The next day they were married. That night, long after his wife had
fallen into her usual healthy sleep, Rafael thought sorrowfully of his
lost Paradise. HE could not sleep. As he lay there he seemed to look
out over a meadow, which had no springtime, and therefore no flowers.
He retraced the events of the past day. His would be a marred life
which had never known the sweet joys of courtship.
Angelika did not share his beliefs. She was a stern realist, a sneering
sceptic, in the most literal sense a cynic.
Her even breathing, her regular features, seemed to answer him.
"Hey-dey, my boy, we shall be merry for a thousand years! Better sleep
now, you will need sleep if you mean to try which of us is the
stronger."
The next day their marriage was the marvel of the town and
neighbourhood.
"Just like his mother!" people exclaimed; "what promise there was in
her! She might have chosen so as to have been now in one of the best
positions in the country--when, lo and behold! she went and made the
most idiotic marriage. The most idiotic? No, the son's is more idiotic
still." And so on and so forth.
Most people seem naturally impelled to exalt the hero of the hour
higher than they themselves intend, and when a reaction comes, to decry
him in an equal degree. Few people see with their own eyes, and on
special occasions even magnifying or diminishing glasses are called
into play with most amusing results.
"Rafael Kaas a handsome fellow?--well, yes, but too big, too fair, no
repose, altogether too restless. Rich? He? He has not a stiver! The
savings eaten up long ago, nothing coming in, they have been
encroaching on their capital for some time; and the beds of cement
stone--who the deuce would join with him in any large undertaking? They
talk about his gifts, his genius even; but IS he very highly gifted? Is
it anything more than what he has acquired? The saving of motive power
at the factory? Was that anything more than a mere repetition of what
he had done before?--and that, of course, only what he had seen
elsewhere."
Just the same with the hints which he had given. "Merely close personal
observation; for it must be admitted that he had more of that than most
people; but as for ingenuity! Well, he could make out a good case for
himself, but that was about the extent of his ingenuity."
"His earlier articles, as well as those which had recently appeared on
the use of electricity in baking and tanning--could you call those
discoveries? Let us see what he will invent now that he has come home,
and cannot get ideas from reading and from seeing people."
Rafael noticed this change--first among the ladies, who all seemed to
have been suddenly blown away, with a few exceptions, who did not
respect a marriage like his, and who would not give in.
His relations, also, held somewhat aloof. "It was not thus that he
showed himself a true Ravn. He was so in temperament and disposition,
perhaps, but it was just his defect that he was only a half-breed."
The change of front was complete: he noticed it on all hands. But he
was man enough, and had sufficient obstinacy as well, to let himself be
urged on by this to hard work, and in his wife there was still more of
the same feeling.
He had a sense of elevation in having done his duty, and as long as
this tension lasted it kept him up to the mark. On the day of his
marriage (from early in the morning until the time when the ceremony
took place) he employed himself in writing to his mother; a wonderful,
a solemn letter in the sight of the All-Knowing,--the cry of a tortured
soul in utmost peril.
It depended on his mother whether she would receive them and let their
life become all that was now possible. Angelika--their business,
manager, housekeeper, chief. He--devoted to his experiments. She--the
tender mother, the guide of both.
It seemed to him that their future depended on this letter and the
answer to it, and he wrote in that spirit. Never had he so fully
depicted himself, so fully searched his own heart.
It was the outcome of what he had lived through during these last few
days, the mellowing influence of his struggles during the night
watches. Nothing could have been more candid.
He was pained that he did not receive an answer at once, although he
realised what a blow it would be to her. He understood that, to begin
with, it would destroy all her dreams, as it had already destroyed. But
he relied on her optimistic nature, which he had never known surpassed,
and on the depth of her purpose in all that she undertook. He knew that
she drew strength and resolution from all that was deepest in their
common life.
Therefore he gave her time, notwithstanding Angelika's restlessness,
which could hardly be controlled. She even began to sneer; but there
was something holy in his anticipation: her words fell unheeded.
When on the third day he had received no letter, he telegraphed, merely
these words: "Mother, send me an answer." The wires had never carried
anything more fraught with unspoken grief.
He could not return home. He remained alone outside the town until the
evening, by which time the answer might well have arrived. It was there.
"My beloved son, YOU are always welcome; most of all when you are
unhappy!" The word YOU was underlined. He grew deadly pale, and went
slowly into his own room. There Angelika let him remain for a while in
peace, then came in and lit the lamp. He could see that she was much
agitated, and that every now and then she cast hasty glances at him.
"Do you know what, Rafael? you ought simply to go straight to your
mother. It is too bad, both on account of our future and hers. We shall
be ruined by gossip and trash."
He was too unhappy to be contemptuous. She had no respect for anybody
or anything, he thought; why, then, should he be angry because she felt
none, either for his mother or for his position in regard to her? But
how vulgar Angelika seemed to him, as she bent over a troublesome lamp
and let her impatience break out! Her mouth but too easily acquired a
coarse expression. Her small head would rear itself above her broad
shoulders with a snake-like expression, and her thick wrist--
"Well," she said, "when all is said and done, that disgusting
Hellebergene is not worth making a fuss over."
Now she is annoyed with herself, he thought, and must have her say. She
will not rest until she has picked a quarrel; but she shall not have
that satisfaction.
"After all that has been said and all that has happened there--"
But this, too, missed fire. "How could I have supposed that she could
manage my mother?" He got up and paced the room. "Is that what mother
felt? Yet they were such good friends. I suspected nothing then. How is
it that mother's instinct is always more delicate? have I blunted mine?"
When, a little later, Angelika came in again, he looked so unhappy that
she was struck by it, and she then showed herself so kind and fertile
in resource on his behalf, and there was such sunshine in her
cheerfulness and flow of spirits during the evening, that he actually
brightened up under it, and thought--If mother could have brought
herself to try the experiment, perhaps after all it might have
answered. There is so much that is good and capable in this curious
creature.
He went to the children. From the first day he and they had taken to
each other. They had been unhappy in the great pension, with a mother
who seldom came near them or took any notice of them, except as clothes
to be patched, mouths to feed, or faults to be punished.
Rafael had in his nature the unconventionality which delights in
children's confidence, and he felt a desire to love and to be loved.
Children are quick to feel this.
They only wasted Angelika's time. They were in her way now more than
ever; for it may be said at once that, Rafael had become EVERYTHING to
her. This was the fascination in her, and whatever happened, it never
lost its power. Her tenderness, her devotion, were boundless. By the
aid of her personal charm, her resourceful ingenuity, she obtained
every advantage for him within her range, and even beyond it. It was
felt in her devotion by night and day, when anything was to be done, in
an untiring zeal such as only so strong and healthy a woman could have
had in her power to render. But in words it did not show itself, hardly
even in looks: except, perhaps, while she fought to win him, but never
since then.
Had she been able to adhere to one line of conduct, if only for a few
weeks at a time, and let herself be guided by her never-failing love,
he would, in this stimulating atmosphere, have made of his married life
what his mother, in spite of all, had made of hers.
Why did not this happen? Because the jealousy which she had aroused in
him and which had drawn him to her again was now reversed.
They were hardly married before it was she who was jealous! Was it
strange? A middle-aged woman, even though she be endowed with the
strongest personality and the widest sympathy, when she wins a young
husband who is the fashion--wins him as Angelika won hers--begins to
live in perpetual disquietude lest any one should take him from her.
