The homespun — the black, shiny homespun, it would not turn on the loom. And the frame worked stiffly, just as if the reed of the loom was full of resin; the shuttle stopped continually halfway in the weave and the yarn kept on breaking. When one spun yarn on a birchbark spool, as she had done, one could hardly expect anything else. She kept on tying the yarn until her fingers became lacerated and bled. Suppose she took the scissors and cut down the weave? Cut it down to the last thread and threw it on the fire. Whatever she thought, it would be sinful and wicked somehow or other. If she cut down the weave, he wouldn’t get any new clothes; no new waistcoat and no new jacket. Then he wouldn’t go to church this winter. Yes, for he had taken the idea into his head that he would only go to church in clothes which she had spun and woven. Had anyone ever heard the like of such a notion?

And supposing she now said to herself, “I’ll wear out the loom for the man I’m married to, and whom I care for more than anyone thinks. I’ll sit up day and night and weave and think of him. He’ll get his new clothes. And he won’t freeze. I’ll weave every single stitch in the name of God.”

It would sound beautiful. And it would be a lie, too. In despair she gripped the frame with both her hands, put her feet on the treadle, and pedaled with all her might, so hard that the windows rattled. Half the loom fell to pieces; the reed hung there smashed on the frame, and the willow of the treadles flew clean off. She jumped up and looked for the scissors. Now her homespun should go! And into the fire with it, too! Every thread in it was spun with evil thoughts and ill will.

Where were the scissors? She looked for them in the table drawers and on the shelves, but she couldn’t find them; her old, black iron scissors. There was nothing in its place any longer. Had there been silver or gold in them, perhaps the crows and the ravens might have stolen them—but not steel.

Yes, yes! Down it should come! She couldn’t stand the sightp. 126 of it any longer. Wickedness and sin grew with it; for every stitch she wove, she wove a sinful thought into her life. If he wanted to stay at home because of his clothes, he would have to. If he wanted to be cold, he’d have to, too. She hadn’t asked to weave homespun for him. Rather, she would set up her loom for someone she didn’t know, a poor shivering beggar, than for—she wouldn’t mention his name.

Yes, yes! Down it was going to come! She threw herself over it. She tugged and tore at the warp, but it held. Not a thread gave way; they were strong, as if spun of iron. What did it mean? Had He who governs and disposes everything taken the strength from her hands? She tried to lift a chair. That obeyed her. And again she dug her fingers into the black yarn, but it held as before. Was there perhaps someone she couldn’t see who was making the threads strong, unbreakable? She became afraid. Ashamed and despondent, she sat down by the fireplace, her head in her hands. Now and then she glowered up at the homespun as at something horrid which was embittering her life. The loom took on a face; black as a stoker’s it was. Long, gaping teeth hung in its mouth.

“You bitch!” the loom said to her. “D’you want to kill him, you bitch?”

She nearly cried out at it, its face was so horrible. She looked around for a knife, so as to have something in her hands to defend herself with.

She must be going out of her mind. For a whole month she hadn’t slept, hadn’t closed her eyes. If she went to bed, the bed burnt like a red‐hot iron under her. She went to bed with shame and got up with even greater shame. When she got up in the morning she felt like striking herself in the face. “Fie, shame on you. Everything you do is lies and deceit!” Her heart was filled to the brim with hate and disgust. Her hands, which ought to have blessed, only cursed. She must be a lost soul, possessed by the Devil. And all of it came from her allowing herself to be tied to someone, who . . . Yes, what were the wicked faults she had to reproach him with?p. 127 None! She just wouldn’t live under the same roof with him. For nothing in the world! Who would she live under the same roof with, then? And to that question she couldn’t see that she owed anyone an answer.

Yes, to one! God! Him she dared not answer. He wouldn’t support her; for it would be against His will.

But then the sun came out. First it shone on the windowpane, and from there on to the loom. The ugly face of the reed of the loom, its black coal‐heaver face lighted up—now it smiled. And the threads became golden.

The sun! Was it God who, in His great and everlasting mercy, was sending her the sun to save her from this wickedness? Certainly it was God! He never sent darkness, but light. Never curses, but blessings. Never hate, but love. In His name she went back to the broken loom and began to tie thread to thread. It was a test of patience. And hour after hour passed; the clock on the church tower struck time and time again. She was tired and nearly fell asleep over the loom; but if she put her hand under her cheek, sleep fled.

Finally all the threads were tied together and a new reed put into the frame. Then she could do no more. Weak at the knees she crept away from the loom. And it was only then that she remembered it was Midsummer Eve. It was strange—why had she forgotten it? She, who every year had longed and waited so much for Midsummer Eve and had counted the days and the weeks to it, had this year forgotten it. But how could Midsummer Eve make her happy. It would certainly never bring joy to her any more. . . . Oh, well, since it was this very evening, she would follow the old custom all the same and decorate the place a bit; not so much for this evening, but so as to recall all the beautiful and happy Midsummer Eves of the past.

