!Ill MIBBII81 Fill!

by Piir Lagerkvist
Andre Gidc wrote, "It is the measure
of Lagerkvist's success that he has
managed so admirably to maintain his
balance on a tightrope which stretches
between the world of reality and the
world of faith."
This collection, containing many of
the stories Lagerkvist has written over
more than thirty years, shows the deep
seriousness and astonishing versatility
of his imagination. From the title
story, exquisitely tender in its vision of
love lighting up the commonplace, to
the searing satire of "The Children's
Campaign"; from near-autobiographi­
cal narration in "Father and I" to dis­
quieting fantasy in "The Lift That
Went Down into Hell"-what a range
of imagination we get, and what spiri­
tual tension! Lagerkvist admits no set­
tled frontiers between fact and fable;
in this he is a poet, for whom fantasy
permeates the actual and "reality" can
take on the dimensions of the fabulous.
Life is, to him, a system of dark para­
doxes; but there is also the good-"a
quiet, everyday radiance that man­
kind always had difficulty noticing and
setting a value on."
American readers who have recog­
nized Lagerkvist's genius in Barabbas,
The Dwarf, and The Eternal Smile

(continued on back flap)

 ( calllf.U.ued from front flap )

V(ill find it amply confirmed by this

book; it c_ontains, we believe, the finest
w ork of one who is both storyteller and
seer.
Stories translated by Alan Blair;
"On the Scales of Osiris" translated by
Car] Eric Lindin.

Iacket design by Milton Glaser

HILL AND WANG

. 19 UNION SQUARE WEST
NEW YORK 10003
The Marriage Feast
-

Par Lagerkvist

lim HILLANDWANG NEWYORK

A division of Farrar) Straus and Giroux

 Copyright 1954 by Albert Bonniers 1-'ijrJag
AII rights reserved
Library of Congress catalog card number: 73-75187
ISBN (Clothbound Edition): o-8ogo-6786-2
ISBN (Paperbound Edition): o-8ogo-1372-X
Manufactured in the United States of America
 NOTE
*

All the stories in this volume have been

translated by Alan Blair, with the following
exception: "On the Scales of Osiris," which
was translated by Carl Eric Lindin
 CONTE NTS
*

The Marriage Feast page 9

Father and I 30
The Adventure 35
A Hero's Death 37
The Venerated Bones 39
Saviour John 41
The Experimental World 53
The Lift that went down into Hell 55
Love and Death 62
The Basement 63
The Evil Angel 72
The Princess and all the Kingdom 74
Paradise 77
The Children's Campaign 81
God's Little Travelling Salesman 95
The Masquerade of Souls I 15

The Myth of Mankind 199

On the Scales of Osiris 205
The Strange Country 20 7
 The Marriage Feast

0 N AS and Frida were to be married at four o'clock in

J the afternoon, and the guests were beginning to collect
at the little house on the outskirts of the village by the
railway where the ceremony was to take place. Ponies and
traps came from the surrounding countryside, where one or
two distant relatives of Frida lived-Jonas hadn't any­
and there were also several people from the village itself. It
seemed they would be about fifteen, all told.
It was a lovely day and the men were outside, strolling
in the little garden, shaking hands with each other, stand­
ing talking, or taking a tum around the house as though
they were looking it over. On the east gable was a faded
sign over a small doorway:
Frida Johansson
Haberdasher
Hm. Well, well, so Frida was getting off today. Aha. That
was all they said, but their tone implied a lot.
Hm, it was a funny thing about this wedding, but there
would be the usual food and drink anyway, and they might
just as well be there, seeing they were invited. So they
thought about going in.
The bridegroom was standing on the steps. He was a
thick-set, insignificant little man, with a fair, drooping
moustache and a continual happy smile-he was always
smiling. He had clear, kind, almost grateful eyes, and he
blinked a lot, almost as though to keep out of the way. He
was apt to hold his head rather on one side, as if he were
listening. He had a very pleasing appearance, he had
9
10 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
indeed. His real name was Jonas Samuelsson; but he was
usually called Jonas Gate, owing to his habit of always
hanging about down by the level-crossing gate in his
younger days, in case anyone off the train wanted a hand
with the luggage. It had thus been quite some time before
he had turned his hand to any steady job, but he had been
porter at the hotel for a long time now, so his standing
down by the level-crossing gate was all in order. It was his
profession. A5 to that, of course, he was going to marry
Frida today, so it was harder now to say what he was, or
thought of being: whether he would help her in the shop
if need be, or even give up work altogether. There was no
telling what Frida's plans were, or how much she had been
able to scrape together. No one had any idea. Maybe it was
quite a tidy sum. But she might just as well let him stay on
down there, it suited him somehow. He wasn't a particularly
go-ahead chap.
The relatives didn't really like the idea of Frida's going
and getting married in this way, and it wasn't surprising.
Not that they cared what she let herself in for-that was
her lookout. But there was no need to go and get married at
her age; it was unnecessary, they thought. And she had
always been one to save a bit-not that they knew anything
about that, it was nothing to do with them. But now that
she was going to at last, she might have chosen someone
other than Jonas. Not that there were so many to choose
from, of course. However, Frida was one of them, after all,
and came of quite good family, so it did seem strange that
she could put up with him. Well, well, that was her busi­
ness; she wanted it that way, well and good. He was
certainly a nice, good-natured sort of chap, that he was.
No one could say he wasn't.
Jonas was standing on the porch receiving the guests
and looking around obligingly as though wondering if
there were something he could carry. And if someone
arrived with a coat that he had had on in the gig, or with
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T II

anything at all, he was delighted to help carry it in. It was

something he could do, and on a day like this a man is only
too glad to show what he is capable of. It was worse once
all the guests had arrived, for no one spoke to him and he
just stood there, still smiling, with his arms hanging beside
his new black suit, which Frida had had made for the
occasion. He had nothing in particular to do, but as usual
he looked contented all the same.
It was better after a while when it was time for coffee and
he could find chairs for everyone and beamingly invite
them to sit up to the table. He said nothing; he preferred
only to speak when he had to. He did think of asking them
to be sure and have more buns and cakes, but he thought
better of it; they were Frida's, after all. The guests helped
themselves, all the same, and over their second cups began
talking and feeling more at home. Jonas was delighted; he
stood beside the mantelpiece with his cup of coffee, listen­
ing to all that was said with the most heartfelt good-will;
ran out into the kitchen to fill up the coffee-pot, handed
round the sugar to the women at the tables by the window,
and generally made himself useful. Of course, it wasn't
usual for the bridegroom to do the waiting like that, but he
probably didn't know. They smiled at him in their own
way, and he gave them his sweet smile in return. They may
have thought he was rather silly with that smile of his, but
one couldn't say that, because it was both wise and kind.
It was just that he never stopped smiling. Well, that was his
way. He was thinking now how well it was all going-it
was too, there wasn't a hitch.
Up in the attic Frida was sitting being dressed as a
bride. Agnes Karlsson, her best friend as they say, was
pinching Frida's thin hair around the tongs so that there
was a smell of burning right out through the window. It
was the first time Frida had had her hair curled, but then
it was the thing to do. She hardly recognized herself as she
looked in the bureau mirror that she had had moved up.
12 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
She was not very like the old Frida, which was as it should
be on such a festive day.
Oh, just think of its being today! Today that she and
Jonas were to stand in front of the altar and be joined in
matrimony forever and ever before their God. To think
that that day was really here, and that it was to happen
soon, in a little while.
"I hope they have arranged the flowers properly down
there, as I said, beside the stools. Do you think they have,
Agnes?"
"Oh yes, they'll have done that all right."
"And do you think the wedding cake has arrived safely,
the one with our initials?"
"Yes, it's sure to have come. I saw Klas arriving with a
cake box-that was probably it."
"Supposing you were to go down just to make sure?"
"Good heavens, we must get this finished."
"Yes, of course, that's very important. Everything is
important on a day like this; one must think of everything."
Oh, if only everything goes off all right, and it's the kind
of festival she has hoped for, that she has dreamed about so
much. If only it's all as the great solemnity of the occasion
demands.
What is there on earth greater than two people being
made one, meeting before God to have their compact
sealed at the throne ofthe Eternal One? Alas, there were no
doubt many who never gave a thought to what kind of
festival this really was, looked on it as a gay party where
they could dance and laugh. Which it was as well; of
course, she herself was so happy that she was dancing
inside. No bride could be happier than she, and none had
more reason to be. No, none.
And yet, in spite of everything, in spite of all this joy­
it was nevertheless the solemnity she felt most of all. The
great solemnity that lay over this day of theirs. What they
were now faced with was the most momentous thing that
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 13
could happen to her and Jonas. Their lives were to be
united, they were to be made one, their souls were to be
joined together for ever. Neither of them would be lonely
any more, neither she nor Jonas. How strange it was, never
to be lonely any more. She knew what it·meant, she who
had been alone ever since her parents died when she was a
child. She had been made to know so well what it was,
every day of her life. No, it is not good for man to live
alone.
Was it strange then, that at this glorious moment she
wanted everything to be as worthy and beautiful as
possible?
"Take a look in the mirror and see what you think,"
Agnes said.
And Frida leaned forward and looked at her reflection,
stroked her forehead, touched her unfamiliar hair.
How small and thin her face was; she looked like a girl
with anaemia. But her features were worn and her cheeks
were sunken. The years had put their mark on her, she had
so many wrinkles; but it was all so delicate and fine, it all
seemed to have been carefully done. Even a scar on her
neck seemed small and delicate, like everything else about
her. Only her eyes were large, infinitely gentle and artless,
and strangely wide open. Her mouth looked like a thin
line, as though she had been a very determined and enter­
prising woman, but that was only because it was so thin
and j ust as pale as the rest. It was when she smiled that it
became transformed. It was extraordinary; her whole face
lit up at once. Also she had the nicest false teeth in the
whole district; there were many who thought so if it came
to that. They fitted so well.
No, she was not beautiful. She never had been and now
it was no longer to be expected. But there was something
unusually pure about her, as is often the way with seam­
stresses and laundresses. She had done sewing for many
years before setting up her shop, and there, too, she always
 T H E M A R RIA G E F E A ST
had to do with clean and delicate things. She was so well
suited to them, which is probably why she had taken to it.
Her hands were quite white, since she had never had to do
any rough work, but she had worked hard with them just
the same; one could see that.
"What about trying on the coronet," Agnes said, "so
that we can see if the hair suits it? You say you want to
have it...
"Yes, Agnes dear, do."
So Agnes fastened it on to the top of Frida's head with
hairpins, a little coronet of myrtle which Frida had woven
110 neatly out of a myrtle she had inherited from her
mother, who had used it when she was a bride. Three
times it had died out, but she had taken cuttings, so it was
the same tree really. The inside of the coronet was filled
with white tulle, which billowed out in a lovely veil.
Frida stood up to see herself properly in the mirror. She
had not yet put on her petticoat and dress, in order not to
crease them, but her drawers were snow white and trimmed
with the finest lace in the whole shop; the veil fell light and
airy down her back, right to her knees. She was really very
sweet standing there admiring herself, so thoughtful and
happy. She looked at her reflection with dreamy eyes,
seeing herself for the first time as a bride.
"You've nothing on but your drawers!" Agnes ex­
claimed, and burst out laughing.
She hadn't, either. Frida smiled gently as she realized it,
then held the veil aside and carefully sat down again.
Agnes thought the coronet was too flat on the head.
"No, do you think so? I hadn't thought of it. Yes, per­
haps it's not quite right."
"Supposing we curled the hair a bit more, so that it sits
a little higher? But it's not so easy to get it up any higher,
you see."
"No, it's so thin, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's just the trouble, but I'll have a try."
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 15
So Agnes very kindly started all over again ; she took hair
from the sides and got it up on top, although it wouldn't
really reach, and then had the idea of putting the knot
up there, too, for it didn't matter where it was, seeing
that the veil would hide it anyway. She was so kind and
helpful.
And during all this Frida sat there in a dream, which
was not strange . . • •

She was thinking of how she and Jonas had met, how
their destinies had been linked together, their steps guided
forward to this great and glorious hour. They had been
fond of each other for a long, long time, goodness knows
how many years. It was a secret harmony of their souls,
without words, without their being aware of it themselves.
It had not blossomed into real love until later on, but they
had, as it were, come closer to one another, even so. She
remembered how he had taken her suitcase once when she
had come off the train from town. They had walked along
the street and he had said, "I suppose you have been in to
do some shopping, " and she had said, "Yes, I have, " but
as she said it she had happened to look into his eyes.
That was four years ago now, but she remembered as
though it were yesterday. That was when it had started in
earnest.
Yes, how strange everything is, people's destinies-what
is it that guides us? What had brought her and Jonas
together to this sacred feeling that they would never be
parted again?
But still a long time passed before there was anything
said between them. That's the way of it. Oh, this deceptive
game of love, this sweet game of hide-and-seek played by
two people in love. The feelings of both are the same, but
neither will admit it. Their souls are drawn to each other,
reach out to each other in ardent longing, call to each
other like twittering birds, like animals in their stalls in
the evening.
J6 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
And mixed up with it all a constantly disquieting un­
easiness, in spite of everything. I suppose he does love me.
Perhaps he doesn't. And do I really love him, with all my
heart, deep down inside, as one should? As one must? Is it
ordained by God that we are two souls meant to meet
during our wandering here, to enter into the shining abode
of love? Are we chosen and fitted for it? Yes, yes, I will
believe, I will believe!
Yes, she believed. She knew. She sat gazing in front of
her in tranquil rapture, transported by happiness.
No, no two people on earth could have met in a nicer,
more beautiful way than they had, she and Jonas. Her
eyes grew moist as she thought of it, and her gaze grew
remote as though she were looking at a far-off land.
Was she right? Yes, that's how it was; what they felt for
each other was love. She had accepted him because she was
fond of him. She loved for the sake of loving. And Jonas?
He had said yes because he thought it was so boundlessly
good of her to accept him. He had never imagined it; l;mt
as soon as he was allowed to, he loved her more than words
can say. He had never loved anyone before because no one
had asked him, and it wasn't really the sort of thing he
could bring himself to ask. But to repeat, once given per­
mission, he was the most ardent lover imaginable. He
looked up to her as to something divine, something in­
conceivably good and beautiful. He could not imagine
a more perfect being. She was as providence itself to
him.
He had not bothered much about the fact that she had a
little money, because he didn't understand much about
that kind of thing. He used it so seldom. But of course it
was very nice, seeing that everyone talked about it. He
himself felt a kind of reverence at the thought of these
things. It made everything even more wonderful, if
possible.
As long as it didn't mean that he would no longer be
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 17
able to stand down by the level-crossing gate, because he
would certainly miss that. He was used to it, and once one
has got used to something, it's hard to go without. That
was his profession, as it were. But if Frida thought it was
beneath him to go on working he would just have to put
up with it. It would probably be all right, even so. That
was something he had not liked to ask her about in so
many words. Time enough for that. He loved her, that was
the main thing; he loved her more than he could say, and
there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. He loved Frida
for her own sake, and because it was she who had been
good enough to bother about him.
That's how it was. It amounted to love on both sides.
Jonas, yes
. • She thought of him, and the kind of man
• .

he was. Thought of when he had thrown his arms around

her out in the woods last spring, and said that she was his
most beautiful flower. He could indeed say so much that
was remarkable, things that no one else could have
thought of. He had great gifts, that was certain, which no
one but she knew anything about.
Agnes stopped combing.
"There now, Frida, we won't do better than that, " she
said.
"Oh, my dear, it's lovely! Thank you so much. "
They looked at the hair from all angles, and found that
it now sat much better and as prettily as they could wish.
"Now I think we ought to hurry up and get your dress
on. "
"Yes, I suppose it's nearly time . . . . Oh, Agnes dear,
you've no idea how strange it feels. "
"Yes, it must. "
':Just imagine being dressed as a bride-it's all like a
dream. I can't really believe it's true. "
"If I might suggest it, " Agnes said, "you ought to wear
your nice black dress instead, it suits you so well. "
"Agnes dear, how can you! You're not serious! " Frida
18 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
looked at her in amazement, quite distressed that she could
say anything so thoughtless. "A bride must have white,
you know that ; it's an occasion for joy."
"Yes, yes, I only meant-that's my opinion-but of
course you must do just as you like."
So Frida had her way. It would have been strange if
she hadn't, after getting herself the dress for this very
moment, sitting up sewing it night after night. And all the
dreams she had put into it. Agnes helped her put it on. It
was all so beautifully ironed and mustn't be creased at all,
and all the lace had to hang properly. But the petticoat was
showing at the back. What were they to do-they would
have to pin it up.
Agnes stopped to listen.
"The pastor must have come."
"Oh, it's not possible," Frida said softly, feeling herself
grow pale.
"You can hear he has, no one's saying a word."
"Then we must get ready," Frida said very quietly.
Jonas knocked gently on the half-open door.
"The pastor has come," he whispered reverently.
"Jonas dear, is that you? You can't see me, not yet. In
just half a minute, we're just fastening this up. The pastor
is here, you said. The time has come then-fancy its hang­
ing down like that-it's funny, isn't it? Dear Agnes, do try
and hurry."
"Well, stand still then, so that I can get at it!"
"Yes, yes, of course I will . . . . What did the pastor say,
Jonas?"
"The pastor-what did he say? Oh, he didn't say
anything. "
"Didn't you say how do you do to him?"
"No, I left the room when he arrived."
"Did you?"
"Yes, I thought I would come up here."
"Yes, it was good of you to come and tell me. Now I'll
 T H E M A R R I AG E FEAST 19
just put the coronet on, then I'm ready. Jonas dear, are
you sure everything is as it should be down there?"
"Yes, Frida dearest, I think everything's all right; it all
looks so nice."
"Are the flowerpots in the right place?"
''Yes."
"And the lace cloths on the stools-Hulda won't have
forgotten them?"
"No, they're there."
"And the cake? The cake, Jonas! Do you know definitely
if it has come?"
"Well, I can't say for sure, but I did see Klas arrive with
a cake box; I should think that was probably it."
"Yes, that must have been it. Oh, I hope everything
will be all right, and just as it should be, on this great and
wonderful day in our life. They did get something to eat
with their coffee, Jonas?"
"Yes, indeed."
"You did ask them to help themselves?"
"There was no need, Frida dear."
"Now I think you're ready," Agnes said, giving her a
final critical look of inspection.
"Am I ! Oh, thank you, Agnes dear. You can come in
now, Jonas dear, there's no need for you to go on standing
there behind the door."
So Jonas came in. He stood dumbfounded with admira­
tion at this radiant vision in the middle of the room,
dazzlingly white and lovely; at his own darling Frida, the
sight of whom filled him with an almost dizzy joy. Ha
looked and looked at her with shining eyes, unable to
believe it was true.
"Am I all right, dear?"
"Yes," he said, his voice thick and his eyes filling with
tears, poor fellow. He couldn't say any more, just pressed
and pressed her hand as though to thank her--over and
over again.
20 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
"Then everything's all right," Frida whispered with a
sob. "We can go down together." And she dried her eyes,
holding her handkerchief in front of them so as not to
show her emotion and how touched she was.
-"The bridal bouquet!" cried Agnes, getting it out of the
vase and drying it on a towel. It was of pink carnations and
greenery.
"Oh, dear Agnes, thank you so much. Fancy forgetting!
One forgets everything at a time like this."
And so down they went. Side by side, tightly pressed
against each other. The coronet slipped a little to one side
going down the stairs, but otherwise all was well. Their
eyes were shining as they entered the bridal room, the
little room with the sun shining in through the curtains.
As they advanced between the guests, the women stared
hard at them and the men cleared their throats. Up by the
stools the pastor was waiting for them, severe and. dignified.
They stood in front of him like simple-hearted children,
full of devout expectancy. He eyed them over his pince­
nez, then opened the book and began to read.
"In the name of God the Father, God the Son, and
God the Holy Ghost . . . "
They hung on his words. There could not have been two
more attentive listeners, so afraid were they of missing a
single word, so moved by the solemnity of the moment.
Jonas did indeed smile as usual, but it was merely out of
inexpressible reverence. He kept his head a little on one
side in order to hear everything, and his hands were
clasped together in implicit reliance on what was being
said to him. Frida, too, held her hands tightly together
with the bouquet between them, and looked at the pastor
with trusting, humble gratitude.
Presently, when they had to kneel down, they thought
that was the loveliest of all. The sun shone on them, on
Frida's lovely white dress with the veil all around it that
seemed to be made oflight, and on jonas in his brand-new
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 21
clothes. They were kneeling right in front of the window,
and so their eyes shone with an almost supernatural
radiance. Around them were all the flowerpots. It was a
moment full of light and beauty.
The others, of course, could not feel it in the same way.
They were only there because they were invited. But
God's word was being read out, so ofcourse it was a solemn
occasion. The women were a little weepy, as they always
are at weddings, and everyone listened to the trembling
voices answering the time-honoured questions. It was
certainly nice being there when they knew them both so
intimately-because up to a point they knew Jonas very
well, too.
The pastor gave no address for them, nor was there any
need for one. But he read Our Father and the Benediction,
and they thought it had never sounded so beautiful; they
were like two completely new prayers with memorable
new words that applied only to them. Then he closed the
book, and the moving ceremony was at an end. Frida and
Jonas were wedded to each other for always.
Wine was handed around, and everyone drank with
them; first the pastor, who wished them happiness, then
all the others according to age and position or relationship.
The sun shone on the glasses, they clinked and sparkled
all at once, the entire little room had something so festive
about it. In the middle of the guests, entirely surrounded,
stood the bride, radiant with happiness. And beside her
stood Jonas, smiling with every wrinkle of his kind face.
They drank to him, too, and he held his glass extended
between his fingertips as though he were holding out an
extraordinary kind of flower. Everywhere were kindly
eyes that must be thanked, and he kept bowing incessantly.
A wave ofwarmth and cordiality flowed toward him such
as he could never have imagined. Then it grew a little
quieter, they all sat down at the window tables or over on
the sofa and began talking among themselves, and he was
22 THE MAR R I A G E F EAST
left t o himself i n the middle o f the floor, quite a lot to
himself.
But the women took hold of Frida by the arm to say a
few words more heartfelt than the mere congratulations.
"Well, Frida dear, now you have got what you wanted,
so I suppose you arc happy, aren't you?"
"Oh yes, thank you, Mrs Lundgren, I am indeed. I am
as happy as it is possible for anyone to be."
"Ycs, I suppose you arc, Frida dear."
And all the relatives had to go up and talk to her for a
moment.
"So you're married, Frida dear."
"Yes, Emma dear."
"Oh well, you never know how things will turn out."
"Yes, who would have thought it would be like this?
But then we don't really know what's ahead of us."
"Oh," put in Miss Svensson from the tobacconist's, "I
always thought that Frida would get married. I said many
times that it's a wonder Frida Johansson doesn't get
married. She could easily."
"Yes, that's just what I thought. My old man always
used to say as we sat talking about the family, 'No, Frida
will never get married.' But I thought, no, it's always best
to wait and see, one never really knows for sure. Well,
good luck, Frida dear, we are all so glad that you've
managed it."
"Thank you, thank you, dear Matilda."
So the talk went on, Frida smiling and happy. After all,
she had jonas. They nodded at each other secretively, their
gaze still obscured, the sacred words resounding within
them. They were now a little apart from each other, but
that didn't matter, it was only for a little while. And it was
all going so well-she could see he thought so, too. Oh yes,
everyone was so nice and kind. Some of them had come a
long way in order to be present on this, their great day.
Strange that there were so many gathered here just for
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
their sake. There were so many conversations going on that
it was hard to follow them, and one didn't know whom to
listen to. And just think how festive it was when they had
all come up and drunk their health.
Now there was the smell ofcooking from the kitchen, and
the women began wondering what it was they were going
to have; it was sure to be roast meat, as was customary.
Frida was sure to have only the best, and she could no
doubt afford it. What her income was from the little shop
no one could say. And Hulda was going to do the waiting,
ah yes. And she had a lace apron, well I never.
The pastor came up and said he must be going. There
was nothing much to wait for at a wedding like this, and
he had so much work to do at home, routine office work
as it is called. No, of course he didn't know who Frida
was, and what she had to offer. How should he know?
Frida had hoped that he would stay. He is sure to, she
had thought. It would make it all so festive. But he was
obliged to go. Yes, of course, when he had such an awful
lot to do; one can imagine a clergyman who is responsible
for all that is most important in life, for the souls of so
many people. Yes, there must be a lot of work, a lot that is
not apparent. She thanked him for making this moment so
sacred, for all the beautiful words he had read. Both she
and Jonas went to the door with him, and Jonas helped
him on with his coat and opened the gate leading out into
the road, where he stood bowing until the pastor had dis­
appeared through the trees.
Dinner was ready now, and they all sat down, the bridal
pair in the principal scats in the centre of one side, and the
others gathered around them for this banquet in honour
of the newly married. The men were talking of a sewer
which emptied out into the lake too near the village; they
had been discussing it and were going to finish the subject,
for the farmers didn't know what a fuss there had been
about it at the meeting. But now they got their smorgas-
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
bard and an aquavit and began to think about eating.
There was plenty to choose from, dishes of every kind, and
there was nothing wrong with the aquavit either, so they
had another. They began to feel nice and cheery, as was
fitting at a wedding. Now that old Frida was getting
married, they must see that it was done properly, and eat
and drink as much as they could when it was offered for
once in a while.
"Come on, Jonas, have a stiffener, it won't hurt you."
"What, isn't he drinking?" shouted Emil of Ostragard,
Frida's second cousin, across the table. "I should think he
needs one ! Go on, have one, it'll put a tongue in your
head."
And Jonas smiled and took it, though he didn't usually
touch that kind of thing, but of course he must when they
wanted him to join them.
"Well, to think it's come to a wedding. Who would have
thought it!"
"Oh, more surprising things than this can happen.
Sometimes they're in such a hurry that it makes you
wonder what's wrong. No question of that in this case!"
"No, Julius, that it isn't! Cheers! You were always a
wag!"
"No, by Christ, if they want to swap bullocks with me,
then they'll have to bring along the best they have and still
pay the difference. I told him so, too. No, it was the
rottencst cattle-market I've ever been to."
"Didn't you even get a drink?"
"No, the place was shut."
"Oh well, then, of course you couldn't do any business."
"Hey there, Emil, fill them up here! You can't keep it all
down your end ! "
They went on drinking after the roast meat was brought
in, and Jonas had to join in, though he didn't want to.
"You're a damn queer sort of chap, not drinking." He was
to have a drop in him, same as they. So Jonas drank,
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 25
though he tried to have as little as possible. He was one of
those people who just couldn't say no. And they all meant
so well, wanting him to join in.
"Take a stiff one and get your strength up; you've got a
good day's work ahead of you such as you never did in
your life before, I'll bet!"
"You must at least have a good strong breath if Frida's
to be satisfied with you."
"Well, you're in for a good time now, Jonas. No need for
you to go and overwork in any way."
"Are you going to give up your job at the hotel? Oh,
you don't know. Hasn't she said anything yet?"
"Perhaps you'll be selling embroidery in your old age.
Well, not so bad either, a nice dainty job. And I suppose
you'll have to go poking about here with all these flowers.
Frida's got a frightful lot of flowerpots, that she has."
"What's the idea; is Jonas going to help in your shop, or
what are you going to make him do?"
There was no need for Frida to answer; they were all
talking at once and there was a terrific hubbub. She sat
looking straight in front of her with her big, gentle eyes,
the bridal coronet slightly askew, but dignified and calm
in her white dress, which really suited her very well when
you came to think of it. Now and then she would squeeze
Jonas's hand under the table, and she would light up
with a blissful smile as they looked at each other with
secret joy. Then she would grow serious again, almost
melancholy.
It was twilight now, and Hulda had to light the lamps.
The sweet was brought in. It had turned out very well, but
Frida could not eat much; she just tasted it to see that it
was all right. Yes, of course, it was all right; they'd taken
such trouble with it. And then came the cake. It was
certainly very handsome. In the middle was a J and an F
in bright red jam, but no one noticed it, and besides the
letters were all intertwined. But she and Jonas saw it, and
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
they gave each other a happy, tender look, and held each
other's hand under the table. Wine was served with the
cake. If the pastor had been able to stay he would probably
have made a speech for them now, he would indeed. He
could make a very good speech when he had to. But it all
went very well notwithstanding and the cake was eaten
up.
Afterwards there was to be coffee. They all got up from
the table and spread out over the room, the men talking
and booming, a little unsteady on their feet. Cigars were
handed around and the coffee was poured out.
"Haven't you any brandy, Frida?" asked Emil.
No, that's something she had forgotten. It hadn't really
occurred to her that they would drink so much on an
occasion like this.
"Well, that's stingy when we're celebrating like this,"
Emil said. "It is a wedding, you know, so there ought to
be some brandy, see! I've got a bottle out in the trap that I
went and bought, so we can have that." And he lumbered
out through the door, returning in a minute with the
bottle.
"Now for a drop in the coffee!"
They started drinking. They shouted everything they
said, as though they were standing out in the fields yelling
across at each other from one farm to the next, and they all
swore as though they were going to kill each other when
they met, though they were firm friends standing close
together, all talking at once. They became more and more
drunk as the evening wore on, swaying against each other
and sitting down heavily so that the chairs creaked. The
ones from the village were a little more dignified-they
had grown rather more superior-but those farmers were
really too awful. The room was filled with fumes from the
liquor and the warm smell of billowing smoke.
The women were having a nice time on their own. They
had gathered in one corner and were talking about people
 THE MARR IAGE FEAST
who were not there, and what had happened i n the district
-there was quite a lot since last time, for there were not
so many parties nowadays. Then they spoke their minds,
shaking their heads, pursing their lips, whispering and
_listening and repeating things, whatever it happened to be.
Frida sat with them for a while, then cast an eye into the
kitchen, rearranged the flowers that had not been put back
as they should, and saw to the lamp. Finally she just stood
in the middle of the floor with her hands clasped, looking in
front of her and listening to the noise all around her.
"Silly little thing, decking herself out in white," she
heard someone say behind her. Then she went over and
sat by Jonas, and as she sat down she burst into tears.
But she wasn't really crying, the tears ran so gently and
quietly down her cheeks. No one noticed them except
Jonas. He got really frightened; he patted her and took
her hand, holding it tenderly in his, asking over and over
again what was wrong and why she was crying. Then she
looked at him so warmly and smiled so sweetly, as she
always did when they spoke to each other.
"It's nothing, Jonas dear, it's only tears ofjoy."
Then he was reassured, because he could see that it was
true.
"Dear Jonas," she said then, "we'll go upstairs now. "
And so they did. They said good-bye to everybody,
happily and affectionately, like the bridal pair they were,
and went up to their room.

It had all been got ready just as Frida had arranged,

the bed nicely made up with the sheets with lace insertions,
the widest in the shop; there were fresh-cut flowers on the
table, and a clean white cloth with hemstitching, and the
same on the chest of drawers. The window was open to
the silence of the late summer night with its clear stars
shining in.
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
How quiet and peaceful it was here. They threw their
arms around each other, overwhelmed with bliss. They
stood there, entirely filled with their happiness, for a long
while, so long that they were not aware of time. Down­
stairs the noise went on, but it was strange how they didn't
hear it. It was strange not being able to hear anything like
that, anything at all.
They undressed and got into bed, caressing each other
and whispering. They thrilled to each other, and felt the
most wonderful feeling that they had never known before,
which was like nothing else-nothing.
She had never thought that love could be so great. She
had thought a lot about all this, but had never really been
able to imagine it. It was as though she had lived her life
just for this moment when she and jonas became one. He
held her in his arms, strong from all he had carried in his
life, and she gave herself to her beloved; it was so un­
speakably lovely to give him all she had, so really wonder­
ful. She bit him with her false teeth so that he was quite
dizzy. She, too, felt a little stupefied soon afterwards, but
it was love speaking, that great, divine love, the incom­
prehensible miracle which made everything sacred.
Mterwards they lay side by side, tired and blissful, just
holding each other's hand, as though that were even more
tender than being caressed. They were almost numbed by
the perfection of their happiness.
Jonas fell asleep, replete with his day. He was so hand­
some and good as he lay there beside her on the pillow;
she stroked his hair and arranged it. She, too, felt a little
exhausted, but she lay listening in the semi-darkness with
open eyes.
How quiet it was, how extraordinarily quiet. Were they
still there, or had they gone? She heard nothing but the
great, unfathomable night, and the loved one at her side,
snoring softly. Otherwise nothing.
She crept down beside him and she, too, fell asleep, his
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST 29
hand tightly clasped in hers. They lay there together in
the darkness, near each other, with burning cheeks and
their mouths half-open for a kiss. And like a heavenly song
of praise, like a hosanna of light around the only living
thing, the stars rose around their bed in mighty hosts, their
numbers increasing with the darkness.
 Father and I

HEN I was getting on toward ten, I remember,

W Father took me by the hand one Sunday afternoon,
as we were to go out into the woods and listen to the birds
singing. Waving good-bye to Mother, who had to stay at
home and get the evening meal, we set off briskly in the
warm sunshine. We didn't make any great to-do about this
going to listen to the birds, as though it were something
extra special or wonderful; we were sound, sensible people,
Father and I, brought up with nature and used to it.
There was nothing to make a fuss about. It was just that it
was Sunday afternoon and Father was free. We walked
along the railway line, where people were not allowed to
go as a rule, but Father worked on the railway and so l).e
had a right to. By doing this we could get straight into the
woods, too, without going a round-about way.
Soon the bird song began and all the rest. There was a
twittering of finches and willow warblers, thrushes and
sparrows in the bushes, the hum that goes on all around
you as soon as you enter a wood. The ground was white
with wood anemones, the birches had just come out into
leaf, and the spruces had fresh shoots; there were scents on
all sides, and underfoot the mossy earth lay steaming in the
sun. There was noise and movement everywhere; bumble­
bees came out of their holes, midges swarmed wherever
it was marshy, and birds darted out of the bushes to catch
them and back again as quickly.
All at once a train came rushing along and we had to go
down on to the embankment. Father hailed the engine
driver with two fingers to his Sunday hat and the driver
saluted and extended his hand. It all happened quickly;
30
 F A T H E R AND I 31
then on we went, taking big strides so as to tread on the
sleepers and not-in the gravel, which was heavy going and
rough on the shoes. The sleepers sweated tar in the heat,
everything smelled, grease and meadowsweet, tar and
heather by turns. The rails glinted in the sun. On either
side of the line were telegraph poles, which sang as you
passed them. Yes, it was a lovely day. The sky was quite
clear, not a cloud to be seen, and there couldn't be any,
either, on a day like this, from what Father said.
Mter a while we came to a field of oats to the right of the
line, where a crofter we knew had a clearing. The oats had
come up close and even. Father scanned them with an
expert eye and I could see he was satisfied. I knew very
little about such things, having been born in a town. Then
we came to the bridge over a stream, which most of the
time had no water w speak of but which now was in full
spate. We held hands so as not to fall down between the
sleepers. After that it is not long before you come to the
platelayer's cottage lying embedded in greenery, apple
trees and gooseberry bushes. We called in to see them and
were offered milk, and saw their pig and hens and fruit
trees in blossom; then we went on. We wanted to get to the
river, for it was more beautiful there than anywhere else;
there was something special about it, as farther upstream
it flowed past where Father had lived as a child. We usually
liked to come as far as this before we turned back, and
today, too, we got there after a good walk. It was near the
next station, but we didn't go so far. Father just looked
to see that the semaphore was right-he thought of
everything.
We stopped by the river, which murmured in the hot
sun, broad and friendly. The shady trees hung along the
banks and were reflected in the backwater. It was . all fresh
and light here; a soft breeze was blowing off the small
lakes higher up. We climbed down the slope and walked a
little way along the bank, Father pointing out the spots for
 T H E M A R R I AGE F E A S T
fishing. H e had sat here o n the stones as a boy, waiting for
perch all day long; often there wasn't even a bite, but it
was a blissful life. Now he didn't have time. We hung about
on the bank for a good while, making a noise, pushing out
bits of bark for the current to take, throwing pebbles out
into the water to see who could throw farthest; we were
both gay and cheerful by nature, Father and I. At last we
felt tired and that we had had enough, and we set off for
home.
It was beginning to get dark. The woods were changed­
it wasn't dark there yet, but almost. We quickened our
steps. Mother would be getting anxious and waiting with
supper. She was always afraid something was going to
happen. But it hadn't; it had been a lovely day, nothing
had happened that shouldn't. We were content with
everything.
The twilight deepened. The trees were so funny. They
stood listening to every step we took, as if they didn't know
who we were. Under one of them was a glow-worm. It lay
down there in the dark staring at us. I squeezed Father's
hand, but he didn't see the strange glow, just walked on.
Now it was quite dark. We came to the bridge over the
stream. It roared down there in the depths, horribly, as
though it wanted to swallow us up; the abyss yawned below
us. We trod carefully on the sleepers, holding each other
tightly by the hand so as not to fall in. I thought Father
would carry me across, but he didn't say anything; he
probably wanted me to be like him and think nothing of it.
We went on. Father was so calm as he walked there in
the darkness, with even strides, not speaking, thinking to
himself. I couldn't understand how he could be so calm
when it was so murky. I looked all around me in fear.
Nothing but darkness everywhere. I hardly dared take a
deep breath, for then you got so much darkness inside
you, and that was dangerous. I thought it meant you would
soon die. I remember quite well that's what I thought
 F AT H E R A N D I 33
then. The embankment sloped steeply down, as though into
chasms black as night. The telegraph poles rose, ghostly,
to the sky. Inside them was a hollow rumble, as though
someone were talking deep down in the earth and the
white porcelain caps sat huddled fearfully together listen­
ing to it. It was all horrible. Nothing was right, nothing
real; it was all so weird.
Hugging close to Father, I whispered, "Father, why is it
so horrible when it's dark? "
"No, my boy, it's not horrible, " he said, taking me by
the hand.
"Yes, Father, it is. "
"No, my child, you mustn't think that. Not when we
know there is a God. "
I felt so lonely, forsaken. It was so strange that only I
was afraid, not Father, that we didn't think the same. And
strange that what he said didn't help me and stop me from
being afraid. Not even what he said about God helped me.
I thought he too was horrible. It was horrible that he was
everywhere here in the darkness, down under the trees, in
the telegraph poles which rumbled-that must be he-­
everywhere. And yet you could never see him.
We walked in silence, each with his own thoughts. My
heart contracted, as though the darkness had got in and
was beginning to squeeze it.
Then, as we were rounding a bend, we suddenly heard
a mighty roar behind us ! We were awakened out of our
thoughts in alarm. Father pulled me down on to the em­
bankment, down into the abyss, held me there. Then the
train tore past, a black train. All the lights in the carriages
were out, and it was going at frantic speed. What sort of
train was it? There wasn't one due now! We gazed at it in
terror. The fire blazed in the huge engine as they shovelled
in coal; sparks whirled out into the night. It was terrible.
The driver stood there in the light of the fire, pale, motion­
less, his features as though turned to stone. Father didn't
34 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
recognize him, didn't know who he was. The man just
stared straight ahead, as though intent only on rushing
into the darkness, far into the darkness that had no end.
Beside myself with dread, I stood there panting, gazing
after the furious vision. It was swallowed up by the night.
Father took me up on to the line; we hurried home. He
said, "Strange, what train was that? And I didn't recognize
the driver." Then we walked on in silence.
But my whole body was shaking. It was for me, for my
sake. I sensed what it meant: it was the anguish that was
to come, the unknown, all that Father knew nothing about,
that he wouldn't be able to protect me against. That was
how this world, this life, would be for me; not like Father's,
where everything was secure and certain. It wasn't a real
world, a real life. It just hurtled, blazing, into the darkness
that had no end.
 The Adventure

