One Day

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Title:     One Day
Author: Bjornstjerne Bjornson [More Titles by Bjornson]

CHAPTER I

Ella was generally known as the girl with the plait. But, thick as the plait was, if it had belonged to any one less shapely, less blonde, less sprightly, hardly any one would have noticed it; the merry life which it led behind her would have passed unobserved, and that, although it was the thickest plait which any one in the little town had ever boasted. Perhaps it looked even thicker than it really was, because Ella herself was little. It is not necessary to give its exact length, but it reached below her waist; a long way below it. Its colour was doubtful but inclined a little to red, though people in the town generally called it light, and we will accept their dictum without going into the question of half-tones. Her face was noticeable for its white skin, pretty shape, and classic profile; she had a small, full mouth, and eyes of unusual frankness, a trim little figure, but with rather short legs, so that in order to get over the ground as fast as it was her nature to do, her feet had to move very quickly. She was quick, indeed, in everything which she undertook, and that no doubt was why the plait was busier than plaits are wont to be.

Her mother was the widow of a government official, had a small fortune besides her pension, and lived in her own little house opposite the hotel close by the market. She was an unassuming woman, whose husband had influenced her in everything; he had been her pride, her light, and when she lost him, the object of her life was gone; she became absorbed in religion; but, as she was not dictatorial, she allowed her only child--who much resembled her father--to follow her own inclinations. The mother associated with no one except an elder sister, who owned a large farm near the town, but Ella was allowed to bring in her companions from school, boating, skating, and snow-shoeing; this, however, made no difference, for there was an instinctive prudence in her choice of friends; her liveliness was tempered by her mother's society and the quietness of the house. So that she was active and expeditious without being noisy, frank enough, but with self-command and heedfulness.

All the more strange, then, was an incident which occurred when she was between fourteen and fifteen. She had gone with a few friends to a concert which the Choral Society of the town, and one or two amateurs, were giving in aid of the Christmas charities. At this concert, Aksel Aaroe sang Moehring's "Sleep in Peace." As every one knows, a subdued chorus carries the song forward; a flood of moonlight seemed to envelop it, and through it swept Aksel Aaroe's voice. His voice was a clear, full, deep baritone, from which every one derived great pleasure. He could have drawn it out, without break or flaw, from here to Vienna. But within this voice Ella heard another, a simultaneous sound of weakness or pain, which she never doubted that everybody could hear. There was an emotion in its depths, an affecting confidence, which went to her heart; it seemed to say, "Sorrow, sorrow is the portion of my life; I cannot help myself, I am lost." Before she herself knew it, she was weeping bitterly. Anything more impressive than this voice she had never experienced. With every note her agitation increased, and she lost all control over herself.

Aaroe was of moderate height, and slender, with a fair, silky beard, which hung down over his chest; his head was small, his eyes large and melancholy, with something in their depths which, like the voice, seemed to say "Sorrow, sorrow." This melancholy in the eyes she had noticed before, but had not fully understood it until now, when she heard his voice. Her tears would flow. But this would not do. She glanced quickly round; no one else was crying. She set her teeth, she pressed her arms against her sides, and her knees together till they ached and trembled. Why in the world should this happen to her and to no one else? She put her handkerchief to her lips, and forced herself to think of the beam of light which she had seen flash out from the lighthouse and disappear again, leaving the sea ghostly in the darkness. But no! her thoughts would return; they would not be controlled. Nothing could check the first sob, it would break out. Before all the astonished eyes she rose, left her seat, slipped quietly from the room and got away. No one came with her; no one dared to be seen near her.

You who read this, do you realise how dreadful it was? Have you been to such a--I had nearly written _silent_--concert, in a Norwegian coast town of somewhat pietist savour? Hardly any men are present. Either music is not to the masculine taste in the coast towns, or they are in some other part of the club, at billiards, or cards, or in the restaurant drinking punch, or reading the papers. Two or three perhaps have come up for a moment, and stand near the door, stand like those to whom the house belongs, and who wish to have a look at the strangers; or there really are one or two men sitting on the benches, squeezed in among the many coloured dresses, or else a few specimens are seen round the walls, like forgotten overcoats.

No! those who gather at the concerts are from the harems of the place; their elder inhabitants come to dream again, amidst beautiful words and touching music, of what they once persuaded themselves that they were, and what they had once believed was awaiting them. It is a harmless passing amusement. In the main they are better understood up above than here below, so that if a whiff of the kitchen or a few household worries do find their way into the dreams, it does not disturb them. The younger denizens of the harems dream that they _are_ what the elders once believed themselves, and that _they_ will attain at least to something of what the eldest have never reached. _They_ had gained some information about life. In one thing old and young resemble each other; they are practical and prosperous by descent. They never allow their thoughts to stray very far. They know quite well that the glow which they feel as they listen to the words and music of great minds is not to be taken too seriously; it is only "What one always feels, you know."

