She took a long time over her bath, an almost longer time in doing her
hair; out of the chest of drawers, which she had used as a child, and
which still stood in its old place--out of its lowest drawer she took
her finest underlinen. She had never worn it but once--on her
wedding-day--before the desecration, never since. But to-day--Now,
now, now! Not one garment which she put on had ever been touched by
any one but herself. She wished to be what she had been in her dreams.
She went to the children, who were awake but not dressed.
"Listen, boys! To-day Tea shall take you to see grandmother."
Great delight, shared by Tea, for this meant a holiday.
"Mamma, mamma!" she heard behind her, as she ran down to the kitchen
to get a cup of coffee, and then she was off. First she must get some
flowers, then put off her lessons. For now, now, now!
Out in the street she remembered that it was too early to get
anything, so she went for a walk, beyond the town, the freshest, the
brightest, that she had ever taken. She came back again just as Fru
Holmbo was opening her shop. As Ella entered the "flower-woman" was
holding an expensive bouquet in her hand, ready to be sent out.
"I will have that!" cried Ella, shutting the door behind her.
"You!" said Fru Holmbo a little doubtfully; the bouquet was a very
expensive one.
"Yes, I must have it;" Ella's little green purse was ready. The
bouquet had been ordered for the best house in the town, and Fru
Holmbo said so.
"That does not matter," answered Ella. Such genuine admiration of a
bouquet had never been seen--and Ella got it.
From there she went to "Andresen's at the corner." One of the shopmen
took lessons in book-keeping from her. She wished to put him off, and
asked him to tell the whole of the large class. She asked him this
with kindling eyes, and he gladly promised to do so. The daintiest red
shawl was hanging just before her. She must have it to wear over her
head to-day when she drove out; for that she would drive to-day there
was no doubt. Andresen himself came up, just as she was asking about
the shawl. He caught a glimpse of her bouquet, under the paper. "Those
are lovely roses," he said. She took one out at once, and gave it to
him. From the rose he looked at her; she laughed and asked if he would
take a little off the price of the shawl; she had not quite enough
money left.
"How much have you?" he asked.
"Just half a krone too little," she replied.
He himself wrapped up the shawl for her. In the street she met
Cecilie Monrad, whose sister studied music with Ella; she was thus
saved a walk to the other end of the town to put her off. "Everything
favours me to-day," she thought.
"Did you see about those two who committed suicide together at
Copenhagen?" asked Cecilie.
"Yes, she had." Fröken Monrad thought that it was horrible.
"Why?"
"Why the man was married!"
"True enough," answered Ella, "but they loved each other." Her eyes
glowed; Cecilie lowered hers and blushed. Ella took her hand and
pressed it. "I tumbled into a love-story there," she thought, and
flew, rather than walked, up to the villas, where most of her pupils
lived. On a roof she saw two starlings; the first that year. The thaw
of a few days back had deceived them. Not that the starlings were
dispirited. No, they loved! "Mamma, mamma," she seemed to hear at the
same moment. It was certainly her boys; she had thought of them when
she saw the starlings. She was so occupied with this that she walked
right across to the side of the road and trod on a piece of board,
which tilted up and nearly threw her down; but under the board Spring
reigned. They had come with the thaw, they were certainly dandelions!
However ugly they may be in the summer, the first ones are always
welcome. She stooped down and gathered the flowers; she put them with
the roses. The dandelions looked very shabby there, but they were the
first this year, and found to-day!
After this she was absolutely boisterous. She skipped down the hills
when her errand was finished. She greeted friends and mere
acquaintance alike, and when she again saw Cecilie she put down the
flowers, made a snowball, and threw it at her back.
When she got home she wrapped the children well up and put them into
the sledge with Tea. "Mamma, mamma!" they shouted and pointed up
towards the hotel. There stood Aksel Aarö. He bowed to her.
Soon afterwards he came across. "You are quite alone," he said as he
entered.
"Yes." She was arranging the flowers and did not look up for she was
trembling.
"Is it a birthday to-day?" he asked.
"Do you mean because of the flowers?"
"Yes. What lovely roses, and those in the glass--dandelions?"
"The first this year," she answered.
He did not look at them. He stood and fidgeted, as though he were
thinking of something.
"May I sing to you?" He said at last.
"Yes, indeed." She left the flowers, in order to open the piano and
screw down the music-stool, and then drew quietly back.
