Then he suddenly saw a glimpse of something white and heard a splash in the water; a chorus of desperate, screaming voices rose from the ship and from people on shore, and numerous hands and eyes indicated the spot where the white thing had disappeared. The music was stopped immediately.
Johannes was there in an instant. He acted entirely by instinct, without thinking, without conscious decision. He never heard the mother up on deck screaming, “My little girl, my little girl!” and he no longer saw a single person. He simply jumped from the boat right off and dived in.
For a moment he was gone, for a minute; they could see the water swirling where he had jumped in, and they understood he was working away. On board the ship the wailing continued.
Then he popped up again a bit farther out, several fathoms from the scene of the accident. People shouted to him, gestur ing wildly: “No, it was here, it was here!”
And again he dived.
Another agonizing moment, a ceaseless wailing and wringing of hands from a woman and a man on deck. Another man, the mate, jumped out from the ship, having removed his jacket and shoes. He carefully searched the place where the girl had gone down, and everybody pinned their hopes on him.
Then Johannes’ head reappeared above the surface, still farther out, several more fathoms. He had lost his cap, his head glistened like the head of a seal in the sun. He was evidently struggling with something, was having difficulty swimming, one hand being tied up. A moment later he had managed to heave something into his mouth, between his teeth, a big bundle; it was the child. Astonished cries reached him from the ship and the shore; even the mate must have heard the new shouts, he shot up his head and looked about him.
Finally Johannes reached his boat, which had drifted off; he got the girl on board and then himself. It was all done without hesitation. People saw him bending over the girl and literally tearing her clothes open in the back; then he seized the oars and rowed up to the ship for all he was worth. The moment the child was snatched up and pulled aboard, a succession of triumphant cheers rang out.
“How come it occurred to you to search so far out?” they asked him.
“I know the ground,” he replied. “And then there is a current. I knew that.”
A gentleman pushes his way to the ship’s side, he is deathly pale; he smiles a twisted smile and there are tears on his eyelashes.
“Come on board for a moment!” he calls down. “I want to thank you. We owe you such a debt of gratitude. Just for a moment.”
And the man rushes back from the rail again, deathly pale.
The ports are opened and Johannes steps on board.
He didn’t remain there for long; he gave his name and address, a woman embraced the soaking wet young man, and the pale, distraught gentleman slipped his watch into his hand. Johannes entered a cabin where two men were working on the half-drowned girl. “She’ll pull through, her pulse is beating!” they said. Johannes looked at the patient, a young blond thing in a short dress; the dress was completely torn in the back. Then a man planted a hat on his head and he was led out.
He had no clear idea how he had got ashore and pulled up the boat. He heard another round of cheers and festive music as the ship steamed away. A wave of rapture, cool and sweet, flowed through him from top to toe; he smiled and his lips moved.
“So there won’t be any outing today?” Ditlef said. He looked disgruntled.
Victoria had appeared; she stepped up and said quickly, “Certainly not. Are you crazy! He must get home and change his clothes.”
Ah, what a thing to have happened to him, in his nineteenth year at that!
Johannes took to his heels and ran home. The music and the loud hurrahs were still ringing in his ears, he continued being propelled by a powerful excitement. He passed his home and followed the path through the woods up to the granite quarry. Here he looked for a nice, sun-baked spot. His clothes were steaming. He sat down. A wild, joyous restlessness made him get up again and walk about. He was filled to the brim with happiness! Falling on his knees, he thanked God for this day with hot tears in his eyes.
She
had been down there, she’d heard the cheers. Go home and put on dry clothes, she’d said.
He sat down, laughing over and over again in a transport of joy. Yes, she had seen him perform this labor, this heroic deed, she had followed him with pride as he brought in the half-drowned girl by his teeth. Victoria, Victoria! If she just knew how completely, beyond words, he was hers every minute of his life! He would be her servant and slave, sweeping a path before her with his shoulders. And he would kiss her tiny shoes and pull her carriage and lay the fire for her on cold days. He would lay her fire with gilded wood. Ah, Victoria!
