IV

It was getting on for morning; day dawned, a purple, quivering

September morning.

There was a gentle murmur among the poplars in the garden. A window

was thrown open, a man leaned out of it humming. He had no coat on,

he looked out upon the world like a dishevelled maniac who had been

drinking himself drunk in happiness all night.

He suddenly turned away from the window and looked towards his door;

somebody had knocked. He called: "Come In!" A man entered.

"Good-morning," he greeted the visitor.

It was an elderly man, he was pale with fury and carried a lamp in his

hand as it was not yet full daylight.

"I put it to you once more, Mr. Miller, Mr. Johannes Miller, do you

call this reasonable behaviour?" the man stammered with indignation.

"No," answered Johannes, "you are right. I've been writing something,

it came so easily; look, I've written all that, I've been lucky

tonight. But now I have finished. I opened the window and sang a

little."

"You roared," said the man. "It was the loudest song I have ever heard,

I tell you. And it's still the middle of the night."

Johannes plunged his hands among the papers on his table and picked up

a handful of sheets large and small.

"Look here!" he cried. "I tell you, I've never done so well. It was

like one long flash of lightning. I once saw a flash run along a

telegraph wire; God help you, it looked like a sheet of fire. That's

how it has been streaming through me tonight. What am I to do? I don't

think you will be angry with me any more when you hear all about it.

I sat here writing, you see, I didn't move; I remembered you and kept

quiet. Then there came a moment when I didn't remember it any longer,

my breast was ready to burst, perhaps I got up then, perhaps I got up

once more in the course of the night and walked round the room a few

times. I was so happy."

"I didn't hear you so much tonight," said the man. "But it is

altogether unpardonable of you to open the window at this time of night

and yell like that."

"Oh yes. It is unpardonable, no doubt. But now I have explained. I've

had a night like no other night, I tell you. Something happened to me

yesterday. I was walking in the street and I met the joy of my life;

oh, listen to me, I met my star and my joy. And then, do you know, she

kissed me. Her mouth was so red, and I love her; she kissed me and

made me intoxicated. Has your mouth ever trembled so that you could

not speak? I could not speak, my heart shook my whole body. I ran home

and fell asleep; I sat here in this chair and slept. When evening came

I awoke. My soul was swinging up and down in me with emotion and I

began to write. What did I write? Here it is! I was under the sway of

a strange and glorious train of ideas, the heavens were opened, it was

like a warm summer day to my soul, an angel brought me wine, I drank

it, it was strong wine, I drank it from a cup of garnet. Did I hear the

clock strike? Did I see that the lamp went out? God grant you could

understand! I lived it all over again, I walked again with my beloved

in the street and every one turned to look at her. We went into the

Park, we met the King, I took my hat off and swept the ground from

joy, and the King turned to look at my beloved, for she is so tall and

lovely. We went down into the town again and all the school-children

turned to look at her, for she is young and has a light dress. Then

we came to a red brick house and went in. I followed her upstairs and

wanted to kneel to her. Then she threw her arms about me and kissed

me. This happened to me yesterday evening, no longer ago than that. If

you asked me what I have written, it is one continuous song to joy,

to happiness. It was as though joy lay naked before me with a long,

laughing throat and was coming to me."

"Well, I really can't listen to you any longer," said the man, in

despair and irritation. "I have spoken to you for the last time."

Johannes stopped him at the door.

"Wait a moment. Oh, you ought to have seen how your face lighted up. I

saw it as you turned, it was the lamp, it sent a gleam of sunshine over

your forehead. You were not so angry any more, I saw that. I opened the

window, I know, and I sang too loud. I was the happy brother of all the

world. It sometimes happens like that. One takes leave of one's senses.

I ought to have thought that you were still asleep...."

"The whole town is still asleep."

"Yes, it's early. I should like to make you a present. Will you accept

this? It is silver, it was given to me. A little girl whose life I once

saved gave it me. Please take it. It holds twenty cigarettes. You won't

have it? I see, you don't smoke, but you ought to learn. May I come and

see you tomorrow and make my excuses? I should like to do something,

beg your forgiveness...."

