I do not call to anyone, but say to whatever may be here: this must be made different! I say it on the bed of the forest on the bed of the river.
Let something happen.
Let the water rise in the darkness, I say, forgetting that it would be a terrible crime. Should the river rise and rear up and throw itself forward and rage and roar—so that everything beneath it might be swept out beyond reach of thought even? In my delirium I have wished it.
I know it will not happen, that is why I can call out. The yell did not even echo outside my narrow, innermost ring of being. All I can think about is gliding water, and objects gliding with it, pausing, being seized again, being carried past the soft stones, and past polished headlands for all eternity. My thoughts are unbearable. Help me, someone.
Did I perhaps believe it would be different now? It cannot be different. How shall I be able to think about anything else but gliding water? I need no light to see it. The water has taken possession, and has no time for the individual.
20
The Other World
After a sleepless night Torvil sat down to breakfast with his parents. Everything was normal. But it felt unnatural to Torvil to be sitting like this, looking at the others.
Here at the table was endless peace.
His mother could tell at a glance that he had not slept. She noted the fact without distress.
‘Didn’t you sleep, Torvil?’ she asked lightly.
‘Sometimes,’ he answered, adopting her tone.
‘Is anything else the matter?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Oh, leave Torvil alone, my dear. He’ll get along all right,’ said his father, looking at them both with his kindly, blue eyes. ‘Torvil’s almost grown-up.’
‘Maybe, but don’t let it spoil your sleep, my boy,’ said his mother.
‘Don’t worry, Mother.’
The two of them went into the living-room. It was still blissful holiday-time for schoolteachers, and everything was all right. Torvil was going the way they wished.
Torvil took his satchel and went across to Aud who was still at breakfast. They were all sitting in the kitchen that Torvil liked so much. Aud laughed when she caught sight of Torvil in the doorway.
‘Here he is already.’
‘Hallo,’ he said to her mother and father, all smiles.
They chatted and laughed for a while, as they often did in this kitchen. There was a sheaf of flowers from the garden. Everything was gleaming—and a good, bright heart beat in the woman who was in charge of it all. The morning sun was shining straight in.
Aud’s and Torvil’s eyes met in all this security, so taken for granted.
Someone laughed again. ‘You’ve brought your books with you, Torvil.’
‘Just an excuse,’ said Torvil, and went on about it until Aud, still on edge, winced.
Her father laughed and produced an enormous joke. ‘Are you taking an extra course?’
‘How funny you are, Father.’
‘Yes, very funny, Aud.’
‘Yes, and outside the morning sun is shining, round as a cartwheel,’ said Torvil before he could stop himself.
They all stared at him.
Aud said quickly, ‘I’m coming now, Torvil. Just got to find my satchel.’
In the doorway Torvil told them, ‘We’ll find a sunny slope. Tomorrow we’ll find another one.’
‘Yes, take advantage of the sun while it’s here, that’s the best way out of your difficulties,’ said this fragrant mother among her beautiful things.
They walked away from the carefree world and into their own.
‘I warned them that we were going off tomorrow as well,’ Torvil told her.
‘Yes, we’d better get them used to it. What had you thought of doing today?’
‘Lying in the sun and sleeping.’
‘I’m simply dreading tomorrow,’ said Aud.
Finding a sheltered slope facing the sun was not difficult. They threw themselves down full length.
‘Your mother said that sunny slopes were the best way out of our difficulties.’
‘She always says things like that.’
‘She was watching you rather carefully today, along with her usual chatter.’
‘You only noticed it because it’s what you expected. If she did see anything it was what she wanted to see.’
‘They ought to have known—’
‘They must never know,’ cut in Aud sharply.
‘Don’t be so nervous, Aud.’
‘I have reason to be.’
‘Well, why not let the sun take care of our difficulties?’ said Torvil, stretching himself out full length.
Their feelings were so conflicting: weariness and despondency and anticipation. They lay down beside each other with their satchels under their heads. They looked into each other’s eyes, eyes that were familiar, but at present unsure.
And yet, it was strange. He lay looking at her. She said, ‘Torvil ...?’ as if about to ask him a question. He woke up at once and raised himself on his elbow.
‘No! Stay where you are.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘“What is it, then?” you say at once, as if astonished. There was something I was about to say, but never mind.’
‘Go on, say it then.’
‘No. You’ll have to wait till I can say it again. Some things can stand very little.’
‘You’re overtired, Aud. Lie down and sleep.’
‘Precisely.’
She lay the whole time with her cheek against her satchel, looking at him, whatever her purpose might be.
‘I’m going to sleep like this,’ he said, reaching out a hand and resting it on her. The hand was not used to it, yet it felt as if it had come home.
‘Torvil.’
‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t do that. I can’t mix so many things up together,’ she said loudly and helplessly.
‘My hand felt at home,’ he said, taking it away.
She lay as before, and asked him, ‘Are you sure of that?’
