The First Winter Night

The winter was at hand.

Spring with its white nights, its clear light of day in the north—the light one could read one’s prayer book and book of homilies by when the clock in the church tower struck twelve midnight—this had now become a dream, a beautiful memory. And Midsummerp. 164 Eve, with its flowering bird cherry—the tree which in our mountains blossoms snow and shining stars of ice—had become a memory of paradise. And the summer with its flowers, gold and red and blue over all the fields and round the tarns and lakes, that, too, was buried with the memories of the sun.

To none had it been vouchsafed by right that they would live to see a new spring and a new summer. The winters were so long, so cold and hard. The cold, in which one could mint thin two‐shilling pieces of quicksilver, that was the breath of Death itself. And so the gravedigger had dug a big grave in the upper churchyard, a common sleeping chamber for the dead of the common people. Here they would sleep with hands folded, side by side, free of all fear of the sheriff and starvation.

Their bread! May the Lord bless it, such as it was! Now it was baked of bark and moss, watered with salt tears and baked on the embers in the grey dawn. It filled no one any longer. Bark was short, too. Even the God‐fearing man was now driven into his neighbor’s forests on dark nights, and flayed his twisted dwarf birch with long knives. A few rotten bones in a bag was a gift. And God’s blessing was called down over a handful of corn. The ore in the mines, that golden rock which for two centuries had provided the miners with food, sank in value—there was war, too, in all the lands, it was the sword and not the busy and peaceful hoe which humanity had in its hands.

In the mountains and in the narrow valleys people prepared for winter. They were like the bear who dug his way in under the giant roots of the pine tree, or sought refuge in mountain caves which had served as winter lairs from time immemorial—in short, people now prepared for hibernation. Houses were made tight with moss. Enormous birch trunks with branches on were raised up against the north wall of the dwelling house, cowbarn, and stable, so that they could act as a snow‐guard and be a protection against the many winter storms. Peat and hay were carted in and placed under a roof. And then the winter could come! Women and children now had to sleepp. 165 much and eat little. On the other hand, both horse and man had to be prepared to be more active and hardworking, and be chilled to the marrow transporting charcoal and ore over the long distances. And for many a man and many a horse this winter would probably be their last. Those who had frozen much usually suffered different fates when the spring came. Pneumonia came treacherously with the sudden change in the weather. And then one light night, when the ptarmigan was cackling outside the window and the grouse was calling up on the hillside, Death came stealthily—relatives might catch a glimpse of him moving over the floor. Then the prayer book was brought out and a prayer said for the sick and the dying. And a hymn was sung with tearful voice. God himself, who had placed this hardworking and conscientious man in his humble and poverty‐stricken station in life so that he had had little or no time to think about the next world, now brought him an assurance of eternal blessedness through the death of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

And the horse, the man’s faithful comrade during snowstorms and the hard cold, couldn’t stand the abrupt change to good weather either. It stood in the stable, getting thinner on its short spring rations. Its shoulder blades were broken down from the hard wooden collar, its hooves cracked from the rough nails; and then the strangles came with pain in the breast. And then one evening a neighbor came with a loaded flintlock rifle. He was silent and serious. He hid the rifle quietly behind the cow‐barn door. And very patiently he managed to entice the sick animal out of its stable and behind a wall. Yes, things moved slowly through the stable door and the gateway. There wasn’t exactly any hurry. He said “gee‐up” and pulled the reins gently, cajoled him and made encouraging noises.

Meanwhile the children looked with tearful faces from behind the green window panes—now Brownie was to be shot. And Mother sat on a stool near the fire, holding her hands over both her ears, so as not to hear the rifle shot. Finally, Brownie had reached the back of the cow‐barn wall. Thep. 166 neighbor went back and fetched his gun. He crept up on tiptoe round the corner. Then he took aim on the corner and shot. Brownie, who had drawn many a heavy load of charcoal and ore, had to be spared the terror of death—that was simple Christian duty. But the fatherless little ones behind the lattice windows had got another memory to take out into life with them. A memory which later tortured them many a time in their dreams, and brought tears to their eyes long after they had grown up and had wrinkled cheeks.