"Good-night."

"Good-night. I'm going to bed now, I promise you that. You shan't hear

another sound. And in future I'll be more careful."

The man went.

Johannes suddenly opened the door again and added:

"By the bye, I'm leaving. I shan't disturb you any more. I'm leaving

tomorrow. I forgot to tell you."

* * * * *

He did not leave. Various things kept him, he had business to do,

things to buy, bills to pay, the morning passed and evening came. He

rushed about as though out of his wits.

At last he rang at the Chamberlain's door. Was Victoria at home?

Victoria was out shopping.

He explained that they came from the same place, Miss Victoria and he,

he only wanted to pay her his compliments if she had been in, to take

the liberty of paying his compliments. There was a message he wanted to

send home. All right.

Then he went into the town. Perhaps there was a chance of meeting her,

coming across her; she might be sitting in a carriage. He wandered

about till the evening. Outside the Theatre he saw her; he bowed,

smiled and bowed, and she returned his greeting. He was going up to

her, a few paces away--when he saw that she was not alone, she had Otto

with her, the Chamberlain's son. He was in lieutenant's uniform.

Johannes thought: now perhaps she'll give me a sign, a little glance of

the eyes? She hurried into the theatre, blushing, with her head bowed,

as though she did not wish to be seen.

Perhaps he could see her inside? He took a ticket and went in.

He knew where the Chamberlain's box was; of course, these rich people,

they had boxes. There she sat in all her glory looking about her. Did

she look at him? Never!

When the act was over he waited for her outside in the corridor. He

bowed again; she looked at him, rather surprised, and nodded.

"This is where you can get a glass of water," said Otto, pointing.

They walked past.

Johannes followed them with his eyes. A strange twilight settled about

him. All these people were annoyed with him and shoved him as they

passed; he mechanically excused himself and stayed where he was. She

had disappeared.

When she came back she bowed deeply and said:

"Excuse me...."

"It's Johannes," she said, introducing him. "Do you recognize him?"

Otto made some answer and puckered his eyes as he looked at him.

"I suppose you want to know how your people are," she continued, and

her face was calm and handsome. "I really don't know, but I expect

they're quite well. Very well indeed. I'll give them your love."

"Thank you. Are you going home soon, Miss Victoria?"

"One of these days. All right, I'll give them your love."

She nodded and passed on.

Johannes' eyes followed her again till she had vanished, then he went

out. He killed time with an everlasting ramble, a dull and dismal tramp

up one street and down another. At ten o'clock he was waiting outside

the Chamberlain's house. Now the theatres would soon be over, now she

would come. He might open the carriage door perhaps, and take his hat

off, open the carriage door and bow to the ground.

At last, half an hour later, she came. Could he stand by the gateway

and remind her once more of his existence? He hastened up the street

without looking round. He heard the gates of the Chamberlain's house

being thrown open, the carriage driving in and the gates closing again.

Then he turned.

He continued to stroll up and down in front of the house for an hour.

He was not waiting for anybody and had no message to give. Suddenly the

gate was opened from within and Victoria stepped out into the street.

She had no hat on and had only thrown a shawl over her shoulders. She

smiled, half afraid and half embarrassed, and asked as an opening:

"Are you walking about with your thoughts?"

"No," he answered. "My thoughts? No, I'm just walking here."

"I saw you walking up and down outside here and I wanted to.... I saw

you from my window. I must go in again directly."

"Thank you for coming, Victoria. I was in such despair a little while

ago and now it is gone. Excuse me for speaking to you at the theatre;

I'm sorry to say I asked for you here at the Chamberlain's too, I

wanted to see you and find out what you meant, what your meaning was."

"Well," she said, "you must know that. I said so much the day before

yesterday that you couldn't misunderstand me."

"I am still quite uncertain about it all."

"Don't let us talk any more about it. I have said enough, I have said

much too much, and now I am hurting you. I love you, I was not telling

you a lie the other day and I'm not telling you one now; but there is

so much that keeps us apart. I am very fond of you, I like talking

to you, would rather talk to you than to any one else, but.... Well,

I daren't stay here any longer, they can see us from the windows.

