He left more than elated. Unlike on the occasion of his first visit
Hilda now treated him with manifest kindness. On the morning of his
departure she let him kiss her hand without protest and he gazed into
her calm clear eyes without embarrassment.
On his way back to the city he recalled every little incident, raked up
every triviality—symptoms of her love, he called them—and with all the
inductions and deductions of logic adduced conclusively that Hilda was
as much in love with him as he was with her.
There was a mishap on the way. An axle broke and delayed the homeward
journey several hours. The accident did not disturb him. He rather
welcomed it. He was alone and while the driver went to the nearest
village to get the axle repaired Albert stretched himself at the edge of
a field of ripening grain and watched the colorful patches in the sky.
In spots the clouds seemed piled upon one another, a heap of them, with
protruding ends trimmed with saffron and jade, and some were like huge
rugged castles, with many turrets. Soon his eyes were fixed upon one to
the left. It was a long stretch of watery green with a number of peaks
and lower down there appeared to be a row of windows. Yes, it looked
like his uncle’s villa. In the foreground was the broad terrace, back of
it the long doors and French windows, and farther back, higher up, was
the roof. The last window to the right belonged to Hilda’s room. He
gazed upon it intently and was conscious of a peculiar pleasurable
feeling. And there, farther down, near the horizon was a cloud in the
shape of the marble well, with sphinxes engraved on the side, and those
streaks of light were like the poplars along the path leading to the
beach. For a moment he was superstitious. That was a sign from heaven.
He saw good omens in everything about him. A lark was rising, trilling
short, sweet notes in his flight toward the clouds. The lark was
himself.
Two young peasant women were walking past him with scythes and sickles
slung over their shoulders. They were barefooted, bareheaded, with short
skirts of unbleached linen and loose shirts that looked like, blouses.
They glanced at him lying on his back, then looked at each other, and
burst out laughing. The older one said something to the younger of the
two who answered with a resounding slap on the older one’s back, and
they both roared with laughter once more. He was conjuring up the image
of Hilda when the last peal of laughter broke the spell. He looked
around. The peasant girls halted in the adjoining field for work.
Soon they began to sing a peasant love song. Albert sat up and could see
their movements through the ripe grain stalks in front of him—their
coarse sunburnt faces, their naked feet with their splaying toes—their
sickles making rhythmical music as they swished against the falling
grain. He was vexed with himself for watching them—for permitting his
thoughts to dwell upon them. He felt it a sacrilege to think of them and
Hilda at the same time. Presently Hilda’s image faded, the clouds in the
sky were nothing but meaningless vapor, and the blood in his heart was
surging rapidly. He shuddered. He could not take his eyes off the
stooped peasant girl, the younger one, who was only a hundred yards away
from him. Ugly thoughts raced through his brain. Strange appetites
stirred within him. He would dismiss them but he could not. She was
singing a love song; and presently the other joined in. They were
singing a peasant harvest song, laughing at the same time—
_“Bäuerlein, Bauerlein, tick! tick! tack!_
_Ei, wie ist denn der Geschmack_
_Von dem Korn und von dem Kern,_
_Dass ich’s unterscheiden lern’?_
_Bäuerlein, Bauerlein, spricht und lacht,_
_Finklein nimm dich nur in acht,_
_Dass ich, wenn ich dresch’ und klopf’_
_Dich nicht treff, auf deinen Kopf!”_
It was the younger of the two that was singing in a mimicking voice, the
older one humming after her. The younger one was a girl of about
seventeen—the same age as Hilda—but was sturdier, her neck was like
“the tower of David builded for an armory,” her squinting eyes full of
mischief.
He would not lie to himself; a power more overwhelming was drawing him
to that peasant girl with the sickle, every movement of hers was another
tug at his passions . . .
