“A lie. I looked it up, out of curiosity. She's twenty, though she might well pass for fifteen. She is not happy; there's a deal of conflict in that little head of hers. When she stands looking out at the hills and the sea, and her mouth gives that little twitch, that little spasm of pain, then she is suffering; but she is too proud, too obstinate for tears. She is more than a bit romantic; a powerful imagination; she is waiting for a prince. What was that about a certain five-daler note you were supposed to have given someone?”
“A jest. It was nothing...”
“It was something all the same. She did something of the same sort with me once. It's a year ago now. We were on board the mail-packet while it was lying here in the harbour. It was raining, and very cold. A woman with a child in her arms was sitting on deck, shivering. Edwarda asked her: 'Don't you feel cold?' Yes, she did. 'And the little one too?' Yes, the little one was cold as well. 'Why don't you go into the cabin?' asks Edwarda. 'I've only a steerage ticket,' says the woman. Edwarda looks at me. 'The woman here has only a steerage ticket,' she says. 'Well, and what then?' I say to myself. But I understand her look. I'm not a rich man; what I have I've worked to earn, and I think twice before I spend it; so I move away. If Edwarda wants someone to pay for the woman, let her do it herself; she and her father can better afford it than I. And sure enough, Edwarda paid. She's splendid in that way—no one can say she hasn't a heart. But as true as I'm sitting here she expected me to pay for a saloon passage for the woman and child; I could see it in her eyes. And what then, do you think? The woman gets up and thanks her for her kindness. 'Don't thank me—it was that gentleman there,' says Edwarda, pointing to me as calmly as could be. What do you think of that? The woman thanks me too; and what can I say? Simply had to leave it as it was. That's just one thing about her. But I could tell you many more. And as for the five daler to the boatman—she gave him the money herself. If you had done it, she would have flung her arms round you and kissed you on the spot. You should have been the lordly cavalier that paid an extravagant sum for a worn-out shoe—that would have suited her ideas; she expected it. And as you didn't—she did it herself in your name. That's her way—reckless and calculating at the same time.”
“Is there no one, then, that can win her?” I asked.
“Severity's what she wants,” said the Doctor, evading the question. “There's something wrong about it all; she has too free a hand; she can do as she pleases, and have her own way all the time. People take notice of her; no one ever disregards her; there is always something at hand for her to work on with effect. Have you noticed the way I treat her myself? Like a schoolgirl, a child; I order her about, criticise her way of speaking, watch her carefully, and show her up now and again. Do you think she doesn't understand it? Oh, she's stiff and proud, it hurts her every time; but then again she is too proud to show it. But that's the way she should be handled. When you came up here I had been at her for a year like that, and it was beginning to tell; she cried with pain and vexation; she was growing more reasonable. Then you came along and upset it all. That's the way it goes—one lets go of her and another takes her up again. After you, there'll be a third, I suppose—you never know.”
“Oho,” thought I to myself, “the Doctor has something to revenge.” And I said:
“Doctor, what made you trouble to tell me all that long story? What was it for? Am I to help you with her upbringing?”
“And then she's fiery as a volcano,” he went on, never heeding my question. “You asked if no one could ever win her? I don't see why not. She is waiting for her prince, and he hasn't come yet. Again and again she thinks she's found him, and finds out she's wrong; she thought you were the one, especially because you had eyes like an animal. Haha! I say, though, Herr Lieutenant, you ought at least to have brought your uniform with you. It would have been useful now. Why shouldn't she be won? I have seen her wringing her hands with longing for someone to come and take her, carry her away, rule over her, body and soul. Yes ... but he must come from somewhere—turn up suddenly one day, and be something out of the ordinary. I have an idea that Herr Mack is out on an expedition; there's something behind this journey of his. He went off like that once before, and brought a man back with him.”
“Brought a man back with him?”
“Oh, but he was no good,” said the Doctor, with a wry laugh. “He was a man about my own age, and lame, too, like myself. He wouldn't do for the prince.”
“And he went away again? Where did he go?” I asked, looking fixedly at him.
“Where? Went away? Oh, I don't know,” he answered confusedly. “Well, well, we've been talking too long about this already. That foot of yours—oh, you can begin to walk in a week's time. Au revoir.”
XIX
A woman's voice outside the hut. The blood rushed to my head—it was Edwarda. “Glahn—Glahn is ill, so I have heard.”
And my washerwoman answered outside the door:
“He's nearly well again now.”
That “Glahn—Glahn” went through me to the marrow of my bones; she said my name twice, and it touched me; her voice was clear and ringing.
She opened my door without knocking, stepped hastily in, and looked at me. And suddenly all seemed as in the old days. There she was in her dyed jacket and her apron tied low in front, to give a longer waist. I saw it all at once; and her look, her brown face with the eyebrows high-arched into the forehead, the strangely tender expression of her hands, all came on me so strongly that my brain was in a whirl. I have kissed her! I thought to myself.
I got up and remained standing.
“And you get up, you stand, when I come?” she said. “Oh, but sit down. Your foot is bad, you shot yourself. Heavens, how did it happen? I did not know of it till just now. And I was thinking all the time: What can have happened to Glahn? He never comes now. I knew nothing of it all. And you had shot yourself, and it was weeks ago, they tell me, and I knew never a word. How are you now? You are very pale: I should hardly recognize you. And your foot—will you be lame now? The Doctor says you will not be lame. Oh, I am so fond of you because you are not going to be lame! I thank God for that. I hope you will forgive me for coming up like this without letting you know; I ran nearly all the way...”
She bent over me, she was close to me, I felt her breath on my face; I reached out my hands to hold her. Then she moved away a little. Her eyes were still dewy.
“It happened this way,” I stammered out. “I was putting the gun away in the corner, but I held it awkwardly—up and down, like that; then suddenly I heard the shot. It was an accident.”
“An accident,” she said thoughtfully, nodding her head. “Let me see—it is the left foot—but why the left more than the right? Yes, of course, an accident...”
“Yes, an accident,” I broke in. “How should I know why it just happened to be the left foot? You can see for yourself—that's how I was holding the gun—it couldn't be the right foot that way. It was a nuisance, of course.” She looked at me curiously.
“Well, and so you are getting on nicely,” she said, looking around the hut. “Why didn't you send the woman down to us for food? What have you been living on?”
We went on talking for a few minutes. I asked her:
“When you came in, your face was moved, and your eyes sparkled; you gave me your hand. But now your eyes are cold again. Am I wrong?”
Pause.
“One cannot always be the same...”
“Tell me this one thing,” I said. “What is it this