Part 2

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."