After a long and subdued prelude, he began with the "Sunset Song," by
Ole Olsen, very softly, as he had spoken and moved ever since he came
in. Never had he sung more beautifully; he had greatly improved, but
the voice was the same, nay, there was even more despair and
suffering in it than when she had heard it for the first time.
"Sorrow, sorrow, oh, I am lost!" She heard it again plainly. At the
end of the first verse, she sat bending forward, and weeping bitterly.
She had not even tried to control herself. He heard her and turned
round, a moment afterwards she felt him approach her, it even seemed
to her that he kissed her plait, certainly he had bent down over her,
for she could feel his breath. But she did not raise her head, she
dare not.
He walked across the room, returned and then walked back again. Her
agitation subsided, she sat immovable and waited.
"May I be allowed to take you for a drive to-day?" she heard him say.
She had known the whole morning that they would go for a drive
together, so she was not surprised. Just as _that_ had now been
fulfilled, so would the other be--everything. She looked up through
her tears and smiled. He smiled too.
"I will go and see about the horses," he said, and as she did not
answer he left her.
She went back to the flowers. So she had not been able to give them to
him. She would throw away the dandelions. As she took them out of the
glass, she recalled the words, "You have something real there." They
had certainly not been said about the dandelions, but they had often
since recurred to her. Was it strange that they should do so now? She
let the dandelions remain.
Aarö stayed away a long time, more than an hour, but when he returned
he was very cheerful. He was in a smart ladies' sledge, in the
handsome furs which he had worn the day before; the most valuable ones
that she had ever seen. He saluted with his whip, and talked and
laughed with every one, old and young, who gathered round him while
Ella put on her things. That was soon done; she had not many wraps,
nor did she need them.
He got down when she appeared, came forward, muffled her up and drove
off at a trot. As they went he stooped over her and whispered, "How
good of you to come with me." His voice was very genial, but there was
something quite different about his breath. As soon as the handsome
horses had slackened speed, he stooped forward again.
"I have telephoned to Baadshaug to order lunch, it will be ready when
we get there; you do not mind?"
She turned, so as to raise her head towards him, their faces almost
met.
"I forgot to thank you for the card yesterday."
He coloured. "I repented afterwards," he said, "but at the moment, I
could not but think of you; how you suit it out here." Now _she_
coloured and drew back. Then she heard close by her: "You must not be
angry, it always happens that when we wish to repair a blunder, we
make another."
She would have liked to have seen his eyes, as he said this, but she
dare not look at him. At all events it was more than he had said up to
the present time. His words fell softly on her ears. Before to-day
she had almost misinterpreted his reserve, but how beautiful it made
everything. She worshipped it.
"In a little time we shall come to the woods, then we will stop and
look round us," he said.
"_There_," she thought.
He drove on at a quick trot. How happy she was! The sunlight sparkled
on the snow, the air was warm, she had to loosen the shawl over her
head, and he helped her to do so. Again she became aware of his
breath, there was something, not tobacco, more delicate, pleasanter,
but what was it? It seemed to harmonise with him. She felt very happy,
with an overflow of joy in the scene through which they were driving
and which continually increased in beauty.
On one side of the road were the mountains, the white mountains, which
took a warm tint from the sunlight. In front of the mountains were
lower hills, partly covered by woods, and among these lay scattered
farms. The farms were soon passed and then came woods, nothing but
woods. On the other side of the road they had the sea for the whole
way, but between them and it were flat expanses, probably marshes. The
sea looked steel-grey against the snow. It spoke of another part of
life, of eternal unrest; protest after protest against the snow idyl.
During the thaw, tree-trunks, branches, and fences had become wet. The
first snow which fell, being itself wet, had stuck to them. But when
all this froze together, and there was another overwhelming fall,
outlines were formed over the frozen surface, such as one rarely sees
the like of. The weight of the first soft snow had caused it to slip
down, but it had been arrested here and there by each inequality, and
there it had collected, or else it had slid under the branches, or
down on both sides of the fences; when this had been augmented both by
drift and fall, the most whimsical animal forms were produced--white
cats, white hares clawed the tree-trunks with bent backs and heads
and fore-quarters outstretched, or sat under the branches, or on the
hedges. White beasts were there, some appeared the size of martens,
but occasionally they seemed as large as lynxes or even tigers;
besides these there were numberless small animals, white mice, and
squirrels, here, there, and everywhere. Again there were, besides, all
sorts of oddities, mountebanks who hung by their heels, clowns and
goblins on the tops of the fences, dwarfs with big sacks on their
backs; an old hat or a nightcap: an animal without a head, another
with a neck of preposterous length, an enormous mitten, an overturned
water-can. In some places the blackened foliage remained uncovered,
and formed arabesques against the drifts; in others, masses of snow
lay on the branches of the fir-trees with green above and beneath,
forming wonderful contrasts of colour. Aarö drew up and they both got
out of the sledge.