Had she not taken him herself?
If we were to say that she was jealous of every human being who came
there, man or woman, old or young, beside those whom he met elsewhere,
it would be an exaggeration, but this exaggeration throws a strong
light upon the state of things, which actually existed.
If he became at all interested in conversation with any one, she always
interrupted. Her face grew hard, her right foot began to move; and if
this did not suffice, she struck in with sulky or provoking remarks, no
matter who was there.
If something were said in praise of any one, and it seemed to excite
his interest, she would pooh-pooh it, literally with a "pooh!" a shrug
of the shoulders, a toss of the head, or an impatient tap of the foot.
At first he imagined that she really knew something disadvantageous
about all those whom she thus disparaged, and he was filled with
admiration at her acquaintance with half Norway. He believed in her
veracity as he believed in few things. He believed, too, that it was
unbounded like so many of her qualities. She said the most cynical
things in the plainest manner without apparent design.
But little by little it dawned upon him that she said precisely what it
pleased her to say, according to the humour that she was in.
One day, as they were going to table--he had come in late and was
hungry--he was delighted to see that there were oysters.
"Oysters! at this time of the year," he cried. "They must be very
expensive."
"Pooh! that was the old woman, you know. She persuaded me to take them
for you. I got them for next to nothing."
"That was odd; you have been out, then, too?"
"Yes, and I saw YOU; you were walking with Emma Ravn."
He understood at once, by the tone of her voice, that this was not
permitted, but all the same he said, "Yes; how sweet she is! so fresh
and candid."
"She! Why, she had a child before she was married."
"Emma? Emma Ravn?"
"Yes! But I do not know who by."
"Do you know, Angelika, I do not believe that," he said solemnly.
"You can do as you please about that, but she was at the pension at the
time, so you can judge for yourself if I am right."
He could not believe that any human being could so belie themselves.
Emma's eyes, clear as water in a fountain where one can count the
pebbles at the bottom, rose to his mind, in all their innocence. He
could not believe that such eyes could lie. He grew livid, he could not
eat, he left the table. The world was nothing but a delusion, the
purest was impure.
For a long time after this, whenever he met Emma or her white-haired
mother, he turned aside, so as not to come face to face with them.
He had clung to his relations: their weak points were apparent to every
one, but their ability and honesty no less so. This one story destroyed
his confidence, impaired his self-reliance, shattered his belief, and
thus made him the poorer. How could he be fit for anything, when he so
constantly allowed himself to be befooled?
There was not one word of truth in the whole story.
His simple confidence was held in her grasp, like a child in the talons
of an eagle; but this did not last much longer.
Fortunately, she was without calculation or perseverance. She did not
remember one day what she had said the day before; for each day she
coolly asserted whatever was demanded by the necessity of the moment.
He, on the contrary, had an excellent memory; and his mathematical mind
ranged the evidence powerfully against her. Her gifts were more aptness
and quickness than anything else, they were without training, without
cohesion, and permeated with passion at all points. Therefore he could,
at any moment, crush her defence; but whenever this happened, it was so
evident that she had been actuated by jealousy that it flattered his
vanity; which was the reason why he did not regard it seriously
enough--did not pursue his advantage. Perhaps if he had done so, he
would have discovered more, for this jealousy was merely the form which
her uneasiness took. This uneasiness arose from several causes.
The fact was that she had a past and she had debts which she had
denied, and now she lived in perpetual dread lest any one should
enlighten him. If any one got on the scent, she felt sure that this
would be used against her. It merely depended on what he learned--in
other words, with whom he associated.
She could disregard anonymous letters because he did so, but there were
plenty of disagreeable people who might make innuendoes.
She saw that Rafael too, to some extent, avoided his countless friends
of old days. She did not understand the reason, but it was this: that
he, as well, felt that they knew more of her than it was expedient for
HIM to know. She saw that he made ingenious excuses for not being seen
out with her. This, too, she misconstrued. She did not at all
understand that he, in his way, was quite as frightened as she was of
what people might say. She believed that he sought the society of
others rather than hers. If nothing more came of such intercourse,
stories might be told. This was the reason for her slanders about
almost every one he spoke to. If they had vilified her, they must be
vilified in return.
She had debts, and this could not be concealed unless she increased
them; this she did with a boldness worthy of a better cause. The house
was kept on an extravagant scale, with an excellent table and great
hospitality. Otherwise he would not be comfortable at home, she said
and believed.
She herself vied with the most fashionably dressed ladies in the town.
Her daily struggle to maintain her hold on him demanded this. It
followed, of course, that she got everything for "nothing" or "the
greatest bargain in the world." There was always some one "who almost
gave it" to her. He did not know himself how much money he spent,
perhaps, because she hunted and drove him from one thing to another.
Originally he had thought of going abroad; but with a wife who knew no
foreign languages, with a large family--
Here at home, as he soon discovered, every one had lost confidence in
him. He dared not take up anything important, or else he wished to wait
a little before he came to any definite determination. In the meantime,
he did whatever came to hand, and that was often work of a subordinate
description. Both from weariness, and from the necessity to earn a
living, he ended by doing only mediocre work, and let things drift.
He always gave out that this was only "provisional." His scientific
gifts, his inventive genius, with so many pounds on his back, did not
rise high, but they should yet! He had youth's lavish estimate of time
and strength, and therefore did not see, for a long time, that the
large family, the large house were weighing him farther and farther
down. If only he could have a little peace, he thought, he would carry
out his present ideas and new ones also. He felt such power within him.
But peace was just what he never had. Now we come to the worst, or more
properly, to the sum of what has gone before. The ceaseless uneasiness
in which Angelika lived broke out into perpetual quarrelling. For one
thing, she had no self-command. A caprice, a mistake, an anxiety
over-ruled everything. She seized the smallest opportunities.
Again--and this was a most important factor--there was her overpowering
anxiety to keep possession of him; this drew her away from what she
should have paid most heed to, in order to let him have peace. She
continued her lavish housekeeping, she let the children drift, she
concentrated all her powers on him. Her jealousy, her fears, her debts,
sapped his fertile mind, destroyed his good humour, laid desolate his
love of the beautiful and his creative power.
He had in particular one great project, which he had often, but
ineffectually, attempted to mature. The effort to do so had begun
seriously one day on the heights above Hellebergene, and had continued
the whole summer. Curiously enough, one morning, as he sat at some most
wearisome work, Hellebergene and Helene, in the spring sunshine, rose
before him, and with them his project, lofty and smiling, came to him
again. Then he begged for a little peace in the house.
"Let me be quiet, if only for a month," he said. "Here is some money. I
have got an idea; I must and will have quiet. In a month's time I shall
have got on so far that perhaps I shall be able to judge if it is worth
continuing. It may be that this one idea may entirely support us."
This was something which she could understand, and now he was able to
be quiet.
He had an office in the town, but sometimes took his papers home with
him in the evenings, for it often happened that something would occur
to him at one moment or another. She bestowed every care on him; she
even sat on the stairs while he was asleep at midday, to prevent him
from being disturbed.
This went on for a fortnight. Then it so chanced that, when he had gone
out for a walk, she rummaged among his papers, and there, among
drawings, calculations, and letters, she actually, for once in a way,
found something. It was in his handwriting and as follows:
"More of the mother than the lover in her; more of the solicitude of
love than of its enjoyment. Rich in her affection, she would not
squander it in one day with you, but, mother-like, would distribute it
throughout your life. Instead of the whirl of the rapids, a placid
stream. Her love was devotion, never absorption. YOU were one and SHE
was one. Together we should have been more powerful than two lovers are
wont to be."