When, therefore, one among them took this really seriously and began to cry about it, good gracious! In private it was called "foolery," in public "scandalous."

Ella had made a spectacle of herself. Her own dismay was immeasurable. No girl that she knew was less given to tears than herself; that she was certain of. She had as great a dread as any one of being looked at, or talked about. What in the world was it then? She was fond of music, certainly; she played herself, but she did not believe that she had any remarkable gift. Why, then, should she especially have been overcome by his song? What must he think of the silly girl? This thought troubled her most, and on this point she dare not confide in any one. Most people concluded that she had been ill, and she actually did keep indoors for a few days, and looked pale when she reappeared. Her friends teased her about it, but she let the matter drop.

In the winter there were several children's dances, one of which was at "Andresen's at the corner," and Ella was there. Just at the conclusion of the second quadrille, she heard whispered "Aksel Aaroe, Aksel Aaroe!" and there he stood at the door, with three other young fellows behind him. The hostess was his elder sister. The four had come up from a card party to look on.

Ella felt a thrill of delight, and at the same time her knees threatened to give way under her. She could neither see, nor understand clearly, but she felt great eyes on her. She was engrossed in a fold of her dress which did not hang properly, when he stood before her and said, "What a beautiful plait you have." His voice seemed to sprinkle it with gold-dust. He put out his hand as though he were going to touch it, but instead of doing so he stroked his beard. When he noticed her extreme timidity, he turned away. Several times during the evening she felt conscious of his presence; but he did not come up to her again.

The other men took part in the dancing, but Aaroe did not dance. There was something about him which she thought specially charming; a reserved air of distinction, a polish in his address, a deference of that quiet kind which alone could have appealed to her. His walk gave the impression that he kept half his strength in reserve, and this was the same in everything. He was tall, but not broad-shouldered; the small, somewhat narrow head, set on a rather long neck. She had never before noticed the way in which he turned his head. She felt now that there could be something, yes, almost musical about it.

The room, and all that passed in it, seemed to float in light, but suddenly this light was gone. A little later she heard some one say, "Where is Aksel Aaroe? Has he left?"

Aaroe was not at home for very long that winter. He had already spent two years at Havre, from which place he had recently returned; he was now going for a couple of years to Hull. Before this, music had been a favourite pursuit with Ella; she had especially loved and studied harmony, but from this time forward she devoted herself to melody. All music had given her pleasure and she had made some progress in it; but now it became speech to her. She herself spoke in it or another spoke to her. Now, whoever she was with, there was always one as well, she was never alone now, not in the street, not at home; of this the plait was the sacred symbol.

In the course of the spring Fru Holmbo met Ella in the street as she was coming from the pastor's house with her prayer-book in her hand.

"Are you going to be confirmed?" asked Fru Holmbo.

"Yes."

"I have a message for you; can you guess from whom?"

Now, Fru Holmbo was a friend of Aksel Aaroe's sister and very intimate with the family. Ella blushed and could not answer.

"I see that you know who it is from," said Fru Holmbo, and Ella blushed more than ever.

With a rather superior smile--and the prettiest lady in the town had a superabundance of them--she said, "Aksel Aaroe is not fond of writing. We have only just received his first letter since he left; but in it he writes that when we see 'the girl with the plait,' we are to remember him to her.' She cried at Moehring's song; other people might have done so too,'" he wrote.

The tears sprang to Ella's eyes.

"No, no," said Fru Holmbo consolingly, "there is no harm in that."

 

CHAPTER II

Two years later, in the course of the winter, Ella was coming quickly up from the ice with her skates in her hand. She wore her new tight-fitting jacket for the first time; in fact, it was principally this jacket which had tempted her out. The plait hung jauntily down from under her grey cap. It was longer and thicker than ever; it throve wonderfully.

As usual, she went round by "Andresen's at the corner." To see the house was enough. Just as her eyes rested on it, Aksel Aaroe appeared in the doorway. He came slowly down the steps. He was at home again! His fair beard lay on the dark fur of his coat, a fur cap covered his low forehead and came down almost to his eyes; those large, attractive eyes. They looked at one another; they had to meet and pass; he smiled as he raised his cap, and she--stood still and curtseyed, like a schoolgirl in a short frock. For two years she had not dropped a curtsey, or done otherwise than bow like a grown-up person. Short people are most particular about this privilege; but to him, before whom she specially wished to appear grown-up, she had stood still and curtseyed as when he had last seen her. Occupied by this mishap she rushed into another. She said to herself, "Do not look round, keep yourself stiff, do not look round; do you hear?" But at the corner, just as she was turning away from him, she did look back for all that, and saw him do the same. From that moment there were no other people, no houses, no time or place. She did not know how she got home, or why she lay crying on her bed, with her face in the pillow.

