Sailing
It was a Sunday morning in late October. A heavy wind came sweeping up from the south, from lands where the air was yet warm, where roses still budded and bloomed, where the vines were newly stripped, and the juice of the grape foamed in the presses.
The heavy south wind spoke with a strange, disquieting sound. Listening to it, one felt confused, as if hearing a stranger speak in some foreign tongue. Who could say what it was trying to tell—whether some great secret, or merely a whisper of all the yellowing trees, the fallen wings of butterflies, the empty nests, it had passed on its way?
That Sunday, Sven Elversson had come over in the boat to land his father at the little harbour outside the barrier rocks of Applum; the old man had gone in to service at the church. But Sven did not go with him; as soon as his father had gone, he sought out a cleft in the rocks a little to the right. It was a place he knew well; he had lain there often on the green heather as a child.
This was the happiest time Sven Elversson had known since his return. The patient, sorrowful smile had begun to fade from his lips, and the bitter trouble that had filled his soul no longer tortured him as before. And as he lay there on a ledge of rock, listening to the wind, wondering what it was trying to tell him, and staring out over the sea, he called to mind a vision he had seen one day, when he had been lying just as now on a rocky slope by the shore, with a broad expanse of sea spread out before him. The bright glitter of the sunlight on the water had tired his eyes, and he had lain quite still for a long time. Then, suddenly opening his eyes and glancing down at the great water, he had seen a mermaid.
It was only the briefest glimpse; she was gone the moment his eyes fell on her, changed to a fleck of white mist that floated away over the water.
But he had seen her—and the thought filled him with a great joy; he felt himself favoured, honoured beyond others, and supremely happy at having been granted a sight of one of those lovely spirits of nature that fill the air and sea, yet hide themselves so jealously from the sight of men.
He was certain that a whole flock of mermaids had been playing there on the shore, but had vanished the moment he sought to open his eyes. All but that one, who had not been able to escape in time.
He had never forgotten it, and since then he had never sat alone by a quiet sea but he must close his eyes and lie very still for a time, that the mermaids might think he slept, and venture out from the deep. But never since that once had he gained a glimpse of any.
To-day he tried again, though with little hope. And when he felt he had been quiet long enough, and opened his eyes, he started almost in dismay. True, there was no mermaid, no figure half maiden, half a fish, to be seen amid the waves. But there, on a tall rock just at the water’s edge, sat a woman. A young, slender creature, clad in white, and seated with easy poise on top of the rock—she seemed as if she might as well have come there from the sea as from the land.
But it was soon plain to see that the woman sitting there was no joyous fairy being. She dried her eyes again and again with a handkerchief—after all, no more than a poor human creature, that could suffer and shed tears.
Sven Elversson sat watching her, wondering what it could be that troubled her. Was it more ugly stonehills again, more prisoning barriers of rock, that made her fear so that she could not go to church, but must sit alone and weep beside the sea?
He saw how her slight figure shook with sobs; her whole attitude told him that it was no light burden that weighed her down. And he understood that she had come to seek for comfort from the sea, having no other to whom she could turn. And this time the sea had not helped her.
A moment later the woman turned at a slight sound behind her. A man was clambering down the slope; she recognized him, surely, as the young workman who had shown her the sea here some weeks ago. Hastily she dried her eyes and went toward him; she had not thanked him yet.
“I saw you sitting there,” said he, “and I thought, if I might be so bold... I’ve my boat close by here, a good boat, though not much to look at. And if you’d honour me so far. I’d be very glad to take you for a sail.”
Had it been any other day, she might not have accepted. But, just now, she felt so grateful for any little crumb of kindness that she could not refuse. And she did not wish that this young workman, who looked so modest and kind, should think she declined because he had only a common, workaday fishing-boat to offer her, and was himself but a common man in his working clothes. Though it was Sunday, Sven was wearing his heavy sea-boots and rough clothes, with a sou’wester that suited him well; it looked like the steel helmet of some old sea-king.
So they pushed off from land, and he hoisted the sail, and the heavy south wind filled it, sending the boat heeling to one side. Sven put the rudder hard over, heading due west, and the little vessel flew out across the bay toward the open sea.
Fru Rhånge had at first no thought of any pleasure to herself in going out for a sail to-day. She had not thought there was anything in the world that could make her forget the weight of sorrow that burdened her now. But when they had been sailing a little while, she could not help feeling easier; fresher in body and stronger in mind to bear her trouble.