There was more of this, but Angelika could not read further, she became
so furious. Were these his own thoughts, or had he merely copied them?
There were no corrections, so most likely it was a copy. In any case it
showed where his thoughts were.
Rafael came quietly home, went straight to his room and lighted a
candle, even before he took off his overcoat. As he stood he wrote down
a few formulae, then seized a book, sat down astride of a chair, and
made a rapid calculation. Just then Angelika came in, leaned forward
towards him, and said in a low voice:
"You are a nice fellow! Now I know what you have in hand. Look there:
your secret thoughts are with that beast."
"Beast!" he repeated. His anger at being disturbed, at her having found
this particular paper, and now the abuse from her coarse lips of the
most delicate creature he had ever known, and, above all, the absolute
unexpectedness of the attack, made him lose his head.
"How dare you? What do you mean?"
"Don't be a fool. Do you suppose that I don't guess that that is meant
for the girl who looked after your estate in order to catch you?"
She saw that this hit the mark, so she went still further.
"She, the model of virtue! why, when she was a mere girl, she disgraced
herself with an old man."
As she spoke she was seized by the throat and flung backwards on to the
sofa, without the grasp being relaxed. She was breathless, she saw his
face over her; deadly rage was in it. A strength, a wildness of which
she had no conception, gazed upon her in sensual delight at being able
to strangle her.
After a wild struggle her arms sank down powerless, her will with them;
only her eyes remained wide open, in terror and wonderment.
Dare he? "Yes, he dare!" Her eyes grew dim, her limbs began to tremble.
"You have taken MY apple, I tell you," was heard in a childish voice
from the next room, a soft lisping voice.
It came from the most peaceful innocence in the world! It saved her!
He rushed out again; but even when the rage had left him which had
seized upon him and dominated him as a rider does a horse, he was still
not horrified at himself. His satisfaction at having at length made his
power felt was too great for that.
But by degrees there came a revulsion. Suppose he had killed her, and
had to go into penal servitude for the rest of his life for it! Had
such a possibility come into his life? Might it happen in the future?
No! no! no! How strange that Angelika should have wounded him! How
frightful her state of mind must be when she could think so odiously of
absolutely innocent people; and how angry she must have been to behave
in such a way towards him, whom she loved above all others, indeed, as
the only one for whom she had to live!
A long, long sum followed: his faults, her faults, and the faults of
others. He cooled down and began to feel more like himself.
In an hour or two he was fit to go home, to find her on her bed,
dissolved in tears, prepared at once to throw her arms round his neck.
He asked pardon a hundred times, with words, kisses, and caresses.
But with this scene his invention had fled. The spell was broken. It
never did more than flutter before him, tempting him to pursue it once
more; but he turned away from the whole subject and began to work for
money again. Something offered itself just at that moment which
Angelika had hunted up.
Back to the unending toil again. Now at last it became an irritation to
him: he chafed as the war horse chafes at being made a beast of burden.
This made the scenes at home still worse. Since that episode their
quarrels knew no bounds. Words were no longer necessary to bring them
about: a gesture, a look, a remark of his unanswered, was enough to
arouse the most violent scenes. Hitherto they had been restrained by
the presence of others, but now it was the same whether they were alone
or not. Very soon, as far as brutality of expression or the triviality
of the question was concerned, he was as bad or worse than she.
His idle fancy and creative genius found no other vent, but overthrew
and trampled underfoot many of life's most beautiful gifts. Thus he
squandered much of the happiness which such talents can duly give.
Sometimes his daily regrets and sufferings, sometimes his passionate
nature, were in the ascendant, but the cause of his despair was always
the same--that this could have happened to him. Should he leave her? He
would not thus escape. The state of the case had touched his conscience
at first, later he had become fond of the children, and his mother's
example said to him, "Hold out, hold out!"
The unanimous prediction that this marriage would be dissolved as
quickly as it had been made he would prove to be untrue. Besides, he
knew Angelika too well now not to know that he would never obtain a
separation from her until, with the law at her back, she had flayed him
alive. He could not get free.
From the first it had been a question of honour and duty; honour and
duty on account of the child which was to come--and which did not come.
Here he had a serious grievance against her; but yet, in the midst of
the tragedy, he could not but be amused at the skill with which she
turned his own gallantries against him. At last he dared not mention
the subject, for he only heard in return about his gay bachelor life.
The longer this state of things lasted and the more it became known,
the more incomprehensible it became to most people that they did not
separate--to himself, too, at times, during sleepless nights. But it is
sometimes the case that he, who makes a thousand small revolts, cannot
brace himself to one great one. The endless strife itself strengthens
the bonds, in that it saps the strength.
He deteriorated. This married life, wearing in every way, together with
the hard work, resulted in his not being equal to more than just the
necessities of the day. His initiative and will became proportionately
deadened.
A strange stagnation developed itself: he had hallucinations, visions;
he saw himself in them--his father! his mother! all the pictures were
of a menacing description.
At night he dreamed the most frightful things: his unbridled fancy, his
unoccupied creative power, took revenge, and all this weakened him. He
looked with admiration at his wife's robust health: she had the
physique of a wild beast. But at times their quarrels, their
reconciliations, brought revelations with them: he could perceive her
sorrows as well. She did not complain, she did not say a word, she
could not do so; but at times she wept and gave way as only the most
despairing can. Her nature was powerful, and the struggle of her love
beyond belief. The beauty of the fulness of life was there, even when
she was most repulsive. The wild creature, wrestling with her destiny,
often gave forth tragic gleams of light.
One day his relation, the Government Secretary, met him. They usually
avoided each other, but to-day he stopped.
"Ah, Rafael," said the dapper little man nervously, "I was coming to
see you."
"My dear fellow, what is it?"
"Ah, I see that you guess; it is a letter from your mother."
"From my mother?"
During all the time since her telegram they had not exchanged a word.
"A very long letter, but she makes a condition."
"Hum, hum! a condition?"
"Yes, but do not be angry; it is not a hard one: it is only that you
are to go away from the town, wherever you like, so long as you can be
quiet, and then you are to read it."
"You know the contents?"
"I know the contents, I will go bail for it."
What he meant, or why he was so perturbed by it, Rafael did not
understand, but it infected him; if he had had the money, and if on
that day he had been disengaged, he would have gone at once. But he had
not the money, not more than he wanted for the fete that evening. He
had the tickets for it in his pocket at that moment. He had promised
Angelika that he would go there with her, and he would keep his
promise, for it had been given after a great reconciliation scene. A
white silk dress had been the olive branch of these last peaceful days.
She therefore looked very handsome that evening as she walked into the
great hall of the Lodge, with Rafael beside her tall and stately. She
was in excellent spirits. Her quiet eyes had a haughty expression as
she turned her steps with confident superiority towards those whom she
wished to please, or those whom she hoped to annoy.
HE did not feel confident. He did not like showing himself in public
with her, and lately it had precisely been in public places that she
had chosen to make scenes; besides which, he felt nervous as to what
his mother could wish to say to him.
