It’s winter and cold outside, with fog, dust and wind. Johannes is back in town, in his old room, where he can hear the poplars creak against the woodwork and has greeted the dawn from the window more than once. Now the sun is gone.
His thoughts had all along been diverted by his work, those large sheets that he covered with writing, of which there were more and more as the winter wore on. It was a series of fairy tales from the land of his fantasy, an endless night with a red sun suffusing the sky.
But his days varied, the good alternating with the bad, and sometimes when he was working at his best a thought, a pair of eyes, a word from the past would strike him and suddenly break his mood. Then he would get up from his chair and start walking up and down in his room, from wall to wall; he had done this so often that a white track had been worn in the floor, and the track grew whiter every day. . . .Today, being unable to work, unable to think, unable to shake off my memories, I begin to write down what happened to me one night. Dear reader, today is one of those terribly difficult days for me. It’s snowing outside, the street is almost deserted, everything is sad, and my soul feels utterly desolate. I have spent hours trying to collect myself a little, walking the streets and afterward pacing up and down in my room, but it’s already afternoon and things are no better. I ought to be warm, but I’m cold and pale as a dying day. Dear reader, in this state I’ll try to write about a thrilling white night. Work will force me to be calm, and in a few hours I may be cheerful again. . . .
There is a knock on the door and Camilla Seier, his young, secret fiancée, comes in. He puts down his pen and gets up. They smile and say hello.
“You haven’t asked me about the ball,” she says at once, throwing herself into a chair. “I danced every single dance. It went on till three o’clock in the morning. I danced with Richmond.”
“Thanks so much for coming, Camilla. I feel so wretchedly low and you’re so cheerful; that will help, don’t you think? And what did you wear at the ball?”
“Red, naturally. My goodness, I can’t recall, but I must have talked and laughed a lot. It was simply enchanting. Yes, I wore red, no sleeves, not a bit. Richmond is at the London legation.”
“I see.”
“His parents are English, but he was born here. What have you done to your eyes? They’re all red. Have you been crying?”
“No,” he answers, laughing, “but I’ve been staring into my fairy tales, where the sun is very strong. Camilla, please try not to tear up that sheet of paper any more than you already have, that’s a good girl!”
“Good heavens, how thoughtless of me. Sorry, Johannes.”
“It doesn’t really matter, it’s only some notes. But tell me, you had a rose in your hair, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. A red rose; it was almost black. Do you know something, Johannes? We could go to London on our honeymoon. It’s not nearly as dreadful as people say, and the fog and all is just a pack of lies.”
“Who told you?”
“Richmond. He said so last night, and he knows all about it. You know Richmond, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. He proposed my health once; he had diamond studs in his shirtfront. That’s all I remember about him.”
“He’s absolutely delicious. Just imagine, he came up to me, bowed and said, ‘My young lady, perhaps you don’t remember me. . . .’ Ooh, I gave him the rose.”
“You did? What rose?”
“The one I had in my hair. I gave it to him.”
“You’re very much taken with Richmond, I believe?”
Blushing, she puts up a spirited defense. “Certainly not, not a bit. You can easily like someone, think well of someone, without . . . Shame on you, Johannes, you must be mad! I’ll never mention his name again.”
“God bless you, Camilla, I didn’t mean—you really mustn’t think . . . On the contrary, I’m going to thank him for entertaining you.”
“Yes, be sure to do that—just you dare! I, for one, won’t say another word to him, ever.”
Pause.
“Well, let’s leave it at that,” he says. “Are you going already?”
“Yes, I can’t stay any longer. How far have you got with your work by now? Mama was asking about it. Imagine, I hadn’t seen Victoria for weeks and just now I ran across her.”
“Just now?”
“On my way here. She smiled. But goodness, how faded she looked! Listen, won’t you come visiting soon?”
“Yes, soon,” he answers, jumping up. His face has turned all red. “Maybe in the next few days. I must write something first, I have an idea, a conclusion to my fairy tales. Oh, I am going to write something, all right, I certainly am! Imagine the earth seen from above, like a beautiful, fantastic papal gown. In its folds you see people walking about, in pairs; it’s a quiet evening, the hour of love. I’m calling it ‘The Spirit of Life.’ I think it will be grand; I’ve had this vision so often, and every time it feels as though my breast were going to burst and I could embrace the whole earth. There are people and animals and birds and, Camilla, they are all having their hour of love. A wave of rapture awaits them, their eyes grow more ardent, their breath quickens. Then a delicate blush rises from the earth, a blush of bashfulness from all those naked hearts, and the night takes on a rose-red hue. But far away, in the background, sit the big sleeping mountains; they have seen and heard nothing. And in the morning God casts his warm sun over everything. ‘The Spirit of Life,’ I’m calling it.”
“I see.”
“Yes. And when I’ve finished it I’ll come. Thanks so much for dropping by, Camilla. And forget what I said. I meant no harm.”
“I’ve forgotten it already. And I won’t ever mention his name again. I won’t, not ever.”
