The Sea
The newly married pair had come home on a Tuesday. On Saturday in the same week, Sven Elversson went up to the vicarage with some papers about the school. He walked straight up the front steps and through the hall into the office, and stopped just inside the door.
It was the Pastor’s day for business, he knew, and though it was rather late, he had never thought but that he would find the Priest sitting at his writing-table. But he was not there—was not in the room at all. He could not be far away, however, for the big books that were always used on business days lay open on the table, and a pen was in the inkstand.
It was not Sven’s way to push himself forward, and he did not care to go through to the kitchen and ask if the Pastor was at home, or look for him in any of the other rooms. There could be no harm, he thought, in staying where he was, to wait a little.
But as he stood, there was a sound of voices in the next room; the door was ajar, and he could hear every word distinctly.
“Sigrun”—it was the Pastor speaking, in an easy tone:—“the post ought to have been here by now. But I can’t go down for it myself to-day, in case any one comes.”
“Why, then,” answered his wife cheerfully, “that’s easily managed. Malin will be going down to the store directly, and she can bring back your paper at the same time.”
Evidently the Pastor had only gone out for a moment to ask about the post, thought Sven. He would be back now, since that was settled.
But the Pastor spoke again.
“Well,” he said, “don’t you think now you might go yourself? Wouldn’t you like a little walk? It’s lovely out just now, and the road has dried after the rain of yesterday. It would do you good to get out in the air a little.”
He spoke gently and kindly, as if thinking only for her good. And the young wife answered as kindly again.
“I’d go and gladly,” she said, “but look at these curtains strewn all about the room. I can’t go till I’ve got them up.”
There was no more to be said after that, thought Sven. But he noticed at the same time how the Priest’s voice, manly and strong in itself, seemed to lose its pleasant tone, and become rough and coarse, when heard beside his wife’s soft, gentle speech.
And it seemed that the matter was not ended yet, after all, as he had hoped. The Priest began again.
“Oh, of course, one couldn’t expect a great lady like yourself to go and fetch a paper for her husband,” he said. This must be meant in jest, surely. But it sounded at the same as if he were annoyed at her refusing to do as he wished.
“Oh, Edward, you know it’s not that.”
“Or perhaps Applum’s too dull and ugly a place for you to care to go out at all. Her ladyship doesn’t care to take the air unless there are fine houses and big estates all round. Perhaps I had better order the carriage, so that——”
“Edward!” she cried.
“Oh, I know there’s nothing here to compare with your own place,” he went on, with a little ill-tempered laugh. “But I didn’t think you were too proud to set foot to the ground in Applum, for all that.”
“Edward, it isn’t that at all. I can’t go just now.”
“You can’t go?” asked her husband, with an air of profound astonishment.
All this had passed before Sven had time to think. “I ought not to hear,” he said to himself. And to make his presence known, he rattled the handle of the door, opened the door itself and closed it again, stamped his feet and coughed. But no one seemed to notice, and the two in the next room went on again.
“No, I can’t,” repeated the young wife. “There is something in this place that stifles me; I can’t breathe. It isn’t just longing for home, but something more. I am well and happy enough as long as I keep to the house, but as soon as I go out it comes over me again.”
She spoke passionately, flinging out her words in broken snatches.
“But, Sigrun,” said the Priest, “what is the matter with you? I meant no harm.”
“I’m not so proud, indeed I’m not,” she cried. “Ask any of those at home, and they’ll tell you it was never my way to be so. And it’s not because the place is not pretty to look at that I can’t bear to go out. No, it is something else—if only I knew what it was!”
“Look here, Sigrun,” said her husband, “you must tell me what all this means. We must talk this over seriously, that’s clear.”
Sven Elversson was at a loss to know what to do. He had already heard too much, perhaps; it would make matters worse to let them know he had been there. He walked to the door, but turned back again. He was always in doubt now as to how to act. It would be hard to find a man so undecided and lacking in self-confidence.
“I didn’t want to tell you about it,” said the young wife, speaking breathlessly and impatiently as before, “for I know it’s nothing really. Only something that comes over me as soon as I go outside the house. Not anything I can see or hear, but something that makes me feel miserable and sorry for myself. It is cruel to think that I must go about here always, and never get away; I feel as if I had been condemned for some crime. It is just that—to feel myself condemned to stay for ever in one place, the same little, narrow, monotonous, cheerless place.”
“Now I know,” thought Sven to himself, “she is only saying this so that he shall say something beautiful in return, as he did before. And the Priest’s a man with the heart and head to set her right again—’twill be easy enough for him.”
“Oh, if only one could look out and see far away—if only I were not buried here, in a hole, and had not that wall of hills all round. But it must be a punishment for something I have done, or I should not have come here. Oh, can’t you say something to help me?”
Now it must come, thought Sven. Now surely he would say some beautiful thing. And it would be fine to see how he would help her again this time.
Truth to tell, Sven Elversson was perhaps not sorry to be standing where he could hear all this. The young wife’s voice was very sweet. And he was sure the Priest would say something wonderful now; something inspiring and good to hear.
