Castle garden. Nobody was going to say he was dogging the footsteps of the Castle children. He reached the top of a hill, picked up a stone and sat down. The birds were making a wild, passionate music, giving their mating calls, pairing off, and flying about with twigs in their beaks. A sweetish smell of earth, of sprouting leaves and rotting trees, hung in the air.
He had happened onto Victoria’s path, she was coming straight at him from the opposite direction.
A feeling of helpless irritation came over him, he wished he were far, far away; this time she was bound to think he had been following her. Should he greet her again? Perhaps he could simply look the other way, what with that wasp sting and all.
But when she got close enough, he stood up and tipped his cap. She smiled and nodded. “Good evening. Welcome home,” she said.
Again her lips seemed to tremble slightly, but she quickly regained her composure.
“This may appear a bit strange,” he said, “but I didn’t know you were here, Victoria.”
“No, you didn’t,” she replied. “It was a whim of mine, it just occurred to me to come this way.”
Ouch! He had spoken as though he were on intimate terms with her.
“How long will you be home?” she asked.
“Till vacation is over.”
He had trouble answering her, she had suddenly become so distant. Why had she spoken to him anyway?
“Ditlef tells me you are such a good student, Johannes. You’re doing so well in your exams. And he also tells me you write poetry. Is that true?”
Squirming, he answered curtly, “To be sure. Everyone does.” She would probably soon be on her way, for she said nothing in return.
“Can you believe it, I was stung by a wasp today,” he said, showing her his lip. “That’s why I look like this.”
“Then you have been away for too long, our wasps don’t recognize you anymore.”
She didn’t care whether he had been disfigured by a wasp or not. Very well. She stood there twirling a red parasol on her shoulder, its handle topped with a gold knob, and nothing else concerned her. And yet he had carried the young lady in his arms more than once.
“I don’t recognize the wasps,” he replied. “They used to be my friends.”
But she didn’t grasp his deep meaning; she didn’t answer. It was such a deep meaning, though.
“I don’t recognize anything around here. Even the woods have been cut down.”
A light spasm passed across her face.
“Then you probably can’t write poetry here?” she said. “What if you wrote a poem to me sometime! Oh, what am I saying! That shows you how little I know about it.”
He lowered his eyes, mute and angered. She was making amiable fun of him, speaking snootily and observing what effect it had on him. Begging her pardon, he had not only wasted his time writing, he had also read more than most people. . . .
“Well, I trust we’ll meet again. So long.”
He doffed his cap and left without answering.
If she only knew that it was to her and no one else he had written his poems, every one of them, even the one to Night, even the one to the Spirit of the Bog. She would never know.
On Sunday Ditlef came and wanted Johannes to go to the island with him. I’m to be the oarsman again, he thought. He went along. Down by the pier some people were taking their Sunday stroll, otherwise everything was very quiet and the sun shone warmly in the sky. Suddenly the sound of music was heard in the distance, it was coming from the sea, from the islands out there; the packet boat was turning in a wide arc as it approached the dock, and it had a band on board.
Johannes untied the boat and sat down at the oars. He was in a soft, lightsome mood this sunny day, and the music from the ship was weaving a veil of flowers and golden grain before his eyes.
Why didn’t Ditlef come? He stood on shore watching the people and the ship, as if he weren’t going any farther. I won’t sit here at the oars any longer, Johannes thought, I’ll