mother's portrait on the wall—what does he want with this picture now, and why should it be left whole when he is gone? His tired eyes fall upon the flower-pot on the table and he reaches out his hand and pulls the big flower-pot slowly and deliberately so that it falls on the floor and is smashed to pieces. Why should it be left unbroken? Then he throws his amber cigarette-holder out of the window. What does he want with it any more? It seems so obvious to him that he need not leave it behind. And in a week the man was dead....

Johannes got up and walked up and down his room. His neighbour in the next room woke up, his snoring ceased and a sigh was heard, a tortured groan. Johannes went on tiptoe to the table and sat down again. The wind howling in the poplars outside his window made him feel cold. The old poplars were stripped of leaves and looked like sad monstrosities; a few knotted branches scraped against the wall of the house with a creaking sound, like a piece of wooden machinery, a cracked stamp-mill which worked on and on.

He dropped his eyes on his papers and read them over. Well well, his fancy had run away with him again. He had nothing to do with death and a passing cart. He was writing about a garden, a green luxuriant garden by his home, the Castle garden. That was what he was writing about. It was lying dead and snowed under now, but he was writing about it all the same, and not of winter and snow at all, but spring and fragrance and mild breezes. And it was evening. The water below lay deep and still, like a leaden lake; the lilacs shed their perfume, hedge after hedge was in bud and green leaves, and the air was so still that the blackcock could be heard calling on the other side of the bay. On one of the paths of the garden stood Victoria, she was alone, dressed in white, twenty years old. There she stood. Taller than the tallest rose-bushes, she looked out over the water, out to the forests, to the sleeping mountains in the distance; she seemed like a white soul in the midst of the green garden. Footsteps sounded on the road below, she took a few steps forward to the lonely summer-house, leaned her elbows on the wall and looked down. The man in the road took his hat off almost to the ground and bowed. She nodded back. The man looked about him, there was nobody on the road watching him and he advanced towards the wall. Then she retreated, crying, "No, no!" and she waved him off with her hand. "Victoria," he said, "what you said once was the real truth, I can't have imagined it, that is impossible." "Yes," she answered, "but what do you want?" He was now quite close to her, only the wall separated them, and he answered: "What do I want? Oh, you know, I only want to stay here a minute. It's the last time. I want to come as near to you as I can; now I'm not far away!" She said nothing. So that minute passed. "Good-night," he said, taking off his hat again and sweeping the ground with it. "Good-night," she answered. And he went away without looking back....

What had he to do with death? He crumpled up the written sheets and threw them away to the stove. Other written sheets were lying there waiting to be burnt, all the fugitive waste of an imagination that overflowed its banks. And he began again to write of the man on the road, a wanderer who bowed and said good-bye when his minute was done. And he left the girl behind in the garden, and she was dressed in white and twenty years old. She would not have him; no, she wouldn't. But he had stood against the wall behind which she lived. As close as that to her he had been.

Again weeks and months went by and spring came. The snow was already gone, far out in space was a foaming of freed waters. The swallows had come and the woods outside the town quickened with the life of all kinds of hopping beasts and birds with foreign note. A fresh, sweet smell floated up from the ground.

His work had taken him all the winter. Night and day the dry branches of the poplars had lashed the wall with their refrain; now spring had come, the storms were over and the mill had creaked to a standstill.

He opened the window and looked out; the street was quiet already though it was not yet midnight, the stars blinked in a cloudless sky, it looked like a warm, bright day tomorrow. He heard the roar of the town blended with the everlasting hum of the distance. Suddenly a steam-whistle shrieked, the night train's signal; it sounded like a single cockcrow in the stillness of the night. Now it was time for work; that train-whistle had been like an order to him the whole winter.

And he shut the window and sat down again at his table. He threw aside the books he had been reading and got out his papers. He took up his pen.

Now his great work was nearly finished, it only wanted a final chapter, a farewell message from a ship under way, and he had it already in his head:

A man was sitting in a roadside inn, he was passing through and was on a long, long journey. His hair and beard were grey and many years had passed over him; but he was still big and strong and scarcely so old as he looked. His carriage stood outside, the horses were resting, the driver was happy and pleased, for the stranger had given him wine and food. When the traveller entered his name the host recognized him, bowed and showed him great honour. "Who lives at the Castle now?" the stranger asked. The host replied: "The Captain; he is very rich. His lady is kind to every one." To every one? the traveller asks himself with a curious smile—to me too? And he sat down and began to write something, and when it was finished he read it over; it was a poem, mournful and calm, but with many bitter words. But presently he tore the paper to pieces and went on tearing it into still smaller pieces as he sat there. Then there was a knock at his door and a woman dressed in yellow walked in. She threw off her veil, it was the lady of the Castle, the Lady Victoria. There was a majesty about her. The man rose abruptly; at the same instant his dark soul was illumined as if by torch-light. "You are so kind to every one," he said bitterly. "You even come to me." She made no answer, simply stood looking at him and her face turned dark red. "What do you want?" he asked as bitterly as before; "have you come to remind me of the past? If so, it is for the last time, my lady, for now I am going away for ever." And still the young mistress of the Castle made no answer, but her lips were trembling. He said: "If you are not satisfied with my acknowledging my folly once, then listen, I do it again: my heart was set upon you, but I was not worthy of you—are you satisfied now?" He went on with rising vehemence: "You gave me No, you took another; I was a clown, a bear, a barbarian who in my boyhood had stumbled into a royal preserve!" But then the man threw himself into a chair sobbing and begging her: "Oh, go! forgive me, go away!" Now all the flush had left the lady's cheeks. And she spoke, and uttered the words so slowly and so well: "I love you; do not misunderstand me any longer, it is you I love. Farewell!" And it was the Castle lady fair, she flung hands before her face and fled out of the door.... He laid down his pen and leaned back. There—full stop, Finis. There was the book, all the sheets he had written, nine months' work. A warm ripple of satisfaction ran through him at the finishing of his work. And as he sat there looking towards the window through which day was dawning, there was a throbbing in his head and his spirit went on working. He was full of ideas and feelings, his brain was like a wild ungathered garden with mists rising from the ground:

