My landlady was surprised.
"Why, good evening. How well and happy you look! Here's your mail."
"Let it lie. I must tell you, Madame Henriksen, that you are a jewel."
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"Yes, you are. You are a very kind woman. But you have given my address to
someone."
"No, indeed; I swear I haven't."
"No? Well, then someone else must have done so. Yes, you're right, I am
happy, and tomorrow morning I shall get up very early and walk down by the
shore."
"But I did send a message," said my landlady. "I hope it wasn't wrong of
me. To a lady who wanted to know as soon as you arrived."
"A lady? You sent a message just now?"
"A little while ago, as soon as you came in. A young, handsome lady; she
might have been your daughter, you know."
"Thank you."
"Well, I'm only saying what's so. She said she would come at once, because
she had to see you about something."
The landlady left me.
So Miss Torsen was coming this very evening; something must have happened.
She had never visited me before. I looked round; yes, everything was neat
and tidy. I washed and made myself ready. There, she can have that chair;
I'd better light the other lamp, too. It might not be a bad idea to sit
down to my correspondence; that would make a good impression, and if I put
some letters in a small, feminine hand on top, it might even make her a
little jealous--hee, hee. Oh, God, ten or fifteen years ago one could play
such tricks; it's too late now....
Then she knocked and came in.
I made no move to shake hands, and neither did she; I merely drew out a
chair for her.
"Excuse my coming like this," she said. "I asked Mrs. Henriksen to send me
a message; it's nothing serious, and now I feel a little embarrassed about
it, but--"
I saw that it was something serious, and my heart began to pound. Why
should my heart be affected?
"This is the first time you've been in my rooms," I said, expectant and on
the defensive.
"Yes. It's very nice," she said, without looking round. She began to clasp
her hands and pull them apart again till the tips of her gloves projected
beyond her finger tips. She was in a state of great excitement.
"Perhaps _now_ I've done something you'll approve of?" she said,
suddenly pulling off her glove.
She had a ring on her finger.
"Good," I said. It didn't affect me immediately; I was to understand more
later, and merely asked:
"Are you engaged?"
"Yes," she replied. And she looked at me with a smile, though her mouth
shook.
I looked back at her, and I believe I said something like, "Well, now,
well, well!" Then I nodded in a fatherly fashion, bowed formally, and
said: "My heartiest congratulations!"
"Yes, that's what it's come to," she said. "I think it was the best thing
to do. Perhaps you think it's a bit unreliable of me or rash or--well,
don't you?"
"Oh, I don't know--"
"But it was absolutely the best thing. And I just thought I'd tell you."
I got up. She started, evidently in a very nervous state. But I had only
risen to turn down the lamp behind her, which had begun to smoke.
A pause. She said nothing more, so what could I say? But as the minutes
passed and I saw she was distressed, I said:
"Why did you want to tell me this?"
"Yes--why did I?"
"Perhaps for a moment you thought you were the center of the world again,
but--"
"Yes, I expect so."
She looked about her with great, roving eyes. Then she got up; she had
been sitting all this time as though about to spring at me. I rose, too.
An unhappy woman--I saw that plainly enough; but good heavens, what could
I do? She had come to tell me she was engaged, and at the same time looked
very unhappy. Was that a way to behave? But as she got up, I could see her
face better under her hat--I could see her hair--the hair that was
beginning to show silken and silver at the temples--how beautiful it was!
She was tall and handsome, and her breast was rising and falling--her
great breast--what a great breast she had, rising and falling! Her face
was brown, and her mouth open, just a little open, dry, feverishly dry--
"Miss Ingeborg!"
It was the first time I called her this. And I moved my hand toward her
slightly, longing to touch her, perhaps to fondle her--I don't know--
But she had collected herself now, and stood erect and hard. Her eyes had
grown cold; they looked at me, putting me in my place again, as she walked
toward the door. A cry of "No!" escaped me.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Don't go, not yet, not at once; sit down again and talk to me more."
"No, you're quite right," she said. "I'm not the center of the universe.
Here I come to bother you with my unimportant troubles, and you--well, of
course, you're busy with your extensive correspondence."
"Look here, sit down again, won't you? I shan't even read the letters;
they're nothing, only two or three letters perhaps, probably from complete
strangers. Now sit down; tell me everything; you owe me that much. Look, I
shan't even read the letters."
And with that I swept them up and threw them into the fire.
"Oh--what are you doing?" she cried, and ran to the fireplace, trying to
save them.
"Don't bother," I said. "I expect no happiness to come to me through the
post, and sorrows I do not seek."
She stood so close to me that I found myself again on the point of
touching her, just for a moment, touching her arm; but I caught myself in
time. I had already gone too far, so I said as gently and sympathetically
as I could:
"Dear child, you must not be unhappy; it will all turn out for the best;
you'll see. Now sit down--there, that's better."
No doubt she had been taken aback by my violence, for she sank into her
chair almost absently.
"I'm not unhappy," she said.
"Aren't you? So much the better!"
