The Captain's Dol

crusted and speckled with stone and dirt debris. From underneath,

  secret in stones, water rushed out. When they came quite near,

  they saw the great monster was sweating all over, trickles and

  rivulets of sweat running down his sides of pure, slush-translucent

  ice. There it was, the glacier, ending abruptly in the wall of ice

  under which they stood. Near to, the ice was pure, but water-

  logged, all the surface rather rotten from the hot summer. It was

  sullenly translucent, and of a watery, darkish bluey-green colour.

  But near the earth it became again bright coloured, gleams of green

  like jade, gleams of blue like thin, pale sapphire, in little

  caverns above the wet stones where the walls trickled for ever.

  Alexander wanted to climb on to the glacier. It was his one

  desire--to stand upon it. So under the pellucid wet wall they

  toiled among rock upwards, to where the guide-track mounted the

  ice. Several other people were before them--mere day tourists--and

  all uncertain about venturing any farther. For the ice-slope rose

  steep and slithery, pure, sun-locked, sweating ice. Still, it was

  like a curved back. One could scramble on to it, and on up to the

  first level, like the flat on top of some huge paw.

  There stood the little cluster of people, facing the uphill of

  sullen, pure, sodden-looking ice. They were all afraid: naturally.

  But being human, they all wanted to go beyond their fear. It was

  strange that the ice looked so pure, like flesh. Not bright,

  because the surface was soft like a soft, deep epidermis. But pure

  ice away down to immense depths.

  Alexander, after some hesitation, began gingerly to try the ice.

  He was frightened of it. And he had no stick, and only smooth-

  soled boots. But he had a great desire to stand on the glacier.

  So, gingerly and shakily, he began to struggle a few steps up the

  pure slope. The ice was soft on the surface, he could kick his

  heel in it and get a little sideways grip. So, staggering and

  going sideways he got up a few yards, and was on the naked ice-

  slope.

  Immediately the youths and the fat man below began to tackle it

  too: also two maidens. For some time, however, Alexander gingerly

  and scramblingly led the way. The slope of ice was steeper, and

  rounded, so that it was difficult to stand up in any way.

  Sometimes he slipped, and was clinging with burnt finger-ends to

  the soft ice mass. Then he tried throwing his coat down, and

  getting a foot-hold on that. Then he went quite quickly by bending

  down and getting a little grip with his fingers, and going

  ridiculously as on four legs.

  Hannele watched from below, and saw the ridiculous exhibition, and

  was frightened and amused, but more frightened. And she kept

  calling, to the great joy of the Austrians down below:

  'Come back. Do come back.'

  But when he got on to his feet again he only waved his hand at her,

  half crossly, as she stood away down there in her blue frock. The

  other fellows with sticks and nail-boots had now taken heart and

  were scrambling like crabs past our hero, doing better than he.

  He had come to a rift in the ice. He sat near the edge and looked

  down. Clean, pure ice, fused with pale colour, and fused into

  intense copper-sulphate blue away down in the crack. It was not

  like crystal, but fused as one fuses a borax bead under a blow-

  flame. And keenly, wickedly blue in the depths of the crack.

  He looked upwards. He had not half mounted the slope. So on he

  went, upon the huge body of the soft-fleshed ice, slanting his way

  sometimes on all fours, sometimes using his coat, usually hitting-

  in with the side of his heel. Hannele down below was crying him to

  come back. But two other youths were now almost level with him.

  So he struggled on till he was more or less over the brim. There

  he stood and looked at the ice. It came down from above in a great

  hollow world of ice. A world, a terrible place of hills and

  valleys and slopes, all motionless, all of ice. Away above the

  grey mist-cloud was looming bigger. And near at hand were long,

  huge cracks, side by side, like gills in the ice. It would seem as

  if the ice breathed through these great ridged gills. One could

  look down into the series of gulfs, fearful depths, and the colour

  burning that acid, intense blue, intenser as the crack went deeper.

