Victoria by Knut Hamsun

going to Johannes,’ I repeated. ‘Papa can’t find money for all three of us, he’s staying on here,’ she said; then she went on talking about other things. I walked to the door. Mama looked at me. ‘I’m going to him now,’ I said for the last time. Mama followed me to the door, kissed me and said, ‘God bless you both, then!’ ”
    Johannes let go of her hands and said, “There, you’re warm now.”
    “Thanks so much, yes, now I’m quite warm. . . . ‘God bless you both,’ she said. I told Mama everything, she has known all along. ‘But darling, whom then do you love, my child?’ she asked. ‘You can still ask about that?’ I said. ‘Johannes is the one I love, he’s the only one I’ve loved all my life, loved, loved. . . .’ ”
    He made a movement. “It’s late. Don’t you think they’ll start worrying about you at home?”
    “No,” she said. “You know it’s you I love, Johannes; you must have seen that? I’ve longed for you so terribly during these years, more than anybody would ever understand. I’ve walked along this road and thought, Now I’ll keep to the woods near the road, that’s where he preferred to walk. And that’s what I do. The day I heard you’d come home I put on a light dress, light yellow; I was sick with suspense and longing and kept walking in and out of every door. ‘How radiant you look today! ’ Mama said. I was saying to myself all the time, ‘He has come home again! He’s gorgeous and he’s back—that’s him!’ The next day I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I put on my light dress again and went up to the quarry to meet you. Do you remember? And I did meet you, but I didn’t pick flowers, as I said, that was not what I came for. You were no longer glad to see me again, but thanks anyway for the chance to meet you. I hadn’t seen you for over two years. You had a twig in your hand and were swishing it in the air when I came; after you left I picked up the twig, hid it, and took it home with me—”
    “Yes, but Victoria,” he said in a trembling voice, “you mustn’t say such things to me anymore.”
    “No,” she replied anxiously and seized his hand. “No, I mustn’t. I can see you don’t like me to.” She began patting his hand nervously. “No, I can’t really expect you to. And besides, I’ve hurt you ever so much. Don’t you think you’ll be able to forgive me sometime?”
    “Oh yes, everything. It’s not that.”
    “What is it then?”
    Pause.
    “I’m engaged,” he said.

X
    The following day—a Sunday—the Castle proprietor came to the miller in person and asked him to show up around noon and drive Lieutenant Otto’s body to the steamer. The miller didn’t understand and stared at him, but the proprietor explained briefly that all his hired people had been given the day off; they had gone to church, none of the servants were home.
    The proprietor had apparently not slept the night before, he looked cadaverous and, what’s more, was unshaven. Yet, he swung his cane in his usual way and held himself erect.
    The miller put on his best coat and was off. When he had hitched up the horses, the master himself helped him carry the body out to the carriage. It was all done quietly, almost secretively; no observer was present.
    The miller drove off to the pier. He was followed by the chamberlain and his wife, in addition to the lady of the house and Victoria. They were all on foot. The master could be seen standing alone on the steps, waving repeated good-byes; the wind ruffled his gray hair.
    When the body had been brought on board, the mourners followed. From the ship’s rail, the mistress called to the miller on shore, asking him to say good-bye to the master for them, and Victoria asked him the same.
    The ship steamed off. The miller followed it with his eyes for a long while. There was a strong wind and the bay was rough; it was a quarter of an hour before the ship disappeared behind the islands. The miller drove