I began to chatter away at top speed, though I tried to restrain myself,
to show that I was nothing more than an uncle to her. I talked to distract
her, to distract us both; I let my tongue wag--I could hear it buzzing.
What could I say? A little of everything--a great deal, in fact:
"Well, well, child. And whom are you marrying, who is the lucky man? Nice
of you to come and tell me before anyone, really very nice; thank you very
much. You see I've only just come home and I haven't slept much on the
journey. I was anxious to know--well, perhaps not anxious exactly--but
still--You know what such a homecoming is: lots of people, noise, brr!--I
hardly got any sleep. Then I came home, and then you came along--thank you
for coming, Miss Ingeborg--I might be your father and you're just a
child; that's why I say 'Ingeborg.' But when you told me all this, I
hadn't had any sleep, I wasn't quite balanced--not enough to give you
advice; I mean, I hadn't quite appreciated--But now you can quite
safely--I'd like to know, of course--Is he old? Is he young? Young, of
course. I am imagining what will happen to you now, Miss Ingeborg, in
your new condition. I mean, it will be so entirely different from what
you've been accustomed to, but God bless you, it will all turn out for
the best, I'm sure of that--"
"But you don't even know who it is!" she interrupted, looking at me
apprehensively again.
"No, I don't, and I needn't if you'd rather not tell me yet. Who is it? A
dapper little man, I can see that from his ring, a schoolmaster perhaps, a
clever young schoolmaster--"
She shook her head.
"Then a big, good-natured man who wants to dance with you--"
"Yes, perhaps," she said slowly.
"There you are--you see I've guessed it. A bear who will carry you on his
paws. On your birthday--do you know what he'll give you for your
birthday?"
But perhaps I was getting too childish; I bored her, and for the first
time she looked away from me, looked at a picture on the wall, then at
another picture. But it was not easy for me to stop now, after having
spoken hardly at all for several weeks, and feeling profoundly excited
besides--heaven only knows why.
"How did you like the country?" she asked suddenly. As I could not see the
drift of this question, I merely looked at her.
"Weren't you at Nikolai's mother's house?" she persisted.
"Yes."
"What is she like?"
"Are you interested in her?"
"No, I don't suppose so. Oh dear!" she sighed wearily.
"Come, come, you mustn't sound like that when you're newly engaged! What
the country was like? Well, there was a schoolmaster--you know, an old
bachelor, sly, and amusing. Said he knew me, and put on the most
extraordinary airs the first day. And of course I returned the compliment
and said I had come exclusively to meet him. 'Impossible!' he said. 'Why
should it be?' I said; 'forty years a schoolmaster, a respected man,
permanent churchman, chairman, indispensable everywhere!' Well, then I
attended his class. Most impressive. He talked continually; for once he
had an audience, almost like a school inspection. 'You there, Peter!
Ahem,' he said. 'There was a horse and a man, and one of them was riding
on the other's back. Which one was riding, Peter?' 'The man,' Peter
replies. A pause. 'Well, maybe you're right, Peter--maybe the man was
riding. Just like sin, like the devil riding us....'"
But she was looking at the wall again, drifting away from me again. I
changed the subject clumsily:
"Of course you'd rather hear about people you know--about Tore Peak, for
instance. Josephine has been in town."
"Yes, I know," she said, nodding her head.
"Remember the old man at Tore Peak? I don't think I'll ever forget him. In
a certain number of years I shall be like him--perhaps not quite so old.
Then I shall be a child again with age. One day he came out, and went down
to the field. I saw him; he had mittens on. You know he eats all sorts of
things, and I saw him lie down and eat the hay."
She stared at me foolishly.
"But I must say he didn't look as though he had ever eaten hay
before--possibly because it was rotting. It was the hay that had been
left, you know--rotting down for next year--for the next tourist year."
"You seem to think," she said smiling, "that you have to cheer me up,
because I'm terribly unhappy. I'm quite the reverse. Perhaps he's too good
for me; that's what his sister seems to think, anyhow, because she tried
to stop it. But I'm going to enjoy snubbing that sister of his. Anyhow,
I'm not unhappy, and that isn't the reason I've come. I'd really much
rather have him than anyone else--since I can't get the one I really
want."
"You've told me this before, child--last winter, in fact. But the man you
want has gone his way--besides, you said yourself that you didn't belong
with him, or rather, that he didn't with you--I mean--"
"Belong? Do I belong anywhere? Do you think I belong in the place I'm
going to now? I'm afraid I'm not really suitable for anybody--at least I
can't think of anyone I'd suit. I wonder how I'll manage. I wonder if
he'll be able to stand me. But I'll do my very best; I've made up my mind
to that."
"Well, who is it--do I know him? Of course you suit each other. I can't
believe you don't. He must be in love with you, quite madly in love, and
you must love him in return. I'm sure you'll come through with flying
colors, Miss Ingeborg, because you're capable and intelligent."
"Oh, well," she said, rising suddenly to her feet. But she hesitated over
something, and seemed about to speak, then changed her mind again. At the
door, she stood with her back to me, pulling on her gloves, and said:
"So you think I ought to do it?"