S H I P with black sails came to take me away. And

A I went on board willingly
s
enough. I might just as well
take a little trip; I wa young and carefree and had a long­
ing for the sea. We put out from the coast, which soon dis­
appeared behind us, and the ship was borne steadily along
by a fresh wind. Those of the crew with whom I came in
contact were stern and grave; we had little to say to each
other on board. We sailed and sailed day and night for a
long time and on the same course. We did not come across
any land. We sailed on year after year; the sea was blank,
the wind good. There was no sign ofland. At last I thought
this was strange and asked one of the crew what was the
reason. He answered that there was no world any longer.
It was annihilated, had sunk down into the depths. There
was only ourselves.
I thought that was exciting. We kept on sailing for a
long time. The sea lay void. The wind filled the black
sails. Everything was empty; there were only the depths
below us. Then a frightful storm burst. The sea roared and
heaved all around us. We fought in the darkness. The
storm did not cease, nor the darkness. Year after year it
continued. The clouds trailed across the black sails; every­
thing was black and empty and desolate. We fought in the
night, in anguish and need, wrought-up, lacerated, without
daring to hope any more.
Then at last we heard the deafening roar of breakers.
We were cast by a mighty wave against a rocky island
which rose out of the sea. The ship was broken to pieces;
we clung to the rock. The wreckage and shreds of sail
floated about; we clung fast to the ground. At long last it
35
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
grew light and we could see. The little island on which we
had been saved was rugged and dark. There was only a
single storm-blown tree, no flowers or verdure. We clung
fast. We were happy. We laid our cheeks to the ground and
wept for joy. It was the world beginning to rise up out of
the depths again.
 A Hero's Death

N a town where the people never seemed to get enough

Iamusement a committee had engaged a man who was to
balance on his head up on the church spire and then fall
down and kill himself. He was to have soo,ooo for doing it.
In all levels of society, all spheres, there was keen interest
in this undertaking; the tickets were snapped up in a few
days and it was the sole topic of conversation. Everyone
thought it was a very daring thing to do. But then, of
course, the price was in keeping. It was none too pleasant
to fall and kill yourself, and from such a height too. But it
was also admitted that it was a handsome fee. The syndicate
which had arranged everything had certainly not spared
itself in any way and people were proud that it had been
possible to form one like it in the town. Naturally, attention
was also riveted on the man who had undertaken to per­
form the feat. The interviewers from the press fell on him
with gusto, tor there were only a few days left until the
performance was to take place. He received them affably
in his suite at the town's most fashionable hotel .
.. Well, for me it's all a matter of business, " he said. "I
have been offered the sum known to you, and I have
accepted the offer. That is all. "
"But don't you think it's unpleasant having to lose your
life? We realize the necessity, of course; otherwise it
wouldn't be much of a sensation and the syndicate couldn't
pay as it has done, but it can't be too nice for you. "
"No, you're right there, and the thought has occurred to
me, too. But one does anything for money. "
On the basis of these statements long articles were
written in the newspapers about the hitherto unknown
37
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
man, about his past, his views, his attitude to various
problems of the day, his character and private person. His
picture was in every paper one opened. It showed a strong
young man. There was nothing remarkable about him,
but he looked spirited and healthy and had a frank,
vigorous face; a typical representative of the best youth of
the age, willing and sound. It was studied in all the cafes,
while people made ready for the coming sensation. There
was nothing wrong about it, they thought; a nice young
man, the women thought he was wonderful. Those who
had more sense shrugged their shoulders; smart bit of work,
they said. All were unanimous on one thing, however:
that the idea was strange and fantastic and that this sort
of thing could only have occurred in our remarkable age
with its flurry and intensity and its faculty of sacrificing all.
And it was agreed that the syndicate deserved every praise
for not having cavilled at expense when it came to arrang­
ing something like this and really giving the town a chance
to witness such a spectacle. It would no doubt cover its
expenditure by the high price of the tickets, but it took the
risk at any rate.
At last the great day arrived. The space around the
church was packed with people. The excitement was in­
tense. All held their breath, in a frenzy of expectation at
what was going to happen.
And the man fell; it was soon over. The people
shuddered, then got up to go home. In a way they felt a
certain disappointment. It had been splendid, but . . . He
had only fallen and killed himself after all. It was a lot of
money to pay for something that was so simple. Of course
he had been frightfully mutilated, but what was the good
of that? A promising young man sacrificed in that way.
People went home disgruntled; the women put up their
sunshades. No, awful things like that really ought to be
forbidden. What pleasure did it give anyone? On second
thought the whole thing was disgraceful.
 The Venerated Bones

W 0 nations had waged a great war together. They

Twere both very proud of it and it still kept passions
alive compared to which the ordinary small human ones
were nothing. The people who were left abandoned them­
selves to them with fanatic zeal. On both sides of the
frontier, where the battle had raged backward and forward
and the combatants had been hideously mutilated, huge
memorials had been erected to the fallen who had sacrificed
themselves for their country and now rested here in its
earth. The nations made pilgrimages there, each to their
own, and the crowds were harangued with glowing words
about the heroes whose bones slept under the soil, hallowed
by a heroic death, vested with honour for evermore.
Then a horrible rumour got about among the two
nations concerning something that was supposed to happen
out there on the old battlefields at night. They were
haunted. The dead rose up out of their graves and crossed
the frontier, sought each other out, as if they were re­
conciled.
Everyone heard of this with deep resentment. The fallen
heroes, those who were revered by the entire nation, they
sought out the enemy, became reconciled with him! It was
appalling.
Both nations sent out a commission to investigate the
matter. The members lay in wait behind one or two
withered trees that were still standing, and waited for
midnight.
Ghastly, it was actually true! Horrible shapes rose out of
the arid ground and went in the direction of the frontier;
39
 T H E MA R R I A G E F E AST
they seemed to be carrying something. The commission
hurried toward them, full of indignation.
"What, you who have sacrificed yourselves for your
country, you whom we revere above all, to whom we
pilgrimage in order to venerate and remember you, whose
resting-place we hold sacred, you fraternize with the
enemy! You reconcile yourselves with him !"
The fallen heroes looked at the commission in astonish­
ment. "By no means. We hate each other as much as ever.
We are only exchanging bones, everything is in such a
muddle. "
 Saviour john

y name is john, but I am called the Saviour, because

MI am to save mankind on earth. I am the one chosen
for this and that is why I am so called. I am not like other
people; no one here in the town is like me. The Lord has
kindled a fire in my breast which never goes out; I can
always feel it burning and burning inside, day and night. I
feel that I must save them, that I am to be sacrificed for
their sake. Through my faith, which I preach to them, they
shall be redeemed.
Yes, I feel I must believe-must believe for them. For
all who doubt, for all who hunger and thirst and cannot be
satisfied. I shall refresh them. In their anguish and need
they call to me, and I wipe out everything as with a gentle
and merciful hand, and it is no more.
Yes, I am to save mankind on earth. From the age of
fourteen I have known that I am chosen for it. Since then
I have been different from all others.
I don't dress like other people either-you can tell just
from that. I have two rows of silver buttons on my jacket
and a green band around my waist, and a red one around
my arm. On a string around my neck I wear the lid of a
cigar box with the picture of a pretty young woman on it;
I can't remember now what it means. That's how I am
dressed. But fastened by an invisible thread around my
forehead I wear a star which I have cut out of tin. It
gleams and sparkles in the sun. It can be seen from afar
and it shines so that no one can help noticing it.
When I walk down the street everyone stares after me in
wonder. Look at the Saviour, they say to each other. For
41
42 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
they know that's who I am. They know I have come to
save them.
But they don't understand me yet. They don't believe as
they should. Not as I believe. There is no fire inside them,
not as with me. That is why I must speak to them, teach
them to believe; that is why I must stay here for a long time
yet.
I think it is so strange-they see their Saviour and hear
his voice, he is right among them, and still they do not
understand him. But in time to come their eyes will be
opened and they will see him as he is.

Market today. Been up to the market place and preached

as usual. The farmers were there with their carts. All
gathered around me. I spoke of everything that I bear
within me, of my message which I shall proclaim to the
whole world : that I am come to redeem them, that through
me they shall gain peace. They listened attentively; I
think they were comforted by my words.
I don't understand why they laugh. I myself never
laugh. For me everything is serious. As I stood there looking
out over the large crowd of people and thinking that in
each one of them there was a soul that must be saved if it
was not to go under, that must believe if it was not to
plunge into despair, I was moved by such solemnity and
earnestness. Oh, it was glorious to stand like that and
feel them gathered around me. I seemed for a moment to
be looking out over countless multitudes, even all those
who had not come to hear me today-for it is quite a
small market and there are not so many people; to be
looking out over all the people on earth, and all hungered
and thirsted for peace, and I was to save them. It was a
blissful moment. I shall never forget it.
I think I was filled with the spirit today and that they
understood me.
 SAVI O U R J OHN 43
When I had finished, one of them stepped forward and
gave me a cabbage on behalf of everyone there. I brought
it home and this evening I have made good, nourishing
soup from it. It is a long time since I have had anything
hot to eat. God bless him.

Oh, the pity of humanity. They are all unhappy, dis­

tressed; they all suffer. Johansson, the baker, is unhappy
because they no longer buy his bread now that a bakery
has opened next door. His bread is so good too; he has
often given me a loaf to take home. All bread is good.
Ekstrom, the policeman, whom I often talk to, is unhappy
because his wife neglects the house, and I don't think she
bothers about him any more. Even the magistrate is un­
happy, because he has lost his only son.
Only I am happy. For in me burns the fire of faith
which can never go out, which shall burn and burn until
it has consumed me. I have no uneasiness, no anxiety; I
am not like them. That would not be right.
No, I must not despair. I must believe for them.

They have taken me to the workhouse so that I shall be

free of all earthly worries and can devote myselfentirely to
my mission as Saviour. I am well off here; we get food
twice a day. The others here are poor people. I feel so
sorry for them. They are quiet, good souls; I don't think
anyone has ever understood me so well as they do. They
call me the Saviour, like everyone else, and have grea•
respect for me.
In the evenings I preach to them. They listen devoutly,
and every word reaches their hearts. How their eyes shine
when I speak! They cling to me-to my words-as their
only hope. Yes, they know that I have come to save them.
Always after supper I gather them around me like this
44 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
and speak full of rapture, full of the heavenly light within
me; speak of the faith that can overcome everything, that
transforms this world to a happy home given us by the
Highest. The superintendent says that I may, by all means
-it doesn't matter. He is pleased with me. Then we go to
rest. There are four of us in our room. The star hangs over
my bed; it shines and burns all night long in the dark
above me. It casts its light over my face as I sleep. I am not
like the others on earth.

Oh, terrifying anguish in my soul ! Anguish, despair fills

us all.
The star is missing, the star of salvation which alone can
guide us aright. This morning when I woke up, the nail I
hang it on was empty. No one knows where it has gone.
Darkness surrounds us. I look for a single ray of light but
find none, no way out of the terrible darkness. All are
broken-hearted, the whole town is sunk in grief. From up
here at the workhouse we can see it lying like ashes. The
sky is grey and leaden, there is no sign of light.
How are we to be saved from our need? How are we to
find the way out of the deapair that seizes us?
All put their hope in me. But what am I if the star does
not shine above my head, if the heavenly light does not
lead me? I am nothing then; I am just as poor as all the
othen.
Who is to save us then?
Now it has been found. All day I have thanked and
prai!ed on my knees.
Old Enok had taken it. We found it under his mattress.
Now we are all glad and undismayed once more. My faith
glows stronger than ever after this trial I have undergone.
He had only done it as a joke. I have forgiven him.
Sometimes I feel such loneliness and emptiness round
me. It seems as if people do not understand my message to
 S AV I O U R J O H N 45
them. I doubt my power over their souls. How can I
redeem them?
They always smile so when I speak. A5 soon as they see
me their faces light up. But do they really believe in me?
I think it is so strange that they do not understand who I
am, that they cannot feel the fire which burns inside me­
my heavenly rapture-how everything glows and is con­
sumed within me. I can feel it myself so well.
Sometimes when I preach, it is as if I were alone,
although there are large crowds listening all around me.
I am like a flame leaping higher and higher, rising clearer
and purer toward the sky. But no one warms himself at it.
0 doubt, that is trying to crush me! What makes us so
poor and abased as you do?
Today I have been out with the flowers and the birds.
They were so glad because I came. The larks rejoiced;
primroses and violets peeped up everywhere out of the
grass. I preached for a while in the deepest reverence.
Everything listened. The larks stopped above my head to
hear me. What peace the soul feels in the country; every­
thing there understands me so well !
If people were flowers and trees, then they would
understand me too. Yes, they would be much happier
then.
They are bound to the earth and yet do not belong to it.
They are flowers plucked up by the roots. The sun only
burns them; the soil is just waiting for them to become soil.
Nothing here makes them happy; nothing can save them
except the message from heaven which I want to bring
them. Then everything will be explained and the earth
will smell of lilies. Then they will gain peace.
When I came back to the town in the evening, there
were a lot of people collected outside the taverns and they
called for their Saviour, wanted me to preach to them.
But I said that I had been away talking to my God and that
I must go home and think over what he had said.
 T H E M A R R I AGE F E A S T
Perhaps that was not right. But I felt like a stranger and
went home grieving.

0 my heart, how hard it is to live! How heavy to bear is

the calling that has been laid upon me!
This afternoon as I walked along the street deep in
thought, I found myself in the midst of the children who
were corning from school. They flocked around me.
"Look at the Saviour, " they cried, "look at the
Saviour! "
They pressed around from all sides; I had to stop.
Then one of them stretched up his arms and shouted,
"Crucified! Crucified!"
I think someone had taught it to them, for with one
accord they all did the same.
They stretched up their small hands and all around me
their childish voices shouted, "Crucified! Crucified!"
It was as if a sword had pierced my breast. I felt my
heart stand still; the sweat of anguish broke out on my
brow. With their shouting and noise in my ears I forced
my way through them and escaped. I went into the yard of
Lundgren, the carpenter, and wept.

I love children. No one loves them as I do. When I look

into their bright eyes I feel a joy which nothing else on
earth can give. I want them to come to me. Then I would
pick them up on my knee and stroke their hair and they
would lay their warm little cheeks against mine . . . •

I have often see Johansson the baker's little boy do that

when Johansson has sat down to rest in the evening. I have
seen him pat his father's cheek and put his arms around
his neck and they have sat like that for a long time without
a thought for anything else. It has made me long for a little
hand to pat me like that • . . •
 SAVIOUR JOHN 47
But he who is to save mankind walks alone among them
like a stranger. He has no home here, no joy, no sorrow
that belongs to the earth. He is an outcast, for in him burns
the fire that is to consume them. Who is not as they are?
Crucified! Crucified !

Just believe and believe. Believe for them all. Oh, every
evening I am as tired as though I had lived their thousand
lives. I collapse on my bed and fall asleep like an animal.
Only the star burns above my weary body so that I shall
waken again and believe still more.
Why have I been chosen for it? Often as I sit at the
window up here at the workhouse and look out over the
town, I think it is so strange that I of all people shall save
them. I am so lowly; many have greater power and might
on earth than I. The calling weighs me down like a burden
which I am too weak to bear. I want to sink down on my
knees. My soul is filled with such anguish. . . .
Their Saviour surely must not sink down. He must not
feel anguish in his soul.
Oh, why must I, who am weakest of all, believe for
them?

This afternoon as I was walking across the market place,

I met the magistrate. As he passed he nodded kindly.
"Good afternoon, John," he said.
I almost stopped short. . . .
He did not call me the Saviour!
"Good afternoon, John," was all he said. Just John,
nothing else.
No one has called me that since I was a child. Now I
remember, it was my mother who called me that. She
would pick me up on her knee and stroke my PP.ad. I
remember it so well now that I think back. . . .
Good afternoon, John. . . .
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
She was so good to me. I n the evenings she would come
home and light the lamp and prepare the food, and then I
would creep up on her knee. Her hair was quite golden,
her hands nice and white from scrubbing floors all day.
Now I remember it all so well-it is her I carry around my
neck, it is Mother.
Good afternoon, John . . . .
How nice it felt when he said that. So nice and safe. All
seemed to grow quite still inside me, no worry, no fear of
anything.
Just John, nothing else.
Oh, if only I could be like all the others ! If l could take
off the sign of my Saviour's calling and go about like one of
them; just be as they are. Live here quietly and peacefully
with my earthly work, as the others do, day after day; and
in the evening go to bed tired from worldly tasks, which I
have done as I should, not from believing, just believing. . . .
Perhaps I could be a turner at Lundgren the carpenter'a.
Or, if that was difficult, then I could sweep the yard.
And so I would be like them. And there would not
be this fire burning in me any more ! No anguish would
consume me any more.
Just John, nothing else. . . . They would all know so
well who I was, would see me every day going about my
business. John, he's the one who sweeps the yard . . . .
Oh, why must I save them, I who am the poorest and
weakest of all? I who want to live here in peace, so grateful
for the earth which has bidden me here to it. Like a guest,
sunk down on his knees at the rich table; like a flower that
scarcely raises itself above the ground.
0 God, my Father, if it be possible, then let this cup
pass from me!

No, no ! I must not doubt! Not fail them!

What is it that wants to lead my soul astray? What is it
 S AV I OU R J O H N i9
that wants to hurl them all down into an abyss of darkness,
because I fail them?
Something terrible has happened to me! What is it? Do
I not believe any more?
Yes, yes! I believe ! I believe as never before. I shall save
them. It is I, it is I who will save them.
I walk and walk here at night, have no peace. In the
streets, out on the roads, far into the woods and back again.
There is a wind, the clouds are driving before it. Where am
1-my head is burning-! am so tired . . . .
Yes, I believe! I believe ! I shall save them, I shall be
sacrificed for them. Soon, soon . . . .
Why, then, do I feel such anguish? Surely the Saviour of
mankind must not fear and despair as I do?
No, no . . . .
Am I out in the woods again? Don't I hear the trees
soughing? Why am I wandering about here? Why am I
not with the people who are waiting and waiting? . • •

But they don't understand me !

How are they to understand me when I am nothing
but despair and torment? How are they to believe in me
when I wander about in the darkness without peace?
I cannot save them ! It is not I, not I !
Yes, their Saviour is all the anguish and need that they
do not understand. He is like a bird crying in the sky far
above their heads. They hear his cries up there but think
it is not for them, because he is floating so high. Not until
he falls dead and bleeding to earth do they understand
him. Only then can they believe.
Crucified! Crucified!
Yes, I want to be sacrificed, I want to be sacrificed !
They shall be redeemed by my blood, by my poor blood.
Soon, soon it will happen . . . .
Sleep sweetly all small flowers here in the darkness, all
meadows, all trees, all people in the world. Have peace,
dear earth. I shall redeem you.
so T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
I watch over you in the night. All your anguish is mine.
You shall not suffer, not be troubled about anything. I
shall lay down my life for you.
How silent it is here in the wood ! Am I walking on dead
leaves? My footsteps make no sound.
Many flowers and leaves are mouldering now in the
autumn and it is so soft under the trees, silent and soft.
There is a smell of earth.
Is that the clock striking in the town? One-two­
Oh, I am so tired, so tired-1 want to go home.
I must go home now and rest, lie down for a while. They
will be wondering where I am.
I must be coming out on to the road now. It is muddy-
1 think it rained yesterday-how windy it is !
No, it is the bell ringing and ringing ! It booms in the
air. What is it? It sounds terrible. There are a lot of them,
they are tolling and booming as though for Judgment Day!
What is it? I must run !
Fire ! Fire! The flames are leaping up, the sky is blood
red ! The town is on fire! The world is on fire, it is perishing !
0 God, I must save them ! I must save them. They are
waiting for me-isn't he coming, isn't he coming . . . .
Yes, I'm running, I'm running. I am coming to save
them. It's the mud clinging to me. I'm running !
Heaven and earth are on fire ! They are crashing down.
Like a sea of fire. I must save them, I must save them !
My heart, you must not pain me-good heart, don't pain
me so, I cannot run then, cannot breathe-and I must save
them ! You know that I must save them.
Nothing but a blazing sea ! And the storm rages. Heaven
is driving in flames across the world and setting it alight.
Now, now the others are beside me. They are running in
the same direction as I.
"The world is perishing," I shout at them.
"Oh," they reply, "it's only the workhouse."
Yes, it's the workhouse! All those poor people, those who
 SAVIO UR J O HN
hunger and thirst because they cannot believe, they're
burning to death ! They are perishing! Only I can save
them!
My heart, do not hurt so; we are nearly there-soon,
soon. • . .

The flames leap up, the smoke is here in the street, I can
feel the heat . • . .

Now I am there.
The superintendent-a lot of people have collected here.
"I shall save them, I shall save them ! " I shout.
"There's no one there to save!" they call, placing them-
selves in the way. They don't understand me. I rush into
the flames.
The heat almost stuns me. No, I do not sink down­
their Saviour must not sink down. I only stagger at first
- grope my way forward - through the hall -into the
rooms . . . .
It is empty here-they are upstairs . . . .
The smoke nearly stifles me on the stairs. No, no, I do
not sink down. I shall save them-all-all. . . .
Where are they?
I grope my way forward in a daze. The smoke is thick­
the flames leap up-I lurch about. . . .
Where are they?
Old Man Enok who cannot manage by himself-and
Anton whose legs are paralysed-and old Kristina who is
out of her wits-and Samuelsson-and Manfred from the
gaol. • • •

I can't find them . . . .

I creep along the floor. The flames lick after me. There
is a crackling all around me-a roar-it's collapsing. . . .
Where are they? They have moved the furniture out, the
beds, the chairs. . . . It's bare and empty-as though
nobody lived here. Where are they? They can't be here­
only I-<>nly I . . . .
It's on fire! On fire! The beams crash down. The flames
52 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
leap u p everywhere. I rush around. Where are they­
where are they? All the poor-1 can't find them-they're
not here . . . . Only fire and devastation-only 1---only
I. . . .

0 my heart, is it you that is burning? Perhaps it's only

you. I can feel you consuming my body, my breast, my
limbs, until nothing is left but you ! Yes, consume it, con­
sume it! I want only to be you, only you, heart that hungen
and thirsts, only you, fire that devours me!
Nothing else-nothing else-only you. . . .
No-1 can't go on any-any longer. . . . It's the end . . • .

Yes, yes, I sink down-it's the end-end . . . .

0 God, forgive me for not finding the people I was to

save. I can't find them. Forgive a heart that's on fire-only
with longing to be sacrificed-to die-to die . . . .
Yes, I feel that you forgive me. You forgive the heart that
burns for you-you love it-yes, you love it. You let it be
consumed-consumed-you let it have peace-peace . • • •

Crucified! Crucified!
 The Experimental World

0 N C E upon a time there was a world which was not

intended to be a real, proper world but which was only
meant to experiment with this and that, where one could
see by trial and error how everything turned out, what
could be made of it. It was to be like a laboratory, a
research station where various suggestions and ideas could
be tried out to see what they were worth. If anything
chanced to give a satisfactory result, proved to be perfect,
then it w� to be used elsewhere.
A start was made with a little of everything. Plants and
tree• were set out and tended, fertilized with sun. They
grew a bit, then they died out and mouldered away, othen
had to be started. Many animals were tried, they did fairly
well, they developed; but then all at once they stopped
where they were or crept back almost to where they had
begun; everything came to a standstill. But it didn't
matter very much; failures were only to be expected.
Some things were not so bad for all that, and much was
learned.
Then it was seen what could be done with human beings.
It didn't go at all well. They grew a bit, but then they
slipped back again. They could be got so that they seemed
almost perfect, whole nations, great and noble, but all at
once they slipped back, proved to be nothing but animals.
But it didn't matter very much; failures were only to be
expected. The earth was full of bones from all kinds of
human beings who had turned out badly, from nations
that had been a failure. But quite a lot was learned about
how it should not be.
Then came the idea to try just one or two; it was no use
53
54 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
with such a lot o f people. A boy- and a girl-child were
chosen who were to grow up in the most beautiful part of
the earth. They were allowed to run about in the woods
and romp, play under the trees and take delight in every­
thing. They were allowed to become a young man and
woman who loved one another, their happiness was
complete, their eyes met as openly as if their love had been
but a clear summer's day. Even all the human failures
around them saw that there was an unaccountable
splendour about them which made them different from
everything else in the world. And they rejoiced at it; they
could do that at least. Love drew the two lovers together.
It could not remain merely as a beautiful earthly day; it
rose up into a light where the young people felt dizzy,
where they had to shut their eyes or be blinded; their hearts
thumped, their lips quivered. They lay under the rose
trees in the most beautiful part of the earth, in a wonderful
night which had been provided for them. And they fell
asleep in bliss, in the ecstasy and perfect beauty of love,
locked in each other's arms. They awakened no more; they
were dead. They were to be used elsewhere.
The Lift That Went Down into Hell

R S M I T H, a prosperous businessman, opened the

Melegant hotel lift and amorously handed in a gracile
creature smelling of furs and powder. They nestled to­
gether on the soft scat and the lift started downward. The
little lady extended her half-open mouth, which was moist
with wine, and they kissed. They had dined up on the
terrace, under the stars; now they were going out to amuse
themselves.
"Darling, how divine it was up there," she whispered.
"So poetic sitting there with you, like being up among
the stars. That's when you really know what love is. You
do love me, don't you?"
Mr Smith answered with a kiss that lasted still longer;
the lift went down.
"A good thing you came, my darling," he said; "other­
wise I'd have been in an awful state."
"Yes, but you can just imagine how insufferable he was.
The second I started getting ready he asked where I was
going. 'I'll go where I please,' I said. 'I'm no prisoner.'
Then he deliberately sat and stared at me the whole time I
was changing, putting on my new beige-do you think it's
becoming? What do you think looks best, by the way,
perhaps pink after all?"
"Everything becomes you, darling," the man said, "but
I've never seen you so lovely as this evening."
She opened her fur coat with a gratified smile, they
kissed for a long time, the lift went down.
"Then when I was ready to go he took my hand and
squeezed it so that it still hurts, and didn't say a word. He's
so brutal, you've no idea! 'Well, good-bye,' I said. But not a
55
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST

word from him. He's so unreasonable, so frightfully, I

can't stand it."
"Poor little thing," said Mr Smith.
"As though I can't go out for a bit and enjoy myself.
But then he's so deadly serious, you've no idea. He can't
take anything simply and naturally. It's as though it were
a matter of life and death the whole time."
"Poor pet, what you must have gone through."
"Oh, I've suffered terribly. No one has suffered as I
have. Not until I met you did I know what love is."
"Sweetheart," Smith said, hugging her; the lift went
down.
"Fancy," she said, when she had got her breath after the
embrace, "sitting with you up there gazing at the stars
and dreaming--oh, I'll never forget it. You see, the thing
is--Arvid is impossible, he's so everlastingly solemn, he
hasn't a scrap of poetry in him, he has no feeling for it."
"Darling, it's intolerable."
"Yes, isn't it-intolerable. But," she went on, giving him
her hand with a smile, "let's not sit thinking of all that.
We're out to enjoy ourselves. You do really love me?"
"Do I !" he said, bending her back so that she gasped;
the lift went down. Leaning over her he fondled her; she
blushed.
" Let us make love tonight-as never before. Hm?" he
whispered.
She pressed him to her and closed her eyes; the lift went
down.
Down and down it went.
At last Smith got to his feet, his face flushed.
"But what's the matter with the lift?" he exclaimed.
"Why doesn't it stop? We've been sitting here for ever so
long talking, haven't we?"
"Yes, darling, I suppose we have, time goes so quickly."
"Good Heavens, we've been sitting here for ages! What's
the idea?"
 T H E L I FT T H A T W ENT D O W N I N T O H E L L 57
He glanced out through the grill. Nothing but pitch
darkness. And the lift went on and on at a good, even pace,
deeper and deeper down.
"Heaveru alive, what's the idea? It's like dropping down
into an empty pit. And we've been doing this for God
knows how long."
They tried to peep down into the abyss. It was pitch
dark. They just sank and sank down into it.
"This is all going to hell," Smith said.
"Oh dear," the woman wailed, clinging to his arm,
"I'm ao nervous. You'll have to pull the emergency brake."
Smith pulled for all he was worth. It was no good. The
lift merely plunged down and down interminably.
"It's frightful," she cried. "What are we going to do!"
"Yea, what the devil is one to do?" Smith said. "TbiJ is
crazy."
The little lady was in despair and burst into tears.
"There, there, my sweet, don't cry, we must be sensible.
There's nothing we can do. There now, sit down. That's
right, now we'll sit here quietly both of us, close together,
and see what happens. It must stop some time or there'll
be the devil to pay."
They sat and waited.
"Just think of something like this happening," the
woman said. "And we were going out to have fun."
"Yes, it's the very devil," Smith said.
"You do love me, don't you?"
"Darling," Smith said, putting his anns around her; the
lift went down.
At last it stopped abruptly. There was such a bright light
all around that it hurt the eyes. They were in hell. The
Devil slid the grill aside politely.
"Good evening," he said with a deep bow. He was
stylishly dressed in tails that hung on the hairy top vertebra
as on a rusty nail.
Smith and the woman tottered out in a daze. "Where
sB T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
i n God's name are we?" they exclaimed, terrified by the
weird apparition. The Devil, a shade embarrassed, en·
lightened them.
"But it's not as bad as it sounds," he hastened to add.
"I hope you will have quite a pleasant time, I gather it's
just for the night?"
"Yes, yes!" Smith assented eagerly, "it's just for the
night. We're not going to stay, oh no!"
. The little lady clung tremblingly to his arm. The light
was so corrosive and yellowy green that they could hardly
see, and there was a hot smell, they thought. When they
had grown a little more used to it they discovered they
were standing as it were in a square, around which houses
with glowing doorways towered up in the darkness; the
curtains were drawn but they could see through the chinks
that something was burning inside.
"You are the two who love each other?" the Devil
inquired.
"Yes, madly," the lady answered, giving him a look
with her lovely eyes.
"Then this is the way," he said, and asked them to
follow please. They slunk into a murky side street leading
out of the square. An old cracked lantern was hanging
outside a filthy, grease·stained doorway.
"Here it is." He opened the door and retired discreetly.
They went in. A new devil, fat, fawning, with large
breasts and purple powder caked on the moustache around
her mouth, received them. She smiled wheezily, a good­
natured, knowing look in her beady eyes; around the horns
in her forehead she had twined tufts of hair and fastened
them with small blue silk ribbons.
"Oh, is it Mr Smith and the little lady?" she said. "It's
in number eight then." And she gave them a large key.
They climbed the dim, greasy staircase. The stairs were
slippery with fat; it was two flights up. Smith found number
eight and went in. It was a fairly large, musty room. In the
 T H E L I FT T H AT W E N T D O W N I NT O H E L L 59
middle was a table with a grubby cloth; by the wall a bed
with smoothed-down sheets. They thought it all very nice.
They took off their coats and kissed for a long time.
A man came in unobtrusively from another door. He
was dressed like a waiter but his dinner jacket was well cut
and his shirtfront so clean that it gleamed ghostlike in the
semi-darkness. He walked silently, his feet making no
sound, and his movements were mechanical, unconscious
almost. His features were stem, the eyes looking fixedly
straight ahead. He was deathly pale; in one temple he had
a bullet wound. He got the room ready, wiped the dressing­
table, brought in a chamber-pot and a slop-pail.
They didn't take much notice of him, but as he was
about to go, Smith said, "I think we'll have some wine.
Bring us half a bottle of Madeira." The man bowed and
disappeared.
Smith started getting undressed. The woman hesitated.
"He's coming back," she said.
"Pshaw, in a place like this you needn't mind. Just take
your things off." She got out of her dress, pulled up her
panties coquettishly and sat on his knee. It was lovely.
':Just think," she whispered, "sitting here together, you
and I, alone, in such a queer, romantic place. So poetic,
I'll never forget it."
"Sweetheart," he said. They kissed for a long time.
The man came in again, soundlessly. Softly, mechan­
ically, he put down the glasses, poured out the wine. The
light from the table lamp fell on his face. There was nothing
special about him except that he was deathly pale and had
a bullet wound in his temple.
The woman leaped up with a scream.
"Oh my God! Arvid ! Is it you? Is it you? Oh God in
Heaven, he's dead ! He's shot himself!"
The man stood motionless, just staring in front of him.
His face showed no suffering; it was merely stern, very
grave.
6o T H E MARR I A G E FEAST
"But Arvid, what have you done, what have you done!
How could you ! My dear, if I'd suspected anything like
that, you know I'd have stayed at home. But you never tell
me anything. You never said anything about it, not a
word ! How was I to know when you never told me! Oh
my God . . . •"
Her whole body was shaking. The man looked at her as
at a stranger; his gaze was icy and grey, just went straight
through everything. The sallow face gleamed, no blood
came from the wound, there was just a hole there.
"Oh, it's ghastly, ghastly!" she cried. "I won't stay here!
Let's go at once. I can't stand it."
She grabbed her dress, hat and fur coat and rushed out,
followed by Smith. They slipped going down the stairs, she
sat down, got spittle and cigarette ash on her behind.
Downstairs the woman with the moustache was standing,
smiling good-naturedly and knowingly and nodding her
horns.
Out in the street they calmed down a little. The woma.n
put on her clothes, straightened herself, powdered her
nose. Smith put his arm protectingly round her waist,
kissed away the tears that were on the point of falling-he
was so good. They walked up into the square.
The head devil was walking about there, they ran into
him again. "You have been quick," he said. "I hope you've
been comfortable."
"Oh, it was dreadful," the lady said.
"No, don't say that, you can't think that. You should
have been here in the old days, it was different then. Hell
is nothing to complain of now. We do all we can not to
make it too obvious, on the contrary to make it enjoyable."
"Yes," Mr Smith said, "I must say it's a little more
humane anyway, that's true."
"Oh," the Devil said, "we've had everything modern­
ized, completely rearranged, as it should be."
"Yes, of course, you must keep up with the times."
 T H E L I FT T H A T W ENT D O WN INTO H E L L 6 1
"Yes, it's only the soul that suffers nowadays. "
"Thank God for that, " said the lady.
The Devil conducted them politely to the lift. "Good
evening, " he said with a deep bow, "welcome back. " He
shut the grill after them, the lift went up.
"Thank God that's over, " they both said, relieved, and
nestled up to one another on the seat.
"I should never have got through it without you, " she
whispered. He drew her to him, they kissed for a long time.
"Fancy, " she said, when she had got her breath after the
embrace, "his doing such a thing! But he's always had such
queer notions. He's never been able to take things simply
and naturally, as they are. It's as though it were a matter of
life and death the whole time. "
"It's absurd, " Smith said.
"He might have told me! Then I'd have stayed. We
could have gone out another evening instead."
"Yes, of course, " Smith said, "of course we could. "
"But, darling, let's not sit thinking of that, " she
whispered, putting her arms around his neck. "It's over
now."
"Yes, little darling, it's over now. " He clasped her in his
arms; the lift went up.
 Love and Death

NE evening as I was out walking with my sweetheart

O in the street, the door of a gloomy house we were
passing was opened suddenly and a Cupid put one foot out
of the darkness. He was no ordinary little Cupid, but a
large man, heavy and muscular, with hair all over his
body. He most resembled a brutish archer as he stood with
his clumsy cross-bow and aimed at me. He shot an arrow
which hit me in the breast; then he drew in his leg and
shut the door of the house that was like a dark, cheerless
fortress. I sank down; my sweetheart walked on. I don't
think she noticed that I sank down. Had she noticed it she
would certainly have stopped and bent over me and tried
to do something for me. The fact that she walked on meant
that she could not have seen it. My blood ran after her in
the gutter for a while, but stopped when there was none
left.
 The Basement

