Ol‐Kanelesa didn’t go down to the wedding reception. He hurried as quickly as he could down Rau Alley and slid like a shadow along the sides of the cow barns and towards home. He had buttoned his tail coat up over his chest and pressed his top hat down to his eyes. He would not like anyonep. 94 to recognize him just now. And like this he made his way down to Elisabeth Cottage without being noticed. He pulled the big outer‐door key out quickly and locked the door from the inside. He pushed his top hat back on his neck, and peeled off his overtight church mittens and dried the sweat from his forehead with them. It had been warm up there in the church—but down here it was stifling. He thought of opening the window but let it be; then he went over to the corner cupboard and took out a square green bottle and a little bronze‐gilt goblet and filled it to the brim, so that the golden schnapps ran out over his thick, scorched blacksmith fingers. He stood there for a while with the goblet in his hand, squinting furtively at the window with the small panes.

“Your bridal skoal, Gunhild!”

He emptied the bronze goblet at one draft; it measured a quarter of a pint. Then he stood there again, listening with his eyes. And once again he filled the goblet to the brim.

“And your bridal skoal, too, Ellen!”

Yes, for today was Ellen’s birthday. She was born on the third Sunday after Trinity, 1757.

And for the third time he filled the goblet full.

“And your bridal skoal, too, Ol‐Kanelesa!”

He wouldn’t have had anything against drinking a fourth skoal but he had no one else to drink to. Out of humor, he put down the square green bottle and the bronze‐gilt goblet on the unpainted folding‐table. Then he threw his top hat on to the peat box and lay down on the bed. He folded his hands behind his neck—and let one foot dangle down over the edge of the bed.

He lay there thinking of the way the sun had shone when he and Ellen were engaged. Then the sun was brighter and warmer, especially on Sundays—it shone in such a way that all the mountains and all the streets and all the houses and paths were like gold. The grass of the pastures and the leaves were also greener then than now. In the evenings and at night the Hitter Lake and the Gjet tarn were as if plated with silver. And how the church bells rang! Now there must be cracks inp. 95 the big bell, the middle bell, and the little bell. They had all got such a rough, unpleasant sound that it sent a cold shiver through the body. He had even thought of going up into the tower to see if this wasn’t so.

His eyes became moist at the many memories. And his lips began to quiver; it was painful to think of all that which once was so beautiful, nothing would be like it again.

He jumped up from the bed. He knew of someone else he should drink a skoal for; it was the pastor.

The goblet was filled. He lifted it high in the air. “Skoal, pastor! You’re the biggest fool of them all! Ho, ho!”

Ol‐Kanelesa stood in the middle of the room and laughed coldly and harshly while the tears ran down his newly shaven cheeks.

Today, Ellen von Westen Hammond would have been fifty had she lived. To him she was, today, as she had been thirty years ago, a slight, twenty‐year‐old girl. But had she been alive today, it was not at all certain that she would have been his; it wasn’t to be expected that a common, poverty‐stricken schoolmaster could have kept her for life. But now she was his for all time; there, as she lay in her grave.

These were, at all events, the thoughts which Ol‐Kanelesa comforted himself with—today, as so often before during the thirty long years which had passed since she died.

Was someone knocking at the door? He squatted down and crept over to the wall. Plenty of room to hide here. Whether they looked through the window or peeped through the keyhole, they wouldn’t see him here.

“Are you there, Ol‐Kanelesa?” someone shouted.

He recognized the voice; it was Nils Tufte, the master of ceremonies at the wedding. Ol‐Kanelesa sat quite still and let Nils bang and shout as much as he liked. After a bit it became quiet. He heard Nils’ steps as he went away.

Every summer as Ellen’s birthday drew near, often several days before it, Ol‐Kanelesa went around as if in a daze. He was filled with both restlessness and joy. The third Sunday after Trinity was a red‐letter day for him. It was Ellen’s day.p. 96 And with the years the day had taken on a fixed and unchangeable routine: first of all, to rise before dawn and before other people were about and go to the grave with a big wreath of fresh juniper twigs cut at Volen.

And, then, it was his custom to sing behind locked doors down at Elisabeth Cottage the hymn:

Be comforted my heart, From weeping refrain, Reflect that for the best God doth all ordain.

After this he officiated as usual at church for the morning service.

And then—yes, then he took out the shoe buckles, the ring, and the two letters he had had from Ellen that winter she was at Branæs. In the evening, at seven o’clock, he went for a walk along the Hitter Lake, where he and Ellen had walked on so many an evening the last spring she was alive.

He went solemnly over to the bureau and slowly unlocked the lid, then drew out a secret drawer from under the other compartments and carefully removed a thin gold ring and two small, yellowing letters written in an elegant, fine, maidenly hand. Then he forced the gold ring with difficulty on to the ring finger of his right hand and sat down heavily in an armchair beside the bureau and began to read. He read every word—these words which, already a generation ago, he had learned by heart—now, as then, they were fresh and quite unbelievable, and went straight to his heart.

He remained sitting there for a long time with the letters in his hand, staring. Now he looked back on his life. And what he saw neither rejoiced nor enchanted him; it was, to be sure, a wasted life. He, who once had dreamt of achieving so much, had achieved absolutely nothing. As he sat here now, he was not even worth a thank you. And now everything was too late. Everything was against him now. The iron wouldn’t obey his hammer; nor would his fiddle sound as before. Everything hep. 97 had read he had gradually forgotten. Was the Almighty taking everything He had given from him? If so, the Almighty had every right to. Anyone who had misused God’s gifts as he had couldn’t expect to keep them for all time. He had already kept those he had a long time, long beyond all expectation.

