Most
of them would come and ask him how a human being possibly could be 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.
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