E have all seen him and see him nearly every day.
WWe don't take much notice of him. Now and then
we pass him as he lies there but pay little attention; it is as
though he should be here, as though he belonged to our
world. I mean Lindgren, the little old man with the
withered legs, the one who drags himself along the streets
and in the parks with the help of his hands. He wears
leather gloves; his legs, too, are covered with leather. The
short-bearded face is marked by suffering which it cannot
quite express; the eyes are small and submissive. We have
all met him, meet him continually. It is as though he were
a part ofourselves. In passing we put a coin in his worn-out
hand; he, too, must live.
But few know much about him other than that he exists.
So I am going to tell you a little more about the old man,
for I know him.
I had often stopped and talked to the old chap for a
while. There was something soothing and good about him
which I seemed to need. I had done this so often that
people must have thought he was an unfortunate relative
of mine. It is not so. There is no distress in our family; only
a grief which is ours and none other's, which we bear
erectly. But I felt I had to stand and talk to him sometimes:
for his sake, so that he would not feel like an outcast, but
also for my own, because he had something to tell me. And
there didn't seem to be any gulfbetween us. I often thought
that ifl had not had any legs to walk with, had had to drag
myself along the ground as he did, it would not have suited
me so badly either. I should have had no reason to think
it strange that this had fallen to my lot. In this way there
63
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
was, after all, something we had i n common.
One evening in the late autumn I came across him in a
park where lovers used to meet. He was lying under a lamp
in order to be seen, stretching out his worn hand though
nobody came. No doubt he thought that love makes people
generous. Actually he didn't know much about this world,
but just lay stretching out his hand somewhere, just lived
here all the same. It had been raining; he was muddy from
the sodden ground and looked tired and ill.
"Hadn't you better be getting home, Lindgren?" I said.
"It's late."
"Yes," he replied, "I suppose I had."
"I'll walk part of the way with you," I said. "Where do
you live?"
He told me, we found that we lived not far from each
other and went the same way.
We crossed a street.
"Isn't it risky," I asked, "when you want to get from one
side to the other?"
"Oh no," he replied. "They're on the lookout for me.
Yesterday a policeman stopped the entire traffic for me to
cross. But he said I'd have to hurry, and you can't wonder.
Oh no, everybody here knows me; they seem to think I
belong here."
We went slowly on. I had to shorten my steps and even
stop occasionally so that he could keep up. It started to
drizzle. He shuffled along at my feet, the muddy hands
scratching against the pavement, the body moving up and
down. It was like an animal dragging itself home to its lair.
Yet it was a human being like myself. I heard him talking
and breathing down there as I was doing, but the street
lamps shone feebly through the mist and I could hardly see
him. I was filled with such pity as I heard him down there,
struggling to keep up.
"Don't you think you have a hard lot to bear, Lindgren?"
I said. "You must often feel it's unfair."
 T H E BA S E M E N T
"No," h e answered from below. "The odd thing is that it
is not so bad as people think. You get used to it. And I was
born with it; it's not as if a healthy grown man suddenly
meets with something unexpected. No, I can't say I have
anything to complain of, if I really come to think of it.
There must be many who arc worse off than I am. I am
spared much that others have to go through. My life is
quiet and secure; the world has been merciful to me. You
must remember that I only come in contact with the good
in it."
"Oh?" I said wonderingly.
"Yes, I only come in contact with good people; they're
the only ones who stop and give me a coin. I know nothing
about the others. They just walk past."
"Well, Lindgren, you know how to make the best of
things," I answered with a s mile.
"But it's true," he said seriously, "and it's something to
be thankful for." I also took it seriously; in fact, realized
that he was right. What a great blessing it was getting to
know only the good in life !
W e went on. Light was coming from a shop i n a base­
ment. "I'm going to buy bread here," he said, creeping
up to the window and knocking. A girl came up with the
parcel, which was all ready. "Good evening, Lindgren,"
she said. "Ugh, what weather! You ought to be getting
home."
"Yes, I'm going," the old chap answered. They nodded
good-bye to each other, and she closed the door after her.
"I always do my shopping in the basement," he said as
we proceeded.
"Yes, I suppose so," I answered.
"People there are always so kind."
"Oh? Yes, perhaps."
"But they are, " he said decidedly.
We struggled through one or two dark, hilly lanes.
"I live in the basement, too, as you can imagine," he
66 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
continued. "It suits me be5t. Our landlord arranged it.
He is a remarkable man."
Then we went through one street after the other, groping
our way along. It had never occurred to me that it was
such a long way home. I felt tired, exhausted. It was as if
I, too, were dragging myself along in the darkness, heavily
and wearily, though I was no cripple. I walked erect, as
one should walk. By the street lamps I saw him crawling
down there; then he disappeared again. I merely heard
his panting breath.
At last we turned into his street, and came up to the
house where he lived. It was large and splendid; nearly all
the windows were lighted. There seemed to be a party on
the first floor. The chandeliers glistened, music penetrated
out into the dismal autumn night and dancing couples
could be seen flitting past. He crept forward to the three or
four steps which led down to where he lived. Beside them
was a window with a piece of curtain and a sardine tin
with flower bulbs. "You'll come down, won't you, and
have a look at my room?" he said.
I had not thought of that. I had not realized I would
have to. I felt strangely heavy at heart. Why should I go
down? We were not close enough friends to warrant it. I
had come with him part of the way because we lived in
much the same direction; I'd had no intention of going
home with him. Why should I go down? But I had to.
It occurred to me that actually I knew the family up
there who were giving the party. It was strange that they
had not invited me; they must have forgotten.
"You don't mind my asking you down, do you?" the
old chap asked, as though remarking on my silence.
"No," I said.
He had misunderstood me. I wanted to go down and see
how he lived; that was why I had come along. I wanted to
go where I was asked.
He shuffled down the steps, got out the key and put it in
 TH E BAS EM ENT
the lock. I noticed that this had been moved lower down so
that he could reach it.
"Our landlord had it done," he said. "He thinks of
everything." The door opened and we went in. When the
light had been put on I looked around the room. It was
small and bare. The floor was cold stone with one or two
bits of carpet on it. In the middle was a table which had
part of the legs sawn off, and two low chairs. In one corner
was the stove, which he could also use for cooking
apparently. Beside it was a shelf that served as a pantry.
The tins were arranged according to height, with labels
on. Pieces of bread he had evidently saved for dipping in
his coffee stood in a row. Around the shelf was a white,
paper lace edging. At one end of the room was his bed,
consisting of a bunk raised off the floor; the bedcover was
clean and nice. Despite all the poverty, every corner of the
room was neat and tidy. I don't know why, but this order­
liness distressed me. Why did he have it like this? Had I
been in his shoes I should have had it dirty and horrible­
just a hole to creep into and hide, like an animal. It would
have been easier then, I thought, to hold out. But it was
clean and tidy everywhere.
It seemed a cosy little home as he crept about busily,
reached up for the flower vase on the table and filled it with
water, slid down again, got a cloth out of a little blue­
painted chest, spread it, got out cups and saucers . It cut
me to the heart to see him doing these homely things. He
had taken off the leather gloves; his hands were flat with
thick skin on the palms. He then lit the fire, blowing on it
so that the flames roared up the pipe ; added coal, took
down the coffee-pot and put it on. I was not allowed to
help him; no, he knew best how it should be. He did it all
with such a deft and practised hand that you could see he
enjoyed it, that he had grown fond of these little tasks. Now
and then he would look up at me good-naturedly. There
was something so warm and secure about him here in his
68 T H E MAR R I A G E F EAST
home; he was not as he was in the street. Soon the coffee­
pot was simmering on the fire and the aroma filled the
room. When it was ready he crept up laboriously on to his
chair and settled down, beaming and contented. He poured
out the coffee and we began to drink. It was nice and
warming. He thought I should eat some bread too, but I
didn't want to take it from him. He himself ate with a
marked solemnity, slowly breaking piece after piece and
carefully picking up all the crumbs. There was such rever­
ence about his meal. His eyes shone; never have I seen a
face so radiant as his, never transfigured in such a tranquil
way.
I felt at once moved and oppressed at seeing him like
this in the midst of his affliction. How could he? I, who
lived the real life, who merely sat here as a temporary
guest in order to see what it was like down here in his lair­
I had no peace. Well, I thought to myself, he probably has
something else he hopes for. He must be one of those who
believe in God and the like, and then anything can be
endured, nothing is hard. And I remembered that I was
going to ask him about this very thing, which forever
weighed me down, which never gave me any peace, which
dragged me down into the depths where I did not want to
be. That was why I had come home with him, to ask him
about it. I didn't belong down here, was only going to ask
him about it.
"Tell me, Lindgren," I said, "when one's life is like
yours, when one has to suffer as you do, I suppose one feels,
more strongly than the rest of us, the need of believing
that there is something outside this world, that there is a
prevailing God who has a higher purpose with what he lays
upon us?"
The old man pondered a moment.
"No," he replied slowly, "not when one's life can be
like mine."
I thought this was strange, distressing to hear. Was he
 THE BASEMENT 6g
not aware of his misery, did he not know how rich and
glorious life should be?
"No," he said, lost in thought, "it is not we who need
him. Even if he existed he could not tell us more than we
already know and are grateful for.
"I have often talked to our landlord about it," he went
on. "He has taught me a great deal. Perhaps you don't
know our landlord here in the house, but you should; he
is a strange man."
"No, I don't know him."
"No, of course not-I see that-but you should."
Oh, I thought, yes, maybe. I didn't know this remark­
able landlord he was talking about; he might well be
something out of the ordinary, but I lived in another house.
I kept my thoughts to myself, however.
"I wonder," the old chap answered me. "He has many
houses-nearly all of them. He owns yours, too, I think."
"Yes," he went on, "he's a great one for managing and
arranging everything. When I came and asked if he could
perhaps house me here, as I, too, had to live somewhere, he
eyed me narrowly for a long time.
'"Wdl, I shall have to put you in the basement,' he
said. 'You can't live up in the house itself.'
" 'No,' I answered, 'I see that.'
" 'I think the basement will suit you,' he said. 'I hope
I'm not mistaken about you? What's your own opinion?'
" 'I think it would do nicely for me there.'
" 'Yes. You know, don't you, that I won't have just
anyone there. No bitterness and hatred, no wicked or un­
dependable people. Upstairs I have to take in all kinds,
many whom I know very little about, but in the basement
I want good, reliable people, people I know and like.
What do you think-do you belong here?'
" 'I'd like very much to think so,' I answered happily.
" 'Well and good. But can you pay the rent?' he said,
for he's strict, too--that he is. 'Everyone must pay; there's
 T H E MARRIAGE FEAST
n o getting out of it, however wretched you arc. You can
have it cheaply, as you're not fit for much. But you must
pay something at all events. How will you scrape it
together?'
" 'I shall have to live on the good people in the world.'
" 'Arc there any?' he asked, looking at me sharply.
" 'There must be many, surely.'
" 'That is right,' he said. 'That is easy to work out for
anyone who really wants to. You arc a man of sense ; you
shall live with me.'
"Yes, he is remarkable, though so simple and natural.
He has helped me over much. I couldn't get on without
him. Every now and then he looks in and sits for a while,
talking. It's such a help. It cheers one up being appreciated.
'You're a worth-while man, Lindgren,' he says. It does
one good to hear that."
He looked at me in glad content. "Arc you a worth­
while man?" he asked.
I made no answer, but looked down at the floor, not
wanting to meet his eyes.
"One should be," he said. "It helps one over a lot to
know that one is."
The room about us was plain but snug. The lamplight
shone over the low table with its sawn-off legs, over the
cloth where his saved-up bread lay, over the bed on which
he took his rest. He paid no attention to my silence. He
was sitting with his own thoughts, I could see.
Then he got down from the chair, saw to the fire, washed
up the cups and put them on the shelf where they belonged;
crept to the bunk and made it ready, folding up the bed­
cover. But when he had folded it across the seat of the
chair and smoothed it, he remained kneeling there.
"It's good when the day is over,'' he said. And one could
sec that he was tired.
"Is it, Lindgren? When life is so full and means so much
to you?"
 T H E BA S E M ENT
"Yes," he answered, looking quietly in front of him,
"life is full. I know that so well, I feel it so surely and firmly
inside me. But each day is heavy to bear.
"I tell you this because I think we understand one
another so well. And one mustn' t pretend to be better than
one is."
He drew a deep breath. Seeing him huddled together
there on his knees, one might have thought he was praying,
but he was just made like that.
I got up quietly to go, went up and thanked him, said
good-night. He thought I should come back when I felt like
it, and I said I should like to. Then he crept with me to the
door and I was standing out in the street again.
The whole house was in darkness now. Even the first
floor where the chandeliers had blazed just now. It could
not have been a real party if it was already over. The old
man's lamp was the only one burning; it lighted me nearly
all the way home.
 The Evil Angel

A N evil angel passed along the deserted streets in the

.tl. middle of the night. The storm howled between the
rows of houses, raged up above in the darkness; there was
not a soul to be seen, only he. He walked hunched against
the wind, coarse and sinewy, tight-lipped. About his body
was a blood-red mantle which concealed the huge wings.
He had broken out of the cathedral; he had stood there
long enough in the musty stench. Century after century
he had smelled the reek of wax candles and incense under
the vaults; century after century he had heard songs of
praise and the mumble of prayers to a god who hung dead
above his head. For centuries he had seen people kneeling
with their eyes raised, gabbling everything they believed
in. This craven mob, stinking of faith in a pack of lies !
This sickening jumble of bewilderment, worry and pitiful
hope of being let off, of still being able to clutch on! Now
he had broken out !
H e had risen out of his fetters and trampled o n the altar
with his sinewy foot, knocking over the holy vessels. He had
stepped down in wrath on to the floor of the church and
kicked aside the hassocks. The saints hung round about
with their pious, ecstatic faces; the relics inside the gratings
smelt decayed ; in a side chapel, where a light was burning,
a child lay on musty straw and a mother of wax knelt
beside it-all this litter of lies and stupidity! Kicking open
the doors, he stood outside in the windy night.
Only he was true !
He walked into the streets, stood and looked about him.
Oh, so this was how they lived-humankind.
He stopped in front of the doorway of a house, looking
72
 T H E E V I L ANG E L 73
up at it with burning eyes. Then he scratched a cross on
the door with the sword he was carrying. "You shall
die !" he said.
Then he went to the next, crouching; the wings attached
to the enormous shoulders gave him the appearance of
being hunchbacked. There, too, he stopped, scratched the
cross again. "You shall die," he said.
So he moved from one house to the next, scratching with
the sword, which was short and thick, as iffor slaughtering.
"You shall die. You shall die. Andyou shall die. Andyou
shall die.
"And you!"
He went on through the whole town, battling against
the wind, forgetting no one.
When he had finished he went outside the ramparts, out
into the night where no one lived. There he threw off his
mantle and stood naked. And spreading out his wings he
flew away into the wide open darkness.
When people awoke in the morning they were all
surprised to find a cross drawn on their houses. But they
were not frightened. They wondered how it had happened
and why it had been done; talked about it before going as
usual to their work. Why had this well-known sign been
carved everywhere? There was so much else of greater
importance of which to remind them.
They knew quite well that they were going to die, they
said.
 The Princess and All the Kinsdom

NCE upon a time there was a prince, who went out

O to fight in order to win the princess whose beauty was
greater than all others' and whom he loved above every­
thing. He dared his life, he battled his way step by step
through the country, ravaging it; nothing could stop him.
He bled from his wounds but merely cast himselffrom one
fight to the next, the most valiant nobleman to be seen and
with a shield as pure as his own young features. At last he
stood outside the city where the princess lived in her royal
castle. It could not hold out against him and had to beg
for mercy. The gates were thrown open; he rode in as
conqueror.
When the princess saw how proud and handsome he was
and thought of how he had dared his life for her sake, she
could not withstand his power but gave him her hand. He
knelt and covered it with ardent kisses. "Look, my bride,
now I have won you !" he exclaimed, radiant with happi­
ness. "Look, everything I have fought for, now I have
won it!"
And he commanded that their wedding should take
place this same day. The whole city decked itself out for
the festival and the wedding was celebrated with rejoicing,
pomp and splendour.
When in the evening he went to enter the princess's bed­
chamber, he was met outside by the aged chancellor, a
venerable man. Bowing his snow-white head, he tendered
the keys of the kingdom and the crown of gold and precious
stones to the young conqueror.
"Lord, here are the keys of the kingdom which open the
74
 TH E PRINCESS AND ALL TH E K I NG D O M 75
treasuries where everything that now belongs to you is kept."
The prince frowned.
"What is that you say, old man? I do not want your keys.
I have not fought for sordid gain. I have fought merely to
win her whom I love, to win that which for me is the only
costly thing on earth."
The old man replied, "This, too, you have won, lord.
And you cannot set it aside. Now you must administer
and look after it."
"Do you not understand what I say? Do you not under­
stand that one can fight, can conquer, without asking any
reward other than one's happiness-not fame and gold, not
land and power on earth? Well, then, I have conquered but
ask for nothing, only to live happily with what, for me, is
the only thing of value in life."
"Yes, lord, you have conquered. You have fought your
way forward as the bravest of the brave, you have shrunk
from nothing, the land lies ravaged where you have passed
by. You have won your happiness. But, lord, others have
been robbed of theirs. You have conquered, and therefore
everything now belongs to you. It is a big land, fertile and
impoverished, mighty and laid waste, full of riches and
need, full ofjoy and sorrow, and all is now yours. For he
who has won the princess and happiness, to him also
belongs this land where she was born; he shall govern and
cherish it."
The prince stood there glowering and fingering the hilt
of his sword uneasily.
"I am the prince of happiness, nothing else!" he burst
out. "Don't want to be anything else. If you get in my way,
then I have my trusty sword."
But the old man put out his hand soothingly and the
young man's arm sank. He looked at him searchingly, with
a wise man's calm.
"Lord, you are no longer a prince," he said gently. "You
arc a king."
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
And lifting the crown with his aged hands, he put it on
the other's head.
When the young ruler felt it on his brow he stood silent
and moved, more erect than before. And gravely, with his
head crowned for power on earth, he went in to his
beloved to share her bed.
 Paradise
�

A N D the Lord said: "Now I have arranged things for

.tl.you here as best I can; planted rice, peas and potatoes,
many edible plants which you will find useful, various kinds
of grain for baking bread, cocoanut palms, sugar cane and
turnips; marked out ground suitable for pasture land and
gardening; provided animals that are easy to tame and
wild animals for hunting; laid out plains, valleys and
mountainous regions, terraces that can well be used for
growing grapes and olives; set out pines, eucalyptus trees
and fair acacia groves; devised birch woods, lotus flowers
and breadfruit trees, violet slopes and wild strawberry
patches; invented the sunshine-which you'll find will
please you; put the moon in the heavens so that you'll have
something to go by till you're big enough to get a clock;
hung up the stars to guide you on the sea and lead your
thoughts-those that are not of the earth; seen that there
are clouds to give rain and shade, thought out the seasons
and determined their pleasant changing, and one thing
and another. I hope you will like it.
"But remember to eat of the tree of knowledge, so that
you will be really sensible and wise."
And the first human beings bowed deeply and humbled
themselves before their Lord. "Thank you very much,"
they said.
They began to dig and cultivate the soil, to reap,
multiply themselves and fill the whole of paradise, and
they liked it very much. They ate freely of the tree of
knowledge, as the Lord had told them, but did not grow
noticeably sensible. They became very sly and artful and
intelligent, and well-informed and excellent in many
77
 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
ways, but they did not become sensible. And this made
their existence increasingly complicated and troublesome,
and they got into more and more of a muddle.
At last a resolute man appeared who was grieved by the
way things were going, and he stepped forward before the
Lord and said: "The people are behaving so strangely
down there, it seems to me; it's true they grow more in­
telligent and shrewd every day, but they prefer to turn
their cunning and great learning to evil and senseless uses;
I don't know, but there must be something wrong with the
tree of knowledge."
"What," said the Lord, "something wrong with the tree
of knowledge, did you say? Certainly not. It must be like
that, don't you see? It's the best I could do. If you think
you know what it ought to be like, then please say."
No, he didn't know. But all was not as it should be down
there, and however well-thought-out the tree ofknowledge
might be, it did seem as though eating from it made them
a little foolish.
"But the tree cannot be otherwise," the Lord said.
"Admittedly, it's rather complicated learning how to eat
of it, but it must be complicated; it can't be helped. Some
things you must find out for yourselves, or what's the point
of your existence? You can't be spoon-fed the whole time.
Personally, I think the tree is the finest thing I've created,
and if you don't show yourselves worthy of it, human life
won't be much to speak of. Tell them that."
And with that answer the man had to be content.
But when he had gone the Lord sat there quite distressed.
If they had found fault with anything else he had made, it
wouldn't have mattered so much, but the tree ofknowledge
was especially dear to his heart, perhaps because it had
been so much more difficult to make than the other trees
and everything else on the earth. Like the great artist he
was, he was thinking at this moment not of his generally
recognized achievements but only of this misunderstood
 PARA D I S E 79
work into which he thought he had secretly put his whole
soul, without having any joy of it. And just because this
very work of his seemed to him so extremely important, he
couldn't imagine that humanity could do without it­
its real, deep significance.
And perhaps he was right. He was, after all, a great
creative spirit and ought to know best himself. He ought
to know what he had put his soul into.
He sat thinking that people were ungrateful to him and
his most outstanding work.
It is not easy to know how long he sat thus. Perhaps
time passes quickly in eternity and the wingbeats of the
Lord's thought are perhaps as thousands of years for us.
Then a man came again before him, but this time it was
the archangel Gabriel himself who came.
"You have no idea what it's like down in paradise," he
said. "It is quite incredible. They are trying to destroy
everything for you and they think of the worst imaginable
deeds of villainy to bring it about. There is a deafening
noise and they hurl the hideous fruits of the tree of know­
ledge at each other so that they burst with a horrible roar,
and, worst of all, uproot all the vegetation. They bluster
and brag so that it's shameful to hear them and they say
they're much cleverer than God himself, for they invent
much greater things than you, and they have frightful
monsters that shatter everything in their path, everything
that you have created, and in the air they have huge
imitation birds that vomit fire and devastation. I have
never been in hell-l'm glad to say-but that's what it
must look like. It is an abomination. And it's all the fault of
that tree of knowledge. You should never have given it to
them-and come to that, I said so from the outset. Think
what you like, but have a look at how things are there !"
And the Lord looked down on to the earth and saw that
it was true. Then wrath was kindled in his mighty, pained
creator's soul and lightning flashed from his eyes and he
Bo T H E MARRIAG E FEAST
sent out his hosts and they drove the people out, together
with all their evil and devilish works, into the great desert
of Savi, where nothing grows. And he set a fence around
paradise, and two angels at its gate, each with his machine
gun and flaming sword. And the desert lay right next to
paradise and the fence round about.
Inside, life was delightful with its sun and verdure, fresh
and springlike now that the people had been driven out;
the meadows smelled sweet and the air was full of bird
song. And the banished stood looking in between the bars
and saw it, but they could not get in.
And the angels-those who were not on guard-retired
to rest after the battle and fell asleep, exhausted. But under
the best-loved tree in paradise the Lord sat in deep con­
templation, and its branches shaded him with their great
peace.
 The Children's Campaian

V E N the children at that time received military

E training, were assembled in army units and exercised
just as though on active service, had their own headquarters
and annual manreuvres when everything was conducted
as in a real state of war. The grown-ups had nothing
directly to do with this training; the children actually
exercised themselves and all command was entrusted to
them. The only use made of adult experience was to
arrange officers' training courses for specially suitable
boys, who were chosen with the greatest care and who were
then put in charge of the military education of their
comrades in the ranks.
These schools were of high standing and there was
hardly a boy throughout the land who did not dream of
going to them. But the entrance tests were particularly
hard; not only a perfect physique was required but also a
highly developed intelligence and character. The age of
admission was six to seven years and the small cadets then
received an excellent training, both purely military and in
all other respects, chiefly the further moulding of character.
It was also greatly to one's credit in after life to have passed
through one of these schools. It was really on the splendid
foundation laid here that the quality, organization and
efficiency of the child army rested.
Thereafter, as already mentioned, the grown-ups in no
way interfered but everything was entrusted to the children
themselves. No adult might meddle in the command, in
organizational details or matters of promotion. Everything
was managed and supervised by the children; all decisions,
even the most vital, being reached by their own little
81
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
general staff. No one over fourteen was allowed. The boys
then passed automatically into the first age-group of the
regular troops with no mean military training already
behind them.
The large child army, which was the object of the whole
nation's love and admiration, amounted to three army
corps of four divisions: infantry, light field artillery,
medical and service corps. All physically fit boys were
enrolled in it and a large number of girls belonged to it as
nurses, all volunteers.
Now it so happened that a smaller, quite insignificant
nation behaved in a high-handed and unseemly way
toward its powerful neighbour, and the insult was all the
greater since this nation was by no means an equal.
Indignation was great and general and, since people's
feelings were running high, it was necessary to rebuke the
malapert and at the same time take the chance to sub­
jugate the country in question. In this situation the child
army came forward and through its high command asked
to be charged with the crushing and subduing of the foe.
The news of this caused a sensation and a wave of fervour
throughout the country. The proposal was given serious
consideration in supreme quarters and as a result the
commission was given, with some hesitation, to the chil­
dren. It was in fact a task well suited to this army, and the
people's obvious wishes in the matter had also to be met,
if possible.
The Foreign Office therefore sent the defiant country an
unacceptable ultimatum and, pending the reply, the child
army was mobilized within twenty-four hours. The reply
was found to be unsatisfactory and war was declared
immediately.
Unparalleled enthusiasm marked the departure for the
front. The intrepid little youngsters had green sprigs in the
barrels of their rifles and were pelted with flowers. As is so
often the case, the campaign was begun in the spring, and
 T H E C H I L D R E N' S C A M PA I G N 83
this time the general opinion was that there was something
symbolic in it. In the capital the little commander-in-chief
and chief of general staff, in the presence of huge crowds,
made a passionate speech to the troops in which he ex­
pressed the gravity of the hour and his conviction of their
unswerving valour and willingness to offer their lives for
their country.
The speech, made in a strong voice, aroused the greatest
ecstasy. The boy-who had a brilliant career behind him
and had reached his exalted position at the age of only
twelve and a half-was acclaimed with wild rejoicing and
from this moment was the avowed hero of the entire
nation. There was not a dry eye, and those of the many
mothers especially shone with pride and happiness. For
them it was the greatest day in their lives. The troops
marched past below fluttering banners, each regiment
with its music corps at the head. It was an unforgettable
spectacle.
There were also many touching incidents, evincing a
proud patriotism, as when a little four-year-old, who had
been lifted up on his mother's arm so that he could see,
howled with despair and shouted, "I want to go, too. I
want to go, too !" while his mother tried to hush him, ex­
plaining that he was too small. "Small am I, eh?" he
exclaimed, punching her face so that her nose bled. The
evening papers were full of such episodes showing the
mood of the people and of the troops who were so sure of
victory. The big march past was broadcast and the C.-in-C.'s
speech, which had been recorded, was broadcast every
evening during the days that followed, at 7 . 1 5 p.m.
Military operations had already begun, however, and
reports of victory began to come in at once from the front.
The children had quickly taken the offensive and on one
sector of the front had inflicted a heavy defeat on the
enemy, seven hundred dead and wounded and over twelve
hundred prisoners, while their own losses amounted to
 T H E M A R R I AGE F E A S T
only a hundred or so fallen. The victory was celebrated at
home with indescribable rejoicing and with thanksgiving
services in the churches. The newspapers were filled with
accounts of individual instances of valour and pictures
several columns wide of the high command, of which the
leading personalities, later so well-known, began to appear
now for the first time. In their joy, mothers and aunts sent
so much chocolate and other sweets to the army that head­
quarters had to issue a strict order that all such parcels
were, for the time being at any rate, forbidden, since they
had made whole regiments unfit for battle and these in
their turn had nearly been surrounded by the enemy.
For the child army was already far inside enemy
territory and still managed to keep the initiative. The
advance sector did retreat slightly in order to establish
contact with its wings, but only improved its positions by
so doing. A stalemate ensued in the theatre of war for some
time after this.
During July, however, troops were concentrated for a
big attack along the whole line and huge reserves-the
child army's, in comparison with those of its opponent,
were almost inexhaustible-were mustered to the front.
The new offensive, which lasted for several weeks, resulted,
too, in an almost decisive victory for the whole army, even
though casualties were high. The children defeated the
enemy all along the line, but did not manage to pursue
him and thereby exploit their success to the full, because
he was greatly favoured by the fact that his legs were so
much longer, an advantage of which he made good use.
By dint of forced marches, however, the children finally
succeeded in cutting the enemy's right flank to pieces.
They were now in the very heart of the country and their
outposts were only a few days' march from the capital.
It was a pitched battle on a big scale and the newspapers
had enormous headlines every day which depicted the
dramatic course of events. At set hours the radio broadcast
 T H E C H I L D R E N'S C A M PA I G N Bs
the gunfire and a resume of the position. The war corre­
spondents described in rapturous words and vivid colours
the state of affairs at the front-the children's incredible
feats, their indomitable courage and self-sacrifice, the
whole morale of the army. It was no exaggeration. The
youngsters showed the greatest bravery; they really be­
haved like heroes. One only had to see their discipline and
contempt of death during an attack, as though they had
been grown-up men at least.
It was an unforgettable sight to see them storm ahead
under murderous machine-gun fire and the small medical
orderlies dart nimbly forward and pick them up as they
fell. Or the wounded and dying who were moved behind
the front, those who had had a leg shot away or their bellies
ripped open by a bayonet so that their entrails hung out­
but without one sound of complaint crossing their small
lips. The hand-to-hand fighting had been very fierce and
a great number of children fell in this, while they were
superior in the actual firing. Losses were estimated at 4000
on the enemy side and 7000 among the children, according
to the secret reports. The victory had been hard won but
all the more complete.
This battle became very famous and was also of far
greater importance than any previously. It was now clear
beyond all doubt that the children were incomparably
superior in tactics, discipline and individual courage. At
the same time, however, it was admitted by experts that
the enemy's head-long retreat was very skilfully carried
out, that his strength was evidently in defence and that he
should not be underrated too much. Toward the end, also,
he had unexpectedly made a stubborn resistance which had
prevented any further penetration.
This observation was not without truth. In actual fact
the enemy was anything but a warlike nation, and indeed
his forces found it very difficult to hold their own. Never­
theless, they improved with practice during the fighting
 86 T H E MARRIAGE FEAST
and became more efficient as time went on. This meant
that they caused the children a good deal of trouble in
each succeeding battle. They also had certain advantages
on their side. As their opponents were so small, for instance,
it was possible after a little practice to spit several of them
on the bayonet at once, and often a kick was enough to fell
them to the ground.
But against this, the children were so much more
numerous and also braver. They were everywhere. They
swarmed over one and in between one's legs and the un­
warlike people were nearly demented by all these small
monsters who fought like fiends. Little fiends was also
what they were generally called-not without reason­
and this name was even adopted in the children's home­
land, but there it was a mark of honour and a pet name.
The enemy troops had all their work cut out merely defend­
i ng themselves. At last, however, they were able to check
the others' advance and even venture on one or two
counter-attacks. Everything then came to a standstill for
a while and there was a breathing-space.
The children were now in possession of a large part of
the country. But this was not always so easy. The popula­
tion did not particularly like them and proved not to be
very fond of children. It was alleged that snipers fired on
the boys from houses and that they were ambushed when
they moved in small detachments. Children had even been
found impaled on stakes or with their eyes gouged out, so
it was said. And in many cases these stories were no doubt
true. The population had quite lost their heads, were
obviously goaded into a frenzy, and as they were of little
use as a warlike nation and their cruelty could therefore
find no natural outlet, they tried to revenge themselves by
atrocities. They felt overrun by all the foreign children as
by troublesome vermin and, being at their wits' end, they
simply killed whenever they had the chance. In order to
put an end to these outrages the children burned one
 T H E C H I L D R E N'S C A M PA I G N 87
village after the other and shot hundreds of people daily,
but this did not improve matters. The despicable deeds of
these craven guerrillas caused them endless trouble.
At home, the accounts of all this naturally aroused the
most bitter resentment. People's blood boiled to think that
their small soldiers were treated in this way by those who
had nothing to do with the war, by barbarous civilians
who had no notion of established and judicial forms. Even
greater indignation was caused, however, by an incident
that occurred inside the occupied area some time after the
big summer battle just mentioned.
A lieutenant who was out walking in the countryside
came to a stream where a large, fat woman knelt washing
clothes. He asked her the way to a village close by. The
woman, who probably suspected him of evil intent, re­
torted, "What are you doing here? You ought to be at
home with your mother." Whereupon the lieutenant drew
his sabre to kill her, but the woman grabbed hold of him
and, putting him over her knee, thwacked him black and
blue with her washboard so that he was unable to sit down
for several days afterward. He was so taken aback that he
did nothing, armed though he was to the teeth. Luckily no
one saw the incident, but there were orders that all outrages
on the part of the population were to be reported to head­
quarters. The lieutenant therefore duly reported what had
happened to him. True, it gave him little satisfaction, but
as he had to obey orders he had no choice. And so it all
came out.
The incident aroused a storm of rage, particularly among
those at home. The infamous deed was a humiliation for
the country, an insult which nothing could wipe out. It
implied a deliberate violation by this militarily ignorant
people of the simplest rules of warfare. Everywhere, in the
press, in propaganda speeches, in ordinary conversation,
the deepest contempt and disgust for the deed was ex­
pressed. The lieutenant who had so flagrantly shamed the
88 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
army had his officer's epaulettes ripped off in front of the
assembled troops and was declared unworthy to serve any
longer in the field. He was instantly sent home to his
parents, who belonged to one of the most noted families
but who now had to retire into obscurity in a remote part
of the country.
The woman, on the other hand, became a heroic figure
among her people and the object of their rapturous ad­
miration. During the whole of the war she and her deed
were a rallying national symbol which people looked up to
and which spurred them on to further effort. She subse­
quently became a favourite motif in the profuse literature
about their desperate struggle for freedom; a vastly popular
figure, brought to life again and again as time passed, now
in a rugged, everyday way which appealed to the man in
the street, now in heroic female form on a grandiose scale,
to become gradually more and more legendary, wreathed
in saga and myth. In some versions she was shot by the
enemy; in others she lived to a ripe old age, loved and
revered by her people.
This incident, more than anything else, helped to
increase the bad feelings between the two countries and to
make them wage the war with ever greater ruthlessness.
In the late summer, before the autumn rains began, both
armies, ignorant of each other's plans, simultaneously
launched a violent offensive, which devastated both sides.
On large sectors of the front the troops completely anni­
hilated each other so that there was not a single survivor
left. Any peaceful inhabitants thereabouts who were still
alive and ventured out of their cellars thought that the
war was over, because all were slain.
But soon new detachments came up and began fighting
again. Great confusion arose in other quarters from the
fact that in the heat of attack men ran past each other and
had to turn around in order to go on fighting; and that
some parts of the line rushed ahead while others came
 T H E C H I L D R E N' S C A M PA I G N 8g
behind, so that the troops were both in front of and behind
where they should have been and time and again attacked
each other in the rear. The battle raged in this way with
extreme violence and shots were fired from all directions
at once.
When at last the fighting ceased and stock was taken of
the situation, it appeared that no one had won. On both
sides there was an equal number of fallen, 1 2,924, and
after all attacks and retreats the position of the armies was
exactly the same as at the start of the battle. It was agreed
that both should claim the victory. Thereafter the rain set
in and the armies went to earth in trenches and put up
barbed-wire entanglements.
The children were the first to finish their trenches, since
they had had more to do with that kind of thing, and
settled down in them as best they could. They soon felt at
home. Filthy and lousy, they lived there in the darkness as
though they had never done anything else. With the adapt­
ability of children they quickly got into the way of it. The
enemy found this more difficult; he felt miserable and
home-sick for the life above ground to which he was
accustomed. Not so the children. When one saw them in
their small grey unifonns, which were caked thick with
mud, and their small gas masks, one could easily think
they had been born to this existence. They crept in and out
of the holes down into the earth and scampered about the
passages like mice. When their burrows were attacked they
were instantly up on the parapet and snapped back in
blind fury. As the months passed, this hopeless, harrowing
life put endurance to an increasingly severe test. But they
never lost courage or the will to fight.
For the enemy the strain was often too much; the glaring
pointlessness of it all made many completely apathetic. But
the little ones did not react like this. Children are really
more fitted for war and take more pleasure in it, while
grown-ups tire of it after a while and think it is boring. The
go TH E M A R R I A G E FEAST
boys continued to find the whole thing exciting and they
wanted to go on living as they were now. They also had a
more natural herd instinct; their unity and camaraderie
helped them a great deal, made it easier to hold out.
But, of course, even they suffered great hardship.
Especially when winter set in with its incessant rain, a cold
sleet which made everything sodden and filled the trenches
with mud. It was enough to unman anyone. But it would
never have entered their heads to complain. However bad
things were, nothing could have made them admit it. At
home everyone was very proud of them. All the cinemas
showed parades behind the front and the little C.-in-C. and
his generals pinning medals for bravery on their soldiers'
breasts. People thought of them a great deal out there, of
their little fiends, realizing that they must be having a hard
time.
At Christmas, in particular, thoughts went out to them,
to the lighted Christmas trees and all the sparkling childish
eyes out in the trenches; in every home people sat wonder­
ing how they were faring. But the children did not think
of home. They were soldiers out and out, absorbed by their
duty and their new life. They attacked in several places on
the morning of Christmas Eve, inflicting fairly big losses on
the enemy in killed and wounded, and did not stop until it
was time to open their parcels. They had the real fighting
spirit which might have been a lesson even to adults.
There was nothing sentimental about them. The war
had hardened and developed them, made them men. It
did happen that one poor little chap burst into tears when
the Christmas tree was lighted, but he was made the laugh­
ing-stock of them all. "Are you homesick for your mummy,
you bastard?" they said, and kept on jeering at him all
evening. He was the object of their scorn all through
Christmas; he behaved suspiciously and tried to keep to
himself. Once he walked a hundred yards away. from the
post and, because he might well have been thinking of
 T H E C H I L D R E N'S C A M PA I G N 91
flight, he was seized and court-martialled. He could give
no reason for having absented himself, and since he had
obviously intended to desert he was shot.
If those at home had been fully aware of the morale out
there, they need not have worried. As it was, they wondered
if the children could really hold their ground and half­
regretted having entrusted them with the campaign, now
that it was dragging on so long because of this nerve-rack­
ing stationary warfare. After the New Year help was even
offered in secret, but it was rejected with proud indignation.
The morale of the enemy, on the other hand, was not so
high. They did intend to fight to the last man, but the
certainty of a complete victory was not so general as it
should have been. They could not help thinking, either,
how hopeless their fight really was; that in the long run
they could not hold their own against these people who
were armed to the very milk teeth, and this often dampened
their courage.
Hardly had nature begun to come to life and seethe with
the newly awakened forces of spring before the children
started with incredible intensity to prepare for the decisive
battle. Heavy mechanized artillery was brought up and
placed in strong positions; huge troop movements went on
night and day; all available fighting forces were con­
centrated in the very front lines. Mter murderous gunfire
which lasted for six days, an attack was launched with great
force and extreme skill. Individual bravery was, if poss­
ible, more dazzling than ever. The whole army was also a
year older, and that means much at that age. But their
opponents, too, were determined to do their utmost. They
had assembled all their reserves, and their spirits, now that
the rain had stopped and the weather was fine, were full
of hope.
It was a terrible battle. The hospital trains immediately
started going back from both sides packed with wounded
and dying. Machine guns, tanks and gas played fearful
 T H E MA R R I A G E FEAST
havoc. For several days the outcome was impossible to
foresee, since both armies appeared equally strong and the
tide of battle constantly changed. The position gradually
cleared, however. The enemy had expected the main
attack in the centre, but the child army turned out to be
weakest there. Use was made of this, especially because
they themselves were best prepared at this very point, and
this part of the children's front was soon made to waver
and was forced farther and farther back by repeated attack.
Advantage was also taken of an ideal evening breeze from
just the right quarter to gas the children in thousands.
Encouraged by their victory, the troops pursued the
offensive with all their might and with equal success.
The child army's retreat, however, turned out to be a
stratagem, brilliantly conceived and carried out. Its centre
gave way more and more and the enemy, giving all his
attention to this, forgot that at the same time he himself
was wavering on both wings. In this way he ran his head
into a noose. When the children considered that they had
retreated far enough they halted, while the troops on the
outermost wings, already far ahead, advanced swiftly until
they met behind the enemy's back. The latter's entire
army was thereby surrounded and in the grip of an iron
hand. All the children's army had to do now was to draw
the noose tighter. At last the gallant defenders had to
surrender and let themselves be taken prisoner, which in
fact they already were. It was the most disastrous defeat
in history; not a single one escaped other than by death.
This victory became much more famous than any of the
others and was eagerly studied at all military academics
on account of its brilliantly executed, doubly effective
encircling movement. The great general Sludelsnorp
borrowed its tactics outright seventy years later at his
victory over the Slivokvarks in the year 2048.
The war could not go on any longer now, because there
was nothing left to fight, and the children marched to the
 T H E C H I L D R E N'S C A M PA I G N 93
capital with the imprisoned army between them to dictate
the peace terms. These were handed over by the little
commander-in-chief in the hall of mirrors in the stately old
palace at a historic scene which was to be immortalized
time and again in art and even now was reproduced every­
where in the weekly press. The film cameras whirred, the
flashlights hissed and the radio broadcast the great
moment to the world. The commander-in-chief, with
austere and haughty mien and one foot slightly in front of
the other, delivered the historic document with his right
hand. The first and most important condition was the
complete cession of the country, besides which the expenses
of its capture were to be borne by the enemy, who thus
had to pay the cost of the war on both sides, the last clause
on account of the fact that he had been the challenging
party and, according to his own admission, the cause of the
war. The document was signed in dead silence, the only
sound was the scratching of the fountain pen, which,
according to the commentator's whisper, was solid gold
and undoubtedly a future museum piece.
With this, everything was settled and the children's army
returned to its own country, where it was received with
indescribable rapture. Everywhere along the roads the
troops were greeted with wild rejoicing; their homecoming
was one long victory parade. The march into the capital
and the dismissal there of the troops, which took place
before vast crowds, were especially impressive. People
waved and shouted in the streets as they passed, were
beside themselves with enthusiasm, bands played, eyes
were filled with tears ofjoy. Some of the loudest cheering
was for the small invalids at the rear of the procession,
blind and with limbs amputated, who had sacrificed them­
selves for their country. Many of them had already got
small artificial arms and legs so that they looked just the
same as before. The victory salute thundered, bayonets
flashed in the sun. It was an unforgettable spectacle.
94 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
A strange, new leaf wac; written i n the great book of
history which would be read with admiration in time to
come. The nation had seen many illustrious deeds per­
formed, but never anything as proud as this. What these
children had done in their devotion and fervent patriotism
could never be forgotten.
Nor was it. Each spring, on the day of victory, school
children marched out with flags in their hands to the
cemeteries with all the small graves where the heroes rested
under their small white crosses. The mounds were strewn
with flowers and passionate speeches were made, remind­
ing everyone of the glorious past, their imperishable
honour and youthful, heroic spirit of self-sacrifice. The
flags floated in the sun and the voices rang out clear as
they sang their rousing songs, radiant childish eyes looking
ahead to new deeds of glory.
 God's Little Travelling Salesman

