The Captain's Dol

There was no littleness, no meanness, and no real coarseness. But

  he was a great talker, and relentless towards his audience.

  Hannele was attracted to him by his talk. He began as soon as

  dinner appeared: and he went on, carrying the decanter and the

  wine-glass with him out on to the balcony of the villa, over the

  lake, on and on until midnight. The summer night was still and

  warm: the lake lay deep and full, and the old town twinkled away

  across. There was the faintest tang of snow in the air, from the

  great glacier-peaks that were hidden in the night opposite.

  Sometimes a boat with a lantern twanged a guitar. The clematis

  flowers were quite black, like leaves, dangling from the terrace.

  It was so beautiful, there in the very heart of the Tyrol. The

  hotels glittered with lights: electric light was still cheap.

  There seemed a fullness and a loveliness in the night. And yet for

  some reason it was all terrible and devastating: the life-spirit

  seemed to be squirming, bleeding all the time.

  And on and on talked the Herr Regierungsrat, with all the witty

  volubility of the more versatile Austrian. He was really very

  witty, very human, and with a touch of salty cynicism that reminded

  one of a real old Roman of the Empire. That subtle stoicism, that

  unsentimental epicureanism, that kind of reckless hopelessness, of

  course, fascinated the women. And particularly Hannele. He talked

  on and on--about his work before the war, when he held an important

  post and was one of the governing class--then about the war--then

  about the hopelessness of the present: and in it all there seemed a

  bigness, a carelessness based on indifference and hopelessness that

  laughed at its very self. The real old Austria had always

  fascinated Hannele. As represented in the witty, bitter-

  indifferent Herr Regierungsrat it carried her away.

  And he, of course, turned instinctively to her, talking in his

  rapid, ceaseless fashion, with a laugh and a pause to drink and a

  new start taken. She liked the sound of his Austrian speech: its

  racy carelessness, its salty indifference to standards of

  correctness. Oh yes, here was the grand geste still lingering.

  He turned his large breast towards her, and made a quick gesture

  with his fat, well-shapen hand, blurted out another subtle, rough-

  seeming romance, pursed his mouth, and emptied his glass once more.

  Then he looked at his half-forgotten cigar and started again.

  There was something almost boyish and impulsive about him: the way

  he turned to her, and the odd way he seemed to open his big breast

  to her. And again he seemed almost eternal, sitting there in his

  chair with knees planted apart. It was as if he would never rise

  again, but would remain sitting for ever, and talking. He seemed

  as if he had no legs, save to sit with. As if to stand on his feet

  and walk would not be natural to him.

  Yet he rose at last, and kissed her hand with the grand gesture

  that France or Germany have never acquired: carelessness, profound

  indifference to other people's standards, and then such a sudden

  stillness, as he bent and kissed her hand. Of course she felt a

  queen in exile.

  And perhaps it is more dangerous to feel yourself a queen in exile

  than a queen in situ. She fell in love with him, with this large,

  stout, loose widower of fifty, with two children. He had no money

  except some Austrian money that was worth nothing outside Austria.

  He could not even go to Germany. There he was, fixed in this

  hollow in the middle of the Tyrol.

  But he had an ambition still, old Roman of the decadence that he

  was. He had year by year and without making any fuss collected the

  material for a very minute and thorough history of his own

  district: the Chiemgau and the Pinzgau. Hannele found that his

  fund of information on this subject was inexhaustible, and his

  intelligence was so delicate, so human, and his scope seemed so

  wide, that she felt a touch of reverence for him. He wanted to

  write this history. And she wanted to help him.

  For, of course, as things were he would never write it. He was

  Regierungsrat: that is, he was the petty local governor of his town

  and immediate district. The Amthaus was a great old building, and

  there young ladies in high heels flirted among masses of papers

  with bare-kneed young gentlemen in Tyrolese costume, and

  occasionally they parted to take a pleasant, interesting attitude

  and write a word or two, after which they fluttered together for a

  little more interesting diversion. It was extraordinary how many

  finely built, handsome young people of an age fitted for nothing

  but love-affairs ran the governmental business of this department.

