In Midsummer Days, and Other Tales Part 3

"Then you must have had a fire in the room; it's very warm here this morning."

No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen, very much hurt.

He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room made him feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a little private altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted of a small table with two silver candlesticks, a large photograph of a young woman, and a tall, gold-edged champagne gla.s.s. This gla.s.s--it was the gla.s.s he had used on his wedding-day, and he was a widower now--always contained a red rose in memory of and as an offering to her who once had been the suns.h.i.+ne of his life. Whether it was summer or winter, there was always a rose; and in the winter time it lasted a whole week, that is to say if he trimmed the stem occasionally and put a little salt into the water.

Now, he had put a fresh rose into the gla.s.s only last night, and to-day it was faded, shrivelled up, dead, with its head drooping. This was a bad omen. He knew what sensitive creatures flowers are, and had noticed that they thrive with some people and not with others. He remembered how sometimes, in his wife's lifetime, her rose, which always stood on her little work-table, had faded and died quite unexpectedly. And he had also noticed that this always happened when _his sun_ was hiding behind a cloud, which after a while would dissolve in large drops to the accompaniment of a low rumbling. Roses must have peace and kind words; they can't bear harsh voices. They love music, and sometimes he would play to the roses and they opened their buds and smiled.

Now Louisa was a hard woman, and often muttered and growled to herself when she turned out the room. There were days when she was in a very bad temper, so that the milk curdled in the kitchen, and the whole dinner tasted of discord, which the conductor noticed at once; for he was himself like a delicate instrument, whose soul responded to moods and influences which other people did not feel.

He concluded that Louisa had killed the rose; perhaps if she had scolded the poor thing, or knocked the gla.s.s, or breathed on the flower angrily, a treatment which it could not bear. Therefore he rang again; and when Louisa put in her head, he said, not unkindly, but more firmly than before:

"What have you done to my rose, Louisa?"

"Nothing, sir!"

"Nothing? Do you think the flower died without a very good reason? You can see for yourself that there is no water in the gla.s.s! You must have poured it away!"

As Louisa had done no such thing, she went into the kitchen and began to cry, for it is disagreeable to be blamed when one is innocent.

Conductor Crossberg, who could not bear to see people crying, said no more, but in the evening he bought a new rose, one which had only just been cut, and, of course, was not wired, for his wife had always had an objection to wired flowers.

And then he went to bed and fell asleep. And again he fancied in his sleep that the wall-paper was on fire, and that his pillow was very hot; but he went on sleeping.

On the following morning, when he came into the sitting-room, to say his morning prayers before the little altar--alas! there lay his rose, all the pink petals scattered by the side of the stem. He was just stretching out his hand to touch the bell, when he saw the photograph of his beloved, half rolled up, lying by the side of the champagne gla.s.s.

Louisa could not have done that!

"She, who was my all, my conscience and my muse," he thought in his childlike mind, "she is dissatisfied and angry with me; what have I done?"

Well, when he put this question to his conscience, he found, as usual, more than one little fault, and he resolved to eradicate his faults, gradually, of course.

Then he had the portrait framed and a gla.s.s shade put over the rose, hoping that now things would be all right, but secretly fearing that they would not.

After that he went on a week's journey; he returned home late at night and went straight to bed. He woke up once, imagining that the hanging lamp was burning.

When he entered the sitting-room late on the following morning, it was downright hot there, and everything looked frightfully shabby. The blinds were faded; the cover on the piano had lost its bright colours; the bound volumes of music looked as if they were deformed; the oil in the hanging-lame had evaporated and hung in a trembling drop under the ornament, where the flies used to dance; the water in the water-bottle was warm.

But the saddest thing of all was that her portrait, too, was faded, as faded as autumn leaves. He was very unhappy, and whenever he was very unhappy he went to the piano, or took up his violin, as the case might be....

This time he sat down at the piano, with a vague notion of playing the sonata in E minor, Grieg's, of course, which had been her favourite, and was the best and finest, in his opinion, after Beethoven's sonata in D minor; not because E comes after D, but because it was so.

But the piano was very refractory to-day. It was out of tune, and made all sorts of difficulties, so that he began to believe that his eyes and fingers were in a bad temper. But it was not their fault. The piano, quite simply, was out of tune, although a very clever tuner had only just tuned it. It was like a piano bewitched, enchanted.

He seized his violin; he had to tune it, of course. But when he wanted to tighten the E string, the screw refused to work. It had dried up; and when the conductor tried to use force, the string snapped with a sharp sound, and rolled itself up like a dried eel-skin.

It was bewitched!

But the fact that her photograph had faded was really the worst blow, and therefore he threw a veil over the altar.

In doing this, he threw a veil over all that was most beautiful in his life; and he became depressed, began to mope, and stopped going out in the evening.

It would be Midsummer soon. The nights were shorter than the days, but since the Venetian blinds kept his bedroom dark, the conductor did not notice it.

