“I didn’t hear you very much during the night,” the man says. “But it’s completely inexcusable of you to open the window at this hour and holler like that.”
“Well, yes, it is inexcusable. But now I’ve given you an explanation. You see, I’ve never had a night like this. Something happened to me yesterday. I’m taking a walk and there, in the street, I meet my happiness—but listen, please: I meet my star and my happiness. And then, do you know, she kisses me. Her lips were so red and I love her, she kisses me and intoxicates me. Have your lips ever trembled so hard that you couldn’t speak? I couldn’t speak, my heart made my whole body shake. I raced home and fell asleep; I sat here, on this chair, and slept. When evening came I woke up. My soul was rocking up and down with excitement and I began to write. What I wrote? Here it is! I was carried away by a strange and glorious line of thought, the heavens were opened, it was like a warm summer’s day for my soul; an angel offered me wine and I drank it, intoxicating wine which I drank out of a garnet cup. Did I hear the clock strike? Did I see the lamp burn itself out? I wish to God you’d understand! I lived it all afresh, one more time; I was again walking the street with my beloved and everybody turned to look at her. We walked in the park, we met the King, I lowered my hat to the ground before him for joy, and the King turned to look at her, at my beloved, because she is so tall and lovely. We walked downtown again, and all the school-children turned to look at her, because she is young and has a light-colored dress. When we came to a red brick house, we went in. I followed her up the steps and was about to kneel before her. Then she threw her arms around me and kissed me. This happened to me yesterday evening, as recently as that. If you were to ask me what I’ve written, I would say: I’ve written an endless song to joy, to happiness. It was as though happiness lay naked before me with a long, laughing throat and wanted to come to me.”
“Hm, I really don’t want to continue this conversation,” the man says, annoyed and resigned. “I’ve spoken to you for the last time.”
Johannes stops him at the door.
“Just a moment. Why, you should have seen yourself—it looked as though your face was wreathed in sunlight. I saw it the moment you turned around; it was the lamp, it threw a sun-fleck on your forehead. You weren’t so angry anymore, I noticed. Well, I did open the window, and I sang too loud. I was everybody’s happy brother. These things do happen sometimes. Common sense goes by the board. I ought to have considered that you were still asleep—”
“The whole town is still asleep.”
“Yes, it’s early. I would like to give you something. Will you accept this? It’s silver, it was given to me. A little girl I once rescued gave it to me. There you are! It holds twenty cigarettes. You won’t accept it? I see, you don’t smoke; but you should really get into the habit. May I drop by tomorrow and offer my apologies? I would like to do something, ask your forgiveness. . . .”
“Good night.”
“Good night. I’m going to bed now. I promise you I will. You won’t hear another sound from here. And in the future I’ll be more careful.”
The man left.
Johannes suddenly reopened the door and added, “By the way, I’ll be leaving. I won’t be disturbing you anymore, I’m leaving tomorrow. I forgot to tell you.”
He did not leave. Several things detained him: there were errands to do, purchases to make, bills to be paid, and the evening and the morning passed. He rushed about like a lunatic.
At last he rang the bell at the chamberlain’s. Was Victoria there?
Victoria was running some errands.
He explains that they, Miss Victoria and he, came from the same place, he would simply have liked to pay his respects if she’d been in—have permitted himself to pay his respects. There was a message he would have liked to send home. No matter.
Then he went downtown. Perhaps he would meet her, spot her, perhaps she was riding in a carriage. He wandered about until evening. Seeing her in front of the theater, he bowed to her, smiled and bowed, and she returned his greeting. He was about to go up to her—she was only a few steps away—when he noticed that she was not alone but with Otto, the chamberlain’s son. He was in a lieutenant’s uniform.
Perhaps she’ll give me a hint, a small signal with her eyes, Johannes thought. She hurried into the theater, flushed and head bent, as if trying to hide.
Maybe he could see her inside? He bought a ticket and went in.
He knew where the chamberlain’s box was—those wealthy people had a box, of course. There she sat in all her glory, looking about her. Did she look at him? Never!
When the act was over he looked for her in the vestibule. Again he bowed to her; she looked at him, a bit surprised, and nodded.