  And the crests of the open gills ridged and grouped pale blue above

  the crevices. It seemed as if the ice breathed there.

  The wonder, the terror, and the bitterness of it. Never a warm

  leaf to unfold, never a gesture of life to give off. A world

  sufficient unto itself in lifelessness, all this ice.

  He turned to go down, though the youths were passing beyond him.

  And seeing the naked translucent ice heaving downwards in a vicious

  curve, always the same dark translucency underfoot, he was afraid.

  If he slipped, he would certainly slither the whole way down, and

  break some of his bones. Even when he sat down he had to cling

  with his finger-nails in the ice, because if he had started to

  slide he would have slid the whole way down on his trouser-seat,

  precipitously, and have landed heaven knows how.

  Hannele was watching from below. And he was frightened, perched,

  seated on the shoulder of ice and not knowing how to get off.

  Above he saw the great blue gills of ice ridging the air. Down

  below were two blue cracks--then the last wet level claws of ice

  upon the stones. And there stood Hannele and the three or four

  people who had got so far.

  However, he found that by striking in his heels sideways with

  sufficient sharpness he could keep his footing, no matter how steep

  the slope. So he started to jerk his way zig-zag downwards.

  As he descended, arrived a guide with a black beard and all the

  paraphernalia of ropes and pole and bristling boots. He and his

  gentlemen began to strike their way up the ice. With those

  bristling nails like teeth in one's boots, it was quite easy: and a

  pole to press on to.

  Hannele, who had got sick of waiting, and who was also frightened,

  had gone scuttling on the return journey. He hurried after her,

  thankful to be off the ice, but excited and gratified. Looking

  round, he saw the guide and the men on the ice watching the ice-

  world and the weather. Then they too turned to come down. The day

  wasn't safe.

  XVIII

  Pondering, rather thrilled, they threaded their way through the

  desert of rock and rushing water back to the hotel. The sun was

  shining warmly for a moment, and he felt happy, though his finger-

  ends were bleeding a little from the ice.

  'But one day,' said Hannele, 'I should love to go with a guide

  right up, high, right into the glacier.'

  'No,' said he. 'I've been far enough. I prefer the world where

  cabbages will grow on the soil. Nothing grows on glaciers.'

  'They say there are glacier fleas, which only live on glaciers,'

  she said.

  'Well, to me the ice didn't
look good to eat, even for a flea.'

  'You never know,' she laughed. 'But you're glad you've been,

  aren't you?'

  'Very glad. Now I need never go again.'

  'But you DID think it wonderful?'

  'Marvellous. And awful, to my mind.'

  XIX

  They ate venison and spinach in the hotel, then set off down again.

  Both felt happier. She gathered some flowers and put them in her

  handkerchief so they should not die. And again they sat by the

  stream, to drink a little wine.

  But the fume of cloud was blowing up again, thick from behind the

  glacier. Hannele was uneasy. She wanted to get down. So they

  went fairly quickly. Many other tourists were hurrying downwards

  also. The rain began--a sharp handful of drops flung from beyond

  the glacier. So Hannele and he did not stay to rest, but dropped

  easily down the steep, dark valley towards the motor-car terminus.

  There they had tea, rather tired, but comfortably so. The big

  hotel restaurant was hideous, and seemed sordid. So in the gloom

  of a grey, early twilight they went out again and sat on a seat,

  watching the tourists and the trippers and the motor-car men.

  There were three Jews from Vienna: and the girl had a huge white

  woolly dog, as big as a calf, and white and woolly and silky and

  amiable as a toy. The men, of course, came patting it and admiring

  it, just as men always do, in life and in novels. And the girl,

  holding the leash, posed and leaned backwards in the attitude of

  heroines on novel-covers. She said the white cool monster was a

  Siberian steppe-dog. Alexander wondered what the steppes made of

  such a wuffer. And the three Jews pretended they were elegant

  Austrians out of popular romances.

  'Do you think,' said Alexander, 'you will marry the Herr

  Regierungsrat?'

