The balcony-door was standing open, because they had forgotten to close
it. But the weather was mild and there was hardly any wind. Now and
again, a yellow leaf fell somewhere or other from the baluster. It
began to grow dusk.
Fru Adelheid sat with her head in her hands and stared out before her.
Cordt’s words kept ringing in her ears. She did not think either that
Finn was as he used to be. He was restless, could not sit still, talked
more than usual:
“Wherever I went, I found the fountain outside,” he said. “It followed
me throughout my journey. There was not a rushing noise so strong
but the fountain sounded through it nor a night so still but it came
rippling and sang me home again to the old room.... I wonder, did one
of the owners of this house set it up?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes,” said Finn. “That must be it. I am sure of it. Perhaps it was the
one who built the house. You see, it forms part and parcel of the old
room ... it sums it all up. If there was nothing else but the fountain,
it would all be here just the same. I must ask father.”
She shivered with cold and Finn shut the door:
“We are chilly people,” he said. “Both of us. We are not like father.
He laughed at me yesterday when I came down to his room to say
good-morning and wanted to shut the window. ‘Don’t, Finn,’ he said.
‘The autumn air is bracing and healthy, it makes one young again ...
sit in the draught and don’t be afraid, old man that you are!’”
“Yes, father is strong.”
Finn looked at her stealthily.
He had soon understood that his parents had drifted apart while he was
abroad; and he suffered in consequence. He was as kind and affectionate
to his mother as ever; but his thoughts were always harking back to
Cordt, whatever they might be talking of:
“Father is so sad,” he said.
“I haven’t noticed it.”
She colored after saying this. But Finn was not looking at her,
scarcely heard her reply:
“It was strange, mother ... out there, on my journey, ever so many
times I had a feeling that I came upon father. Wherever I went, I would
suddenly hear his voice ... then he would be close to me, I walked with
him, regulated my step by his and talked to him.”
He laid his head back in his chair and closed his eyes:
“Often it was as if he had been where I came and prepared everything
for me, so that I saw him in every corner. Sometimes I felt that I must
put off my departure until he came.”
“And did he come?”
“Always. Wasn’t that strange?”
“Yes.”
Fru Adelheid thought the sound of his voice was different from
ordinary. He did not look at her, as he was used to do ... his thoughts
were not with her.
“Where were you and father to-day?” she asked.
“We went out into the woods ... a long way out. Father was silent, but
not so bored as at home. It was so lovely out there ... and so strange.
One could hardly see a thing ... for the leaves falling.”
“Yes,” said Fru Adelheid.
Then she bent over him to look into his face, which had grown thinner
and paler during the time that he was away:
“Finn,” she said, “was I not with you ... out there ... when you were
travelling?”
Finn smiled and nodded his head:
“You came in your letters,” he said. “That father never did. But you
were mostly here at home, where I was longing to be.”
She thought it was strange that he did not take her hand when he said
that.
And, suddenly, she became conscious that she was sitting in terror lest
he should slip away from her.
What had she to hold him with, if anything seized him that was stronger
than their quiet life in these hours ... what had she, if he went...?
It seemed to her as though Cordt stood in the room and beckoned him
out into the yellow woods, where the air was so bracing and good. And
Finn leapt up with a joyful cry ... they went away ... and never looked
back....
She felt that Cordt was stronger than she and hated him for it. She
sought for a weapon to defend herself. She wished that Finn, who loved
her, would lie down before her, as he so often used to do, with his
cheek against her hand. And she knew that he was not thinking of it.
She felt so wretched and so lonely that she grew frightened and called
upon her old longing for the red happiness ... if only it would come
and take her, so that she might have something to set against him who
had everything....
“Sing to me, mother,” said Finn.
“Yes,” she said.
She crossed the room with a stronger step than usual. Her cheek was red
and her eyes glowed. She took hold of the instrument with firm hands
when she opened it. Finn noticed this and looked at her in surprise;
but it was not light enough for him to make out her face.
Lovs’t thou the peasant in his cosy cottage-nook?
Thou shalt share bed and board with him, eating and sleeping;
Thou shalt tranquilly brew and merrily cook;
Dusty wheel, rusty needle thy care shall not brook;
Thou shalt bless sun and rain in God’s keeping.
But she that loves none shall go weeping!
Lovs’t thou the poet with harp all of gold?
Thou shalt list to his song o’er the loud strings sweeping;
Thou shalt meet him, where flowrets peep from the wold;
By thy smiles shall his going and coming be told,
His mind in thy joyfulness steeping.
But she that loves none shall go weeping!
Lovs’t thou the lordling, who hunts in the grove?
Thou shalt sue to thy mother and fly from her keeping;
Thou shalt give him thy lips and give him thy love;
Thou shalt take, as he flings horse or hound from above,
Blows, fame and food flung to thee creeping.
But she that loves none shall go weeping!
Fru Adelheid remained sitting with bowed head.
The song had broken her pride. She trembled over all her body and great
tears fell upon her hands. She had conjured up spirits which she could
not lay; she felt more powerless and small than she had ever felt
before.
She began to think of Finn and looked round in alarm. But he could not
see her and she wept silently. She laid her forehead against the spinet
... then her hand fell upon the keyboard and she started and rose from
her seat.
“That was a strange song,” said Finn.
It was so still in the room that she could not bear it.
“I have not sung it for many years,” she said. “In the old days, I used
to sing it often.”
“What was father like when you met him?” asked Finn.
She stood with her back to him and turned the pages of the music with
trembling hands.
“Was he as handsome as now?”
“Yes ... no.... I don’t know if he was handsome.”
Finn listened.
“He was ... he was charming.”
“That he was ... that he was,” he said and clapped his hands like a
child who is delighted with a story. “And then he was so masterful ...
was he not?... So that one was bound to follow him?”
“Yes,” said Fru Adelheid.
“Father was a king,” said Finn.
Her heart throbbed, she listened with all her senses. She felt that
Finn was somewhere close to her and accomplishing something that would
destroy her. And she could not turn round, could not go to him and beg
him to desist.
“I could wish I had a brother,” said Finn.
“Do you feel lonely?”
“No ... no, it is not that. But then he should have the kingdom.”