After that eventful December night, America was no more what it had been
to Halfdan Bjerk. A strange torpidity had come over him; every rising
day gazed into his eyes with a fierce unmeaning glare. The noise of the
street annoyed him and made him childishly fretful, and the solitude
of his own room seemed still more dreary and depressing. He went
mechanically through the daily routine of his duties as if the soul
had been taken out of his work, and left his life all barrenness and
desolation. He moved restlessly from place to place, roamed at all times
of the day and night through the city and its suburbs, trying vainly to
exhaust his physical strength; gradually, as his lethargy deepened
into a numb, helpless despair, it seemed somehow to impart a certain
toughness to his otherwise delicate frame. Olson, who was now a junior
partner in the firm of Remsen, Van Kirk and Co., stood by him faithfully
in these days of sorrow. He was never effusive in his sympathy, but was
patiently forbearing with his friend’s whims and moods, and humored
him as if he had been a sick child intrusted to his custody. That Edith
might be the moving cause of Olson’s kindness was a thought which,
strangely enough, had never occurred to Halfdan.
At last, when spring came, the vacancy of his mind was suddenly invaded
with a strong desire to revisit his native land. He disclosed his plan
to Olson, who, after due deliberation and several visits to the Van Kirk
mansion, decided that the pleasure of seeing his old friends and the
scenes of his childhood might push the painful memories out of sight,
and renew his interest in life. So, one morning, while the May sun
shone with a soft radiance upon the beautiful harbor, our Norseman found
himself standing on the deck of a huge black-hulled Cunarder, shivering
in spite of the warmth, and feeling a chill loneliness creeping over him
at the sight of the kissing and affectionate leave-takings which were
going on all around him. Olson was running back and forth, attending
to his baggage; but he himself took no thought, and felt no more
responsibility than if he had been a helpless child. He half regretted
that his own wish had prevailed, and was inclined to hold his friend
responsible for it; and still he had not energy enough to protest now
when the journey seemed inevitable. His heart still clung to the place
which held the corpse of his ruined life, as a man may cling to the spot
which hides his beloved dead.
About two weeks later Halfdan landed in Norway. He was half reluctant to
leave the steamer, and the land of his birth excited no emotion in his
breast. He was but conscious of a dim regret that he was so far away
from Edith. At last, however, he betook himself to a hotel, where he
spent the afternoon sitting with half-closed eyes at a window, watching
listlessly the drowsy slow-pulsed life which dribbled languidly through
the narrow thoroughfare. The noisy uproar of Broadway chimed remotely
in his ears, like the distant roar of a tempest-tossed sea, and what had
once been a perpetual annoyance was now a sweet memory. How often with
Edith at his side had he threaded his way through the surging crowds
that pour, on a fine afternoon, in an unceasing current up and down the
street between Union and Madison Squares. How friendly, and sweet, and
gracious, Edith had been at such times; how fresh her voice, how witty
and animated her chance remarks when they stopped to greet a passing
acquaintance; and, above all, how inspiring the sight of her heavenly
beauty. Now that was all past. Perhaps he should never see Edith again.
The next day he sauntered through the city, meeting some old friends,
who all seemed changed and singularly uninteresting. They were all
engaged or married, and could talk of nothing but matrimony, and
their prospects of advancement in the Government service. One had
an influential uncle who had been a chum of the present minister of
finance; another based his hopes of future prosperity upon the family
connections of his betrothed, and a third was waiting with a patient
perseverance, worthy of a better cause, for the death or resignation of
an antiquated chef-de-bureau, which, according to the promise of some
mighty man, would open a position for him in the Department of Justice.
All had the most absurd theories about American democracy, and indulged
freely in prophecies of coming disasters; but about their own government
they had no opinion whatever. If Halfdan attempted to set them right,
they at once grew excited and declamatory; their opinions were based
upon conviction and a charming ignorance of facts, and they were not to
be moved. They knew all about Tweed and the Tammany Ring, and believed
them to be representative citizens of New York, if not of the United
States; but of Charles Sumner and Carl Schurz they had never heard.
Halfdan, who, in spite of his misfortunes in the land of his adoption,
cherished a very tender feeling for it, was often so thoroughly aroused
at the foolish prejudices which everywhere met him, that his torpidity
gradually thawed away, and he began to look more like his former self.