  She looked round, making wide eyes.

  'It looks like it, doesn't it!' she said.

  'Quite,' he said.

  Hannele watched the woolly white dog. So of course it came wagging

  its ever-amiable hindquarters towards her. She looked at it still,

  but did not touch it.

  'What makes you ask such a question?' she said.

  'I can't say. But even so, you haven't really answered. Do you

  really fully intend to marry the Herr Regierungsrat? Is that your

  final intention at this moment?'

  She looked at him again.

  'But before I answer,' she said, 'oughtn't I to know why you ask?'

  'Probably you know already,' he said.

  'I assure you I don't.'

  He was silent for some moments. The huge, woolly dog stood in

  front of him and breathed enticingly, with its tongue out. He only

  looked at it blankly.

  'Well,' he said, 'if you were not going to marry the Herr

  Regierungsrat, I should suggest that you marry me.'

  She stared away at the auto-garage, a very faint look of amusement,

  or pleasure, or ridicule on her face: or all three. And a certain

  shyness.

  'But why?' she said.

  'Why what?' he returned.

  'Why should you suggest that I should marry you?'

  'WHY?' he replied, in his lingering tones. 'WHY? Well, for what

  purpose does a man usually ask a woman to marry him?'

  'For what PURPOSE!' she repeated, rather haughtily.

  'For what reason, then!' he corrected.

  She was silent for some moments. Her face was closed and a little

  numb-looking, her hands lay very still in her lap. She looked away

  from him, across the road.

  'There is usually only one reason,' she replied, in a rather small

  voice.

  'Yes?' he replied curiously. 'What would you say that was?'

  She hesitated. Then she said, rather stiffly:

  'Because he really loved her, I suppose. That seems to me the only

  excuse for a man asking a woman to marry him.'

  Followed a dead silence, which she did not intend to break. He

  knew he would have to answer, and for some reason he didn't want to

  say what was obviously the thing to say.

  'Leaving aside the question of whether you love me or I love you--'

  he began.

  'I certainly WON'T leave it aside,' she said.

  'And I certainly won't consider it,' he said, just as obstinately.

  She turned now and looked full at him, with amazement, ridicule,

  and anger in her face.

  'I really think you must be mad,' she said.

  'I doubt if you do think that,' he replied. 'It is only a method

  of retaliation, that is. I think you understand my point very

  clearly.'

  'Your point!' she cried. 'Your point! Oh, so you have a point in

  all this palavering?'

  'Quite!' said he.

  She was silent with indignation for some time. Then she said

  angrily:

  'I assure you I do NOT see your point. I don't see any point at

  all. I see only impertinence.'

  'Very good,' he replied. 'The point is whether we marry on a basis

  of love.'

  'Indeed! Marry! We, marry! I don't think that is by any means

  the point.'

  He took his knapsack from under the seat between his feet. And

  from the knapsack he took the famous picture.

  'When,' he said, 'we were supposed to be in love with one another,

  you made that doll of me, didn't you?' And he sat looking at the

  odious picture.

  'I never for one moment deluded myself that you REALLY loved me,'

  she said bitterly.

  'Take the other point, whether YOU loved ME or not,' said he.

  'How could I love you when I couldn't believe in your love for me?'

  she cried.

  He put the picture down between his knees again.

  'All this about love,' he said, 'is very confusing and very

  complicated.'

  'Very! In YOUR case. Love to me is simple enough,' she said.

  'Is it? Is it? And was it simple love which made you make that

  doll of me?'

  'Why shouldn't I make a doll of you? Does it do you any harm? And

  WEREN'T you a doll, good heavens! You WERE nothing but a doll. So

  what hurt does it do you?'

  'Yes, it does. It does me the greatest possible damage,' he

  replied.

  She turned on him with wide-open eyes of amazement and rage.

  'Why? Pray why? Can you tell me why?'