A fortnight later, there was a large party at the club, in honour of Aksel Aaroe. Every one wished to be there, every one wished to bid their popular friend welcome home. He had been greatly missed. They had heard from Hull how indispensable he had by degrees become in society there. If his voice had had a greater compass--it did not comprise a large range of notes--he would have obtained an engagement at Her Majesty's Theatre; so it was said over there. At this ball, the Choral Society--his old Choral Society--would again sing with him.

Ella was there; she came too early--only four people before her. She trembled with expectancy in the empty rooms and passages, but more especially in the hall where she had made "a spectacle of herself." She wore a red ball-dress, without any ornaments or flowers; this was by her mother's wish. She feared that she had betrayed herself by coming so early, and remained alone in a side room; she did not appear until the rooms had been fully lighted, and the perfume, the buzz of voices, and the tuning of instruments lured her in. Ella was so short, that when she came into the crowd, she had not seen Aksel Aaroe when she heard several whispers of "There he is," and some one added, "He is coming towards us." It was Fru Holmbo for whom he was looking, and to whom he bowed; but just behind her stood Ella. When she felt that she was discovered, the bud blushed rosier than its calyx. He left Fru Holmbo at once.

"Good evening," he said very softly, holding out his hand, which Ella took without looking up. "Good evening," he said again, still more softly, and drew nearer.

She was aware of a gentle pressure and had to raise her eyes. They conveyed a bashful message half confident, half timid. It was a rapid glance, by which no one was enlightened or scandalised. He looked down at her, while he stroked his beard, but either because he had nothing more to say--he was not talkative--or that he could not say what he wished; he became absolutely silent. In the quiet way which was peculiar to him he turned and left her. He was on at once by his friends, and for the rest of the evening she only saw him now and again, and always at a distance.

He did not dance, but she did. Everybody said how "sweet" she was (it was said with all respect); and that evening she really did beam with happiness. In whatever part of the room Aksel Aaroe chanced to be, she felt conscious of his presence, felt a secret delight in whirling past him. His eyes followed her, his nearness made all and everything resplendent.

Standing in the doorway was a heavy, sturdy fellow, who had constituted himself the critic of the assemblage. He appeared to be between thirty and forty; nearer the latter; he had a weather-beaten, coarsely-moulded, but spirited face, black hair, and hazel eyes; his figure approached the gigantic. Every one in the room knew him; Hjalmar Olsen, the fearless commander of one of the largest steamers.

He scanned the dancers as they passed him, but gave the palm to the little one in the red dress; she was the pleasantest to look at: not only was she a fine girl, but her buoyant happiness seemed to infect him. When Aksel Aaroe approached, Hjalmar Olsen received a share of the love glances which streamed from her eyes. She danced every dance. Hjalmar Olsen was tall enough to catch glimpses of her in all parts of the room. She also noticed him; he soon became a lighthouse in her voyage, but a lighthouse which interested itself in the ships. Thus he now felt that she was in danger so near to Peter Klausson's waistcoat. He knew Peter Klausson.

Her tiny feet tripped a waltz, while the plait kept up an accompanying polka. Certainly Peter Klausson did press her too close to his waistcoat!

Olsen therefore sought her out as soon as the waltz was over, but it was not so easy to secure a dance; a waltz was the first one for which she was free, and she gave him that. Just as this was arranged, every one pressed towards the platform, on which the Choral Society now appeared. Ella felt herself hopelessly little when they all rushed forward and packed themselves together. Hjalmar Olsen, who saw her vain attempts to obtain a peep, offered to lift her up on to the bench which ran along the wall, by which they were standing. She dare not agree to this, but he saw that others were mounting the bench, and before she could prevent it, she was up there too. Almost at the same moment Aksel Aaroe came in among his companions and was received with the most energetic hand-clapping by all his friends--men as well as women. He bowed politely though somewhat coldly, but the expressions of welcome did not cease until his companions drew back a little, while he came forward. First of all, the Society gave one of its older songs. He kept his voice on a level with the others, which was considered in very good taste. After this the conductor took his seat at the piano, to accompany a song which Aaroe wished to give alone. The song was a composition of Selmer and much in fashion at the capital. It could be sung by men as well as women, only in the last verse _her_ had to be substituted for _his_. Here it had never been heard before.

During the first song Aaroe had searched the room with his eyes, and, from the moment when he discovered where Ella stood, he had kept them fixed there. Now he placed himself near the piano, and during the song he continued to look in her direction. As he sang, his melancholy eyes lighted up; his figure grew plastic.

I sing to one, to only one
Of all the listening throng;
To one alone is fully known
The meaning of my song.
Lend power, ye listeners, to each word.
But for that only one
Who in me woke sweet music's chord
My song had ne'er been sung.

Though deviously the path may run,
Passing through all hearts here,
Yet still is it the only one
Which to one heart is near.
Strengthen, oh, loving hearts, my song,
So that it still may swell
Through all love's choir; the only one
That in her heart may dwell.