Now they gained a whole series of fresh impressions. Right in front of
them stood an old pine-tree, half prostrated in the struggle of life;
but was he not dreaming, here in the winter, the loveliest of all
dreams, that he was young again? In the joyous growth of this
snow-white glory he had forgotten all pain and decay, forgotten the
moss on his bark, the rottenness of his roots was concealed. A rickety
gate had been taken from its place and was propped against the fence,
broken and useless. The artist hand of winter had sought it out too,
and glorified it, and it was now an architectural masterpiece. The
slanting black gate-posts were a couple of young dandies, with hats on
one side and jaunty air. The old, grey, mossy rails--one could not
imagine Paradise within a more beautiful enclosure. Their blemishes
had in this resurrection become their greatest beauty. Their knots and
crannies were the chief building ground for the snow, each hole filled
up by a donation of heavenly crystals from the clouds. Their
disfiguring splinters were now covered and kissed, shrouded and
decorated; all blemishes were obliterated in the universal whiteness.
A tumbledown moss-grown hut by the roadside--now more extravagantly
adorned than the richest bride in the world, covered over from
heaven's own lap in such abundance that the white snow wreaths hung
half a yard beyond the roof; in some places folded back with
consummate art. The grey-black wall under the snow wreaths looked like
an old Persian fabric. It seemed ready to appear in a Shakespearean
drama. The background of mountains and hills gleamed in the sunlight.
In the midst of all this Ella seemed to hear two little cries of
"Mamma, mamma!" When she looked round for her companion he was sitting
on the sledge, quite overcome, while tears flowed down his cheeks.
They drove on again, but slowly. "I remember this muddy road," said
he; his voice sounded very sad. "The trees shaded it so that it was
hardly ever dry, but now it is beautiful."
She turned and raised her head towards him. "Ah! sing a little," she
said.
He did not answer at once, and she regretted that she had asked him;
at length he said:
"I was thinking of it, but I became so agitated; do not speak for a
moment and then perhaps I can--the old winter song, that is to say."
She understood that he could not do so until he completely realised
it. These silent enthusiasts were indeed fastidious about what was
genuine. Most things were not genuine enough for them. That is why
they are so prone to intoxicate themselves; they wish to get away, to
form a world for themselves. Yes, now he sang:
In winter's arms doth summer sleep
By winter covered calm she lay,
"Still!" he cried to the river's play,
To farm, and field and mountain steep.
Silence reigns o'er hill and dale,
No sound at home save ringing flail.
All that summer loved to see
Till she returns sleeps safely on.
In needed rest, the summer gone,
Sleep water, meadow-grass and tree,
Hid like the kernel in the nut
The earth lies crumbling round each root.
All the ills which summer knew,
Pest and blight for life and fruit
Winter's hosts have put to rout.
In peace she shall awake again
Purified by winds and snows,
Peace shall greet her as she goes.
A lovely dream has winter strown
On the sleeping mountain height;
Star high, pale in northern light,
From sight to sight it bears her on
Through the long, long hours of night,
Till she wakes shall be her flight.
He who we say brings naught but pain
Lives but for that he ne'er shall see.
He who is called a murderer, he
Preserves each year our land again,
Then hides himself by crag and hill
Till evening's breeze again blows chill.
All the little sleigh-bells accompanied the song, like the twitter of
sparrows. His voice echoed through the trees, the religious service of
a human soul in the white halls.
One day, felt Ella, paid for a thousand. One day may do what the
winter song relates. It may rock a weary summer, destroy its germs of
ill, renew the earth, make the nerves strong, and the darkest time
bright. In it are collected all our long dreams. What might she not
have become, poor little thing that she was, if she had had many such
days? What would she not then have become, for her children.
They now drew near to a long building with two wings; the whole built
of wood. In the courtyard a number of sledges were standing. There
were a great many people here then! A stableman took their horses; the
waiter who was to attend to them, a German, was quickly at hand, and a
bareheaded jovial man joined them as well--it was Peter Klausson. He
seemed to have been expecting them, and wished to relieve Ella of her
wraps, but he smelt of cognac or something of the sort, and to get rid
of him she inquired for the room in which they were to lunch. They
were shown into a warm cosy apartment where the table was laid. Aarö
helped her off with her things.
"I could not endure Peter Klausson's breath," she said, at which Aarö
smiled.
"In America we have a remedy for that."
"What do you mean?"
"One takes something which scents the breath."
A moment later he asked her to excuse him. He had to arrange a few
things. She was thus alone until some one knocked at the door. It was
Peter Klausson again. He saw her astonishment and smiled.
"We are to lunch together," he said.
"Are we?" she replied.
She looked at the table; it was laid for five.
"Have you heard lately from your husband?"
"No."
A long pause. Was Peter Klausson fit company for Aksel Aarö? Her
husband's boon companion! Aarö, who will have nothing but what is
genuine. But as she thought this, she had to admit that Peter
Klausson's impulsive nature was perfectly truthful, which indeed it
was. The waiter came in with a basket of wine, but did not shut the
door after him until he had lifted in some more from outside:
champagne in ice.
"Shall we want so much wine?" asked Ella.
"Oh, it's all right," answered Peter Klausson, evidently delighted.
"But Aarö does not drink wine!"
"Aarö? When he asked me to come here to-day--I chanced to look in on
him--we had some first-rate cognac together."
Ella turned to the window, for she felt that she had grown pale.
Very soon Aarö came in, so courteous and stately that Peter Klausson
felt compelled to take his hands out of his pockets. He hardly dared
to speak. Aarö said that he had invited the Holmbos, but they had just
sent an excuse. They three must make the best of each other's society.
He led Ella to the table.
It was soon evident that Aarö was the most delightful and accomplished
of hosts. He spoke English to the waiter, and directed him by frequent
signs, covered his blunders, and smoothed away every little
difficulty, in such a way that it was hardly noticed. All the time he
kept up a constant flow of conversation, narrating small anecdotes
from his experiences of society, but he never poured out wine for
himself, and when he raised his glass his hand shook. Ella had fancied
before that this was the case--it was torture to her now.
Oysters were served for the first course; she relished them
thoroughly, for she was very hungry; but as the meal proceeded, she
became each moment less able to enjoy it. At last her throat seemed to
contract, she felt more inclined to cry than to eat and drink.
At first the reason was not clear to her. She only felt that this was
absolutely different from what she had dreamed of. This glorious day
was to be a disappointment. At first she thought--this will end some
time, and we shall go comfortably home again. But by degrees, as his
spirits rose, she became merely the guest of a society man. As such
she was shown all imaginable attention--indeed, the two gentlemen
joined in making much of her, till she could have cried.
After luncheon she was ceremoniously conducted on Aarö's arm into
another room which was also in readiness for them; comfortable, well
furnished, and with a piano.
Coffee was served at once with liqueur, and not long afterwards the
two men asked to be excused; they wanted to smoke, they would not be
long. They went, and left her alone. This was scarcely polite, and now
she first realised that it was not the day only, but Aarö, who had
become different from what she had believed him. The great darkness
which had overwhelmed her on the night of the ball again menaced her;
she fought against it; she got up and paced the room; she longed to be
out of doors, as though she could find him again there, such as she
had imagined him. She looked for the luncheon-room, put on her red
shawl, and had just come out on to the broad space before the
building, when the waiter came up to her and said something in English
which she could not at first understand. Indeed, she was too much
occupied with her own thoughts to be able suddenly to change
languages.
The waiter told her that one of her companions was ill, and the other
not to be found. Even when she understood the words, she did not
realise what was the matter, but followed mechanically. As she went
she remembered that Aarö's tongue had not been quite obedient when,
after the liqueur, he had asked permission to go and smoke; surely he
had not had a stroke.
They passed the smoking-room, which seemed to be full--at all events
of smoke and laughter. The door of a little room by the side of it was
opened; there lay Aksel Aarö on a bed. He must have slunk in there
alone, perhaps to drink more; indeed, he had taken a short thick
bottle in with him, which still stood on a table by the bed, on which
he lay fully dressed with closed eyes and without sense or feeling.
"Tip, tip, Peté!" he said to her, and repeated it with outstretched
finger, "Tip, tip, Peté!" He spoke in a falsetto voice. Did he mean
Peter? Did he take her for a man? Behind him on a pillow lay something
hairy; it was a _toupet_; she now saw that he was bald on the crown.
