Part 3

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.