A short time before he came to the fete, he had tried, in two quarters,
to borrow money, and each time had received only excuses. This had
greatly mortified him. His disturbed state of mind, as is so often the
case with nervous people, made him excited and boisterous, nay, even
made him more than usually jovial. And as though a little of the old
happiness were actually to come to him that evening, he met his friend
and relative Hans Ravn, him and his young Bavarian wife, who had just
come to the town. All three were delighted to meet.
"Do you remember," said Hans Ravn, "how often you have lent me money,
Rafael?" and he drew him on one side. "Now I am at the top of the tree,
now I am married to an heiress, and the most charming girl too; ah, you
must know her better."
"She is pretty as well," said Rafael.
"And pretty as well--and good tempered; in fact, you see before you the
happiest man in Norway."
Rafael's eyes filled. Ravn put his hands on to his friend's shoulders.
"Are you not happy, Rafael?"
"Not quite so happy as you, Hans--"
He left him to speak to some one else, then returned again.
"You say, Hans, that I have often lent you money."
"Are you pressed? Do you want some, Rafael? My dear fellow, how much?"
"Can you spare me two thousand kroner?"
"Here they are."
"No, no; not in here, come outside."
"Yes, let us go and have some champagne to celebrate our meeting. No,
not our wives," he added, as Rafael looked towards where they stood
talking.
"Not our wives," laughed Rafael. He understood the intention, and now
he wished to enjoy his freedom thoroughly. They came in again merrier
and more boisterous than before.
Rafael asked Hans Ravn's young wife to dance. Her personal attractions,
natural gaiety, and especially her admiration of her husband's
relations, took him by storm. They danced twice, and laughed and talked
together afterwards.
Later in the evening the two friends rejoined their wives, so that they
might all sit together at supper. Even from a distance Rafael could see
by Angelika's face that a storm was brewing. He grew angry at once. He
had never been blamed more groundlessly. He was never to have any
unalloyed pleasure, then! But he confined himself to whispering, "Try
to behave like other people." But that was exactly what she did not
mean to do. He had left her alone, every one had seen it. She would
have her revenge. She could not endure Hans Ravn's merriment, still
less that of his wife, so she contradicted rudely once, twice, three
times, while Hans Ravn's face grew more and more puzzled. The storm
might have blown over, for Rafael parried each thrust, even turning
them into jokes, so that the party grew merrier, and no feelings were
hurt; but on this she tried fresh tactics. As has been already said,
she could make a number of annoying gestures, signs and movements which
only he understood. In this way she showed him her contempt for
everything which every one, and especially he himself, said. He could
not help looking towards her, and saw this every time he did so, until
under the cover of the laughter of the others, with as much fervour and
affection as can be put into such a word, "You jade!" he said.
"Jade; was ist das?" asked the bright-eyed foreigner.
This made the whole affair supremely ridiculous. Angelika herself
laughed, and all hoped that the cloud had been finally dispersed.
No!--as though Satan himself had been at table with them, she would not
give in.
The conversation again grew lively, and when it was at its height, she
pooh-poohed all their jokes so unmistakably that they were completely
puzzled. Rafael gave her a furious look, and then she jeered at him,
"You boy!" she said. After this Rafael answered her angrily, and let
nothing pass without retaliation, rough, savage retaliation; he was
worse than she was.
"But God bless me!" said good-natured Hans Ravn at length, "how you are
altered, Rafael!" His genial kindly eyes gazed at him with a look which
Rafael never forget.
"Ja, ich kan es nicht mehr aushalten" said the young Fru Ravn, with
tears in her eyes. She rose, her husband hurried to her, and they left
together. Rafael sat down again, with Angelika. Those near them looked
towards them and whispered together. Angry and ashamed, he looked
across at Angelika, who laughed. Everything seemed to turn red before
his eyes--he rose; he had a wild desire to kill her there, before every
one. Yes! the temptation overpowered him to such an extent that he
thought that people must notice it.
"Are you not well, Kaas?" he heard some one beside him say.
He could not remember afterwards what he answered, or how he got away;
but still, in the street, he dwelt with ecstasy on the thought of
killing her, of again seeing her face turn black, her arms fall
powerless, her eyes open wide with terror; for that was what would
happen some day. He should end his life in a felon's cell. That was as
certainly a part of his destiny as had been the possession of talents
which he had allowed to become useless.
A quarter of an hour later he was at the observatory: he scanned the
heavens, but no stars were visible. He felt that he was perspiring,
that his clothes clung to him, yet he was ice-cold. That is the future
that awaits you, he thought; it runs ice-cold through your limbs.
Then it was that a new and, until then, unused power, which underlay
all else, broke forth and took the command.
"You shall never return home to her, that is all past now, boy; I will
not permit it any longer."
What was it? What voice was that? It really sounded as though outside
himself. Was it his father's? It was a man's voice. It made him clear
and calm. He turned round, he went straight to the nearest hotel,
without further thought, without anxiety. Something new was about to
begin.
He slept for three hours undisturbed by dreams; it was the first night
for a long time that he had done so.
The following morning he sat in the little pavilion at the station at
Eidsvold with his mother's packet of letters laid open before him. It
consisted of a quantity of papers which he had read through.
The expanse of Lake Mjosen lay cold and grey beneath the autumn mist,
which still shrouded the hillsides. The sound of hammers from the
workshops to the right mingled with the rumble of wheels on the bridge;
the whistle of an engine, the rattle of crockery from the restaurant;
sights and sounds seethed round him like water boiling round an egg.
As soon as his mother had felt sure that Angelika was not really
enceinte she had busied herself in collecting all the information about
her which it was possible to obtain.
By the untiring efforts of her ubiquitous relations she had succeeded
to such an extent and in such detail as no examining magistrate could
have accomplished. And there now lay before him letters, explanations,
evidence, which the deponent was ready to swear to, besides letters
from Angelika herself: imprudent letters which this impulsive creature
could perpetrate in the midst of her schemes; or deeply calculated
letters, which directly contradicted others which had been written at a
different period, based on different calculations. These documents were
only the accompaniment of a clear summing-up by his mother. It was
therefore she who had guided the investigations of the others and made
a digest of their discoveries. With mathematical precision was here
laid down both what was certain and what, though not certain, was
probable. No comment was added, not a word addressed to himself.
That portion of the disclosures which related to Angelika's past does
not concern us. That which had reference to her relations with Rafael
began by proving that the anonymous letters, which had been the means
of preventing his engagement with Helene, had been written by Angelika.
This revelation and that which preceded it, give an idea of the
overwhelming humiliation under which Rafael now suffered. What was he
that he could be duped and mastered like a captured animal; that what
was best and what was worst in him could lead him so far astray? Like a
weak fool he was swept along; he had neither seen nor heard nor thought
before he was dragged away from everything that was his or that was
dear to him.
As he sat there, the perspiration poured from him as it had done the
night before, and again he felt a deadly chill. He therefore went up to
his room with the papers, which he locked up in his trunk, and then set
off at a run along the road. The passers-by turned to stare after the
tall fellow.
As he ran he repeated to himself, "Who are you, my lad? who are you?"
Then he asked the hills the same question, and then the trees as well.
He even asked the fog, which was now rolling off, "Who am I? can you
answer me that?"
The close-cropped half-withered turf mocked him--the cleared potato
patches, the bare fields, the fallen leaves.