He took the scarf she had brought with her and spread it over her face. ‘It’s not good to sleep with your face in the sun. Besides, you mustn’t say things like that,’ he added.
Part Three: The Eye In The Well
21
The Dog
The man who is supposed to be strapped to his chair beneath the arch of the bridge is sitting there this morning as on all other mornings. He hammers and putties and fills up each new crack. He has sat like this for as long as the bridge has been in existence. Sometimes he sings a song, in a high, strong voice. The people who walk across very early in the morning hear it, and think the singing is inside themselves. There is a song inside them—but they borrow it from the man beneath the arch. For a while they walk faster and more confidently towards their goal.
One does not dream such things; one thinks about them in odd moments. One thinks about such things—and about the other, about the roaming dog.
Out in the middle of the bridge the wind blows from the distance.
Morning on the bridge. People walk across from each side and meet in the middle. Those who know each other exchange greetings. But if they are alone and have time, they pause for a little and let the wind from the distance filter through them. There is a hammering and a singing in the morning. They echo it, feeling it in their bodies.
Listen to the song beneath the arch of the bridge.
No, it is within me.
People walking across. Are there many who are touched?
No no.
What does no mean? I have been licked by the dog, whether I dream or not. It is done. If I look down into the water, it is as before; no current, no rippling against the pier. But if I stay too long and stand on my head watching another person rise up—then the bridge starts to keel over all the same, while something keels over and plunges within me.
Nothing to be seen down there. What am I thinking of? I must simply no
t look. I rise up myself from below and say so.
There ought to have been another bridge.
Why? Nobody crosses whom you do not see.
There could have been another bridge. For this is our bridge. We meet here over and over again. There is a song beneath the arch.
Hallo is being said endlessly.
They say hallo because the singing is so loud beneath the arch in the vigour of the morning. A muzzle pushes in among them and touches one or another of them. Nobody notices.
The other side can be glimpsed through thick mist. There are many houses, and a mountain slope.
I walk forward, wanting something. Something new. Even before this I wanted something new. It is always on the other side. There it is, over on the other side.
There is still singing beneath the bridge, that’s what it is.
But at the same moment the mist thickens, and turns into a wall. Nobody can say: My home is here, and here are black arches. I know they are, and that is sufficient. In this invisibility a heavy bridge span is thrown out and meets another. I believe it because I know it.
I am at the bridges, I can tell myself; I am there and I belong.
There is no help in the eye.
No sound either. No song. The river is a grave of silence. This cannot be right. Nobody is walking across the bridge! No noise of wheels. My heart is beating alone.
What have I done?
My heart is beating alone.
Here is my groping hand.
I seem to be between the bridges—although no other bridge can be seen. All the same: bridges span chasms.
A hand groping at random. But not anxiously; on the contrary, assured of finding what it seeks. A question that cannot be anything but assured either: Is that you?
Yes, as you knew.
Silence for a little, and strangeness, and then it is over.
Yes, I suppose I did know.
Someone says, only because it is good to be able to ask: Are you aware of it now?
One of the many meetings at the bridges. Everything vanished as if it were fantasy. But it is fantasy to think so. It is silent and gone because it has come closer than you ever thought it could. It is over. That’s how it should be—a poor, brief, but great moment.
It is in that moment that tall trees rise out of the earth and begin to shine. A soft light appears in one of the tree-tops. Not the kind of light that shatters the darkness, but the light that the tree possesses in a moment such as this.
Bridges span chasms. They spring out as if by chance, each from its own side. What is it that upsets and alters everything? The dog, in the middle of it all.
Someone says: Let’s walk in the clearing.
What clearing?
Only the clearing over there.
They walk in the moonlit clearing. The rime is scattered, dry in the dead grass. There is always someone approaching.
It is morning again as before, with drifting skeins of mist above stones and water.
What is important and what unimportant?
The man sits beneath the arch singing. So you think the bridge is bound to hold.
Let’s walk in the clearing.
No, no, not in the clearing.
That glimpsed face behind the blind ...
We are beside the river, and if we had not drawn the blind down, we would have seen something shocking. We still cannot help peeping from a comer. Is it death walking there?
No one has said so. If the dog touches you, it has nothing to do with that.
No ...
Then what is it that’s so remarkable?
There it is, coming back from the other direction. Whoever sits looking out from the narrowest comer can catch a glimpse.
No, it’s a different one.
No, it’s the same.
We are dreaming about you, dog
We wish to be rid of the dream, dog.
22
The Second Meeting
Aud and Torvil went to the wood at the appointed time that morning. They had slept fitfully the previous night. Aud said, ‘I’m dreading it just as much.’
There was no sun, but it was quiet and mild, with no early morning chill.
‘It’s stupid to have to meet her at this spot,’ said Aud.
‘We couldn’t suggest anywhere else to a complete stranger.’