  And the Herr Regierungsrat sailed in and out of the big, old room,

  his wide coat flying like wings and making the papers flutter, his

  rather wine-reddened, old-Roman face smiling with its bitter look.

  And of course it was a witticism he uttered first, even if Hungary

  was invading the frontier or cholera was in Vienna.

  When he was on his legs, he walked nimbly, briskly, and his coat-

  bottoms always flew. So he waved through the town, greeting

  somebody at every few strides and grinning, and yet with a certain

  haughty reserve. Oh yes, there was a certain salty hauteur about

  him which made the people trust him. And he spoke the vernacular

  so racily.

  Hannele felt she would like to marry him. She would like to be

  near him. She would like him to write his history. She would like

  him to make her feel a queen in exile. No one had ever QUITE

  kissed her hand as he kissed it: with that sudden stillness and

  strange, chivalric abandon of himself. How he would abandon

  himself to her!--terribly--wonderfully--perhaps a little horribly.

  His wife, whom he had married late, had died after seven years of

  marriage. Hannele could understand that too. One or the other

  must die.

  She became engaged. But something made her hesitate before

  marriage. Being in Austria was like being on a wrecked ship that

  MUST sink after a certain short length of time. And marrying the

  Herr Regierungsrat was like marrying the doomed captain of the

  doomed ship. The sense of fatality was part of the attraction.

  And yet she hesitated. The summer weeks passed. The strangers

  flooded in and crowded the town, and ate up the food like locusts.

  People no longer counted the paper money, they weighed it by the

  kilogram. Peasants stored it in a corner of the meal-bin, and mice

  came and chewed holes in it. Nobody knew where the next lot of

  food was going to come from: yet it always came. And the lake

  teemed with bathers. When the captain arrived he looked with

  amazement on the crowds of strapping, powerful fellows who bathed

  all day long, magnificent blond flesh of men and women. No wonder

  the old Romans stood in astonishment before the huge blond limbs of

  the savage Germana.

  Well, the life was like a madness. The hotels charged fifteen

  h
undred kronen a day: the women, old and young, paraded in the

  peasant costume, in flowery cotton dresses with gaudy, expensive

  silk aprons: the men wore the Tyrolese costume, bare knees and

  little short jackets. And for the men, the correct thing was to

  have the leathern hose and the blue linen jacket as old as

  possible. If you had a hole in your leathern seat, so much the

  better.

  Everything so physical. Such magnificent naked limbs and naked

  bodies, and in the streets, in the hotels, everywhere, bare, white

  arms of women and bare, brown, powerful knees and thighs of men.

  The sense of flesh everywhere, and the endless ache of flesh. Even

  in the peasants who rowed across the lake, standing and rowing with

  a slow, heavy, gondolier motion at the one curved oar, there was

  the same endless ache of physical yearning.

  XIII

  It was August when Alexander met Hannele. She was walking under a

  chintz parasol, wearing a dress of blue cotton with little red

  roses, and a red silk apron. She had no hat, her arms were bare

  and soft, and she had white stockings under her short dress. The

  Herr Regierungsrat was at her side, large, nimble, and laughing

  with a new witticism.

  Alexander, in a light summer suit and Panama hat, was just coming

  out of the bank, shoving twenty thousand kronen into his pocket.

  He saw her coming across from the Amtsgericht, with the Herr

  Regierungsrat at her side, across the space of sunshine. She was

  laughing, and did not notice him.

  She did not notice till he had taken off his hat and was saluting

  her. Then what she saw was the black, smooth, shining head, and

  she went pale. His black, smooth, close head--and all the blue

  Austrian day seemed to shrivel before her eyes.

  'How do you do, Countess! I hoped I should meet you.'

  She heard his slow, sad-clanging, straying voice again, and she

  pressed her hand with the umbrella stick against her breast. She

  had forgotten it--forgotten his peculiar, slow voice. And now it

  seemed like a noise that sounds in the silence of night. Ah, how

  difficult it was, that suddenly the world could split under her

  eyes, and show this darkness inside. She wished he had not come.