The sky was clear, save for a few little flecks of white cloud. But there was yet enough moisture in the lower air to soften the light and tinge the dry, bare surface of rocks and reefs and islets with shades of grayish red and blue. They seemed, too, now to rise more boldly and strongly from the water, standing out with a certain majesty against the rest. The clefts seemed deep and black, the slopes steep and terrible and perilous; the distances seemed more marked, with ridge upon ridge in a succession of ever softer and more heavenly hues.
And after a little while there came into the young wife’s eyes a look of quiet, earnest questioning, and she laid her folded hands in her lap as if in worship of all the beauty spread about her.
She was filled with a single thought—that she was learning to know one of God’s miracles. She was learning to know the sea. She had never known before what it was to be so near the sea, to feel its breath in one’s ears, to watch the play of expression in its face, to nestle close to its breast and be lulled to calm and peace.
Sven Elversson put the helm over, and they ran across to the north, in between the reefs, sailing close in under rugged cliffs, by little red fisher-huts set among ancient pear trees heavy with red-brown fruit, with glimpses of meadow between the rocks, greener, more brilliantly, livingly green than in the kindliest spring.
He led her from sound to sound, meeting white steamers, heavy, deep-laden barges, and lighter craft that glided over the water like huge sailing butterflies.
Sven Elversson himself looked at it all with something like amazement. Reef and islet, houses and meadows and trees—there was a greatness, a wealth of colour, a beauty over all to-day unlike other days. And he was glad that she had seen them thus, in their festal array.
They must have known, he thought to himself, how deeply this woman loved all that was beautiful.
And it was with Sven as with all the rest, the land and sea. He was seen at his best to-day.
They talked at first of the weather, and of all the beautiful things about them, and he taught her the names of all the rocks and islands as they passed. But after a while they came to speak of other things, of every possible thing, old things and new, as if they had been tried friends.
And he laid aside the barrier of humility and shyness, and spoke freely and naturally, until she wondered, and thought that young men born by the sea, and voyaging early abroad to other lands, must gain an education and experience beyond others who spent all their days on land.
She felt a real trust in him, for he was good and gentle and wise; she wished she knew him better, and had such a man to turn to when her own wits were at a loss.
As for Sven, he had not spoken with her long before there came over him an intense longing to tell her of his sin, to confess it all to this innocent creature who knew nothing of sin herself.
It crossed his mind that all those who had hitherto condemned and despised him were themselves well acquainted with sin and vice. All had no doubt at some time cheated, lied, stolen, borne false witness, been proud and merciless, idle, miserly, revengeful, or cruel.
But this young girl from a pious home had lived a quiet and protected life, untouched by passion or covetousness. She had as yet no knowledge of sinful nature, her own or others’. She had never cherished an evil thought, never wished harm to any soul.
He could not expect her to judge him over-leniently, for she was keenly sensitive, and could never control her abhorrence of all that was ugly and evil to her mind. But be that as it might, he would gladly submit to her judgment; she should be his court of appeal. He could not go to the King for justice, but he could go to her.
For some time, however, he refrained, shy and uncertain of himself. And while he sat hesitating, he noticed that she had grown silent again. She seemed to be trying to say something that was hard to begin.
At last, however, she made up her mind and came straight to the matter at once.
“You saw I was crying when you came up before?”
“Yes,” he said. “I could not help seeing that.”
“It wasn’t anything very much,” she said. “Only a letter that came. It was from a friend of mine, a rich man’s daughter, just married, and her husband was such a good man, clever, and looked up to by everyone; we all thought she would be so happy.”
“And now—you mean she is not?” Sven laid both hands on the tiller and leaned forward. He seemed keenly interested in all that concerned this friend of hers.
“No,” she answered, looking out over the sea, as if seeking to avoid his glance. “She is not happy. She writes that her husband is always displeased with her somehow. And she can’t understand it. She asked if I could tell her what it might be. But I can’t. I would gladly help her, but I can’t understand it myself. So you can understand I was sorry. That was why I couldn’t help crying.”
“Yes, I understand,” Sven replied. “But your husband, lady. Pastor Rhånge is a man of great experience. Ought you not to ask him about it?”
