We had no special orders, but set to work as we thought best, felling
dry-topped trees, and in the evening the Lensmand said it was right
enough. But he would show us himself the next day.
I soon realized that the work here would not last till Christmas. With
the weather we were having, and the ground as it was, frost at night and
no snow, we felled a deal each day, and nothing to hinder the work; the
Lensmand himself though we were devilish smart at felling trees, haha!
The old man was easy to work with; he often came out to us in the woods
and chatted and made jokes, and as I never joked in return, he took me,
no doubt, for a dull dog, but a steady fellow. He began sending me on
errands now, with letters to and from the post.
There were no children on the place, no young folk at all save the maids
and one of the farm-hands, so the evenings fell rather long. By way of
passing the time, I got hold of some tin and acids and re-tinned some
old pots and kettles in the kitchen. But that was soon done. And then
one evening I came to write the following letter:
“_If only I were where you are, I would work for two_.”
Next day I had to go to the post for the Lensmand; I took my letter with
me and posted it. I was very uneasy. Moreover, the letter looked clumsy
as I sent it, for I had got the paper from the Lensmand, and had to
paste a whole strip of stamps along the envelope to cover where his name
was printed on. I wondered what she would say when she got it. There was
no name, nor any place given in the letter.
And so we work in the woods, the other man and I, talk of our little
affairs, working with heart and soul, and getting on well together. The
days passed; already, worse luck, I could see the end of our work ahead,
but I had a little hope the Lensmand might find something else for me to
do when the woodcutting was finished. Something would surely turn up. I
had no wish to set out wandering anew before Christmas.
Then one day I go to the post again, and there is a letter for me. I
cannot understand that it is for me, and I stand turning and twisting it
confusedly; but the man knows me now; he reads from the envelope again
and says yes, it is my name right enough, and care of the Lensmand.
Suddenly a thought strikes me, and I grasp the letter. Yes, it is for
me; I forgot ... yes, of course....
And I hurry out into the road, with something ringing in my ears all the
time, and open the letter, and read:
“_Skriv ikke til mig_--” [Footnote: “Do not write (skrive) to me.”]
No name, no place, but so clear and lovely. The first word was
underlined.
I do not know how I got home. I remember I sat on a stone by the
roadside and read the letter and put it in my pocket, and walked on till
I came to another stone and did the same again. _Skriv ikke_. But--did
that mean I might come and perhaps speak with her? That little, dainty
piece of paper, and the swift, delicate characters. Her hands had held
it, her eyes had looked on it, her breath had touched it. And then at
the end a dash. Which might have a world of meaning.
I came home, handed in the Lensmand's post, and went out into the wood.
I was dreaming all the time. My comrade, no doubt, must have found me an
incomprehensible man, seeing me read a letter again and again, and put
it back with my money.
How splendid of her to have found me! She must have held the envelope up
to the light, no doubt, and read the Lensmand's name under the stamps;
then laid her beautiful head on one side and half closed her eyes and
thought for a moment: he is working for the Lensmand at Hersæt now....
That evening, when we were back home, the Lensmand came out and talked
to us of this and that, and asked:
“Didn't you say you'd been working for Captain Falkenberg at Øvrebø?”
“Yes.”
“I see he's invented a machine.”
“A machine?”
“A patent saw for timber work. It's in the papers.”