H E train clattered along on the little branch line,

Tknocking the buffers and jolting the sweaty passengers.
It was the height of summer, the sun blazed down, beating
in through the rattling windows and making the thin metal
walls hot to the touch.
"Yes, ungodliness is rampant in the world, you can
hardly sell a thing," a little man of about forty said to him­
self as he sat squeezed in among the others in a third-class
carriage. "It is grievous to see. People don't need God's
word nowadays. And they're stingy too. When it comes to
anything like that they haven't a penny to spare. It's just
the same in town. Business is as bad there, of course. But it
doesn't matter, as long as jesus is with us. It is good to have
him. To know that you are in his service. It's glorious to
have been chosen for something like that. . . . Awful the
heat here. All the windows are shut because of the draught.
Yes, that must be why."
He leaned against the smoky windowpane and looked
out. The sparse, monotonous countryside crawled past,
swamps with one or two stunted firs in the tussocks, slopes
with juniper and bilberry, now and again a wood which
lasted for a while, and then swamps again. Here and there
was a cottage with a patch of tilled ground, but there
was never anyone to be seen. It was a poor part of the
country. Silly to come here really. But they needed God's
word so badly. Though it was even worse elsewhere. When
folk become prosperous they have little use for Jesus. It was
glorious to spread the word among those who hungered for
it, to go forward as a sower over this stony ground. It was a
great and blessed mission. Of a truth he was chosen for it.
95
g6 TH E MARR I A G E FEAST
In the town there were supposed to be a lot of saved and as
a rule they were fairly well off. Things ought to go better
there. But they were probably stingy too. They usually
were. And they had their mission bookshop there of course.
But as long as Jesus is with us it's all right. As long as he
blesses our work. Yes, it's good to be able to lay our
sorrows on him. It's not always so easy to be his instrument
in this world.
He looked at the people in the compartment to see if
there were any who appeared to be saved. It was hard to
say. They stared straight in front of them the whole time
and didn't speak. Their faces were lean, ugly, void of
thought. When the train lurched they bumped against
each other and then sat motionless again. They seemed
rather tired and sweated in the heat. Opposite him were a
farm hand and a middle-aged peasant woman, asleep.
The farm hand was healthy and coarse and had a flushed
face; his legs were stuck straight out under the other seat
and he breathed heavily in his sleep. The woman was
huddled in the corner, thin and wizened, there was no
sound of her breathing and no sign either; the toothless
mouth was open, gaping like a hole, as if she were dead.
It was hard to say what was their relationship to God,
whether they had received their Saviour's grace.
Yes, they probably had bad preachers in this out-of-the­
way part of the world. He had heard one on Sunday who
was not up to much. It depended a lot on the servant God
chose. Yes, the man had had no delivery at all, just stood
talking in a meek voice, and he himself couldn't help
thinking that if he, Emmanuel Olsson . . .
But what was the use . . . . It was long ago. No, he was
not cut out for a preacher.
But at least he had had the gift for it! No doubt of that.
He could seize people's souls, carry them with him. 'When
the spirit came upon him, he spoke so that they were
moved. He was moved himself by his words, so no wonder
G O D'S L I TT L E T R A V E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 97
they were, too. People came from all over the place. Of
course they thought he was not worth hearing. He was not
wanted anywhere. That's the way of the world.
But it didn't matter. He had served his God anyway. He
had done his best. We all have our failings, we're only
human.
Anyway, it was just as well he had stopped that preach­
ing. For his own salvation it was best. All that speaking had
filled him with the sin of pride, which is the worst of all.
It cut him to the heart to see these poor people here in
the third class, sitting so dumb, so poor and barren in
spirit. He would like to have preached to them, spoken to
them of their Saviour, given them solace in their silent
need. But it was not his business. He was not fitted for it.
Still, he did what little he could through his work, tried to
spread God's message, his words of comfort among these
poor unfortunates who toiled and eked out an existence
here in the backwoods. Even so, perhaps a few seeds fell
on good ground.
The train stopped at a station and some men entered the
compartment. They were rather noisy. "Nice and warm
for you bastards in here, isn't it?" one of them said as he
came in. They were a little drunk, it seemed. One had a
bottle in an inside pocket and they went on drinking as
soon as they sat down. When the conductor came the men
put the bottle under the seat. They talked at the top of
their voices and the whole compartment woke up, came
to life ; everyone sat listening to the stupid things they said
and all the faces were grinning broadly. A girl had to look
out of the window because of the things they said. The
peasant woman woke up, turned around in a daze and
looked at them sternly, her mouth awry and sleepy. Then,
putting on her kerchief, she settled down in the corner and
smiled at their ridiculous behaviour. The farm labourer
sat up with a start, wide awake at once like a child, shoved
his arm over the back of the seat and gave a grin. And the
g8 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
men felt encouraged, it seemed; they grew even more
talkative and facetious than before, drank and bandied
words.
It was strange that they dared to drink, it was forbidden.
But he didn' t judge them. Oh no. It was sad, very sad, but
he judged no one. He himself had his faults; no one is
perfect. He didn't make himself out to be holy as other
believers did. He was humble, as a Christian should be.
He was tolerant and quiet. Sat looking at their goings on
without abhorrence and wrath in his gaze. It was the pure
stuff they were drinking, he noticed. They were going to
finish the bottle, by the look of it. But he didn't judge. It
was not his business.
The train stuttered along in the summer heat; the
engine wheezed on the upgrade so that the smoke trailed
past the windows. And the men bawled and sang. Words
were no longer enough in which to express themselves.
Suddenly the carriage lurched going around a bend and
the passengers were thrown together in a heap. The bottle
slid from the hand of the man who was holding it and
smashed on the floor. A stream of oaths gushed over the
carriage strong enough to shiver it. They kicked the broken
bits of glass under the seat, swearing volubly. Then they
burst out laughing because that had bitched their drink,
as they said, and became friends again.
The heat was insufferable, the liquor stank on the floor,
the men sprawled with their arms around each other's
necks, bawling and shouting. But he sat there without
j udging, meek and quiet.
These people were wandering in the dark, indeed they
were. But then they hadn't any preachers who could
proclaim the word properly for them. And they spent their
money like this, and when they went to buy a sorely needed
tract they had nothing, they couldn't afford it of course.
The saved couldn't afford it either, come to that. It's all the
same whether people have money or not when it's a matter
G O D'S L I TT L E T R AV E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 99
of that. Well, he'd see how things went in the town; it was
better than wearing himself to a thread on the roads any­
way. He ought to be able to se11 something anyway.
They must be there now. The wheels clattered, they
were already in the station yard. It was certainly not small;
there were cars loaded with timber and grain everywhere
on the tracks, wood lay stacked up along the line, with the
company signs and telephone numbers. It's a busy place, I
can tell you. It might be all right, there were people at
any rate. Yes, here we arc !
He stepped down on to the platform, small and agile.
Quite down at heel, he looked, though the others around
him were only simple people, too. His clothes were greasy
and his shoes were split, but he had a frock coat. Under his
arm he carried a grubby paper parcel tied up with twine.
He set off into the town to try to do business.
It was bigger than he had thought. And it seemed
prosperous, too. Might be all right. He might just as well
start straight away.
Not far down the street he passed a small haberdasher's
shop. He might try there. It wasn't so bad as a rule; he had
sold several booklets in a haberdasher's once. They were
usually peaceable folk who kept such shops. He went in.
There was no one there, but after a moment a woman
came out of a door that was ajar. There was something
very quiet and melancholy about her, so he had come to
the right place all right.
"Can I interest you in a sma11 tract today?" he asked.
"No thank you," she answered in a distressed voice.
But he undid his parcel and spread out what he had on
the counter, as you must do; you mustn't give in straight
away. Showed the different things and recommended
them.
"No, thank you," she said.
"This one is particularly good The Wqy to Jesus, very
popular."
100 TH E MARR I A G E F EAST
"No, thank you."
" Perhaps this one then, Chosen Thoughts on a Christian's
True Conduct, also a great favourite . . . . "
"No, thank you."
"Oh, not today then."
"No."
"Well, good afternoon."
Well, he would have to try somewhere else. It always
took a while. Best to go into the apartment houses, of
course. He went in at the next doorway, rang a bell on the
first floor; downstairs there was nobody at home. An elderly
woman with a very refined, pleasant appearance opened
the door.
"Can I interest you in any religious tracts today? Good
books which are very popular. . . ."
"No, thank you," she said with an infinitely gentle smile.
"Perhaps this excellent book, cloth-bound, Sin and
Grace . . " . •

"No, thank you very much."

"Nothing at all today?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, I'm sorry to have troubled you."
"Oh, not at all."
"Good afternoon, thank you."
Yes, of course. He might have known it. He would have
to try next door.
A corpulent woman opened the door, perhaps the wife of
the shopkeeper on the ground floor.
"Can I interest . . . "
"No, thank you."
" The Spring of Life . . ."
"No, we don't want any."
"Here's an excellent little booklet, The Way to Jesus,
much in demand, only these two left."
"No, we don't want any."
"The lady next door bought it."
G O D'S L I TT L E T R AV E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 101
"Oh? Who?"
"I don't know. She was elderly. Rather thin."
"Oh?"
"Yes, a very refined lady."
"Oh, I know! Mrs. Berglov! Oh, did she buy it? . . ."
"Yes, she had heard so much about it, but it is so hard to
come by."
"Oh-Oh, I'd better take that one then."
"Thank you very much, ma'am. Good afternoon."
Another family lived across the landing.
"Can I int . . ."
"No, you can't," a woman snapped.
"The lady opposite bought this little book. . . . "
"It's no business of mine what that old crone buys," she
snorted, and banged the door.
It was terrible the way he always struck women. And
they were the worst. Meanest at any rate.
He'd have to try the next. No, they didn't want any­
thing. And the next. No, they didn't want anything. And
the next. N(}--().
This street then? No, they didn't want anything.
Well, what did he say! He knew it. What was he to do?
And the sun blazed down. You couldn't sell the word of
God in weather like this, of course. Sweating on the stairs,
up and down and up and down.
What was he to live on? He must get something toward
food, and a roof. . . .
He crossed the street, better luck there perhaps? Went in
at random. Must be a kind of office, he saw, after he had
rung the bell. A man hurried out in his shirtsleeves.
"What do you want?"
"Can I interest you in God's . . •"
"Good heavens, no!" the man said, slamming the door.
This was hopeless. He couldn't go on aimlessly like this.
He would have to find out the right ones. After all, there
were supposed to be quite a lot of saved here.
1 02 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
He asked a mild-looking man if he could tell him where
the mission hall was? Yes, it was in such and such a street,
just keep right on, he couldn't miss it . . . . The voice was
so calm and subdued that he ventured to ask if he would
care for a few religious pamphlets. No, he wouldn't. So
that was wrong, too, of course.
He would go along and find out how the land lay. It was
a long street, and went uphill. At last the stone pavement
came to an end and there at the top was the mission hall;
yes, that must be it, a brown-painted building on an open,
nrglected piece of ground. There were no curtains at the
windows so you could see it wasn't an ordinary house but
served a special purpose. He went around and looked;
there was a smaller door at the back and a window with
curtains. That must be where the caretaker lived. He
knocked at the door.
A woman of about sixty came out with a dust cloth in
her hand. He told her why he had come. Had heard that
there were so many saved here in the town, wondered
where they all were, how he could sell a few tracts. . . .
"Oh, I can't help you . . . ."
No, but perhaps she could give him the names of some
who usually liked such God-fearing literature and who
could well afford to buy?
"Oh no, I don't dare; you see they might get angry with
me for having sent you."
Yes, he understood that, but he wouldn't say it was she
who sent him.
Hm. . . . She looked at him rather distrustfully and
thought it over. Did he need to sell then?
"Yes," he said tonelessly, "indeed I do."
She asked him into the kitchen, which was also her
room. "Yes, it'd be awful if they found out I had sent you,
I tell you !" Oh, not for the world !
"Are things really so bad?" she said, after asking him
to sit down. She was a kind soul, he could see that. He told
G O D'S L I T T L E T R A V E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 1 03

her how badly things were going. People don't need God
nowadays.
"No, that's true, that's true," she said, rocking her head.
Perhaps she'd like a tract herself?
"Lord save us, I don't need that, living here. I hear so
much of God's word, there's nothing else in this place.
And I've no head for reading; it makes me feel queer after
a while. I leave that to others, and to them as can afford
it. There's not much to live on here, I can tell you."
"No, I suppose not."
"You look poorly," she said, looking at him more
closely. "Would you like a drop of coffee? It's all made."
He would indeed; he was touched and surprised at such
kindness.
"Oh, it's only Christian," she said.
"But look at me with the dust cloth in my hand ! I was
cleaning UR in there . . . . Sit up to the table now," she said,
pouring out the coffee.
She sat down herself to rest her legs, they got so stiff.
.. The cleaning there is in this place, real fed up I get some­
times. They mess the place up every time, of course, such a
lot of people come. You see, we've got a preacher who
preaches ever so well; it's wonderful to hear God's word
like that, but it means a lot of work. We haven't had a
revival to touch it all the thirteen years I've been doing the
cleaning here-I haven't lived here more than eight, see,
but I've cleaned for thirteen. There was a man called
Andersson before that, he was a carpenter really, but
sickly. Yes, what a preacher! Then they wanted a woman;
he was no use, just moved a few chairs about at the
meetings."
He sat without speaking. "Have another cup, do," she
said, looking at him pityingly, at his clothes and the like.
"No, it's not so easy, I can tell you. And then my old
man died, but I'd done such a lot of scrubbing for readers
-superior readers, of course-so I got this place. Yes, God
10 4 TH E MARR I A G E FEAST

b e praised. Thank you, Jesus. He arranges everything for

the best for us all. But it hasn't always been so easy, with
three youngsters to feed until they could fend for them­
selves. Now I don't have to do so much, and a good thing,
too. I'm not up to it; wore out I am with that blessed floor
in there, it takes such a time. But I don't complain. And
after all it's something to clean in God's house. It's not like
going out cleaning."
He asked if by any chance she knew anyone who might
buy a few things . . . .
"Oh yes, I was quite forgetting! Let me sec now . . . . "
She thought of several people in the town who would no
doubt be glad to buy. He wrote down their names and
where they lived and thanked her profusely for doing him
such a great favour.
And Mrs. Berglov--she nearly forgot-he must go to
her-she was sure to buy something.
"Is she saved?" he asked.
"Ycs, I should just think so; she's one of the best that
comes here to the meetings. Very refined lady, and very
godly."
"Oh, she said nothing about that."
"Have you been to her?"
"Yes."
"And she didn't buy anything! Well, I never. • . . "
Well, she must get the floor finished. There was to be a
big revivalist meeting this evening and it must have time
to dry, but it soon would in this heat.
He asked if he could go in with her and look at the hall.
Goodness yes, of course he could. They went in together.
It was the same as always. He stood on a dry patch in
the middle of the hall and looked at the bare wal.lJ,
panelled and painted a grey-brown colour; behind the
platform hung a garland because it was summer. Although
it was scrubbed so often he could smell that special 1mell
which was always the same. He felt something heavy in his
 G O D'S L I TT L E T R AV E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 105
breast. The woman had started her scrubbing again. He
went cautiously toward the platform, stepping where it
was driest. Mounted the pulpit, stood looking out over the
hall. The woman was busy scrubbing and did not look up
-he made a slight gesture with one hand.
Then he went back with his head bowed. Well, he'd be
going now. She came and held out her wet hand, and
saw that he had tears in his eyes.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He didn't answer, just turned away.
"No, it's not so easy," she said, "it's not so easy . . . . "
They said good-bye.
He walked down the hill. Well, he'd begin again then.
One address was in a side street a little way down. He tried
there first. No, they didn't want anything, not today.
Farther along on the same side there was another. But not
there either. They had so many godly tracts, a whole shelf
as he could see. Then he made his way to a family in
another street. He got no for an answer there, too. Odd,
he had heard that they were believers.
"And who told you that, may I ask?"
"The woman who looks after the mission hall; she said
that this was such a very religious family."
"Oh, did she . . . . Well, we'll buy a small tract then."
He got rid of In Jesus' Footsteps, one of the cheapest. The
next he came to was a tailor. He was squatting on the table,
gaunt and shrunken, and looked wanly at him from behind
his glasses.
"I don't buy from that quarter," he said after glancing
at the books.
"Don't you? I heard that . . . "
"Yes, that's true enough. But I belong to the Baptists,"
he explained in a quiet voice.
"0-oh, I see."
"Yes, so I read our tracts."
"Yes, I quite see. But there are all kinds here, edifying
1 06 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
stories from life, like this moving little account, A Soul in
Need."
"Thank you, but you see I only read ours."
It was no better at the next house. He tried by saying
that the woman at the mission hall had sent him. "Oh, she
talks so much, that woman," they said. He had to agree
with them, but they didn't want anything, all the same.
He went on, asking his way until he found the people he
was looking for. "I sell this book a lot; it seems to be very
popular here." That was nice to hear. But they were not
needing anything. Thank you, not today.
He grew apathetic and tired of it all, but kept on all the
same, up and down stairs, from one house to another. At
one place he sold a small booklet to a kind and helpful
person, but otherwise nothing.
Evening was drawing on. He came to a family who were
in a great hurry. They were putting on their coats in the
hall and had no time for him at all. "I suppose you've got
the hymnbook, Elvira dear," the mother said with a sigh.
"Well, let's go then."
Of course, they were going up to the mission hall. They
turned the key in his face as he stood with his hat in his
hand and one or two tracts held out like a hand of cards
when the game is nearly over. He followed them out into
the street, still with his hat in his hand like a beggar.
"There you are," said a fat man on his way into a
restaurant, holding out a copper coin. He thanked him
confusedly.
Then he just drifted along the pavement. People hurried
past. Far away in a park a band was playing; now he heard
it, now he didn't. A man came out of an eating-house and
lurched away, hugging the wall.
"No, I'm not going to stand about gaping any longer!"
he said to himself, and went in through the door which the
man had left half open behind him.
Inside, the air was smoky and smelt of beer and food.
G O D'S L I T T L E T R A V E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 107
"Bring me something to eat, please, something cheap,"
he said when he had found a seat. The place was crowded,
there was a buzz of noisy voices. Nice to rest for a while, sit
down at least-anywhere. There were aquavit glasses laid
on every table. So spirits were served here. Supposing he
were to have one too. He could do with it after such a day.
Perhaps it was terribly dear at a place like this. He'd better
ask. No, it wasn't. That was a good thing, when he was so
poor.
The waitress brought the food and the other. He tossed
the aquavit off at once; it was best beforehand. Then he
ate for a while and it tasted good. It all did him good,
stimulated. He felt a different man.
"No, it's not my fault," he said to himself. "I have
fought against it. That I have. But when you have such
disappointments and worries, no one can hold out."
No, God tried him too hard. Even that can go too far.
He had hoped so much to sell something in this town, came
here with such burning hopes. Like an envoy of the Lord
he had trudged around, knocking on doors, on people's
hearts. But what had happened? How had he been re­
ceived? How much had he sold?
No, his disappointments and worries were too great. It
was too much to bear. It really was. Not so strange if he
took another dram. That was only right, surely.
The waitress came and filled up the glass. He could feel
it doing him good.
It was quite a good place, this. It really was. For the
price. Nice and homely atmosphere, talk and laughter. He
could certainly do with it after toiling from morning till
late at night-trying to work, trying to offer people what
their souls needed, spiritual food . . . .
Yes, it may look as though I'm a bad man, but I'm not.
I'm filled with the spirit in my way.
I can only be filled with the spirit in my own way.
No, I'll say it again. It's not my fault. I'm only an
r oB THE MARRIAGE FEAST
ordinary, imperfect human being and have never made
myself out to be anything else. A bad servant . . . . Yes ! I
won't deny it. I'm imperfect, I say it myself. I am. But why
have you chosen me then, if I don't suit? I ask you that,
my Lord and God. Why haveyou?
Here I sit among sinners--drinking-in a low dram
shop. . . . It's bitter, it's bitter • • • .

He became sunk in his sorrows; much of his former life

passed before his eyes.
Think what I could have had-if I'd gone on with the
career I had chosen . . . . I had a good job, I'd soon have
been head salesman. Might even have had my own little
shop by now. And I'd have been upright in my dealings.
And I'd have been a believer. Gone along to the mission
hall every Sunday to hear God's word . . . .
Yes, if l'd only stayed with Lindstrom's . . . . But you had
given me gifts, I was to witness for you, spread your
message in the world. It wasn't enough that I was saved.
I was to devote my whole life to you. For you had called
me! So I took my small savings in order to study at the
mission school. . . . I was to preach your word as none
other. I thought you intended me for something great . . . .
But I found out that you didn't. You had others who
were much better. . . . And I was sent now here, now
there . . . . Yes, I realized I had misunderstood you. Things
only got worse as time went on . . . .
And then they said that he drank! He didn't ! Perhaps
just a drop once or twice because he felt so depressed and
thought that God couldn't be bothered with him. But he
didn't drink.
And anyway it's not so strange if you have a drop now
and again when God forsakes you. When he leaves you
alone on the road, although you have sacrificed all in
order to follow him, all• • • •

"Give me another one, you there . . . . "

And when I was done for as a preacher-how w.u it
G O D'S L I T T L E T R A V E L L I N G S A L E S MA N 1 09
now? Yes, I remember! It was so unjust! The greatest
injustice ever committed against anyone ! When I stood
there in the pulpit. . . .
No, I can't. . . . It's too bitter. . . .
I was speaking God's pure words, wasn't I ! I was filled
with the spirit as never before! I felt so inspired, it was
glorious, glorious . . . . I remember quite well . . . .
And they-they thought I was drunk!
It's a lie! I hadn't touched a drop that day. I may have
taken a little now and then-I don't deny it-1 don't make
myself out better than I am. But not that day! I only spoke
more feelingly because I was so moved-it was the most
beautiful moment in my life. I was so moved that I had
tears in my eyes . . . .
And they thought it sounded muddled. . . . When I
spoke so clearly, with such fire . . . .
And supposing he had wanted to make himself con­
spicuous, because they thought he was nothing-was it so
strange? He needed work, yes of course he did. But he
wasn't thinking of that when he spoke-he was so filled
with the spirit, with God's grace . . • Perhaps he wasn't
.

filled with it? Perhaps what he had felt had been wrong?
But how could he be so moved deep inside, so clearly sense
God's presence, if it was only to get the vacant position
there?
Yes, it's worried me ever since that day. How is it
possible?
No, I don't understand. I'm only asking, that's all.
It had finished him. Mter that he had never pulled up.
Then he had become as he was-had to take to the roads­
try to sell a few tracts-eke out an existence-in poverty,
poverty . . • •

He put his head in his arms, sat there and cried. Yes, cry,
go on . . . . I can well understand why you cry. . . . The
way you've suffered---scorned, rejected by all-like a tramp
-on the roads---sleeping in barns-getting a bite of food
1 10 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
here and and a bite there-And trying again-again­
again-with your bundle under your arm-trying to
spread your Lord's message . . . .
"No, my God, haven't you tried me too hard? Yes, I tell
you, you're too hard . • Why have you chosen me for your
• •

high calling-and then forgotten you've done so . . . . And

I've gone on all the same, with what I thought was right­
alone, forsaken, lost-with your calling inside me, which
wasn't withdrawn either, for that matter-with what you
put in my heart after all, and which doesn't go out so easily
once it's been lit, no, not so easily. . . . Going around selling
tracts-destitute and wretched for your sake-until I sit
here boozing. . . . "
He raised the glass, which had been refilled. His hand
shook slightly because he was so moved.
"If it be possible, let this cup pass from me," he mumbled
with tears in his eyes. "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine,
be done. . . ."
Awful how tipsy this made him. It was because he could
never afford a decent meal, of course . . . .
Yes, it was the spirit which had prompted him ! He only
said what it said ! So much for that ! Lured into something
he wasn't fitted for! And then just down and down, into
shame and degradation . . . . I was an upright man before I
got into all this . . . . Yes, it was the spirit ! It had made
him blab-puffed him up, made him more than he was,
so that his fall would be all the greater. . . . That was it!
He had been chosen-and then he was done for-he had
been tricked in some way-and here he sat-drunk-a
poor wretch-when he could have had his own little
business . . . .
He had been tricked, that's all there was to it!

The publican came and put his coarse hand on his

shoulder.
G O D'S L I TT L E T R A Y E L L I N G S A L E S MA N 111
"You can't sit here getting drunk!" he said. "We're
closing now. Out with you."
"Drunk! I'm not drunk! It's a lie!"
"Get out now!"
"It's a sheer lie! Just because a man is so moved-gets
tears in his eyes-and then they say he's drunk! It's . . . "
He was given a shove through the door, he reeled across
the pavement and landed up in the gutter.
Perhaps he had struck his head. Or perhaps he just lay
there, unable to get up.
A Salvation Army sister passed by on her way from a
meeting. When she saw him she was horrified, took a step
back. Then she went forward and helped him up. It was
difficult, his legs would not support him and she was not
strong enough. He could hear a thin, faint sound all the
time, it sounded so funny. It came from a string of the
guitar which she had over her shoulder in an oilcloth
cover. At last she got him to his feet. "My poor man," she
said, holding on to him because he was swaying. "What
do you think jesus would say if he saw you like this?"
"Whassat?" he snuffled.
"Give up your sinful life. Come to the Army one even­
ing. All are welcome, even those who have fallen lowest.
Come to Jesus."
"Oh, go to hell!" he said, wrenching himself free.
He lurched about the streets, came to a small park, lay
down under a bush and fell asleep.
When he woke up in the morning he no longer had his
bundle with the religious tracts. He had lost it. He went
and asked at the eating-house but was shown the door;
they knew nothing about any bundle. He must have
dropped it. It was gone anyway. Oh well, it didn't matter.
He had no money, either. He went from door to door
begging. Here and there he got a few coppers, enough
for bread. At nights he slept in a timber yard somewhere.
He did not really feel any more wretched than before
 1 12 T H E MA R R I A G E F EAST
with this life. It was freer in some way and seemed easier to
him, whatever the reason. But he had a hard time of it.
There was never enough to satisfy his hunger, and he got
nothing to drink. He had to watch out for the police, too,
because he went around begging. He wasn't used to that.
And the vagabonds who stood behind the woodpiles
swigging their beer would have nothing to do with him
and never gave him a drop. He was not one of them, either,
because he had a kind of frock coat.
No, he had never had such a bad time. You can get used
to anything, but still . . . He became the most wretched­
looking of all the vagabonds in the town. He grew starved
and gaunt and at last had no strength left. He was ill, too,
or so he felt. It was all up with him.
Then one evening he saw a Salvation Anny officer in
the street. And he remembered what the Salvation sister
had said . . . . Supposing he were to go along? He followed
the officer, perhaps he was on his way to the Army.
And so it was. He went inside.
There was singing and playing. He sat huddled on a
bench right at the back and listened. It was good to sit
down. And no one turned him out. It felt so peaceful and
safe here. Now the testimonies began, they spoke ofJesus,
of their Saviour. Testified to his grace, to how he had called
them to him. All the well-known words. 0 dear Jesus,
thanks be to thee. He clasped his hands. His lips moved as
he repeated the words in a whisper. His eyes shone as he
looked up at the light. It was as if he had come home again.
Up on the platform stood the officer who had helped
him that evening. Putting down her guitar, she came and
prayed with one or two on the benches while the captain
went on playing softly. She knelt with one after the other,
whispering in a voice of implicit faith. At last she came
right down to where he was sitting. She recognized him at
once. "Is it you, my friend? Oh, I knew that you would
come !" she said, and her face shone with joy. "Kneel with
G O D'S L I T T L E T R A Y E L L I N G S A L E S M A N 113
me before Jesus our Saviour and pray that he may have
mercy on your soul."
They knelt and prayed together, fervently, long, more
and more ecstatically. He confessed his sins, what a lost
sheep he was. He cried as a child.
When at last he got up he was another man; his eyes
shone with a secret bliss. He had been saved once more !
Reverently he left the hall, went and lay down in the
timber yard. Lay there awake in quiet happiness with an
old sack he had found under his head. Saw the summer
stars kindle in the heavens, so pale that they were hardly
visible.
Mter that he went to every meeting. They took care of
him, gave him clothes and food. They were good people,
didn't judge as others did. They received you just as you
were. You had a soul just the same which was of value to
God.
In time they helped him to become an officer, when
they discovered his gifts and who he really was. He had
passed his examination, though such was not accepted here
at the Army, and he had his experience as a preacher.
In due course he became a lieutenant. After some years he
was even made captain for the corps here. Things went
well for him, his time of suffering was past.
All were very pleased with him, and they had reason to
be. He had become so completely changed. He never drank
again, he had dedicated himself utterly to God. When he
testified, he spoke very beautifully but always quietly,
never overdid it, though here at the Army they didn't
mind a little fervour. But everything he said was full of
heartfelt, burning faith. In his testimony he often touched
on how he had lain in the gutter when he had suddenly
been called by his Saviour through the medium of an
officer who was passing. "Come to Jesus!" she had said,
and he had followed. He was even ready to speak of this
after he had reached a sufficiently high position to gloss
1 14 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
over his early days had he wanted to. But that was how
low he had once fallen. He made himself out no better
than he was, he never had.
They thought he was a purified soul. And he was too, in
his way; he had been purified. They knew that he had been
through a lot. And that he had been a great sinner. But
Jesus had worked miracles with him.
He realized that himself. And he never ceased to thank
God for having led him in his mysterious way to this town
where, after sufferings endured, he was again to proclaim
God's word, find his right vocation. How strange it was
that just when he stood on the brink of ruin, when he
could so easily have forsaken the Lord's path and left his
true calling, Jesus had chosen that moment to take him
back and give him the service for which he was best fitted.
He had devoted all his life to God. That was his mission.
That was why he was received back into the service of the
spirit. That was where he belonged and where he was needed.
And something was attained by him through this. He
really did become a better man, even if not entirely a
different one. No one does. He was at least honest now.
Perhaps curbed, more humble in spirit, but in any case
genuine, what there was. When he was careful not to
exaggerate in any way, he became honest and sincere, he
had noticed. And now that he was no longer so harassed
by the fact that he wanted them to like him-to accept
him, by his anxiety to get work, all that he said and felt
was in itself so much more genuine. That is how it is. Life
had put him-as all of us-in its school and moulded and
fostered him, purged his inner being, made him of greater
worth.
Nor was he ever as bad as may perhaps appear from this
account of him. He had his faults, that is true. But who has
not? There was no harm in him really, nothing special.
With him, as with so many others, it was just that he had
a slovenly soul.
 The Masq uerade ofSouls

This story lakes the reader to the land where the souls are. We
know that everything there is perfect, is beautiful and sublime,
not like here. Beings whom we cannot quite comprehend, whom
we can on[y vague[y imagine, live their glorified life there. They
have their existence above the u·orld of reality and humiliation.
On[y perfection may prevail with them, wherever one goes,
wherever one's dau:,led eye looks. Such is the soul's land, where
it has its real home. And in that land tllere is always festival.
There it is always masquerade.

