Joergen, is it you? Answer me, is it you?
Ah! I must have gone mad.... I am not superstitious, only depressed.
All the doors are locked and the shutters barred. There is not a sound.
I cannot hear anything moving outside.
It is just this dead silence that frightens us.... Yes, that is what it
is....
* * * * *
Now Jeanne is asleep. I can hardly see her through the fog.
She sits there like a shadow, an apparition, and the fog floats over her
red hair like smoke over a fire.
I know nothing whatever about her. She is as reserved about her own
concerns as I am about mine. Yet I feel as though during this hour of
intense fear and agitation I had seen into the depths of her soul. I
understand her, because we are both women. She suffers from the eternal
unrest of the blood.
She has had a shock to her inmost feelings. At some time or other she
has been so deeply wounded that she cannot live again in peace.
She and I have so much in common that we might be blood-relations. But
we ought not to live under the same roof as mistress and servant.
* * * * *
Gradually the fog is dispersing, and the lights burn brighter. I seem to
follow Jeanne's dreams as they pass beneath her brow. Her mouth has
fallen a little open, as if she were dead. Every moment she starts up;
but when she sees me she smiles and drops off again. Good heavens, how
utterly exhausted she seems after these hours of fear!
But somebody _is_ there! Yes ... outside ... there between the trees ...
I see somebody coming....
It is only Torp, with her lantern, and the dressmaker from the
neighbouring village. The moment she opened the basement door and I
heard her voice I felt quite myself again.
* * * * *
We have eaten ravenously, like wolves. For the first time Jeanne sat at
table with me and shared my meal. For the first and probably for the
last time. Torp opened her eyes very wide, but she was careful to make
no observations.
My fit of madness to-night has taught me that the sooner I have a man of
some kind to protect the house the better.
* * * * *
Jeanne has confided in me. She was too upset to sleep, and came knocking
at my bedroom door, asking if she might come in. I gave her permission,
although I was already in bed. She sat at the foot of my bed and told me
her story. It is so remarkable that I must set in down on paper.
Now I understand her nice hands and all her ways. I understand, too, how
it came about that I found her one day turning over the pages of a
volume by Anatole France, as though she could read French.
Her parents had been married twelve years when she was born. When she
was thirteen they celebrated their silver wedding. Until that moment in
her life she had grown up in the belief that they were a perfectly
united couple. The father was a chemist in a small town, and they lived
comfortably. The silver wedding festivities took place in their own
house. At dinner the girl drank some wine and felt it had gone to her
head. She left the table, saying to her mother, "I am going to lie down
in my room for a little while." But on the way she turned so giddy that
she went by mistake into a spare room that was occupied by a cavalry
officer, a cousin of her mother's. Too tired to go a step farther, she
fell asleep on a sofa in the darkened room. A little later she woke, and
heard the sounds of music and dancing downstairs, but felt no
inclination to join in the gaiety. Presently she dropped off again, and
when she roused for the second time she was aware of whispers near her
couch. In the first moment of awakening she felt ashamed of being caught
there by some of the guests. She held her breath and lay very still.
Then she recognized her mother's voice. After a few minutes she grasped
the truth.... Her mother, whom she worshipped, and this officer, whom
she admired in a childish way!
They lit the candles. She forced herself to lie motionless, and feigned
to be fast asleep. She heard her mother's exclamation of horror:
"Jeanne!" And the captain's words:
"Thank goodness she is sleeping like a log!"
Her mother rearranged her disordered hair, and they left the room.
After a few minutes she returned with a lamp, calling out:
"Jeanne, where are you, child? We have been searching all over the
house!"
Her pretended astonishment when she discovered the girl made the whole
scene more painful to Jeanne. But gathering up her self-control as best
she could, she succeeded in replying:
"I am so tired: let me have my sleep out."
Her mother bent over her and kissed her several times. The child felt as
though she would die while submitting to these caresses.
This one hour, with its cruel enlightenment, sufficed to destroy
Jeanne's joy in life for ever. At the same time it filled her mind with
impure thoughts that haunted her night and day. She matured
precociously in the atmosphere of her own despair.
There was no one in whom she could confide; alone she bore the weight of
a double secret, either of which was enough to crush her youth.
She could not bear to look her mother in the face. With her father, too,
she felt ill at ease, as though she had in some way wronged him.
Everything was soiled for her. She had but one desire; to get away from
home.
About two years later her mother was seized with fatal illness. Jeanne
could not bring herself to show her any tenderness. The piteous glance
of the dying woman followed all her comings and goings, but she
pretended not to see it. Once, when her father was out of the room, her
mother called Jeanne to the bedside:
"You know?" she asked.
Jeanne only nodded her head in reply.
"Child, I am dying, forgive me."
But Jeanne moved away from the bed without answering the appeal.
No sooner had the doctor pronounced life to be extinct than she felt a
strange anxiety. In her great desire to atone in some way for her past
harshness, the girl resolved that, no matter what befell her, she would
do her best to hide the truth from her father.
That night she entered the room where the dead woman lay, and ransacked
every box and drawer until she found the letters she was seeking. They
were at the bottom of her mother's jewel-case. Quickly she took
possession of them; but just as she was replacing the case in its
accustomed place, her father came in, having heard her moving about. She
could offer no explanation of her presence, and had to listen in silence
to his bitter accusation: "Are you so crazy about trinkets that you
cannot wait until your poor mother is laid in her grave?"
In the course of that year one of the chemist's apprentices seduced her.
But she laughed in his face when he spoke of marriage. Later on she ran
away with a commercial traveller, and neither threats nor persuasion
would induce her to return home.
After this, more than once she sought in some fleeting connection a
happiness which never came to her. The only pleasure she got out of her
adventures was the power of dressing well. When at last she saw that she
was not made for this disorderly life, she obtained a situation in a
German family travelling to the south of Europe.
There she remained until homesickness drove her back to Denmark. Her
complete lack of ambition accounts for her being contented in this
modest situation.
She never made any inquiries about her father, and only knows that he
left his money to other people, which does not distress her in the
least. Her sole reason for going on living is that she shrinks from
seeking death voluntarily.
I wonder if there exists a man who could save her? A man who could make
her forget the bitterness of the past? She assures me I am the only
human being who has ever attracted her. If I were a man she would be
devoted to me and sacrifice everything for my sake.
It is a strange case. But I am very sorry for the girl. I have never
come across such a peculiar mixture of coldness and ardour.
When she had finished her story she went away very quietly. And I am
convinced that to-morrow things will go on just as before. Neither of us
will make any further allusion to the fog, nor to all that followed it.