There's two or three months yet till the late autumn berries are ripe;
yes, I know. But there are other joys than berries in the wilds. Spring
and summer they are still only in bloom, but there are harebells
and ladyslippers, deep, windless woods, and the scent of trees, and
stillness. There is a sound as of distant waters from the heavens; never
so long-drawn a sound in all eternity. And a thrush may be singing as
high as ever its voice can go, and then, just at its highest pitch, the
note breaks suddenly at a right angle; clear and clean as if cut with
a diamond; then softly and sweetly down the scale once more. Along the
shore, too, there is life; guillemot, oyster-catcher, tern are busy
there; the wagtail is out in search of food, advancing in little spurts,
trim and pert with its pointed beak and swift little flick of a tail;
after a while it flies up to perch on a fence and sing with the
rest. But when the sun has set, may come the cry of a loon from some
hill-tarn; a melancholy hurrah. That is the last; now there is only the
grasshopper left. And there's nothing to say of a grasshopper, you never
see it; it doesn't count, only he's there gritting his resiny teeth, as
you might say.
I sit and think of all these things; of how summer has its joys for a
wanderer, so there's no sort of need to wait till autumn comes.
And here I am writing cool words of these quiet things--for all the
world as if there were no violent and perilous happenings ahead. 'Tis
a trick, and I learned it of a man in the southern hemisphere--of a
Mexican called Rough. The brim of his huge hat was hung with tinkling
sequins: that in itself was a thing to remember. And most of all,
I remember how calmly he told the story of his first murder: “I'd a
sweetheart once named Maria,” said Rough, with that patient look of his;
“well, she was no more than sixteen, and I was nineteen then. She'd such
little hands when you touched them; fingers thin and slight, you know
the sort. One evening the master called her in from the fields to do
some sewing for him. No help for it then; and it wasn't more than a day
again before he calls her in same as before. Well, it went on like that
a few weeks, and then stopped. Seven months after Maria died, and they
buried her, little hands and all. I went to her brother Inez and said:
'At six tomorrow morning the master rides to town, and he'll be alone.'
'I know,' said he. 'You might lend me that little rifle of yours to
shoot him with.' 'I shall be using it myself,' said he. Then we talked
for a bit about other things: the crops, and a big new well we'd dug.
And when I left, I reached down his rifle from the wall and took it with
me. In the timber I heard Inez at my heels, calling to me to stop. We
sat down and talked a bit more this way and that; then Inez snatched the
rifle away from me and went home. Next morning I was up early, and out
at the gate ready to open it for the master; Inez was there too, hiding
in the bushes. I told him he'd better go on ahead; we didn't want to be
two to one. 'He's pistols in his belt.' said Inez; 'but what about
you?' 'I know,' said I; 'but I've a lump of lead here, and that makes no
noise.' I showed him the lump of lead, and he thought for a bit; then he
went home. Then the master came riding up; grey and old he was, sixty at
least. 'Open the gate!' he called out. But I didn't. He thought I must
be mad, no doubt, and lashed out at me with his whip, but I paid no
heed. At last he had to get down himself to open the gate. Then I gave
him the first blow: it got him just by one eye and cut a hole. He
said, '_Augh_!' and dropped. I said a few words to him, but he didn't
understand; after a few more blows he was dead. He'd a deal of money on
him; I took a little to help me on my way, then I mounted and rode off.
Inez was standing in the doorway as I rode past his place. 'It's only
three and a half days to the frontier,' he said.”
So Rough told his story, and sat staring coolly in front of him when it
was ended.
I have no murders to tell of, but joys and sufferings and love. And love
is no less violent and perilous than murder.
Green in all the woods now, I thought to myself this morning as I
dressed. The snow is melting on the hills, and everywhere the cattle in
their sheds are eager and anxious to be out; in houses and cottages the
windows are opened wide. I open my shirt and let the wind blow in upon
me, and I mark how I grow starstruck and uncontrollable within; ah, for
a moment it is all as years ago, when I was young, and a wilder spirit
than now. And I think to myself: maybe there's a tract of woodland
somewhere east or west of this, where an old man can find himself as
well bested as a young. I will go and look for it.
Rain and sun and wind by turns; I have been many days on the road
already. Too cold yet to lie out in the open at night, but there is
always shelter to be had at farmsteads by the way. One man thinks it
strange that I should go tramping about like this for nothing; he takes
me, no doubt, for somebody in disguise, just trying to be original like
Wergeland. [Footnote: A Norwegian poet.]The man knows nothing of my
plans, how I am on my way to a place I know, where live some people
I have a fancy to see again. But he is a sensible fellow enough, and
involuntarily I nod as if to agree there is something in what he says.
There's a theatrical touch in most of us that makes us feel flattered
at being taken for more than we are. Then up come his wife and daughter,
good, ordinary souls, and carry all away with their kindly gossip; he's
no beggar, they say; be paid for his supper and all. And at last I turn
crafty and cowardly and say never a word, and let the man lay more to
my charge and still never a word. And we three hearty souls outwin his
reasoning sense, and he has to explain he was only jesting all the time;
surely we could see that. I stayed a night and a day there, and greased
my shoes with extra care, and mended my clothes.
But then the man begins to suspect once more. “There'll be a handsome
present for that girl of mine when you leave, I know,” says he. I made
as if his words had no effect, and answered with a laugh: “You think
so?” “Yes,” says he; “and then when you're gone we'll sit thinking you
must have been somebody grand, after all.”
A detestable fellow this! I did the only thing I could: ignored his
sarcasm and asked for work. I liked the place, I said, and he'd need of
help; I could turn my hand to anything now in the busy time.
“You're a fool,” said he, “and the sooner you're off the place the
better I'll be pleased.”
Clearly he had taken a dislike to me, and there was none of the
womenfolk at hand to take my part. I looked at the man, at a loss to
understand what was in his mind.
His glance was steady; it struck me suddenly that I had never seen such
wisdom in the eyes of man or woman. But he carried his ill-will too far,
and made a false step. He asked: “What shall we say your name was?” “No
need to say anything at all,” I answered. “A wandering Eilert Sundt?” he
suggested. And I entered into the jest and answered: “Yes, why not?”
But at that he fired up and snapped out sharply: “Then I'm sorry for Fru
Sundt, that's all.” I shrugged my shoulders in return, and said: “You're
wrong there, my good man; I am not married.” And I turned to go. But
with an unnatural readiness he called after me: “'Tis you that's wrong:
I meant for the mother that bore you.”
A little way down the road I turned, and saw how his wife and daughter
took him up. And I thought to myself: no, 'tis not all roses when one
goes a-wandering.
At the next place I came to I learned that he had been with the army, as
quartermaster-sergeant; then he went mad over a lawsuit he lost, and was
shut up in an asylum for some time. Now in the spring his trouble broke
out again; perhaps it was my coming that had given the final touch. But
the lightning insight in his eyes at the moment when the madness came
upon him! I think of him now and again; he was a lesson to me. 'Tis none
so easy to judge of men, who are wise or mad. And God preserve us all
from being known for what we are!
* * * * *
That day I passed by a house where a lad sat on the doorstep playing a
mouth-organ. He was no musician to speak of, but a cheerful soul he
must surely be, to sit there playing to himself like that. I would not
disturb him, but simply raised one hand to my cap, and stood a little
distance off. He took no notice of me, only wiped his mouth-organ and
went on playing. This went on for some time; then at last, waiting till
he stopped to wipe his instrument again, I coughed.
“That you, Ingeborg?” he called out. I thought he must be speaking
to someone in the house behind him, and made no answer. “You there, I
mean,” he said again.