Isupper with dancing. Two young people had chanced to

T was a fashionable party at an exclusive restaurant,

sit together at one of the small tables. They did not know
each other beforehand. But for some reason they were soon
captivated by each other in a strange way. It was not a
hasty infatuation the first time they met; it was something
deeper, harder to explain-a strong, inner feeling which
brought them face to face, both just as questioning and
almost helpless. They knew that their very beings were
drawn together, though they had never met before, knew
nothing about each other. It was something they had
never experienced, a mystery to them.
They sat looking at one another with strangely blank
faces. Spoke abstractedly-what was it they had said?
What had they just been talking about? Everything seemed
so unimportant, even this. They seemed to be so bared to
each other because of what was going on inside them that
words could only obscure. There was really nothing to be
said. Nothing they wanted said. They just talked all the
l l5
u6 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
same. Fell silent and talked again. But their minds were
hushed by a kind of reverence.
He looked at this face, so perfectly beautiful that he
thought he had never seen anything even superficially re­
sembling it. The dark eyes with their soft and shyly
appealing expression; a look that was strangely fascinating
without wanting to be, which was solitary in some way and
appeared ever on the alert, like a bird ready to fly deeper
into the forest at the slightest rustle in the trees, at a leaf
which did not fall silently to the ground. And with this the
purest features, delicate, formed by the gentlest hand, but
perfect in their almost spiritual fragility; a complexion of a
curious, warm paleness which was broken by the fine line
of the brow; the hair drawn tightly back, glossy black,
enhancing the fineness of the brow and the pure, almost
inevitable beauty of the whole head.
Because the face was so fragile, the mouth perhaps
seemed redder and fuller than it was. In some way it had
iu own particular life and expression, was half open and
hot as after a kiss. The arms, too, in their soft repose had
this sensual quality, and so did the figure, slender but softly
feminine in the tight-fitting white silk dress. It was a beauty
which might well have been challenging, proud and
radiantly self-centred. Perhaps part of the fascination lay
in the fact that she was not at all like that, in this contrast
between the outer and the inner, between her splendour
and this warm, inquiring look, at once submissive and
alert, shy but also free, occasionally left quite alone in the
deep eyes.
He did not understand this contrast which so attracted
him. He merely felt her nature such as it was. He merely
sensed her. With a strange clarity he felt her proximity,
that she existed here beside him. And a great, secret
happiness because of it.
Was it possible that this woman could also be interested
in him? He divined it, must believe it, though it seemed far
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 117
too conceited. He had a certain power over women, mostly
when he bothered least about it. But this was something so
utterly different. It was not a case of that-not with this
being. If she felt attracted to him it must be because she
sensed instinctively a deeper affinity with something in
him. He didn't know what. But he felt unworthy. Un­
worthy as never before in the presence of anyone he had
met.
He was quite a handsome young man, perhaps a little
older than she. He looked the usual man about town, but
only his exterior; one soon noticed something distinctive
about the lean, tall figure with the face that was so often
very grave. There was a certain smouldering intensity
about him, about this dark face, about his whole behaviour.
Something of uneasiness, almost of fanatical excitement.
It was apparent sometimes even in his manner-a slight
nervous agitation, a certain impulsiveness in his gestures,
even when he only adjusted his tie or stroked back his hair,
something feverish. But not so much now, not at this
moment of strange stillness in her presence, of watch­
ing and somehow listening for something. His inner self
merely gave an animated expression to the characteristic,
already distinctive features, something gentle, almost
fragile to the young manliness of the face.
They were so taken up with each other without actually
wanting to show it that at last they had to smile. A little
reluctant smile which came over them both simultaneously.
It was a relief. It brought them together more than if some­
thing had been said, something which could not have been
said as it should. They smiled at one and the same thing
-in complete understanding. They had something in
common, an undefined secret which was not to be revealed,
which couldn't be, for in one way it was nothing. Could be
thought nothing. Like the sparkle in a cobweb, something
which can turn grey and paltry at the slightest touch. But
it was delightful, wonderful just as it was. And it was more
nB T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
real than anything else, than the people and the hum
around them, than their own words-trite, ordinary
words which they exchanged; than the whole grey net
over the world. The two, so recently strangers to each
other, already shared something great, impalpable, un­
forgettable. They had this smile, a silent familiarity with
something strange, unknown. It felt like an adventure,
exciting, uncertain. And were they not in fact smiling with
happiness at having met?
What were they speaking of now? It was surely about
something else, about what was really important to them,
what they were interested in, about what they thought,
their views on this and that. But now and then they would
break off and smile. They were only words, after all, some­
thing one says.
But they might just as well speak of it. Like two people
standing side by side-two on a journey, perhaps far away
in a foreign country-talking rapturously about what they
are seeing together, about the scenery, the view, delighted
that everything is so fascinating and beautiful-until one
of them puts his hand on the other. What are you thinking
of?
But suddenly they just talked about themselves. All at
once it seemed quite natural to pass on to that, to start talk­
ing about their lives, their inner selves. They suddenly
found they could speak without reserve. Spoke eagerly,
excitedly-until they smiled at their eagerness. A strange
smile, which glided away, glided into earnestness. They fell
silent, both at once, glided into silence-like two people
standing beside each other at the railing in the twilight.
The shore fades away and the sea and sky-there is not
even the sound of the wind in the sails, in the rigging-<>n
a soundless voyage into the unknown, the two of us. Who
are you?
He noticed that for some reason there was something
poignant in her smile. Something sad. Not exactly when
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 19
she smiled, but just as the smile vanished. A tiny, almost
imperceptible line by the mouth, in this infinitely sensitive
skin which was so close to him that he could make out every
nuance; the fine down lent a delicate, untouched bloom to
her face, as with a child. Only a hint of pain, but something
surged up in him when he saw it, a violent feeling of-he
didn't know what. Of tenderness, goodness; he wanted to
sacrifice, understand, wanted to live for something, make
something great and glorious of his life, make one big
sacrifice of it. And then this look which drew him to it
without seeming to want to, which revealed itself in all its
shy warmth-did he not follow it right in to where it was
alone, into her soul, her world?
Strange-two people meeting. What is more vague,
intangible and yet suddenly capable of giving such a secret
infinitude to life and such a revelation of it? Merely because
you sense another's being, someone who is alive, who ex­
ists, who is quite close to you.
You yourself exist. But that is nothing. Only you. But
the fact that this being really exists fills you with wonder.
It is as though life had disclosed itself to you, its essence, its
very mystery.
Around them was the hum of the big restaurant. Music
was playing, dancing had begun, long ago probably. They
noticed nothing, seemed unaware of it. He did ask her once
if she wanted to dance, for it occurred to them where they
were-and to float away with her seemed to him suddenly
the most wonderful of all and so absolutely in keeping with
their mood. But she merely shook her head in answer.
No, she was right. What was going on inside them was
far too rare. They couldn't go and jostle with people, not
now. Must be alone with each other.
And they really were, in the midst of this crowd and
noise. All these people, the gay, brightly lighted room,
meant nothing to them as they sat there in each other's
presence, held by something which was so remote from
1 20 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
this world. They seemed no longer part of it. Another
world had opened for them, more wonderful than anything
in their dreams. They were lifted up into its sphere, into
the world where they knew that they must live from now
on, only there. Were lifted by an unspoken, jubilant
happiness which they knew they shared.
The whole evening passed without their being aware of
time. They just existed, those two, existed for each other,
confiding their innermost being, their thoughts-their
whole soul. When at last it was time for everyone to go,
they felt they had known each other a whole lifetime and
been joined by invisible bands.
He asked with a smile if they, too, ought not to be
making a move. Yes, she nodded. They felt almost sad at
having to tear themselves away from this moment in which
they had met, from the whole place, from the table in its
cosy corner where they had experienced this unforgettable
evening. But they were not going to part! No, no. There
was no question of their separating. Not any more.
He gave her a long, tender look of thanks, and they got
up. Walked toward the door, she in front and he a few
steps behind her.
He stopped for a moment, as though his attention had
been drawn to something. She was lame.

The vestibule was crowded. He seemed very eager, as

though they were in a hurry. "Where is your wrap? Is it
here, or over there? May I help you-if you'll just give me
your number. Thank you ! I'll get your things. Sit here for
a moment, I won't be long."
He elbowed his way in among the others, who made way
reluctantly. Got j ammed in. Stood there waiting. Turned
over the number checks; one was 5, the other 1 2 7. 5 and
1 2 7. He had to wait a long time. When at last he got
up to the counter he stood watching the others get their
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 121
coats; forgot to hand over the checks. A rough push finally
roused him. He was given his coat and a soft, silk-lined
beaver wrap. It had a lovely warm feeling, as such fur
coats have. He squeezed his way out of the crush.
"Here you are, at last! It takes ages."
He helped her on with it. And with her rubber boots.
When she was sitting it was not noticeable. The right calf
was perhaps a shade thinner than the other.
They walked downstairs in silence. She evidently found
the stairs difficult. So it seemed to him at least. She held
on to the rail.
Outside was a clear winter sky, stars. The slush had
frozen but it did not feel cold.
"It's nice and fine now," he said, putting his hands in
his pockets.
"Yes," she answered with a slight tremble. "You'd
never have thought so this morning. Awful weather we've
had, dark and grey. Good thing if it's real winter soon. All
this greyness makes you so depressed."
"Yes-but I'm forgetting! Wouldn't you like a taxi?"
No, she preferred to walk. It was odd. But she did. Thought
it was nice to get out in the air for a while.
"All the better. May I see you home?"
"Yes, if you like. There is nothing I'd like better."
They walked along the street. "I should think it's started
to freeze," he said.
"Yes, I should think so."
"What's the time, by the way? A quarter past one! As
late as that. Time has gone quickly."
"Yes, you don't notice it when you sit talking like that,"
she said.
"It was quite a nice party, don't you think, as far as
those things go?"
"Yes-"
"Nicely arranged. And the reception rooms are quite
grand now that they've been done over. Rather banal, of
1 22 THE MARR I A G E FEAST
course, but still . . . not so bad really. Don't you think so?"
"Yes."
They fell silent. He could hear from her walk that she
was limping.
They stopped at a cross street. They turned up here,
didn't they? He chanced to meet her eyes in the lamplight.
They confused him in some way. Had they a new ex­
pression? Mocking? No, it was nothing like that. It was
only dead earnest, just as before, but even deeper. And
quite open, however far in he wanted to look. It was so
open that it appeared indifferent; it merely regarded some­
one. But her expression had something burning within,
its own strangely shimmering fire.
They went on up the side street. There was no one
about; their footsteps were the only sound.
"It's been a wonderful evening," he began ardendy in
another voice, the one he had had when they were sitting
inside.
"Do you think so?" she said tonelessly, as though in-
different.
"Yes, I do. It's so seldom one can talklike that to anyone.,
"Oh, don't you usually?"
"What chance is there? It must be something so very
rare. Unfortunately-! must confess it's never happened
to me before: And you?" he asked.
"Yes, I think it was a nice evening."
He glanced at her; at a car which ran past with the litde
rear light; and at the shut-up shops, iron shutters nearly all
the way along. Seemed to be nothing but shops . . . •

"It was rather odd," he went on . . . . "I mean, just by

chance like that . . . "
"What?"
"That we happened to meet."
"Yes, it was."
He buttoned a glove which had come undone. Adjusted
the scarf inside his coat collar.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 23
"It meant a lot to me," he said. "Being able to sit and
talk like that. It's so stimulating. Don't you think so too?
And with a woman. It's rather unusual. I don't think it's
ever happened to me, I must say."
"No, I suppose it's not usual," she said flatly and seemed
tired.
They turned into another street where there were more
people. And then again into a more empty one. It looked
deserted, badly lighted. Was rather a dreary quarter.
"What do you usually talk to women about, then?" she
asked at last, when nothing had been said for a long time.
"Oh," he laughed, "about anything at all. The same as
everyone talks about on such occasions, I suppose. But it
bores me, to be quite honest.
"No," she said hesitantly. "For my part I must say that I
don't much care to talk to a man in that way. It doesn't
suit me."
"No, that's what I felt."
"Did you?"
"Yes, and that's what I value so highly. I'm no good at
this superficial game that's always played the minute a
man and woman happen to meet."
"Oh, why not?" she said. "There's no harm in it."
"No--of course not. . . . "
"There's no need to take it too seriously either."
They did not speak for a while. Crossed the street to tum
the comer.
"Then we could have sat talking in quite another way
this evening," he threw out.
"Yes, perhaps."
"And you would have preferred that?"
"No---o I wouldn't. I didn't say that . . " Her voice
• •

was a little unsteady.

"It's hard for me to imagine how else we could have
entertained each other," he said.
"Yes. . . . It felt so natural for us to talk as we did."
 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
"That's what I think. . . . "
He was silent for a while.
"Usually one is careful not to say anything one means,"
he went on. "That's the form of conversation one is most
used to. But-1 don't know. It would never have occurred
to me to talk like that to you."
"I'm so glad you say that!" she answered, turning her
face toward him. He could not see it properly, but he heard
from her voice that it must have lighted up.
They walked more slowly-for it couldn't be so much
farther-and walking could not have been easy for her,
not as easy as it appeared; it was not possible. And she
shouldn't exert herself. There was no hurry.
They began talking. More than before they touched on
much they had discussed then-more casually perhaps;
they could speak of it better now, in fact without restraint.
They could go into things more, explain their thoughts
more clearly to each other. And yet feel the joy of the
intimacy between them.
"You know," he said at last, "I feel as if we had so much
in common. Don't you think so, too?"
"Yes. I do."
"That must have been why we were drawn together like
that so quickly. In such a friendly way. It's not really easy
for either of us to confide in another by the look of things.
It's not for you, is it? No, nor for me. But it felt quite
natural. . . . "
"Yes . . . ."
"For my part I feel as ifl had found a friend. And before
I was quite alone."
She looked at him swiftly, as if in quiet, shy happiness.
"That's how I feel too," she said softly.
"Yes-" he began after a moment, breaking their
silence, "how alone one is among people, when you think
of it. It's like being among strangers."
"It's like that with me too."
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 25
"That must be what I noticed about you . . . . I expect
you're also the kind that prefers to keep to yourself."
"I suppose I've got used to it."
"But now we've found a really good friend-both of us.
Haven't we?"
"Yes," she answered gaily.
They were filled with solemnity, a tranquil joy at what
they felt within them. They had walked past the house
where she lived and had to turn back. Stood outside the
door.
He took her hand. He could feel its warmth through the
glove, as if it were bare. They were facing each other once
more; he saw her again for the first time since their first
meeting, her pure beauty with this reserved gravity which
gave such a deeply personal character. Her eyes were
shining when they met his. Then they seemed to change,
take on a softer glow, more warmth. And the face had that
strange bareness, that light and animation from within. . . .
Suddenly he put his arms round her and kissed her
violently, her lovely, half-open mouth which grew large
and soft as she wrenched herself free. "No, no," she
gasped, escaping inside the door. He followed, but she
held him at arm's length imploringly. They stood there
panting, unable to speak. Just whispered softly of when
and where they were to meet. Then she pushed him away
and vanished inside.
He strode back along the street, his heart pounding.
He could hear himself breathing. . . .
What was it? For a moment he seemed almost to have
forgotten; everything stood still. He felt something moist
on his mouth and pulled out his hand to wipe it away-no
-he put it in his pocket again; saw her in front of him,
her face, cheek-her temple-her ear hiding in her hair.
And something soft which glided away from his lips • . . •

Yes. • But just how had it happened?

• •

He ought not to have • • •

1 116 TH E MARRIAGE FEAST
No, it was foolish of him, surely it was.
Why? Well, of course . . .
It was wrong . . He had acted wrongly. . . .
. .

But how delightful she was-and what a wonderful

person ! Must be . . . . With that reserve, that shyness that
concealed so much - something strong - alive - what a
strange creature she was . . . .
The thought of her flowed through him, of her soul such
as he divined it, sensed it within himself like a new, secret
life he had received as a gift, fragile-something serene,
burning. . . .
Think-to give oneself up to such a being, utterly,
entirely-with all one's thought and dreams. . . . For
always, for life . . • .

Hm-isn't it strange? When at last we meet-when

we meet another, a kindred soul, one to whom we feel
drawn. . . .
It's strange all right. . . .
He turned up his collar and plunged his hands deep into
his pockets. The wind felt cold as he turned into the
promenade.
But why was he rushing like this? He would soon be
home, he could take it more quietly. Mter all, it was
pleasant to walk for a while, late at night like this. . . .
Yes . . . . It was just that he had kissed her. Nothing
else . . . . No, it had been a wonderful evening-un-
forgettable. . . •

Yes-unforgettable . . . •

As he walked along he looked up at the winter sky

gleaming above the branches of the trees, huge and
solemn; became rapt in thought. . . . He stood for a
moment outside the door, looked up again at the expanse
of sky where the stars were sparkling brightly.
"Yes, it's a funny old world," he said . . . . Then he felt
for his door key and went upstairs. Undressed, rather
absently, got into bed. Tried to read for a while as he
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 27
usually did, but his mind wandered. He was thinking of
her. Put out the light. Couldn't sleep. Lay in the dark,
seeing her image in front of him, pure, transfigured, her
wonderfully ethereal face. . . It was as though she were
•

there. All though he felt her soul inside him, another's soul
on a soundless, fleeting visit, mysterious and tense as a
bird . . . .
He held his hand tightly pressed against his eyes-they
were burning as if from tears . . . .
How bitter-how merciless life is, nothing but pain,
pain, even when the most glorious of all meets us. . . .
He fell asleep with hot eyes and his hand still over them
as if to keep her with him.

When he woke in the morning he was sleepier than

usual. It must be late already. And what was it now?
Thought there was something, something special. Yes, of
course. Of course . . . . She.
He lay thinking, recollecting. It was Sunday, so he
might as well lie in for a while. But what was the weather
like? Aha, splendid! In that case he would rather get up.
He puttered about the flat. Got out a change of clothes,
clean shirt and the rest; started shaving. Lathered his face
slowly and meticulously with his eyes in the mirror.
Yes-think, a woman like that, if she hadn't been lame.
How sorry he felt for her. Such a pretty girl. Pretty in every
way. It was really an awful pity . . . .
Yes, yes, of course he wanted to meet her. Very much.
About three . . . . He was looking forward to it.
He finished shaving, washed off the soap, dabbed his
face with a hot, wrung towel and rinsed it with cold water.
Nice. Now he felt more like himself. He dried his hands
thoroughly, examined them carefully, cleaned his nails.
But it didn't matter, he thought. He liked her just the
same. Though of course . . . Yes, he liked her very much,
1 28 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
h e did really. There was something about her-that was
what had attracted him from the first-a certain something . . . •

He went and stood by the window as he got his mouth

wash ready. Looked out. What a day! Remained there
singing softly to himself at the sight of the clear air. Then
he returned to his thoughts and his interrupted toilet.
Yes-to be sure. But then she realized that herself . • . .

Good Lord-of course she did, that was obvious . . . . He

flicked the water out of the toothbrush. Now he would
hurry and finish dressing. Put on his shirt, clothes, hum­
ming to himself as he usually did when he dressed. Chose a
tie to match his suit, stood tying it in front of the bedroom
mirror.
Supposing he had known from the outset? Yes, it had
been a shock all right. . . .
Now he was ready. Threw on his coat and went out.
The sun was shining, trying to thaw the ice on the road,
but in the shade the hoarfrost lay untouched and white.
Not at all a bad day. Lovely and bracing. One felt reborn
coming out into this. The trees were like strange, dualistic
beings in black and white. They seemed in a kind of
cheerful mourning-it was beautiful anyway. Quite won­
derful. He would go for a really long walk, that's what
he would do.
He set off out of the town toward the outskirts, parks and
woods, where there was seldom anyone about. It was some
hours before he turned for home, somewhat tired, walked
more slowly on the way back. The outing had blown away
the cobwebs. But this was evidently the end of the good
weather. Was starting to cloud over again . . . .
Yes . . . .
The sky pressed down over the town. Everything was in
a frosty silver light, cool and refined
. . . •

It felt different from before. . . . People looked cold and

miserable. It was Sunday. You could tell from everyone
that it was Sunday.
 THE MASQUERADE OF SOULS 129

No, he'd go and have lunch somewhere now. Was high

time.And this was merely depressing.
He jumped on to a tram, came into the city centre.Went
and had lunch at a restaurant where he was known.
Ordered some wine to liven himself up a bit.
Yes, this was a good way of passing the time. He sat
looking out of the window at the misty town. Already the
sun seemed to think of setting, the air had a faint pink glow
in the raw cold.The water flowing past below the window,
broad and icy, reflected the clouds burning red. Beautiful.
They had a charm all their own, these miniature days­
short, fleeting as human life....
He lit a cigarette with his coffee. Sat looking out at the
sky through the smoke.
Yes-he was really looking forward to talking to her.
He liked her voice so much-it was unusually pleasant.
And it had something-hard to say what-There was
always something over and above the words to which one
listened.
She was a strange person all right. That elusiveness in her
being-like the quivering above great heat-when the air
shimmers but the actual fire cannot be seen....
Yes....And there was something so wise about all she
said, a personal wisdom.They had the same interests, too.
That's why it all went so well when they sat talking
together. Yes, they had quite a lot in common. Would
probably become good friends.He hoped they would, too,
sincerely.
He blew out the smoke, watched the rings float up the
pane, which grew misty and then cleared again.
And wasn't it odd-before they even knew each other,
had merely exchanged a few commonplace words-And
yet they had noticed a mental affinity and understood one
another....
He had thought it was so strange-something he had
never met with before . . • •
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
Ycs, there might well be a kinship between two souls
which is sensed in this way and which fills us with
solemnity, with a kind of reverence. Perhaps it is our
inner self which, without our help, feels the bond with
another being-and we ourselves stand looking on, as it
were-pushed a little to the side, like an intruder. That
was almost how he had felt it. Perhaps with our coarse
senses we are too imperfect to be initiated. We have merely
a presentiment-a peep into a world which otherwise is
hidden from us . . . .
We know so little about the way things are . . . .
Just something like this must be very unusual-unusual
that there is someone to meet . . . .
People are something rare. And it is still more rare that
they can be meant for each other as they really are, that
they can tell each other simply and openly that they exist­
they of all people.
That is probably why there is so much loneliness in the
world.
What was the time? Half-past two. He needn't go just
yet.
It was very peaceful here . . . . Was he the only one in
the whole restaurant? Yes. . . . Quite empty.
Yes . . . . there was certainly something about it, he had
never heard a voice like it. . . . It seemed to deepen and
ramify the meaning of everything she said-it became so
eloquent and living. Was enlarged to something more . . • •

It was never one string which sounded within her, always

the whole instrument. . . .
A strange, rich instrument. . . .
He knocked the ash off his cigarette. Sat staring out of
the window.
Then he came to himself more. Drank up his coffee,
which he had forgotten; took another cup to have some­
thing to do.
Wasn't it time to go now? Yes . • . •
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 131

H e started off for the rendezvous. Walked up and down

on the pavement. The church clocks struck three.
He looked for her.
Would she come from there or from there? No, from the
square probably. But not yet, of course.
He felt quite excited. Yes-the way they had parted
yesterday--of course . . . .
What did she think about it? Hard to say. . . .
But her lips were so tempting . . . . And just thcu they
had parted, a shade, only a shade. Yes, they had been held
together by a slight moisture and then they broke away
from each other. . . . It was that which . . .
What was the time? Ten past. She ought to be coming.
The mouth felt large, he had not expected that-soft
and with a trembling from within her, though she hadn't
wanted to. It was like herself, shy and hot at the same time.
. . . Though this was not-one could only imagine how it . . .
A quarter past. Why didn't she come then?
Oh well, women are never punctual-but now it was-it
was nearly twenty past . . . .
Supposing she didn't come? Yes, of course. She would
come all right. He was absolutely certain of it.
He walked up and down a little more quickly. Up and
down.
No, now it was almost half past! Supposing something
had happened to her? He would not be able to find out.
Not be able to ring. . . . No, he just couldn't. Would have to
remain in doubt-not know the reason . . . .
He was sure that something had happened to her.
Otherwise she would have come.
Though it was a ridiculous idea . . . . Well, she could
have been run over as she crossed the street because she
was. . . . But there was no reason really; she walked just as
well as anyone else . . . .
Now it was striking the half hour. Soon twenty-five
to. . • •
 1 32 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
This was strange. What was the reason? As long as . . .
There she was! Getting out of the taxi over there.
Well, that was a good thing . . . .

"Have you been waiting?"

"Oh, not long."
"Forgive me, I quite forgot to look at the time."
"Oh, that's all right. Glad you came anyway."
"It's hardly walking weather."
"No, you're right. Shall we go in somewhere instead?"
"No-1 don't want to. We can walk for a while anyway.
I must get back soon, unfortunately. We have dinner early
on Sunday, the maid has the evening off-if you know
about such things."
Yes, he did. They walked along by the water. Talked of
this and that.
"What have you been doing today?" she asked.
"Nothing much. Yes, I went for a long walk into the
country."
"Oh."
"It was better weather this morning."
"Yes, it's rather raw now."
They stood looking out over the water a moment, as she
had stopped by the quay. The gulls were wheeling in
screaming flocks through the dusk.
Then she pulled her fur around her and they went on.
"You're not cold, are you?" he asked, bending forward
and looking at her.
"Oh no."
She was wearing a different hat, a little tight-fitting one
which suited her admirably. He saw her head in profile
and as if it had been bare.
"Just think," he said, "I had such a strange feeling as I
was waiting . . . . I got the idea that �omething had hap-
pened to you . . . ."
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 33
"To me? But-what?"
She looked at him, rather uncertainly. "Because I was
late?" She smiled.
"Yes . . . . "
"But that was no reason to . . . "
"None at all . . . . But I don't know, I'm like that some­
times, my imagination runs away with me."
"I expect you have a very vivid imagination-in many
ways."
"Perhaps. . . . You don't approve, I gather."
"Oh yes."
He walked for a while in silence.
"It wasn't so strange that I should be worried about
you," he went on. "I couldn't help it. And then I thought
that if something had happened to you I couldn't find
out. . . .'
"But what could have happened?" she said softly.
"Oh . . . . One gets all kinds of ideas. And it needn't have
been an accident-anything unpleasant . . . . "
"Would you care?" she asked with a tremble in her voice.
He stopped.
"Yes. I would," he said.
She, too, stopped and looked at him. A faint smile
spread over her face, so fleeting and shy that it merely
seemed to wonder if it would stay longer. When it vanished,
it seemed to glide, not away, but into her-was there in her
features without still being visible.
She walked slowly on. He heard her footsteps, how she
limped slightly against the frozen gravel. It was forced
upon him that he wanted to mean much to her, do every­
thing that stood in his power, look after her, always be
good to her . . . .
"I thought you knew . . ." he said with suppressed
•

ardour in his voice.

She looked away, across the water.
"I thought . . ."
1 34 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
He wanted to take her hand, but she moved away, over
to the quay. When he followed her she shook her head. He
wanted to speak-but she laid her hand on his arm, almost
pleadingly.
They went on in silence. He was breathing more quickly
and looked straight ahead. His temples were· burning.
"What a lot of gulls," she said gaily. "How beautiful
they arc, don't you think?"
"Yes-very."
They were approaching a little park which was empty of
people. Dusk had glided in under the trees. He stopped in
front of her, stood looking at her face. Her eyes met his,
frank and yet shy, as only hers could be.
Then he kissed her-gently, as though in passionate
reverence. She let it happen, but her lips were closed.
They felt quite cool from the evening air.
He looked into her inquiringly, searchingly, his arms
still around her. In her eye'S was a deep gravity. Nothing
reproachful, only great gravity. And he, too, felt something
rise up inside himself by way of a mute answer. It was as if
they had met and had understood each other.
There was no longer any quay. The water lapped against
the shore, flowing past close by. Otherwise there was not a
sound. Only the even roar of the city where the lights had
been lit and up on the heights were merging with the last
pale daylight. The rows of lights came on along the quays,
but over the expanse of water it was getting darker. They
walked in under the trees in silence.
He could just make her out beside him. In here it was
already almost dark. They walked as though alone, far
away from inhabited parts, in some other clime. Only the
noise of the current camedully through the darkness and the
clinking of the ice floes as they bumped together out there.
He stopped by a solitary lamp-post and looked at her.
The face seemed pale; the isolated glow was like a halo
round her • . • •
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 135
He wanted to bend down-but didn't-released her
tenderly. . . . They walked again into the darkness.
"Why . . . " he whispered with bated breath.
"No. . . . "
He took her hand-pressed it hard, gently-hoping for
an answer-her answer. . . .
"You know-it wouldn't . . .
"What?"
"Wouldn't be-true . . . ."
"Yes, yes," he whispered.
They were silent, walked close beside each other. Out
in the darkness a sloop glided past with a fiery-red lantern,
vanished into the mist.
Half-imperceptibly, she guided them along side paths
back toward the city. The tram bells could be heard; away
between the trees there was a flash in the frozen overhead
wires.
They began talking. About everything which they had
not had time to talk about yet. There was a great deal. She
would ask what did he think? Yes, that's what she had
thought. Was that right? She seemed glad and happy to be
walking like this, talking to him about things which other­
wise perhaps she kept to herself. Her voice took on all her
rich warmth in its attempt to express what she wanted to
say, how she felt, so that he would understand properly.
When they chanced to look at each other now and then,
her glance deepened and gleamed with thoughtful joy.
At last they had almost reached her door. She stopped
and said that he might not come any farther.
He took her hand. Her cheeks had a brighter colour, a
slight flush after the walk. There was no need for her to
exert herself so much, for her to insist on doing so. Though
it didn't really hurt her. And it made her even more
beautiful, more wonderful. She was radiant-but a little
distrait . . . . Her lips moved slightly with this floating smile
-her smile . . . .
1 36 THE MARR IAGE FEAST
He could not sec her like this-and part, just part-from
this face, so close to him-and yet not close . . . . He kissed
her-felt the shape of her lovely mouth, firm and cool. It
was as if he had kissed her beauty itself. As ifshe had given
him her soul to kiss.
She looked at him without a word-sadly, happily?
Impossible to say. But wasn't she asking him to go-yes,
yes, he was going. Tore himself from her image . . . .
She walked lingeringly along the street-into the
vestibule, took the lift. Looked at her face in the mirror,
gravely-stroked back her hair slightly from one temple
just as the lift got up.
Dinner was just served, she had to go straight in. Her
old mother was already there, a little, white-haired woman
with small, fine features and with the same eyes as
herself.
"What nice pink checks you have, my girl," she said as
they sat down.
"Do you think so? Yes, it's such lovely weather."
"Oh, do you think so, and I thought it felt so raw."
After dinner she had to sit and read aloud while the old
woman played patience. When it started to come out, she
had to make a little pause. Then they sat talking for a
while, as usual. Later in the evening she played Mozart
and something else, something that Daddy had liked to
hear. That was the Sunday ritual. Then they said good­
night, kissing each other on the cheek.
She went to her room. Sat down to read but left the book
lying in her lap, open too far ahead, where the pages had
not yet been cut. Looked in front of her with large eyes,
vacantly . . . .
Then she smiled, a strange, painful little smile-caught
sight of her image far away in the mirror and put her hand
to her hair, pushed it up a trifle at the sides-patted it into
place, critically. Adjusted the cushion behind her and
leaned slowly back. The light fell on her upturned face.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 137
The mouth was half-open, there was a moist gleam o n her
teeth. She remained sitting for a long time.
At last she picked up the book, intending to read.
Turned back the pages, cut them. But let it sink again . . • .

Caught her glance over in the mirror . . . .

She went over and sat down in front of it, with her
elbows on the dressing-table; passed her hand lightly over
her eyebrows and back over her temples ; raised the slender
brows so that the eyes widened. Her irises had small,
yellowish flecks which lent a golden touch to the dark
rings; the pupils were large and quite black now in the
light.
She got up, her gaze lingering searchingly in the mirror.
Looked around the familiar room, went and put the book
back.
She got undressed, put on pyjamas. Massaged her face,
removed the cream. Put on a thin layer of another cream
for the night. Put out the light. Lay listening to the faint
rumble from the city and to her heart beating. Turned
over to go to sleep. On the other side, as she usually lay.
Her leg ached slightly from all the exertion. It didn't
matter. She could walk any distance when she felt like it.
It wasn't that. It was rather tiring, didn't bother her
otherwise.

From her manner the next time they met, the two of
them might always have been in the habit of meeting­
now they had their time to themselves again . When they
had got away from people into their solitude and his face
had taken on its dark, passionate expression, she gave him
her mouth to kiss, took him to her as hers. She clung to
him, held him fast, her mouth hot and open.
It came so suddenly that it almost bewildered him.
He stammered out his love-a few vehement, incoherent
words, pressed her close to him. And she answered in a
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
whisper, with her lips near his mouth, her warm breath
entering into him, that she loved, loved him . . . .
They were intoxicated, confused . . . . The whole evening
they were in ecstasy.

He called in at the office for a while and dictated one or

two letters. Then he went again.
He couldn' t sit shut in up there. And there was no need
for him to sit there, either. Anyone could do what he did.
It was as mechanical and uninspiring as anything could
be. Orders, deliveries, telephone calls, correspondence . . . .
The same machinery was started every morning and
stopped at five. What was he needed for? Nothing. And
after all, it was his brother who managed the business,
who had the final say.
Only because he was supposed to sit there, because he
belonged there. It was something he was born to, had
heard about from childhood-the firm, the firm, business
-nothing else.
How he burned inside with longing-to get away, far
away. . . . He knew not to what.
Yes, he knew. . . . To that which was something to live
for, really to live and exist for. . . .
Here time rushed ahead, unrcsting, without a breathing­
space. Busy with a thousand different things, everything
essential, absolutely essential. One's whole existence filled
with a thousand small things, chopped up into seconds,
tiny-tiny, into innumerable small nows. An existence filled
with oneself, with one's occupation with oneself-mech­
anical, unflagging-generation after generation, as life
is so apt to be. Life which fundamentally is always
sufficient unto itself, and gives human beings a few years
in which to live. A few seconds, a few years . . . .
But within us the soul cries out, calls to us . . . .
Cries out for its life.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 39
For a fire in which to burn-just one. A single flame in
which to rise up and proclaim itself. Wants to exist. And
wants to become one. One . . . •

It is scarcely audible. For it calls so quietly. Calls as with

its silence-is noticed by not being noticed-bums by not
burning.
Our soul-forsaken, cowed-by ourselves.
Yes-how empty and poor his life was. Comfortable in
its seeming activity, its everlasting preoccupation with­
what? Nothing. And his inner self? Wasn't he rootless,
merely driven by his feelings and by his gnawing unease­
this unease which was all he had really. Otherwise he was
no good. Just worthless-useless, unnecessary to everyone,
everywhere. . . . Belonged nowhere. Had no home. That
was it-he had no home at all-anywhere.
Yes, he was poor, poor. Right up till now. Now.
Until this had happened.
Yes, he loved her, loved her . . . •

How wonderfully great to be able to feel like that ! Feel

his love for her-no bounds, no questions. Merely as a deep,
deep breath-of liberation. Of fullness, of happiness.
Yes, he loved her. He knew it. He exulted at this
glorious, great certainty. Something inside him had been
transformed. Something had awakened, risen as though
from a coma-become so alive, present in him. And filled
up all emptiness-all, all.
It was as if his soul had been allowed to wake up, to
live, at last-live for something-for her. He felt its reverent
expectation within him- every moment- reverence, ex­
pectation-yes, yes . . . he went about as though keeping vigil.
It was great love. It must be, the greatest of all.
Another person to be fond of, really, dearly. To devote
oneself to entirely. To treat tenderly and be good to. To
support . • . .

How strange-he had had no idea of this before. Not

until now. Now that it was reality.
 TH E M A R R I A G E FEAST
No, love never comes as we think, always differently,
with something special, something we had not expected .
. . . He had thought of it in general terms as something
delightful and mighty which would take hold of him, lift
him up into its spheres-make him so exultingly happy!
We know nothing of the mystery. Of passion . • • •

Of that which cannot exult, which is too deep down in us

merely to become anything like joy-what is called joy.
We know nothing of love's mood of destiny, pain . . . .
No. . . .
And yet it was just this which made everything so exalted
and grand, raised it to such purity and sublimity. Just this
-which gave something he had never before felt with a
woman-the longing for a human being, for someone else's
innermost self. . . .
Yes, he loved her.
Thought of her-of his bird-huddled in his hand-the
trembling heart. . . . Stroked softly, softly-felt the broken
wing-
Yes, yes . . . their love had been born in pain, in sorrow,
in what was heavy and grievous. With wings which did not
want to bear them out into the storm, but which were going
to bear them, which must-which would be forced to lift
them upward, upward-higher, still higher-in spite of all,
in spite of all . . . .
That was how he had always imagined love, dark,
fraught with destiny. . . . There was nothing strange to
him about it, he did not recoil. It was all so familiar to
him. He had lived in this atmosphere in his dreams-had
sought it out, been drawn, sucked toward it-unresistingly.
. . . Only he had not imagined any particular reason. No.
. . . That would be in love itself, perhaps in passion's
almost agonizing excess. . . .
But in what he was now meeting the pain was real, had
a cause.
Yes. And yet . . .
 THE MASQU E RAD E O F SO U L S 141
He saw the meaning of it. H e understood.
Understood as he had been unable to do before. Perhaps
that was the change in him, just that. That all he had
dreamed and thought had come to meet him as reality­
pain, happiness, sweetness and torment-everything. Life
itself had come to meet him.
And yet all he felt was calm, expectation. He went in
reverent expectation of what was to come, what life chose
to bring, where it was to lead him. He was ready. Went
about in a secret ecstasy, with his face gentle and open,
naked and defenceless as a lover's face is. Roamed the
streets-restless-with eyes that saw and yet did not see
what surrounded him. He met people, a stream of people,
met no one-was far away. Was with her. Inside himself.
Went about longing to hear her footstep-and to sit talking
together again, as only they could-to hear her well-known
step-longing for the time when they would meet. . . .
Yes, it was Love, the perfect love; that which is without
thought. As the soul is without thoughts, merely is,
existing in itself.

She came up for a while as usual. The lights were on in

both rooms and the table laid with his meagre offering, as
he called his arrangements of fruit and flowers-her
favourite roses in a large bowl and mimosa which diffused
its sweet scent. They talked about a concert they had been
to the evening before, about Bach whom they both wor­
shipped. That had been the best of all ! What followed
was unnecessary really, for Bach had everything, and in
the highest form musical inspiration could attain. But they
had to admit that there were others they were fond of
almost equally perhaps, though just at present they were so
taken up with Bach . . . . They had to admit that! They
should be grateful for whatever they could enjoy, for
anything at all in which they delighted. And for the fact
1 42 T H E MARR IAGE FEAST
that there was such a thing as music. What would life be
like otherwise? Difficult to imagine, it would have been
another kind of existence. The life we feel inside us has
rhythm, music as part of its essence. In fact, we could
imagine ourselves as capable of listening to the melos, the
secret rhythm of our inner self-imagine that life could be
heard-if we possessed such a sense. Or-perhaps-if we
did not have our senses to disturb us, distract us the whole
time. We don't know to what extent our senses may also
blunt, coarsen us, inure us to their strong stimulation ; nor
what we might perhaps divine if it were still for once.
Perfectly still . . . .
He went over and sat beside her on the couch. Took her
hand. They sat looking at each other. Then he kissed her,
bending her slowly back.
"Darling . . . . "
"Oh . . . . "
She caressed his head, drew it down to her, clung to his
lips with hers. He grew hot from the contact, from the close
scent of her skin, seized her shoulders and held her beneath
him. But she forced herselfup, pushed him away, her hands
shielding her from his deep, ardent gaze . . . . "Later, later
-some time . . . . " she whispered. He looked at her darkly,
beseechingly. But she shook her head. Put out her lips,
half in reproach and half in consolation . . . . Then she put
her arms around his neck and covered his mouth with
light, caressing kisses, merely caressed it softly with hers .
. . . He gasped and forced her down, held her, bared her
shoulders, and then almost her breasts, embraced her bare
body.
Suddenly she changed, fought to get free-to move her
arms, twisted away with the strength of despair. At last she
bit his hand so that he had to let her go. Sat up trembling.
Then she burst out crying.
"Arna?" He tried to talk to her, caress her. . . . She
merely cried, pushed him away.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 43
"But Ama . . . . It's only because . . . Arna! You must
know that."
She held the wet, crumpled handkerchief to her eyes.
"You only care for me in that way," she sobbed.
" I ! I do? How can you say that?"
She raised her head and stopped crying. Squeezed the
handkerchief.
"It seems like it," she said.
"How can you think that-and after all we have had
together. . . . And you say that I only want to-you ought
to know it's not possible."
She looked down at the floor where he stood, without
raising her eyes to his; sat looking dry-eyed.
"Why do you say such silly things?" he said.
He knew that she was doing him an injustice and was
overcome by a feeling of bleak dejection, wherever it came
from. Went over to the window. Neither said anything.
The silence was tense and painful. He began walking up
and down.
Then he went over to her, however. Took her head
between his hands. Stroked her hair tenderly, gently.
"Ama . . . . You know quite well that I love you . . . . You
do know, don't you? Arna? I love you more than I can say,
than I can explain."
She looked at him shyly, guardedly and fervently. And
he took her and kissed her. He didn't quite recognize her
mouth after the tears; it was so loose. He caressed her until
she was quite still.
There was something timorous about her. But she was
warm and soft from having cried, and cuddled up to him.
Put her arm around his neck and began kissing him over
and over again with her wet face to his. Looked at him . . . .
Her eyes dilated, as though to open for his. They smiled at
each other-she wanly and breathlessly. Then she slid
right up against him, holding herself taut, clinging to him
and panting. . . . He fondled her legs which lay quivering
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
against him. The right one felt a shade more slender than
the other-he withdrew his hand. Kissed her quickly,
tenderly, and raised her up. Smoothed her hair, which was
all rumpled, stroked it back from her forehead. Helped her
with it. She gave a slightly forced smile and moved her
head away. Combed her hair back with a few vigorous
strokes. Tidied her dress.
"Would you like some fruit?" he said.
"No, thank you."
After a moment he himself took a French pear and peeled
it.
"Are you sure you won't have something?" he asked.
"They're excellent."
"No, my dear, I don't feel like it."
He went on eating, gave his mind to it.
There was a blank-only a slight scraping against the
plate, and the glint of the ceiling light for a moment.
Seemed to take a long time for him to finish. They sat
there in silence.
"Give me a cigarette," she said.
He went and got them, gave her a light. Put out ash­
trays, which he had forgotten. The rumble of the trams
could be heard from below, but faintly, from away in the
side streets.
She pulled up her legs on the couch, tucked a cushion
under her and stretched out, settled down until she lay
comfortably on her back. Lay humming softly, looking up
at the ceiling. Stretched out her arm and lay slowly
tapping the cigarette with her finger. Went on doing it. . . .
Laid her head back on the cushion and smiled to herself,
as though she had just thought of something. Raised
herself as if she were not quite comfortable.
Suddenly he threw himself over her and tore open her
clothes.
And she let him come, take her, bury his heated face in
her breasts, but without touching him. Lay there with the
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 45
cigarette out over the table--dropped it on the plate. Until
she gradually wakened-slowly like an animal which gets
up without there being any sign of the quarry's approach­
clung tightly around him, soft and quiet, without a sound;
all that was heard was a groan.
Inside him he exulted, exulted. He loved her! Loved
her! Yes ! Yes ! It was true. He knew it. He felt it inside
him in glowing happiness. Dragged his mouth across
her breasts as if he would swallow them-across her, his
beloved. Seized her, against him, she, she . . . . There was
no doubt -only inexpressible, dizzy happiness - with
her. . . . He looked into her eyes which lost their gaze . . . .
And her smile-painful, broken-her smile which he
recognized so well in the midst of his ecstasy-he kissed it,
kissed her very pain-because it was she, she-whom he
loved. . . . And when she put the hot tip of her tongue
into his mouth. . . . Yes, yes ! He loved her!