  'Not quite, I can't,' he replied, taking up the picture and holding

  it in front of him. She turned her face from it as a cat turns its

  nose away from a lighted cigarette.' But when I look at it--when I

  look at this--then I KNOW that there is no love between you and

  me.'

  'Then why are you talking at me in this shameful way?' she flashed

  at him, tears of anger and mortification rising to her eyes. 'You

  want your little revenge on me, I suppose, because I made that doll

  of you.'

  'That may be so, in a small measure,' he said.

  'That is ALL. That is all and everything,' she cried. 'And that

  is all you came back to me for--for this petty revenge. Well,

  you've had it now. But please don't speak to me any more. I shall

  see if I can go home in the big omnibus.'

  She rose and walked away. He saw her hunting for the motor-
bus

  conductor. He saw her penetrate into the yard of the garage. And

  he saw her emerge again, after a time, and take the path to the

  river. He sat on in front of the hotel. There was nothing else to

  do.

  The tourists who had arrived in the big bus now began to collect.

  And soon the huge, drab vehicle itself rolled up and stood big as a

  house before the hotel door. The passengers began to scramble into

  their seats. The two men of the white dog were going: but the

  woman of the white dog, and the dog, were staying behind. Hepburn

  wondered if Hannele had managed to get herself transferred. He

  doubted it, because he knew the omnibus was crowded.

  Moreover, he had her ticket.

  The passengers were packed in. The conductor was collecting the

  tickets. And at last the great bus rolled away. The bay of the

  road-end seemed very empty. Even the woman with the white dog had

  gone. Soon the other car, the Luxus, so-called, must appear.

  Hepburn sat and waited. The evening was falling chilly, the trees

  looked gruesome.

  At last Hannele sauntered up again, unwillingly.

  'I think,' she said, 'you have my ticket.'

  'Yes, I have,' he replied.

  'Will you give it me, please?'

  He gave it to her. She lingered a moment. Then she walked away.

  There was the sound of a motor-car. With a triumphant purr the

  Luxus came steering out of the garage yard and drew up at the hotel

  door. Hannele came hastening also. She went straight to one of

  the hinder doors--she and Hepburn had their seats in front, beside

  the driver. She had her foot on the step of the back seat. And

  then she was afraid. The little sharp-faced driver--there was no

  conductor--came round looking at the car. He looked at her with

  his sharp, metallic eye of a mechanic.

  'Are all the people going back who came?' she asked, shrinking.

  'Jawohl.'

  'It is full--this car?'

  'Jawohl.'

  'There's no other place?'

  'Nein.'

  Hannele shrank away. The driver was absolutely laconic.

  Six of the passengers were here: four were already seated. Hepburn

  sat still by the hotel door, Hannele lingered in the road by the

  car, and the little driver, with a huge woollen muffler round his

  throat, was running round and in and out looking for the two

  missing passengers. Of course there were two missing passengers.

  No, he could not find them. And off he trotted again, silently,

  like a weasel after two rabbits. And at last, when everybody was

  getting cross, he unearthed them and brought them scuttling to the

  car.

  Now Hannele took her seat, and Hepburn beside her. The driver

  snapped up the tickets and climbed in past them. With a vindictive

  screech the car glided away down the ravine. Another beastly trip

  was over, another infernal joyful holiday done with.

  'I think,' said Hepburn, 'I may as well finish what I had to say.'

  'What?' cried Hannele, fluttering in the wind of the rushing car.

  'I may as well finish what I had to say,' shouted he, his breath

  blown away.

  'Finish then,' she screamed, the ends of her scarf flickering

  behind her.

  'When my wife died,' he said loudly, 'I knew I couldn't love any

  more.'

  'Oh--h!' she screamed ironically.

  'In fact,' he shouted, 'I realized that, as far as I was concerned,

  love was a mistake.'

  'WHAT was a mistake?' she screamed.

  'Love,' he bawled.

  'Love!' she screamed. 'A mistake?' Her tone was derisive.

  'For me personally,' he said, shouting.

  'Oh, only for you personally,' she cried, with a pouf of laughter.