He took off his cap and went without making a reply.
If she only knew it, it was to her and no one else he had written his poems, every one of them, even the one to Night, even the one to the Spirit of the Mere. She should never find that out.
On Sunday Ditlef called and wanted him to come over to the island. I'm to be boatman again, he thought. He went. There was a group of Sunday idlers on the pier, otherwise all was quiet and the sun was bright and warm. Suddenly a distant sound of music came from over the water, from the islands outside; the mail-boat swung in towards the pier in a great curve; there was a band on board.
Johannes cast off the boat and took the oars. He was in a yielding, pliant mood, this bright day and the music from the ship were weaving a tissue of flowers and golden grain before his eyes....
Why didn't Ditlef come? He was standing on shore looking at the people and the ship as if he didn't mean to go any farther. Johannes thought: I'm not going to sit holding these oars any longer, I'm going ashore. He began to turn the boat.
Then he suddenly saw a gleam of white and heard a splash; a desperate cry of many voices rose from the ship and from people ashore and hands and eyes all pointed to the place where the white flash had disappeared. The band stopped playing at once.
In an instant Johannes was on the spot. He acted altogether instinctively, without thinking, without making up his mind. He did not hear the screams of the mother on deck: "My girl, my girl!" He no longer saw anybody. He jumped straight away out of the boat and dived.
For a moment he was gone, a minute; they could see the water seething where he had jumped in and knew he was at work. The cries of distress still came from the ship.
Then he came up again, farther out, several fathoms from the scene of the accident. They shouted to him, pointing like mad: "No, here it was, here!"
And he dived again.