The Snow Queen Read Free Page B

subject under the sun. Even the philosopher Sören Kierkegaard has been to visit her. She is writing a book of her own, in which she hopes to reveal the secret pattern of the universe. And Gerda, this is the best part, I have not told you this — she has asked me to be her pupil— her assistant! When this great work is finished, my name could be written with hers!”
    What had become of her quick-witted irreverent Kai, who made her laugh with his clever nonsense? When had he turned into this humourless young man who spoke in the lecturing tones of a schoolmaster? “And when will this great work be finished?” she asked in a small, sad voice.
    â€œOh, not for years, perhaps for decades,” Kai told her. “Such works are not written in a day.”
    She saw that his thin face was flushed, as though with fever. His eyes, which all these past months had seemed so cold and distant, burned with a hectic light.
    â€œBut surely your mother and father will not give you their permission, to go so far from home?”
    â€œGerda, do you imagine they would stand in the way of such an opportunity? They are not rich, you know — I was to become a lawyer, or a schoolmaster. It was not what I wanted, but I thought I would have to make my own way in the world.”
    â€œI will never see you again.”
    â€œOf course you will see me again, you goose. I will come home in the summertime, and we will sit under the rosebushes, and I will tell you of all the marvellous things I have seen, and read about.”
    But they were the words of a patient adult humouring a sulky child, and she took no comfort in them.
    What could she say to him? She could not tell him how often she had dawdled behind the others on the way home from church, hoping that he would catch up, and walk beside her. She could not say that when she and Katrine chattered over their embroidery — furnishing imaginary parlours, rocking their some-day babes in imaginary cradles — it was Kai’s thin, solemn face she saw bent over a book beside the fire. You could not say such things to a young man, even one you had known since you were a toddler at your mother’s knee.

    â€œAnd what news of Kai, Mrs. Sorensen?” The late afternoon sun fell in a dazzle through freshly-washed windows, pooling like molten gold on Mrs. Jensen’s best embroidered cloth. Gerda froze in the act of taking Mrs. Sorensen’s empty coffee cup. The cup rattled on its saucer, and she set it down.
    â€œMy dear Mrs. Jensen, I wish I had news to tell you. We are getting quite anxious, there has been no letter these two months past. I did not even hear from him on my birthday. I know how busy he must be with his studies, but surely, a note to let us know when we are to expect him home . . . ”
    â€œBut you are expecting him home?”
    â€œOh, most certainly. That was always the agreement. But still, one does grow a trifle uneasy, when one hears nothing . . . ”
    Her voice trailed off.
    Mrs. Jensen’s glance met Gerda’s. Her eyes were troubled. She had always had an uncanny knack for reading her daughter’s thoughts. But the look was a fleeting one, and she turned away at once to reassure Mrs. Sorensen. “My dear, I am sure you will hear any day now. They are all so thoughtless, these young folk, so wrapped up in their own affairs . . . now try one of these cakes, it’s a new recipe — and do let Gerda refill your cup.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right,” said Mrs. Sorensen. “If he had fallen ill, or had an accident, his benefactress would certainly have informed us.”
    But Gerda, like Mrs. Jensen, had seen how tired and anxious Kai’s mother looked, had observed the dark, sleepless circles under her eyes.

    The spring drew on. The plum trees blossomed, and then the lilacs. The beechwoods burst into pale new leaf. Before long it would be midsummer, and the sun would rise three