Fru Rhånge coloured, and gave him a quick glance, almost of suspicion. But his eyes met hers frankly and openly, without a thought of anything to conceal, and she went on:
“I do not think she would like me to speak to my husband about it. It is always when they have been out anywhere and are driving home that he is—displeased with her. Hardly speaks to her at all. And whenever she tries to say anything, he only answers with an unkind word or a sneer.”
“But are you sure there is not anything in her behaviour that could offend him? Anything wrong, I mean?”
“No,” answered the young wife, eagerly. “That, I am certain, there is not. They are earnest-minded, both of them, and wherever they go, among friends, it is always quiet; no dancing or noisy games or anything like that. But she did think of that, too, that perhaps he found her too gay in her manner, and last time they were out she sat all the time with the old married women and talked sensibly. Only when the host came and wanted to show her the garden did she go out at all. And he was an elderly man, and they spoke of nothing but trees and flowers, and how there were not enough gardens round about. And she was so interested, and asked him if he did not think they could manage a little garden at her home. And he promised to send some of his own people over that autumn to mark out a garden for her, and then in the spring he would send her some things to plant in it. But then in the evening, driving home with her husband, she told him about it, and thought he would be pleased. But he gripped the whip so hard as he listened, she could see the knuckles grow white, and when the horse stumbled he was furious, and lashed it again and again. And he told her that their home would stay as it was, and as it had been, and he’d have no gardener people coming to alter this and that. And told her not to enter into any arrangements of that sort in future without first asking his permission. And she tells me now she was so frightened she could not say a word. Only folded her hands and prayed to God to show her what it all was, what it could mean.”
The young wife spoke throughout very slowly, choosing her words with care, and Sven Elversson listened with growing interest. And he could not help thinking that the description of the old man who was so fond of gardens fitted in excellently with a landowner living a little way out of Applum, near the sea; he had a big place, and would naturally have invited the Pastor and his wife some time.
“She must be very pretty, I suppose—your friend,” was all he said.
Again she cast a covert, searching glance at him.
“I daresay people would think her quite good-looking,” she said, carelessly. “But what joy can it be to her, when her husband has so much to find fault with in all that she does? When it seems as if she were never to have her will in anything; and all that she cares to do is wrong? And never can learn what she may do and what not?”
Sven Elversson was getting the sail over ready to tack, and had not time to answer before she went on:
“Before, when she was at home, no one ever spoke unkindly to her for what she did. Everyone seemed pleased with her then. She was a good example to her little brothers and sisters, they said, and wondered how they would manage when she was gone. And whenever she thinks of that time she cannot help smiling at herself, for now that she has a home of her own, it seems she can do nothing right, and is scolded for all she says or does not say, whatever she does or does not do.”
Sven Elversson was at a loss how to answer. “She is all alone,” he thought, “and has no one to confide in; helpless and a stranger. And she needs someone to talk to; it helps her a little to talk of it this way.”
And he said only that Fru Rhånge seemed to care very much for her friend.
“I wish I could help her,” she said, and was very near to weeping again. “For I know she is good and kind, really. She loves to help and comfort old people, and the poor, when they are in trouble, but she must not do that now, and that is almost the worst thing of all. And she may not sit in the pew that belongs to her home in church, though she likes best to sit there, because it is just in the choir, and a little above the rest, so she can see out over the congregation.”
Sven Elversson thought of the little pew in Applum church, set aside for the family of the incumbent; it stood a little higher than the others, and one had a view of the rest of the church from there. “But how can I tell her,” he thought, “that her husband is jealous? It would only hurt her. Perhaps it will pass over. Better that she should not know.”
He turned the vessel now, and made for home. It was as well that her husband should find her there when he came back from church.
And in his pain at not daring to help her—perhaps to turn her thoughts from her own trouble—he pointed to a rocky island far to the west.
“That is Grimön,” he said. “That is where the fellow they call Sven Elversson lives. You’ve heard of him, maybe?”
She nodded. “Yes, I have heard about that—the whole story.”
She seemed inclined to let the matter end there, but suddenly she added a few words that made an end of the little happiness Sven had felt that morning.
“You’ve heard, of course, that the schoolhouse he built over by the church was burnt down last night?”
“Burnt down!” he cried. And in consternation he loosed his hold of the tiller, so that the sail was flung over and the boat nearly capsized.
“Yes,” said Fru Rhånge, with perfect calmness, “burnt down to the ground. And a good thing, too!”