She went over to the green‐painted wall cupboard, which hung near the door, unlocked it, and carefully removed a small earthenware beaker. It wasn’t beautiful—but it was rare and very old. And everyone who had owned it had been afraid of it. Once upon a time it was supposed to have belongedp. 128 to a German they called Old Busby. His real name was Henrik Schlanbusch. It was only on Midsummer Eve they had the custom of getting it out and putting foliage of the birch tree in it. And then it was put in the window and remained there until the leaves faded. In days gone by people had watched the leaves in the earthware beaker. If they stayed green for a long time, it was a good sign. It prophesied luck and good fortune for the whole of the coming year. If the leaves withered quickly it prophesied misfortune and sorrow. Thus the tiny birch twigs in the old German earthenware beaker constantly received replacements of the fresh cold water. When they finally withered, be it early or late, the beaker was once again locked away in the green‐painted wall cupboard.

Yes, that had been the custom, generation after generation. And the custom had been carefully followed.

And, as she stood there holding this rough earthenware beaker in her hand, two men passed by the window and took the road to the north.

The man who passed last turned round and looked in as he did so. She nearly dropped the earthenware beaker onto the floor. And she felt her heart beat. Her heart, which a long time ago had stopped beating—so she thought—beat again so she heard it.

And as in a dream she poured water into the little earthenware beaker. She went on pouring so that it ran over onto the floor—for she scarcely knew what she was doing. And then she ran out and broke a twig from a young birch tree. Poor young birch, which must lose its twigs and die of it! She put the twigs into the earthenware beaker.

Might it now be that these twigs never withered and their leaves never turned black!

The sun, the blessed sun, now shone in through both doors and windows. And it shone into her mind too.

She began to sweep the floor and scour the tables and benches with sand. Yes, it was Midsummer Eve. And shouldn’t one then decorate, wash, and make everything beautiful thisp. 129 evening? The most beautiful evening of the whole year! She whitened round the fireplace with freshly ground chalk. And now the two who had just passed were completely out of her thoughts. She tied an apron round her and ran up to the hill to the juniper thicket and stripped green juniper; she strewed it on the floor and on the hearth and on the steps up to the door. She washed her face and combed her hair. And she hadn’t a thought for those two now either. She fetched her Sunday clothes from the hallway and put them on—they had now become far too big and roomy for her. Then she stood there for a while, dressed in her Sunday best and in her pearl bonnet, looking about her. The loom stood there, complete and ready for use, with a new reed. Anybody could come and sit down at it and weave. The room was clean and tidy; the cobwebs had been swept out of all the corners. The fireplace stood there shining bright in its snow‐white attire. And the floor was clean and white under the green juniper twigs. Anyone who came in now would, without doubt, think it pretty and cosy. Now she would go out. And she wouldn’t lock the door. Anyone who came . . . Yes, there would be no need for them to lose their tempers and kick the door to pieces or take out the windows to get in. And if thieves came they were welcome to steal anything they needed. They might also take that old German earthenware beaker, but what would they do with it? Perhaps they would try to break open the cupboards and the writing desks and steal the silver spoons and the beakers—but they were not hers and never would be. No, they belonged to a stranger who lived here. It was no concern of hers to stand guard over someone else’s property. Not even the cottage was hers. That, too, belonged to the stranger. So she might as well go.

From the new‐timbered cottage she made her way down towards the upper churchyard.

The stones on the way lay there so white and clean. And the light in the air was white and shining. There was no smokep. 130 from the smeltery now. On both sides of the road the flowers stood there still growing and becoming deeper and richer in color for every day that passed—those which were pink yesterday were today red as blood—and those which were pale blue this morning were a]ready dark blue this evening. Everything here had to hurry and grow in the short summer . . . Yes, for otherwise they wouldn’t be ready to die when the autumn came, would they? A wren flew the whole time in front of her, chattering and flicking its tail. What did it want? One would rather not have a bird for company. Otherwise, she didn’t care who went along with her. Even if it was snakes, it was the same to her.

And then she climbed over the stone fence into the churchyard, and walked slowly over the dry sand from grave to grave, reading the names, both of those she had known and those she hadn’t known, which were inscribed on the sun‐baked flagstones—but she didn’t think there was anything sad in all these people being dead. Even though she well knew that every grain of sand she trod on here had been watered by salt tears, it was a matter of indifference to her now. And those who had stood here and wept, they were dead too. And she had read all the inscriptions so many times that she knew them by heart.

At the edge of the terrace she stopped for a long time by a grave with a big rusty iron cross over it.