Well! Things didn’t need to be as bad as that. The winter was long. But spring could come too, with nothing but joy and delight for old and young, for horse and cow, and small lambs too—they, who would come into the world around Candlemas. There could be no doubt, God nevertheless arranged everything for the best, one could be sure of that.

The winter brought great dangers. Many rotting crosses with rusty nails in their decaying nameboards bore witness to that, as they stood there, lopsided in their moss‐grown heaps of stone. Here, people had frozen to death. Nevertheless, these lopsided crosses in the mountains had none of the eeriness of graveyard crosses. On the contrary. Here were hawks and falcons. Here the south wind and the north wind played their melodies in turn on the little grey sliver of wood; it sounded like the stroke of a bow on a single string. And the hawk and the falcon sat hour after hour in the mist and the rain on this decaying piece of wood, listening to its music—for it was the most glorious music in the world, it went straight to their hearts. And they, too, had a heart, a serious heart, these far‐seeing birds of prey.

The miner, who penetrated deeper and deeper into the mountain searching for the golden rock, feared the long winter least of all, although there were few who faced so many dangers as he did. A block of stone could become loose in the vault above him, crush his torch and his smoky train‐oil lamp, and end his life. And, unbelievable though it may sound, even worse things could happen to him: a premature explosion could tear out his eyes and cast him through the gateway intop. 167 eternal and never changing darkness. Gunpowder was of the Devil. Full as it was of wrath, it caused nothing but misfortune, whether it was in the barrel of a shotgun or in a bore hole. It was better in the days of the crossbow and when the rock was split by fire. But that was now so long ago, that there were only legends left of that day and age; legends which were told at intervals of years in front of the fire in the miners’ huts when the driving snow and the north wind raged.

Also at the manse in Bergstaden preparations were being made for winter. For several days Ol‐Kanelesa had been stuffing moss between the window frames and the timber walls, and he had re‐covered large areas of the roof with turf and flat stones. And he had planed the living room floor, which had become uneven through wear, dancing, and sand scouring, and had put new wooden nails into the decayed beams.

Benjamin Sigismund, who had never had a tool in his hand, understood little about house repairs. He sat for half a day at a time in a chair and watched, thoughtful but not particularly interested; but he imagined, nevertheless, that he was in charge of the work and made sure that everything was done as it should be. If he passed any remarks, and as the master builder he was obliged to do so, they were usually quite nonsensical. And it often delayed Ol‐Kanelesa for a long time to dissuade him from his senseless ideas.

Otherwise, Ol‐Kanelesa didn’t say very much when he was working. He had been trained to hold his tongue when he was working with an axe, a saw, or a hammer. People who talked a lot about everything under the sun during their working hours got nothing done. They were drivelling idiots. Thus he would often be very short with the pastor. But at the end of the day over his plate of porridge and bowl of milk he was all the more animated. And then the two of them discussed difficult matters and subjects with great knowledge and insight. And Kathryn, who now and then came in to listen, was more astonished than ever that an uneducated man possessed sop. 168 much learning. But she still couldn’t understand it that Benjamin sat there and addressed the sacristan with such respect—she must say, it was too much of a good thing. Yes, even if Ole Korneliusen was the worthiest of men. Her father would never have done it.

“Listen to me, Ole Korneliusen,” the pastor said one evening. “This winter you must take up your schoolteaching again.”

But Ol‐Kanelesa shook his head sorrowfully. He didn’t want to hear with that ear. No, he wouldn’t, not for anything in the world would he be a schoolmaster. He was a blacksmith. Really, he was nothing at all. But in any case he felt happiest in his smithy.

“I have heard that you were very capable.”

“You shouldn’t listen to what people say. Our friends praise us, our enemies blame us. That’s the way things are.”

“Did you not like your work in the school?”

“I would have said so, then—but that was before I got the poison in me, your Reverence.”

“Poison?” Benjamin Sigismund exclaimed, astonished. “Have you ever drunk poison?”

“We all drink poison. And then we begin to die of it, internally, bit by bit.”

“What sort of poison do you mean?”

