Part 11 (1/2)
To-day I inspected my linen cupboard with all the care of the lady superior of an aristocratic convent. I delighted in the spectacle of the snowy-white piles, and counted it all. I am careful with my money, and yet I like to have great supplies in the house. The more bottles, cases, and bags I see in the larder, the better pleased I am. In that respect Torp and I are agreed. If we were cut off from the outer world by flood, or an earthquake, we could hold out for a considerable time.
If I had more sensibility, and a little imagination--even as much as Torp, who makes verses with the help of her hymn-book--I think I should turn my attention to literature. Women like to wade in their memories as one wades through dry leaves in autumn. I believe I should be very clever in opening a series of whited sepulchres, and, without betraying any personalities, I should collect my exhumed mummies under the general t.i.tle of, ”Woman at the Dangerous Age.” But besides imagination, I lack the necessary perseverance to occupy myself for long together with other people's affairs.
We most of us sail under a false flag; but it is necessary. If we were intended to be as transparent as gla.s.s, why were we born with our thoughts concealed?
If we ventured to show ourselves as we really are, we should be either hermits, each dwelling on his own mountain-top, or criminals down in the valleys.
Torp has gone to evening service. Angelic creature! She has taken a lantern with her, therefore we shall probably not see her again before midnight. In consequence of her religious enthusiasm, we dined at breakfast-time. Yes, Torp knows how to grease the wheels of her existence!
Naturally she is about as likely to attend church as I am. Her vespers will be read by one of the sailors whose s.h.i.+p has been laid up near here for the winter. Peace be with her--but I am dreadfully bored.
I have a bitter feeling as though Jeanne and I were doing penance, each in a dark corner of our respective quarters. The Sundays of my childhood were not worse than this.
In the distance a cracked, tinkling bell ”tolls the knell of parting day.” Jeanne and I are depressed by it. I have taken up a dozen different occupations and dropped them all.
If it were only summer! I am oppressed as though I were sitting in a close bower of jasmine; but we are in mid-winter, and I have not used a drop of scent for months.
But, after all, Sundays were no better in the Old Market Place. There I had Richard from morning till night. To be bored alone is bad; to be bored in the society of one other person is much worse. And to think that Richard never even noticed it! His incessant talk reminded me of a mill-wheel, and I felt as though all the flour was blowing into my eyes.
I will take a brisk const.i.tutional.
What is the matter with me? I am so nervous that I can scarcely hold my pen. I have never seen a fog come on so suddenly; I thought I should never find my way back to the house. It is so thick I can hardly see the nearest trees. It has got into the room, and seems to be hanging from the ceiling. I am damp through and through.
The fire has gone out, and I am freezing. It is my own fault; I ought to have rung for Jeanne, or put on some logs myself, but I could not summon up resolution even for that.
What has become of Torp, that she is staying out half the day? How will she ever find her way home? With twenty lanterns it would be impossible to see ten yards ahead of one. My lamp burns as though water was mixed with the oil.
Overhead I hear Jeanne pacing up and down. I hear her, although she walks so lightly. She too is restless and upset. We have a kind of influence on each other, I have noticed it before.
If only she would come down of her own accord. At least there would be two of us.
I feel the same cold s.h.i.+vers down my back that I remember feeling long ago, when my nurse induced me to go into a churchyard. I thought I saw all the dead coming out of their graves. That was a foggy evening, too.
How strange it is that such far-off things return so clearly to the mind.
The trees are quite motionless, as though they were listening for something. What do they hear? There is not a soul here--only Jeanne and myself.
Another time I shall forbid Torp to make these excursions. If she must go to church, she shall go in the morning.
It is very uncanny living here all alone in the forest, without a watch-dog, or a man near at hand. One is at the mercy of any pa.s.serby.
For instance, the other day, some tipsy sailors came and tried the handle of the front-door.... But then, I was not in the least frightened; I even inspired Torp with courage.