He looked about him. Nobody had heard, he was alone with himself. He was holding the precious watch in his hand; it ticked, it was running.
Thanks, oh, thanks for this great day! He patted the moss on the rocks and the fallen twigs. Victoria hadn’t smiled at him; oh well, that was not her way. She simply stood there on the pier, a tinge of red fluttering across her cheeks. Maybe she would have accepted his watch if he had given it to her?
The sun was sinking and the heat tapering off. He felt that he was wet. Then he ran homeward, light as a feather.
There were summer visitors at the Castle—a party from the city—and dancing and festive sounds. The flag was flying from the round tower night and day for a week.
There was hay to be brought in, but the horses were kept busy by the merry visitors and the hay remained out. And there were great stretches of unmown meadow, but the hired men were being used as drivers and oarsmen, and the hay remained uncut and dried up.
And the music went on playing in the Yellow Room. . . .
During these days the old miller stopped the mill and locked up his house. He had become so wise; formerly it had happened that the fun-loving city people had come in a body and played pranks with his grain sacks. For the nights were so warm and light and their whims so numerous. The wealthy chamberlain had once, in his younger days, carried a trough with an anthill in it into the mill with his own two hands and left it there. The chamberlain was now a man of mature years, but Otto, his son, who was still coming to the Castle, amused himself in curious ways. Many stories were told about him. . . .
Sounds of hoofbeats and shouting rang through the forest. Some young people were out riding, and the Castle horses were glossy and wild. The horsemen came up to the miller’s house, knocked on the door with their whips and wanted to ride in. The door was so low and yet they wanted to ride in.
“Howdy, howdy!” they cried. “We’ve come to say hello.”
The miller laughed humbly at this whim.
Then they dismounted, tied up their horses, and set the mill running.
“The hopper is empty!” screamed the miller. “You’ll destroy the mill.”
But his words were lost in the crashing noise.
“Johannes!” the miller called at the top of his voice, looking up at the quarry.
Johannes came.
“They’re grinding up the mill,” his father cried, pointing.
Johannes walked slowly toward the party. He was terribly pale, and the veins in his temples stood out. He recognized Otto, the chamberlain’s son, who was wearing a midshipman’s uniform; in addition to him there were two others. One of them smiled and bowed, to smooth things over.
Johannes didn’t shout, gave no hint, but went straight on. He makes a beeline for Otto. Just then he sees two horsewomen riding up from the woods; one of them is Victoria. She is wearing a green riding habit, and her horse is the white Castle mare. She does not dismount but sits there observing everybody with quizzical eyes.
Then Johannes alters his course. Turning aside, he climbs up on the dam and opens the sluice gate. The noise gradually diminishes, the mill stops.
“No, let it run!” Otto cried. “What are you doing that for? Let the mill run, I tell you.”
“Was it you who started the mill?” Victoria asked.
“Yes,” he replied, laughing. “Why did it stop? Why can’t it run?”
“Because it’s empty,” Johannes answered breathlessly, looking at him. “Do you understand? The mill is empty.”
“It was empty, can’t you hear?” Victoria said too.
“How was I to know?” Otto said and laughed. “Why was it empty? I ask. Was there no grain in it?”
“Get back on your horse!” one of his comrades cut in, to put an end to it.
They got into their saddles. One of them apologized to Johannes before riding off.
Victoria was the last to leave. After starting to ride away, she turned her horse and came back. “Please ask your father to excuse this,” she said.
“It would make more sense if the cadet himself did so,” Johannes replied.
“Well, naturally, but still. He’s so full of ideas. . . . How long it is since we saw each other, Johannes!”
He looked up at her, wondering if he had heard correctly. Had she forgotten last Sunday, his great day!
“I saw you Sunday on the pier,” he replied.
“Oh yes,” she said quickly. “How lucky that you were able to help the mate with the search. You did find the girl, the two of you, right?”