His voice was captivating; no one had ever listened to such a love-message. This time many beside Ella had tears in their eyes. When the song ended, they all remained waiting for some moments, as though expecting another verse; and there was a short silence, but then applause broke forth such as had never been heard. They wanted to have the song again, but no one had yet known Aksel Aaroe to sing anything twice running; so they relinquished the idea.

Ella had never heard the song; neither words nor music. When, with his eyes turned in her direction, he had begun to sing, she felt as though she should fall; such unheard-of boldness she had never imagined. That he, otherwise so considerate, should sing this across to her, so that all could hear! White as the wall against which she leaned for support, she suffered such anguish of mind, that she looked round for help. Immediately behind her, on the same bench, stood Fru Holmbo, magnetised, beautiful as a statue. She no more saw Ella's distress than she did the clock in the market-place. This absolute indifference calmed her, she recovered her self-possession. The neighbourhood of the others, which had been so terrible to her, was of no consequence, so long as they did not perceive anything. She could listen now without distress. More covertly, more charmingly, he could not have spoken, notwithstanding that every one heard it. If only he had not looked at her! If only she had been able to hide herself!

As soon as the last notes ceased, she jumped down from the bench. Among all the shoulders her shyness returned--her happy dream, her secret in its bridal attire. What was it that had happened? What would happen next? All round her were sparkling eyes, applauding voices, clapping hands--was it not as though they lighted torches in his honour, paid him homage--was not all this in her honour as well?

Dancing began again at once, and off she went. Off as though all were done for her, or as though she were the "only one!" Her partners tried, one after another, to talk to her, but in vain. She only laughed, laughed in their faces, as though they were mad, and she alone understood the state of the case.

She danced, beamed, laughed, from one partner to another. So when Olsen got his waltz it was as though he were received with a score of fresh bouquets and a "Long live Hjalmar Olsen!" He was more than flattered. When she laid her white arm on his black coat he felt that at the bottom he was as unworthy as Peter Klausson. He certainly would not sully her, he held her punctiliously away from him. When he fancied that she was laughing, and wished to see the little creature's merry face, down there near his waistcoat, and in the endeavour to do so, thought that he had been indiscreet, Hjalmar Olsen felt ashamed of himself, and danced on with his eyes staring straight before him, like a sleep-walker. He danced on in a dream of self-satisfaction and transport. Ella tried now and then to touch the floor; she wished to have at least some certainty that she was keeping time. Impossible! He took charge at once, of himself, her dance and his, her time and his, she never got near the floor without an effort, all the rest was an aerial flight. He could hear her laughing and was pleased that she was enjoying it, but he did not look at her. Those with whom he came into collision were less pleased, which was _their_ affair. He was greatly put out when the music ceased; they were only just getting into swing, but he was obliged to put her down at the compulsory stopping-place.

Shortly afterwards there was some more singing, first by the Society alone, then they and Aaroe together sang Grieg's "Landfall." Finally, Aaroe sang to a piano accompaniment. This time Ella had hidden herself among those at the back, but as they constantly pressed forward she remained standing alone. This exactly suited her; she saw him, but he did not see her, nor even look towards the place where she was standing.

She had never heard this song, did not even know that it existed, although when the first words were heard it was evident that it was known to the others. Of course she knew that each word and note were his, but as he had before chosen a story which would only reach the one to whom he wished to sing, she did not doubt that it was the same now. The first words, "My young love's veiled," could there be a truer picture of concealed love? Once more it was for her! That the veil should be lifted but for him and dropped as soon as any one else could see. Was not that as it must be between them? That love's secrecy is like a sacred place, that in it is hidden earth's highest happiness. She trembled as she recognised it. The music swept the words over her like ice-cold water, this perfect comprehension made her shiver, with fear and joy at the same time. No one saw her, that was her safeguard. She dreaded every fresh word before it came, and each one again made her shiver. With her arms pressed against her breast, her head bowed over her hands, she stood and trembled as though waves surged over her. And when the second verse came with the line, "The greatest joy this world can give," and especially when it was repeated, her tears would well forth, as they had done once before. She checked them with all her might, but remembering how little it had helped her then, her powers of resistance gave way, she was almost sobbing when the very word was used in the song. The coincidence was too superb, it swept all emotion aside, she could have laughed aloud instead. She was sure of everything, everything now. It thus happened that the last line in its literal sense, in its jubilant sympathy, came to her like a flash of lightning, like the stab of a knife. The song ran thus:

My young love's veiled to all but me,
No eyes save mine those eyes may see,
Which, while to others all unknown,
Command, melt, beam for me alone.
Down falls the veil, would others see.

In every good, where two are one,
A twofold holiness doth reign;
The greatest joy this world can give
Is when earth's long desires shall live,
When two as soul to soul are born again.

Why must my love then veiled be?
Why sobs she piteous, silently,
As though her heart must break for love?
Because that veil from pain is wove,
And all our joy in yearning need we see.

Startling, deafening applause! They must, they would have the song again, this time Aaroe's haughty opposition should be useless; but he would not give way, and at last some of the audience gave up the attempt, though others continued insistent.

