In the course of the two first years of her marriage she had two
children. Whenever she was alone, she divided her time between them
and her teaching. Her husband hardly contributed anything to the
household, except during the brief periods that he passed at home, and
then the money was squandered in the extravagant life which he led
with his companions. During these visits the "young ones" were sent
off to their aunt. "One could not take four steps without going
through the walls of this wretched little house," he said. At these
times she also gave up the lessons; she had no time for anything
except to wait on him.
Every one realised that she could not be happy, but no one suspected
that her whole life was one of dread--dread of the telegram which
would announce his coming, if only for a few days, dread of what might
happen when he came. When he was there she never attempted to oppose
him, but displayed to him, and every one else, those frank eyes and
quick, but quiet, ways which enabled her to come and go without being
noticed. When he was gone, she would suddenly collapse, and, worn out
with the strain of days and nights, be obliged to take to her bed.
Each time that he came home he kept less guard over himself, and was
more careless as regarded others. Had she known that men who have
expended their strength as he had done are as a rule worn out at
forty--and many such are to be found in the coast-towns--she would
have understood that these very things were signs of failure. He had
advanced far along the road. To her he only appeared more and more
disgusting. He was but little at home, which helped her. She had
determined that she and her boys should live in the best manner, and
this again was a help to her; but more than all was her constant
employment and the regard which every one felt for her. After five
years of marriage she looked as charming as ever, and appeared as
cheerful and lively; she was accustomed to conceal her feelings.
Her children were now--the elder four, the second three years old.
They were rarely seen anywhere but in the market-place, on the
snow-heaps in winter and on the sand-heaps in summer, or else they
were in the country with their aunt whom they had adopted as
"grandmother."
Next to the care of the little boys, flowers were Ella's greatest
delight. She had a great many, which made the house appear smaller
than it really was. She could play with the boys, but she could share
her thoughts with the flowers. When she watered them, she felt acutely
how much she suffered. When she dried their leaves, she longed for
pleasant words and kindly eyes. When she removed dead twigs and
superfluous shoots, when she re-potted them, she often cried with
longing; the thought that there was no one to care for her overcame
her.
Five years were gone, then, when one day it was reported through the
whole town that Aksel Aarö had become a rich man. His old friend was
dead and had left him a large annuity. It was also said that he had
been a second time treated for dypsomania. The previous treatment had
not been successful, but he was now cured. One could see how popular
Aarö was, for there was hardly anybody who was not pleased.
On Wednesday the 16th of March, 1892, at four o'clock in the
afternoon, Ella sat at work near her flowers; from there she could see
the hotel. At the corner window in the second story stood the man of
whom she was thinking--stood and looked down at her.
She got up and he bowed twice. She remained standing as he crossed the
market-place. He wore a dark fur cap, and his fair beard hung down
over his black silk waistcoat. His face was rather pale, but there was
a brighter expression in his eyes. He knocked, she could not speak or
move, but when he opened the door and came into the room, she sank
into a chair and wept. He came slowly forward, took a chair and sat
down near her. "You must not be frightened because I came straight to
you, it is such a pleasure to see you again." Ah! how they sounded in
this house, those few words full of consideration and confidence. He
had acquired a foreign accent, but the voice, the voice! And he did
not misconstrue her weakness, but tried to help her. By degrees she
became her old self, confiding, bright, timid.
"It was so entirely unexpected," she said.
"All that has occurred in the meantime rushes in on one," he added
courteously.
Not much more was said. He was preparing to leave, when his
brother-in-law entered. Aarö looked at her boys out on the snow-heap,
he looked at her flowers, her piano, her music, then asked if he might
come again. He had been there hardly five minutes, but an impression
rested on her mind somewhat as the magnificent fair beard rested on
the silk waistcoat. The room was hallowed, the piano, the music, the
chair on which he had sat, even the carpet on which he had walked--in
his very walk there was consideration for her. She felt that all that
he had said and done showed sympathy for her fate. She could do
nothing more that day, she hardly slept during the night, but the
change which had taken place in her was nothing less than the bringing
of something into the daylight again from five years ago, from six
years indeed, as one brings flowers out of the cellar, where they have
been put for their winter sleep, up into the spring-time again. As
this thought passed through her mind, she made the same gesture at
least twenty times, she laid both hands on her breast, one over the
other, as though to control it: it must not speak too loudly.