At the same time as they got married, early in the spring,

he retired from the firm and had nothing more to tie him
here at home. The wedding was very quiet, with only his
brother and her old mother present. In the evening they
left for abroad.
Abroad, away-the two of them. The train rushed
through the night. They listened, twined together. . . .
Alone! Nothing else to exist for any longer but each other.
Nothing in the world but themselves, their love! They
couldn't imagine it, not properly-to be able to live only for
that, for one another. A whole life together. Given to the
beloved, dedicated to love, utterly, completely. As it
should be. As we dream of it, as all long for it deep down,
long to make their hearts come true. . . .
The countryside outside the window was hardly visible,
although they had dimmed the light in their compartment.
Only the stars. Pale. Straying in the windowpane that was
 THE MAR R I A G E FEAST
dripping with damp. It was like a dream-a waking
dream. Their life beginning, mysteriously. . . . They were
carried away together into the night . . . . .
Far, far away to a strange land, to unknown people, to
hide themselves with their happiness !
To beauty, the South! Perfection.
They passed through towns - on, away- stopped at
places where they had each been on their own at some
time, but which now seemed entirely new to them in their
happiness. Strolled in the crowd, the strange crowd in
which their voices were lighter than all others. Went on.
Left. Went on. Until the Alps sank behind them and
the country spread out, seeming to bathe in perpetual
sun.
It was not just sunny, a fine day, as at home. But some­
thing perpetual, something that was like that. Which lay
under the bare sky, open and naked. Which was the land
of Day. The plain seemed to them adorned for a festival
with the grapevines wreathing in garlands between the
trees as far as the eye could see, mile after mile, blossoming
trees, as in eternal spring. And when the mountains began
again they lay sunny and clear, resting in light. Rose
higher and higher, with aged towns and villages on the
summits, lifted as though in rapture toward heaven, in
ecstasy over life. As if the very earth raised itself in fervour
and lifted its life in carefree gifts toward the heights. It was
all awake, real, close. It was the land of Day. Until the
country sloped down once again. Breathed freely, calmly,
reverently. In thoughts, solemnity. Perfect peace. Opened
up like a soul, naked and pure . . • .

Tuscany-Tuscany-with the vines bursting into leaf

over the hills, on the black, almost charred stems. The
slopes grey with olives, with gentle, Biblical greenery, aged,
faded by thowands of years of sun. The olive, mother of
trees, which has grown grey in the earth's service. Cypresses
rose up in the distance, apart, as at sacred places. Stone
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 47
pines lifted their crowns, floating, like spirits of the air.
Life, death. Death and life.
Tuscany . . . •

It seemed to them in their boundless happiness more

austere than they had thought. Very grave. Almost dark
in fact. But its beauty was nevertheless far too great for one
really to be weighed down by it. They were moved-freed.
As beauty always seems to free. At last only frees . . . .
Yes, they were almost dizzy with joy. When they had
reached Florence ! Joy at being there! Went about in an
ecstasy of happiness-which at the same time felt curiously
still, like devotion. Roamed the narrow streets between
the palaces which lay there solemn and mighty. Almost
gloomy. Read the marble tablets at the street corners with
quotations from Dante . . . .
Dante, Beatrice . . . .
They pressed close to each other. Walked down along
the Arno, silent, devout. With shining eyes. . . .
Vita nuova . •New life through love . . .
• . .

Yes, which for them . . .

Until they looked at each other-saw that they thought
the same. Gave a smile-Glided caressingly in between
each other's fingers, into the beloved's hand, lightly, im­
perceptibly, made each other hot . . . .
They were in the churches, where there was so much to
see and enjoy, stood together under the shadowy arches in
bliss . They saw art, experienced all the glory and splendour
that has been created by the mind of man, perfectly, for all
time. Found their way to secluded sanctuaries, to incon­
ceivable treasures through lanes and passages where people
sat eating their bread in the doorway and the brazier
glowed inside in the dirty darkness. They lived as in a
constant ecstasy.
Mter a time they moved up to Fiesole, on the slope
toward the valley, toward the Arno. Rested, in sunshine,
among roses. Flowering clematis and wisteria climbed over
 T H E MARRIAGE FEAST
the walls, flowing over from the wealth o f the innumerable
gardens; the villas lay light and open in the spring air with
the loggias full of drowsy scents. It was stupefying. They
felt the breath of the South strike against them with its
violent, flaming heat. Dry days which made life trans­
parent as glass and kept the body taut in an enervating
vigil. In the evenings they walked along the path around
the hills of Fiesole and lingered in the grove of stone pines
on the south side where the scent of resin still steamed under
the trees after the sun had gone down behind the mountains
and the lights began to appear down in Florence, all along
the valley. Dusk was falling and they hurried home before
the path grew too dark. Made their way through the
garden, into the hall and up to their room, without putting
on the light. Opened the windows to the cool of the night.
Silent, beside each other. Were drawn into their love, their
passion, overwhelmed, without words.
The frogs croaked down in the valley. The fireflies
darted outside in the night, came into the room like floating
sparks.
It was sweet, sweetest of all to lie still, beside each other,
waiting, as in holy waiting, while love arched its temple,
its holy night over them-incomprehensibly big. . . . Space
only deepened more and more the longer they looked into
it. Their eyes were filled with a wonder of all wonders . . . .
It was like a solemn festival, a celestial temple ceremony
at which they were present . . . .
He bent down over her in unspeakable, trembling happi­
ness. . . . Put on the light in order to see her, in order to see
her before passion swept them up into itself, into its de­
lirium. She lay there with her arms under her head, the
small breasts contracted, hardly noticeable, like a boy's.
Taut and shining like a blade, waiting for him to come.
Resisted, didn't want to, caused him to grow more violent.
Outside was Tuscany with quivering stars above the
hills, with gleaming lights rising toward them, up over the
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 49
heights; one couldn't tell which was sky and which was
earth.
The days slipped past, large, clear, like pearls lost from a
hand; caressed as they were lost, as they glided away.
Costly, priceless-to be filled, filled with a single feeling of
rejoicing! Mighty, urgent. Glowing through one's soul,
one's limbs, like an omnipotent fire. The joy of living, of
loving. Of existing on a loved, wide-open earth.
Down there Florence spread itself out for them every
morning in lavish splendour, sunny and extensive, with the
cathedral and the campanile at its heart. With its palaces
and churches, its cupolas and towers. The whole valley
with the winding ribbon of the Arno stretched out for them
when they looked out-in a single vista. Right up by San
Miniato they could make out Michelangelo's David, naked
and gigantic, gazing into the distance like an imperious
young heathen god. It was overwhelming. Pregnant and
rich like a hymn. And when in the stillness of Sunday
morning the bells began to ring down there-all the bells
of Florence, San Lorenzo's, Santa Croce's, Santa Maria
Novella's, Santissima Annunziata's-and above them all
those of the campanile with their clear notes raised up to
heaven-they stood in silence. Mute. In wonder at this
song of praise in the sun, through the valley. . . . Round
about lay the countryside, dark, solemn and seeming to
listen. Bare as a face and unapproachable. As though sunk
into itself.
They could not tear themselves away from this country­
side which had so captivated their souls. Lingered week
after week, longer than they had intended. Not until they
thought it was beginning to get too hot did they leave and
move up to the mountains. Up to the lakes under the Alps,
in a gentle coolness from the eternal snows. Pretended they
were in the North among meadows with buttercups and
forget-me-not, only larger, more lush than they were used
to. With bilberries on the edge of the forest where they lay
1 50 T H E MARRIAGE FEAST
watching the peasant women cut the hay with a sickle on
the steep slopes and the men carry it home in large cocks on
their backs like heavily laden animals. They led a free and
glorious summer life in this magnificent scenery, among a
fine and cordial people. Sound, frank mountain-dwellers
who were content with their simple lot. More often than
not jovial and gay. When you met them they always
beamed, even worn-out old men and women, bent from all
they had borne in their day. The countryside had nothing
oppressive and gloomy about it either, as in a Scandinavian
tract of similar wildness. Always had an exhilarating effect
on one, like a festival. It was huge and yet gentle, approach­
able. At night, not long before sunrise, they would some­
times wake to the sound of a hom up in the mountains,
hear the young people going home toward the village;
they could tell from the sound how the road twisted
slowly down through the valley.
They had a long, unforgettable time here. In the late
summer, on one of the last days, they went for a farewell
walk up into the forest, higher up than usual, in a direction
where they should have a particularly good view. The
weather was at its loveliest now, these days when the
warmth had a tang which made it infinitely easy to breathe.
The trees had already begun to tum, to take on autumn's
profuse colours; the chestnuts were waiting to be harvested;
the walnut trees burned down on the slope like bright
yellow torches. As they walked along they revelled in all
this glory and in breathing the clean air. The path was
steep but they took it slowly so that it would not be too
strenuous. When they reached the top the view was indeed
enchanting. They stood together gazing, without a word
spoken. With their senses brimming, as they do when you
stand looking out over country which you must leave and
in all likelihood will not see again. Filled with a strange,
tugging happiness but also with melancholy.
Behind them was a grassy glade where they sat and
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 151
rested for a while. There was a small hut of unhewn stone,
the kind used for sheltering the sheep at night but far too
small to be used for such. Dilapidated, in one corner it had
half fallen in. Over the entrance a cross had been painted
in whitewash. When they opened the rickety door and
peeped in they saw that it was a chapel. By the far wall was
an altar and over it was a yellowed newspaper spread out
as a cloth, its edges cut in zigzags as one does with shelf­
paper in a pantry. Against the wall was a dusty little post­
card of the Madonna and in front of it some flowers in a
broken glass. The simplicity ofit all moved them, especially
the altar cloth, and they stayed there for a long time in the
semi-darkness. If the wall had not collapsed it would have
been almost dark.
When they came out they both thought they had
seldom been in a temple which so disposed them to rever­
ence. And what a glorious position ! Right down below
wound the lake, deep blue and with steep shores which in
this light gleamed like mother-of-pearl.
But they must go back now. They didn't want to hurry,
and if they were to take their time going down and get
back to the hotel for dinner they had better be making a
start. Going down was actually more of a strain for her
foot, though he helped her at the difficult places. When
they got home it was aching slightly, not enough to worry
her, but she lay down and rested for a while all the same.
A day or two later they went away. Returned, strength­
ened, to the South, to all that was still awaiting them.
Passed Tuscany, which lay there burned and scorched and
perhaps did not make the same impression on them as the
first time, but a very strong one even so. They visited other
places now, Lucca, Pisa and the austere, medieval Siena,
adding new experiences to their former ones. Then down
into Umbria, the land of religious ecstasy, where the roads
between the mountains have something holy about them
because St Francis has walked them. Imbued themselves
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
in this world, i n Assisi's jumble of churches, monasteries,
monk-filled streets, and made a pilgrimage out to the
place in the wilderness where he received the stigmatiza­
tion. Went on soon afterward to Rome and stayed there
for some time. Still farther, down to the Gulf of Naples,
sunny Sorrento where summer yet lingered.
Their life had really become one long festival. They
couldn't believe it was true that one could live like this !
So fully, so richly and gloriously.
Now it was like a new summer for them. With sun and
flowers. And the sea was there, just below their window. It
was the first time they really saw the Mediterranean, lived
by it and heard it break in long, invisible breakers against
the shore. The gulf widened, always just as blue, with
the rocky island of Ischia farthest out, with Naples and
Vesuvius and at night the endless string of lights along the
coast.
It was a place for happiness, for lovers. And they were
intoxicated by happiness. They felt like heathens in all this
earthly beauty, perfection, but at the same time filled with
love's solemnity, their hearts trembling from their great
wonder as from the mighty peal of an organ. Their love
seemed to embrace everything, both heaven and earth. It
was like a huge instrument on which to play. Carefree and
sacred, playful and yet always just as full-toned and deep.
Their whole existence was like a carefree game to the
sound of solemn organ music.
They couldn't grasp that a feeling could so penetrate
their entire being, unite two people so completely to each
other. Although each day gave them so many new im­
pressions, they really only existed for each other, and
everything around them at last had a value only because
they saw it together. How poor it all would have been if
they had not done so! The wealth came from their love;
through it they were able to get so much out of everything,
steep themselves in all they saw. Their souls broadened
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 53
and became receptive as never before, but at the same
time almost absent, fleeting, thoughtful, each living only
in its own world.
Hete they threw themselves into the motley tumult of
the South, with the gay, responsive people who threw all
care to the winds. Wallowed like animals in existence, as
one must do here.
They had discovered the real South and fallen in love
with it. Were enticed even farther down, to Sicily,
Taormina, Girgenti. . . . With Greek temples, blossoming
almond trees, Etna's snowcap shimmering in the distance .
. . . All one could desire of earthly beauty. Until in the
early spring they went north again.
They found that this was just the very way it suited
them to live. They were independent and wanted to be,
to feel, fully independent. They had little need of people
and social life. They were sufficient unto themselves, their
love and happiness.
They continued to stay abroad. Only came home some­
times for the summer and once, reluctantly, in the middle
of winter because her mother died. Often during the
season they lived on the Riviera, but away from the crowds
and noise, the everlasting carnival life, masquerades,
batailles de Jleurs, which was nothing for them. They pre­
ferred quietude and a certain solitariness. They both had
a leaning to this, and what meant most of all to them per­
haps was scenery. This was what they sought here, too,
and the lovely climate.
Imposing scenery was always a source of refreshment to
them if ever they felt tired or bored. Perhaps that was why
they travelled so much. It became at last a need for them
to travel, not to be bound too much to anything hard and
fast.
They had their life, that was all. Became absorbed in the
very existence which they shared. Lived for each other in
an unusually harmonious way.
1 54 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
They were happy. Life had become perfect. As they had
imagined.

They were at home one summer after several yean, were

staying by the sea. Sat one afternoon down on the beach
sunbathing. Some small children, three- and four-year­
olds, were bathing not far away, came in and played,
rolled about in the sand and splashed out into the water
again.
"It's lovely today. The sun's really hot," he said.
She nodded.
"That sailboat hasn't moved the whole time. They'll
have to take to the oars if they want to get in. But I expect
it's only out with holiday-makers. . . . Look, now they
have to start rowing!"
"Yes."
"But you're not looking," he laughed.
"Aren't I? Oh yes."
They sat on for a while longer. She seemed to be wool-
gathering.
"Let's go," she said, getting up.
"Why? All right, if you want to."
They walked in toward the sunny grey rocks, a kind of
path which almost wasn't there at all. Some little way from
the shore they lay down on a knob of rock from where they
had a view right out to sea. The small rocky islands lay
smooth and shining, low and polished by the sea. Farthest
out there was a blue glitter.
"There's wind out there," he said, pointing. "Just over
there off Bullareskaren. And out by Hovo there's quite a
breeze."
She made no reply but looked for a moment where he
was pointing. Glanced down at some heather which had
taken root in a crevice at her feet. It seemed impossible that
there should be any earth there. It came up out of a mere
crack.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 55
"What are you thinking of?" he said, taking her hand.
"Nothing."
"Yes, there's something. . . . "
She lay moving a blade of grass slowly across the smooth
slab of rock and looking down, absently.
"Don't you sometimes think it's strange," she said at
last-"strange that we haven't any children?"
"We? Yes. . . ." He looked at her wonderingly. "Yes,
it is. . . . But I thought - well, that we didn't want
any. That's what we used to say, that it was best like
that."
"No . . . we didn't say that, did we?"
"Yes. . . . You know we did . . . . Before, in the begin-
ning, when we talked about it once. And before we got
married, too. . . •"
"Oh yes, then. That was different."
"Do you want to, Arna? I didn't think you did."
He took her hand again.
"You've never even hinted " . • . .

She made no reply, lay with averted glance.

"Every woman wants to," she said presently. "She feels
there's something missing otherwise."
He stroked her hand gently.
"Do you often think about it?"
"Yes-I suppose I do ." . . •

"A lot?"
"Quite a lot . • "
• .

He moved closer to her and took her gently by the

shoulders. She looked down and fingered the buttons of
his j acket.
"I think it's so strange that a love like oun does not give
us a child."
"Yes. But it's not because of love."
"N�but I think it should be."
"Yes, that would be right It would be the most
. • . •

natural if it were so."

1 56 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
She was silent. Looked out to sea with eyes that were dry
and rather dull.
"What is the reason then?" she said.
"Well, dear-you know just as well as I do. That is to
say-how is one to know--one can't always tell."
She lay down on her back with her hands to her temples.
"It's my fault," she said.
"But darling-Why should it be?"
He bent over her, stroked her hair, her cheek and neck.
"Why do you think about it, Arna dear? We're evidently
not meant to have children-and we can't help that, either
you or I. . . . But we have each other. That means a lot.
Doesn't it?"
"Yes."
They were silent for a long time. He sat up, gazed out
to sea, but held her tightly by the hand. It felt slack in his;
she lay stretched out beside him with her head against the
rock.
"I expect I'm the one with something wrong," she said.
"No, Arna-how can you say that?" He turned to
her almost violently; looked into her wide, rather tired
eyes.
It hurt him to see her. He knew that he was not the one
at fault, for once in his youth he had made a girl pregnant.
He caressed her gently, with tender affection; kissed her
quickly so that the passers-by would not notice them. But
lingered over her, by her face. Glided over her brow,
stroked the soft hair back from it, could make out each little
strand of hair in the fine skin.
"Listen-1 think that two people who have no children
can mean all the more to each other-something very
special to each other. As we do. In that way they have
their love to make up for what they have had to do without.
Don't you think so, too?"
"Yes," she said. "I suppose so."
He watched her face. Slender and a little tense. The
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 57
complexion was pale, yet with that warm tinge which she
had, and not at all sunburned; she never was.
"Let's go," she said.
"Don't you want to sit here, either?" he said with a
smile.
"Yes-but we can take a little walk all the same."
They clambered down the rock to the path leading to
the beach. Oh no, they could go inland instead. She
thought it would be better.
They went for an hour's walk.
In the evening, when they had gone up to their room at
the boarding house after supper and she was sitting on the
sofa as she usually did, she said, "Halvdan--do you think
it's because of me?"
"But my dear-with a thing like that it's impossible to
tell. You know that . • " • .

She sat looking out of the window with the pale light in
her eyes; folded her hands in her lap, which was not like
her and which somehow did not quite suit her.
"You know it's because of me," she said.
"Nonsense! I haven't the faintest idea, darling. How
could I?"
"But it's nearly always something wrong with the
woman. I've heard that."
"Nearly always. Perhaps."
"Yes."
"But Arna, my dear, why should we talk about it?
What's the use? Let's go out and sit on the balcony for a
while . . . . Come and see how nice it is."
She came out slowly. The sea was calm and smooth
between the countless skerries, with light colours after the
sunset wafted into the bays toward the bare, grey land.
The fjord in toward the east had grown dark, gone to rest,
deep and clear, between its watchful hills.
It was a mild evening with no wind. They sat for a long
time talking together of many things, as was their wont; he
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
with h i! arm o n the back o f her chair. H e took her slender
white fingers and let them rest between his.
When they went to bed he looked at her, kissed her with
sudden ardour, held her to him. But she shook her head,
said good-night. She felt rather tired, it had been quite a
long walk.
Ne:r.t day the weather was not so good. But during the
afternoon it cleared and the evening was soft and mild,
more than any previously. They lay down by the shore
long after the others had gone.
Small golden clouds melted into the sky in the west,
turned for a while into blood-red streaks and then vanished
as if they had never been. That was as dark as it got now.
They sat there in silence, watching the approach of the
summer night. It struck him that she had grown more
reticent of late. Perhaps during the last year or two. More
reserved, a little secretive. But people don't notice this so
much when the change is gradual and they are always
together.
She picked some flowers that were around her in the
dusk, two kinds which were growing right down by the
edge ofthe sand-a small pink one and one that was white,
with a calyx like a bell. Arranged them and sat holding
them in her lap.
"What kind of flowers are those--do you know what
they're called?" he asked.
"No-1 don't know. They're quite pretty."
"Yes. One thinks that about all flowers here, however
umusuming they look."
"Here they call them shore boy and shore girl," she
said, rearranging the nosegay. "But I expect they have
some other name."
"Yes-1 e:r.pect they have."
When they went home she took them with her. He kissed
her. And they walked on. He took her arm under his.
Outside where they lived they stopped for a moment as
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 59
usual, stood there because of the view. The open sea was
to the west. It was a shame to go in on such an evening;
they just stood there.
"You shouldn't think about it so much, Arna," he said.
She gave him a little smile.

The days were long. They kept away from the beach,
where people were always coming and going. And they
preferred to bathe elsewhere, by themselves.
"But if it's the woman's fault they say it's possible to do
something," she said once as they lay resting after their
swtm.
"Yes-so they say."
"Did you know that?"
"I've heard about it. It's supposed to be so in some
cases."
"1-1 don't think it's like that with me."
"Oh-why not? Why shouldn't you just as well think
so? And it's probably quite a simple matter."
She made no reply; sat for a while.
"Do you think it can be helped, Halvdan?"
"What is one to think? It's hard to say. It all depends."
"Yes. Of course. It does. Perhaps I'd only be told it
can't be."
"We must be prepared for that, too. But why have such
an idea at the outset? There's no reason for it."
She sat without a word.
"It's quite possible . . . . Indeed it is."
They talked no more about it now, but returned to it
again. And even if she didn't mention it for some time he
knew that she couldn't get it out of her mind. Tormented
henelf with it.
It grieved him always to see her like this. He said that it
was better for her to know definitely. Began to inspire her
with hope-that something could surely be done about it.
1 6o THE MARRIAGE FEAST
Perhaps it could b e put right quite easily. Why shouldn't
it be? She ought to find out for certain; it was surely much
better than this. She thought so too. He knew of a doctor
in town who was the most suitable to consult.
It ended by his persuading her and at last she went off.

When she returned and he met her down by the boat,

she was embarrassed and would hardly speak. But there
was a radiance from within her; he could feel it although
she pretended it was nothing.
Up in their room she threw her arms around his neck
and her eyes filled with tears. It had been as he thought. A
simple case, the doctor had said, and wise of her to come.
"You see ! I was right, you see."
They were overjoyed, had a wonderful day, the happiest
they could remember for a long time. They went for a
walk, close beside each other, were down on the beach and
watched the bathers-all the sunburned children who were
enjoying themselves, living in the sea almost from morning
to night.
And despite the life all around them in the sunshine they
felt quiet, rather far away. So filled with solemnity, with
what was theirs.
They had a glass of wine with dinner as though they
were celebrating their own secret festival by themselves.
He nodded to her over the glass, gaily and yet seriously.
Saw her eyes shine with their former deep glow, keep him
with her. He was glad to have regained her.
The time that followed was strange in its happiness­
expectation and happiness. Hope and at the same time
uncertainty-it felt so curiously alive. Everything lived
within them and around them in a special way. Everything
had a calm warmth and intimacy which communicated
itself to them. They went for walks, down by the sea and
inland where the rocks were swept bare by the wind, with
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 161
heather and bog myrtle in the clefts and bramble bushes
here and there by the edges. And a little farther in oaks,
buffeted by the wind, creeping along the rock like
shrubs, growing together to shield each other from the
blast. Sometimes in a sheltered crevice there was flower­
ing honeysuckle to which they were led by the wafts of
scent.
They lived in everything, with everything, as lovers
can do. Were both carefree and braced by their happiness,
and that seemed to make it even greater. The whole of life
was braced-and yet mild as a summer evening. When they
came to each other the sleeping land lay there outside,
barren and familiar, like something staunch, and the
breeze from the sea puffed the curtain gently into the semi­
dark room.
She had a tenderness as never before, a different,
maternal tenderness which felt infinite. Which felt strangely
sweet after the ardour with which they had once loved
each other. Deep and intimate, and with something hidden,
unspoken. When he satisfied her she hardly let it be
noticed, merely held her breath. It had a mystic effect in
some way.
Time passed. Summer drew to an end. They never
spoke of that which was in their minds, around which her
thoughts must constantly have centred. She seemed to go
about in a gentle trustfulness-not real belief, but some­
thing in which she wanted to exist, let herself sink down
more and more. It was as if she wanted only to keep
humble and quiet, and completely carefree; wanted to
try to be so. Attached herself, warm and safe, to him and
their love.
People began to leave. It grew emptier on the beach, the
promenade and down by the casino. But it had nothing to
do with them.
She was gay and happy. Yes, it seemed as though she
really felt so.
1 62 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
Until one day she confided to him that she hoped-<mly
hoped-for it was hardly possible. It couldn't be.
But one or two things pointed to it all the same. It might
well be the case. He thought so, too.
Yes, she believed-something inside her also seemed to
tell her that it was so. She couldn't be mistaken about it.
She even thought she began to feel nausea, if it could really
be due to that; it was not too early for it. He didn't know
so much about that exactly. But it was quite likely.
The boarding-house began to empty; each day there
were fewer people in the dining-room. They for their part
had no thought of leaving. No plans at all for that matter.
They lived at present only in this.
And these early autumn days--clear, bracing, with a
sky so thin that it was really an inexpressible joy to breathe
deeply. The hills gleamed with moisture in the cool sun­
light and the sea had a greenish tinge right into the bays.
Everything was at its most beautiful now, just now ! There
was no denying it. In this indescribable air. And the chilly
water rustling like silk along their bodies when they
bathed. They felt so exhilarated and so wonderfully light­
hearted. Even if a little under par. For she actually felt
rather seedy. But that, too, was nice, didn't matter. If she
didn't always feel quite so well. She would come in pale
and content after having been sick, laughingly rinse her
mouth and look over at him meaningly, wet-eyed from
the exertion.
There was no longer any doubt of how matters stood.
None at all.
But now they were the only guests left in the boarding­
house. They, too, must be thinking of going. Besides the
place was closing down.
They didn't quite know what they would do. But of
course there was no question of going abroad. They no
longer would or could. Not in these circumstances
naturally.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 63
So it happened that after a time they found themselves
back in their home town after having been away from it
for so many years. And that they got themselves a flat, a
real home. It gave them unexpectedly great pleasure to
get it in order; to see again old, familiar things which had
been in their families and which belonged to them-and
to complement them with new, to choose beautiful things
which went well toget�er with the others, try to harmonize
it all into a real whole. It gave them plenty to think of and
ready play for their taste and personal discrimination.
They found that they had a knack of coming across valuable
things, which just suited them, in antique shops.
They were also glad to see the town again after such a
long time. It was like something new. But as regards
the people they felt rather out of it, they had grown
away from them. They made hardly any new friends, not
more than were absolutely necessary. They had each
other.
And their home. For they had already grown really
fond of it. It was already dear to them. It enclosed them
with its tranquillity-they felt at home there from the first
moment. They thought it was strange that the idea had not
occurred to them long ago; that they roamed about for so
long. They had really been quite restless.
She thought of the little corner room for the nursery. It
faced south and was the sunniest of the smaller rooms.
"It will be excellent, don't you think so?" Yes, it ought
to be.
When they had really settled down �:he also started
getting the little one's layette ready, though there was
plenty of time. But she wanted to do everything herself and
preferably by hand. Began with the unnecessary things,
those that were really sweet and dainty. But then she got
to work on diapers, covers and such like, sat perseveringly
every day. Collected it all in piles; at last she had a whole
shelfful in the linen cupboard. "But aren't you doing far
1 64 T H E M A R R I AG E FEAST
too much?" he said . "Oh no. You just don't understand,
darling. You need an awful lot."
She kept quite well under the circumstances. Their
doctor was also satisfied with her. And it was a good thing
she was in such good spirits. Well, why not? And they knew
that it meant a lot for the child. She was rather tired, of
course. But that was all part of it.
By degrees, as time passed, she felt the tiredness more.
Toward the end of the winter. She was very swollen,
unusually so perhaps, and it made her heavy and cumbrous
and her feet troubled her. She had to lie down often,
several times a day at last. But she only rested for a little
while, for she mustn't get into the habit.
Otherwise everything ran its normal course. She suffered
a lot from heartburn the whole time, but then most people
do. She had nothing worse than what was normal. And
there was nothing wrong with the albumen.
"He's evidently going to be a real little ruffian," he
said, for she began to get more and more shapeless. In fact,
she showed it in many ways. Her face was gaunt and wan,
sallow up by the forehead. Her cheeks were sunken, her
neck had also grown thin and drawn. "What a sight I
look," she said, glancing into the mirror with her little
smile. "Don't you think so, Halvdan?"
"Yes, you look awful," he said, scrutinizing her. She
nodded in full agreement.
The last month was the worst. She kept lying down for
the most part. It was too much to carry about, was too
much of a strain on her leg; it was better for her if she just
kept quiet. But she must move about if all was to go well.
Be up and about as much as ever she could.
They went for a little walk together every day, were out
for a while at least. It was spring now, too, and fine
weather. Everywhere in the parks the trees were in leaf.
They went for the same walks as during their very first
time, along by the water, for they liked that best; he with
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 65
her under his arm, on the side with the bad leg where she
needed his support a little. They had to walk slowly, of
course, but she managed quite well.
She tried to keep on with these walks right up to the last.
It was not essential, though very good in one way. But she
ought to take things more quietly. It was really painful to
see her limping along like that with her burden. Despite
the fact that he thought there was something sublime and
lovely about it. He was really proud of her at the same
time, of her condition.
But she was having far too bad a time, poor thing. He
couldn't stop thinking about it, though she didn't want
them to talk about it. She did, now, however-more than
most.
It was almost a relief when the doctor, after an examina­
tion, wanted her to go into the nursing home. He was not
quite satisfied with her heart and anyway it was just as well
that he had her there. It might be any moment now.
At home it was strange and empty. Moving about in
the rooms quite alone. But he was with her as often as he
was allowed. Until one evening he received a telephone
call to come at once. It had already begun.
He ran down the stairs and threw himself into a taxi.
He was not allowed to go in. Only outside in the corridor.
There was someone screaming most horribly. But it
couldn't be she, for it wasn't at all her voice. Must be
someone else who was also giving birth.
But-it must-be she ! Couldn't be anyone else!
He asked. Yes, she was in there, the third door.
It was she-Good God!
It didn't even sound human. Was like nothing. It was
something utterly unnatural. . . .
And then she-she! Oh good God . . . .
And it went on and on, the whole time the same, screech
after screech, without ceasing, without a moment's break­
until it grew slurred, more of a groan, and at last stopped.
J 66 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
A nurse came out.
"Is it over?" he asked.
"No, they have put her to sleep."
"She screamed again in there. . . ."
"Only lightly, and it hasn't acted yet."
"But can't they put her to sleep properly, so that she
doesn't have to be tortured so terribly?"
"She's supposed to have a weak heart."
A weak heart, a weak heart, a rather weak heart­
rather-Oh good Lord !
He clasped his hands. "Dear, dear God ! Let it be all
right, let it be all right!"
He could hear her breathing. Panting. It was no normal
breathing. It sounded like some kind of pump. A hoarse
pump. Not at all like a living being.
Yes, rather weak, rather-nothing to worry about. . . .
She started screaming again. Then was quiet once more.
Only breathed. But that was almost worse, yes much
worse . . . .
If only she survives it, if only she survives it
. . . •

He walked up and down, up and down outside the door.

Couldn't stand still for a moment.
An eternity passed.
It was a long, long time, too. He looked at the clock.
Yes, and then before-it had begun long before . • . .

At last a nurse came out, must be the head nurse. He

went toward her with a slack, inquiring face.
She shook her head.
"But how is it going? How is it going?" he asked.
She again shook her head.
"Badly. Very badly," she said.
He went white as a sheet. Fingered his hat-didn't know
-know what-didn't • . .

The nurse had only come out to give an order. Went in

again. He was standing by the door and caught a glimpse
of the operating theatre with a strong light, she lying on
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 167
the table-the doctor had blood on him-blood every­
where, it steamed-several nurses holding her-looked as
if they were in the act of slaughtering her . . . .
Dear God!
He was seized with terror. Horror. Didn't know what he
could do--didn't know . . •

Dear God !
He wanted to go down on his knees-if that could save
her-if he prayed properly, properly for her-just that she
wouldn't die, that she wouldn't die-yes, he must pray
properly for her-he must-Now! Now at once!
But there was nowhere he could do it-not here in the
corridor, where nurses and visitors were passing all the
time-nowhere. . . .
At last he went into a lavatory, locked the door and
threw himself down on the floor. "Dear, gracious God-as
long as she doesn't die-help her-help us-grant that she
may live-all I have-the most precious thing I have on
earth-that she may be saved, can be saved-! shall
thank, thank Thee on my knees-if only she can live­
dear, dear God . . . . "
He got up, panting. Held his head. Brushed his knees
before going out.
There was no one in the corridor. And outside the door
there was not a sound. It was silent in there-quite silent.
He strained his ears . . . could hear nothing. Only the
doctor's voice once.
He drew a deep breath.
After a few minutes the head nurse came out.
"Is it--<>ver?"
"Yes," she said.
"All right? Has it-gone-well?"
"Perhaps you can come in," she said. "I'll ask."
He was left outside.
Yes, he could come.
There was a reek of lysol and in the sharp light he w.u
r 68 T H E MAR R I A G E FEAST
a t first almost blinded. H e saw something bloody which a
nurse was just covering up. Farther in on a stretcher she
was lying. Pallid and lifeless. Like a dead person. But her
chest was heaving violently. He bent over her. Kissed her,
over and over again. She did not open her eyes. Seemed to
be aware of nothing. As if she were asleep. They rolled her
away on the stretcher.
"It was the only thing to do," the doctor said, pulling
off his rubber gloves. "Had she not been so weak, and
then this heart business, we'd have performed a Caesarian,
you know. But it was unthinkable. In all probability she
would never have come through it."
He breathed in relief.• • "And now?" he said.
•

"Out of danger. If nothing unforeseen happens."

"Thank God for that. . . . "
"Yes. It was difficult. Very. And she won't survive
anything like it again. That's my opinion."
"No, no--1 understand."
He had washed and now came and shook hands.
"You must forgive me. I didn't want to tell you in
advance how hard it was going to be. And it wouldn't
have helped for you to have known it either, and perhaps
have hinted it to her in some way."
"No, no, of course-I'm grateful to you. Grateful for
everything. I know you've done everything . • " • •

"Yes, all that could be done. But it's just as well that
things went as they did."
"Now she will sleep," he added. "It's no good your
going in to her any more this evening, I think. But you
ought to be here tomorrow when she wakes. Best if you're
here then."
"Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course I shall be."
He thanked the doctor again warmly and all the nurses.
Left the room. Stood again out there in the corridor. Took
a deep breath. It felt as though an enormous weight had
been lifted from his chest.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S r 6g
Oh, thank God, he said once more as he went past the
lavatory door.