In some mysterious way he has come into a deep, deserted valley where no living thing is to be seen. Far away, alone and forgotten, an organ is playing. He goes nearer, examines it; the organ is bleeding, blood runs out of its side as it plays. Farther on he comes to a market-place. It is all deserted, not a tree to be seen, not a sound to be heard, it is nothing but a deserted market-place. But in the sand are prints of people's shoes and the air seems still to hold the last words spoken in the place, so lately was it abandoned. A strange feeling comes over him; these words left in the air over the market-place alarm him, they come nearer, press upon him. He casts them off and they come again; they are not words, they are old men, a group of old men dancing; he sees them now. Why are they dancing, and why are they not the least gay when they dance? A cold air blows from this company of old men, they do not see him, they are blind, and when he calls to them they do not hear him, they are dead. He wanders towards the east, towards the sun, and he comes to a mountain. A voice cries: Are you at a mountain? Yes, he answers, I am standing by a mountain. Then says the voice: The mountain you are standing by is my foot; I am lying bound in the uttermost land, come and set me free! So he sets off to the uttermost land. At a bridge stands a man waiting for him, he is collecting shadows; the man is of musk. A freezing terror seizes him at the sight of this man who wants to take his shadow. He spits at him and threatens him with clenched fists; the man does not budge but stands waiting for him. Turn back! cries a voice behind him. He turns and sees a head rolling along the road and showing him the way. The head is a human head and now and then laughs quietly and silently. He follows it. It rolls for days and nights and he follows it; by the seashore it slips into the ground and hides. He wades out into the sea and dives. He finds himself in front of a huge doorway and meets a great barking fish. It has a mane on its back and it barks at him like a dog. Behind the fish stands Victoria. He stretches out his hands to her, she has no clothes on, she laughs to him and a storm blows through her hair. Then he calls to her, he hears his own cry—and wakes.

Johannes rose and went to the window. It was almost light and in the little mirror on the window-post he saw that his temples were red. He put out the lamp and in the grey light of day read once more the last page of his book. Then he lay down.

By the afternoon of the same day Johannes had paid for his room, delivered his manuscript and left town. He had gone abroad, nobody knew where.

VI

The great book was out, a kingdom, a little humming world of moods, voices and visions. It was sold, read and laid aside. Some months passed; when autumn came Johannes flung off a new book. What now? His name was instantly on every one's lips, fortune followed him; this new book was written far away, far from the events of home, and it was still and strong as wine:

"Dear reader, here is the tale of Didrik and Iselin. Written in the good season, in the days of small sorrows, when everything was easy to bear, written with the very best intention about Didrik whom God smote with love...."

Johannes was in a foreign country, no one knew where. And more than a year passed before any one heard.

"I thought I heard a knock," said the old Miller one evening.

And his wife and he sat still and listened.

"No, it was nothing," she said after a while; "it's ten o'clock, it will soon be night."

Several minutes passed.

Then there came a hard, decided knock at the door, as though some one had plucked up courage to do it. The Miller opened. Outside stood the young lady from the Castle.

"Don't be alarmed, it's only me," she said with a shy smile. She walked in; they offered her a chair, but she did not sit down. She had only a shawl over her head and on her feet little low shoes though it was not yet springtime and the roads were not dry.

"I only wanted to tell you that the Lieutenant is coming this spring," she said; "the Lieutenant, you know, my fiancé. And perhaps he will shoot woodcock out here. I thought I'd give you word about it, so that you shouldn't be alarmed."

The Miller and his wife looked at the young lady in surprise. They had never before had notice when visitors at the Castle were to shoot in the woods and fields. They thanked her humbly; how kind it was of her!

Victoria went back to the door.

"That's all I wanted. I thought as you were old people there was no harm in letting you know."

The Miller answered:

"So good of you, Miss. And now you have got your little shoes wet."

"No, the road's dry," she said shortly. "I was taking a turn round here anyhow. Good-night."

"Good-night."

She raised the latch and went out. Then she turned in the doorway and asked:

"By the bye—Johannes, have you heard from him?"