The next day their conversation flowed more freely. The children were
called in. After looking at them for a while, he said: "You have
something real there."
In a little time they were such good friends, he and the boys, that he
was down on all-fours playing horses with them, and did some quite
new tricks which they thought extremely amusing; he then invited them
to come for a drive the next day. After a thaw, there had been an
unusually heavy fall of snow; the town was white and the state of the
roads perfect.
Before he left Ella offered to brush him; the carpet had not been as
well swept as it should have been. He took the clothes-brush from her
and used it himself, but he had unfortunately lain on his back as
well, so she was obliged to help him. She brushed his coat lightly and
deftly, but she was never satisfied, nor was he yet properly brushed
in front. He had to do it over again: she stood and looked on. When he
had finished she took the brush into the kitchen.
"How funny that you should still wear your plait," said he, as she
went out. She remained away for some time, and came in again by
another door. He had gone. The children said that some one had come
across for him.
The next morning the little boys had their drive. They did not return
until late in the afternoon. They had been to Baadshaug, a
watering-place with an hotel and an excellent restaurant, to which
people were very fond of making excursions during the winter. His
sister's youngest boy was with them, and while all three went back
with the horses to "Andresen's at the corner," Aarö remained standing
in the passage. Never had Ella seen him so cheerful. His eyes
sparkled, and he talked from the time he came to the time he left. He
talked about the Norwegian winter which he had never realised before;
how could that have been? For many years he had had in his
_répertoire_ a song in praise of winter, the old winter song which she
knew as well: "Summer sleeps in winter's arms"--yes, she knew it--and
he only now realised how true it was. The influence of winter on
people's lives must be immense; why it was nearly half their lives;
what health and beauty and what power of imagination it must give. He
began to describe what he had seen in the woods that day. He did not
use many words, but he gave a clear picture; he talked till he became
quite excited, and looked at her the whole time with a rapturous
expression.
It was but for a few moments. He stood there muffled in furs: but when
he had gone it seemed to her that she had never truly seen him before.
He was an enthusiast then--an enthusiast whose depths never revealed
themselves. Was his singing a message from this enthusiasm? Was this
why his voice carried everybody away with it into another region? That
melancholy father of his, when a craving for drink seized him, would
shut himself up with his violin, and play and play till he became
helpless. Had the son, too, this dislike of companionship, this
delight in his own enthusiasm? God be praised, Aksel Aarö was saved!
Was it not from the depths of his enthusiasm that he had looked at
her? This forced itself upon her for the first time; she had been
occupied before by the change in him, but now it forced itself upon
her--hotly, with a thrill of fear and joy. A message of gladness
which still quivered with doubt. Was the decisive moment of her life
approaching? She felt that she coloured. She could not remain quiet;
she went to the window to look for him; then paced the room, trying to
discover what she might believe. All his words, his looks, his
gestures, since he had first come there, rose before her. But he had
been reserved, almost niggardly, with them. But that was just their
charm. His eyes had now interpreted them, and those eyes enveloped
her; she gave herself absolutely up to them.
Her servant brought in a letter; it was a Christmas card, in an
envelope without a direction, from Aksel Aarö--one of the usual
Christmas cards, representing a number of young people in snow-shoes.
Below was printed:
Winter white,
Has roses red.
On the other side, in a clear round hand, "In the woods to-day I could
not but think of you. A. A.." That was all.
"That is like him, he says nothing more. When he passes a shop-window
in which he sees such a card, he thinks of me; and not only does he
think of me but he sends me his thoughts." Or was she mistaken. Ella
was diffident; surely this could not be misconstrued. The Christmas
card--was it not a harbinger? The two young couples on it and the
words--surely he meant something by that. His enraptured eyes again
rose before her; they seemed not only to envelop her, but to caress
her. She thought neither of past nor future; she lived only in the
present. She lay wide awake that night looking at the moonlight. Now,
now, now, was whispered. Had she but clung to the dream of her life,
even when the reality had seemed so cruel, she would have held her
own; because she had been uncertain about it, all had become
uncertain. But the greater the suffering had been, the greater,
perhaps, would be the bliss. She fell asleep in the soft white light,
which she took with her into her dreams. She woke among light, bright
clouds, which gathered round the glittering thought of what might be
awaiting her to-day. He had not said a word. This bashfulness was what
she loved the best of anything in him. It was just that which was the
surest pledge. It would be to-day.