Toward autumn he received an invitation to visit a country clergyman in
the North, a distant relative of his father’s, and there whiled away
his time, fishing and shooting, until winter came. But as Christmas drew
near, and the day wrestled feebly with the all-conquering night, the old
sorrow revived. In the darkness which now brooded over land and sea,
the thoughts needed no longer be on guard against themselves; they could
roam far and wide as they listed. Where was Edith now, the sweet, the
wonderful Edith? Was there yet the same dancing light in her beautiful
eyes, the same golden sheen in her hair, the same merry ring in her
voice? And had she not said that when he was content to be only her
friend, he might return to her, and she would receive him in the old
joyous and confiding way? Surely there was no life to him apart from
her: why should he not be her friend? Only a glimpse of her lovely
face--ah, it was worth a lifetime; it would consecrate an age of misery,
a glimpse of Edith’s face. Thus ran his fancies day by day, and the
night only lent a deeper intensity to the yearnings of the day. He
walked about as in a dream, seeing nothing, heeding nothing, while this
one strong desire--to see Edith once more--throbbed and throbbed with a
slow, feverish perseverance within him. Edith--Edith, the very name had
a strange, potent fascination. Every thought whispered “Edith,”--his
pulse beat “Edith,”--and his heart repeated the beloved name. It was his
pulse-beat,--his heartbeat,--his life-beat.
And one morning as he stood absently looking at his fingers against the
light--and they seemed strangely wan and transparent--the thought at
last took shape. It rushed upon him with such vehemence, that he could
no more resist it. So he bade the clergyman good-bye, gathered his few
worldly goods together and set out for Bergen. There he found an English
steamer which carried him to Hull, and a few weeks later, he was once
more in New York.
It was late one evening in January that a tug-boat arrived and took the
cabin passengers ashore. The moon sailed tranquilly over the deep blue
dome of the sky, the stars traced their glittering paths of light from
the zenith downward, and it was sharp, bitter cold. Northward over the
river lay a great bank of cloud, dense, gray and massive, the spectre
of the coming snow-storm. There it lay so huge and fantastically human,
ruffling itself up, as fowls do, in defense against the cold. Halfdan
walked on at a brisk rate--strange to say, all the street-cars he met
went the wrong way--startling every now and then some precious memory,
some word or look or gesture of Edith’s which had hovered long
over those scenes, waiting for his recognition. There was the great
jewel-store where Edith had taken him so often to consult his taste
whenever a friend of hers was to be married. It was there that they had
had an amicable quarrel over that bronze statue of Faust which she
had found beautiful, while he, with a rudeness which seemed now quite
incomprehensible, had insisted that it was not. And when he had
failed to convince her, she had given him her hand in token of
reconciliation--and Edith had a wonderful way of giving her hand, which
made any one feel that it was a peculiar privilege to press it--and they
had walked out arm in arm into the animated, gas-lighted streets, with
a delicious sense of snugness and security, being all the more closely
united for their quarrel. Here, farther up the avenue, they had once
been to a party, and he had danced for the first time in his life
with Edith. Here was Delmonico’s, where they had had such fascinating
luncheons together; where she had got a stain on her dress, and he had
been forced to observe that her dress was then not really a part of
herself, since it was a thing that could not be stained. Her dress had
always seemed to him as something absolute and final, exalted above
criticism, incapable of improvement.
As I have said, Halfdan walked briskly up the avenue, and it was
something after eleven when he reached the house which he sought. The
great cloud-bank in the north had then begun to expand and stretched its
long misty arms eastward and westward over the heavens. The windows on
the ground-floor were dark, but the sleeping apartments in the upper
stories were lighted. In Edith’s room the inside shutters were closed,
but one of the windows was a little down at the top. And as he stood
gazing with tremulous happiness up to that window, a stanza from Heine
which he and Edith had often read together, came into his head. It was
the story of the youth who goes to the Madonna at Kevlar and brings her
as a votive offering a heart of wax, that she may heal him of his love
and his sorrow.