He was sitting there waiting for her to wake. Looked at

her face, thin and bloodless, but calm now, quite calm in
sleep. The small, dear face with the familiar features . . . .
A long, long time. Just sat there looking at her. . . .
At last her mouth began to twitch, it was distorted by
pain-she opened her eyes. Bewildered-as though she
didn't understand-what had happened to her?
Then she seemed to recollect-remembered. . . The
pain gave way to a wan, wan smile-happy. . . She
groped for his hand-raised herself a little.
"Where is it?"
She looked around the room.
"Where is it? Halvdan?"
He looked at her.
"Halvdan? Isn't it? Isn't it here? Halvdan !"
He stroked her head.
"
"They had tcr--had to think of you-sweetheart.
"Of me?"
She stared into him. "Of me? Me!"
"You mustn't-mustn't move-must lie still . . . . "
"Where is it?"
"You have hovered between life and death, darling
Arna-you don't know-between life and death . . . . "
"Where is my child?"
He tried to press her down in the bed, but she propped
herself up with her arms, had strength.
"They had to save you-<larling . . . ."
She stared at him. Her eyes were like great holes.
"What have you done with my child?" she cried.
"Arna-<iarling Arna-you mustn't . . . "
"Where is it? I want to see it!"
He caressed her, shook his head.
 T H E MA R R I A G E FEAST
"I want to see m y child !"
"No, no--you must understand-it's impossible­
impossible. . • . "
"What have you done with my child? What have you
done?"
"Listen-Ama-it was necessary-they had to save
you-sweetheart. . . ."
"Why should I be saved? What have you done with my
child? What have you done with my child?" she screamed,
flinging herself violently to and fro in the bed with a howl
like an animal's. He had to hold her, call for the nurse.
They came running. The bandages were red. She had
brought on a haemorrhage and had to be taken in hand.

The years passed. They lived very much to themselves,

even more so than before, almost isolated. She didn't want
to mix with people, would hardly meet anyone. And
neither of them had any real need of it, at least not of
social life and going out. He did not want it, either; didn't
miss it. They kept to their home. Gave all their thoughts
to it, to their home life, as it suited them best.
They didn't go abroad any more, didn't want to now.
They were unlikely to have felt really happy anywhere
else now. It was best for them here. And Arna wanted to
be able to visit the grave. It was natural that she didn't
want to be separated from that.
She lived in the memory of her child. It was something
that filled her always, he noticed, though he didn't often
care to touch on the subject. Something she couldn't get
away from. All the things she had made for the baby were
hidden. Where she kept them he didn't know, but they
were still there. One evening when he had come back
earlier than expected, he had found her with them in front
of her on the table. And long afterward the same thing
happened again when the performance at the theatre he
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 71
was going to was cancelled. They made no mention of it
on this occasion but went in and had a cup of tea, which he
saw had been laid for her in the adjoining room, though
she had forgotten about it. And then she played their
favourite music for him in the gentle, intimate way she
had if he asked her. He knew no one else who could play
it in that way.
Even the little cot was still up in the attic, with bed­
clothes, quilt and all. He had an idea that if it had not
been for him she would have had it down in the flat.
Perhaps she would. Would have had it about somewhere
here.
In fact, she lived in her dreams of the child which had
come into the world dead. Imagined how it was, would
have been. What its personality would have been like, its
little soul. And what it would have become, how it would
have got on in life. After all, it was a human being like the
rest of us, just as much as ourselves. Was a whole life,
which had just never come alive. But which had existed all
the same, just had never really been allowed to become
what it should. But which she now experienced instead.
She was often out by the grave. And went there even
more often than he knew of, somethimes when she was
only out in town on an errand and came home somewhat
later than he had expected. Tended the little mound, saw
that the flowers were always quite fresh. And sat there on
the seat engrossed in her thoughts. She would also go
occasionally to her mother's grave, but more seldom; it
was not in the same cemetery.
She seemed to think she owed a duty to this uncom­
pleted life. But she also believed that the child existed. She
was sure of it. Otherwise she could not have felt as she did,
live together with it like that.
"What do you think about life after death?" she asked
Halvdan once.
"We know so little about it, Ama."
 T H E MAR R I A G E FEAST
"Yes. But perhaps it's our fault that we do know so
little."
"Oh . . . . How do you mean?"
"Oh, perhaps it is."
He did not feel the same emptiness as she because they
had no child. Only at the beginning really. He thought
that they had each other after all.
They still had their love. Perhaps not in the same way as
before, perhaps altered. But it was still there for them,
inside them. It didn't seem to mean the same to her any
more, not so much, that was plain. But it could be seen
that it was there. She often said when they chanced to
speak of it that she merely thought their feelings for one
another had deepened. They had loved in another way
before, more superficially or however you liked to put it.
They had been too much taken up by the purely physical
side of love, which is not Love itself and which cannot
have such worth as one thinks, cannot give the deepest
significance to two people's life together.
She seemed slightly aloof from this side of their love for
each other, that which he thought had united them in such
a beautiful way and made them so happy. And she felt far
too dejected, as it were, to let herself go properly. When he
was drawn to her she often repulsed him with a tired and
pained expression. It was as if she wanted to say that she
was of no use.
She appeared without desire. Seemed to have no actual
need of him any longer. Lived within herself.
She wondered sometimes whom the child would have
resembled. What it would have looked like. She didn't for
a moment think it would have been like her, had anything
ofher. It would have been like him. And it had been a boy,
too. It would have had his eyes and mouth and perhaps his
way altogether, that affectionate way he had. And perhaps
it would have been like him in other ways too, in spiritual
qualities of deeper significance.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 73
But it had never been allowed to live. She had not been
able to bring his child into the world.
If only she had been able to see it just once and retain a
memory of it. If she had been able to bring a living being
into the world. But what she had borne had been dead.
And had been forced to die. It had wanted to come alive,
but had been forced. They had taken the child's life away
from it, just taken everything from it for her sake. It had at
once been made to die for its mother, for her. She who had
already lived, who actually was not needed any more.
Merely to save her. So it was compelled to sacrifice itself.
And that put her under a special obligation to it; she had a
secret debt which could never really be paid.
She tried to pay it as well as she could by at least being
with the child as much as possible in her thoughts. And by
trying to uplift her5elf, become a more worthwhile person
than before, more tuned to the spiritual, to that which lies
beyond what usually preoccupies us. By trying to live in
the world where she knew her child was. The purely
sensual must not mean so much to her any more, engross
her so entirely.
It didn't, either. All this side of life, in fact, inspired her
mostly with feelings of aversion nowadays. She felt it as
something imperfect, in a way low, which dragged her
down. And it really meant so little to her. She had over­
come this in herself.
She had done this gradually. For even earlier it had
begun to mean less and less to her, as she had become more
aware of the way she was made, perhaps had also matured
a little, if one could call it that. She had not become
utterly indifferent to it. But still . . . . One longs nevertheless
for something - hard to say what - for something else.
Something which can satisfy the deepest, the innermost
part of us, and which can impart renewal, cause something
new to sprout within us. But it must come in another way,
from another source.
1 74 T H E M A R R I A G E F E A ST
This was what the child could have given her. If it had
been granted to her to become a mother, to press the little
one to her heart, have him at her breast. Put her arms
around a small being who was hm, just hers. This, she
felt, would have been the great new wonder. It would have
made her a person of higher worth. Would have raised her
out of her previous life, up to another and higher one.
But now it seemed for all that as though the child were
trying to enter into her existence. As though this little
being whom she had only hurt, only harmed, still wished
her well. Still called to her, let her understand that it Wall
there and could be reached by her tenderness, all her
thoughts. As if it wanted her to know a mother's happiness
after all. A supermundane joy, the soul's calm, incom­
prehensible happiness-if only she could raise herself to
the world above us. It was as though it wanted to turn her
mind and thoughts toward that world. Try to make her
understand that we belong to it in spite of all.
As if it wanted to give her all that she had had to forgo,
give it to her none the less. From the other side.
If only she could accept it. She felt so imperfect and un­
worthy. But she was changed all the same, she noticed that.
Her eyes were turned more to the higher, essential things
than before. And she knew now that there was a world
other than this. A world where we really can meet. Where
she could meet, be united with her child. And where she
and Halvdan also could meet, find each other far more
wholly and completely.
When he worried her by wanting to possess her, by his
caresses, she would reproach him for not caring for her
soul, her inner self. He would answer that ofcourse he did.
And it was true, in one way. But he still didn't do so in the
way she longed for deep inside-that they should become
part of each other. In the way they could.
And yet-they had so very much that united them.
Common interests and sympathies. The whole of their
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 75

mental make-up harmonized so well. They lived together

quite happily, were nevertheless one. And Halvdan had
this goodness and understanding which enclosed their life
with a warmth of a purely inner, spiritual kind. She had
never really deserved this constant goodness of his. The
little she had been capable of doing for him, meaning to
him, and the way she had failed him by not being able to
bring his child into the world. . . . In reality it was she
who was not worthy of him. But she was a little more so
now at least than before.
He grew more and more reserved. Often seemed de­
pressed. But then they had nothing to rejoice at after that
happened, nothing to hope for any more. Their life was at
an end in one way; it had never become just as they once
dreamed it would. And the house felt empty when the
little guest they expected had not come, never would come.
Nothing was the same after this. It could be seen that they
both felt it.
She often urged Halvdan to go out a little more. She
thought he should if he wanted to; it did him good. And he
had begun doing so of recent years. He went quite often to
the theatre, and especially to concerts. To these he could
also coax her once in a while, if it was something really
worth hearing. But otherwise she never went with him,
never to a restaurant or in fact anywhere. He had
to go with an acquaintance or-more often than not­
alone.
That kind of thing seemed to give her no pleasure and
she never liked being with a lot of people. Whatever the
reason was. Perhaps she felt sensitive about her limp,
thought it was noticeable.
He did find a certain diversion in these brief outings,
even if his home was the only place he really needed and
where he preferred to spend h.is time, But he didn't make
her happy by staying at home, either.
He couldn't really quite make her out any longer. She
 TH E MA R RIAG E FEAST
w as so unlike herself i n many ways, had become so. I t was
not the same any more.
Naturally he thought it was going too far, this business
with the child. And yet at the same time he felt sorry for
her that she took it in that way. That she really suffered from
it so much. But that was no reason why it should affect the
whole of their life together, almost separate them and cast
a gloom over everything like this.
After all, it was not something which meant everything
to them. They still had much to make them happy, to live
for, if they would make the most of it. They had each other.
Their love, their feelings for one another-they still had
those.
True, the erotic side was no longer the same for him,
either. He could not feel like that for her any more. But
she was the woman he loved and with whom he wanted to
live after all. Nothing had altered in regard to that.
When she kept on with those reproaches that he did not
love her soul, cared nothing for it, he could not help at 13.$t
saying that surely he had always done so. It must be
obvious to anyone, and otherwise there could never have
been anything between them.
He couldn't see why she wanted to make such utterly
pointless statements. And, after all, it was so unjust.
He had devoted himself to her as completely as it was
ever possible to imagine. Worshipped her, in fact. Lived
his life, all these years, only for her, for this woman who
meant everything to him. Why, he had been so filled by
his love that all this time he had hardly ever had a thought
that it was a lame woman he loved. He hadn't bothered
his head about it, scarcely been aware of it even. Those,
actually, were the feelings he had for her.
It was really her inner self that he loved. Not first and
foremost her body, but her inner self. Therein lay the secret
of his love, he well knew that.
He couldn't quite explain, but she had something oddly
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 77
subduing, something which drew him to her-he didn't
know what. And she still had it.
It had the effect of making him overlook her deformity.
He almost thought it suited her, was part of her. Was part
of her personality to be like that.
She won him and kept him purely and simply by her
inner self, by attracting him in some way. There was some­
thing restrained, unexpressed about her, something which
seemed to give a secret excitement.
Something. He couldn't say what.
And yet. Perhaps it was very largely her deformity and
nothing else which had made her as she was. Which had
given her this indescribable something.
It was very likely. That it had meant a lot to the shaping
of her being, her personality, however strange the thought
might be. Which had given her this fragile and taut
quality, and also probably the introversion which she had,
which she had always had.
Yes. It was no doubt very largely her deformity which
had made her just as she was.
Now she had changed in several respects, both out­
wardly and inwardly. The face's peculiar beauty was still
there, but the years of course had left their mark, and her
appearance showed this; there was a sharpness about the
features. The eyes were most like themselves. They were
still beautiful and fascinating in their eloquence. But the
expression in them was now highly strung and nervous­
as she was herself, mwt be, for everything pointed to it.
On the whole there was now something about her which
made him feel sorry for her.
And she did nothing to keep herself up, pull herself
together; to stand her ground. She merely gave way to her
sad moods and made herself, without knowing it, a burden
to those around her. One felt so dejected in her presence,
there was no getting away from it.
She evidently gave no thought to it, or to the effect she
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
had i n general. It seemed as though she was indifferent to
all such matters. Nor was she any longer so interested in
dress, though she didn't actually neglect it. And when she
walked the limp was more apparent; she no longer seemed
to bother to conceal it. Previously it had almost had the
effect of something interesting abvut her which gave a
painful and fragile quality to her beauty, almost suited it,
and she had also had a gliding walk which made it scarcely
noticeable. But with the years, and when she gave little
heed to it, it was apparent in a different way; one's
attention was drawn to it. She became more of a woman
who was lame.
And yet, he loved her just as much. He couldn't doubt
it. He longed for her-for what she had been, for their
former life together. For their love, all his tenderness to
her; would like to have shown it to her again. That is how
he felt for her. It hurt him to see her tired face with its
suffering expression, in which he sought, more and more
in vain, the image which had been and still was so dear to
him.
It could not be helped ; somehow a kind of oppression
came over them both and over their life together at home.
They went their own ways, as it were, he often in a mood
of irritation, which, however, she always bore with
submissive equanimity.
She was worried by not really knowing what he thought
about the soul's life after death-what his religious views
were. She for her part had gradually come to believe,
really believe. Without prejudices, without any dogmas,
but nevertheless had attained a definite belief that there is
something over and beyond what we see and conceive. In
one way he shared this, was familiar with her thoughts;
occasionally they could talk about it all. But she didn't
know if he really believed. And it tormented her not to know
anything definite about it. For she wanted to have everything
in common with him, especially something so vital, the
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 79

most important thing there was. If he did not share it

with her she did not feel it had the same worth. Nor the
same security. It was not a real faith. Only they could feel
security. They together.
When he got outside the house he felt relieved, and that
was really the only reason why he went out. He took no
particular pleasure in it otherwise. But he liked to sit in a
cafe of an evening to read the newspapers, or just to have
somewhere to sit, perhaps see a few people. He could not
help noticing, either, that there were other women and it
struck him sometimes how odd it was that he lived, and
would no doubt live all his life, together with one whom
fundamentally perhaps he had not so much in common
with after all, perhaps not as he had thought. And that it
was a lame woman to whom he had become attached i n
this way for always-was t o share his life with. But i t was
ahe whom he loved. That was the reason for it all, as is so
often the way.
One thing had occurred to him recently. He wondered
whether the big change in her might not be due to ill
health. She did not look well. But perhaps she never had,
for that matter. It was more apparent now, however, he
thought; he could tell from her complexion, which had
taken on a greyish, unhealthy look. And from so many
other things, too. Something was certainly wrong. So it
seemed, anyway.
She asked one evening if he thought she should go to
the doctor, because she didn't feel quite up to the mark,
and she hardly ever got any proper sleep. It was mostly
because of that. It was hard always to lie awake so much
at night.
He looked up, over at her. Went and sat beside her.
Of course she should. Of course she must go ! They
would go together the very next day. He questioned her,
how she felt, if she had pain anywhere-oh no, none at all.
But her heart?
1 80 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
"It's probably your heart, Arna dear."
"Oh, there's nothing much wrong with that."
But he thought so anyway. How long had she felt like this?
"Oh, I can't really say. Quite a long time, I suppose."
He looked at her-into her frank, tired eyes, which had
sunk far in. Held her head between his hands.
They went to the doctor next day.
No, her heart was not good. But he also suspected some­
thing else, that she might be suffering from some blood
disease; there was quite a lot that pointed to it. And her
resistance was particularly low. A test was taken which
would be examined.
They strolled home through the streets. Held each
other's hand right in the middle of town.
It appeared that she was suffering from pernicious
anaemia. Had little more than a fifth of the red corpuscles
she should have. It was at the stage when she had perhaps
had the disease for several years.
He was quite broken when they were told. But she
seemed calm. And she didn't appear especially depressed.
It will be all right, was all she said.
It was not essential for her to go to bed. But she was to
keep to a certain diet. And she was to have arsenic.
When he went about anxiously, his face slack, u tterly
transformed, she drew him to her and stroked his cheek.
"What is it, darling? My own dear one." Smiled her
tranquil smile at him.
She didn't seem to understand what it was all about.
He hinted that it was something serious.
"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," she said.
"But Arna dear, don't you see-it's very serious. It's a
disease which can lead to--perhaps to death."
"Yes. But I am not afraid of death, Halvdan."
He threw himself down beside her and seized her arms.
Did she want to leave him then? Were they to part, t!v:J,
the two of them-from each other? . . .
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 181
"No, Halvdan, we shall not part. You don't believe that,
Halvdan."
They talked for a long time. She explained the way she
believed it was and how little death meant. It could not
part them when they belonged so much together. It wasn't
like that at all. He put his head in her lap and cried-<:ould
not hold back the tears. Looked at her, into her perfectly
calm face with its pallor spiritualized by suffering. There
were no tears in her eyes, they merely shone. And she
nodded to him as she did when there was something special,
in that thoughtful way which he recognized so well. Took
him to her and kissed him.
They returned again to this whenever they talked to­
gether. Wanted to talk so-about it. And they talked often,
often. Lived in each other, in each other's open, wide open
soul which kept watch day after day, unceasingly. It was
like a perpetual festival, intimate and tremblingly big.
She wanted him to come to her. Yes. She longed for
him, for him, her beloved; stretched herself after him-as
she would do always, always.
It was something they had never before felt, this infinite,
calm tendernes, this love quite without desire, only a com­
plete mergence in each other. Was something incompre­
hensible - pain and happiness, and a reverence which
raised it above everything, made it a wonder of which they
could only divine a part, a rite in a mystery. However they
had loved one another--this they had never felt, not this
reverence which can fill one only in the immediate vicinity
of death, when one is to be wrenched out of the loved one's
arms.
They could lie afterward and stare with burning eyes
into the darkness of the room, in mute melancholy, holding
each other's hand. Until perhaps she might fall asleep for a
while and he heard her breathe quietly. Lay listening. He
didn't want to fall asleep before she did. Ever to sleep more
than she.
182 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
In the daytime they were never apart from each other
now. Their life was one, it moved along day by day and
week by week toward that which awaited them.
They spoke of all that had been. Of all they had done
together, shared so completely with each other.
"Yes, we have been happy, Halvdan. Happy as few
people have been," she said, stroking his head with her
thin little hand which no longer seemed to have any weight.
"We have always had everything in common. From the
time we first met, Halvdan."
"That time. Do you remember?"
Yes. They had not met as so many others, as is usual with
two young people. Not like that. It had never been like
that for them.
And all they had felt and seen, all they had experienced
together since-always had everything together.
Yes, they remembered. Remembered so much during
this time. And they could, now that they looked back, feel
their life as something so full and rich-it had become that
through their great love. Acquired its deep meaning from
it, from this intimate unity in all things.
She said once that they had no right to complain, for no
life could be more lovely than theirs. None more complete
in its happiness. They must give thanks for what had been
given them. Give thanks-and be prepared to pay back
their loan of earthly happiness.
But that within them which had made it possible for
them to feel all this, that would be saved from death, could
never perish. It was too great and precious to perish.
They lived in something so enclosed, so by itself, that it
was as if only they two existed. And in a pure air in which
pain seemed easy to bear, even death itself. Her calm
trust could not help affecting him, making him feel as he
never thought he could do in the face of death. Gave him
peace in the midst of suffering, so that it could not break
him down utterly.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 83
The child slipped more into the background; not even
she spoke much about it any longer. They were the ones
concerned now. Their souls, which would not be parted;
which belonged together for ever. They both believed that.
It was that which kept them up, made them so strong and
full of reliance. Of the brightest hope.
She was his bride who was leaving on a journey. And
then they would meet again. Yes, soon again. The two of
them.
This was no longer love. It must be called by some other
name, even greater and more sacred. And as she lay pale
and wasted in her bed her gaze shone with the light from
the world which she already seemed to discern, to have
already become so familiar with.
She had been bedridden now for a long time. Her
strength was used up; she had not had much in reserve.
Only her soul retained its power. The body awaited its
diiintegration, wanted it. She was tormented almost
constantly by a severe headache. And the little she was
able to eat she often could not keep down. But it seemed as
though she no longer needed nourishment in order to
exist. She might live for a time yet-none could say how
long. But with her weak heart the flame of life could be
blown out at any moment.
He sat continually by her side. Practically never left her.
And they could talk. She could converse just as clearly
as before. In the stillness which prevailed around them,
which prevails when death is expected, they spoke of what
was to come. Promised to live in each other, which we can
even after death-to overcome it.
Yes, yes. She would always be with him. He would
always feel her presence.
She made him promise that he would be quite calm and
still at her death. That's how it should be. That was the
right, the only right way. And he said that he would try,
in spite of everything, because she had asked him.
 T H E M A R R I A G E F EAST
They could speak ofsuch things without becoming upset,
without pain as it were. They could now, they had attained
that-attained such peace . . . .
N<r--there ia no such boundary between life and death,
not as one thinks. Like a ship putting out to sea, which is
to sail far, far away-we see it aink on the horizon, as into
the depths, for ever, into an endless distance. . . .
But he who lies lost in gentle melancholy on the shore
can see it disappear behind a flower.
One evening as he sat holding her hand in the dusk he
felt that it had grown colder. Bending over her he saw that
she was dead. That she had left him . . . .
He didn't cry. No, he didn't cry. Only looked, looked
at her-remained aitting with her hand in his-with his
beloved's hand in hi1-as before-quite as before . • . .

No, no, there was no parting-no boundary . . . •

No boundary-Nothing had happened . . . .

Only closed her eyes-closed them-lightly-until they
should shine at him in another world.

Not until later, after the funeral and all that had to be,
did he really understand what had happened, feel all the
frightful emptiness after her. Feel that he had been left
alone. Utterly alone.
Moved about the flat, to and fro in the rooms, with the
servants who kept it tidy as before and cooked his food,
which he hardly touched. Everything was as before.
Exactly as they had had it, as he was used to. Everything
reminded him that she had left him.
The corner of the sofa where she used to sit, the table in
the living-room where they used to have their tea, with the
chair opposite. . . . And each thing in the whole house, in
her room, in all the rooms--everything was there just as
before. Everything reminded him that she had left it.
On the grand piano was her music. And on the stand a
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 85
piece stood open at the page she had been playing the
last evening she was up. He tried it hirruelf once, but he
played so badly, it didn't sound the same as when she
played. So it would never be played any more. Looked into
her room-there was no one there. Could feel so well that
there was no one in that room. Lifted the flap and glanced
into her sewing-table with its cotton reels and skeins of
wool. And the dressing-table with the powder box, the
cut-glass flasks, and the silver hand-mirror which had so
often reflected her image and now only his own. It was
only he. No one but he in the whole house.
And by the window in the living-room her armchair,
where she had liked to sit of late. The cushion which she
used to have at her back. . . .
It was a constant torture he endured. It was there every
morning when he got up, to be gone through again. Over
and over again. Each day was a torment to him, a burden
which he could hardly bear or had the strength for any
more. He went to pieces, looked wasted and wretched,
completely changed. Only a shadow of what he had been.
He scarcely recognized himself.
And this awful emptiness, emptiness . . • •

Six months went by, a year.

At last it was plain to him that he couldn't go on like this.
He couldn't stand it among all the memories; he must not
live for them. Not torture himself with them, everlastingly.
He was to live in her, in her soul.
No, this was not what she had wanted, and which he
had promised. She wanted his sorrow to be calm and con­
trolled. A bright and tranquil sorrow, full of hope and
trust. They would see each other again. Were to meet
again.
He must try to get away from this sombre despair which
only oppressed him. It was his duty to try.
But he didn't know what to do with himself. Where he
should go. It was so utterly immaterial to him. But he must
1 86 T H E M A R R I A G E F E A ST
do something to get away, just get away somewhere.
So he gave the servants notice. And the home was to be
broken up. He was going to travel-didn't know how long
he would be away, perhaps for a long time. Everything
was to be packed up and stored.
Even up to the last he was not quite clear where he was
going. Finally he decided on Paris, so as to have it settled.
He couldn't face solitude, the seclusion in the country
which he loved most. He needed people around him as he
was now.
Arriving down there, he put up at a simple hotel which
fell short of his requirements, but he didn't want anything
else. Walked about in the crowd. Heard the wailing of the
cars, the buses thundering against the road surface, the
trams clanging incessantly among the throng• between the
pavements. And the newsvendors' hoarse shouts through
the autumn mist. Why was he here?
He went about abstractedly, aloof and alien to what
went on around him. It was incapable of engaging him,
diverting him in any way. He felt even more lonely in this
swarm of people, in the rush and bustle. Still thought of
nothing but her, only wanted to think of, live in her. He
made a pilgrimage to one or two places which they had
visited together. Walked along streets where they had
walked. And down by the Seine, on the side where he
remembered they had walked one lovely spring day the
first time they were in Paris. Sought out a restaurant
where they used to eat then. And otherwise just drifted
about, aimlessly, between the dirty rows of houses, shut
in by the wet mist which never lifted. Without any real
goal once he had relived this past.
The air was sticky, as in a brewery. Sometimes it hung
in the streets all day, yellow as sulphur. The asphalt was
slippery with dirt and moisture. One seemed to go down
into something subterranean, into an unreal world down
underneath something, full of an undefined life. Until,
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 87
toward evening, the lights came on, the headlights from
cars began to sweep over the asphalt, the advertisements
glowed and flickered, twisting up the fat;ades, everything
grew hectic, feverish in the fog, as if fermenting. People
altered, their faces were tense, lively, they jostled in front
of the lighted entrances. The women began to prowl the
streets and whisper to passers-by. Someone laughed there
in front, and somewhere behind the limousines glided past
with women in evening dress and swelling furs, like large
animals. The cafes lay in dazzling light, full of people, a
constant stream in and out. The whole boulevard seethed
with life under the naked trees, stank of powder and
gasoline.
He turned into the side streets where it was badly lighted
and he could go in peace. Far away from the main streets,
just walked. His thoughts with her, his hot, burdensome
thoughts. Took out her little mother-of-pearl penknife
which he always carried, put it in his coat pocket so that he
could feel it. He thought she was near him, that he could
feel her. Perhaps she was here wi� him.
At last he had walked so far that he didn't quite know
where he was, had to go down into the Metro to get home.
Stood in the crowded train, all the seats were taken. Tired,
pallid faces. Held on to the strap, gazing straight ahead of
him like the others, out into the tunnel, at the dripping wall
with the small lamps. He had gone grey at the temples,
though otherwise he showed no particular signs of age.
Jostled with the others through the barrier and up the steps
in the muggy air. Went back to his hotel.
Winter had set in with its almost ceaseless rain. But one
got used to the rain; it seemed part of it all. And it didn't
matter to him. On the contrary it suited him, these trick­
ling wet days. He didn't want any light, any joy. Wanted
to be cooped up. In this quiet greyness, and with the even,
rather far-off restlessness around him. He no longer wished
for any pleasure from existence, nor could he have it. He
! 88 T H E M A R R I A G E F E A ST
must go on living. But that was all. Went about like a
recluse, without mixing with anyone. Hidden away as one
can be in a big city, stuck in among the others.
He could be quite alone with his thoughts-and that was
a great comfort. Alone with his sorrow. With what he
wanted. Could live in his world, didn't matter which.
And the flurry, the nervous rushing about gave a kind of
calm to the senses. Mostly, perhaps, because he didn't take
part in this life. Stood so detached from everything. Then
it gave a kind of hollow peace.
He could immerse himself entirely in the past, as he
wished.
Often in the evenings he would stroll down by the Seine,
away past Notre Dame, in the half light and partial still­
ness which lay over the quay here, and see the station clock
gleam at the gare in the distance. It made him think of her.
Of how she was resting there away up in the north-the
cold, frozen earth. Consigned to it-and so far, so infinitely
far away from him-perhaps snow on the grave. White,
virgin snow.
She whom he had loved, she who had been his • • • •

And now hidden down in the earth. Forsaken-but

always, always living in his burning thoughts.
Yes, he was with her, constantly. His love burned as
always, as it had done all along, only with a clearer
and purer flame now. It had become something higher,
something completely spiritualized, freed from everything
mundane.
Yes. He thought of his love. . . . The whole of his life
stood out before him-how strange it had been, had
turned out. So filled with a single great feeling. So dedi­
cated to one thing. To her.
The feeling she had inspired in him had determined his
destiny. And still did, would do so until his death. He gave
everything to love, full and undivided. And became happy
by it, happy even in the midst of his sorrow, his bitter loss.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 1 89
It was the altar to which he had once been led as though
by an invisible hand and to which he had remained faith­
ful. He would be found on the step up to it when he could
go on no longer down here, still kneeling in death.
Such was his fate-that which had given him his life.
Something completed now, already past, now that she had
died. But in which he still lived. Which lifted his soul above
this continued existence without aim and meaning, watch­
ing over him and helping him to endure.
He could go as in an ecstasy during these solitary walks.
Feel a sublimity and emotion which took his mind away
from the present, to a higher world. And when he turned
homeward through narrow streets, his raised eyes could see
the sky flaming red between the murky houses. The night
sky of the metropolis-and yet not it. It was like a vision,
an opened, bleeding space he saw.
So this long, heavy winter passed-the longest he could
ever remember, though in reality not so-a short time
compared with that at home. And there was a sense of
spring. The rawness in the air was offset by swift gusts, felt
like warm, light breaths when he turned a corner. The
atmosphere changed, the clouds parted and scudded on,
were driven together again. At night it rained. And in a
few days everything was transformed, quite a different
mildness than before, a moist, drifting warmth. The coming
spring.
But this time which had passed had told on him, had
clearly left its mark. His face was sunken and grey, and his
eyes had grown hot and restless. He had a dull, worn air.
Tired, decrepit.
He didn't want any spring. Didn't want it to be so
beautiful again. He knew that it would only make every­
ing so much harder. Sensed a painful, inner unease at the
light, the reawakening. But he couldn't help feeling relieved
in this new air, that he could breathe again. Sat in the sun
in the little Cluny gardens or in the Luxembourg, which
1 90 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
wru full o f scenu and the twitter of birds. The trees burst
into leaf, violently; each day there was a difference. Out
in the boulevards it gleamed, too. A light, green haze
everywhere. AJi in a hothouse, suddenly, everything burst
out in the moist warmth. After rain it felt ru though it
steamed from the warm asphalt.
The whole city took on a light and soft air, a pale
shimmer, one could now see so far. Away across to distant
parts of the city which faded out in the thin sunlight. And
the parks which were turning green far away on the other
side of the Seine. It was like walking about in quite a new
city.
People everywhere out for a stroll. And the cafes were
empty; everyone sat outside in the sun, squashed together
at the tables. Chatter and the hum of voices. He drifted
along the street under the light, sparse trees which had no
shadow.
Found himself a seat outside a bar where there were not
so many people. Sat and watched the life. The passers-by.
His collar was not quite clean, nor was the shirt down by
the cuffs. He had begun to neglect such things, without
knowing it.
And toward evening. The mild air. The long, enervat­
ing sweetness which seemed to ebb out in the very atmo­
sphere, in the pale opal of the sky. The lights were put on
outside the cafes even before it was dark and mixed with
the daylight. Women sat at the tables sipping a drink with
their legs out in the street.
As the weather got warmer the evenings were the most
pleasant and one had to walk and walk in this tepid,
saturated spring. Couldn't remain sitting inside. The very
air had something attractive which invited an endless rov­
ing without a goal. When darkness fell, the boulevards
streamed with light and the greenery shone transparent
around the lamps. In front of the innumerable pavement
cafes the foliage was illuminated as at nocturnal pastorales.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 191
He sat down at a table after the long, hot day. The heat
had already set in and the days felt almost oppressive.
This spring in the heart of the city was curiously enervat­
ing. But he felt an inner tiredness, too; perhaps that was
why. And that was perhaps due to his walking so much.
Almost constantly. As if he must always keep walking.
A woman was sitting at a table near him. Rather fat,
with long bare arms under her silk cape. Powdered white
and painted, with a cigarette between the protruding red
lips. Was drinking something with grenadine, sucking it
up in a straw.
There was music inside; some music-hall songs were
being played for empty walls and a solitary couple over in
a corner.
She tapped the ash offher cigarette, took a few whiffs and
dropped it on to her plate. Gave him a quick glance and
tucked her hair into her hat. Crossed her legs. Rubbed her
palms together slowly, her face averted and her thoughts
far away. The nails were pink and brightly polished, had
large white moons. Got out another cigarette and lighted
it, the cape slid off on one side and her arm was barto:d up
to the shoulder. The nipple stuck out.
Another one came up from the pavement, sat down
beside her and took out her powder.
He had emptied his glass and he set off into the crowd.
Walked again. As before. Although he was really too
tired. Walked and walked.
It was almost sultry. Warm and no breeze, not the cool­
ness toward night which there usually was.
The boulevards shone, crossed each other and stretched
out in all directions. The city had burst out like a flower,
too large and full of its confined scent to close. It was
almost stupefying. He walked in a kind of trance.
Dense with people. Couples which drifted along the
pavements, leaning against each other. By the shrubbery
prowling women with their everlasting "cheri." The noise
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
out i n the road was muffled, had a n unfamiliar sound.
Life dozed, stationary.
He felt such exhaustion that he could hardly go on.
Went into a bar and sat down at a table which was just
vacant. Drank something strong with a lot of gin in it, two
or three drinks one after the other in order to numb him­
self. Inside was some kind of luxury place with dancing,
half full of people and with champagne on the tables. The
blare ofsaxophones and the rattle ofbanjos could be heard
when the velvet curtain was drawn aside for elegant couples
to go in.
One or two demimondaines sat perched up on the high
stools at the bar. Looked at him in the mirror and blew the
smoke out in a thin stream with pouted lips. They were
talking to the bartender and drinking something cheap.
Sat on the edge of the stools with their thighs crossed. Mter
a while they were joined by some young men. One of the
girls pulled off her hat and shook out her hair, shouting for
three Manhattans. They started to get drunk.
In there behind the curtain the music thumped.
Streamers swam in the air, he could see, when the waiter
drew aside the curtain. He went in.

There was a soft carpet which he sank deep down into.

Bare in the middle and crowded with dancers. The room
was now crammed with people. Laughter and noise, full
of balloons and bellowing from cardboard trumpets.
Everyone shouted. The music thumped against the walls.
It was so hot that he sweated.
He danced once or twice. Drank bad champagne. She
had long eyelashes and a little vanity case at her knee.
Thin, quivering nostrils like those of a newly captured
animal. Her gums were bright red like fish's gills when
she laughed. She laughed in some way the whole time.
The heat here was appalling. The air was thick. The
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 193
streamers did not sink, they writhed through the smoke,
the room seemed full of wriggling worms. A woman started
crying at the next table with her eyes staring and lustrous;
they nudged her to make her stop. The Negro orchestra
twitched and jumped in their chairs; the sweat ran down
inside their collars. Out among the dancers glided a slim,
blonde woman with a blue birthmark on her back and
shaved in the armpits. Twisted in time to the tango, pressed
her thigh in between her partner's legs.
He had drunk more than he was used to. But the
champagne felt slightly cooling after the short drinks. He
got up and left.
Drifted about the streets. Just drifted and drifted, for
hours on end. Didn't know where he was or where he had
been. But that he had been sitting on a seat somewhere for
a long time. Had come to because he felt cold.
The early morning chill made itself felt. But it was still
quite dark. Fat rats ran across the pavement, down into the
grating around the trees. The latrine carts rattled through
the empty streets. Down in a basement opening there was a
light, there was the smell of new-baked bread. He stopped
and drew in his breath, stood looking absently down at a
man who was busy at the oven.
One or two places opened up. Dirty sawdust with
cigarette butts and matches was swept out. He stepped
inside and up to a counter to get a cup of coffee and a fresh
brioche. Taxi-drivers and workmen in leather jackets were
sitting at the long tables and at the counter were some
loafers with cigarettes stuck fast to their lips. A jaded
woman accosted him; the nipples on her breasts stuck out.
She spoke hoarsely, with a voice like a man's. Her gums
were liver-brown when she smiled; she looked tarnished
in some way.
As he went on home it started to get light. A slender
little woman with her coat drawn tightly around her was
walking in front; her bottom waggled at each step. The
1 94 T H E M A R R I A G E FEAST
Metro had just reopened and the musty vapours rose up
like a feverish breath. Pale people came up out of the earth,
hurried away. Clattered against the paving-stones.
He hardly had the strength left to stand upright. Walked
in a deep, dull stupor. His lacklustre eyes had a staring
look. Quite empty, as though burned out. He had become
like someone else. Or something else. Something besides
himself.
He dragged himself home.

Some days afterwards he sat writing a long letter. He

appeared quite calm. His eyes had regained theix: former
brightness. Perhaps a greater brightness than before,
deeper. There was something quiet and beautiful about
him as he sat in the simply furnished room collecting his
thoughts, finishing his letters.

