The first snow had fallen and lay fine and white on the balcony, embroidered by the feet of the sparrows.  
The red flowers stood indoors, in the warmth, and looked pitiful. And a big table had been placed at the back of the room, with a lamp upon it and a pile of books.
 
Cordt came early.
 
He went straight up to the table, sat down and opened a book. Soon after, he stood at the window and looked out.
 
It was growing dusk. A damp and misty evening, with a thin, reddish light behind the mist and cold feet and dripping roofs. The snow on the square had melted into slush. The fountain was[40] silent, covered with boards and pine-faggots.
 
He sat down again and read. He stood up, looked at his watch, went to the window, walked up and down the floor and sat down again. He lit a cigar and let it go out. He went away and came back in an hour and began all over again.
 
A little before midnight, the carriage drove in through the gateway and, five minutes later, Fru Adelheid stood in the room, tall and white, with large eyes.
 
“Have you enjoyed yourself, Adelheid?”
 
She could hear that he did not care to know and she did not answer:
 
“I am freezing,” she said.
 
She drew her chair close up to the fire, nestled into it and put her feet on the fender.
 
“They asked after you, Cordt.”
 
“I daresay.”
 
[41]He turned over the leaves of his book a little, then closed it and drew his chair beside hers. He sat resting his cheek in his hand and looked tired.
 
“Do you intend to sit in this room all day, Cordt?”
 
“No, only in the evening. When I have nothing else to do. I love this room.”
 
She pressed her hands hard together and closed her eyes.
 
“I hate it,” she said. “All the unkindness that has come between you and me comes from here.”
 
He said nothing to this, but rose and went to the table for a cigar. Something went through her as he slammed the lid of the box.
 
“Are you going with me to-morrow?”
 
He shook his head.
 
“Do you want to cut off all our acquaintance, Cordt?”
 
[42]“No,” he said. “I do not. But I don’t care to go out just now.”
 
“What do you think our friends will say?”
 
“Let them say what they like.”
 
“Don’t you consider how unpleasant it is for me?”
 
“Oh, yes. But I don’t care to go out at present.”
 
He lit his cigar at the candle on the mantel-shelf. Then he sat down again and smoked quietly and looked into the fire. She looked at him and sighed.
 
And, without knowing how it happened and without intending it, she suddenly felt her heart touched and her eyes grew moist:
 
“Are you not happy, Cordt?”
 
He looked up and gazed at her:
 
“No.”
 
“And it is my fault? Because your wife is a silly woman, who wants to go out every day?”
 
[43]“You are not that, Adelheid.”
 
“Because I am an empty, restless, modern creature?”
 
“You are not that.”
 
“What am I then, Cordt?”
 
He took her hand and kissed it and smiled to her:
 
“You are my wife, Adelheid. And we have a little baby, we two, and perhaps will have another.”
 
“No,” she said and drew her hand away. “No, Cordt. That was only my nonsense.”
 
He said nothing. His hand fell down slackly and he turned paler than she could remember ever having seen him. She was afraid that he was ill and stooped over him and called to him.
 
He did not see her, did not hear her.
 
She could not take her eyes from him. She thought he could not look more distressed if their boy were dead. She felt[44] it as an appalling shame, that she herself was glad of it; and she dreaded lest he should look at her.
 
Then he did and read her thoughts.
 
And she grew worse and worse the more she saw him grieve. She did not understand it, felt troubled by it.
 
And, as there was no anger in his eyes, it grew worse for her still. She cast about for a word that could make him move and say something, no matter what.
 
But he sat still and silent and slowly turned his face away from her. And she could find nothing to say.
 
She rose and went to the window and stood there for a while. Then she came back and sat down in a chair:
 
“What are you thinking of, Cordt?”
 
“Of you.”
 
Again they sat silent.
 
“Adelheid.”
 
[45]He spoke her name quite calmly and gently, but she was frightened.
 
“I will fight for you, Adelheid; I mean to fight for you; and the new little baby would have helped me. Now I shall have to fight alone.”
 
She remembered vaguely that this phrase had once been uttered between them, but she did not understand him.
 
“I will stake life and happiness to win you,” he said. “I will talk to you and importune you and conquer you. I will take you in my arms and close my door against you and run after you and forgive you.”
 