Hurt, he replied shortly, “Yes, we found the girl.”
“Or was it,” she went on, as if something had occurred to her, “was it you alone . . . ? What’s the difference anyway. Well, I do hope you will put in a good word with your father. Good night.”
Nodding her head and smiling, she gathered up the reins and rode off.
When Victoria was out of sight, Johannes wandered after her into the forest, restless and angry. He found Victoria standing by a tree, quite alone. She was leaning against the tree and sobbing.
Had she been thrown? Had she hurt herself?
He walked up to her and asked, “Have you had an accident?”
She took a step toward him, spread her arms and gave him a radiant look. Then she paused, let her arms fall and replied, “No, I haven’t had an accident. I dismounted and let the mare go on ahead. . . . Johannes, you mustn’t look at me like that. You were standing at the pond looking at me. What do you want?”
“What I want? I don’t understand . . . ,” he stammered.
“You are so broad there,” she said, suddenly putting her hand on his. “You are so broad there, at your wrist. And you are completely brown from the sun, nut-brown. . . .”
He made a move, wanting to take her hand. But she gathered up her dress and said, “No, nothing happened to me. I just felt like going home on foot. Good night.”
III
Johannes went back to the city. And years went by, a long, eventful time of work and dreams, lessons and versifying. He had got a good start, having succeeded in writing a poem about Esther, ‘the Jewish girl who became queen of Persia,’ a work that appeared in print and earned him some money. Another poem, “The Labyrinth of Love,” put into the mouth of Munken Vendt, gave him a name.
What was love? A wind whispering among the roses, no, a yellow phosphorescence in the blood. Love was a hot devil’s music that set even the hearts of old men dancing. It was like the marguerite, which opens wide as night comes on, and it was like the anemone, which closes at a breath and dies at a touch.
Such was love.
It could ruin a man, raise him up again, and then brand him anew; it could fancy me today, you tomorrow, and someone else tomorrow night, that’s how fickle it was. But it could also hold fast like an unbreakable seal and blaze with unquenchable passion until the hour of death, because it was eternal. So, what was the nature of love?
Ah, love is a summer night with stars in the sky and fragrance on earth. But why does it make young men follow secret ways, and old men stand on tiptoe in their lonely rooms? Alas, love turns the human heart into a mildewed garden, a lush and shameless garden in which grow mysterious, obscene toadstools.
Doesn’t it make monks prowl by night through closed gardens and press their eyes to the windows of sleepers? And doesn’t it possess nuns with foolishness and darken the understanding of princesses? It can knock a king’s head in the dust, making his hair sweep the road as he whispers lewd words to himself, laughing and sticking out his tongue.
Such was the nature of love.
No, no, again it was very different, it was like nothing else in the whole world. It came to earth on a spring night when a young man saw two eyes, two eyes. He stared and saw. He kissed two lips—it was as though two flames met in his heart, a sun flashing at a star. He fell into a pair of arms, and he heard and saw no more in the whole wide world.
Love is God’s first word, the first thought that sailed through his brain. When he said, “Let there be light!” there was love. And everything that he made was very good, and no part thereof did he wish undone. And love became the world’s beginning and the world’s ruler; but all its ways are full of flowers and blood, flowers and blood.
A day in September.
This out-of-the-way street was his favorite promenade; here he strolled as in his own room, because he never met anybody, and there were gardens behind both sidewalks, with trees having red and yellow leaves.
How come Victoria is walking here? What can have brought her this way? He was not mistaken, it was she; and perhaps it was she who had walked there also yesterday evening, when he looked out of his window.
His heart was thumping. He knew that Victoria was in town, that he had heard; but she moved in circles the miller’s son never entered. Nor did he associate with Ditlef.
He pulled himself together and walked toward the lady. Didn’t she recognize him? She just walked on, serious and thoughtful, her head carried proudly on her long neck.
He greeted her.
“Good morning,” she answered quite softly.