He rose to his feet and stretched himself. The sun was hot and the air
was dry and the peasant girl—she had just straightened a bit, with the
sickle in hand, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, and was
about to bend down again when she caught his eye. She glanced at him
slyly with her squinting eyes. Her companion was now at the other end of
the field working industriously. Albert looked at her boldly, the blood
in his heart pumping furiously . . .
The driver with the axle appeared in the distance. Albert shrank a step,
trembling in every limb. He again threw himself on the ground. He would
not be caught by the driver looking at the reaper. An undefinable
shyness seized him. Lying on his belly, his head slightly raised, he was
awaiting the approaching driver. He soon heard his footsteps in the
distance—slow, deliberate steps coming nearer. The footsteps suddenly
halted. Albert saw the driver near the reaper. He heard voices, low
voices, of the driver and the girl.
“I’ll cut you—look out. I’ll cut you.”
It was the girl’s voice he heard. Albert peered through the stalks of
grain, he saw without being seen, his blood rushing to his head. He
heard a chuckle, the sickle dropped from her hand. She feigned to cry
for help but in a voice he could scarcely hear; the other reaper worked
steadily on at the other end of the field. The driver and the peasant
girl were now hidden in the tall grain . . .
The driver soon returned to his horses, grazing by the wayside. He was a
stocky man in the early thirties, with a red face and a forehead
bloodlessly white from the pressure of his cap. His face was now of a
deeper red, his eyes seemed bloodshot, and he was panting.
He busied himself with the cart.
“Oh, but she is strong,” he said, half to himself. Albert was watching
the driver adjust the axle.
“Who is she?” asked Albert.
“Do I know? From the neighborhood!”
He emitted a little laugh and proceeded with his work.
Presently he and the driver were in the cart, the wheels creaking, the
horses plodding along the road.
The peasant girl waved her sickle, the driver waved his whip, the horse
started off at a livelier trot in a cloud of dust.
Albert leaned back in his seat, lost in thought. He was puzzled. He knew
the driver had a wife and five children, yet passing a girl he had never
seen before and desiring her he made her his without courting, without
brooding, without dreaming and musing, without being troubled about the
scheme of things. They loved, they hated, they killed (if their king
told them to) and begot others like themselves.
He looked at the driver as if he had beheld him for the first time. The
peasant’s face was now calm, its natural red, his bluish eyes had
cleared; they were no longer bloodshot; he was looking blankly in front
of him, with whip in hand, was looking over the horse’s head. He had
evidently forgotten about the reaper. She was no more to him than the
field of rye in which she worked, no more than the bread he had eaten
that morning, the glass of beer he had drunk the day before.
Albert’s heart was filled with envy, envy of the peasant. He envied him
because he was so unlike himself, always thinking, always speculating on
what was right and what was wrong. Albert wondered if he could make a
peasant of himself and stop thinking and brooding. His thoughts drifted,
he thought of Elfenbein, of Rudolph, of the chattering Hirsch and of
scores of other men and women he knew. None of them were like the
driver, and he could not be like any of them either. He thought of his
uncle—a shrewd banker, a charitable man, a noble soul—no, he could not
be like him either. He thought of his own father—kind and weak and
listless—no, he was different. A flock of migrating birds were over his
head—a path of black dots against the blue sky; a cow by the wayside
stretched her broad neck, parted her jaws, and emitted a hoarse
“moo—oo!” The woods in the distance answered “Moo—oo!”; the horse
clinked his hoofs against a chance stone in the sandy road . . .
Without knowing why, Albert’s heart was filled with sadness. He sighed
audibly. He was depressed because he was unlike anybody and because he
knew he could not be like anybody else. God had made him different, had
made him a misfit, a round peg in a square hole. His thoughts wandered.
No, he did not wish to be like anybody else. Yet he was vexed. He felt
dreadfully alone. Had he not been afraid of the driver’s ridicule he
would have wept aloud—because—because he was unlike anyone and did not
want to be like anyone else. If only Hilda had loved him! It suddenly
flashed upon his mind that she did not love him.