“That poison the world brews for the lot of us. Some stand less, some more of it.”

“Wickedness, you mean?”

“We can well call that poison. That grinds us down at the finish, too.”

“Perhaps you mean lies, backbiting, and cruel words?”

“They’re the worst killers. A proper devil’s brew. There is nothing that kills quicker than that. It’s just a pity that we carry on giving it to each other, as hard as we can.”

“You are right, Ole! You are right! So it is no good talking about your schoolwork?”

“Hm. No. In any case, I’ve a sort of school down in the smithy, I have.”

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“You run a school in your smithy?”

“No, I’m the pupil. I learn from them I shoe horses for—the charcoal carrier and the wagoner. They’ve thought about a lot of things, them that go for loads year in and year out—a lot of things I haven’t thought about before, and which you won’t find in books and in the Scriptures.”

“I understand. That’s what is called the school of life, Ole Korneliusen. Tell me, what is it you most learn down there?”

“Mostly what I learn is, at the bottom, what the Master taught us: Judge not!”

“You are a great disciple, Ole. Let me shake your hand.”

Kathryn had sat listening to this conversation and the next day she decided that she must address Ol‐Kanelesa as an equal. It seemed to her that she must do so, since he was both a righteous and a well‐read man, and since Benjamin had done so for a long time now, although it was scarcely quite proper.

After the party at Director Knoph’s she had felt much better, and had been brighter and more light‐hearted than before. And now members of the gentry began to visit her. The two Misses Bjørnstrup came every day. They were very interested in her embroidery work and praised it. Her designs were among the most beautiful they had seen. They took some of the patterns home to try for themselves. When they didn’t turn out as they had hoped, they sought advice and guidance from Kathryn. The French patterns were especially difficult, but then they were so graceful. And when Kathryn could get somebody to look after the children, she visited the Bjørnstrups too. They sat round an old, sand‐scoured table in the center parlor, where a lot of maps of mines and their underground passages, and sketches of German smelting works were hung up on the walls. They drank tea from large blue cups. The Bjørnstrups were well known for their tea—regularly, every spring and autumn, they received a small consignment direct from Amsterdam. They had a brother‐in‐law down there who was both a rope‐maker and a big business man; he too was called Bjørnstrup, Georg Abraham Bjørnstrup. Eyebrows were raised in the family when it turned out that thep. 170 pastor’s wife had not heard his name before; but they were, of course, tactful enough not to let her see it. Mrs. Sigismund had, it was true, been married so young and, otherwise, had not had much chance to become acquainted with such things, so by and large it was both understandable and excusable. Yes, they were delightful people. Mr. Bjørnstrup could also, every now and again, sit down at the sand‐scoured tea table and smoke a pipe and be particularly entertaining and gallant. And that was almost more than one could reasonably expect of a man in his position and with his great responsibility. The number of his subordinates grew continually. Nevertheless, he contemplated the future of the Works with great misgivings. Especially the future of the forests which the Works owned. They declined continually.

Kathryn could at times be in great spirits. Her chest trouble improved the whole time. She didn’t cough anything like as much now as formerly. Also at home she was more settled and could be friendly and jocular.

“Benjamin!” she could exclaim. “Before the year is out I shall certainly be quite well. There’s little chance of your getting rid of me during the next two hundred years. Aren’t you delighted?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“Perhaps I shall also live to see you a bishop, Benjamin?”

“Yes, let us indeed hope so, Kathryn.”

“Bishop Benjamin Sigismund!” she said, and beamed with happiness at the thought. “And then we’ll move from here, Benjamin. Oh, what a glorious day, when we pack our trunks. If it would only happen in the autumn. An autumn day like today. Next autumn? A year today?”

“Why especially an autumn day?”

“Yes, then we will be able to follow the sun and the summer and the migratory birds on their way south. A part of the way, at all events. Oh, we’re living in exile up here, I feel it so acutely when my malaise at living here is at its worst. Then it sometimes feels as if my soul is tearing itself awayp. 171 from my body and is fleeing . . . Have you ever felt that, Benjamin?”

