And now I, too, must wander on again, for I am the last at the Tore Peak
farm. The season is wearing on, and this morning it snowed for the first
time--wet, sad snow.
It is very quiet at the farm now, and Josephine might have played the
piano again and been friendly to the last guest; but now I am leaving,
too. Besides, Josephine has little to play and be cheerful for; things
have gone badly this year, and may grow worse as time goes on. The
prospect is not a good one. "But something will turn up," says Josephine.
She need not worry, for she has money in the bank, and no doubt there is a
young man in the offing, on the other side of the fjeld.
Oh, yes, Josephine will always manage; she thinks of everything. The other
day, for instance--when Miss Torsen and her friend left. The friend could
not pay his bill, and all he said was that he had expected money, but it
hadn't come, and he couldn't stay any longer because of his private
affairs. That was all very well, but when would the bill be paid? Why, he
would send it from the town, of course; that was where he had his money!
"But how do we know we'll get the money?--from him, anyway," said
Josephine. "We've had these actor-people here before. And I didn't like
the way he swanked about outside, thinking he was as good as anybody, and
throwing his stick up in the air and catching it again. And then when Miss
Torsen came in to say good-bye, I told her, and I wondered if she couldn't
let me have the money for him. Miss Torsen was shocked, and said, 'Hasn't
he paid himself?' 'No,' I said, 'he hasn't, and this year being such a bad
one, we need every penny.' So then Miss Torsen said of course we should
get the money; how much was it? And I told her, and she said she couldn't
pay for him now, but she would see the money was sent; we could trust her
for that. And I think we can, too. We'll get the money all right, if not
from him. I daresay she'll send it herself...."
And Josephine went off to serve me my dinner.
Paul is on his feet now, too. Not that his step is always very steady, but
at least he puts his feet to the ground. But he takes no interest in
things; he does little more than feeding the horses and chopping some
wood. He ought to be clearing the manure out of the summer cow houses for
autumn use, but he keeps putting it off, and probably it will not be done
at all. So far it hasn't mattered, but this morning's first wet snow has
covered the hay outdoors and the maltreated land. And so it will remain
till next spring. Poor Paul! He is an easygoing man at heart, but he
pushes doggedly on against a whirlwind; sometimes he smiles to himself,
knowing how useless it is to struggle--a distorted smile.
His father, the old man alone in his room, stands sometimes on his
threshold, as he used to do, and reflects. He is lost in memories, for he
has ninety years behind him. The many houses on the farm confuse him a
little; the roofs are all too big for him, and he is afraid they might
come down and carry him off. Once he asked Josephine if it was right that
his hands and fingers should run away from him every day across the
fields. So they put mittens on his hands, but he took to chewing them; in
fact he ate everything he was given, and enjoyed a good digestion. So they
must be thankful he had his health, Josephine said, and could be up and
about.
* * * * *
I did not follow the others across the field, but returned the way I had
come last spring, down toward the woods and the sea. It is fitting that I
should go back, always back, never forward again.
I passed the hut where Solem and I had lived together, and then the
Lapps--the two old people and Olga, this strange cross between a human
being and a dwarf birch. A stove stood against the peat wall, and a
paraffin lamp hung from the roof of their stone-age dwelling. Olga was
kind and helpful, but she looked tiny and pathetic, like a ruffled hen; it
pained me to watch her flit about the room, tiny and crooked, as she
looked for a pair of reindeer cheeses for me.
Then I reached my own hut of last winter where I had passed so many lonely
months. I did not enter it.
Or rather, I did enter it, for I had to spend the night there. But I shall
skip this, so for the sake of brevity, I call it not entering. This
morning I wrote something playful about Madame, the mouse I left here last
spring; but tonight I am taking it out again because I am no longer in the
mood, and because there is no point in it. Perhaps it would have amused
you to read it, my friend; but there is no point in amusing you now. I
must deject you now and make you listen to me; there is not much more to
hear.
Am I moralizing? I am explaining. No, I am not moralizing; I am
explaining. If it is moralizing to see the truth and tell it to you, then
I am moralizing. Can I help that? Intuitively I see into what is distant;
you do not, for this is something you cannot learn from your little
schoolbooks. Do not let this rouse your hatred for me. I shall be merry
again with you later, when my strings are tuned to merriment. I have no
power over them. Now they are tuned to a chorale....
* * * * *
At dawn, in the bright moonlight, I leave the hut and push on quickly in
order to reach the village as soon as possible. But I must have started
too early or walked too fast, for at this rate I shall reach the village
at high noon. What am I chasing after? Perhaps it is feeling the nearness
of the sea that drives me forward. And as I stand on the last high ridge,
with the glitter and roar of the sea far beneath, a sweetness darts
through me like a greeting from another world. "_Thalatta!_" I cry;
and I wipe my eyeglasses tremblingly. The roar from below is sleepless and
fierce, a tone of jungle passion, a savage litany. I descend the ridge as
though in a trance and reach the first house.
There was no one about, and a few children's faces at a window suddenly
disappeared. Everything here was small and poor, though only the barn was
of peat; the house was a timbered fisherman's home. As I entered the
house, I saw that though it was as poor within as without, the floor was
clean and covered with pine twigs. There were many children here. The
mother was busy cooking something over the fire.
I was offered a chair, and sitting down, began to chat with a couple of
small boys. As I was in no hurry and asked for nothing, the woman said:
"I expect you want a boat?"
"A boat?" I said in my turn, for I had not come by boat on my last visit;
I had walked instead over fjelds and valleys many miles from the sea.
"Yes, why not?" I said. "But where does it go?"
"I thought you wanted a boat to go to the trading center," she replied,
"because that's where the steamer stops. We've rowed over lots of people
this year."
Great changes here; the motor traffic in Stordalen must have completely
altered all the other traffic since my last visit ten months ago.
"Where can I stop for a few days?" I asked.
"At the trading center, the other side of the islands. Or there's Eilert
and Olaus; they're both on this side. You could go there; they've got big
houses."
She showed me the two places on this side of the water, close to the
shore, and I proceeded thither.