“You can get water over there,” Otto said, pointing ahead.
They walked past.
Johannes gave them a long look. A strange dimness settled over his eyes. All these people were annoyed with him and jostled him; he begged their pardon mechanically and stayed put. There she disappeared.
When she returned he bowed deeply to her and said, “Pardon me, Miss . . .”
Otto answered him, screwing up his eyes.
“It’s Johannes,” she said, introducing him. “Don’t you recognize him?”
“I suppose you want to know how things are at home,” she went on, her face calm and beautiful. “I really don’t know, but I believe all’s well. Very good, I’ll convey your kind regards to the Møllers.”
“Thank you. Will you be leaving soon?”
“In a few days. Certainly, I’ll convey your regards.”
She nodded and walked away.
Again, Johannes followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared, then he went out. An endless wandering, a sad, heavy walk about the streets, up one and down another, helped while away the time. At ten o’clock he was waiting in front of the chamberlain’s house. Soon the theaters would be closing and she would come. Perhaps he could open the carriage door and take his hat off, open the carriage door and bow to the ground.
At last, half an hour later, she came. Could he stand there by the gate and remind her again of his existence? He hurried up the street without looking right or left. He heard the gate at the chamberlain’s being opened, the carriage driving in, and the gate being slammed to. Then he turned around.
He continued strolling up and down in front of the house for an hour. He wasn’t expecting anyone and had no errand. Suddenly the gate is opened from the inside and Victoria steps into the street. She’s bareheaded and has thrown only a shawl over her shoulders. She gives him a half-scared, half-embarrassed smile and, to start with, asks, “So you’re walking about here, thinking?”
“No,” he replies. “Thinking? No, I’m just walking about.”
“I saw you pacing up and down outside and so I wanted to . . . I saw you from my window. I’ll have to go right back.”
“Thanks for coming, Victoria. I was in such despair a moment ago, but now it’s over. I’m sorry I spoke to you in the theater; I’m afraid I’ve asked for you here at the chamberlain’s too. I wanted to see you and find out what you meant, what you intend to do.”
“Well,” she said, “you must know that by now. I said enough the day before yesterday to leave no room for misunderstanding.”
“I’m still just as uncertain about everything.”
“Let’s say no more about it. I’ve said enough, I’ve said far too much, and I’m giving you pain. I love you, I wasn’t lying the other day and I’m not lying now; but there are so many things that separate us. I’m very fond of you, I like talking with you, more than with anyone else, but . . . Hm, I dare not stay here any longer, they can see us from the windows. Johannes, there are so many reasons you don’t know about, so you mustn’t keep asking me to tell you what I mean. I’ve thought about it night and day; I mean what I’ve said. But it’s impossible.”
“What is impossible?”
“The whole thing. Everything. Listen, Johannes, don’t force me to be proud for both of us.”
“All right. Fine, you won’t have to. But the fact is you fooled me the other day. You just happened to run across me in the street, you were in a good mood, and so—”
She turned to go in.
“Have I done something wrong?” he asked. His face was pale and unrecognizable. “I mean, what have I done to lose your . . . Have I committed some crime in these last two days and nights?”
“No. That’s not it. It’s just that I’ve thought it over; haven’t you? It has been impossible all along, don’t you know? I’m fond of you, I appreciate you—”
“And respect you.”
She looks at him; his smile offends her and she continues more vehemently, “Good God, can’t you understand that Papa would refuse you? Why do you force me to spell it out? You can figure that out by yourself. What would it all have come to? Am I not right?”
Pause.
“Yes,” he says.
“Besides,” she goes on, “there are so many reasons. . . . No, you really mustn’t follow me to the theater again, you frightened me. You mustn’t do that ever again.”
“No,” he says.
She takes his hand.
“Can’t you come home for a while? I would very much look forward to that. How warm your hand is; I feel cold. No, now I must go. Good night.”
“Good night,” he answers.