“No. Well, maybe to begin with, but not now any longer. Time, which never pauses, cures excessive feelings of that sort.”

“What! You are surely not thinking that we shall remain here in this wilderness?”

Her heart quivered with fear. She stared horrified at her husband.

“Well, there’s no bishop’s palace up here.”

He looked up at her gaily, it was a somewhat affected gaiety.

“You must be clever, Benjamin, and hurry and become a bishop. Yes, you will, won’t you?”

“As quickly as possible, my dear.”

Benjamin Sigismund was grateful to her, in spite of everything, for believing in him. She had not always done so. No, on the contrary, hardly ever. Also, he had often been disappointed at her indifference to his career. He felt that he had the ability to become a bishop.

She could read in his face that he, too, meant it seriously. Benjamin was a very ambitious man, she knew that. And her fear disappeared as quickly as it had come. There were many things she had to talk to him about now. She began with the children.

“Laurentius is making great progress with his German, Benjamin. He takes after you.”

Yes, that was something Benjamin Sigismund liked very much to hear. He sat up in his chair and nodded approvingly.

“And you’re teaching him French and Latin, Benjamin?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But to change the subject: don’t you think you could come in with me and the children? We can quite well sleep in the same room, now that I am so well. And then we could use this room exclusively as your study and sitting room.”

He sat there, fanning himself under the nose with his largep. 172 quill pen. He sat and thought—that is, he didn’t think. He just felt a need to be alone. Alone with himself and his work and his thoughts. And with—no, he put that thought out of his head. He hadn’t seen Gunhild since the party at Knoph’s. Yes, he had seen her once. It was up at the churchyard, where he had met her for the first time; but when she caught sight of him, she turned and disappeared down an alley. Besides, she was another’s. And he was another’s too. And it was incompatible with the Word of God. What had happened in the late night hour at Knoph’s must not happen again. Ein Mal ist Kein Mal.1 For both of them the command was, Go and sin no more. He would never offer it a single thought again. And far less her, this woman of the people. He continued to fan himself under the nose with his quill pen.

Kathryn cleared her throat. She was waiting for an answer. And again she looked up almost anxiously at her husband.

“Well, what do you think about it, Benjamin?”

“We must give the matter further consideration. My new book demands peace. And first and foremost an undisturbed night’s sleep.”

“Well, then we won’t say any more about it for the present.”

Benjamin Sigismund was now fully occupied with his new book. But he couldn’t make any real headway with it. And he found it difficult and tiresome to become absorbed in his material. In the first place, the small library he had at his disposal gave him little or no help, and secondly, he lacked a clear inner vision. He lacked, too, Christian zeal. The light of his spirit which before had burned so clearly had now, somehow or other, been put under a bushel. Well! He would strive seriously to put it up on a candlestick, so that it gave light to all that were in the house. He would call for fire from above, from Sinai itself! His prayers, too, had lost their power, their aspiring strength. He must, in full seriousness, knock on the gates of prayer, which now were closed and locked to him. Had he lost his good companion, the Master? In this, too, he resembled Simon Peter; and yet Simon was the greatest of thep. 173 twelve. Wasn’t it precisely Peter’s mistakes and errors which revealed the most powerful traits of his character? Simon Peter’s earthly progress was now wavering, from one side of the road to the other, now measured and certain of its direction, and now again prostrate with his face pressed down in the cold, wet gravel of the way. And then, once again, quickly forward on sore and bloody feet, sure in the knowledge that the Lord went ahead. He was the great example of the only way humanity could attain to the everlasting life.

And he, Benjamin Sigismund, was no exception. He always felt himself clad in the worn coat of Peter. He was also girded about with the great disciple’s spiritual sword; the Lord God had ordered him to put the sword of iron and steel into its sheath for all eternity.

He fell on his knees beside his desk and prayed, fervently. Like Jacob of old he had to wrestle with God. And like Jacob he rose up blessed. Now all was transfigured. The gates, the gates of prayer, were once again open. He still saw himself as Peter, but even more wavering, even more tired and weary.

