was not himself had ever pierced him—then he heard them looking for him outside. A crisis had come. Now, the thought flashed through him: turn everything upside-down, tell them I’m going to stay, have the luggage taken down, tell the farm-hands I’ve changed my mind. But how could he? How could he appear before Finazzer, even before his wife? What should he say, what reasons should he give? What kind of a man would he have had to be to take this upon himself and then stand his ground in a situation so suddenly reversed?
H E WAS already sitting in the cart; the horses had started, he did not know how. Time must pass; I cannot stay here, but I can come back, he thought, the same and yet different. He felt between his fingers the chain, that assured him that it was all reality and not a dream.
The cart rolled downhill; in front of him was the sun and the wide, sunlit country, behind him the narrow valley with the lonely homestead already lying in the shadow. His eyes were fixed ahead, but with a vacant, close look; the eyes of his heart were lookingbackwards with all their might. He was roused by the voice of the carrier, who was pointing with his whip up into the pure evening air where an eagle was wheeling. Now for the first time Andreas was aware of what lay before him. The road had wound out of the mountain valley and taken a sudden turn to the left. There a huge valley had opened; a river, no longer a brook, wound far below, but beyond it was the mightiest peak of the range, behind which, still high in the sky, the sun was sinking. Monstrous shadows fell down into the valley; whole forests, blackish blue, bristled on the riven foot of the mountain; waterfalls plunged darkly down in the ravines; above everything was free, bare, rising boldly upwards—sheer slopes, rock walls, crowned by the snowy peak, ineffably pure and radiant.
Never had Andreas known such a feeling in nature. He felt as if it had all, at a single stroke, risen from his own being—that power, that uprising and its crowning purity. The majestic bird was still wheeling above, alone in the light; with widespread wings it swept slow circles; from where it hovered it could see everything—the Finazzer valley and the farm, the village; the graves of Romana’s sisters and brothers were as near to its keen sight as these mountain gorges, in whose bluish shadows it was searching for a young roe or a stray goat. Andreas encompassed the bird—he rose towards it with a feeling of ecstasy. This time he felt no impulse to lose himself, he only felt the bird’s supreme power and gift flowing into his own soul. Every shadow, every clog, fell away from him. It was borne in upon him that, seen from high enough, the parted are united, and that loneliness is an illusion. He possessed Romana everywhere—he could take her into him wherever he would. That mountain, rising before him and towering to the skies, was a brother and more than a brother. As it took the tender fawn to its breast in its mighty spaces, covering it with cool shade, and hiding it from its pursuer with blue darkness, so Romana lived in him. She was a living being, a centre, with a paradise about her no more unreal than the one towering up beyond the valley. He looked into himself, and saw Romana kneel down to pray: she bent her knees as the fawn, when it lies down to rest, folds its tender legs, and the movement was ineffably dear to him. Circles dissolved in circles. He prayed with her, and when he looked, he knew that the mountain was simply his prayer. An unutterable certainty came home to him. It was the happiest moment of his life.
W HEN HE came downstairs to rejoin the people of the house he found the girl Zustina busily arguing with a small, middle-aged man, whose almostcrescent-shaped nose gave him a curiously dashing appearance, and who had in his hand something in a cotton handkerchief which filled the room with the smell of fish.
“No, really, it cannot go on, the way you let
H E WAS already sitting in the cart; the horses had started, he did not know how. Time must pass; I cannot stay here, but I can come back, he thought, the same and yet different. He felt between his fingers the chain, that assured him that it was all reality and not a dream.
The cart rolled downhill; in front of him was the sun and the wide, sunlit country, behind him the narrow valley with the lonely homestead already lying in the shadow. His eyes were fixed ahead, but with a vacant, close look; the eyes of his heart were lookingbackwards with all their might. He was roused by the voice of the carrier, who was pointing with his whip up into the pure evening air where an eagle was wheeling. Now for the first time Andreas was aware of what lay before him. The road had wound out of the mountain valley and taken a sudden turn to the left. There a huge valley had opened; a river, no longer a brook, wound far below, but beyond it was the mightiest peak of the range, behind which, still high in the sky, the sun was sinking. Monstrous shadows fell down into the valley; whole forests, blackish blue, bristled on the riven foot of the mountain; waterfalls plunged darkly down in the ravines; above everything was free, bare, rising boldly upwards—sheer slopes, rock walls, crowned by the snowy peak, ineffably pure and radiant.
Never had Andreas known such a feeling in nature. He felt as if it had all, at a single stroke, risen from his own being—that power, that uprising and its crowning purity. The majestic bird was still wheeling above, alone in the light; with widespread wings it swept slow circles; from where it hovered it could see everything—the Finazzer valley and the farm, the village; the graves of Romana’s sisters and brothers were as near to its keen sight as these mountain gorges, in whose bluish shadows it was searching for a young roe or a stray goat. Andreas encompassed the bird—he rose towards it with a feeling of ecstasy. This time he felt no impulse to lose himself, he only felt the bird’s supreme power and gift flowing into his own soul. Every shadow, every clog, fell away from him. It was borne in upon him that, seen from high enough, the parted are united, and that loneliness is an illusion. He possessed Romana everywhere—he could take her into him wherever he would. That mountain, rising before him and towering to the skies, was a brother and more than a brother. As it took the tender fawn to its breast in its mighty spaces, covering it with cool shade, and hiding it from its pursuer with blue darkness, so Romana lived in him. She was a living being, a centre, with a paradise about her no more unreal than the one towering up beyond the valley. He looked into himself, and saw Romana kneel down to pray: she bent her knees as the fawn, when it lies down to rest, folds its tender legs, and the movement was ineffably dear to him. Circles dissolved in circles. He prayed with her, and when he looked, he knew that the mountain was simply his prayer. An unutterable certainty came home to him. It was the happiest moment of his life.
W HEN HE came downstairs to rejoin the people of the house he found the girl Zustina busily arguing with a small, middle-aged man, whose almostcrescent-shaped nose gave him a curiously dashing appearance, and who had in his hand something in a cotton handkerchief which filled the room with the smell of fish.
“No, really, it cannot go on, the way you let
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