“I bring this waxen image,
The image of my heart,
Heal thou my bitter sorrow,
And cure my deadly smart!” [4]
Then came the thought that for him, too, as for the poor youth of
Cologne, there was healing only in death. And still in this moment
he was so near Edith, should see her perhaps, and the joy at this was
stronger than all else, stronger even than death. So he sat down beside
the steps of the mansion opposite, where there was some shelter from the
wind, and waited patiently till Edith should close her window. He was
cold, perhaps, but, if so, he hardly knew it, for the near joy of seeing
her throbbed warmly in his veins. Ah, there--the blinds were thrown
open; Edith, in all the lithe magnificence of her wonderful form, stood
out clear and beautiful against the light within; she pushed up the
lower window in order to reach the upper one, and for a moment leaned
out over the sill. Once more her wondrous profile traced itself in
strong relief against the outer gloom. There came a cry from the street
below, a feeble involuntary one, but still distinctly audible. Edith
peered anxiously out into the darkness, but the darkness had grown
denser and she could see nothing. The window was fastened, the shutters
closed, and the broad pathway of light which she had flung out upon the
night had vanished.
Halfdan closed his eyes trying to retain the happy vision. Yes, there
she stood still, and there was a heavenly smile upon her lips--ugh, he
shivered--the snow swept in a wild whirl up the street. He wrapped his
plaid more closely about him, and strained his eyes to catch one more
glimpse of the beloved Edith. Ah, yes; there she was again; she came
nearer and nearer, and she touched his cheek, gently, warily smiling
all the while with a strange wistful smile which was surely not Edith’s.
There, she bent over him,--touched him again,--how cold her hands were;
the touch chilled him to the heart. The snow had now begun to fall in
large scattered flakes, whirling fitfully through the air, following
every chance gust of wind, but still falling, falling, and covering the
earth with its white, death-like shroud.
But surely--there was Edith again,--how wonderful!--in a long snow-white
robe, grave and gracious, still with the wistful smile on her lips. See,
she beckons to him with her hand, and he rises to follow, but something
heavy clings to his feet and he cannot stir from the spot. He tries to
cry for help, but he cannot,--can only stretch out his hands to her, and
feel very unhappy that he cannot follow her. But now she pauses in her
flight, turns about, and he sees that she wears a myrtle garland in her
hair like a bride. She comes toward him, her countenance all radiant
with love and happiness, and she stoops down over him and speaks:
“Come; they are waiting for us. I will follow thee in life and in death,
wherever thou goest. Come,” repeats Edith, “they have long been waiting.
They are all here.”
And he imagines he knows who they all are, although he has never heard
of them, nor can he recall their names.
“But--but,” he stammers, “I--I--am a foreigner ”
It appeared then that for some reason this was an insurmountable
objection. And Edith’s happiness dies out of her beautiful face, and she
turns away weeping.
“Edith, beloved!”
Then she is once more at his side.
“Thou art no more a foreigner to me, beloved. Whatever thou art, I am.”
And she presses her lips to his--it was the sweetest kiss of his
life--the kiss of death.
The next morning, as Edith, after having put the last touch to her
toilet, threw the shutters open, a great glare of sun-smitten snow burst
upon her and for a moment blinded her eyes. On the sidewalk opposite,
half a dozen men with snow-shovels in their hands and a couple of
policeman had congregated, and, judging by their manner, were discussing
some object of interest. Presently they were joined by her father, who
had just finished his breakfast and was on his way to the office. Now
he stooped down and gazed at something half concealed in the snow, then
suddenly started back, and as she caught a glimpse of his face, she saw
that it was ghastly white. A terrible foreboding seized her. She threw
a shawl about her shoulders and rushed down-stairs. In the hall she was
met by her father, who was just entering, followed by four men, carrying
something between them. She well knew what it was. She would fain have
turned away, but she could not: grasping her father’s arm and pressing
it hard, she gazed with blank, frightened eyes at the white face, the
lines of which Death had so strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which
hung in his hair had touched him with their sudden age, as if to bridge
the gulf between youth and death. And still he was beautiful--the clear
brow, the peaceful, happy indolence, the frozen smile which death had
perpetuated. Smiling, he had departed from the earth which had no place
for him, and smiling entered the realm where, among the many mansions,
there is, perhaps, also one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast.