that a living being dwells within it, that opens and closes the flowers
and smooths the leaves? When you see a lake, a deep, clear lake, don’t
you love it for this reason, that you imagine creatures living deep,
deep down below, that have their own joys and sorrows, that have their
own strange life with strange yearnings? And what, for instance, is
there beautiful about the green hill of Berdbjerg, if you don’t imagine,
that inside very tiny creatures swarm and buzz, and sigh when the sun
rises, but begin to dance and play with their beautiful treasure-troves,
as soon as evening comes.”
“How wonderfully beautiful that is! And you see that?”
“But you?”
“Yes, I can’t explain it, but there is something in the color, in the
movements, and in the shapes, and then in the life which lives in them;
in the sap which rises in trees and flowers, in the sun and rain that
make them grow, in the sand which blows together in hills, and in the
showers of rain that furrow and fissure the hillsides. Oh, I cannot
understand this at all, when I am to explain it.”
“And that is enough for you?”
“Oh, more than enough sometimes--much too much! And when shape and color
and movement are so lovely and so fleeting and a strange world lies
behind all this and lives and rejoices and desires and can express all
this in voice and song, then you feel so lonely, that you cannot come
closer to this world, and life grows lusterless and burdensome.”
“No, no, you must not think of your fiancee in that way.”
“Oh, I am not thinking of her.”
William and his sister came up to them, and together they went into the
house.
*****
On a morning several days later Mogens and Thora were walking in the
garden. He was to look at the grape-vine nursery, where he had not yet
been. It was a rather long, but not very high hothouse. The sun sparkled
and played over the glass-roof. They entered, the air was warm and
moist, and had a peculiar heavy aromatic odor as of earth that has just
been turned. The beautiful incised leaves and the heavy dewy grapes were
resplendent and luminous under the sunlight. They spread out beneath the
glass-cover in a great green field of blessedness. Thora stood there
and happily looked upward; Mogens was restless and stared now and then
unhappily at her, and then up into the foliage.
“Listen,” Thora said gayly, “I think, I am now beginning to understand
what you said the other day on the hill about form and color.”
“And you understood nothing besides?” Mogens asked softly and seriously.
“No,” she whispered, looked quickly at him, dropped the glance, and grew
red, “not then.”
“Not then,” Mogens repeated softly and kneeled down before her, “but
now, Thora?” She bent down toward him, gave him one of her hands,
and covered her eyes with the other and wept. Mogens pressed the hand
against his breast, as he rose; she lifted her head, and he kissed her
on the forehead. She looked up at him with radiant, moist eyes, smiled
and whispered: “Heaven be praised!”
Mogens stayed another week. The arrangement was that the wedding was to
take place in midsummer. Then he left, and winter came with dark days,
long nights, and a snowstorm of letters.
*****
All the windows of the manor-house were lighted, leaves and flowers were
above every door, friends and acquaintances in a dense crowd stood on
the large stone stairway, all looking out into the dusk.--Mogens had
driven off with his bride.
The carriage rumbled and rumbled. The closed windows rattled. Thora
sat and looked out of one of them, at the ditch of the highway, at the
smith’s hill where primroses blossomed in spring, at Bertel Nielsen’s
huge elderberry bushes, at the mill and the miller’s geese, and the hill
of Dalum where not many years ago she and William slid down on sleighs,
at the Dalum meadows, at the long, unnatural shadows of the horses that
rushed over the gravel-heaps, over the turf-pits and rye-field. She sat
there and wept very softly; from time to time when wiping the dew
from the pane, she looked stealthily over towards Mogens. He sat bowed
forward, his traveling-cloak was open, his hat lay and rocked on the
front seat; his hands he held in front of his face. All the things he
had to think of! It had almost robbed him of his courage. She had had
to say good-by to all her relatives and friends and to an infinity of
places, where memories lay ranged in strata, one above the other, right
up to the sky, and all this so that she might go away with him. And was
he the right sort of a man to place all one’s trust in, he with his past
of brutalities and debaucheries! It was not even certain that all
this was merely his past. He had changed, it is true, and he found it
difficult to understand what he himself had been. But one never can
wholly escape from one’s self, and what had been surely still was there.
And now this innocent child had been given him to guard and protect.
He had managed to get himself into the mire till over his head, and
doubtless he would easily succeed in drawing her down into it too. No,
no, it shall not be thus--no, she is to go on living her clear, bright
girl’s life in spite of him. And the carriage rattled and rattled.
Darkness had set in, and here and there he saw through the thickly
covered panes, lights in the houses and yards past which they drove.
Thora slumbered. Toward morning they came to their new home, an estate
that Mogens had bought. The horses steamed in the chill morning air; the
sparrows twittered on the huge linden in the court, and the smoke rose
slowly from the chimneys. Thora looked smiling and contented at all this
after Mogens had helped her out of the carriage; but there was no other
way about, she was sleepy and too tired to conceal it. Mogens took her
to her room and then went into the garden, sat down on a bench, and
imagined that he was watching the sunrise, but he nodded too violently
to keep up the deception. About noon he and Thora met again, happy and
refreshed. They had to look at things and express their surprise; they
consulted and made decisions; they made the absurdest suggestions;
and how Thora struggled to look wise and interested when the cows
were introduced to her; and how difficult it was not to be all too
unpractically enthusiastic over a small shaggy young dog; and how Mogens
talked of drainage and the price of grain, while he stood there and in
his heart wondered how Thora would look with red poppies in her hair!
And in the evening, when they sat in their conservatory and the moon so
clearly drew the outline of the windows on the floor, what a comedy they
played, he on his part seriously representing to her that she should
go to sleep, really go to sleep, since she must be tired, the while
he continued to hold her hand in his; and she on her part, when she
declared he was disagreeable and wanted to be rid of her, that he
regretted having taken a wife. Then a reconciliation, of course,
followed, and they laughed, and the hour grew late. Finally Thora went
to her room, but Mogens remained sitting in the conservatory, miserable
that she had gone. He drew black imaginings for himself, that she was
dead and gone, and that he was sitting here all alone in the world and
weeping over her, and then he really wept. At length he became angry at
himself and stalked up and down the floor, and wanted to be sensible.
There was a love, pure and noble, without any coarse, earthly passion;
yes, there was, and if there was not, there was going to be one. Passion
spoiled everything, and it was very ugly and unhuman. How he hated
everything in human nature that was not tender and pure, fine and
gentle! He had been subjugated, weighed down, tormented, by this ugly
and powerful force; it had lain in his eyes and ears, it had poisoned
all his thoughts.
He went to his room. He intended to read and took a book; he read, but
had not the slightest notion what--could anything have happened to her!
No, how could it? But nevertheless he was afraid, possibly there might
have--no, he could no longer stand it. He stole softly to her door; no,
everything was still and peaceful. When he listened intently it seemed
as if he could hear her breathing--how his heart throbbed, it seemed, he
could hear it too. He went back to his room and his book. He closed his
eyes; how vividly he saw her; he heard her voice, she bent down toward
him and whispered--how he loved her, loved her, loved her! It was like a
song within him; it seemed as if his thoughts took on rhythmic form,
and how clearly he could see everything of which he thought! Still and
silent she lay and slept, her arm beneath the neck, her hair loosened,
her eyes were closed, she breathed very softly--the air trembled within,
it was red like the reflection of roses. Like a clumsy faun, imitating
the dance of the nymphs, so the bed-cover with its awkward folds
outlined her delicate form. No, no, he did not want to think of her, not
in that way, for nothing in all the world, no; and now it all came back
again, it could not be kept away, but he would keep it away, away! And
it came and went, came and went, until sleep seized him, and the night
passed.
*****
When the sun had set on the evening of the next day, they walked about
together in the garden. Arm in arm they walked very slowly and very
silently up one path and down the other, out of the fragrance of
mignonettes through that of roses into that of jasmine. A few moths
fluttered past them; out in the grain-field a wild duck called,
otherwise most of the sounds came from Thora’s silk dress.
“How silent we can be,” exclaimed Thora.
“And how we can walk!” Mogens continued, “we must have walked about four
miles by now.”
Then they walked again for a while and were silent.
“Of what are you thinking now?” she asked.
“I am thinking of myself.”
“That’s just what I am doing.”
“Are you also thinking of yourself?”
“No, of yourself--of you, Mogens.”
He drew her closer. They were going up to the conservatory. The door
was open; it was very light in there, and the table with the snowy-white
cloth, the silver dish with the dark red strawberries, the shining
silver pot and the chandelier gave quite a festive impression.
“It is as in the fairy-tale, where Hansel and Gretel come to the
cake-house out in the wood,” Thora said.
“Do you want to go in?”
“Oh, you quite forget, that in there dwells a witch, who wants to put us
unhappy little children into an oven and eat us. No, it is much better
that we resist the sugar-panes and the pancake-roof, take each other by
the hand, and go back into the dark, dark wood.”
They walked away from the conservatory. She leaned closely toward Mogens
and continued: “It may also be the palace of the Grand Turk and you are
the Arab from the desert who wants to carry me off, and the guard is
pursuing us; the curved sabers flash, and we run and run, but they have
taken your horse, and then they take us along and put us into a big bag,
and we are in it together and are drowned in the sea.--Let me see, or
might it be...?”
“Why might it not be, what it is?”
“Well, it might be that, but it is not enough.... If you knew how I love
you, but I am so unhappy--I don’t know what it is--there is such a great
distance between us--no--”
She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately and
pressed her burning cheek against his:
“I don’t know how it is, but sometimes I almost wish that you beat me--I
know it is childish, and that I am very happy, very happy, and yet I
feel so unhappy!”
She laid her head on his breast and wept, and then she began while her
tears were still streaming, to sing, at first very gently, but then
louder and louder:
“In longing
In longing! live!”
“My own little wife!” and he lifted her up in his arms and carried her
in.
In the morning he stood beside her bed. The light came faintly and
subdued through the drawn blinds. It softened all the lines in the room
and made all the colors seem sated and peaceful. It seemed to Mogens
as if the air rose and fell with her bosom in gentle rarifications.
Her head rested a little sidewise on the pillow, her hair fell over her
white brow, one of her cheeks was a brighter red than the other, now and
then there was a faint quivering in the calmly-arched eyelids, and
the lines of her mouth undulated imperceptibly between unconscious
seriousness and slumbering smiles. Mogens stood for a long time
and looked at her, happy and quiet. The last shadow of his past had
disappeared. Then he stole away softly and sat down in the living-room
and waited for her in silence. He had sat there for a while, when he
felt her head on his shoulder and her cheek against his.
*****
They went out together into the freshness of the morning. The sunlight
was jubilant above the earth, the dew sparkled, flowers that had
awakened early gleamed, a lark sang high up beneath the sky, swallows
flew swiftly through the air. He and she walked across the green field
toward the hill with the ripening rye; they followed the footpath which
led over there. She went ahead, very slowly and looked back over her
shoulder toward him, and they talked and laughed. The further they
descended the hill, the more the grain intervened, soon they could no
longer be seen.
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO
Old Bergamo lay on the summit of a low mountain, hedged in by walls and
gates, and New Bergamo lay at the foot of the mountain, exposed to all
winds.
One day the plague broke out in the new town and spread at a terrific
speed; a multitude of people died and the others fled across the plains
to all four corners of the world. And the citizens in Old Bergamo set
fire to the deserted town in order to purify the air, but it did no
good. People began dying up there too, at first one a day, then five,
then ten, then twenty, and when the plague had reached its height, a
great many more.
And they could not flee as those had done, who lived in the new town.
There were some, who tried it, but they led the life of a hunted animal,
hid in ditches and sewers, under hedges, and in the green fields; for
the peasants, into whose homes in many places the first fugitives had
brought the plague, stoned every stranger they came across, drove him
from their lands, or struck him down like a mad dog without mercy or
pity, in justifiable self-defense, as they believed.
The people of Old Bergamo had to stay where they were, and day by day it
grew hotter; and day by day the gruesome disease became more voracious
and more grasping. Terror grew to madness. What there had been of order
and good government was as if the earth had swallowed it, and what was
worst in human nature came in its stead.
At the very beginning when the plague broke out people worked together
in harmony and concord. They took care that the corpses were duly and
properly buried, and every day saw to it that big bonfires were lighted
in squares and open places so that the healthful smoke might drift
through the streets. Juniper and vinegar were distributed among the
poor, and above all else, the people sought the churches early and late,
alone and in processions. Every day they went with their prayers before
God and every day when the sun was setting behind the mountains, all the
churchbells called wailingly towards heaven from hundreds of swinging
throats. Fasts were ordered and every day holy relics were set out on
the altars.
At last one day when they did not know what else to do, from the balcony
of the town hall, amid the sound of trumpets and horns, they proclaimed
the Holy Virgin, podesta or lordmayor of the town now and forever.
But all this did not help; there was nothing that helped.
And when the people felt this and the belief grew stronger that heaven
either would not or could not help, they not only let their hands lie
idly in the lap, saying, “Let there come what may.” Nay, it seemed, as
if sin had grown from a secret, stealthy disease into a wicked, open,
raging plague, which hand in hand with the physical contagion sought
to slay the soul as the other strove to destroy the body, so incredible
were their deeds, so enormous their depravity! The air was filled with
blasphemy and impiety, with the groans of the gluttons and the howling
of drunkards. The wildest night hid not greater debauchery than was here
committed in broad daylight.
“To-day we shall eat, for to-morrow we die!”--It was as if they had set
these words to music, and played on manifold instruments a never-ending
hellish concert. Yea, if all sins had not already been invented, they
would have been invented here, for there was no road they would not have
followed in their wickedness. The most unnatural vices flourished among
them, and even such rare sins as necromancy, magic, and exorcism were
familiar to them, for there were many who hoped to obtain from the
powers of evil the protection which heaven had not vouchsafed them.
Whatever had to do with mutual assistance or pity had vanished from
their minds; each one had thoughts only for himself. He who was sick
was looked upon as a common foe, and if it happened that any one was
unfortunate enough to fall down on the street, exhausted by the first
fever-paroxysm of the plague, there was no door that opened to him,
but with lance-pricks and the casting of stones they forced him to drag
himself out of the way of those who were still healthy.
And day by day the plague increased, the summer’s sun blazed down upon
the town, not a drop of rain fell, not the faintest breeze stirred. From
corpses that lay rotting in the houses and from corpses that were only
half-buried in the earth, there was engendered a suffocating stench
which mingled with the stagnant air of the streets and attracted swarms
and clouds of ravens and crows until the walls and roofs were black with
them. And round about the wall encircling the town sat strange,
large, outlandish birds from far away with beaks eager for spoil and
expectantly crooked claws; and they sat there and looked down with their
tranquil greedy eyes as if only waiting for the unfortunate town to turn
into one huge carrion-pit.
It was just eleven weeks since the plague had broken out, when the
watchman in the tower and other people who were standing in high places
saw a strange procession wind from the plain into the streets of the new
town between the smoke-blackened stone walls and the black ash-heaps of
the wooden houses. A multitude of people! At least, six hundred or more,
men and women, old and young, and they carried big black crosses between
them and above their heads floated wide banners, red as fire and blood.
They sing as they are moving onward and heartrending notes of despair
rise up into the silent sultry air.
Brown, gray, and black are their clothes, but all wear a red badge on
their breast. A cross it proves to be, as they draw nearer. For all the
time they are drawing nearer. They press upward along the steep road,
flanked by walls, which leads up to the old town. It is a throng of
white faces; they carry scourges in their hands. On their red banners
a rain of fire is pictured. And the black crosses sway from one side to
the other in the crowd.
From the dense mass there rises a smell of sweat, of ashes, of the dust
of the roadway, and of stale incense.
They no longer sing, neither do they speak, nothing is audible but the
tramping, herd-like sound of their naked feet.