"That which you are you will never be; that which you can you will
never do; that which you ought to become you will never attain to! As
you, so your mother before you. She turned aside--and your father
too--into absolute folly; perhaps their fathers before them! This is a
branch of a great family who never attained to what they were intended
for."
"Something different has misled each one of us, but we have all been
misled. Why is that so? We have greater aims than many others, but the
others drove along the beaten highway right through the gates of
Fortune's house. We stray away from the highway and into the wood. See!
am I not there myself now? Away from the highway and into the wood, as
though I were led by an inward law. Into the wood." He looked round
among the mountain-ashes, the birches, and other leafy trees in autumn
tints. They stood all round, dripping, as though they wept for his
sorrow. "Yes, yes; they will see me hang here, like Absalom by his long
hair." He had not recalled this old picture a moment before he stopped,
as though seized by a strong hand.
He must not fly from this, but try to fathom it. The more he thought of
it, the clearer it became: ABSALOM'S HISTORY WAS HIS OWN. He began with
rebellion. Naturally rebellion is the first step in a course which
leads one from the highway--leads to passion and its consequences. That
was clear enough.
Thus passion overpowered strength of purpose; thus chance circumstances
sapped the foundations--But David rebelled as well. Why, then, was not
David hung up by his hair? It was quite as long as Absalom's. Yes,
David was within an ace of it, right up to his old age. But the innate
strength in David was too great, his energy was always too powerful: it
conquered the powers of rebellion. They could not drag him far away
into passionate wanderings; they remained only holiday flights in his
life and added poetry to it. They did not move his strength of purpose.
Ah, ha! It was so strong in David that he absorbed them and fed on
them; and yet he was within an ace--very often. See! That is what I,
miserable contemptible wretch, cannot do. So I must hang! Very soon the
man with the spear will be after me.
Rafael now set off running; probably he wished to escape the man with
the spear. He now entered the thickest part of the wood, a narrow
valley between two high hills which overshadowed it. Oh, how thirsty he
was, so fearfully thirsty! He stood still and wondered whether he could
get anything to drink. Yes, he could hear the murmur of a brook. He ran
farther down towards it. Close by was an opening in the wood, and as he
went towards the stream he was arrested by something there: the sun had
burst forth and lighted up the tree-tops, throwing deep shadows below.
Did he see anything? Yes; it seemed to him that he saw himself, not
absolutely in the opening, but to one side, in the shadow, under a
tree; he hung there by his hair. He hung there and swung, a man, but in
the velvet jacket of his childhood and the tight-fitting trousers: he
swung suspended by his tangled red hair. And farther away he distinctly
saw another figure: it was his mother, stiff and stately, who was
turning round as if to the sound of music. And, God preserve him! still
farther away, broad and heavy, hung his father, by the few thin hairs
on his neck, with wretched distorted face as on his death-bed. In other
respects those two were not great sinners. They were old; but his sins
were great, for he was young, and therefore nothing had ever prospered
with him, not even in his childhood. There had always been something
which had caused him to be misunderstood or which had frightened him or
made him constantly constrained and uncertain of himself. Never had he
been able to keep to the main point, and thus to be in quiet natural
peace. With only one exception--his meeting with Helene.
It seemed to him that he was sitting in the boat with her out in the
bay. The sky was bright, there was melody in the woods. Now he was up
on the hill with her, among the saplings, and she was explaining to him
that it depended on her care whether they throve or not.
He went to the brook to drink; he lay down over the water. He was thus
able to see his own face. How could that happen? Why, there was
sunshine overhead. He was able to see his own face. Great heavens! how
like his father he had become. In the last year he had grown very like
his father--people had said so. He well remembered his mother's manner
when she noticed it. But, good God! were those grey hairs? Yes, in
quantities, so that his hair was no longer red but grey. No one had
told him of it. Had he advanced so far, been so little prepared for it,
that Hans Ravn's remark, "How you are altered, Rafael!" had frightened
him?
He had certainly given up observing himself, in this coarse life of
quarrels. In it, certainly, neither words nor deeds were weighed, and
hence this hunted feeling. It was only natural that he had ceased to
observe. If the brook had been a little deeper, he would have let
himself be engulfed in it. He got up, and went on again, quicker and
quicker: sometimes he saw one person, sometimes another, hanging in the
woods.
He dare not turn round. Was it so very wonderful that others besides
himself and his family had turned from the beaten track, and peopled
the byways and the boughs in the wood? He had been unjust towards
himself and his parents; they were not alone, they were in only too
large a company. What will unjust people say, but that the very thing
which requires strength does not receive it, but half of it comes to
nothing, more than half of the powers are wasted. Here, in these strips
of woodland which run up the hills side by side, like organ-pipes,
Henrik Vergeland had also roamed: within an ace, with him too, within
an ace! Wonderful how the ravens gather together here, where so many
people are hanging. Ha! ha! He must write this to his mother! It was
something to write about to her, who had left him, who deserted him
when he was the most unhappy, because all that she cared for was to
keep her sacred person inviolate, to maintain her obstinate opinion, to
gratify her pique--Oh! what long hair!--How fast his mother was held!
She had not cut her hair enough then. But now she should have her
deserts. Everything from as far back as he could remember should be
recalled, for once in a way he would show her herself; now he had both
the power and the right. His powers of discovery had been long hidden
under the suffocating sawdust of the daily and nightly sawing; but now
it was awake, and his mother should feel it.
People noticed the tall man break out of the wood, jump over hedges and
ditches, and make his way straight up the hill. At the very top he
would write to his mother!--
He did not return to the hotel till dark. He was wet, dirty, and
frightfully exhausted. He was as hungry as a wolf, he said, but he
hardly ate anything; on the other hand, he was consumed with thirst. On
leaving the table he said that he wished to stay there a few days to
sleep. They thought that he was joking, but he slept uninterruptedly
until the afternoon of the next day. He was then awakened, ate a little
and drank a great deal, for he had perspired profusely; after which he
fell asleep again. He passed the next twenty-four hours in much the
same way.
When he awoke the following morning he found himself alone.
Had not a doctor been there, and had he not said that it was a good
thing for him to sleep? It seemed to him that he had heard a buzz of
voices; but he was sure that he was well now, only furiously hungry and
thirsty, and when he raised himself he felt giddy. But that passed off
by degrees, when he had eaten some of the food which had been left
there. He drank out of the water-jug--the carafe was empty--and walked
once or twice up and down before the open window. It was decidedly
cold, so he shut it. Just then he remembered that he had written a
frightful letter to his mother!
How long ago was it? Had he not slept a long time? Had he not turned
grey? He went to the looking-glass, but forgot the grey hair at the
sight of himself. He was thin, lank, and dirty.--The letter! the
letter! It will kill my mother! There had already been misfortunes
enough, more must not follow.
He dressed himself quickly, as if by hurrying he could overtake the
letter. He looked at the clock--it had stopped. Suppose the train were
in! He must go by it, and from the train straight to the steamer, and
home, home to Hellebergene! But he must send a telegram to his mother
at once. He wrote it--"Never mind the letter, mother. I am coming this
evening and will never leave you again."
So now he had only to put on a clean collar, now his watch--it
certainly was morning--now to pack, go down and pay the bill, have
something to eat, take his ticket, send the telegram; but first--no, it
must all be done together, for the train WAS there; it had only a few
minutes more to wait; he could only just catch it. The telegram was
given to some one else to send off.