“And, if you don’t win me?”
 
“I shall win you.”
 
“But if?”
 
She looked at his mouth, while she listened for the answer. It came quite calmly; he did not even look at her:
 
“Then I shall cast you off.”
 
[46]Fru Adelheid closed her eyes tightly and then opened them wide:
 
“Better cast me off at once, Cordt. If you can.”
 
“I can’t. We have the baby. And we are fond of each other.”
 
“I don’t know,” she said.
 
“What don’t you know?”
 
She did not answer, only shook her head.
 
“You shall have your liberty,” he said. “Go out as much as you please, amuse yourself, fill the house with guests. Be gay and melancholy the whole day long, as your fate decides. Go away, if you feel inclined.”
 
“And will you never go with me?”
 
“As little as possible. I will not fight for you out there. I won you there once and I am not afraid for you ... that way. There, in any case, I need not trouble to win you again.”
 
[47]“And then?”
 
“Then you will know that you can find me here any evening. Here is where I shall live.”
 
He rose and walked slowly through the room. Fru Adelheid let herself slip to the floor and lay there with her cheek on the fender and stared before her. She saw him return and stand beside her and go and come back again.
 
“Cordt,” she said, “I shall never come here.”
 
“You can do about that as you please.”
 
He sat down and rested his head on his hand:
 
“My ancestor well knew what he was doing, when he built this sacred nuptial secret chamber in his rich, new house ... high above the street, far from the day’s work ... and the night’s. He saw deep and far.”
 
“It is the torture-chamber of the[48] house,” said Fru Adelheid. “I am certain that many women have wept bitterly in here.”
 
He half rose in his seat and passed his hand over his forehead.
 
“I am frightened, Cordt. You want to ill-use me. I can’t do what you wish. Shall we talk somewhere else ... in your room, Cordt?”
 
“No,” he said. “Our place is here. Here we are bound to be.”
 
He stood up and sat down again at once. His eyes glittered as he spoke:
 
“Here they all sat, the men who lived in the house and their wives ... in joy and in sorrow. Their faces look at us from every corner, their words whisper all around.... Can you not hear my great-grandmother’s spinning-wheel?... Do you not hear the spinet singing?”
 
“Yes, Cordt.”
 
“Here our words become greater and[49] weightier in the stillness. Here we grow more powerful in our affection and our anger. Whatever we can do we can do here. They knew something, those old, big men and women.”
 
She rose and stood before him, leaning against the mantel, tall and white:
 
“They knew how to keep discipline in their house,” she said.
 
She looked at him and there was pride and fear and anger about her red mouth and in her strange eyes.
 
“That they did,” he said. “God bless them for it in their graves!”
 
She sat down in the old chair and put her arms around the jar, where the man writhed through thorns. She stared at the man’s face and it was as though she were with him and felt the thorns in her flesh.
 
“Here also it was that we two bound ourselves to each other for good and all, Adelheid. That evening when we put[50] our names to the old yellow paper there, in the wall. Then you pledged yourself to this room, which you hate. And, when the time comes, our son will come here with the woman who shall be his joy.”
 
He went out on the balcony and came back, white and wet with snow. He brought the cold in with him and she shivered. He stood silent by the fire and then began to walk about again. She listened to his step and waited for a word and could find nothing to say.
 
Then she went to the old spinet and sat down and sang:
 
My Lenore, how dark and drear
The burden of daylight’s bringing!
No music of chiming hours I hear,
No birds in the sunlight singing.
Sweet Lenore, O lady mine,
Bright-eyed, as the day wanes weaker,
Now pledge me deep in the golden wine
Night pours from her fragrant beaker.
[51]
The violets watch us, blue in the plain,
Not a star our secret misses.
Kiss me, Lenore, and kiss me again
And give me a thousand kisses
The slender tones sang through the room, when she stopped.
 
She listened, but could not hear his footstep. He was sitting in one of the big chairs and did not move.
 
She looked at him for a moment over her shoulder. Then she rose and closed the instrument, with as much noise as she could:
 
“Good-night, Cordt.”
 
“Good-night.”
 
Then she turned very red and very pale and went away with moist and angry eyes.