Face after face plunges into the darkness of the tower-gate, and emerges
into the light on the other side with a dazed, tired expression and
half-closed lids.
Then the singing begins again: a miserere; they grasp their scourges
more firmly and walk with a brisker step as if to a war-song.
They look as if they came from a famished city, their cheeks are hollow,
their bones stand out, their lips are bloodless, and they have dark
rings beneath their eyes.
The people of Bergamo have flocked together and watch them with
amazement--and uneasiness. Red dissipated faces stand contrasted with
these pale white ones; dull glances exhausted by debauchery are
lowered before these piercing, flaming eyes; mocking blasphemers stand
open-mouthed before these hymns.
And there is blood on their scourges.
A feeling of strange uneasiness filled the people at the sight of these
strangers.
But it did not take long, however, before they shook off this
impression. Some of them recognized a half-crazy shoemaker from Brescia
among those who bore crosses, and immediately the whole mob through him
became a laughingstock. Anyhow, it was something new, a distraction
amid the everyday, and when the strangers marched toward the cathedral,
everybody followed behind as they would have followed a band of jugglers
or a tame bear.
But as they pushed their way forward they became embittered; they felt
so matter-of-fact in comparison with the solemnity of these people. They
understood very well, that those shoemakers and tailors had come here
to convert them, to pray for them, and to utter the words which they did
not wish to hear. There were two lean, gray-haired philosophers who had
elaborated impiety into a system; they incited the people, and out of
the malice of their hearts stirred their passions, so that with each
step as they neared the church the attitude of the crowd became more
threatening and their cries of anger wilder. It would not have taken
much to have made them lay violent hands on those unknown flagellants.
Not a hundred steps from the church entrance, the door of a tavern was
thrown open, and a whole flock of carousers tumbled out, one on top of
the other. They placed themselves at the head of the procession and led
the way, singing and bellowing with grotesquely solemn gestures--all
except one who turned handsprings right up the grass-grown stones of
the church-steps. This, of course, caused laughter, and so all entered
peacefully into the sanctuary.
It seemed strange to be here again, to pass through this great cool
space, in this atmosphere pungent with the smell of old drippings from
wax candles--across the sunken flag-stones which their feet knew so well
and over these stones whose worn-down designs and bright inscriptions
had so often caused their thoughts to grow weary. And while their eyes
half-curiously, half-unwillingly sought rest in the gently subdued
light underneath the vaults or glided over the dim manifoldness of the
gold-dust and smoke-stained colors, or lost themselves in the strange
shadows of the altar, there rose in their hearts a longing which could
not be suppressed.
In the meantime those from the tavern continued their scandalous
behavior upon the high altar. A huge, massive butcher among them, a
young man, had taken off his white apron and tied it around his neck, so
that it hung down his back like a surplice, and he celebrated mass
with the wildest and maddest words, full of obscenity and blasphemy. An
oldish little fellow with a fat belly, active and nimble in spite of
his weight, with a face like a skinned pumpkin was the sacristan
and responded with the most frivolous refrains. He kneeled down and
genuflected and turned his back to the altar and rang the bell as though
it were a jester’s and swung the censer round like a wheel. The others
lay drunk on the steps at full length, bellowing with laughter and
hiccoughing with drunkenness.
The whole church laughed and howled and mocked at the strangers. They
called out to them to pay close attention so that they might know what
the people thought of their God, here in Old Bergamo. For it was not so
much their wish to insult God that made them rejoice in the tumult; but
they felt satisfaction in knowing that each of their blasphemies was a
sting in the hearts of these holy people.
They stopped in the center of the nave and groaned with pain, their
hearts boiling with hatred and vengeance. They lifted their eyes and
hands to God, and prayed that His vengeance might fall because of
the mock done to Him here in His own house. They would gladly go to
destruction together with these fool-hardy, if only He would show His
might. Joyously they would let themselves be crushed beneath His heel,
if only He would triumph, that cries of terror, despair, and repentance,
that were too late, might rise up toward Him from these impious lips.