Mogens and Other Stories | Page 7

so wonderfully beautiful, and they marveled that it really could be an
entertaining occupation for several days to recall the features of a face,
its changes of expression and coloring, the small movements of a head
and a pair of hands, and the varying inflections in a voice. But then the
peasant pointed with his whip towards the slate-roof about a mile away
and said that the councilor lived over there, and the good Mogens rose
from the straw and stared anxiously towards the roof. He had a strange
feeling of oppression and tried to make himself believe that nobody
was at home, but tenaciously came back to the conception that there
was a large party, and he could not free himself from that idea, even
though he counted how many cows "Country-joy" had on the meadow
and how many heaps of gravel he could see along the road. At last the
peasant stopped near a small path leading down to the country-house,
and Mogens slid down from the cart and began to brush away the bits
of straw while the cart slowly creaked away over the gravel on the
road.
He approached the garden-gate step by step, saw a red shawl disappear
behind the balcony windows, a small deserted white sewing-basket on
the edge of the balcony, and the back of a still moving empty
rocking-chair. He entered the garden, with his eyes fixed intently on the
balcony, heard the councilor say good-day, turned his head toward the
sound, and saw him standing there nodding, his arms full of empty
flowerpots. They spoke of this and that, and the councilor began to

explain, as one might put it, that the old specific distinction between the
various kinds of trees had been abolished by grafting, and that for his
part he did not like this at all. Then Camilla slowly approached wearing
a brilliant glaring blue shawl. Her arms were entirely wrapped up in the
shawl, and she greeted him with a slight inclination of the head and a
faint welcome. The councilor left with his flower-pots, Camilla stood
looking over her shoulders towards the balcony; Mogens looked at her.
How had he been since the other day? Thank you, nothing especial had
been the matter with him. Done much rowing? Why, yes, as usual,
perhaps not quite as much. She turned her head towards him, looked
coldly at him, inclined her head to one side and asked with half-closed
eyes and a faint smile whether it was the beautiful Magelone who had
engrossed his time. He did not know what she meant, but he imagined
it was. Then they stood for a while and said nothing. Camilla took a
few steps towards a corner, where a bench and a garden-chair stood.
She sat down on the bench and asked him, after she was seated, looking
at the chair, to be seated; he must be very tired after his long walk. He
sat down in the chair.
Did he believe anything would come of the projected royal alliance?
Perhaps, he was completely indifferent? Of course, he had no interest in
the royal house. Naturally he hated aristocracy? There were very few
young men who did not believe that democracy was, heaven only knew
what. Probably he was one of those who attributed not the slightest
political importance to the family alliances of the royal house? Perhaps
he was mistaken. It had been seen. . . . She stopped suddenly, surprised
that Mogens who had at first been somewhat taken aback at all this
information, now looked quite pleased. He wasn't to sit there, and laugh
at her! She turned quite red.
"Are you very much interested in politics?" she asked timidly.
"Not in the least."
"But why do you let me sit here talking politics eternally?"
"Oh, you say everything so charmingly, that it does not matter what
you are talking about."
"That really is no compliment."
"It certainly is," he assured her eagerly, for it seemed to him she looked
quite hurt.
Camilla burst out laughing, jumped up, and ran to meet her father, took

his arm, and walked back with him to the puzzled Mogens.
When dinner was through and they had drunk their coffee up on the
balcony, the councilor suggested a walk. So the three of them went
along the small way across the main road, and along a narrow path with
stubble of rye on both sides, across the stile, and into the woods. There
was the oak and everything else; there even were still convolvuluses on
the hedge. Camilla asked Mogens to fetch some for her. He tore them
all off, and came back with both hands full.
"Thank you, I don't want so many," she said, selected a few and let the
rest fall to