He did not answer, but fumbled with his hands to either side, as if
trying to get up, and I realized that he was blind, “Sit still; don't be
afraid of me,” I said, and set myself down beside him.
We fell into talk: been blind since he was fourteen, it seemed; he would
be eighteen now, and a big, strong fellow he was, with a thick growth of
down on his chin. And, thank Heaven, he said, his health was good. But
his eyesight, I asked; could he remember what the world looked like?
Yes, indeed; there were many pleasant things he could remember from the
time when he could see. He was happy and content enough. He was going in
to Christiania this spring, to have an operation; then perhaps he might
at least be able to see well enough to walk; ay, all would be well in
time, no doubt. He was dull-witted, looked as if he ate a lot; was
stout and strong as a beast. But there was something unhealthy-looking,
something of the idiot about him; his acceptance of his fate was too
unreasonable. To be hopeful in that way implies a certain foolishness,
I thought to myself; a man must be lacking in sense to some degree if he
can go ahead feeling always content with life, and even reckoning to get
something new, some good out of it into the bargain.
But I was in the mood to learn something from all I chanced on in my
wandering; even this poor creature on his doorstep made me the wiser by
one little thing. How was it he could mistake me for a woman; the woman
Ingeborg he had called by name? I must have walked up too quietly. I had
forgotten the plodding cart-horse gait; my shoes were too light. I had
lived too luxuriously these years past; I must work my way back to the
peasant again.
* * * * *
Three more days now to the goal my curious fancy had set before me: to
Øvrebø, to Captain Falkenberg's. It was an opportune time to walk up
there just now and ask for work; there would be plenty to do on a big
place like that in the spring. Six years since I was there last; time
had passed, and for the last few weeks I had been letting my beard grow,
so that none should recognize me now.
It was in the middle of the week; I must arrange to get there on the
Saturday evening. Then the Captain would let me stay over the Sunday
while he thought about taking me on. On Monday he would come and say yes
or no.
Strangely enough, I felt no excitement at the thought of what was to
come; nothing of unrest, no; calmly and comfortably I took my way by
farmstead, wood, and meadow. I thought to myself how I had once, years
ago, spent some adventurous weeks at that same Øvrebø, even to being in
love with Fruen herself, with Fru Lovise. Ay, that I was. She had fair
hair and grey, dark eyes; like a young girl she was. Six years gone, ay,
so long it is ago; would she be greatly changed? Time has had its wear
on me; I am grown dull and faded and indifferent; I look upon a woman
now as literature, no more. It has come to the end. Well, and what then?
Everything comes to an end. When first I entered on this stage I had
a feeling as if I had lost something; as if I had been favoured by the
caresses of a pickpocket. Then I set to and felt myself about, to see if
I could bear myself after this; if I could endure myself as I was now.
Oh well, yes, why not? Not the same as before, of course, but it all
passed off so noiselessly, but peacefully, but surely. Everything comes
to an end.
In old age one takes no real part in life, but keeps oneself on
memories. We are like letters that have been delivered; we are no longer
on the way, we have arrived. It is only a question whether we have
whirled up joys and sorrows out of what was in us, or have made no
impression at all. Thanks be for life; it was good to live!
But Woman, she was, as the wise aforetime knew, infinitely poor in mind,
but rich in irresponsibility, in vanity, in wantonness. Like a child in
many ways, but with nothing of its innocence.
* * * * *
I stand by the guide-post where the road turns off to Øvrebø. There is
no emotion in me. The day lies broad and bright over meadow and woods;
here and there is ploughing and harrowing in the fields, but all moves
slowly, hardly seems to move at all, for it is full noon and a blazing
sun. I walk a little way on beyond the post, dragging out the time
before going up to the house. After an hour, I go into the woods and
wander about there for a while; there are berries in flower and a scent
of little green leaves. A crowd of thrushes go chasing a crow across
the sky, making a great to-do, like a clattering confusion of faulty
castanets. I lie down on my back, with my sack under my head, and drop
off to sleep.
A little after I wake again, and walk over to the nearest ploughman.
I want to find out something about the Falkenbergs, if they are still
there and all well. The man answers cautiously; he stands blinking, with
his little, crafty eyes, and says: “All depends if Captain's at home.”
“Is he often away, then?”
“Nay, he'll be at home.”
“Has he got the field work done?”
The man smiled: “Nay, I doubt it's not finished yet.”
“Are there hands enough to the place?”
“That's more than I can say; yes, I doubt there's hands enough. And the
field work's done; leastways, the manure's all carted out.”
The man clicks to his horses and goes on ploughing; I walked on beside
him. There was not much to be got out of him; next time the horses
stopped for a breathing space I worried out of him a few more
contradictions as to the family at Øvrebø. The Captain, it seemed was
away on manoeuvres all through the summer, and Fruen was at home alone.
Yes, they had always a heap of visitors, of course; but the Captain was
away. That is to say, not because he wanted to; he liked best to stay at
home, by all accounts, but, of course, he'd his duty as well. No, they'd
no children as yet; didn't look as if Fruen was like to have any. What
was I talking about? They might have children yet, of course; any amount
of them for that. On again.
We plough on to the next stop. I am anxious not to arrive at an awkward
time, and ask the man, therefore, if he thinks there would be visitors
or anything of that sort up at the house today. No, he thought not.
They'd parties and visitors now and again, but.... Ay, and music and
playing and fine goings-on as often as could be, but.... And well
they might, for that matter, seeing they were fine folks, and rich and
well-to-do as they were.
He was a torment, was that ploughman. I tried to find out something
about another Falkenberg, who could tune pianos at a pinch. On this the
ploughman's information was more definite. Lars? Ay, he was here. Know
him? Why, of course he knew Lars well enough. He'd finished with service
at Øvrebø, but the Captain had given him a clearing of land to live
on; he married Emma, that was maid at the house, and they'd a couple of
children. Decent, hardworking folk, with feed for two cows already out
of their clearing.
Here the furrow ended, and the man turned his team about. I thanked him,
and went on my way.
When I came to the house, I recognized all the buildings; they wanted
painting. The flagstaff I had helped to raise six years before, it stood
there still; but there was no cord to it, and the knob at the top was
gone.
Well, here I was, and that was four o'clock in the afternoon of the 26th
day of April.
Old folk have a memory for dates.
I
It turned out otherwise than I had thought. Captain Falkenberg came out,
heard what I had to say, and answered no on the spot. He had all the
hands he wanted, and the field work was all but done.
Good! Might I go over to the men's room and sit down and rest a while?
Certainly.
No invitation to stay over Sunday. The Captain turned on his heel and
went indoors again. He looked as if he had only just got out of bed,
for he was wearing a night-shirt tucked into his trousers, and had no
waistcoat on; only a jacket flung on loosely and left unbuttoned. He was
going grey about the ears, and his beard as well.
I sat down in the men's quarters and waited till the farmhands came in
for their afternoon meal. There were only two of them--the foreman and
another. I got into talk with them, and it appeared the Captain had made
a mistake in saying the field work was all but done. Well, 'twas his
own affair. I made no secret of the fact that I was looking for a
place, and, as for being used to the work, I showed them the fine
recommendation I had got from the Lensmand at Hersæt years ago. When the
men went out again, I took my sack and walked out with them, ready to
go on my way. I peeped in at the stables and saw a surprising number
of horses, looked at the cowshed, at the fowls, and the pigs. I noticed
that there was dung in the pit from the year before that had not been
carted out yet.