Already tomorrow he would carry out his plan of visiting the sick and the suffering, the cast down and the poor, and bring them the glad tidings. He would resolutely continue to do so from day to day, until it pleased his Lord to call him from the fields, in from the great vineyard, down from the walls of Solomon’s temple to give an account of his day’s work. And then might his Lord say: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” He must be zealous. Far too many hours had been wasted of the precious days of his life. Supposing he had already entered upon the eleventh hour? A feeling of dread possessed him at the thought of that and of everything he had neglected. All the great things, even if they were small in the eyes of God, he had dreamt of doing, were still undone.

The whole of that night he sat working at his new book. He covered a great number of pages. Words stormed down on him. Images welled forth. . . . He felt it as one of the really great moments, with the furnace full of fire and flames. He must strike while all the irons were in a glow of light,p. 174 while they glowed white‐hot and had the sun’s, God’s own, shining light in them. Oh, never before had his spirit streamed so powerfully from him—that which alone could mold a beautiful and perfect form.

That night the winter came. It came from the north; first with snow which shone like flying hoar‐frost in the clear silver light of the full moon. And then the snow began to cover all the black earth‐roofs of the houses; it covered the brown, tarred roof of the church, too, right up to and above the windows in the tower. The cherub on the spire had a white garment thrown over its thin shoulders and over its trumpet; a garment adorned with snow stars and ice diamonds. Over the graves, white sheets with pale silken fringes were spread—the crosses, both the rotten ones, with only a few awkward initials on them, and those with an elaborate and expensive inscription on them, received garlands of large white roses. The two churchyards, which neither spring nor summer could embellish with a wild flower or a blade of green grass, were changed by the snow into fairy paradise gardens. Down the streets white, soft carpets were unrolled. A white cloth was laid on the high stone steps leading up to the doorways. They looked like white‐clad altars, these old, rough granite steps. And the footprints in the new snow of both people and horses were wiped out at once—the first winter night would have none of that; nothing living and sinful must set foot on this shrine. And the town lay there white, beautiful and shining.

Benjamin Sigismund looked out through the little lattice window. And the sight which met him: it was a new town, conjured forth as if by magic, supernatural in its brilliance.

He tiptoed into the bedroom. Kathryn, too, must see this new town. But Kathryn slept deep and soundly. Her breathing had once again become slow and regular. Neither had she any longer the red, flushed roses on her cheeks. Had an angel laid his hand on her? Angels could do that at the command of the Lord, couldn’t they? She, who had been marked out for death, lay there hale and hearty.

He went quietly out again without waking her. And hep. 175 didn’t reproach her any more for sleeping too much. He saw it differently now. Sleep, peaceful, dreamless sleep, stood guard over one’s health—although Mother Sleep was the half‐sister of Death, and blind and white as she.

He stood once again at the window. And he felt painfully alone. Alone, as Adam was in the Garden of Eden on the first night. Here, no one stood beside him with a pounding heart. No hot breath touched his cheek. No arm rested heavily on his. No soul beside his soul was mirrored in this glass.

He thought only of one; of Gunhild! If she with her spontaneous spirit had stood here, would she not have absorbed this fairy vision with all her acute senses? She would have delighted in it, as a child delights in pretty decorations. For in this white enchantment there was something matching her own beauty.

His thoughts of Gunhild blended with thoughts of his own beautiful mother. And at the memory of her Benjamin Sigismund felt, as always, a light being lit in himself. Her memory was the light which shone on everything beautiful, everything wondrous, he saw. She was herself the most beautiful of all the earthly lights.

What was that? He leaned over his desk and pressed his face up against the window pane. He heard trumpets in the air. He heard drums and kettle drums. He heard the whistle of the flute. All the white on the roofs, on the steps, on the streets, and on the graves was torn away. Hands, feverish hands, grey, shadowy hands tore it off and threw it against the walls, the doors and windows.

It was the north wind which had come, the north wind and the long eight months of winter. Would it be granted to him to see the light nights and the long sunny days again?

A cold terror, a grey serpent, came and crept into his heart. And the serpent and the terror said:

“God, the All Highest, disposes in that.”

Sigismund lit a fresh tallow candle and continued writing his new book.

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1. Once is not always.

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