Albert’s mind was like a sponge thrown into water, absorbing while
seemingly inactive. Subconsciously he was studying every face, no matter
how often he had seen it; every object, however commonplace, aroused his
curiosity.
When he left Hedwiga his mind was a blank. He walked on blindly,
seemingly thoughtful but really thinking of nothing. He was conscious of
joy tempered by timidity—but without thinking of anything in
particular.
Nearing his home he began to think of her more specifically. She was a
living image. The image grew in vividness. His eyes almost closed
now—his eyelids had come together automatically—and all objects
disappeared save her form. Her slender figure and that clinging, draping
skirt around her legs; her loose hair of dazzling tints—red and gold
mixed with ochre—and those wonderful eyes of her—they looked at him so
piteously and yet so proudly. He was breathing fast, a warm glow was on
his face, his full lips parted. For the moment his mouth seemed
strikingly feminine—the mouth of a young woman alive to stirring
passion.
No, he was not conscious of sex; at least, not of the sex-consciousness
he had often experienced. Its rude call was absent. He could not define
the difference, but the strange desires he had felt at the sight of the
barefooted peasant girls working in the fields were wanting. All that he
desired at present was to go back to that hut—to the home of the Witch
so full of dread and mystery—and just sit and look at Hedwiga.
He told no one of his visit to the Free House, as the Witch’s hovel was
called. He did not even make mention of this to his sister, the keeper
of all his secrets, nor even to Christian, but he thought of Hedwiga
every minute.
After much day-dreaming Albert took a stroll in the direction of the
Witch’s house. He had not yet definitely decided to pay her another
call, but was sauntering aimlessly on the road leading to the Witch’s
house. Before long he found himself perilously near the hut. He first
caught sight of the elm tree. It was the same hour of the day he had
chanced by the first time. Without the calculation of the maturer lover
he vaguely hoped that he would again find her alone—perhaps again
drying her hair in the sun. His heart beat loudly as he approached the
little yard, covered with weeds and grass. The blistered front door was
shut.
He mounted the steps and paused on the slab at the threshold, trembling.
It was a hot afternoon, without a sound in the air. The old elm tree
with the overhanging branches and parched leaves seemed like an old
horse left standing unsheltered in the blazing sun. The Rhine flowed
noiselessly on, with broad folds of gray reflecting the patches of cloud
in the sky.
He felt certain that no one was in the hut, yet he knocked on the door
boldly. It gave him pleasure to knock on that door. Every rap sounded in
his ears as if he were voicing Hedwiga’s name loudly.
Suddenly the door opened and fear seized him. He did not know why sudden
fear had taken possession of him. Before him stood Hedwiga in the same
clinging skirt, ragged at the hem, the same flaming red blouse reaching
to her waist, her hair falling over her shoulders in long tresses. She
appeared to him like the West Indian quadroon he had once seen. He
forgot to greet her and only mumbled that it was a hot day.
She held the door open without saying a word. Unlike at their former
meeting she now seemed confused and her confusion was mingled with
timidity. The scorching heat was reflected in the iris of her eyes.
Without invitation he went in and sat down in the same backless chair.
“I keep the door closed because that keeps the heat out of the house,”
she said as she closed the door.
He was conscious of isolation, of aloneness with her. She was knitting,
and settling on her stool she continued to work, her eyes downcast.
“Why do you knit such heavy woolen stockings in the summer?” he asked,
watching the nimble movements of her long fingers, the frequent jerks of
her elbows, and the intermittent clicks of the needles.
“Why do squirrels store nuts in the summer?” she answered with a
counterquestion, and gave a little metallic laugh.
Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked at him for a bare second, her
lashes quivering, a faint blush on her cheeks.
He held his breath. The impulse he had felt the first time—the impulse
to touch the tip of her nose and the curving red of her lips—came upon
him overwhelmingly; her knees, outlined through her thin skirt, tempted
him. His eyes soon fell upon the hook where the skirt was fastened at
the waist. An impulse seized him to touch that, too. There seemed
something endearing about that hook.
He spent an awkward hour and called himself an idiot as he wended his
way home that afternoon. She was kindly enough to have manifested a
desire to have him stay longer, but he had suddenly risen and left.
As soon as he was out of the hut he wished to go back, and wondered what
had made him depart so abruptly, yet even as he wondered he pressed on
resolutely toward home.
“I thought your eyes were blue, but they are only green,” she had
remarked. A few minutes before she had said something about the
smallness of his eyes and the frailty of his body. He thought there was
a touch of mockery in her voice as she said that. And the idea of asking
him whether he liked songs!
He did not pity her any longer. On the former occasion she had appeared
humble, almost obsequious; today he scented pride. On his return home he
determined to dismiss her from his mind.