Victoria (7 page)

She didn’t make as if to stop and he walked by in silence. His legs twitched. At the end of the little street he turned around, as he was in the habit of doing. I’ll keep my eyes glued to the sidewalk and not look up, he thought. Only after a dozen steps or so did he look up.

She had stopped by a window.

Should he slip away, into the next street? What was she standing there for? The window was a poor one, a small store window in which could be seen a few crossed bars of red soap, grits in a glass jar, and some used postage stamps for sale.

Maybe he could continue another dozen steps and then turn back?

At that moment she looked at him, and suddenly she came toward him again. She walked fast, as though she had taken heart, and when she spoke she had difficulty catching her breath. She smiled nervously.

“Good morning. How nice to meet you.”

God, how his heart was struggling; it wasn’t beating, it trembled. He tried to say something but wasn’t able to, only his lips moved. Her clothes gave off a scent, her yellow dress, or perhaps it was her mouth. At that moment he had no clear impression of her face, but he recognized her fine shoulders and saw her long, slender hand on the handle of her parasol. It was her right hand. She was wearing a ring on it.

In the first few seconds he didn’t think about this and had no feeling of distress. Her hand was strangely beautiful.

“I’ve been in town for a whole week,” she went on, “but I haven’t seen you. Well, yes, I did see you once in the street; somebody told me it was you. You’ve grown so tall.”

“I knew you were in town,” he mumbled. “Will you be staying long?”

“A few days. No, not long. I must go home again.”

“Thanks for giving me a chance to say hello to you,” he said.

Pause.

“By the way, I think I’ve lost my way,” she resumed. “I’m staying at the chamberlain’s, which way is that?”

“I’ll take you there, if I may.”

They started walking.

“Is Otto at home?” he asked by way of saying something.

“Yes, he’s home,” she replied shortly.

Some men came out of a gate carrying a piano between them, blocking the sidewalk. Victoria swerved to the left, bringing her entire body into contact with her companion. Johannes looked at her.

“Pardon me,” she said.

A wave of delight flowed through him at this touch, he felt her breath directly on his cheek for a moment.

“I see you’re wearing a ring,” he said. He smiled, assuming an indifferent air. “May I congratulate you?”

What would she answer? He didn’t look at her, holding his breath.

“And you?” she replied, “haven’t you got a ring? Oh, you haven’t. Actually, someone did tell me . . . One hears so much about you these days, it’s all in the papers.”

“I’ve written a few poems,” he said. “But I don’t suppose you have seen them.”

“Wasn’t there a whole book? I seem to—”

“Oh yes, there was also a little book.”

They came to a square. Though expected at the chamberlain’s, she was in no hurry and sat down on a bench. He stood in front of her.

Suddenly she held out her hand to him and said, “You sit down too.”

Only after he had sat down did she let go of his hand.

Now or never! he thought. He tried once more to affect a light-hearted, nonchalant tone, smiling and looking at nothing in particular. Good.

“So you’re engaged and won’t even tell me, is that it? With me being your neighbor back home and all.”

She thought it over. “That isn’t exactly what I wanted to talk to you about today,” she replied.

Turning serious all of a sudden, he said in a low voice, “Oh well, I think I understand anyway.”

Pause.

“I knew all along, of course,” he resumed, “that it was hopeless for me . . . well, that I wouldn’t be the one who . . . I was simply the miller’s son, and you . . . Obviously, that’s the way it is. I don’t even understand how I dare sit here beside you right now and hint at such a thing. Because I ought to stand up before you, or I should be lying over there, on my knees. That would be the correct thing. But I feel as though . . . And all these years I’ve been away have also left their mark. I seem to be bolder now. After all, I know I’m not a child anymore, and I also know that you can’t throw me in prison, even if you wanted to. That’s why I dare say this. But you mustn’t be angry with me for it, or I’d rather keep silent.”

“No, speak out. Say whatever you like.”

“May I? Whatever I like? But then your ring couldn’t forbid me anything either.”

“No,” she said softly, “it forbids you nothing. No.”