Johannes, there are so many reasons that you don't know, so you must

not ask me any more what I mean. I have thought of it night and day; I

mean what I said. But it will be impossible."

"What will be impossible?"

"The whole thing. All of it. Look here, Johannes, you must not force me

to have pride for both of us."

"Very well. All right, I'll spare you that! But it comes to this, that

you made a fool of me the other day. It so happened that you met me in

the street and you were in good humour and so...."

She turned and was going in.

"Have I done anything wrong?" he asked. His face was pale and

unrecognizable. "I mean, how have I forfeited your.... Have I committed

any crime in these two days and two nights?"

"No. That's not it. I have thought it over, that's all; haven't you

done the same? It has been impossible all along, you know. I am fond of

you, appreciate you...."

"And respect you."

She looked at him, his smile offended her and she continued with more

heat:

"Good heavens, don't you see yourself that Papa would forbid it? Why do

you force me to say it? You know it yourself. What could it have led

to? Am I not right?"

Pause.

"Yes," he answered.

"Besides," she went on, "there are so many reasons.... No, you really

mustn't follow me into the theatre any more, you frightened me. You

must never do it again."

"No," he said.

She took his hand.

"Can't you come home for a bit? I should look forward to it very much.

How warm your hand is; I'm freezing. No, I must go now. Good-night."

"Good-night," he answered.

The street lay cold and grey before him, looking like a belt of sand,

an everlasting road to traverse. He came upon a boy who was selling

old spoilt roses; he called to him, took a rose, gave the boy a little

five-crown piece in gold for a present, and went on. Soon after he saw

a group of children playing about a doorway. A boy of ten was sitting

still and looking on; he had old blue eyes which followed the game,

hollow cheeks and a square chin, and on his head was a linen cap. It

was the lining of a cap. This child wore a wig, a skin disease had

disfigured his head for life. Perhaps his soul was also withered.

All this he noticed though he had no clear idea of what part of the

town he was in or where he was going. It began to rain too, he didn't

feel it and didn't put up his umbrella, though he had carried it all

day.

When at last he came to a square where there were seats he sat down.

It was raining more and more, he put up his umbrella unconsciously and

remained seated. After a short time an invincible drowsiness came over

him, he shut his eyes and began to nod and doze.

A little while after he was roused by the loud voices of some

passers-by. He got up and wandered on. His brain had cleared, he

remembered what had happened, every incident, even the boy to whom he

had given five crowns for a rose. He pictured to himself the little

man's delight when he discovered this wonderful coin among his coppers

and saw that it was not a nickel but a five-crown piece in gold. God be

with him!

And the other children had perhaps been driven into the doorway by the

rain and were going on with their game there, playing hop-scotch or

marbles. And the disfigured old man of ten sat looking on. Who knows,

perhaps he was feeling pleased about something, perhaps he had some toy

in the little backyard room, a jack-in-the-box or a pegtop. Perhaps

he had not lost the whole of life, there might be hope in his withered

soul.

A slight and graceful lady came in view ahead of him. He gave a start

and stopped. No, he didn't know her. She had come from a side street

and was hurrying along and she had no umbrella though the rain was

pouring down. He caught up with her, looked at her and walked past. How

dainty she was and young! She was getting wet, she would catch cold

and he dared not approach her. Then he closed his umbrella so that she

should not be the only one to get wet. When he got home it was past

midnight.

There was a letter on his table, a card; it was an invitation. The

Seiers would be glad if he could come to them tomorrow evening. He

would meet people he knew, amongst others--could he guess?--Victoria,

from the Castle. Kind regards.

He fell asleep in his chair. An hour or two later he woke up feeling

cold. Half awake, half asleep, shivering all over, wearied with the

day's reverses, he sat down at the table and tried to answer the card,

this invitation that he did not intend to accept.

He wrote his answer and was going to take it down and post it.

Suddenly it struck him that Victoria was also invited. So that was it,

she had said nothing to him, she had been afraid he might come, she

wanted to be rid of him amongst these strangers.