But he had hardly got into the carriage, where he was alone, than the
thought of the letter tortured him, till he could not sit still. This
dreadful analysis of his mother, strophe after strophe, it rose before
him, it again drove him into the state of mind in which he had been
among the hills and woods of Eidsvold. Beyond the tunnel the character
of the scenery was the same.--Good God! that dreadful letter was never
absent from his thoughts, otherwise he would not suffer so terribly.
What right had he to reproach his mother, or any one, because a mere
chance should have become of importance in their lives?
Would the telegram arrive in time to save her from despair, and yet not
frighten her from home because he was coming? To think that he could
write in such a way to her, who had but lived to collect the
information which would free him! His ingratitude must appear too
monstrous to her. The extreme reserve which she was unable to break
through might well lead to catastrophes. What might not she have
determined on when she received this violent attack by way of thanks?
Perhaps she would think that life was no longer worth living, she who
thought it so easy to die. He shuddered.
But she will do nothing hastily, she will weigh everything first. Her
roots go deep. When she appears to have acted on impulse, it is because
she has had previous knowledge. But she has no previous knowledge here;
surely here she will deliberate.
He pictured her as, wrapped in her shawl, she wandered about in dire
distress--or with intent gaze reviewing her life and his own, until
both appeared to her to have been hopelessly wasted--or pondering where
she could best hide herself so that she should suffer no more.
How he loved her! All that had happened had drawn a veil over his eyes,
which was now removed.
Now he was on board the steamer which was bearing him home. The
weather had become mild and summerlike; it had been raining, but
towards evening it began to clear. He would get to Hellebergene in fine
weather, and by moonlight. It grew colder; he spoke to no one, nor had
he eyes for anything about him.
The image of his mother, wrapped in her long shawl--that was all the
company he had. Only his mother! No one but his mother! Suppose the
telegram had but frightened her the more--that to see HIM now appeared
the worst that could happen. To read such a crushing doom for her whole
life, and that from him! She was not so constituted that it could be
cancelled by his asking forgiveness and returning to her. On the
contrary, it would precipitate the worst, it must do so.
The violent perspiration began again; he had to put on more wraps. His
terror took possession of him: he was forced to contemplate the most
awful possibilities--to picture to himself what death his mother would
choose!
He sprang to his feet and paced up and down. He longed to throw himself
into somebody's arms, to cry aloud. But he knew well that he must not
let such words escape him.--He HAD to picture her as she handled the
guns, until she relinquished the idea of using any of them. Then he
imagined her recalling the deepest hiding-places in the woods--where
were they all?
HE recalled them, one after another. No, not in any of THOSE, for she
wished to hide herself where she would never be found! There was the
cement-bed; it went sheer down there, and the water was deep!--He clung
to the rigging to prevent himself from falling. He prayed to be
released from these terrors. But he saw her floating there, rocked by
the rippling water. Was it the face which was uppermost, or was it the
body, which for a while floated higher than the face?
His thoughts were partially diverted from this by people coming up to
ask him if he were ill. He got something warm and strong to drink, and
now the steamer approached the part of the coast with which he was
familiar. They passed the opening into Hellebergene, for one has to go
first to the town, and thence in a boat. It now became the question,
whether a boat had been sent for him. In that case his mother was
alive, and would welcome him. But if there was no boat, then a message
from the gulf had been sent instead!
And there was no boat!--
For a moment his senses failed him; only confused sounds fell on his
ear. But then he seemed to emerge from a dark passage. He must get to
Hellebergene! He must see what had happened; he would go and search!
By this time it was growing dark. He went on shore and looked round for
a boat as though half asleep. He could hardly speak, but he did not
give in till he got the men together and hired the boat. He took the
helm himself, and bade them row with all their might. He knew every
peak in the grey twilight. They might depend on him, and row on without
looking round. Soon they had passed the high land and were in among the
islands. This time they did not come out to meet him; they all seemed
gathered there to repel him. No boat had been sent; there was,
therefore, nothing more for him to do here. No boat had been sent,
because he had forfeited his place here. Like savage beasts, with
bristles erect, the peaks and islands arrayed themselves against him.
"Row on, my lads," he cried, for now arose again in him that dormant
power which only manifested itself in his utmost need.
"How is it with you, my boy? I am growing weary. Courage, now, and
forward!"
Again that voice outside himself--a man's voice. Was it his father's?
Whether or not it were his father's voice, here before his father's
home he would struggle against Fate.
In man's direst necessity, what he has failed in and what he can do
seem to encounter each other. And thus, just as the boat had cleared
the point and the islands and was turning into the bay, he raised
himself to his full height, and the boatmen looked at him in
astonishment. He still grasped the rudder-lines, and looked as though
he were about to meet an enemy. Or did he hear anything? was it the
sound of oars?
Yes, they heard them now as well. From the strait near the inlet a boat
was approaching them. She loomed large on the smooth surface of the
water and shot swiftly along.
"Is that a boat from Hellebergene?" shouted Rafael. His voice shook.
"Yes," came a voice out of the darkness, and he recognised the
bailiff's voice. "Is it Rafael?"
"Yes. Why did you not come before?"
"The telegram has only just arrived."
He sat down. He did not speak. He became suddenly incapable of uttering
a word.
The other boat turned and followed them. Rafael nearly ran his boat on
shore; he forgot that he was steering. Very soon they cleared the
narrow passage which led into the inner bay, and rounded the last
headland, and there!--there lay Hellebergene before them in a blaze of
light! From cellar to attic, in every single window, it glowed, it
streamed with light, and at that moment another light blazed out from
the cairn on the hill-top.
It was thus that his mother greeted him. He sobbed; and the boatmen
heard him, and at the same time noticed that it had grown suddenly
light. They turned round, and were so engrossed in the spectacle that
they forgot to row.
"Come! you must let me get on," was all that he could manage to say.
His sufferings were forgotten as he leapt from the boat. Nor did it
disturb him that he did not meet his mother at the landing-place, or
near the house, nor see her on the terrace. He simply rushed up the
stairs and opened the door.
The candles in the windows gave but little light within. Indeed,
something had been put in the windows for them to stand on, so that the
interior was half in shadow. But he had come in from the semi-darkness.
He looked round for her, but he heard some one crying at the other end
of the room. There she sat, crouched in the farthest corner of the
sofa, with her feet drawn up under her, as in old days when she was
frightened. She did not stretch out her arms; she remained huddled
together. But he bent over her, knelt down, laid his face on hers, wept
with her. She had grown fragile, thin, haggard, ah! as though she could
be blown away. She let him take her in his arms like a child and clasp
her to his breast; let him caress and kiss her. Ah, how ethereal she
had become! And those eyes, which at last he saw, now looked tearfully
out from their large orbits, but more innocently than a bird from its
nest. Over her broad forehead she had wound a large silk handkerchief
in turban fashion. It hung down behind. She wished to conceal the
thinness of her hair. He smiled to recognise her again in this. More
spiritualised, more ethereal in her beauty, her innermost aspirations
shone forth without effort. Her thin hands caressed his hair, and now
she gazed into his eyes.
"Rafael, my Rafael!" She twined her arms round him and murmured
welcome. But soon she raised her head and resumed a sitting posture.
She wished to speak. He was beforehand with her.
"Forgive the letter," he whispered with beseeching eyes and voice, and
hands upraised.
"I saw the distress of your soul," was the whispered answer, for it
could not be spoken aloud. "And there was nothing to forgive," she
added. She had laid her face against his again. "And it was quite true,
Rafael," she murmured.