‘At any rate we can go somewhere else at once. I’m not staying there again.’
‘I expect she’ll be as happy as you are to get away from it. But something else occurred to me,’ said Torvil. ‘It’s lucky we have parents who let us go about as we do, without interfering.’
‘There’s a special reason for that, you know.’
‘Maybe so, but all the same. They could easily have made all this impossible.’
‘Of course we’re lucky in our parents, Torvil.’
‘That girl in the wood is no less lucky.’
‘What would they have done, do you think?’
‘Don’t let’s go into that.’
‘Perhaps we’re unfair to them.’
She had arrived there first. Now they saw her in daylight, in any sort of light. Fascinating, streaked with blotches and marks that had not yet had time to smooth themselves out. She was certainly no older than themselves.
She greeted them shyly, and then she said, still shy and hesitant, ‘You find yourself in the strangest meeting-places.’
‘Yes,’ said Torvil.
Aud stammered a suggestion. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere else at once? There are woods enough to choose from.’
They fled from the twigs, the uprooted stones, everything. Not one of them would willingly come to this place again.
They paused beside a thick tree-trunk that lay in a clearing among the living trees. A casualty of the storm, convenient for sitting on. Torvil led them straight to it; he knew every inch of the woods.
This used up far too little time. Having settled themselves on the tree-trunk they could dawdle no longer. So they had to find out what the next step would be.
Aud opened the proceedings with a piece of information.
‘Torvil and I are eighteen years old, in case you’re interested.’
‘Of course,’ said Valborg.
She did not immediately tell them her own age, as they had expected. But she noticed this after a while.
‘Oh, I expect you’d like to know how old I am? I’m just eighteen too.’
‘Thought so,’ said Aud.
‘Did you? I feel more like—I don’t quite know.’
‘No, you’re not like that, Valborg,’ said Aud.
It was the first time they had used her name. It was like a small threshold that had to be crossed. Valborg looked as if she liked it.
‘Why do you want to know my age, anyway?’
‘Curiosity. But not just that either. I thought maybe we’d understand one another better if we knew we were the same age. If we are going to try to understand one another.’
Torvil sat watching the two girls. He had not opened his mouth since they all sat down. The two of them were very unalike. He felt restless and fascinated; afraid of what he felt to be a radiance from Valborg, and doubly fascinated because of it.
Shouldn’t he offer to leave? Whatever was going to be discussed was bound to be a matter for girls.
No, he thought. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving this. She held my hand in the darkness and asked me to come back. Or didn’t she? I’m certainly not going to leave of my own accord.
He saw by their manner that Aud and Valborg were moving closer together. He was rather ashamed of the excitement he felt while waiting to hear Valborg tell them more. He wanted desperately to sit beside them, to look at them. They were strange and beautiful, each in her own way.
Torvil was jolted out of his thoughts when Valborg pointed at him and said, as if attacking him, as if choked with sudden hostility, ‘What’s he doing here, anyway?’
‘Whatdidyousay?’ exclaimed Torvil, flushing as if he had
been caught doing something disgraceful.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Aud. ‘Obviously Torvil has to be here.’
Valborg did not retreat, but continued just as aggressively. ‘Don’t you understand? He’s sitting here—he’s no business here, he’s sitting here thinking about something quite different. Doesn’t he understand?’
‘Torvil,’ said Aud hastily. ‘You mustn’t get annoyed because—’
‘He can be as annoyed as he likes!’ she said, thoroughly wrought up.
Torvil said, ‘Neither Aud nor I are here for fun, if you want to know. I’d have thought you of all people would understand that.’
Aud was on her feet.
‘You shouldn’t talk to Torvil like this, you’re being unjust. I think we’d better go, from the sound of things,’ she said to Torvil.
‘Oh no, you mustn’t go!’ said Valborg, afraid. ‘You don’t really want to go, do you? You were only saying it. You mustn’t leave me.’
‘I’m not going to stay here without Torvil. I think this was a bad beginning.’
Valborg was also on her feet, her face pale. It looked streaked although it wasn’t really so. Something that time would erase.
‘I have to begin from where I am,’ she said to Aud, ‘and that’s right at the bottom. There’s no room for very much, no margin. It’s like having nothing but a knife-edge to stand on. You lose control of yourself for so little when you’re down there. I don’t know who you think you came to meet.’
She grew calmer as she spoke, and was standing quite slackly when she finished.
‘We came because you asked us to, you know,’ said Aud. She took Valborg by the arm, and forced her to sit down again. Valborg made no resistance, obeying her willingly. She looked from the one to the other.
‘All right, all right,’ she said, ‘no one knows that better than I do. Would you wait a little?’
‘Wait? We’re not going, I tell you.’
‘No, but I’m still asking you to wait a little. I’m not afraid you’ll go. But I fall through sometimes. I don’t think you can imagine how this feels when it comes over me.’
The Bridges Page 8