"Tip, tip, Peté!" she heard as she rushed out.
Few people have felt smaller than Ella as she trudged along the
country road, back to the town as fast as her short legs could carry
her, in thin shoes and winter attire. The heavy cloak which she had
worn for driving was unfastened, she carried the shawl in her hand,
but still the perspiration streamed off her; the idea was upon her
that it was her dreams which were falling from her.
At first she only thought of Aksel Aarö, the unhappy lost one!
To-morrow or the next day he would leave the country; she knew this
from past experience, and this time it would be for ever.
But as she thought how terrible it was, the _toupet_ on the pillow
seemed to ask: "Was Aksel Aarö so very genuine?" "Yes, yes, how could
he help it if he became bald so early." "H'm," answered the _toupet_;
"he could have confessed to it."
She struggled on; luckily she did not meet any one, nor was she
overtaken by any of those who had been at Baadshaug. She must look
very comical, perspiring and tearful, with unfastened cloak, in thin
shoes and with a shawl in her hand. Several times she slackened her
pace, but the disturbance of her feelings was too great, and it was
her nature to struggle forward.
But through all her feverish haste the great question forced itself
upon her: "Would you not wish now, Ella, to relinquish all your
dreams, since time after time things go so badly?" She sobbed
violently and answered: "Not for worlds. No! for these dreams are the
best things that I have. They have given me the power to measure
others so that I can never exalt anything which is base. No! I have
woven them round my children as well, so that I have a thousand times
more pleasure in them. They and the flowers are all that I have." And
she sobbed and pressed on.
"But now you will have no dream, Ella!"
At first she did not know what to reply to this, it seemed but too
true, too terribly true, and the _toupet_ showed itself again.
It was here that Aarö had sung the old winter song, and as the tinkle
of the sledge-bells had accompanied it, so now her tears were
unceasingly accompanied by two little voices: "Mamma, mamma!" It was
not strange, for it was towards the children that she was hurrying,
but now they seemed to demand that she should dream about them. No,
no! "You have something real there," Aarö's voice seemed to say. She
remembered his saying it, she remembered his sadness as he did so. Had
he really thought of himself and her, or of the children and her? Had
he compared his own weakness with their health, with their future? Her
thoughts wandered far away from the boys, and she was once more
immersed in all his words and looks, trying by them to solve this
enigma. But these, with the yearning and pain, came back as they had
never done before. Her whole life was over; her dream was of too long
standing, too strong, too clear, the roots could not be pulled up; it
was impossible. Were they not round everything which, next day, she
should see, or touch, or use? As a last stroke she remembered that
the boys were not at home; she would come to an empty house.
But she resisted still; for when she got home and had bathed and gone
to bed, and again the moonlight shone in on her and reminded her of
her thoughts the night before, she turned away and cried aloud like a
child. None could enter, none could hear her; her heart was young, as
though she were but seventeen; it could not, it would not give up!
What was it, in fact, that she had wished for to-day? She did not
know--no, she did not! She only knew that her happiness was
_there_--and so she had let it remain. Now she was disappointed and
deluded in a way that certainly few had been.
She could not bear to desecrate him further. Then the winter song
swept past in his voice, sweet, full, sorrowful, as if it wished to
make all clear to her; and, tractable as a child, she composed herself
and listened. What did it say? That her dreams united two summers,
the one which had been and the one which was slowly struggling up
anew. Thanks be to the dreams which had awakened it. It said, too,
that the dreams were something in themselves often of greater truth
than reality itself. She had felt this when she was tending her
flowers.
In her uneasy tossing in her bed, her plait had come close to her
hand. Sadly she drew it forward; he had kissed it again to-day. And so
she lay on her side, and took it between her hands, and cried.
"Mamma, mamma!" she heard whispered, and thus she slept.
_THE NOVELS OF BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON_
_Edited by EDMUND GOSSE_
_Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 3s. net_
_Synnövé Solbakken_
_Arne_
_A Happy Boy_
_The Fisher Lass_
_The Bridal March, & One Day_
_Magnhild, & Dust_
_Captain Mansana, & Mother's Hands_
_Absalom's Hair, & A Painful Memory_
_LONDON_
_WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
_21 Bedford Street, W. C._
_Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. _London and Edinburgh_
End of Project Gutenberg's The Bridal March; One Day, by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson