11 1
“SE NEVER KNEU.“
and it came about that I had at last nearly completely forgotten the
young wife of my late professor.
And now it has all come back, with a lash, all that made of that
incident an experience and it is all the more (motional than
it was then because I love Friederika.
To-day everything appears clear, and most clear that which
during the last few days has presented problemo. We sat together
on the beach late, we two by ourselves; the boy had been put to
bed. I hadoraged her to come in the morning, and had spoken
without any wicked intention of how beautiful the sea looked at
night, and how wonderful it was when everything was at rest and
still on the coast to gaze into darkness and silence. She had not
responded, but I knew that she would come. And so we sat
together on the beach, scarcely speaking, our hands looked in each
other’s, and I felt that Friederika must belong to me if I so willed
it. Why should we refer to the past, I thought, and I was sure that
she-too, from our first meeting again, had felt the futility of such a
proceeding. Are we still the same creatures as we were then? We
are so light-desrtea, so free; memories Aoat far above us like distant
summer birth. Perhaps she, like me, during these seven years has
lived through varied experiences. What 'do I care? Now we are
beings of to-day, and gravitate to each other. yesterday she may
have been an unfortunate, perhaps even a wanton; to-day she fits
silently besides me, looking out to sea. She hold my hand, and
longs to lie in my arms.
Slowly I lccompanied her the few steps back to her lodgings. The
trees cast long, blackNazi's across the street.
"To-morrow we will take a little trip in a sailing boat," I said.
"Yes,” she answered.
"I will wait for you on the bridge at seven o'clock.
“ Where shall we go? ”
To the island opposite... where the lighthouse is. Do you
see it?
“Oh, yes. The red light. Is it far?"
"It will take about an hour to get there. We can be back
early.
"Goodnight,” she said, and went in.
I walked on. “In a few days you will probably have forgotten
me,” I thought, “but to-morrow will be aoglorious day.
I was on the bridge before she came. The little boat was waiting.
Old Jansen hadaread the sails, and sat in the stern speaking his
pipe. I jumped in with him, and let myself owing on the waves.
I drank in the moments of anticipation like a morning draught.
The street on which I fixed my gaze was quite deserted. But
Friederika appeared in about a quarter of an hour. I saw her
coming in the distance. It seemed to me that she walked Uuicker
than usual; when she set foot on the bridge I rose; and now for the
“SE NEVER KNEU.“
and it came about that I had at last nearly completely forgotten the
young wife of my late professor.
And now it has all come back, with a lash, all that made of that
incident an experience and it is all the more (motional than
it was then because I love Friederika.
To-day everything appears clear, and most clear that which
during the last few days has presented problemo. We sat together
on the beach late, we two by ourselves; the boy had been put to
bed. I hadoraged her to come in the morning, and had spoken
without any wicked intention of how beautiful the sea looked at
night, and how wonderful it was when everything was at rest and
still on the coast to gaze into darkness and silence. She had not
responded, but I knew that she would come. And so we sat
together on the beach, scarcely speaking, our hands looked in each
other’s, and I felt that Friederika must belong to me if I so willed
it. Why should we refer to the past, I thought, and I was sure that
she-too, from our first meeting again, had felt the futility of such a
proceeding. Are we still the same creatures as we were then? We
are so light-desrtea, so free; memories Aoat far above us like distant
summer birth. Perhaps she, like me, during these seven years has
lived through varied experiences. What 'do I care? Now we are
beings of to-day, and gravitate to each other. yesterday she may
have been an unfortunate, perhaps even a wanton; to-day she fits
silently besides me, looking out to sea. She hold my hand, and
longs to lie in my arms.
Slowly I lccompanied her the few steps back to her lodgings. The
trees cast long, blackNazi's across the street.
"To-morrow we will take a little trip in a sailing boat," I said.
"Yes,” she answered.
"I will wait for you on the bridge at seven o'clock.
“ Where shall we go? ”
To the island opposite... where the lighthouse is. Do you
see it?
“Oh, yes. The red light. Is it far?"
"It will take about an hour to get there. We can be back
early.
"Goodnight,” she said, and went in.
I walked on. “In a few days you will probably have forgotten
me,” I thought, “but to-morrow will be aoglorious day.
I was on the bridge before she came. The little boat was waiting.
Old Jansen hadaread the sails, and sat in the stern speaking his
pipe. I jumped in with him, and let myself owing on the waves.
I drank in the moments of anticipation like a morning draught.
The street on which I fixed my gaze was quite deserted. But
Friederika appeared in about a quarter of an hour. I saw her
coming in the distance. It seemed to me that she walked Uuicker
than usual; when she set foot on the bridge I rose; and now for the