Sven brought the boat round again. “Why do you say that?” he asked between clenched teeth. “Why is it a good thing the place was burnt? I have heard that the folk in Applum were pleased enough with the building.”
“I have heard so, too,” she said. “But what was the good of that when the children would not go there?”
“Children would not go there?” he repeated, helplessly. “I have not been over to the mainland since it started—I knew nothing of that.”
Fru Rhånge could see he was astonished at her saying it was well the place was burnt, and she went on eagerly to explain. From the very first, the children had taken a dislike to the new school. They had heard it was built by a man who had eaten human flesh, and they feared they would lose all chance of salvation if they sat at their lessons in a place that smelt of Christian blood.
And, as she told all this, she wondered why the man before her sat there so quietly, as if unconscious, with a far-away look in his eyes and a patient, suffering smile on his lips.
And in order to justify what she had already said, she went on to relate how the schoolmaster and, most of all, the mistress in charge of the little ones, had done all they could. Had spoken kindly and sensibly to the children, shown them how well the new school was built and fitted, and how all had been thought out to make it useful and comfortable for them. But the children had no ears for that, and persisted all the same: the place had been built by a wicked man, a dreadful sinner, and it was unclean.
Some of them had suddenly begun to cry during the lessons. Others had fancied they saw visions, and the fear and horror grew day by day. At last the parents could hardly get their children to go at all; it was even feared that some of the more excitable would go out of their minds.
Sven Elversson sat looking straight before him. “I wished her to be my judge,” he said to himself. “And so it has come about. She condemns me, like all the rest.”
She went on to say that it was of the children she had been thinking when she had said it was a good thing the school had been burnt. The fire had been caused by a pure accident. The woman who came to clean the rooms had upset a lamp: the fire had spread at once, and before she could get help it was beyond control.
The man at the helm looked up. “Well, well,” he said. “Now Sven Elversson has been judged by God and man. Now it will be said that God would not suffer such unclean hands to build a house for children.”
“Really, it almost seems——” began the woman, and checked herself. By a sudden intuition she felt now that the fellow there, who had been in her company for two hours at least, must be Sven Elversson himself.
Had she not heard his name mentioned the first time, when he had driven with them from the station? She had not noticed it at the time. But now...
She looked at him closely. His simple dress had deceived her; she could see now that his face was that of an educated man. And then the curious little accent that she had noticed and wondered at—doubtless a trace of his English upbringing.
He sat with his eyes cast down, and as she watched the patient smile that played about his lips, she felt desperately miserable at having added still further to the burden he had to bear.
“Must I go back now with the memory of having wounded this poor sufferer against my will?” she thought. “I should have more to sorrow for then than I had this morning when I came down to the sea. He must have been a fine young man, with a career before him, and now he has lost all. And he has spent money, given his own work, on this schoolhouse building, to regain the good will of his fellow men. It is hard. I should not have spoken as I did.”
Both were silent for the rest of the way home; neither cared to speak.
But when the boat came in to the stone pier under the cliff, and he rose to help her ashore, she grasped his hand.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not know that it was you.”
And she bent down and touched his forehead with her lips.
“What have you done?” he cried, with a look in his eyes as if she had struck him.
“I want you to understand that I do not feel toward you as all the others do,” she said.
And, stepping ashore, she walked across the sand without looking backhand in through the pass between the rocks.
But before she had gone many steps, Sven Elversson was at her side, and laid one hand on her arm, that she should stop.
“Thank you... God bless you...” he said softly, brokenly. “But remember,” he went on, “you must never, never do such a thing again. And you must not tell your husband what you have done. If you told him, then in his jealousy he might kill you.”
Sven Elversson was gone, and the young wife walked on alone through the fields, with his last words still in her ears.
“Jealousy!”—could it be true that her husband was jealous? “Oh, heavens, no!” she thought to herself. “It is impossible. He must know that I am his with all my soul, with all my thoughts and feelings.”
It seemed so cruelly unjust that any one should ever think her husband jealous; the tears rose to her eyes again.
“Heaven knows how it is with that Sven Elversson,” she said to herself. “There are many that cannot bear the sight of him, but they all say he is a good man. But perhaps, after all, he is not suffering undeservedly. How could Edward ever be jealous about me? And that was what he was reckoning out to himself while I was talking to him in the boat.