"No, nothing from him, thank you for asking. Nothing."

"I suppose he'll be coming soon. I thought you might have heard."

"No, not since last spring. Johannes is in foreign parts, it seems."

"Yes, in foreign parts. He is well. He writes himself in a book that he is in the days of small sorrows. So he must be well."

"Oh yes, oh yes, God knows. We are waiting for him."

"Perhaps he is better off where he is, since his sorrows are small. Well, that's his affair. I only wanted to know whether he was coming home this spring. Good-night again."

"Good-night."

The Miller and his wife followed her out.

They saw her return to the Castle with her head held high, stepping over the puddles in the muddy road with her thin shoes.

A day or two after a letter arrived from Johannes. He was coming home in a little over a month, when he had finished another new book. He had got on well all this time, his new work went rapidly, all life had been surging through his brain....

The Miller betook himself to the Castle. On the way he found a pocket handkerchief marked with Victoria's initials; she had dropped it the other evening.

Miss Victoria was upstairs, but a maid offered to take her a message—what was it?

The Miller declined. He would rather wait.

At last Victoria came. "I hear you want to speak to me?" she said, opening the door of a room.

The Miller went in, handed her a handkerchief and said: "And then we have had a letter from Johannes."

A bright look passed over her face for an instant, a brief instant. She answered:

"Thank you very much. Yes, the handkerchief is mine."

"He is coming home again," the Miller went on, almost in a whisper.

Her look turned cold.

"Speak up, Miller; who is coming?" she said.

"Johannes."

"Johannes. Well, what then?"

"Oh, why—we thought I ought to tell you. We talked about it, my wife and I, and she thought so too. You were asking the day before yesterday if he was coming home this spring. Yes, he's coming."

"Then I am sure you must be glad," said the young lady. "When is he coming?"

"In a month."

"I see. Well, there was nothing else?"

"No. We only thought, as you had asked.... No, there was nothing else. It was only that."

The Miller had dropped his voice again.

She went out with him. In the passage they met her father and she said to him as they passed, aloud and in a casual tone:

"The Miller tells me Johannes is coming home again. You remember Johannes, don't you?"

And the Miller went out of the Castle gate and promised himself that never, never again would he be such a fool as to listen to his wife when she wanted to poke her nose into secrets. He'd let her know that.

VII

Once he had wanted to make a fishing-rod of the slender rowan tree by the mill-pond; now many years had passed and the tree had grown thicker than his arm. He looked at it in wonder and walked on.

The impenetrable wilderness of bracken still grew along the bank of the stream, a whole forest on whose floor the cattle had trampled regular paths over which the fronds of the bracken closed. He strode through the wilderness as in the days of his childhood, swimming with his hands and feeling his way with his feet. Insects and creeping things fled before the mighty man.

Up by the granite quarry he found black-thorn, wood anemones and violets. He plucked a quantity, their homely scent recalled to him bygone days. In the distance the mountain ridges showed in a purple haze and on the far side of the bay the cuckoo was beginning to call.

He sat down; after a while he began to hum. Then he heard footsteps on the path below.

It was evening, the sun was down, but the air was still quivering with warmth. An infinite peace lay over forest, mountain and bay. A woman was coming up towards the quarry. It was Victoria. She was carrying a basket.

Johannes rose, bowed and was going away.

"I didn't want to disturb you," she said. "I came to get some flowers."

He made no answer. And he never reflected that she had all kinds of flowers in her garden.

"I brought a basket to put the flowers in," she went on. "But perhaps I shan't find any. We want them for a party, for the table. We are going to give a party."

"Here are anemones and violets," he said. "Higher up there are generally hops. But perhaps it is too early in the year for them."

"You are paler than when I saw you last," she remarked to him. "That is over two years ago. You have been away, I've heard. I have read your books."

Still he did not answer. It occurred to him that perhaps he might say: "Well, good evening, Miss Victoria," and go. From the place where he stood it was one step down to the next stone and from there one to her, and then he could withdraw as though quite naturally. She stood right in his path. She had on a yellow dress and a red hat, she was strangely beautiful; her throat was bare.

"I am blocking your way," he mumbled and stepped down. He controlled himself so as not to show any emotion.

There was now one pace between them. She did not make way for him, but stood still. They looked one another in the face. Suddenly she turned very red, dropped her eyes and stepped aside; an irresolute expression came over her face, but she smiled.

He went past her and stopped, her sad smile struck him, his heart flew back to her and he said at random:

"Well, of course you have been in town many times since? Since that time?... Now I know where there used to be flowers in old days: on the knoll by your flagstaff."

She turned towards him and he saw with surprise that her face had become pale and agitated.

"Will you come to us that evening?" she said. "Will you come to our party? We are giving a party," she went on, and her face began to flush again. "Some people are coming from town. It will be before long, but I'll let you know. What is your answer?"

He did not answer. It was no party for him, his place was not at the Castle.

"You mustn't say No. You won't be bored, I have thought about that and I have a surprise for you."

Pause.

"You cannot surprise me any more," he answered.