He tore up his letter, wrote another thanking them, he would come. His

hand trembled with internal excitement, a peculiar happy exasperation

seized him. Why shouldn't he go? why should he hide himself? Enough.

His violent emotions ran away with him. With one wrench he tore off

a handful of leaves from his date pad on the wall and put himself

on a week. He imagined to himself that he was glad about something,

delighted beyond measure; he would enjoy this hour, he would light his

pipe, sit in his chair and hug himself. His pipe was hopelessly stopped

up, he searched in vain for a knife, a scraper, and suddenly pulled

one of the hands off the clock in the corner to clean his pipe with.

The sight of the mischief he had done did him good, it made him laugh

inwardly, and he looked about to see what else he could make a mess of.

The time went on. At last he threw himself on his bed in all his wet

clothes and fell asleep.

When he awoke the day was far advanced. It was still raining, the

street was wet. His head was in disorder, scraps of his dreams were

confused with the events of the day before; he felt no fever, on the

contrary, his heat had subsided, a coolness surrounded him as though he

had been wandering in a sultry forest and had now come to the borders

of a lake.

There was a knock, the postman brought him a letter. He opened it,

looked at it, read it and had difficulty in understanding it. It was

from Victoria, a note, a half sheet; she had forgotten to tell him

that she was going to the Seiers' this evening; she wanted to meet him

there, she would explain things better to him, ask him to forget her,

to take it like a man. Excuse the wretched paper. Kind regards.

He went into the town, dined, went home again and finally wrote

refusing the Seiers'; he could not come, he would look forward to

seeing them some other evening, tomorrow for instance.

This letter he sent by hand.

V

Autumn came, Victoria had gone home and the little out-of-the-way

street and its houses was as quiet as before. At night there was a

light in Johannes' room. It made its appearance with the stars at

evening and was extinguished when day dawned. He was working with all

his might, writing his great book.

Weeks and months passed; he was alone and visited nobody, he no longer

went to the Seiers'. Often his imagination played him tricks and

slipped irrelevant fancies into his book which he afterwards had to

strike out and throw away. This put him back a great deal. A sudden

noise in the stillness of the night, the rumbling of a cart in the

street, might give his thoughts a jolt and throw them off the line:

Out of the way of this cart in the street, look out there!

Why? Why should one look out for this cart anyway? It was rolling

past, perhaps it had now reached the corner. Perhaps there's a man

standing there with no overcoat, no cap, he stoops down and meets the

cart with his head, he will be run over, hopelessly mangled, killed.

The man wants to die, that is his affair. He won't button his shirt

any more and he has given up tying his shoes in the morning, he wears

everything open, his chest is bare and skinny; he is to die.... A man

was lying at the point of death, he wrote a letter to a friend, a note,

a little request. The man died and left this letter. It had a date and

signature, it was written with capitals and small letters although

he who wrote it was to die in an hour. That was so strange. He had

even put the usual flourish under his name. And an hour later he was

dead.... There was another man. He was lying alone in a little room

which was wood-panelled and painted blue. What then? Nothing. In the

whole wide world he is the one who has got to die. That fills his mind;

he thinks about it till he is worn out. He sees that it is evening,

that it is eight by the clock on the wall, and he can't make out why

it doesn't strike. Poor man, his brain is already falling asleep;

the clock _has_ struck and he didn't notice it. Then he makes a hole

through his mother's portrait on the wall--what does he want with this

picture now, and why should it be left whole when he is gone? His tired

eyes fall upon the flower-pot on the table and he reaches out his hand

and pulls the big flower-pot slowly and deliberately so that it falls

on the floor and is smashed to pieces. Why should it be left unbroken?

Then he throws his amber cigarette-holder out of the window. What does

he want with it any more? It seems so obvious to him that he need not

leave it behind. And in a week the man was dead....