  She presented him to the Herr Regierungsrat, who was stiff and

  cold. She asked where the captain was staying. And then, not

  knowing what else to say, she said:

  'Won't you come to tea?'

  She was staying in a villa across the lake. Yes, he would come to

  tea.

  He went. He hired a boat and a man to row him across. It was not

  far. There stood the villa, with its brown balconies one above the

  other, the bright red geraniums and white geraniums twinkling all

  round, the trees of purple clematis tumbling at one corner. All

  the green window doors were open: but nobody about. In the little

  garden by the water's edge the rose trees were tall and lank, drawn

  up by the dark green trees of the background. A white table with

  chairs and garden seats stood under--the shadow of a big willow

  tree, and a hammock with cushions swung just behind. But no one in

  sight. There was a little landing bridge on to the garden: and a

  fairly large boat-house at the garden end.

  The captain was not sure that the boat-house belonged to the villa.

  Voices were shouting and laughing from the water's surface, bathers

  swimming. A tall, naked youth with a little red cap on his head

  and a tiny red loin-cloth round his slender young hips was standing

  on the steps of the boat-house calling to the three women who were

  swimming near. The dark-haired woman with the white cap swam up to

  the steps and caught the boy by the ankle. He cried and laughed

  and remonstrated, and poked her in the breast with his foot.

  'Nein, nein, Hardu!' she cried as he tickled her with his toe.

  'Hardu! Hardu! H�r' auf!--Leave off!'--and she fell with a crash

  back into the water. The youth laughed a loud, deep laugh of a lad

  whose voice is newly broken.

  'Was macht er dann?' cried a voice from the waters. 'What is he

  doing?' It was a dark-skinned girl swimming swiftly, her big dark

  eyes watching amused from the water surface.

  'Jetzt Hardu h�r' auf. Nein. Jetzt ruhig! Now leave off! Now be

  quiet.' And the dark-skinned woman was climbing out in the

  sunshine onto the pale, raw-wood steps of the boathouse, the water

  glistening on her dark-blue, stockinette, soft-moulded back and

  loins: while the boy, with his foot stretched out, was trying to

  push her back into the water. She clambered out, however, and sat

  on the steps in the sun, panting slightly. She was dark and

  attractive-looking, with a mature beautiful figure, and handsome,

  strong woman's legs.

  In the garden appeared a black-and-white maid-servant with a tray.

  'Kaffee, gn�dige Frau!'

  The voice came so distinct over the water.

  'Hannele! Hannele! Kaffee!' called the woman on the steps of the

  bathing-house.

  'Tante Hannele! Kaffee!' called the dark-eyed girl, turning round

  in the water, then swimming for home.

  'Kaffee! Kaffee!' roared the youth, in anticipation.

  'Ja--a! Ich kom--mm,' sang Hannele's voice from the water.

  The dark-eyed girl, her hair tied up in a silk bandana, had reached

  the steps and was climbing out, a slim young fish in her close dark

  suit. The three stood clustered on the steps, the elder woman with

  one arm over the naked shoulders of the youth, the other arm over

  the shoulders of the girl. And all in chorus sang:

  'Hannele! Hannele! Hannele! Wir warten auf dich.'

  The boatman had left off rowing, and the boat was drifting slowly

  in. The family became quiet, because of the intrusion. The

  attractive-looking woman turned and picked up her blue bath-robe,

  of a mid-blue colour that became her. She swung it round her as if

  it were an opera cloak. The youth stared at the boat.

  The captain was watching Hannele. With a white kerchief tied round

  her silky, brownish hair, she was swimming home. He saw her white

  shoulders and her white, wavering legs below in the clear water.

  Round the boat fishes were suddenly jumping.

  The three on the steps beyond stood silent, watching the intruding

  boat with resentment. The boatman twisted his head round and

  watched them. The captain, who was facing them, watched Hannele.

  She swam slowly and easily up, caught the rail of the steps, and

  stooping forward, climbed slowly out of the water. Her legs were

  large and flashing white and looked rich, the rich, white thighs

  with the blue veins behind, and the full, rich softness of her

  sloping loins.

