A man can be drunk with joy. I fire off my gun, and an unforgettable
echo answers from hill to hill, floats out over the sea and rings in
some sleepy helmsman's ears. And what have I to be joyful about? A
thought that came to me, a memory; a sound in the woods, a human being.
I think of her, I close my eyes and stand still there on the road, and
think of her; I count the minutes.
Now I am thirsty, and drink from the stream; now I walk a hundred paces
forward and a hundred paces back; it must be late by now, I say to
myself.
Can there be anything wrong? A month has passed, and a month is no long
time; there is nothing wrong. Heaven knows this month has been short.
But the nights are often long, and I am driven to wet my cap in the
stream and let it dry, only to pass the time, while I am waiting.
I reckoned my time by nights. Sometimes there would be an evening when
Edwarda did not come--once she stayed away two evenings. Nothing wrong,
no. But I felt then that perhaps my happiness had reached and passed its
height.
And had it not?
“Can you hear, Edwarda, how restless it is in the woods to-night?
Rustling incessantly in the undergrowth, and the big leaves trembling.
Something brewing, maybe--but it was not that I had in mind to say. I
hear a bird away up on the hill--only a tomtit, but it has sat there
calling in the same place two nights now. Can you hear--the same, same
note again?”
“Yes, I hear it. Why do you ask me that?”
“Oh, for no reason at all. It has been there two nights now. That was
all... Thanks, thanks for coming this evening, love. I sat here,
expecting you this evening, or the next, looking forward to it, when you
came.”
“And I have been waiting too. I think of you, and I have picked up the
pieces of the glass you upset once, and kept them--do you remember?
Father went away last night. I could not come, there was so much to do
with the packing, and reminding him of things. I knew you were waiting
here in the woods, and I cried, and went on packing.”
But it is two evenings, I thought to myself. What was she doing the
first evening? And why is there less joy in her eyes now than before?
An hour passed. The bird up in the hills was silent, the woods lay dead.
No, no, nothing wrong; all as before; she gave me her hand to say
good-night, and looked at me with love in her eyes.
“To-morrow?” I said.
“No, not to-morrow,” she answered.