D1ar Brothn-:
I am writing this for a special reason, which I shall
try to explain to you as well as I can in the following.
A3 my brother you are the one to whom I wish to, and
should, turn, and I think I can do so in the hope of being
understood. Apart from you, I have no one now. No
one in any way close to me.
Since I came down here you have not heard much
from me, but that's because I've had nothing to tell you
other than what you already know, that I am living here
in my sorrow, in my extreme distress at the loss which
has affiicted me. You know what my beloved wife meant
to me. Yet not, perhaps, that she meant everything. That
when she was taken from me I had nothing left, nothing
to live for-nothing. That she was my life.
We two had everything in common. Every thought,
every wish-joy and sorrow, everything. And every day
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 195
from the time we met until the evening when she went
away from here, leaving me in this terrifying loneliness.
I know nothing of love apart from what I myself have
felt, but it seems to me that it is not possible for the
human heart to experience it more deeply, more wholly
and completely. From my knowledge of it, it stands out
for me as something sacred, something so sublime and
immeasurably great. It seems like one great mystery in
which I have been allowed to share. And all this she
has given me. It is bound up with her pure figure, with
the memory of what she was to me, she who is no longer
with me.
As I sit here tonight looking back, it seems as if she
has given my existence its meaning, as if she has lifted
it up from nothing and filled it with the most beautiful
and costly things which life can give us. I don't know if
you understand me when I speak of love in this way; if
you believe that it can mean so infinitely much. But
that's how it is for me. Your life has been so different
in all respects. You have devoted yourself to your work,
been taken up by so many different things. While I have
lived only for one. For this one thing alone. Apart from
that I have had nothing and have been unable to come
to grips with anything properly. And it is this which you
find hard to understand perhaps, and which for you
perhaps appears as a fault. But my life has been full.
Wonderfully full. I'm not setting it up against my fellow
man's, still less do I want to vaunt it in any way. I merely
say that that's how I feel it. And what more can we
know? What else have we to go by than the fullness of
our heart when we look back.
Mter what I have now said you can perhaps form
some idea of my loss and pain. Of how utterly
desolate and empty this world must be for me now
that she has left it and I am only a stranger here. In
fact, I no longer have any life. No real life other than
Jg6 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
in the memory of her. In that I love and exist, only in
that. She shines for me in a glorified light to which I
reach out, at which I gaze in ardent longing, just as the
homeless man can stand for hours under the trees looking
into the glow from his lost home. Around me is darkness.
Only there is it light.
I hope you will understand; I beg you to. Understand
that I want to go where she is, that I want to move on
from here, where I own nothing, and go to meet her
where she is waiting for me. Yes, I know that she is
waiting for me. That she exists, that she is alive! Those
were our last words to each other, that death means so
little, that what happens is not real. And that it cannot
part us. I have sometimes felt, too, that she was near
me, sensed that she has been with me and watched over
me, even that she has gently stroked my forehead, as it
were, when I was desperate . . . . But now I want to go
where her soul has its glorious abode and where we shall
be wholly united, for always. Where nothing can ever
separate us again.
I beg you not to judge-to forgive-and not to
grieve over what has happened. There is no occasion
for sorrow, none. If you could see me as I sit here you
would say, this must be a happy man. And I am happy.
And that is why you must not pity me and not grieve. I
am going to celebrate the festival which awaits me.
I shall meet death with the same calm as she. And
I know that it will be so easy for me. For I am following
now the dictates of my heart, doing what it wants. That
is why I am so safe. I am merely fulfilling my destiny,
as it should be fulfilled. Whatever I have been like, I
have nevertheless loved her above all else in the whole
of my life. And to die for her sake is the only happiness
left to me. A great and tranquil happiness which she still
wants to give me.
I want to be taken home. And I will rest by her side.
 T H E M A S QU E R A D E O F S O U L S 197
I ask you to see to this, and I am sure that this wish
of mine will be carried out, that you will do me this last
favour.
I ask you also to have a stone erected on our grave,
just a simple stone with our names. And beneath them
an inscription, these words:
Life united them forever.
Farewell ! And forgive me-and thank you for
everything. . . .
You are the only one to whom I need say farewell . . . .
And I thank this life for what it gave-for her, for
my love . . . . For all this which is not to perish . . . . No,
which I know cannot perish.
Thank you for everything. . . . And farewell . . . .

rours,
Halvdan

He folded the letter and wrote the address. Stood up.

Took a deep breath. Felt such peace. Looked around the
room. Went slowly down the stairs. There was no one about
at this time. Only the concierge at the bottom who said his
Bon soir, monsieur, and wondered why he was going out so
late, after midnight.
The air was warm and a trifle sultry. He headed for a
post box which he sometimes used. Dropped his letter in
after holding it for a moment by the corner. And then
wandered toward the Seine, to a part of the quay which
was usually deserted at this time of night. Sat down on a
seat which was in shadow.
When he had taken the dose he remained sitting quite
still, his gaze turned to the somewhat misty sky-wanted to
look there. His eyes shone with a deep and secret fire and he
seemed to be smiling.
Felt the poison beginning to work, to deaden him, as he
thought it would. Still heard the clocks strike-one, half-
 THE MARRI A G E FEAST
past one-as they measured out the time i n a strange, far­
off world . . . . Then he just went numb. His head sank a
little to one side and he grew quite still. No longer existed.
A passing dog nosed his sock, lifted his leg and pee'd on
him.

This was our visit to the land where the souls live. There it is not
like here. They have an existence above this, a higher and more
perfect one which shines toward us with its light. It is the soul's
land, its real home. And in that land there is always festival.
There it is always masquerade.
 The Myth cf Mankind

NCE upon a time there was a world. Two people

O came to it one morning, but not to stay there for long,
only for a short visit. They had many other worlds as well;
this one seemed to them more insignificant and poorer
than the other.�. It was beautiful here with the trees and
the large drifting clouds, it was beautiful with the
mountains, with the woods and glades, and with the wind
which came, invisible, as it began to grow dark and touched
everything so mysteriously; but it was nothing compared
with the worlds they owned far away. That is why they
wanted to stay only for a little while. But they did want to
be there for a time, for they loved one another, and it was
as if their love had nowhere ,been so wondrous as here. It
seemed as though love was not something to be taken for
granted in this world, something which completely filled
everything, but that it was received as a guest of whom
was expected the greatest things that could possibly happen
here. It was, in fact, as if all that was clearest and brightest
in their being became as secret here, as obscure, veiled, as
if it were being kept hidden from them. They were strangers
here, alone, left to the mercy of unknown powers. And the
love that united them was a miracle, something that could
be annihilated, that could wither away and die. That is
why they wanted to stay only for a little while.
In this world it was not always day. Mter the light, dusk
fell over everything; it was obliterated, was no longer there.
They lay in the darkness, listening. They heard the wind
soughing heavily in the trees. They crept together beneath
them. "Why do we live here?"
1 99
200 T H E M AR R I A G E F E A S T
The man made a house for them, only of moss and stones
because they were soon to move on - again. The woman
spread fragrant grass on the trodden-down floor and waited
for him when evening came. They loved one another more
deeply than they ever seemed to have done before, and
carried out the tasks of life here laid upon them.
One day as the man was roaming about in the woods he
got such a longing for her whom he held dear above all else
that he knelt down and kissed the earth because she had
rested on it. But the woman began to love the clouds and
the great trees, because the man returned home beneath
them, and she loved the hour of twilight because it was
then that he came. It was an unfamiliar world; it was not
like those they owned far away.
And the woman bore a son. The holly trees outside the
house sang for him; he looked wonderingly about him and
then fell asleep to the sound, unafraid. But the man came
home each evening with bleeding animals; he was tired
and lay down heavily. They talked to each other happily
in the darkness, they would soon be making a move now.
How strange it was, this world; after the summer came
autumn and a cold winter, after the winter the most de­
lightful spring. In this way they could see how time passed,
everything here was changeable. The woman again bore
a son, and after a few years yet another. The children grew
up, they began to do things for themselves, running about
and playing and finding something new every day. They
just played with the whole strange world, with everything
in it. What was meant in all seriousness they turned into
something meant only for themselves. The man's hands
grew rough from working with the soil and from his
labours in the woods. The woman's features began to
harden, too, and she walked more slowly, but her voice
was gentle and singing as before.
One evening when she had settled down in the twilight,
tired after a long day, with the children gathered around
 T H E MYTH O F M A N K I N D 20 1
her, she said to them; "Now we shall soon be leaving here,
now we shall soon be going away to the other worlds where
we have our home."
The children looked at her in wonder. "What do you
mean, Mother? Are there other worlds than this?"
Then she and the man looked at each other, a stab went
through them, a smarting pain.
She answered in a lower voice, "Of course there are
other worlds than this." And she began to tell them, tell
them about these worlds that were so different from the one
they lived in now; where everything was so much bigger
and more wonderful than here, so light and happy, where
there was not this darkness, where no trees soughed as they
did here, where no struggle weighed down as this one did.
The children closed around her, listening, now and then
looking wonderingly over at the father as if to ask whether
it was tru.e . He nodded his head, lost in thought. The
smallest sat right against the mother's feet; he was pale, his
eyes gleamed with a strange light. But the eldest son, who
was twelve years old, sat farther away, looking down
at the ground; at last he got up and went out into the
darkness.
The mother went on, they listened and listened; it was
as if she were looking away into the distance, her gaze was
far off; sometimes she fell silent, just as if she could not see,
could not remember anything more, as ifshe had forgotten;
then she spoke again, in a voice even more remote than
before. The fire flickered on the sooty hearth, lighting up
their faces, casting its glow around the heated room; the
father held his hand before his face, the children listened
with shining eyes. They sat like this, motionless, until it
was almost midnight. Then the door opened, letting in the
cold air from outside, and the eldest son came in. He looked
around him. In his hand he had a large black bird with a
grey belly. Blood ran from its breast; it was the first he had
brought down himself. He threw it down on the ground
202 THE MAR R I A G E FEAST
beside the fire. The warm blood steamed. Without a word
he went farthest into the semi-darkness and lay down to
sleep.
There was not a sound. The mother stopped speaking.
They looked wonderingly at the bleeding bird, which was
ataining the ground red around its breast. They got up in
silence and all went to rest.
Mter that evening they didn't speak together very much
for a time, each going his own way. It was summer, the
bumblebees hummed, the grass round about was lush, the
glades were green after the spring rain that had fallen, the
air was so clear. One day the smallest boy went up to the
mother as she sat outside the howe at noonday. He was pale
and quiet, and asked her to tell him about another world.
The mother looked up in surprise. "I can't talk to you
about this now, dear. The sun is high in the heavens; why
aren't you playing with all that is yours?" He left her
without a word and cried, unknown to anyone.
He never asked again. He just grew paler and paler, his
eyes burned with a strange lustre; one morning he had to
lie where he was, couldn't raise himself up. He lay motion­
less day after day, hardly speaking, just looking into the far
distance with his dilated eyes. They asked him if he was in
pain. They said that he would soon be able to go out into
the sun again, there were other flowers now, bigger than
before; he didn't answer, seemed not to see them. The
mother watched over him and cried; she asked iihe would
like her to tell him all the wonderful things she knew, but
he smiled and just lay still as before.
And one evening he closed his eyes and was dead. They
all gathered around him. The mother laid his small hands
across his breast. Later, when the twilight came, they sat
together in the darkened room, speaking about him in
whispers. Now he had left this world. Now he was no
longer here. Now he had gone to another world, better and
happier than this one. But they said it despondently, sigh-
 T H E MYTH O F MA N K I ND 203
ing heavily. Shyly they went to rest on the far side from the
dead boy; he lay lonely and cold.
In the morning they buried him in the earth; he was to
lie there. The country smelled sweet, the sun shone every­
where, soft and warm. The mother said, "He is not here."
By the grave was a rose tree that was now in bloom.
And the years passed. The mother often sat out by the
grave of an evening, staring away over the mountains that
shut everything in. The father stood there for a while ifhe
was passing. But the children kept away, for it was not like
elsewhere on earth.
The two sons were growing up now. Soon they were full­
grown and tall, and had a new and more spirited air about
them than before; but the man and the woman faded away.
They became grey and bent; something venerable and
tranquil came over them. The father still tried to go hunt­
ing with his sons; when the quarry was dangerous it was no
longer he but they who fought with it. But the aged mother
sat outside the house, she groped with her hand when they
came toward her in the evening, her eyes were so tired that
she could only see at noonday when the sun was at its
height; otherwise it was too dark. She would ask them,
"Why is it so dark here?" One autumn she withdrew into
the house, lay listening to the wind as to memories from
long, long ago. The man sat and held her hand in his, they
talked between themselves, it was as though they were
again alone here. She wasted away, but her face seemed to
become transfigured by light. And one evening she said to
them all in her quavering voice, "Now I want to leave this
world where I have lived, now I shall go home." And she
went away. They buried her in the earth; she was to lie
there.
Winter and cold came again, the old man stayed by the
hearth, was too feeble to go out. The sons came home with
animals, which they would cut up together. With shaking
hand he turned the spit, watching how the fire grew redder
204 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
as the meat was roasted in it. But when the spring came he
went into the meadows, gazing at the trees and the grass
that were growing green all around him. He stopped by the
trees he recognized, he stopped everywhere, recognizing
everything. He stopped by the flowers he had picked for
her whom he loved the first morning they came here. He
stopped by his hunting implements, which were blood­
atained because one of the sons had used them. Then he
went into the house and lay down, and he said to the sons
standing by his deathbed, "Now I must leave this world
where I have lived my life, now I must go away. Our home
is not here." And he clasped them by the hand until he
was dead. They buried him in the earth, as he had bidden
them; he wanted to lie there.
Now the old ones were dead. The young ones felt such a
strange relief, liberation, as if something had been severed.
It was as if life had been freed from something that did not
belong to it. They rose early on the morning of the follow­
ing day. What a scent from the trees that had just come
into leaf and from the rain that had fallen in the night!
Together they went out, side by side, both tall and newly
young; it was joy for the earth to bear them. Now human
life was beginning, they went out to take possession of this
world.

This book ofprose, thefirst pages of which are reprinted here, was
written in 1 922 but, in accordance with the author's wishes, has
remained unpublished. This extract was made public for the first
time on December 1 0, 1 95 1 , when it was read aloud by the author
at the banquet given in the Stockholm Ciry Hall in connection with
the Nobel Festival.
 On the Scales of Osiris

A N D the Great King over two kingdoms awakened as

.t1.from a deep sleep in his grave chamber, which was
filled with all the things of the earth, in order to step before
the throne of Osiris. Around him there were gathered all
the riches of life, all that which is given to the chosen,
wagons of cedar inlaid with gold and ivory, war chariots
of copper ornamented with reliefs of victory, couches for
resting borne by gilded cows with the sun disk between
their horns, precious gems in bowls of onyx and jade,
shimmering sealed alabaster jars with oils and ointments.
Slaves of both sexes carved in wood and small as dolls
performed their duties, served marvellous courses, raised
the walls of his palace, carried home his quarry and his
falcons after the hunt, hoisted his sails on the sacred river.
He looked about and did not understand.
At his feet knelt his body servant with his hands pressed
against his breast, ready to hear his commands. Ethiopian
slaves butchered a sheep and prepared it at the hearth,
harvested the fields and drove the oxen at the water wheel.
Dancing girls in transparent garments danced for him with
their arms lifted above their heads to the music of flutes
and harps.
What was this? He could not remember. In a common
bowl of clay, unlike anything else there, lay some blackened
grains of corn. Servants were occupied in baking bread,
wool carding, spinning and weaving. On a basin of gold
lay pearls and sparkling precious stones. He understood
nothing, did not recognize anything. In the centre his own
statue was throned. He did not know who it was. On the
pale chalkstone walls of the grave chamber his whole life
205
 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
was pictured, all his power and glory, his victories over his
enemies, his annies and chiefs, and he himself triumphant
on his chariot riding over the trampled corpses of his foes
while the falcon of Horus lifted the looped cross, the sacred
mark of life, before his eyes.
What did this mean? He could not explain. The life of
the earth lived in all its splendour around him, all that
which he had wanted to carry along, all that which he had
thought important to have here. All was as he had decided.
But he did not now know what the meaning of it was. He
stood there and looked about as in an unknown world. His
glance was as if touched by a hand which had taken away
the interpretation of the pictures; his soul was as a sub­
terranean well without surface.
Then his lifeless glance happened to fall on a small gilded
image of a woman who radiated light before him through
the dimness. She did not awaken any memories in him, not
even one. She was as unknown to him as anything there.
But within him something moved when he looked at h<;r,
as if something were still alive. He went nearer and gazed at
the image. She sat with her hands re!lting on her small
knees and her large earthy eyes met his questioning glance.
No, he did not know her. But there rose within him some­
thing like a mighty wave which filled his breast. He did
not know what it was, but it was something great and
strange; it gripped him with a secret power. It was some­
thing wonderful and incomprehensible, something which
lived.
The gold flakes came off when he touched her. Filled his
hands with sparkling dust.
Long he stood there in the twilight by her image. Then
he lifted his empty eyes and, with his hand on his breast, he
entered before the throne of Osiris.
 The Stranae Count�

H E tourist steamer glided along in the pale summer

Tnight. The sea was like glass and there was a dying,
crimson splendour away in the west where one or two
streaks of cloud still glowed long after sunset. All the
passengers were out on deck enjoying the sea and sky and
the refreshing cool after the day. It was a conducted tour to
a distant country famous for its beautiful scenery but most
of all for its peculiar manners and customs, which were no
longer to be found elsewhere in the world. There had been
progress everywhere and an entirely new age had made its
appearance. But here everything was just as in days long
past. Here, time had apparently stood still. It was the goal
for many tourist boats at this time of year, for people who
liked the remote and romantically picturesque, and for
others who just thought they should see this curious little
country about which they had heard and who took
the chance of going there for their holiday, especially as
the sea trip in itself meant a pleasant rest and recreation
now in the summer. But many scientists, too, went there
to study the customs and social order of a bygone age,
outmoded conceptions and ideas once held by humanity
and long since abandoned, but surviving here with
stubborn conservatism and on account of the country's
isolated position. What could otherwise only be read about
in learned works was here disclosed and accessible as fully
live study material.
In the general consciousness there was, without a doubt,
something faintly ridiculous about the little country and
its inhabitants; people were apt to give a wry smile when
207
208 THE MARR I A G E FEAST
it cropped u p i n conversation and the expression "That's
like in Liberania!" was often used when things were all at
sixes and sevens, though people as a rule had rather a
hazy notion of the real meaning of the phrase and only
knew that there was supposed to be a country called that.
But it was a harmless joke. No one really had anything
against this Liberania, which existed somewhere far off
the beaten track and outside the mighty stream of current
events, living its naive, old-fashioned life remote from the
big world. Otherwise it could easily have been conquered,
it would have been a simple matter for one of its powerful
neighbours, who were all armed to the teeth and whose
famous child-armies alone would have sufficed to carry
out an annexation. But it was left in peace and allowed
to keep its manners and customs and its quaint little in­
dependence. Had its position been in the least important
strategically, it would naturally have been annexed. But
this was not the case. In the modem shaping of the world,
far-off Liberania was of no importance whatsoever. Its
only interest was purely cultural and historical, having
preserved its character from a forgotten, long-departed
age when everything had been different from now and
from which there were no other memories extant. It was
kept as a curiosity, as a kind of natural reserve.
The passengers were genuinely p�eased to be going
there. They made the journey for various reasons, but they
could not be called a mixed company, on the contrary
they comprised a very correct group of people, all extra­
ordinarily like each other. They talked about the trip and
the weather and delighted in the strange fact that it never
grew dark. It was a new and wonderful experience for
them. At eleven o'clock, however, they were all ordered
below deck in order to get some sleep. And it was
nice to go to bed. It was advisable to be well rested
for what lay in store tomorrow morning, when they were
to arrive.
 T H E S T RA N G E C O U NT R Y 209
The boat tied up in the harbour in the forenoon. It was
a strange and animated scene which unfolded there on the
quay. People were walking or running past each other just
as they pleased, there was no sign of any soldiers or other
uniformed men. They moved about unconcernedly and
defencelessly in the small space where the ship was
moored. A boy who was loafing about caught the hawser
-though it seemed qothing to do with him-and threw
it round the ballard, on which he then sat down to finish
his cigarette. It escaped the notice of most, but those with
a practised eye instantly saw in it a characteristic of the
country. The crowd on the quay pushed and jostled, did
whatever they liked, as though they were at complete
liberty, it seemed. At least it was impossible to detect any
particular rules to which the whole thing conformed.
Actually, they all looked bright and alert, there was
nothing strikingly antiquated about them at a cursory
glance from this distance. But degeneration was apparent
in the poor bearing throughout, especially noticeable in
the men; it gave a deplorable impression, all the more
deplorable as they were really quite tall of stature. They
were curiously dressed, in a kind of short coat which
was only buttoned at the bottom or else left quite open;
the trousers, instead of being tucked into boots, hung loose
round the legs; on the back of the head they wore a
peculiar, old-fashioned, high-crowned headgear which,
from what one heard later, was called a hat and which
they swung once in the air when they passed each other,
something which looked quite comical. A picturesque,
colourful touch was their shirts, which were now white,
now blue, now pink, or else striped, blue and white
stripes, yellow and green stripes, and which were partic­
ularly effective as the men, because of the heat, went about
in their shirt-sleeves. This also revealed that some of them
kept their trousers up with braces, just like infants. This
could not have been a mere coincidence, as there was
210 T H E MAR R I A G E FEAST
something undoubtedly childish about them altogether,
in the good-natured expression on their faces and their
entire behaviour.
That was about all one could observe here from the
boat. The gangway was lowered and everyone marched
a�hore, to be greeted with gay and polite smiles by the
hospitable people, who derived a good income from the
stream of tourists from the big world outside.
When the strangers had been installed in their barracks,
which the steamship company had had built in order that
they might feel more at home in the far-off land, the} set
off into the town in smaller detachments under officers
detailed for the purpose. It was the country's capital,
where the small government had its seat, but the streets
basked peacefully in the sun with only an odd police
constable here and there on a street-corner or a few who
were on traffic duty in the open places. No proper police
force could be seen, nobody looked after you, each one
apparently had to manage as best he could by himself.
There were now a lot of inhabitants to be seen like those
down at the harbour; they all seemed to be busy with
their small private affairs, dressed in their antiquated
costumes, which made a quaint, captivating scene of
national life. In the main streets people drifted along in
disorderly groups and more often than not bumped into
each other because they were not looking straight ahead
in line of march but turned round or simply stood still for
a while, as the fancy took them-collisions which gave rise
to that comical swing with their headgear, which was
obviously some mark of civility. On the other hand, there
was no form of salutation, at least none that was uniform
and laid down by law. There was no raising of the arm or
fist, they waved with their hands j ust anyhow and called
out something unintelligible to each other. It was later
explained that "Halla," "Cheerio" and "So long" were
uttered on such occasions. On further inquiry, however,
 THE STRANGE C O UNTRY 21 1

these expressions turned out to be devoid of any essential

meaning or deeper significance in their lives. In a similar
way, there was a marked lack of ordered conditions in
general. Everything happened rather haphazardly, with
no sign of any guiding principle behind it all. Life ran its
course and people seemed just to make the best of it.
Things were arranged and done more or less as they fell
out, with an attractive kind of carelessness. The whole
thing was extremely fnteresting and strange. So romantic !
was the exclamation often heard in the troop as it marched
through the city, now and then having to halt at something
particularly remarkable.
These first superficial impressions were not misleading.
During the days that followed, one got to know the country
and people better, came in contact with the inhabitants
and their peculiar, antiquated world. One often got
surprisingly lucid answers to one's questions, in so far as
the population, palpably rather ignorant, could make
themselves understood in one's langauge. Their own
language was impossible to understand or express oneself
in, though apparently they themselves 11poke it fluently.
It often proved difficult, however, to gain any really sure
idea of the prevailing state of affairs, for if you asked one
person about something, he would explain it in his way,
and if you asked another he had a completely different
opinion. In fact, it even happened that the same person
expressed two viewpoints about exactly the same thing,
one at the beginning and one at the end of his discourse.
It was most odd and confusing. But if you pointed it out
to him, at first he would look blank and then just give that
good-natured, disarming smile of thein.
Troublesome though this was, and thereby difficult to
to get a plain answer and really find out about them, this
peculiarity of theirs was far from being without interest.
In its way it was very revealing-in the end perhaps more
revealing than anything else. They lacked in fact a guiding
2 12 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA S T
train of thought, into which casual and individual thinking
could be led and cease to be private property. They had no
common and ever-present ideal which gave a fixed norm
to their sayings and actions. And they had not the energy,
as it were, to intervene sufficiently; they often left life un­
touched in a curiously helpless fashion. There was some­
thing almost frightening about this, one was seized by a
distressing feeling of emptiness. All in all, there was no
deep meaning in their lives-they were j ust born, they
lived and died.
When you tried to explain this to them, they said that
they didn't understand what you meant. And they prob­
ably didn't, either. They were too primitive to understand
anything other than what was purely $elf-evident.
But apart from this they were very nice people. One
liked it surprisingly well there, even though one couldn't
approve of anything. It was really a very successful holiday
trip, the ideal place in which to relax a trifle.
One felt so well and rested. The very atmosphere had a
beneficial effect and made one almost hilarious. Even the
officers unbent and sometimes let slip joking and quite
unnecessary remarks. Discipline was also relaxed slightly
and more and more often one was allowed to walk at ease
in the troop. In fact, individuals were even allowed at last
to leave the barracks on parole, although many did not
avail themselves of this as they didn't enjoy it. But
others, and by degrees the majority, thought it was very
interesting and took increasing pleasure in it. They began
strolling about the town on their own like quite ordinary
people.
The first few times it was a very strange feeling. One
floated, one seemed to become air and move to and fro
like a disembodied spirit, as though blown by a faint,
imperceptible wind. And one walked along thinking of
this and that and sometimes of nothing at all. It felt most
peculiar. But not entirely pleasant until one got used to it.
 T H E STRANGE C O U NTRY 213
All kinds of things were permissible. One didn't know
how to behave in different situations. The natives took
this state of affairs as a matter of course, they moved about,
quite at home, with an astonishing, deft agility. They
couldn't understand one's unfamiliarity and sometimes
smiled at one's awkwardness.
Everything was utter confusion. There seemed to be no
definite rules about anything, or if there were that didn't
mean that they were followed. For instance, it was surely
forbidden to cross the street except at certain prescribed
places, but one often saw a native who, when there was no
car or other vehicle coming in either direction, simply
made for the other side. It looked so funny. Among the
strangers there were several who were almost tempted to
do the same, so that they could boast about it when they
got home. But when it came to it they just couldn't,
however much they wanted to. There was something after
all that went against the grain.
But after a little practice one gradually learnt to manage
quite well. One watched what the others did in this strange
world and copied as much of it as was suitable. And once
having got the hang of everything, one really enjoyed it
and found it very exciting.
Picture postcards were sent home: You'd never dream
how odd it is here! You should have come too! Awfully
interesting. We go about free just like savages and have
great fun. How are things with you?
In the restaurants everyone sat close together and one
could talk to those who had some knowledge of one's
language. Once having got into conversation one could
hear the most incredible things about conditions in their
country. And the very sight of the public at such a place
was fascinating. It was a motley of flaxen-haired, black­
haired and redheads, a colourful, changing spectacle of a
curious wildness. A flaxen-head could be seen talking to
someone with black hair, as though it were nothing, and a
2 14 T H E MA R R I A G E F E A ST
swarthy man would sit flirting with a lovely blond woman,
who apparently had no objection to letting him treat her
just as he liked. It was strange and fantastic. Occasionally
it would happen that some of the tourists felt nauseated
and had to go out for a while, but they came back before
long and sat down again so as not to miss the unique
experience.
Otherwise one passed the time in poking about sight­
seeing, as tourists do. And there were plenty of curious and
instructive things to see. One very popular amusement,
for instance, was a visit to the old-fashioned institution in
an ancient building where the inhabitants ruled their little
country, decided how they wanted to run it-entirely on
their own. There they said whatever they liked about
their government or anything else, made no bones about
anything. It was so funny to see their self-assurance as they
thumped their fists on the table and spoke their minds in a
loud voice. And they got their own way, no question of
that! It was an awfully amusing business. When, for
instance, one of them stood with his hands in his pockets
and abused the whole bag of tricks so that the rafters rang
-it was a laughable sight.
But the funniest thing of all was that they thought all
their oddities quite natural. They themselves had no idea
that they were strange.
While the rank and file of the tourists sauntered about
in this way making their quite ordinary and superficial
observations, the scientists among them were busy eagerly
making the most remarkable discoveries in their respective
fields. There was no question here of any surface, but of
penetrating right down to the foundation of everything
and exposing it. And in this they succeeded entirely. The
ethnographists took detailed measurements of the shape of
the head and angle of the face, the distance between the
cheekbones, determined whether the people were dolicho­
cephalic or brachycephalic, and so on-the good-natured
 T H E STRA N G E C O U NTRY 215
inhabitants submitted willingly, just smiled broadly as the
scientists got busy with their ingenious apparatuses. Un­
fortunately, however, they arrived at no definite result.
There turned out to be every possible kind of facial angle,
from the very blunt to the very sharp, and long skulls and
short skulls and those that were neither short nor long-all
jumbled together. It was the same as with everything else
in the country, there was no order. This, however, was the
very thing which put the scientists on the right track, as so
often when a difficulty or incongruity leads to big scientific
discoveries. They found that the underlying cause of this
irregularity was the fact that they formed no definite race,
at least not in a real, modern sense but only quite generally
or purely biologically, that is to say they formed what one
might call a natural race. And this was what was so
extremely interesting. Here, apparently, was the only
place on earth where such a natural race still existed, while
all other races had long ago been refined and become
purebred, had been submitted to rational culture. Here,
therefore, was the basic reason for their dissimilarity from
other races, which even the untrained eye had noticed up
to a point. In all, they had no appearance in common, each
one looked just as he liked or as it chanced, which was a
typical sign of degeneration.
On the whole they were, of course, very degenerated­
otherwise they would not have stood still at this stage of
development but would have progressed with the rest of
the world. Outwardly they looked healthy, to be sure, but
it is easy to be misled by something which has nothing to
do with the problem as such. Besides, their all too marked
vivacity was undoubtedly of a nervous nature and served
to mask the inferiority complex from which they naturally
suffered.
Degeneration was also explained by the very fact that
they had lived in peace for several hundred years and so
the weaker individuals had never been weeded out by the
2 16 T H E M A R R I A G E F EA ST
efficacy of modern warfare in this respect. As a result,
there were weaklings everywhere who impaired the race,
whereas they could all have been very strong. And people
were allowed to marry almost anyone they liked, so that
one often saw ill-matched couples who should instantly
have been separated. They also lacked the simplest form
of rational race hygiene.
The women were undeniably handsome and erotically
stimulating, but this was unfortunately due to the fact
that they did not bear enough children. There were really
no more children born than was necessary. One did see a
lot of youngsters, but statistics showed that there were not
enough. Owing to a lack of surplus population the nation
no longer had any healthy power of expansion and sank
deeper and deeper into decay.
They were an impotent, inept and on the whole very
depraved people.
The psychologists' intelligence tests, made with the
greatest possible accuracy on a large number of cases
picked at random from all strata of the population, also
gave the only result to be expected. Their branch of
science met with no set-backs and the outcome was soon
quite definite, though disappointing. The investigation
clearly showed a marked subnormality all round, they
were almost semi-idiots the lot of them. These observa­
tions, when reported to them, aroused great mirth and
gave rise to many infantile jokes which further confirmed
the accuracy of the tests.
The population altogether showed a trait of undoubted
puerility, and the seeds of this were obviously sown in early
childhood by a misguided upbringing. The children were
retarded by being allowed to run about and play with each
other as they liked, without earnestness and discipline.
They were not taken charge of in any proper units. They
were given no exercises whatever of a military kind. It was
noted with interest, however, that on their own account
 T H E S T R A N G E C O U NTRY 217
they made themselves small wooden rifles, bows and cata­
pults which they practised with-a tendency which was
subsequently thwarted, however.
If the inhabitants were thus on a particularly low level,
both physically and mentally, they could not be denied a
certain culture, as the scientists in this field confirmed
during their investigations. The fact that they had re­
mained at a stage of development long since abandoned
elsewhere was another matter, and anyway this was just
what was so valuable to research. A thoughtless person
might be inclined to regard the country's simple in­
habitants with a condescending smile, but science saw
these things with another eye and admitted that even they
were bearers of a kind of culture. They had their
humanistic and well-meaning institutions, their old­
fashioned ethics which after all must indicate a certain
modest stage of culture at which the rest of the world had
once been. They had their laws, which, however lax and
obscure, were undeniably based on a certain conception
of justice. They had their schools, where the growing
generation was educated, even if wrongly. According to
reports, they there acquired knowledge which had been
rejected by the rest of the world as misleading several
centuries ago.
There was also a so-called higher mental culture.
Antiquated fields of science, with the most curious methods
which had been discarded long ago, clung to a languishing
life, being without encouragement and support from the
real centres of culture. One would encounter their singular
representatives, mostly old men with a gentle and meek
smile, bent and grey and awfully friendly and obliging, but
quite impossible to reason with, as they were utterly
obsessed by their fixed ideas regarding their precious
"science"--one had a feeling of being in the presence of
medieval astrologists and alchemists brooding over their
dark secrets. It was distressing to note from their many
:zr 8 T H E MARR I A G E F EAST
he!itant, oddly diffuse statements that a t the same time
they lived in constant doubt as to the accuracy of their
observations. But it would have been unjust not to admit
that there was a certain degree of culture even in a science
like that.
There was also a kind of primitive literature, though
quite chaotic and confused. As was only to be expected,
their writen were allowed to write anything at all that they
happened to think of, just as the fancy took them. They
chose their subjects themselves, in other words, did not
receive them from a uniform and organizing centre, nor
did they compose their books jointly in groups of five or
ten, but each one made them up out of his own head. And
the results were in keeping. Their works never reached the
outside world, as they were utterly without interest in their
barbaric originality. There was also the press, although it
played no part in the national life as the various newspapen
more often than not expressed different views, so that it
was useless as a moulder of opinion.
But even such literature and such a press must be said
to indicate a certain culture, though at an early stage.
Generally speaking, it could not be denied that they were
a cultured race in their way, even if not in the modem and
stricter sense. Their viewpoint was not altogether con­
temptible, especially bearing in mind their almost com­
plete isolation from the rest of the world. One had to take
a broader view of things and realize that humanity had
not always been on the same level as now. These were the
conclusions reached in this respect.
But the really remarkable discoveries were made by one
or two eminent historians with an excellent all-round
education and piercing insight who had made the trip in
order to confirm their theories, which they also did. Behind
the little country's confused notions and apparently in­
explicable, disordered state of affain they found a peculiar
train of thought which led as a guiding thread through the
 T H E STRA N G E C O U NTRY 2 19
whole curious maze and which, for lack of a stricter
scientific term, they chose to call for the time being "the
idea of freedom." The inhabitants went about quite at
liberty. And not from any slack indifference, as one might
be inclined to think, but from a real inner need-and, as
was soon discovered, because of a firmly rooted tradition.
They wanted to try to think freely and brooked no regula­
tions whatever which were designed to stop them. They
had free research in all fields, a quest for truth which
no law could restrict. They upheld independence, inviol­
ability and the right of the individual with an almost
fanatic stubbornness. In mysteriously coloured and in­
comprehensible metaphysics of great obscurity they even
seemed to want to uphold the liberty of life itself and
maintained that it should not be hampered unnecessarily
but left alone as far as possible. In fact, from all appear­
ances they taught that human life had its own values, apart
from its value in the society to which it belonged, and that
this value was of a higher and more primary nature.
This idea of liberty made itself strongly felt everywhere,
in their feelings and actions, in their private and public
life. It was neither a chance, unhistorical curiosity nor,
originally, the property of this nation; it had very old,
ramified traditions which were lost far back in the mists of
time. Men really had thought like this at one time, they
had fumbled and fought their way along on these lines,
seeking, in their fashion, truth and justice and a certain
meaning in existence, according to the notions of the age.
They had tried to apply such a metaphysical value to life;
a similar train of thought, which was still apparent here in
all its oddity and strange, characteristic consequences, had
actually existed and been quite widespread; such a science,
of which these grey-haired old eccentrics were the last
moribund representatives, had once been cultivated in the
world at large. The whole of this singular culture had long
since vanished in the countries where it had originally had
220 T H E MARRIAGE FEAST
its home, but in this remote little country it had survived
and could still be plainly discerned in all its essentials;
just as on one or two previous occasions it had been
possible to find, in similar isolated places, the living
remnants-in misunderstood and distorted forms perhaps
of cultures that were otherwise completely dead and
forgotten.
Sensing, rightly, that this should also be the case here,
and seeing the issue at large, these historians had come
here with a purpose and had been richly rewarded for their
pains. It was indeed a triumph of research, and a triumph
for the school of thought they represented and which was
in open opposition to an older, more stereotyped con­
ception of history.
"The idea of liberty," however, was not quite the right
term and had to be replaced by something else, implying
as it did a contradictio in adjecto, for freedom must involve a
lack of any guiding idea. When one is not guided by any
really fixed idea, one is free. Freedom as such, therefore,
implies this very lack of ideas. But otherwise it was right.
And this formal contradiction could easily be omitted
when the wealth of study material was sifted and re­
touched.
There was really something magnificent about this
mighty thread leading back into time. This perspective
had a deeply stimulating effect on the scientist and had a
strange fascination. It was of the utmost importance to
him that such a people actually still existed. They must at
all costs be preserved just as unspoilt as hitherto and not
influenced by the ideas of the new age, so that they would
always be there in their present state for scientists to refer
to. To be indignant about this, as some were, was merely a
ridiculous sentimentality of the kind which all too often
hampered science in its work. That must not happen here.
It should even be expressly forbidden for tourists to speak
in front of the native inhabitants about conditions in the
 T H E S T R A N G E C O U NT R Y 22 1
rest of the world, in order not to inveigle them into forsak­
ing their antiquated mode of thinking.
This, therefore, was what the scientists accomplished
during their stay in the country. It goes without saying
that they were satisfied and proud of the results.
All were satisfied, in fact, learned and unlearned alike.
They had seen a people who were different from others,
which nowadays was very difficult and which not many of
their acquaintances had done. They had gone for long
excursions in glorious, unspoilt scenery which exceeded all
expectations as regards originality and wildness and which
left an unforgettable memory. There was one thing really
magnificent in this country, and that was the scenery. One
felt fit as a fiddle and exhilarated in quite a special way.
One had gained health and strength and breathed a pure
and stimulating air.
The only thing one had missed was a little festivity now
and then. There were no parades, and one did miss those
after a while; not at first, but as time went on it seemed
boring never to see any. But in an exotic setting one is
always seized at times by such a feeling of monotony. One
had not been able to help experiencing a certain sense of
insecurity either, as was only natural in a country where
not even a part of the population was armed. But every­
thing had gone well, there had been no mishaps, everyone
had been so nice and friendly. All things considered, they
were a particularly good-natured and pleasant people and
one had got on very well with them.
Now the day had come for the trip home and the tourists
embarked in the steamer. The weather was fine, as it had
been the whole time, the sea was calm and one stood lean­
ing over the railing, talking of one's impressions and
experiences and of what a wonderful time one had had,
or just amusing oneself with anything at all; the days
passed in the most agreeable way. And then one morning
the ship arrived and one was received by the authorities
12122 THE MARRIAGE FEAST
and everything else that w as so familiar. Several who had
let fall unseemly remarks during customs examination or
who had forgotten to make the official salute were waved
good-bye to as they left with special transport, and then,
happy and content, one got into the coaches reserved by
the travel bureau and settled down comfortably in one's
comer.
It had been a wonderful trip. But it was nice to be home
again after all.