Johannes got up and walked up and down his room. His neighbour in the

next room woke up, his snoring ceased and a sigh was heard, a tortured

groan. Johannes went on tiptoe to the table and sat down again. The

wind howling in the poplars outside his window made him feel cold. The

old poplars were stripped of leaves and looked like sad monstrosities;

a few knotted branches scraped against the wall of the house with a

creaking sound, like a piece of wooden machinery, a cracked stamp-mill

which worked on and on.

He dropped his eyes on his papers and read them over. Well well, his

fancy had run away with him again. He had nothing to do with death

and a passing cart. He was writing about a garden, a green luxuriant

garden by his home, the Castle garden. That was what he was writing

about. It was lying dead and snowed under now, but he was writing

about it all the same, and not of winter and snow at all, but spring

and fragrance and mild breezes. And it was evening. The water below

lay deep and still, like a leaden lake; the lilacs shed their perfume,

hedge after hedge was in bud and green leaves, and the air was so still

that the blackcock could be heard calling on the other side of the

bay. On one of the paths of the garden stood Victoria, she was alone,

dressed in white, twenty years old. There she stood. Taller than the

tallest rose-bushes, she looked out over the water, out to the forests,

to the sleeping mountains in the distance; she seemed like a white soul

in the midst of the green garden. Footsteps sounded on the road below,

she took a few steps forward to the lonely summer-house, leaned her

elbows on the wall and looked down. The man in the road took his hat

off almost to the ground and bowed. She nodded back. The man looked

about him, there was nobody on the road watching him and he advanced

towards the wall. Then she retreated, crying, "No, no!" and she waved

him off with her hand. "Victoria," he said, "what you said once was

the real truth, I can't have imagined it, that is impossible." "Yes,"

she answered, "but what do you want?" He was now quite close to her,

only the wall separated them, and he answered: "What do I want? Oh, you

know, I only want to stay here a minute. It's the last time. I want to

come as near to you as I can; now I'm not far away!" She said nothing.

So that minute passed. "Good-night," he said, taking off his hat again

and sweeping the ground with it. "Good-night," she answered. And he

went away without looking back....

What had he to do with death? He crumpled up the written sheets and

threw them away to the stove. Other written sheets were lying there

waiting to be burnt, all the fugitive waste of an imagination that

overflowed its banks. And he began again to write of the man on the

road, a wanderer who bowed and said good-bye when his minute was done.

And he left the girl behind in the garden, and she was dressed in white

and twenty years old. She would not have him; no, she wouldn't. But he

had stood against the wall behind which she lived. As close as that to

her he had been.

* * * * *

Again weeks and months went by and spring came. The snow was already

gone, far out in space was a foaming of freed waters. The swallows had

come and the woods outside the town quickened with the life of all

kinds of hopping beasts and birds with foreign note. A fresh, sweet

smell floated up from the ground.

His work had taken him all the winter. Night and day the dry branches

of the poplars had lashed the wall with their refrain; now spring had

come, the storms were over and the mill had creaked to a standstill.

He opened the window and looked out; the street was quiet already

though it was not yet midnight, the stars blinked in a cloudless sky,

it looked like a warm, bright day tomorrow. He heard the roar of the

town blended with the everlasting hum of the distance. Suddenly a

steam-whistle shrieked, the night train's signal; it sounded like a

single cockcrow in the stillness of the night. Now it was time for

work; that train-whistle had been like an order to him the whole winter.

And he shut the window and sat down again at his table. He threw aside

the books he had been reading and got out his papers. He took up his

pen.

Now his great work was nearly finished, it only wanted a final

chapter, a farewell message from a ship under way, and he had it

already in his head:

A man was sitting in a roadside inn, he was passing through and was

on a long, long journey. His hair and beard were grey and many years

had passed over him; but he was still big and strong and scarcely so

old as he looked. His carriage stood outside, the horses were resting,

the driver was happy and pleased, for the stranger had given him wine

and food. When the traveller entered his name the host recognized him,

bowed and showed him great honour. "Who lives at the Castle now?" the

stranger asked. The host replied: "The Captain; he is very rich. His

lady is kind to every one." To every one? the traveller asks himself

with a curious smile--to me too? And he sat down and began to write

something, and when it was finished he read it over; it was a poem,

mournful and calm, but with many bitter words. But presently he tore

the paper to pieces and went on tearing it into still smaller pieces as

he sat there. Then there was a knock at his door and a woman dressed

in yellow walked in. She threw off her veil, it was the lady of the

Castle, the Lady Victoria. There was a majesty about her. The man

rose abruptly; at the same instant his dark soul was illumined as if

by torch-light. "You are so kind to every one," he said bitterly. "You

even come to me." She made no answer, simply stood looking at him and

her face turned dark red. "What do you want?" he asked as bitterly

as before; "have you come to remind me of the past? If so, it is for

the last time, my lady, for now I am going away for ever." And still

the young mistress of the Castle made no answer, but her lips were

trembling. He said: "If you are not satisfied with my acknowledging my

folly once, then listen, I do it again: my heart was set upon you, but

I was not worthy of you--are you satisfied now?" He went on with rising

vehemence: "You gave me No, you took another; I was a clown, a bear, a

barbarian who in my boyhood had stumbled into a royal preserve!" But

then the man threw himself into a chair sobbing and begging her: "Oh,

go! forgive me, go away!" Now all the flush had left the lady's cheeks.

And she spoke, and uttered the words so slowly and so well: "I love

you; do not misunderstand me any longer, it is you I love. Farewell!"

And it was the Castle lady fair, she flung hands before her face

and fled out of the door.... He laid down his pen and leaned back.

There--full stop, Finis. There was the book, all the sheets he had

written, nine months' work. A warm ripple of satisfaction ran through

him at the finishing of his work. And as he sat there looking towards

the window through which day was dawning, there was a throbbing in his

head and his spirit went on working. He was full of ideas and feelings,

his brain was like a wild ungathered garden with mists rising from the

ground:

In some mysterious way he has come into a deep, deserted valley where

no living thing is to be seen. Far away, alone and forgotten, an

organ is playing. He goes nearer, examines it; the organ is bleeding,

blood runs out of its side as it plays. Farther on he comes to a

market-place. It is all deserted, not a tree to be seen, not a sound

to be heard, it is nothing but a deserted market-place. But in the

sand are prints of people's shoes and the air seems still to hold

the last words spoken in the place, so lately was it abandoned. A

strange feeling comes over him; these words left in the air over the

market-place alarm him, they come nearer, press upon him. He casts them

off and they come again; they are not words, they are old men, a group

of old men dancing; he sees them now. Why are they dancing, and why

are they not the least gay when they dance? A cold air blows from this

company of old men, they do not see him, they are blind, and when he

calls to them they do not hear him, they are dead. He wanders towards

the east, towards the sun, and he comes to a mountain. A voice cries:

Are you at a mountain? Yes, he answers, I am standing by a mountain.

Then says the voice: The mountain you are standing by is my foot; I am

lying bound in the uttermost land, come and set me free! So he sets off

to the uttermost land. At a bridge stands a man waiting for him, he is

collecting shadows; the man is of musk. A freezing terror seizes him at

the sight of this man who wants to take his shadow. He spits at him and

threatens him with clenched fists; the man does not budge but stands

waiting for him. Turn back! cries a voice behind him. He turns and sees

a head rolling along the road and showing him the way. The head is a

human head and now and then laughs quietly and silently. He follows

it. It rolls for days and nights and he follows it; by the seashore it

slips into the ground and hides. He wades out into the sea and dives.

He finds himself in front of a huge doorway and meets a great barking

fish. It has a mane on its back and it barks at him like a dog. Behind

the fish stands Victoria. He stretches out his hands to her, she has no

clothes on, she laughs to him and a storm blows through her hair. Then

he calls to her, he hears his own cry--and wakes.

Johannes rose and went to the window. It was almost light and in the

little mirror on the window-post he saw that his temples were red. He

put out the lamp and in the grey light of day read once more the last

page of his book. Then he lay down.

By the afternoon of the same day Johannes had paid for his room,

delivered his manuscript and left town. He had gone abroad, nobody knew

where.