She must have passed through terrible days and nights here, he thought,
before she could say that.
"Mother, mother! what a fearful time!"
Her little hand sought his: it was cold; it lay in his like an egg in a
deserted nest. He warmed it and took the other as well.
"Was not the illumination splendid?" she said. And now her voice was
like a child's.
He moved the screen which obstructed the light: he must see her better.
He thought, when he saw the look of happiness in her face, if life
looks so beautiful to her still, we shall have a long time together.
"If you had told me all that about Absalom, the picture which you made
when you were told the story of David, Rafael; if you had only told me
that before!" She paused, and her lips quivered.
"How could I tell it to you, mother, when I did not understand it
myself?"
"The illumination--that must signify that I, too, understand. It ought
to light you forward; do you not think so?"
A PAINFUL MEMORY FROM CHILDHOOD
I must have been somewhere about seven years old, when one Sunday
afternoon a rumour reached the parsonage that, on that same day, two
men, rowing past the Buggestrand in Eidsfjord, had discovered a woman
who had fallen over a cliff, and had remained half lying, half hanging,
close to the water's edge.
Before moving her, they tried to find out from her who had thrown her
over.
It was thirty-five miles by water to the doctor's, and then an order
for admission to the hospital had also to be procured. She had lain
twenty-four hours before help reached her, and shortly afterwards she
died. Before she breathed her last, she said it was Peer Hagbo who had
done it. "But," she added, "they mustn't do him any harm."
Everybody knew that there had been an attachment between the girl, who
was in service at Hagbo's, and the son of the house, and the shrewd
ones instantly guessed why he wanted to get her out of the way.
I remember clearly the arrival of the news. It was, as I have said, on
a Sunday afternoon, her death having occurred on the morning of the
same day.
It was in the very middle of summer, when the whole place was flooded
with sunshine and gladness. I remember how the light faded, faces
turned to stone, the fjord grew dim, and village and forest shrank away
into shadow. I remember that even the next day I felt as though a blow
had been dealt to ordinary existence. I knew that I need not go to
school. Men knocked off work, leaving everything just as it was, and
sat down with idle hands. The women especially were paralysed: it was
evident they felt themselves threatened, they even said as much. When
strangers came to the parsonage their bearing and expression showed
that the murder lay heavy on their minds, and they read the same story
in us. We took each other's hands with a sense of remoteness. The
murder was the only thing that was present with us. Whatever we talked
of we seemed to hear of the murder in voice and word. The last
consciousness at night and the first in the morning was that everything
was unsettled, and that the joy of life was suddenly arrested, like the
hands on a dial at a certain hour.
But by degrees the murder fell into its proper place among other
interests; curiosity and gossip had made it commonplace. It was taken
up, turned over, considered, picked at and pulled about, till it became
simply "the last new thing." Soon we knew every detail of the relation
between the murdered and the murderer. We knew who it was that Peer's
mother had wanted him to marry; we knew the Hagbo family in and out,
and their history for generations past.
When the magistrate came to the parsonage to institute the preliminary
inquiry, the murder was merely an inexhaustible theme of conversation.
But the next day when the bailiff and some other men appeared with the
murderer, a new feeling took possession of me, a feeling of which I
could not have imagined myself capable--an overpowering compassion. A
young good-looking lad, well grown, slightly built, rather small than
otherwise, with dark not very thick hair, with appealing eyes which
were now downcast, with a clear voice, and about his whole personality
a certain charm, almost refinement; a creature to associate with life,
not death, with gladness, with gaiety. I was more sorry for him than I
can say. The bailiff and the other people spoke kindly to him too, so
they must have felt the same. Only the peppery little clerk came out
with some hard words, but the accused stood cap in hand and made no
answer.
He paced up and down the yard in his shirt sleeves--the day was very
warm--with a flat cloth cap over his close-cut hair, and his hands in
his trousers pockets, or toying restlessly with a piece of straw. The
parsonage dog had found companions, and the youth followed the dog's
frolic with his eyes, and gazed at the chickens and at us children as
though he longed to be one of us. The girl's words, "But don't do him
any harm," rang in my ears unceasingly--whether he walked about or
stood still or sat down. I knew that he would certainly be beheaded,
and, believing that it must be soon, I was filled with horror at the
thought of his saying to himself, In a month I shall die--and then in a
week--in a day--an hour... it must be utterly unendurable. I slipped
behind him to see his neck, and just at that moment he lifted his hand
up to it, a little brown hand; and I could not get rid of the thought
that perhaps his fingers would come in the way when the axe was falling.
He and the warders were asked to come in and dine. I felt I must see if
it were really possible for him to eat. Yes, he ate and chatted just
like the rest, and for a time I forgot my terror. But no sooner was I
outside again and alone than I fell to thinking of it with might and
main, and it seemed to me very hard that her words, "But you mustn't do
him any harm," should be so utterly disregarded. I felt I must go in
and say as much to father. But he, slow and serious, and the clerk,
little and dapper, were walking up and down the room deep in
conversation, far, far above all my misery. I slipped out again, and
stroked the coat which Peer had taken off.
The inquiry was held in my schoolroom. My master acted as secretary to
the court, and I got leave to sit there and listen. For the matter of
that, the clerk spoke in so loud a voice that it could be heard through
the open window by every one in the place. The unfortunate youth was
called upon to account for the entire day on which the murder had been
committed--for every hour of that Sunday. He denied that he had killed
her--denied it with the utmost emphasis: "It was not he who had done
it." The magistrate's examination was both acutely and kindly
conducted; Peer was moved to tears, but no confession could be drawn
from him.
"This will be a long business, madam," said the magistrate to my mother
when the first day's inquiry was over. But later in the evening Peer's
sister came to the parsonage and remained with him all through the
night. They were heard whispering and crying unceasingly. In the
morning Peer was pale and silent; before the court he took all the
blame upon himself.
The way it had happened, he explained, was that he had been her lover,
and that his mother had strongly disapproved of the connection. So one
Sunday as the girl, prayer-book in hand, was going to church, he met
her in the wood. They sat down, and he asked if she intended to declare
him the father of the child she was about to bear; for it was in this
time of sore necessity that she was going to seek consolation in the
church. She replied that she could accuse no one else. He spoke of the
shame it would bring on him, and how annoyed his mother already was.
Yes, yes, she knew that too well. His mother was very angry with her;
and she thought it strange of Peer that he didn't stand up for her; he
knew best whose fault it was that all this had happened. But Peer
hinted that she had been compliant to others as well as to himself, and
therefore he would not submit to being given out as the child's father.
He tried to make her angry, but did not succeed, she was so gentle. He
had an axe lying concealed in the heather near where he sat. He took it
and struck her on the head from behind. She did not lose consciousness
at once, but tried to defend herself while she begged for her life. He
could give no clear account of what happened afterwards. It seemed
almost as though he himself had lost consciousness. As to the other
events, he accepted the account of them which had been given in the
evidence against him.
His sister waited at the parsonage until he came from the examination,
worn out and with eyes red with weeping. Once more they went aside and
whispered. I remember nothing more of her than that she held her head
down and wept a great deal.
It was in the winter that he was to be executed. The announcement
was made at such short notice that every one in the house had to bestir
himself--father was to deliver an exhortation at the place of
execution, and the Dean, whose parishioner the condemned man was,
together with the bailiff, had arranged to come to us the day before.