  'Ach! Sch�n! 'S war sch�n! Das Wasser ist gut,' her voice was

  heard, half singing as she took her breath. 'It was lovely.'

  'Heiss,' said the woman above. 'Zu warm. Too warm.'

  The youth made way for Hannele, who drew herself erect at the top

  of the steps, looking round, panting a little and putting up her

  hands to the knot of her kerchief on her head. Her legs were<
br />
  magnificent and white.

  'Kuck de Leut, die da bleiben,' said the woman in the blue wrap, in

  a low voice. 'Look at the people stopping there.'

  'Ja!' said Hannele negligently. Then she looked. She started as

  if in fear, looked round, as if to run away, looked back again, and

  met the eyes of the captain, who took off his hat.

  She cried in a loud, frightened voice:

  'Oh, but--I thought it was TOMORROW!'

  'No--today,' came the quiet voice of the captain over the water.

  'TODAY! Are you sure?' she cried, calling to the boat.

  'Quite sure. But we'll make it tomorrow if you like,' he said.

  'Today! Today!' she repeated in bewilderment.' No! Wait a

  minute.' And she ran into the boat-house.

  'Was ist es?' asked the dark woman, following her. 'What is it?'

  'A friend--a visitor--Captain Hepburn,' came Hannele's voice.

  The boatman now rowed slowly to the landing-stage. The dark woman,

  huddled in her blue wrap as in an opera-cloak, walked proudly and

  unconcernedly across the background of the garden and up the steps

  to the first balcony. Hannele, her feet slip-slopping in loose

  slippers, clutching an old yellow wrap round her, came to the

  landing-stage and shook hands.

  'I am so sorry. It is so stupid of me. I was sure it was

  tomorrow,' she said.

  'No, it was today. But I wish for your sake it had been tomorrow,'

  he replied.

  'No. No. It doesn't matter. You won't mind waiting a minute,

  will you? You mustn't be angry with me for being so stupid.'

  So she went away, the heelless slippers flipping up to her naked

  heels. Then the big-eyed, dusky girl stole into the house: and

  then the naked youth, who went with sang-froid. He would make a

  fine, handsome man: and he knew it.

  XIV

  Hepburn and Hannele were to make a small excursion to the glacier

  which stood there always in sight, coldly grinning in the sky. The

  weather had been very hot, but this morning there were loose clouds

  in the sky. The captain rowed over the lake soon after dawn.

  Hannele stepped into the little craft, and they pulled back to the

  town. There was a wind ruffling the water, so that the boat leaped

  and chuckled. The glacier, in a recess among the folded mountains,

  looked cold and angry. But morning was very sweet in the sky, and

  blowing very sweet with a faint scent of the second hay from the

  low lands at the head of the lake. Beyond stood naked grey rock

  like a wall of mountains, pure rock, with faint, thin slashes of

  snow. Yesterday it had rained on the lake. The sun was going to

  appear from behind the Breitsteinhorn, the sky with its clouds

  floating in blue light and yellow radiance was lovely and cheering

  again. But dark clouds seemed to spout up from the Pinzgau valley.

  And once across the lake, all was shadow, when the water no longer

  gave back the sky-morning.

  The day was a feast day, a holiday. Already so early three young

  men from the mountains were bathing near the steps of the

  Badeanstalt. Handsome, physical fellows, with good limbs rolling

  and swaying in the early morning water. They seemed to enjoy it

  too. But to Hepburn it was always as if a dark wing were stretched

  in the sky, over these mountains, like a doom. And these three

  young, lusty, naked men swimming and rolling in the shadow.

  Hepburn's was the first boat stirring. He made fast in the hotel

  boat-house, and he and Hannele went into the little town. It was

  deep in shadow, though the light of the sky, curdled with cloud,

  was bright overhead. But dark and chill and heavy lay the shadow

  in the black-and-white town, like a sediment.

  The shops were all shut, but peasants from the hills were already

  strolling about in their holiday dress: the men in their short

  leather trousers, like football drawers, and bare brown knees and