Rest here wanderer thy foot so sore, Here by Death’s shadowy shore,

she read. She had read these lines many times before, too. And as soon as she neared this grave she had always wept bitterly. Now she stood there with dry eyes and stared at the iron cross. It was terrible to stand here by this grave without being able to weep. She had been in the habit, after she had wept, of sitting on the grave and remembering everything that had been good and beautiful. Today she could find neither rest nor peace. She must leave. But where should she go? Did shep. 131 herself know? If it came to that, did anybody know where they were going?

She went now down the stone steps to the lower churchyard. She was carrying a heavy burden which was trying to force her down on to her knees. What sort of burden could it be? She carried nothing on her back and nothing in her hands.

Yes, the heavy burden was the tears she could not weep at the grave up there and which she had to carry down here with her again.

Down in the lower churchyard she stopped at only one grave, and read, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

She sighed heavily and walked along the wall of the church and out into the street. Supposing she now went down the street to Gunna Gate? No, she had nothing to do down there, either. The street was almost empty of people. She saw no one other than Mrs. Sigismund down by the German house. She recognized her by her cough. It sounded hollow and unpleasant between the walls in the quiet street, and in the hot air.

The sick lady certainly didn’t flourish here in Bergstaden. And Pastor Sigismund had recently said to Ol‐Kanelesa that his wife’s days might soon be numbered.

Everyone had his or her cross to bear. She couldn’t help feeling very sorry for the lady. And then Mrs. Sigismund went in through the gate of the German house. And Litj Street was quite empty of people.

She, who was standing up there, turned about and began to go up the street towards Mount Remmers. And it was so quiet that her steps echoed on the flagstones between the sun‐baked and smoke‐blackened walls. She saw herself the whole time in the black windows on both sides of the street—it was as if the two of them were accompanying her, footstep by footstep, one on each side. They moved like ghosts inside the windows—over the floors in there and through the walls and the locked doors. And they had her figure, her clothes, and her face, those two. For a while this ghostly company occupiedp. 132 her thoughts. Perhaps she, herself, was fey? She thought about it coldly and calmly. If she died now she, too, would no doubt get an iron cross. He who had fashioned the two iron crosses up there would no doubt fashion a third, too. She would ask him also to put on her cross, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

Then her thoughts moved from death to Mrs. Kathryn Sigismund. Every time she had seen the sick woman, with her pale suffering face and her large staring eyes, she had felt for a long while afterwards something she resented. Was it the woman’s sick and unsympathetic appearance which did it? It could scarcely be anything else. She had never spoken to her. Nor had she ever had anything to do with her.

Up at Mount Remmers she met a mountain Lapp, who came leading a Lapp girl by a rose‐patterned silk scarf which was tied round her neck. The girl, who was being led like a dog on a chain, smiled and laughed and was very pleased with herself.

Midsummer Eve was, of course, the day when the Lapps got married in Bergstaden. The mountain plover and the cuckoo sang and called, and now turned the mountain into a festive bridal hall. And when the bird cherry blossomed between the snowdrifts, bridal garlands were also blossoming.

“Have you seen our pastor?” the Lapp called out in broken Norwegian. “We’re going to get married on Sunday.”

“He’s living down at Leich’s,” she replied hurriedly.

“Is he handsome, the pastor?” the girl asked.

She, the other, turned bright red. What could she say to that?

“Certainly he’s handsome.”

The two Lapps turned round and laughed happily after her. And the man shouted out:

“Will you be our bridesmaid?”

She pretended she hadn’t heard the Lapp’s shout and walked quickly up the hill. To see those two so happy, that was also like seeing something evil—something which cut her to the quick.

p. 133

Now she was once again back at the new‐timbered cottage. It hadn’t been her intention to come back here. Carefully, as if she was afraid of waking somebody who lay there sleeping, she crept on her toes up the steps, pushed open the door quietly, and peeped in. There was nobody there. Everything was as she had left it a little while ago. The loom stood there as before. The earthenware beaker with the twigs in it stood there looking so poverty‐stricken and alone. Nobody had been in and trod on the green juniper or sat in the chairs. The fly which was buzzing in the window was still buzzing at the same pane. As carefully as she had come in, she went out again. She closed the door carefully after her—still as if she was afraid of waking somebody who was asleep. Then she jumped down the steps—as though she hadn’t time to take the steps one by one. And she started to run down the main road. She made her way north. She was in a hurry. What was it that was so pressing? Even she didn’t know. Was she going to meet anybody? She could find no answer. She simply had to go on walking—walking! walking! walking! as far as the road went, walking into all eternity! She must never again think of going back to that cottage.

At Gubstenen she turned off onto the cattle tracks up towards Voln. Now the sun was shining obliquely down over the snowdrifts in the west. At Voln she found the remains of a fire which had recently been left. The heather and the blades of grass had not yet raised themselves up again after the people who had been sitting there. She got down on her knees and blew on the dying embers, put some dried leaves and twigs on them, and got them to burn.