Peer and his warders and a friend, his instructor during the time of
his imprisonment, schoolmaster Jakobsen, were to sleep down in the
schoolhouse, which was part of the farm property belonging to the old
parsonage. Meals were to be carried from our house to the prisoner and
Jakobsen.
I remember that they came in the morning in two boat-loads from Molde:
the Dean, the bailiff, the military escort, and the condemned man. But
I had to sit in the old schoolhouse, and not even later in the day was
I allowed to go down to where they were.
This prohibition made the whole proceeding the more mysterious. It grew
dark early. The sea ran black against a whitish and in some places
bare-swept beach. The ragged clouds chased each other across the sky.
We were afraid a storm was coming on. Then one of the parsonage
chimneys caught on fire, and most of the soldiers came rushing up to
offer help. The great fire-ladder was brought from under the
storehouse. It was unusually heavy and clumsy, so it was difficult to
get it raised, till father broke into the midst of the crowd, ordered
them all to stand back, and set it up by himself. This is still
remembered in the parish; and also that the bailiff, an active little
fellow, took a bucket in each hand and went up the ladder till he
reached the turf roof. The black fjord, the hurrying clouds, the menace
of the coming day, the blaze of the fire, the bustle and din...and then
the silence afterwards! People whispered as they moved about the rooms
and out in the yard, whence they looked down upon the
schoolhouse-prison where the steady light burned.
Schoolmaster Jacobsen was sitting there now with his friend. They were
singing and praying together, I heard from those who had been down in
that direction. Peer's family came in the evening in a boat, went up to
see him, and took leave of him. I heard how dauntless he was in his
confidence that the next day he would be with God, and how beautifully
he talked to his people, and especially how he begged them to take an
affectionate greeting to his mother, and be good to her as long as she
lived. Some said she had come in the boat with the rest, but would not
go up to see him. That was not true, any more than that some of them
were at the execution the next day, which was also reported.
I wakened the next morning under a weight of apprehension. The weather
had changed and was fair now, but it felt oppressive nevertheless. No
one spoke loud, and people said as little as possible. I was to be
allowed to go with the rest and look on; so I made haste to find my
tutor, whom I had been told not to leave. The two clergymen came out in
their cassocks. We went down to the landing-place and rowed the first
part of the way. The condemned man and his escort had gone on before,
and waited at the place where we disembarked, in order to walk the
latter part of the way to the place of execution, a kilometer or so
distant. The execution had to take place at a cross-roads, and there
was only one in the neighbourhood--namely, at Ejdsvaag, nearly seven
miles away from where the murder was committed. The bailiff headed the
procession, then came the soldiers, then the condemned man, with the
Dean on one side and my father on the other, then Jacobsen and my
tutor, with me between them, then some more people, followed by more
soldiers. We walked cautiously along the slippery road. The clergyman
talked constantly to the condemned man, who was now very pale. His eyes
had grown gentle and weary and he said very little. My mother, who had
been very kind to him, and whom he had thanked for all she had done,
had sent him a bottle of wine to keep up his strength. The first time
that my tutor offered him some, he looked at the clergyman as though
asking if there were anything sinful in accepting it. My father quoted
St. Paul's advice to Timothy, and instantly he drank off a long draught.
By the wayside stood people curious to see him, and they joined the
procession as it passed along. Among them were some of his comrades, to
whom he sorrowfully nodded. Once or twice he lifted his cap, the same
flat one I had seen him in the first time. It was evident that his
comrades had a regard for him; and I saw, too, some young women who
were crying, and made no attempt to conceal it. He walked along with
his hands clasped at his breast, probably praying.
We were all startled by the captain's loud and commonplace word of
command, "Attention!" as we reached the appointed place. A body of
soldiers stood drawn up in a hollow square, which closed in after
admitting the bailiff, the clergyman, the condemned man, and a few
besides, among whom was myself. A great silent crowd stood round, and
over their heads one saw the mounted figure of the sheriff in his
cocked hat. When the soldiers who came with us, having carried out
various sharp words of command, had taken their places in the square,
the further proceedings began by the sheriff's reading aloud the death
sentence and the royal order for the execution.
The sheriff stationed himself directly in front of the place where some
planed boards were laid over the grave. At one end of it stood the
block. On the other side of the grave a platform had been erected, from
which the Dean was to speak. Peer Hagbo knelt below on the step, with
his face buried in his hands, close to the feet of his spiritual
adviser. The Dean was of Danish birth, one of the many who, at the time
of the separation, had chosen to make their home in Norway. His
addresses were beautiful to read, but one couldn't always hear him, and
least of all when he was moved, as was frequently the case. He shouted
the first words very loud; then his head sank down between his
shoulders, and he shook it without a pause while he closed his eyes and
uttered some smothered sounds, catching his breath between them. The
points of his tall shirt-collar, which reached to the middle of his
ears (I have never since seen the like), stuck up on each side of the
bare cropped head with the two double chins underneath, and the whole
was framed between his shoulders, which, by long practice, he could
raise much higher than other men. Those who did not know him--for to
know him was to love him--could hardly keep from laughing. His speech
was neither heard nor understood, but it was short. His emotion forced
him to break it off suddenly. One thing alone we all understood: that
he loved the pale young man whom he had prepared for death, and that he
wished that all of us might go to our God as happy and confident as he
who was to die to-day. When he stepped down they embraced each other
for the last time. Peer gave his hand to my father and to a number
besides, and then placed himself by his friend Jakobsen. The latter
knew what this meant. He took off a kerchief and bound Peer's eyes,
while we saw him whisper something to him and receive a whispered
answer. Then a man came forward to bind Peer's hands behind his back,
but he begged to be left free, and his prayer was granted. Then
Jakobsen took him by the hand and led him forward. At the place where
Peer was to kneel Jakobsen stopped short, and Peer slowly bent his
knees. Jakobsen bent Peer's head down until it rested on the block;
then he drew back and folded his hands. All this I saw, and also that a
tall man came and took hold of Peer's neck, while a smaller man drew
forth from a couple of folded towels a shining axe with a remarkably
broad thin blade. It was then I turned away. I heard the captain's
horrible "Present arms"; I heard some one praying "Our Father"--perhaps
it was Peer himself--then a blow that sounded exactly as if it went
into a great cabbage. At once I looked round again, and saw one leg
kicking out, and a yard or two beyond the body lay the head, the mouth
gasping and gasping as if for air.
The executioner's assistant sprang forward and took hold of it by the
ends of the handkerchief that had bandaged the eyes, and threw it into
the coffin beside the body, where it fell with a dull sound. The boards
were laid over the coffined remains, and the whole hastily lifted up
and lowered into the grave.
Then my father got up on the platform. Every one could understand what
HE said, and his powerful voice was heard to such a distance that even
now it is remembered in the district. Following up the thunderous
admonition of the execution itself, he warned the young against the
vices which prevailed in the parish--against drunkenness, fighting,
unchastity, and other misconduct. They must have liked the discourse
very much, for it was stolen out of the pocket of his gown on the way
home.
As for me, I left the place as sick at heart, as overwhelmed with
horror, as if it were my turn to be executed next. Afterwards I
compared notes with many others, who owned to exactly the same feeling.
Father and the Dean dined at the captain's with the other officials;
but they separated and went home directly after dinner.