He lay very still in the bed, his eyes screwed tightly shut. . . . Now for the second step of the exercise—a rehearsal in his mind of Nils’ physical surroundings. . . .
Nils’ room—this room where he lay—was an attic in the house of Axel Christensen, carpenter, The house of Axel Christensen was on the outskirts of the village of Kornemunde, some thirty miles from Stockholm. Below, abutting on to the eastern side of the house, was the long barn-like workshop in which Axel plied his trade of joiner and carpenter and in which he himself would presently be at work—for a little, public part of the time helping Axel with local orders, for the rest attaining, under Axel’s teaching, proficiency in such arts of carpentry, joinery and the like as would qualify him for the part of carpenter’s mate (or whatever they called it) upon an ocean-going ship. . . . Downstairs, immediately below the stiff and silent and hardly-ever-used parlour, which in turn was directly below his attic, came the kitchen—and there, very shortly, he would eat. . . .
So much for the geography! Now for Nils himself—and his wherefore and why! Nils (never forget!) is nephew to Axel Christensen, a brother of his mother’s. Nils has never before this visit seen his uncle—but his uncle, upon receiving the frightful news that his sister and her Norwegian husband, resident in the unfortunate northern half of Norway, had been killed by a German bomb, made haste to summon his nephew (absent at sea at the time of the catastrophe) and take him under his wing and set him to work in the ‘shop.’ Axel hopes (don’t forget) that his husky, skilful, personable, craftsmanlike nephew will make his stay permanent; will not, as other mates and apprentices seem so often to have done before, leave him suddenly and selfishly. . . . Axel says nothing (nor must Nils) of the instruction in sea-going carpentry. . . .
All right! Part Two of the programme is over. . . . Now for Part Three—and Nils can get up and go about this strange new world believing he is part of it!
Part Three is more fun than its predecessors, because he can use his senses. . . .
Relaxed, he lay in the over-soft feather-bed and rolled luxuriously and stretched himself and opened his eyes. Above him were dark beams of oak, black save for the dapplings of gold made by such rays of the early slanting sun as struggled through the skylight window. Then, as he dropped his eyes, there were the clean whitewashed walls, and the high dresser of dark, time-polished pine, and, on the far wall, the picture which (they said) was of Axel’s mother—and the washstand—and the little, gatelegged table—and the four great packing cases—and the curtain-covered corner for clothes—and all the rest. . . .
The air smelt wonderful, and the sunshine was not pale—and there stirred in Otto an anger.
“Soft!” said Otto without sound, and threw the covers from him—and then angrily reprimanded himself.
“Splendid morning!” said Nils aloud, and swung his legs to the floor and fished his watch from under the pillows and found the time to be seven. . . .
He pulled on blouse and trousers and grabbed a thick brown towel (he must remember never to find the colour unusual!) and, taking his thick shoes in his hand, ran down the stairs and let himself out of the side-door near the kitchen.
Outside, the sun was warm and the air itself cold and tingling, so that it stung the skin with a sudden, exhilarating bite before the sun could warm it. He made his way through the kitchen-garden to the door in the white fence. He opened the door and stepped through it and closed it quickly behind him and was in the common-land meadow which made a huge triangle bounded by the mill-stream and Axel’s dwelling and the mill-house itself. He began to run without waiting to put on his shoes. The coarse weed-grasses stabbed at his feet. They hurt, and he felt better. He slowed to a walk, the heavy shoes bouncing and jerking around his neck, and made a bee-line for the mill-pond. Over the stream, past the fertile fields, the sudden small mountains rose—a mile, twenty, sixty miles away. They were white-capped, and blue against the green and gold and brown of the tilled earth at their feet. The sun grew warmer and softened more and more the bite of the early spring air. Small creatures made scurrying rustles in the grass and the hedges, and a lark startlingly sang above his head. From the mill-house chimney a thin blue-grey streamer of smoke reached up uncertainly—and from the fields behind him came a velvety lowing of cattle.
It was peaceful—idyllic—beautiful—unreal! The air smelt soft and sweet—and yet was sharp and heady. And the little mountains were incredibly beautiful in their baby ruggedness.
Otto began to run again; there was a lump coming in his throat, for no reason at all, and he grew angry again.
“Soft!” said Otto violently—and then took himself to task, violently, for not being Nils, to whom all this would doubtless seem ordinary and pleasant and right. . . .
But there was nothing (surely there was nothing?) to prevent Nils Jorgensen from plunging into the searing-cold water of the mill-pond—and swimming—and climbing out and shivering until the sun warmed his aching muscles back to life—and then diving in again—and staying in the clear dark water until the coldness clamped iron fingers around his heart and lungs with such grisly force that he must use all the strength of his will to make the frigid muscles obey his mind and propel his body three times, fast, around the pool before he clambered out through the reeds. . . .
Nils came back to the house, hard and tight and glowing, to find his Aunt Kirsten cooking already, while his cousin Gertrud laid the blue-bordered white cloth upon the big white-pine table in the bay-window of the kitchen. Pots bubbled upon the great stove, and there was the vivid, tingling smell of bacon frying.
There was also another smell—a forbidden, delicious scent—the gritty-gold aroma of brewing coffee.
Nils’ Aunt Kirsten giggled as her nephew sniffed the air.
“That uncle of yours!” she said. “He will have his coffee. I keep telling him the neighbours will smell it out and then he’ll be reported for hoarding. But he has to have it!”
Gertrud, very busy with her table-setting, spoke to him softly. She said:
“You have been swimming, Nils? . . . B’rr!” She shook her pretty shoulders and her breasts quivered tautly beneath the print frock. “You are brave!”
Gertrud was brown-haired and small and slimly rounded. She was like her mother in feature, but had Axel’s colouring. Her eyes were large and of a soft, warm brownness—and her teeth, when she smiled, were very white against her red lips. She was eighteen and shyly ardent. She said again:
“You are brave, Nils!”
Otto mumbled a reply, without looking at her. He wished she were not around. He wished she were not here at all. He wished she would not speak to him. She made it increasingly difficult to be Nils, because he could not take the pleasure in her existence which any young man must take in so attractive a cousin; any young man, that is, except Otto Falken. If only Gertrud did not so irresistibly remind him of the girl in Paris; the girl whose eyes had blazed fierce and contemptuous and unreasoning hatred; the girl who, for some obscure and infuriating reason, he knew he would never be able to dismiss from memory.
He went upstairs, telling Aunt Kirsten he would only be a moment. He found a clean blouse and pulled it on. He brushed his damp hair violently and was pleased that the wiry blond curls seemed darker and more orderly than usual. He dusted his heavy shoes, which bore a Norwegian trademark, and even polished with a handkerchief the heavy brass buckle of the belt which held up the working trousers of felt-like blue cloth. He did all these things as Nils would do them—and yet, all the time, that Parisian incident was running through Otto’s mind.