Alma dragged on her timeless, feelingless existence under old Kata’s
care. Age had left no mark on her, though it was twenty years now since
the tragic event that had deprived her of her reason. In the world about
her there had been changes: those who had been in the prime of life at
that time were now aged and infirm; the children of those days were
grown. But Alma was to all appearances the same as on the day when she
had left the church at Hof, released from suffering by the breakdown of
all capacity to feel or understand. She looked a trifle healthier—less
pale, that was all.
And her life now had, despite its essential monotony, a certain
variation of a sort. She smiled happily when the sun shone, but wept
when the clouds hid it from her sight. Her joys were those of
childhood—fine weather, dumb animals, flowers, and the presence of
certain chosen friends. There were some of her fellow-creatures whom she
loved, without knowing why. Others she disliked no less distinctly, and
contact with them would render her depressed for days. Strangers, in
particular, invariably troubled her mind.
In course of time, people had come to attribute this discrimination to a
strange instinct that had taken the place of the ordinary human
intelligence she no longer possessed. She was still spoken of as the
Danish Lady at Hof, though for years she had not set her foot outside
the limits of Borg.
She spoke but little. It seemed as if she had forgotten not only her
native tongue, but also the little Icelandic she had ever learnt. She
picked up odd words and sentences, however, uttering them afterwards
incoherently. And she had a kind of language of her own invention—a
combination of curious expressions and strange gestures, which those
about her learned to understand. Old Kata was an adept in this mode of
intercourse, and pleased her mistress by her quickness of understanding.
The two women occupied one room, with two windows, in which they had
their favourite seats. They would sit there for hours, old Kata with her
knitting, and Alma gazing at the world outside, and following with
childish interest anything that might be happening within view. For the
most part, they were silent, but now and again passers-by might hear
them exchanging words in their own unintelligible form of speech.
They had little to do with others, though Alma knew all the servants and
farm hands on the place. All loved her, and towards old Kata, too, the
general feeling was one of kindly regard.
On Sundays they joined the circle for Bible reading or singing, after
which coffee was handed round, Alma playing the part of hostess. It was
one of the small recurring pleasures in her life, and both she and Kata
found an ever-new delight in the arrangement.
Sometimes the master, Ormarr Ørlygsson, if so disposed, would bring out
his violin and treat his people to an entertainment. He invariably began
with merry tunes, and finished with strange, heart-stirring themes; the
simple listeners knew nothing of the great composers, but the music had
its own effect on them, and often brought tears to the eyes of the more
impressionable amongst them.
When he had played thus, Ormarr would leave the room abruptly; the rest,
sitting in silence, would hear him leave the house. And then the party
broke up, each to his work or play.
But Ormarr went off alone into the hills. At times he might be seen
pacing to and fro; sometimes he would find some spot where he could lie
and rest, but he never returned to the farm until all had retired for
the night. There were always two, however, who waited his return. One
was old Kata, who sat by the window till she saw or heard him back
again—sat weeping, though he never dreamed of any such sympathy on her
part. Not till she knew that he was safely within doors—had fought out
that day’s fight with his God, as she put it to herself—would she go to
rest.
The other was his wife, lying awake in bed till he came. No words were
spoken when he returned; in silence he lay down at her side, drawing
close to her, with one arm round her neck. Lying thus, rest would come
to him and he could sleep.
The only other event in the life of Alma and her aged nurse was when
visitors came to the place. All invariably came in to pay their respects
to the Danish Lady however brief their stay or how pressing their errand
might be. Some did so from a natural desire to show their sympathy with
one afflicted by God; others from a secret fear that God would punish
them if they did not. And Alma seemed able to distinguish between those
who came of their own kind will and those who merely obeyed a custom
they feared to break.