Now she was once again a little girl herding the cows, warming her red, frozen fingers, drying her wet, ragged clothes, and shaking embers in her worn‐out shoes. Now the ancient church bell at Arvedal was ringing in the new shift. Now the moon was rising over the church roof in Bergstaden and shone on the great clock face with its long hand. . . . It was good to sit here for a soul which had gone astray and to imagine that all dreams were real and all reality dreams. Itp. 134 was good for an outcast to sit here and feel God’s peace over her soul. Here could the sleepless sleep. Here could the tired and weary find rest.

. . . Blessed sleep! Blessed mountain plover who was singing her to sleep! She had heard it almost the whole time through her sleep; now close to her, now further away, and then close beside her again.

The sun had gone down a long time ago, but its rays were still in the air, in the clouds. The fire had gone out, there was just a slight smell of acrid smoke from burnt earth, moss, and heather.

What was that? Through the air came a heavy echoing sound; the church bell at Arvedal? Was it a fire or flood? Or mobilization? She climbed up onto a stone so as to be able to hear better and see further. It certainly wasn’t a fire. She could see no flames. And it could hardly be a flood, now that the waters had subsided. Then it must be war, the enemy! The small church bell from Zealand must be warning the Mine Corps that they must turn out, every man of them. She knew them all in the Corps, both the men and the officers. She had danced with nearly all of them on her wedding night.

Yes, she had danced in a delirium that night. She thought quite calmly about all the miners who must now go out to fight and die. Coolly and calmly she thought of that which others thought of fearfully and tearfully. She, who now ought to have thrown herself down on her knees on the hard rock and prayed for one of them . . .

Yes, she would have paid with years and days of her life if she, too, could have stood here, her knees trembling with fear.

After a while she followed the cattle tracks further in towards Voln.

David Finne, foreman and corporal, came riding southwards along the road to Bergstaden. He was riding bareback on an old nag he had borrowedp. 135 from a prospector of the 9th Company. At the Nyplads bridges he rode past the pastor and Ol‐Kanelesa who were both on foot. He saluted the pastor, as was required by the regulations, but he wouldn’t even look at Ol‐Kanelesa, that gossip‐monger! The corporal was not in a very happy state of mind as he sat there and was bumped along astride the sharp back of his horse on that bright summer night. The terror of what had happened to the wheelminders still pierced him like the cold point of a spear. And the blame for that misfortune would no doubt finally rest at his door, the foreman’s. And yet! David Finne was thinking of things which were worse to think of than that. He was thinking of Gunhild. A witch and a calamity as a wife, she was. Now he wasn’t going to put up any more with being treated as a stranger in his own home. If they shared the same table, then they’d sit on the same chair too! His patience had long since been exhausted. Before the sun came up he would have had it out with Gunhild. And then she could go to the pastor and complain as much as she liked. Anyway, he didn’t want to hear talk of the pastor after today. . . . He was long since tired of hearing how fine and handsome a man Sigismund was. . . . He dug both hands into the mane of the horse and put it into a gallop with his long iron‐pointed miner’s stick. There was a slopping sound from the horse’s belly and its shoes rattled, “Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! Clack! Clack! Clack!” He rode at such a pace that gravel and pebbles hailed around his ears.

When he got home he threw himself off the back of the horse and ran up the steps of the door. It was ajar and he kicked it wide open.

“Gunhild!” he shouted. “Are you at home, Gunhild?”

He didn’t get any answer. He remained standing there for a while in the middle of the room looking around. So Gunhild was out somewhere. No, she wouldn’t sit at home on Midsummer Eve, the witch. Oh, what a bitch! He picked up his miner’s stick and ran it through the weave so that the threads sprayed out. “Weave yourself!” He kicked wildly at the green juniper twigs with his knee boots. “Rubbish!” Then he caughtp. 136 sight of the old German earthenware beaker standing on the window sill. He hissed an oath at it, and took and threw it into the fireplace. And then he sank down heavily onto the seat of the damaged loom and rested his head in his hands. His wrath and bitterness were spent. And now tears came. They had to come out, too.

At dawn David Finne rode off again northwards on his skinny, limping nag. He was a marked man.

And a quarter of an hour later Gunhild came into the cottage. Her clothes were wet and her shoes were full of sand and gravel. The night dew glittered in her black, uncombed hair.

She had stood up above the road and had seen David both come and go. And she had also seen Benjamin Sigismund and her uncle Ol‐Kanelesa trudge past. She almost called out to them—but her tongue had refused to speak.

She went over to the fireplace. There she found the earthenware beaker smashed. And the leafy twigs which lay on the hearth beside it—they were black.