During this interval several ladies escaped out of the crowd: they passed near Ella.

"Did you see Fru Holmbo, how she hid herself and cried?"

"Yes, but did you see her during the first song? Up on the bench? It was to her that he was singing the whole time."

Not long afterwards--it might have been about two in the morning--a little cloaked figure flew along the streets. By her hood and wraps the watchman judged that she must be one of the ladies from the ball. They generally had some one with them, but the ball was not over yet. Something had evidently happened; she was going so quickly too.

It was Ella. She passed near the deserted Town Hall, which was now used as a warehouse. The outer walls still remained, but the beautiful interior wood-work had been sold and removed. That is how it is with me, thought Ella. She flew along as fast as she could, onward to sleepless nights and joyless days.

In the course of the morning Aksel Aaroe was carried home by his companions, dead drunk. By some it was maintained that he had swallowed a tumbler of whisky in the belief that it was beer; others said that he was a "bout drinker." He had long been so but had concealed it. Those are called "bout-drinkers" who at long intervals seem impelled to drink. His father had been so before him.

A few days later Aksel Aaroe went quietly off to America.

 

 

CHAPTER III

Another of those who had been at the ball, steamed about the same time across the Atlantic. This was Hjalmar Olsen.

His ship experienced a continuous northwesterly gale, and the harder it blew, the more grog he drank; but as he did so he was astonished to find that a memory of the ball constantly rose before him--the little rosy red one; the girl with the plait. Hjalmar Olsen was of opinion that he had conducted himself in a very gentleman-like manner towards her. At first this did not very much occupy his thoughts; he had been twice engaged already, and each time it had been broken off. If he engaged himself a third time he must marry at once. He had formed this determination often before, but he did not really think very seriously about it.

A steamer is not many days between ports, and at each there is plenty of amusement. He went to New York, from there to New Orleans, thence to Brazil and back, once again to Brazil, finally returning direct to England and Norway. But often during the voyage, and especially over a glass of punch, he recalled the girl with the plait. How she had looked at him. It did him good only to think of it. He was not very fond of letter-writing, or perhaps he would have written to her. But when he arrived at Christiania, and heard from a friend that her mother was dying, he thought at once: "I shall certainly go and see her; she will think it very good of me, if I do so just now."

Two days later he was sitting before her in the parlour of the little house near the hotel and market-place. His large hands, black with hair and sunburn, stroked his knees as he stooped smilingly forward and asked if she would have him.

She sat lower than he did; her full figure and plump arms were set off by a brown dress, which he stared down on when he did not look into her pale face. She felt each movement of his eyes. She had come from the other room, and from thoughts of death; she heard a little cuckoo clock upstairs announce that it was seven o'clock, and the little thing reminded her of all that was now past. One thing with another made her turn from him with tears in her eyes as she said, "I cannot possibly think of such things how." She rose and walked towards her flowers in the window.

He was obliged to rise also. "Perhaps she will answer me presently," he thought; and this belief gave him words, awkward perhaps, but fairly plain.

She only shook her head and did not look up.

He walked off in a rage, and when he turned and looked at the house again--the little doll's house--he longed to throw it bodily into the sea.

He spent the evening, while waiting for the steamer to Christiania, with Peter Klausson and a few friends, and it was not long before they discovered on what errand he had been, and how he had sped. They knew, too, how he had fared on former occasions. The amount which Hjalmar Olsen drank was in proportion to his chagrin; and the next morning he awoke on board the steamer in a deplorable condition.

Not long afterwards Ella received a well-written letter of excuse, in which he explained that his coming at that time had been well meant, and that it was only when he was there that he realised how foolish it had been. She must not be vexed with him for it. In the course of a month she again received a letter. He hoped that she had forgiven him; he for his part could not forget her. There was nothing more added. Ella was pleased with both the letters. They were well expressed and they showed constancy; but it never occurred to her for a moment that this indirect offer could be received in any other way than before.

She had gone to Christiania in order to perfect herself in the piano and in book-keeping. She added the latter because she had always had a turn for arithmetic. She felt altogether unsettled. Her mother was dead; she had inherited the house and a small fortune, and she wanted to try and help herself. She did not associate with any one in the strange town. She was used to dreaming and making plans without a confidant.

From Aksel Aaroe came wonderful tidings. After he had sung before a large party in New York a wealthy old man had invited him to come and see him, and since then they had lived together like father and son. So the story ran in the town long before there came a letter from Aaroe himself; but when it arrived, it entirely confirmed the rumour. It was after this that Ella received a third letter from Hjalmar Olsen. He asked in respectful terms if she would take it amiss if he were to pay her a visit when he came home: he knew where she was living. Before she had arrived at a conclusion as to how she should answer, a paragraph appeared in all the Norwegian papers, copied from the American ones, giving an account of how Hjalmar Olsen, in the teeth of a gale, and at the risk of his own ship, had saved the passengers and crew of an ocean steamer, the propeller of which had been injured off the American coast. Two steamers had passed without daring to render assistance, the weather was so terrific. Olsen had remained by the vessel for twenty-four hours. It was a wonderful deed which he had done. In New York, and subsequently when he arrived in Liverpool, he had been feted at the Sailors' Clubs, and been presented with medals and addresses. When he arrived in Christiania, he was received with the highest honours. Big and burly as he was, he easily obtained the homage of the populace: they always love large print.