“I have tried again and again,” she went on, “to go out. But I can’t. You can’t think what it is like. I feel as if I were choking; I feel it here in my throat. And I’ve cried——”
“But there is nothing,” said the Pastor. “Surely, Sigrun, you must know that. There is nothing in the air here that we cannot see. It is all imagination.”
“There is! There is something here—I can feel it. Something that hates me, and is trying to take away my happiness. Do you know what I have been doing lately? I go and look at that poor little picture of Stenbroträsk, that one of my cousins did for me—I laughed at it then. But now, when I have looked at it a little, the river and the house and the big rowan trees by the gate, it seems to give me courage enough to go on living.”
“I am afraid, my dear, you are giving way to a foolish fancy,” said her husband. And the listener marked how he slipped into the admonitory tone of the preacher. “You must really try to overcome it before it has gone too far. And I think, really, I must ask you now to go and do as I said—go down to the post at once.”
“But I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t—I can’t!”
Sven Elversson knew, of course, that the Pastor was honestly acting for the best. But—he had thought he would have found some other way. Still, perhaps after all this was best. He himself would hardly have known what to do.
“Listen to me, Sigrun,” said the Priest. “You must surely understand that it is childish to give way to such ideas. The only thing to do is to overcome it. You are well and strong; you will not tell me that you cannot walk that little way. Anyhow, I must ask it of you, for the sake of our happiness—if you wish it to last for life, and not for a few weeks’ honeymoon only.”
“I will go another time,” she said, humbly, despairingly. “But—won’t you let me off for to-day? I will try in a day or two; I will try to-morrow.”
Sven Elversson stood listening yet a moment, anxious to hear if the request would be granted. But when the Pastor repeated that he must have his paper now, at once, Sven saw in a flash what he should have done before, but in his confusion had not thought of. Very quietly he opened the door and slipped out. He walked slowly until out of sight of the vicarage, and then set off at a run down to the post.
And so, when the young wife came walking slowly, so slowly, down the road, with tears on her eyelashes after what had passed, and trembling, half-unconscious, as if she had risen from a sick-bed, she had not to go many steps before a young man stepped up to meet her.
He greeted her politely, and said something about having driven with them from the station a few days back.
She made no answer, only stared at him, without understanding at first what he meant. He endeavoured to explain that he had been to the store; she fancied afterward he must have been going to say something about the storekeeper having asked him to take the paper up with him to the vicarage. He spoke softly, and with so much hesitation that she would have found it hard to understand him even had she been herself at the time.
He handed her a newspaper, which she took, but still she walked on, as if unable to realize that here was the thing she had been sent to fetch; that she could go back home now as soon as she pleased.
Then the young man came up to her again, saying something about going another way, if she wished to go for a walk. He begged her humbly to excuse him for the liberty, but seeing she was a stranger to the place, and a fine evening, if she would not rather go down and look at the sea.
In the midst of all her fear and trouble of mind, with the same stifling feeling at her throat, she caught a word of the sea, and stopped, and looked at him.
“The sea? Is there any sea near here?” she asked.
“Indeed there is,” he answered. And if she were not above letting him show her the way, it would not take long to get there.
He turned off along a little path running straight toward the west, and she followed. She noted that he was dressed as a workman of the better class, and had a kindly, honest face, though his manner was strangely humble. She felt no hesitation about going with him now.
It was a beautiful evening, with a curious reddish light that seemed to float down from the sky. It was as if the air about her took colour, and became visible. She felt as if it were filled with tiny, delicate rose-leaves, that came falling softly down, like snowflakes, making the plain all round blush faintly, like a bride.
And when they came out toward the western hills, she saw that they did not make one continuous barrier, as she had thought. The wall consisted of huge masses of rock, but with passes leading through in many places.
The young workman led her out between the rocks, and on the farther side there was white sand on the ground, with here and there a shell. Then, after turning a corner of the cliffs, she stopped and drew a deep breath.
Before her was a broad, open expanse. All the rich red sea of air, and all the wide sea of water spreading out and away, with nothing to shut it in. Open, free, as far as the sun itself, that was sinking toward the western verge.
There was no land to be seen out there save a narrow strip of sand with a long stone mole, and, farther out, a few black reefs rising from the pearly water.
And at sight of all this, she felt in a moment that she was saved. For where could she choose to be rather than here, in a place with so much beauty, so near at hand—so much beauty that she could see every day.
How could it be that no one had ever told her of this? She sat down on a stone and rested there a long while, drinking in the light with her eyes. Her eyes wandered over the wide expanse, looking as far as they pleased, like birds released from a close cage.
And she thanked God for her home, and for the sea, so great and strong and clean, so near her.
She must have sat there long without speaking. When she looked up, the young workman had gone.
Truth to tell, she was pleased at this. She could always thank him, another time. It was pleasanter now to be alone.
She felt stronger now, and more hopeful—better able to fight against the stifling sense of something threatening that hung over the plain.
Suddenly she remembered her husband—he might be anxious about her. And she rose to go home, to tell him that she was better now, and happier. And to thank him for his sternness in sending her out to face her trouble boldly.