Now somebody was knocking at the door again.

“Are you in there, Uncle Ola?”

It was Gunhild’s voice. He jumped up from his chair, twisted the gold ring off his finger, so that the skin came off his knuckle and began to bleed. Then he put the ring and the two small letters back into the secret drawer and turned the key in the lid. Once again the three relics were to rest in peace until the next third Sunday after Trinity.

“Gunhild, my dear,” he cried, “is it you then, Gunhild.”

“People are sitting at the table waiting for you, Uncle.”

“Waiting for me?”

“Uncle,” Gunhild said and caught hold of his hand. “I, in any case, have no one to wait for but you.”

“Wait for me?” he repeated. A childish joy came over his worn mind. “God bless you, Gunhild!” He patted the back of her hand. Her hand was so delicate, it reminded him of Ellen’s hand. This, too, affected him; today he associated everything he heard and saw with Ellen; sun, light through the window, a friendly word—in everything there was something which reminded him of her. Today, it was as if Ellen rose from her grave and walked beside him.

“Did you talk to the pastor after the wedding service, Uncle Ola?”

He looked sharply at Gunhild. Why in the world had she asked about that?

“The pastor? I’ve nothing unsaid with him, have I?”

“Someone saw you and the pastor up in the upper churchyard.”

“Hm! Yes. Of course. He’s a stranger here.”

“Wasn’t there anything special he wanted with you, then?”

p. 98

Ol‐Kanelesa shook his head. He didn’t want to talk to Gunhild about this, not today at all events.

“We must hurry,” he said. “We mustn’t keep people waiting any longer.”

“Were you up at Father’s grave?”

“Yes, we walked around there, too.”

Ol‐Kanelesa still couldn’t understand why Gunhild was asking him all this. He took out his blue‐bordered stocking cap and put it on; his top hat was only for going to church.

“Aren’t you going to bring your fiddle?” Gunhild asked.

“No, the fiddle stays at home this time.”

“Then I won’t dance!”

“Won’t dance, you, the bride?”

“Uncle!” she burst out, and flopped down in his armchair. “Just now I’d like to change places with Ellen, that fine Miss you should have had.”

She wasn’t crying. Her face was rigid and hard.

“I’m out of myself now, sure I am.”

“Out of yourself, you say?”

He opened his eyes wide, horrified.

“Yes, I am. I gave our David a clout on the ear last night. And then when we got out of the church, I let him have it again.”

“Take care, Gunhild.”

“Don’t start nagging at me on my bridal day,” she begged. “Oh, merciful heaven! How’s all this going to end?”

“You may well ask,” Ol‐Kanelesa said.

He went and wrapped his fiddle in a cloth. He’d take it all the same, if Gunhild really wanted it.

“You must play all the dances you know this evening, Uncle.”

“That would be a lot, that would.”

“Yes, for now I want to dance myself to death.”

“Oh, don’t blaspheme, standing there in your bridal gown,” Ol‐Kanelesa said solemnly. “Your words can one day bring you harm.”

And they went out through the door. Both had been savaged by life, almost in the same way.

p. 99

The wedding guests were breaking up and were ready to leave. Only a few young people, warm after the night, remained. The clock struck four; Gunhild was still dancing.

Ol‐Kanelesa was sitting on a sunken grave in the lower churchyard where the clergy are buried.

The sun shone out between the large blue clouds over the mountains to the east; from the magpies and the thrushes it looked as if it would again be a warm day today, with nothing but sunshine.

It was still in the streets, as if the town was deserted; the houses stood in their rows, with locked doors. A watchman in a bare‐worn reindeer skin coat sat on some steps far down the street, sleeping and shivering, with his back pressed up against a door. Now, when the smeltery was closed down and all the outdoor smelting ovens were out, and the townspeople up at their mountain farms, there was nothing to watch over; thieves and robbers didn’t exist for miles around.

Ol‐Kanelesa was quite sober now. Quite frankly, he had been terribly drunk during the night. And, drunk and depressed, he had taken his usual walk along the Hitter Lake with his fiddle under his arm. There he had sat for a long time on a stone, up amongst hillocks, and had waited for his hangover to pass. He wouldn’t return to the resting place of the departed until he felt quite sober.

His fiddle lay hidden in the stiff grass by the side of the grave. Ol‐Kanelesa himself sat with his face in his hands, thinking; not so much of her now, who lay here in the grave, but of Gunhild.

During the night Gunhild had danced the whole time. Danced as only someone who is unhappy can dance, here in this wicked world. At two o’clock in the morning Ol‐Kanelesa had tuned all the strings on his fiddle so high that they broke; this dance had to end, too! But did it finish? No. Another with a broken‐down fiddle was pushed into the fiddler’s corner.

“Even if I have to sing and dance all by myself, the dance shall go on until sunrise!” the bride had shouted.

p. 100

Gunhild had no self‐respect any more. She had completely lost control of herself.

“It’s hard to live, Ellen,” Ol‐Kanelesa said. “Though, surely, worse still to die?”

Now the light glittered on the tall iron cross behind him, the cross with the long inscription in copper letters driven into the iron: “Here rests the Honorable Miss Ellen von Westen Hammond.”

At the base of the cross was written, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”

Ol‐Kanelesa had used full five years to make this cross.

And many from the east and the west and the south and the north had seen it, and had wondered who could have fashioned such a remarkable work of art.

And to that question only a very few had received an answer.