In the midst of all this he sought out Ella. She had hidden herself away; she had but a poor opinion of herself since her discomfiture. In her imagination he had assumed almost unnatural proportions, and when he came and took her out with him, she felt as though she had once more exchanged the close atmosphere of the house for free air and sunshine. She even felt something of her old self-confidence. His feelings for her were the same; that she noticed at once, as she studied him. He knew the forms of society, and could pay attention and render homage with dignity; he refrained from any premature speech. She had heard that he was prone to take a glass too much, but she saw nothing in that. A handsome fellow, a man such as one seldom sees, a little weather-beaten perhaps, but most sailors are the same. Something undefined in his eyes frightened her, as did his greediness at table. Sometimes she was startled at the vehemence of his opinions. If only she had been at home, and could have made inquiries beforehand! But he was to leave very soon, and had said jestingly that the next time that he proposed, he would be betrothed and married all at once. This plain-speaking and precipitation pleased her, not less than his energy and authoritative manner, although she felt frightened--frightened, and at the same time flattered, that so much energy and authoritativeness should bow before her, and that at a time when all paid court to him.

Then an idea, which she thought very sensible, occurred to her. She would, in the event of an offer, impose two conditions: she must retain the control of her own property, and never be forced to accompany him on his voyages. In case his energy and tone of authority should chance to become intractable a limit was thus set, and she would, from the outset, make him comprehend that, little as she was, she knew how to protect both herself and her possessions.

When the offer came--it was made in a box at the theatre--she had not courage sufficient to make her stipulation. His expression filled her with horror--for the first time. She often thought of it afterwards. Instead of acting upon this intuitive perception, she began to speculate on what would happen if she were again to say No! She had accepted his friendship although she knew what was coming. The conditions, the conditions--they should settle it! If he accepted them, it should be as he wished, and then there could be no possible danger. So she wrote and propounded them.

He came the next day and asked for the necessary papers, so that he could himself arrange both about the property and the contract. He evidently looked upon it as a matter of business, and seemed thoroughly pleased.

Three days later they were married. It was an imposing ceremony, and there was a large concourse; it had been announced in all the papers.

Demonstrations of admiration and respect followed, much parade and many speeches, mingled with witticisms over his size and her smallness. This lasted from five in the evening till after midnight, in rather mixed company. As time wore on, and the champagne continually flowed, many of the guests became boisterous and somewhat intrusive, and among them the bridegroom.

The next morning, at seven o'clock, Ella sat dressed and alone, in a room next to their bedroom, the door of which stood open. From it she could hear her husband's snores. She sat there still and deadly pale, without tears and without feeling. She divided the occurrences into two--what had happened and what had been said; what had been said and what had happened: she did not know which was the worst. This man's longing had been inflamed by deadly hate. From the time that she had said No! he had made it the object of his life to force her to say Yes! He told her that she should pay for having nearly made him ridiculous a third time. She should pay for it all--she, who had dared to make insulting conditions. He would break the neck of her conditions like a shrimp. Let her try to refuse to go on board with him, or attempt to control anything herself.

Then that which had happened. A fly caught in a spider's web, that was what she thought of.

But had she not experienced such a feeling once before? O God, the night of the ball! She had a vague feeling that that night had fore-doomed her to this; but she could not make it clear to herself. On the other hand, she asked herself if what we fail in has not a greater influence on our lives than that which we succeed in.

Three or four hours after this, Hjalmar Olsen sat at the breakfast-table; he was dull and silent, but perfectly polite, as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he had been too drunk to be quite accountable, or it might be that his politeness was calculated with the hope of inducing her to come with him and visit his ship. He asked her to do so, as he left the table, but neither promises nor threats could induce her to go on board even for the shortest time. Her terror saved her.

Some months later an announcement appeared in the papers that she wished to take pupils both for the piano and book-keeping. She was once more living in her own little house in her native town. She was at this time enciente.

One day an old friend of Aksel Aaroe's came to see her; he was to remember Aaroe very kindly to her, and to congratulate her on her marriage. She controlled her rising emotion, and asked quietly how he was getting on. Most wonderfully; he was still living with the same old man, to whom, by degrees, he had entirely devoted himself. This was the very thing for Aaroe: it suited him to devote himself completely to one person. He had gone through a course of treatment for his inherited failing and believed himself to be cured.

