He glided into a hymn. He had heard it once when he was unhappy. He remembered he was sitting in a village church when he heard it. But why had he been unhappy? Because he went about the country selling goods like a poor pedlar. It was a hard life. It was sad to think about it.
The bow went over the strings like a whirlwind, and again cut through a large portion of the darkness. Now he saw the Fifty-Mile Forest, the snow-covered animals, the weird shapes, the drifts made of them. He remembered the journey to see his fiancée, remembered that she had broken the engagement. All this became clear to him at one time.
He really felt neither sorrow nor joy over anything he remembered. The most important thing was that he did remember. This of itself was an unspeakable pleasure. But all at once the bow stopped, as if of its own accord. It would not lead him any further. And yet there was more—much more—that he must remember. The darkness still stood like a solid wall before him.
He compelled the bow to go on. And it played two quite common tunes, the poorest he had ever heard. How could his bow have learned such tunes? The darkness did not vanish in the least for these tunes. They really taught him nothing; but from them came a terror which he could not remember having ever felt before—an inconceivable, awful fear, the mad terror of a doomed soul.
He stopped playing; he could not bear it. What was there in these tunes—what was there? The darkness did not vanish for them, and the awful thing was, that it seemed to him that when he did not advance against the darkness with the violin and drive it before him, it came gliding towards him to overwhelm him.
He had been standing playing, with his eyes half closed; now he opened them and looked into the world of reality. He saw Ingrid, who had been standing listening to him the whole time. He asked her, not expecting an answer, but simply to keep back the darkness for a moment:
'When did I last play this tune?'
But Ingrid stood trembling. She had made up her mind, whatever happened, now he should hear the truth. Afraid she was, but at the same time full of courage, and quite decided as to what she meant to do. He should not again escape her, not be allowed to slip away from her. But in spite of her courage she did not dare to tell him straight out that these were the tunes he had played whilst he was out of his mind; she evaded the question.
'That was what you used to play at Munkhyttan last winter,' she said.
Hede felt as if he were surrounded by nothing but mysteries. Why did this young girl say 'du' to him? She was not a peasant girl.[A] Her hair was dressed like other young ladies', on the top of the head and in small curls. Her dress was home-woven, but she wore a lace collar. She had small hands and a refined face. This face, with the large, dreamy eyes, could not belong to a peasant girl. Hede's memory could not tell him anything about her. Why did she, then, say 'du' to him? How did she know that he had played these tunes at home?