Next morning Camilla drops by again. She is pale and unusually restless.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“With me? Nothing,” she shoots back. “You’re the one I love. You really mustn’t think there’s anything the matter with me and that I don’t love you. No, I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking: we won’t go to London. What would we do there? The man obviously didn’t know what he was talking about, there’s more fog there than he thinks. You’re looking at me, why? I didn’t mention his name. What a liar! He told me a pack of lies. We won’t go to London.”
He looks at her, catching on. “No, we won’t go to London,” he says thoughtfully.
“Right. So we won’t do that. Have you written that piece about the spirit of life? Gee, I think it’s so interesting. Johannes, you have to finish it real soon and come see us. The hour of love, wasn’t that it? And a ravishing papal gown with folds and a rose-red night—gee, how well I still remember what you told me about it! I haven’t been to see you very often lately, but from now on I’ll come every day and see if you’re finished.”
“I’ll finish it very soon,” he says, continuing to look at her.
“Today I took your books and put them in my own room. I’m going to reread them; it won’t be the least tiring, I’m looking forward to it. Look, Johannes, why won’t you, please, walk me home? I’m not sure it’s quite safe for me all the way home. No, I’m not sure. There may be someone waiting for me outside, yes, someone who sticks around waiting for me. I almost think so. . . .” Suddenly she bursts into tears and stammers, “I called him a liar, I wish I hadn’t. I feel very sorry about that. He didn’t lie to me; on the contrary, he was always . . . We’re going to have some visitors on Tuesday; he won’t be coming, though, but listen, you must come. Promise? Still, I shouldn’t have said those nasty things about him. I’m wondering what you think of me. . . .”
“I’m beginning to understand you,” he said.
She flings her arms around his neck and hides her face on his breast, trembling and distraught.
“But I love you too,” she exclaims. “You mustn’t think I don’t. I do not love him alone, it’s not as bad as all that. When you asked me last year I was so glad, but then he came along. I can’t f
igure it out. Johannes, is it so very terrible of me? Perhaps I love him a tiny bit more than you, I can’t help that, it just came over me. Good gracious, I haven’t slept for nights since I saw him, and I love him more and more. What shall I do? You’re so much older, you must tell me. He came here with me, he’s standing out there waiting to see me home, and he may feel cold by now. Johannes, do you despise me? I haven’t kissed him, no, that I haven’t, you must believe me; I just gave him my rose. Why don’t you answer me, Johannes? You must tell me what to do, because I can’t stand it any longer.”
Johannes sat quite still listening to her. “There is nothing I can tell you,” he said.
“Thank you, thank you, Johannes, dear; it’s so sweet of you not to be furious with me,” she said, wiping away her tears. “But you mustn’t think I don’t love you too. By God, I’ll come and see you much more often than before and do everything you desire. It’s just that I love him more. I didn’t want it that way. It’s not my fault.”
He got up without a word; having put on his hat, he said, “Shall we go?”
They walked down the stairs.
Richmond was standing outside. He was a dark-haired young man with brown eyes sparkling with youth and life. The frost had made him rosy-cheeked.
“Are you cold?” said Camilla, flying to him.
Her voice quavered with emotion. Suddenly she darted back to Johannes, slipped her arm into his and said, “Forgive me for not asking you too if you were cold. You didn’t put on your overcoat; shall I go and get it? No? Then button up your jacket at least.”
She buttoned his jacket.
Johannes gave Richmond his hand. He was in a curiously absent state of mind, as if what was happening didn’t really concern him. He smiled uncertainly, a kind of half smile, and murmured, “Glad to see you again.”
Richmond gave no sign of either guilt or dissimulation. When he shook hands with Johannes, his face lighted up with the joy of recognition and he made a very deep bow.
“I recently saw one of your books in a bookseller’s window in London,” he said. “It had been translated. It was so nice seeing it there, a greeting from home.”
Camilla walked in the middle, looking up at them by turns. Finally she said, “So you’ll be coming on Tuesday, then, Johannes,” adding with a laugh, “sorry to be thinking only of my own things.” But the next moment she turned remorsefully to Richmond and asked him to come as well. They were all people both of them knew. Victoria and her mother were also invited, together with some dozen others, no more.
Suddenly Johannes stopped and said, “You know, I think I may as well turn back.”
“See you Tuesday,” Camilla replied.
Richmond grasped his hand and pressed it cordially.
And the two young people went on their way, alone and happy.
XII
The mother in blue was in the most terrible suspense; she expected a signal from the garden any moment and the path was not clear: nobody could pass through as long as her husband refused to leave. Ugh, that husband, that forty-year-old balding husband! What horrible thought could have made him turn so pale this evening, causing him to sit there in his chair, immovable, unrelenting, staring at his newspaper?
She didn’t have a moment’s peace; it was eleven o’clock already. She had put the children to bed long ago, but her husband didn’t leave. What if the signal sounded, the door was opened with that darling little key—what if the two men met, face to face, and looked one another in the eye! She didn’t dare complete the thought.
She went into the darkest corner of the room, wrung her hands, and at last said straight out, “It’s eleven o’clock. If you really mean to go to the club, you must leave now.”
He got up at once, even paler than before, and went out of the room, out of the house.