"And how is Fru Holmbo?" asked Ella. She was frightened when she had said it, but she felt an intense bitterness which would break out. She had noticed how thin and pale Fru Holmbo looked--she evidently missed Aaroe, and that was too much!

The friend smiled: "Oh! have you heard that silly rumour? No, Aksel Aaroe was only the medium between her and the man to whom she was secretly attached. The two friends had lived together abroad. Some months ago there had been a talk about a business journey to Copenhagen, and Fru Holmbo went there also. But there had undoubtedly been something between them for a long time."

That night Ella wept for a long time before she fell asleep. She lay and stroked her plait, which she had drawn on to her bosom. She had often thought of cutting it off, but it was still there.

 

CHAPTER IV

In the course of the two first years of her marriage she had two children. Whenever she was alone, she divided her time between them and her teaching. Her husband hardly contributed anything to the household, except during the brief periods that he passed at home, and then the money was squandered in the extravagant life which he led with his companions. During these visits the "young ones" were sent off to their aunt. "One could not take four steps without going through the walls of this wretched little house," he said. At these times she also gave up the lessons; she had no time for anything except to wait on him.

Every one realised that she could not be happy, but no one suspected that her whole life was one of dread--dread of the telegram which would announce his coming, if only for a few days, dread of what might happen when he came. When he was there she never attempted to oppose him, but displayed to him, and every one else, those frank eyes and quick, but quiet, ways which enabled her to come and go without being noticed. When he was gone, she would suddenly collapse, and, worn out with the strain of days and nights, be obliged to take to her bed.

Each time that he came home he kept less guard over himself, and was more careless as regarded others. Had she known that men who have expended their strength as he had done are as a rule worn out at forty--and many such are to be found in the coast-towns--she would have understood that these very things were signs of failure. He had advanced far along the road. To her he only appeared more and more disgusting. He was but little at home, which helped her. She had determined that she and her boys should live in the best manner, and this again was a help to her; but more than all was her constant employment and the regard which every one felt for her. After five years of marriage she looked as charming as ever, and appeared as cheerful and lively; she was accustomed to conceal her feelings.

Her children were now--the elder four, the second three years old. They were rarely seen anywhere but in the market-place, on the snow-heaps in winter and on the sand-heaps in summer, or else they were in the country with their aunt whom they had adopted as "grandmother."

Next to the care of the little boys, flowers were Ella's greatest delight. She had a great many, which made the house appear smaller than it really was. She could play with the boys, but she could share her thoughts with the flowers. When she watered them, she felt acutely how much she suffered. When she dried their leaves, she longed for pleasant words and kindly eyes. When she removed dead twigs and superfluous shoots, when she re-potted them, she often cried with longing; the thought that there was no one to care for her overcame her.

Five years were gone, then, when one day it was reported through the whole town that Aksel Aaroe had become a rich man. His old friend was dead and had left him a large annuity. It was also said that he had been a second time treated for dypsomania. The previous treatment had not been successful, but he was now cured. One could see how popular Aaroe was, for there was hardly anybody who was not pleased.

On Wednesday the 16th of March, 1892, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Ella sat at work near her flowers; from there she could see the hotel. At the corner window in the second story stood the man of whom she was thinking--stood and looked down at her.

She got up and he bowed twice. She remained standing as he crossed the market-place. He wore a dark fur cap, and his fair beard hung down over his black silk waistcoat. His face was rather pale, but there was a brighter expression in his eyes. He knocked, she could not speak or move, but when he opened the door and came into the room, she sank into a chair and wept. He came slowly forward, took a chair and sat down near her. "You must not be frightened because I came straight to you, it is such a pleasure to see you again." Ah! how they sounded in this house, those few words full of consideration and confidence. He had acquired a foreign accent, but the voice, the voice! And he did not misconstrue her weakness, but tried to help her. By degrees she became her old self, confiding, bright, timid.

"It was so entirely unexpected," she said.

"All that has occurred in the meantime rushes in on one," he added courteously.

Not much more was said. He was preparing to leave, when his brother-in-law entered. Aaroe looked at her boys out on the snow-heap, he looked at her flowers, her piano, her music, then asked if he might come again. He had been there hardly five minutes, but an impression rested on her mind somewhat as the magnificent fair beard rested on the silk waistcoat. The room was hallowed, the piano, the music, the chair on which he had sat, even the carpet on which he had walked--in his very walk there was consideration for her. She felt that all that he had said and done showed sympathy for her fate. She could do nothing more that day, she hardly slept during the night, but the change which had taken place in her was nothing less than the bringing of something into the daylight again from five years ago, from six years indeed, as one brings flowers out of the cellar, where they have been put for their winter sleep, up into the spring-time again. As this thought passed through her mind, she made the same gesture at least twenty times, she laid both hands on her breast, one over the other, as though to control it: it must not speak too loudly.

The next day their conversation flowed more freely. The children were called in. After looking at them for a while, he said: "You have something real there."