“I wish he were here, so that I could tell him the truth. And the truth is just this—that Edward does not love me any more. It is his misfortune, and mine. But he is not jealous. Oh, a man such as he, so far above all others, who is there he could be jealous of? And that fellow actually thought he could be jealous of him!
“He has ceased to love me,” she told herself once more. “He can’t help not loving me any more, but he cannot have ceased to believe in me, and in my love for him. It would be too unjust, too blind—it would be almost ridiculous.”
On reaching home, the maid came to meet her in the hall, with an anxious face. The service was over already, the Pastor had come back, and was terrified at hearing that his wife was not at home. He had looked for her everywhere; had even been down to the sea to look. He was sitting in his room now—perhaps it would be best to go to him at once.
Fru Rhånge opened the door to the study. What was this?—was he ill? There sat this great strong man, with his face hidden in his arms, rocking to and fro and moaning as if in pain.
She went in, and asked in astonishment what was the matter. But when he looked up, his face was so changed that she hardly knew him—pale and drawn, with dull, bloodshot eyes, and his black beard in ragged wisps about his cheeks. She could hardly have believed such a change was possible in so short a time.
He looked at her with wide eyes, as if not knowing her. Then he passed his hands over his face, trying to control himself, to regain his customary dignity and confident ease. But to no purpose; his emotion was too much for him, and the tears streamed from his eyes.
He stretched out an arm toward her and, without rising, drew her to him. Not a kiss, not a caress; he leaned his head against her breast and sobbed, heartrending to see.
Again and again she begged him to tell her what it was that hurt him, but it was long before he could speak.
And then—nothing more than that he had come home from church and had not found her there; had looked for her about the place, even down to the sea, and, finding her nowhere, he had thought she had given him up and stolen away.
Sigrun could not help giving a little laugh of triumph and satisfaction.
“You must never go away from me again,” he said. “You must promise me, now, that you will never leave me. Always let me know where I can find you—you have seen now; I shall go out of my mind if you do not.”
And she promised all that he asked. Promised that nothing but death should take her from him.
And then she stood beside him, stroking his hair, till he was himself again. She felt light at heart now that she had had proof of his love. But at the same time there was something strange, something she could not share, in this. It was a love she did not understand—a thing too hot and fierce.
She asked him how he could ever believe she would leave him. And then, impulsively, he told her his thought; she was so far above him. She was from another world, was good in herself, without having to think about it. And he was always fearing that one day she would disappear—he was not good enough to keep her long.
“He does not mean it,” she thought to herself. He could not really mean it. It was only his love that exalted her, as love ever will. And in the same way she herself had hitherto exalted him in her heart.
She was no longer miserable and despairing, as she had been in the morning. But there rose up in her a sense of fear toward her husband. And she said no word of having been out sailing with Sven Elversson that day.
Meantime, Sven Elversson and his father were on their way back to Grimön. Old Joel took the tiller, and his son lay in the bows, making himself as comfortable as could be.
Joel had told him of the fire at the school, having heard the news at church. He looked old and bowed and sad; it seemed that now, after this last failure, all ways were closed to his son’s advancement.
Sven Elversson stroked his forehead softly as he lay, now with his finger-tips, now with the whole of his slender, delicate hand.
There was a strange sense of freedom and ease in his soul. His thoughts came to him clear and indisputable. He saw his way.
“Father,” he said, suddenly, “this loathing is surely the strongest thing of all. No one can overcome it; no one can stand against it. Best to know it from the first. Whoever tries to fight against it must be beaten.”
Joel shrugged his shoulders slightly, and grunted out something in answer, but his words were lost in the noise of wind and waves.
Sven lay as before, thinking. And in a little while, when his mind again had given him a clear and indisputable thought, he lifted his voice and cried to his father:
“But loathing is not evil in itself. It is a warning and a safeguard. And if one could use it so, turning it to good use, one might be of great service to mankind.”
The old man looked up. His rheumy gray eyes lit up for a moment, and his bowed figure straightened.
Sven sprang to his feet, and, stepping across the thwarts, sat down beside his father.
“Something has happened to me to-day,” he said. “Something that has helped me. I am not unhappy now about the fire at the school. I have something else to think of.”
Then he went back to his place and lay down again, listening to the heavy rush of the south wind, watching the blending colour of the reefs, and stroking his forehead with his slender, delicate hand.