Once outside the garden, he stops and listens to a whistle, a little signal. Steps are heard on the gravel, a key is inserted in the lock and turned, and a moment later two shadows appear on the living-room curtain.
He recognized the signal, the steps, and the two shadows on the curtain; it was all familiar to him.
He goes to the club. It’s open, there is light in the windows; but he doesn’t go in. He wanders about the streets and in front of his garden for two quarters of an hour, for two endless quarters of an hour. Let me wait another quarter of an hour, he thinks, and he extends it to three. Then he enters the garden, mounts the steps, and rings at his own front door.
The maid answers the bell, barely sticking her head out the door, and says, “The mistress has long since—”
She stops, seeing who it is.
“To be sure, gone to bed,” he replies. “Will you go tell your mistress that her husband has come home.”
The maid goes. She knocks at her mistress’s room and gives the message through the closed door: “I was to tell you that the master has come back.”
From inside the mistress asks, “What are you saying, my husband has come back? Who asked you to tell me this?”
“The master himself. He’s standing outside.”
A confused lament is heard from the mistress’s room; there are breathless whispers, a door is opened and closed. Then all’s quiet.
The master comes in. His wife meets him with death in her heart.
“The club was closed,” he says quickly, out of sheer pity. “I sent word so as not to alarm you.”
She collapses in a chair, comforted, delivered, saved. In this blissful mood, her kind heart overflows and she asks after her husband’s health. “You are so pale. Is something the matter with you, my dear?”
“I’m not cold,” he replies.
“But has anything happened to you? Your face is so strangely distorted.”
“No, I’m smiling,” the husband says. “It’s my way of smiling. I want this grimace to be uniquely my own.”
She listens to these brief, hoarse words and doesn’t understand, she can’t figure them out at all. What does he mean to say?
Suddenly he clasps her in an iron embrace, hugging her with dreadful force as he whispers close to her face, “What do you say to putting horns on him—on the one who just left—putting horns on him?”
She gives a scream and summons the maid. He lets go of her with a dry, noiseless laugh, opening his mouth wide and slapping his thighs.
In the morning the wife’s kind heart wins out again and she says to her husband, “You had a strange attack last night; it’s over now, but you still look pale.”
“Yes,” he answers, “it’s a strain being witty at my age. I won’t ever try again.”
After discussing many kinds of love, Munken Vendt tells about yet another kind, beginning, This is how intoxicating a certain kind of love can be!
A young couple have just come home, their long honeymoon is over and they settle down.
A shooting star streaked across the sky above their roof.
In the summer the couple went for walks together, never leaving each other’s side. They picked red and yellow and blue flowers which they gave one another; they watched the grass swaying in the breeze and heard the birds singing in the woods, and every word they spoke was like a caress. In the winter they drove with harness bells on their horses, the sky was blue, and high above them the stars zoomed along on the eternal plains.
Many, many years went by in this manner. The young couple had three children, and their hearts were as loving as on the first day, exchanging their first kiss.
Then the proud gentleman is stricken with an illness, an illness that chained him to his bed for ever so long and sorely tried his wife’s patience. The day he was well enough to rise from his bed he didn’t recognize himself; the illness had disfigured him and robbed him of his hair.
He suffered and brooded. Then one morning he said, “Now you won’t love me anymore, I suppose?”
But his wife blushed, threw her arms around him and kissed him as ardently as in the spring of their youth and said, “I—I’ll love you, love
you forever. I shall never forget it was me and no one else you chose and made so happy.”
And she went into her room and cut off her golden hair, so she would be like the husband she loved.
Again many, many years went by; the young couple were getting on in years and their children were grown up. They shared every happiness as before; in the summer they still walked in the fields and saw the grass waving, and in the winter they bundled up in their furs and went for rides under a starry sky. And their hearts continued to be warm and glad, as though cheered by some wonderful wine.
Then the wife became paralyzed. Unable to use her legs, the old lady had to be in a wheelchair, which the husband himself moved about. Her misfortune brought unspeakable suffering, and sorrow dug deep furrows in her face.
One day she said, “Now I would like to die. I’m so paralyzed and so ugly, and your face is so beautiful; you cannot kiss me anymore or love me as before.”
But the husband embraces her, flushed with emotion, and says, “I—I love you more, more than my life, dearest one; I love you as on the first day, that first moment when you gave me the rose. You remember? You offered me the rose and looked at me with your beautiful eyes; the rose had the same scent as you, you blushed like a rose, and all my senses were intoxicated. But now I love you even more, you’re more beautiful than in your youth, and my heart thanks you and blesses you for each day you have been mine.”
The husband goes to his room, pours acid on his face to disfigure it and says to his wife, “I was unlucky enough to get some acid on my face, my cheeks are full of burns, and I’m afraid you won’t love me anymore.”
“Oh, my bridegroom, my beloved!” the old woman stammers, kissing his hands. “You’re more beautiful than any man on earth, even today your voice sets my heart ablaze, and I love you unto death.”
XIII
Johannes runs across Camilla in the street; she is with her mother, her father, and young Richmond. They stop their carriage and chat amiably with him.