In a little time they were such good friends, he and the boys, that he was down on all-fours playing horses with them, and did some quite new tricks which they thought extremely amusing; he then invited them to come for a drive the next day. After a thaw, there had been an unusually heavy fall of snow; the town was white and the state of the roads perfect.

Before he left Ella offered to brush him; the carpet had not been as well swept as it should have been. He took the clothes-brush from her and used it himself, but he had unfortunately lain on his back as well, so she was obliged to help him. She brushed his coat lightly and deftly, but she was never satisfied, nor was he yet properly brushed in front. He had to do it over again: she stood and looked on. When he had finished she took the brush into the kitchen.

"How funny that you should still wear your plait," said he, as she went out. She remained away for some time, and came in again by another door. He had gone. The children said that some one had come across for him.

The next morning the little boys had their drive. They did not return until late in the afternoon. They had been to Baadshaug, a watering-place with an hotel and an excellent restaurant, to which people were very fond of making excursions during the winter. His sister's youngest boy was with them, and while all three went back with the horses to "Andresen's at the corner," Aaroe remained standing in the passage. Never had Ella seen him so cheerful. His eyes sparkled, and he talked from the time he came to the time he left. He talked about the Norwegian winter which he had never realised before; how could that have been? For many years he had had in his _repertoire_ a song in praise of winter, the old winter song which she knew as well: "Summer sleeps in winter's arms"--yes, she knew it--and he only now realised how true it was. The influence of winter on people's lives must be immense; why it was nearly half their lives; what health and beauty and what power of imagination it must give. He began to describe what he had seen in the woods that day. He did not use many words, but he gave a clear picture; he talked till he became quite excited, and looked at her the whole time with a rapturous expression.

It was but for a few moments. He stood there muffled in furs: but when he had gone it seemed to her that she had never truly seen him before. He was an enthusiast then--an enthusiast whose depths never revealed themselves. Was his singing a message from this enthusiasm? Was this why his voice carried everybody away with it into another region? That melancholy father of his, when a craving for drink seized him, would shut himself up with his violin, and play and play till he became helpless. Had the son, too, this dislike of companionship, this delight in his own enthusiasm? God be praised, Aksel Aaroe was saved! Was it not from the depths of his enthusiasm that he had looked at her? This forced itself upon her for the first time; she had been occupied before by the change in him, but now it forced itself upon her--hotly, with a thrill of fear and joy. A message of gladness which still quivered with doubt. Was the decisive moment of her life approaching? She felt that she coloured. She could not remain quiet; she went to the window to look for him; then paced the room, trying to discover what she might believe. All his words, his looks, his gestures, since he had first come there, rose before her. But he had been reserved, almost niggardly, with them. But that was just their charm. His eyes had now interpreted them, and those eyes enveloped her; she gave herself absolutely up to them.

Her servant brought in a letter; it was a Christmas card, in an envelope without a direction, from Aksel Aaroe--one of the usual Christmas cards, representing a number of young people in snow-shoes. Below was printed:

Winter white,
Has roses red.

On the other side, in a clear round hand, "In the woods to-day I could not but think of you. A. A.." That was all.

"That is like him, he says nothing more. When he passes a shop-window in which he sees such a card, he thinks of me; and not only does he think of me but he sends me his thoughts." Or was she mistaken. Ella was diffident; surely this could not be misconstrued. The Christmas card--was it not a harbinger? The two young couples on it and the words--surely he meant something by that. His enraptured eyes again rose before her; they seemed not only to envelop her, but to caress her. She thought neither of past nor future; she lived only in the present. She lay wide awake that night looking at the moonlight. Now, now, now, was whispered. Had she but clung to the dream of her life, even when the reality had seemed so cruel, she would have held her own; because she had been uncertain about it, all had become uncertain. But the greater the suffering had been, the greater, perhaps, would be the bliss. She fell asleep in the soft white light, which she took with her into her dreams. She woke among light, bright clouds, which gathered round the glittering thought of what might be awaiting her to-day. He had not said a word. This bashfulness was what she loved the best of anything in him. It was just that which was the surest pledge. It would be to-day.

 

CHAPTER V

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." Froeken 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 Aaroe. 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.

Aaroe 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. Aaroe 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. Aaroe helped her off with her things.

"I could not endure Peter Klausson's breath," she said, at which Aaroe 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 Aaroe? Her husband's boon companion! Aaroe, 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 Aaroe does not drink wine!"

"Aaroe? 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 Aaroe came in, so courteous and stately that Peter Klausson felt compelled to take his hands out of his pockets. He hardly dared to speak. Aaroe 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 Aaroe 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 Aaroe'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 Aaroe, 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 Aaroe'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 Aaroe 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, Pete!" he said to her, and repeated it with outstretched finger, "Tip, tip, Pete!" 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, Pete!" 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 Aaroe, 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 Aaroe 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 Aaroe 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," Aaroe'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 end]
Bjornstjerne Bjornson's short story: One Day

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