At last, one night--it was Midsummer night--he awoke, because the clock in the sitting-room struck thirteen. There was something uncanny about this, firstly, because thirteen is an unlucky number, and secondly, because no well-behaved clock can strike thirteen. He did not fall asleep again, but he lay in his bed, listening. There was a peculiar ticking noise in the sitting-room, and then a loud bang, as if a piece of furniture had cracked. Directly afterwards he heard stealthy footsteps, and then the clock began to strike again; and it struck and struck, fifty times--a hundred times. It really was uncanny!

And now a luminous tuft shot into his bedroom and threw a figure on the wall, a strange figure, something like a fylfot, and it came from the sitting-room. There was a light, then, in the sitting-room? But who had lit it? And there was a tinkling of gla.s.ses, just as if guests were there; champagne gla.s.ses of cut-crystal; but not a word was uttered.

And now he heard more sounds, sounds of canvas being furled, or clothes pa.s.sed through a mangle, or something of that sort.

The conductor felt compelled to get up and look, and he went, commending his soul into the hands of the Almighty.

Well, first of all he saw Louisa's print-dress disappearing through the kitchen door; then he saw blinds, but blinds which had been pulled up; he saw the dining-table covered with flowers, arranged in gla.s.ses; as many flowers as there had been on his wedding-day when he had brought his bride home.

And behold! The sun, the sun shone right into his face, shone on blue fjords and distant woods; it was the sun which had illuminated the sitting-room and played all the little tricks. He blessed the sun which had been up so early in the morning and made a game of the sluggard. And he blessed the memory of her whom he called the sun of his life. It was not a new name, but he could not think of a better one, and as it was, it was good enough.

And on his altar stood a rose, quite fresh, as fresh as _she_ had been before the never-ending work had tired her. Tired her! Yes, she had not been one of the strong ones; and life with its blows and knocks had been too brutal for her! He had not forgotten how, after a day's cleaning or ironing, she would throw herself on the sofa and say in a complaining little voice, "I am so tired!" Poor little thing, this earth had not been her home, she had only played once, on tour, as it were, and then had gone far away.

"She lacked suns.h.i.+ne," the doctor had said, for at that time they couldn't afford sun, because rooms on the sunny side are so expensive.

But now he had sun without having known it; he stood right in the sunlight, but it was too late. Midsummer was past, and soon the sun would disappear again, stay away for a year and then come back. Things are very strange in this world!

THE PILOT'S TROUBLES

The pilot cutter lay outside, beyond the last beacon fire on the headland; the winter sun had set long ago and the sea ran high; it was the real sea with real huge breakers. Suddenly the first mate signalled: "Sailing s.h.i.+p to windward."

Far out at sea, a long way off the harbour, a brig was visible; she had backed her sails and hoisted the pilot's flag; she was asking to be taken into port.

"Look out!" shouted the master-pilot, who was standing at the helm.

"We'll have a job in this sea, but we must try and get hold of her in tacking, and you, Victor, throw yourself into her rigging as soon as you get the chance... bring the boat round! Now! Clear!"

The cutter turned and steered a course to the brig which lay outside, pitching.

"Queer that she should have furled all her canvas. ... Can any one see a light aboard? No! And no light on the masthead, either! Look out, Victor!" Now the cutter was alongside; Victor stood waiting on the gunwale, and the next time she rose on the crest of a big wave, he leapt into the rigging of the brig, while the cutter sheered off, tacked, and made for the harbour.

Victor sat in the rigging, half-way between deck and cross-trees, trying to recover his breath before descending on deck. As soon as he came down he went to the helm, which was quite the right thing for him to do. Imagine how shocked he was when he found it deserted! He shouted "Ho there!" but received no reply.

"They're all inside, drinking," he thought, peering through the cabin windows. No, not a soul! He crossed over to the kitchen, examined the quarterdeck,--not a living being anywhere. Then he realised that he was on a deserted s.h.i.+p; he concluded that she had sprung a leak and was sinking.

He tried to discover the whereabouts of the cutter, but she had disappeared in the darkness.

It was quite impossible for him to make port. To set the sails, haul in the brails and bowlines, and at the same time stand at the helm, was more than any sailor could manage.

There was nothing to bee done, then, but let the vessel drift, although he was aware of the fact that she was drifting out to sea.

It would not be true to say that he was pleased, but a pilot is prepared for anything, and the thought that he might possibly meet a sailing s.h.i.+p by and by, rea.s.sured him. But it was necessary to show a light and signal.

He made his way towards the kitchen, intending to look for matches and a lantern. Although the sea was very rough, he noticed that the s.h.i.+p did not move, a fact which astonished him very much. But when he came to the mainmast, he was even more astonished to find himself walking on a parqueted floor, partly covered by a strip of carpet of a small blue and white checked pattern. He walked and walked, but still the carpet stretched before him, and still he came no nearer to the kitchen. It was certainly uncanny, but it was also amusing, for it was a new experience.