“What? But how am I to take it, then? Well, God bless you, Victoria, unless I’m mistaken?” He jumped up and leaned forward to take a good look at her face. “I mean, doesn’t the ring mean anything?”

“Sit down again.”

He sat down.

“Oh, you should know how I’ve been thinking of you; good heavens, has there ever been a thought of someone else in my heart! Of all the people I’ve seen or known about, you were the only person in the world for me. I couldn’t think in any other way: Victoria is the most beautiful and the most magnificent of all, and I know her!
Lady
Victoria, I always thought. Not that I wasn’t perfectly aware that nobody could be further away from you than I was, but I knew of you—which was anything but a small thing for me—and that you lived in a certain place and perhaps remembered me once in a while. You didn’t, of course; but many an evening I’ve sat on my chair thinking that perhaps you remembered me once in a while. And then, let me tell you, Lady Victoria, it was as though the heavens were opened to me, and I wrote poems to you and spent what money I had on flowers for you, to take home and put in a glass. All my poems are for you; only a few are not, and they aren’t published. But I don’t suppose you have read those that are published either. Now I’ve started on a big book. God, how grateful I am to you! I’m so full of you, and that’s all my joy. I would always see or hear something that reminded me of you, all day, at night too. I’ve written your name on the ceiling, I lie there looking up at it; but the maid who tidies my room can’t see it, I’ve written it very small so I can have it all to myself. It gives me a certain happiness.”

She turned away, opened her bodice and took out a piece of paper.

“Look here!” she said, breathing heavily. “I cut it out and kept it. I don’t mind telling you, I read it at night. It was Papa who first showed it to me, and I went over to the window to read it. ‘Where is it? I can’t find it,’ I said, turning the page of the newspaper. But I found it easily and was already reading it. And I was so happy.”

The paper gave off a fragrance from her breast; she opened it herself and showed it to him, one of his early poems, four brief stanzas to her, to the lady on the white horse. It was a heart’s naïve, fervent confession, eruptions that couldn’t be held back but leaped up from the lines, like stars coming out in the sky.

“Yes,” he said, “I wrote that. It was a long time ago, I wrote it one night when the poplars kept rustling outside my window. Why, you’re really going to keep it? Thank you! You’ve put it away. Ah,” he exclaimed, thrilled, speaking in an undertone, “just think how close you are to me right now, sitting here. I can feel your arm against mine, your body radiates warmth. Many a time when I was alone, I shivered with emotion thinking about you; but now I feel warm. The last time I was home you were lovely too, but you’re lovelier now. It’s your eyes and your eyebrows, your smile—oh, I don’t know, it’s all of it, everything about you.”

She smiled and looked at him with half-closed eyes shining deep blue under her long lashes. Her complexion had a warm glow to it. She seemed overcome by a feeling of intense joy, reaching out to him with an unconscious movement of her hand.

“Thank you!” she said.

“No, Victoria, don’t thank me,” he replied. Borne toward her heart and soul, as on a tide, he wanted to say more, more; there were confused outbursts, as though he were drunk. “But Victoria, if you love me a little . . . I don’t know one way or the other, but tell me you do even if it isn’t true. Please! Oh, I would promise you to make something of myself, something great, something almost unheard of. You have no idea what I could make of myself; sometimes when I think hard about it, I feel I’m brimful of things waiting to be done. Many a time my cup is filled to overflowing, and I dance about my room at night because I’m full of visions. There is a man in the next room, he can’t sleep and knocks on the wall. At daybreak he comes to my room, furious. That’s all right, I don’t mind him. By then I’ve thought about you for so long that you seem to be there with me. I go up to the window and start singing; there is a hint of daylight already and the poplars are rustling outside. ‘Good night!’ I say, face to face with the morning. That’s for you. She’s still sleeping, I think to myself. Good night, God bless her! Then I turn in. And so it goes, night after night. But I never imagined you were as lovely as you are. This is how I’ll remember you when you’re gone, the way you are now. I’ll remember you so clearly. . . .”

“You won’t be coming home?”

