i have written this to pass the time. it has amused me to look back to that summer in nordland, when i often counted the hours, but when time flew nevertheless. all is changed. the days will no longer pass.
i have many a merry hour even yet. but time — it stands still, and i cannot understand how it can stand so still. i am out of the service, and free as a prince; all is well; i meet people, drive in carriages; now and again i shut one eye and write with one finger up in the sky; i tickle the moon under the chin, and fancy that it laughs — laughs broadly at being tickled under the chin. all things smile. i pop a cork and call gay people to me.
as for edwarda, i do not think of her. why should i not have forgotten her altogether, after all this time? i have some pride. and if anyone asks whether i have any sorrows, then i answer straight out, “no — none.”
cora lies looking at me. ?sop, it used to be, but now it is cora that lies looking at me. the clock ticks on the mantel; outside my open window sounds the roar of the city. a knock at the door, and the postman hands me a letter. a letter with a coronet. i know who sent it; i understand it at once, or maybe i dreamed it one sleepless night. but in the envelope there is no letter at all — only two green bird’s feathers.
an icy horror thrills me; i turn cold. two green feathers! i say to myself: well, and what of it? but why should i turn cold? why, there is a cursed draught from those windows.
and i shut the windows.
there lie two bird’s feathers, i think to myself again. i seem to know them; they remind me of a little jest up in nordland, just a little episode among a host of others. it is amusing to see those two feathers again. and suddenly i seem to see a face and hear a voice, and the voice says: “her, herr lieutenant: here are your feathers.”
“your feathers.” . . .
cora, lie still — do you hear? i will kill you if you move!
the weather is hot, an intolerable heat is in the room; what was i thinking of to close the windows? open them again — open the door too; open it wide — this way, merry souls, come in! hey, messenger, an errand — go out and fetch me a host of people . . .
and the day passes; but time stands still.
now i have written this for my own pleasure only, and amused myself with it as best i could. no sorrow weighs on me, but i long to be away — where, i do not know, but far away, perhaps in africa or india. for my place is in the woods, in solitude . . .
