She did not give an answering smile.
She continued all along to be stiff, silent and suspicious. In his weakness and helplessness he suffered at first from this lack of sympathy. If he had been an artist he would perhaps have felt a genuine hatred for her. But he was only a dilettante and an amateur, so he not only suffered it, but even began to be attracted by the gloomy and rigid creature as he might have been by some old sombre family treasure which had been hidden from the world in some dusty and sunless corner. Yes, exactly like some gloomy treasure which dumbly reminds us of the dreams and passions of a bygone age. And which is not for sale amongst the rubbish of today.
Thus far had Percy come after a week’s dilettante analysis of Hedvig’s personality. By this time he had entirely ceased to speak about art. But one evening when she stood by the window staring out on the hard and windswept autumn sky the expression on her face suddenly brought an idea into his head:
“Sister Hedvig,” he exclaimed, “won’t you read to me a little out of the Old Testament?”
And he rang for a footman and sent him for a new illustrated edition de luxe bible from the library.
But Hedvig refused at first. She was afraid of the echo from the luxurious rooms with their works of art just outside. She was afraid of his vain and scoffing secret thoughts. But Percy was persistent. He told her about his childhood when his mother would sometimes read aloud to him out of the school bible in the evenings. It sounded almost as if in his strange way he took the scriptures seriously. And at last to her own surprise Hedvig gave in. His face lit up:
“Take Deborah’s song,” he begged, as keen as any child to hear its favourite story.
And Hedvig read in a low voice of Deborah who led the chiefs of Israel, whose soul went forth in strength. But there was something too mournful and cold in her voice. Percy’s sensitive ear suspected old Kristin’s influence, the deep-rooted fatalism of the people. He was however afraid of hurting her and let her finish the chapter.
“That is too hard and bright,” he muttered. “There is too much victory for us two, Sister Hedvig. Take something more difficult and more gloomy.”
And Hedvig read on. She did not know why herself. Perhaps she had a feeling in her inmost heart that he in some way seemed to understand her. But this no longer alarmed her shyness. He was so weak and helpless. He lay there in the shadow of death. He would never rise up and boldly cast her secrets into her face. So she read on. She read of how Jehu annihilated the whole house of Ahab and of how the dogs ate Jezebel on the fields of Jezreel. And she read in the book of Job how man, born of woman, lives a short time full of care, how his illness rises up and bears witness against him and over his eyes rests the shadow of death. To the grave he must say: “Thou art my father,” and to the worms of putrefaction: “my mother, my sister.” And she read in Isaiah about the earth which was consumed by the curse, how the sap of the vine sorrowed and the vine languished. Plaintive cries are heard over the wine and all joy is like a sun that has set—all joy of the earth has disappeared. Dangers and pitfalls and snares lie in wait for you, inhabitants of earth! Earth is utterly broken down, and shall reel like a drunkard, it shall be clean dissolved.
Percy lay quite silent and looked at Hedvig. He followed unconsciously the movements of her lips. This is absolutely sincere, he thought. She is a being from the past. She belongs to an age when fear formed a great part of human life. It is strange to hear the Jewish cast of thought from her lips, persistent as the groans of a sufferer, bitter as the knowledge which is hammered into you by blow upon blow. Only the pressure of the world and sad experience. …
And he felt a great joy as if he had succeeded at last in finding a really precious antique for his collection.
It was getting dusk and Hedvig did not see the print any longer. She put down the heavy book. She had a sudden feeling of relief as after confession. Though faint and transient it was nevertheless something unique in her life.
But already the next morning Hedvig felt a dull anxiety at having given herself up. And she was more curt and silent and reserved than usual.
In November Percy grew somewhat worse. He was often troubled by coughs and his temperature curve showed a tendency to rise. The doctor shook his head when his patient spoke of going to Switzerland.
“Not before the spring,” he said. “Now we must be good and keep quiet and drink milk.”
Percy did not like the doctor very much. He represented the prose side of his illness. But Hedvig looked meaningly at her patient when the doctor had gone. She looked at him as if he had been a child who had wanted to run away from school but who had been brought to reason. She had grown with his weakness. She nursed him diligently and carefully but with an expression of solemn superiority. “There, you see,” she seemed to say, “after all, your vanity won’t help you. Of what use now is your art and your worldly pride?”
Percy noticed it, but he did not grow angry. He was not of that kind. He also derived a sort of pleasure from this new development. Hedvig no longer seemed to him a dark and rare treasure that he had