“No. I’m not ready yet. Yes, I’ll come. I’m going away now. I’m not ready, I want to do all sorts of things. Do you still wander about in the garden at home sometimes? Do you ever go out in the evening? I could meet you, say hello to you perhaps, that’s all. But if you love me a little, if you can bear me, put up with me, then say . . . give me the pleasure . . . Do you know, there is a palm tree that flowers only once in its lifetime, and yet it lives till seventy, the talipot palm. But it flowers only once. I’m flowering now. Sure, I’ll get some money and come home. I’ll sell what I’ve written; you see, I’m working on a big book and now I’ll sell it, first thing in the morning, all that is finished. I’ll get quite a bit for it. So you would like me to come home, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, thank you! Forgive me if I hope for too much, for being too trusting; it’s so sweet to be overly trusting. This is the happiest day of my life. . . .”

He took off his hat and placed it beside him.

Victoria looked about her; a lady was coming down the street and, farther up, a woman with a basket. Victoria became fidgety, she felt for her watch.

“Do you have to go now?” he asked. “Tell me something before you go, let me hear what you . . . I love you, now I’ve said it. So it will depend on your answer whether I . . . I’m completely in your power. What’s your answer?”

Pause.

He lowered his head.

“No, don’t tell me!” he begged her.

“Not here,” she answered. “I’ll let you know down there.”

They started walking.

“People say you’re going to marry that little girl, the girl you rescued, what’s her name?”

“Camilla, you mean?”

“Camilla Seier. People say you’re going to marry her.”

“Really. Why do you ask about that? She isn’t even grown up. I’ve been to her home, it’s so rich and grand, a castle like your own; I’ve been there many times. Why, she’s still a child.”

“She’s fifteen. I’ve met her, we’ve spent time together. I was very much taken with her. How lovely she is!”

“I’m not going to marry her,” he said.

“No?”

He looked at her. His face twitched slightly.

“But why are you saying this now? Are you trying to draw my attention to someone else?”

She walked on with hurried steps and didn’t reply. They found themselves outside the chamberlain’s place. She took his hand and pulled him inside the gate and up the steps.

“I mustn’t go in,” he said, somewhat surprised.

She rang the bell and turned toward him, her breast heaving.

“I love you,” she said. “Do you understand? You’re the one I love.”

Suddenly she pulled him quickly back down again, three or four steps, threw her arms around him and kissed him. She trembled against him.

“You’re the one I love,” she said.

The front door opened. She tore herself away and raced up the steps.

IV

It’s almost morning; the day is breaking, a bluish, quivering September morning.

There is a faint soughing among the poplars in the garden. A window opens, a man leans out and starts humming. Coatless, he looks out on the world like a half-clothed madman who has gotten drunk on happiness during the night.

Suddenly he turns away from the window and looks at the door; someone has knocked. He calls, “Come in!” A man enters.

“Good morning!” he says to his visitor.

It is an elderly man; pale and furious, he’s carrying a lamp in his hands, because it’s not quite daylight yet.

“I must once again ask you, Mr. Møller, Mr. Johannes Møller, if you think this sort of thing is reasonable,” the man stutters forth, indignant.

“No,” Johannes answers, “you’re right. I’ve written something, it came to me so easily; look, I’ve written all this, I’ve been lucky tonight. But now I’ve finished. So I opened the window and sang a bit.”

“You were roaring,” the man says. “In fact, it was the loudest singing I’ve ever heard. And in the middle of the night at that.”

Johannes reaches for his papers on the table and takes a handful of sheets, large and small.

“Look here!” he cries. “I tell you, it has never gone so well before. It was like a long flash of lightning. I once saw a lightning flash run along a telegraph wire; I swear to God, it looked like a sheet of fire. That’s how things have been moving along tonight. What shall I do? I can’t believe you will go on bearing a grudge against me once you’ve heard the whole story. I sat here writing, I tell you, without stirring; I remembered about you and kept silent. Then, for a moment, it slipped my mind, my breast was about to burst; maybe I got up then, maybe I also got up once more in the course of the night and paced about the room a few times. I was so happy.”