The street stretched cold and gray before him, it looked like a belt of sand, an endless road to walk. He bumped into a boy selling old, lifeless roses; he called to him, took a rose, handed the boy a tiny gold five-krone piece, a gift, and went on. Shortly afterward he saw a group of children playing near an entrance. A ten-year-old boy sits quietly watching them; he has a pair of aged blue eyes that follow the game, hollow cheeks, and a square chin, and on his head he’s wearing a canvas cap. It was the lining of a cap. This child wore a wig, a hair sickness had disfigured his head for good. And his soul was all withered, most likely.
He noticed all this, though he had no clear idea in which part of the city he found himself or where he was going. Then it began to rain but, not feeling it, he didn’t open his umbrella, though he had been carrying it with him all day.
When he finally came to a square with some benches, he went and sat down. It was raining harder and harder; automatically, he opened the umbrella and stayed on. Soon after he was overcome by an irresistible drowsiness, his brain was enveloped in fog, and he closed his eyes and began to nod, dozing.
A while later he was awakened by the loud conversation of some passersby. He got up and rambled on. His brain had cleared, he remembered what had happened, every incident, even the boy to whom he gave five kroner for a rose. He imagined the rapture of the little gentleman when he discovered this strange coin among his pennies and realized it was not a twenty-five-øre coin, but a gold five-krone piece. God bless!
The other children had probably been driven away by the rain and were now continuing their games in the entrance, playing hopscotch and marbles. And the disfigured oldster of ten was watching them. Who knows, maybe he sat there being happy about something, maybe he had a doll in his little backstairs room, a jumping jack or a whirligig. Maybe he hadn’t lost everything in life, leaving some hope in his withered soul.
A wispy, elegant lady suddenly turns up ahead of him. He gives a start and stops. No, he didn’t know her. She had come from a side street and was hurrying along, and she had no umbrella though it was pouring. He caught up with her, gave her a glance, and walked past. How young and elegant she was! She was getting wet and would catch a cold, but he didn’t dare approach her. Instead, he closed his umbrella so she wouldn’t be the only one getting wet. It was past midnight when he got home.
A letter was lying on the table, a card—it was an invitation. The Seiers would be delighted to have him come over tomorrow evening. He would meet people he knew, among others—could he guess?—Victoria, the young lady from the Castle. Kind regards.
He fell asleep in his chair. A couple of hours later he woke up and felt cold. Half awake, half asleep, shivering all over and weary from the day’s adversities, he sat down at the table to answer the card, this invitation which he didn’t intend to accept.
He wrote his answer and was about to take it down to the mailbox. Suddenly it strikes him that Victoria was also invited. Well, well. She hadn’t said a word about it to him, she had been afraid he would come, she didn’t want to be seen with him there, among strangers.
He tears up his letter and writes a new one, thanking them for the invitation: he would be glad to come. Repressed anger makes his hand tremble, he’s seized by a strange, gleeful indignation. Why shouldn’t he go? Why should he hide? Enough.
He’s carried away by his violent emotion. With one twitch, he tears a handful of leaves off his wall calendar, putting himself a week ahead of time. He imagines he’s happy about something, exceedingly delighted; he wants to savor this moment, light a pipe, sit down in his chair and gloat. The pipe is in very bad shape, he looks in vain for a knife, a scraper; suddenly he jerks one hand off the corner clock to clean his pipe with. This piece of destruction is a feast to the eye, it makes him laugh inwardly, and he peers about him for more things to throw into confusion.
Time goes by. At long last he throws himself on the bed fully dressed, in his wet clothes, and falls asleep.
When he woke up the day was already far advanced. It was still raining, the streets were wet. His head was in turmoil, fragments of his dreams became mixed up with yesterday’s experiences, but he wasn’t running a fever. On the contrary, his temperature had tapered off, a coolness was coming his way, as if he had been wandering all night in a sultry forest and now found himself in the vicinity of a lake.
There is a knock at the door, the mailman brings him a letter. He opens it, takes a look at it, reads it and has difficulty figuring it out. It was from Victoria, a note, a half-sheet: she had forgotten to tell him that she was going to the Seiers’ this evening, she hoped to see him there; she would give him a better explanation, ask him to forget her, to take it like a man. Sorry about the wretched paper. Kind regards.