reproaches, killed him with curses; but the latter tore himself
away and ran, as if an earthquake had shaken the town and all the
houses were tumbling down.


IV

Behind the town the mountain walls rise perpendicularly, but after
one has climbed up them by steep stone steps and slippery pine
paths, one finds that the mountain spreads out into a wide,
undulating plateau. And there lies an enchanted wood.

Over the whole stretch of the mountain stands a pine wood without
pine-needles; a wood which dies in the spring and grows green in
the autumn; a lifeless wood, which blossoms with the joy of life
when other trees are laying aside their green garments; a wood that
grows without any one knowing how, that stands green in winter
frosts and brown in summer dews.

It is a newly-planted wood. Young firs have been forced to take
root in the clefts between the granite blocks. Their tough roots
have bored down like sharp wedges into the fissures and crevices.
It was very well for a while; the young trees shot up like spires,
and the roots bored down into the granite. But at last they could
go no further, and then the wood was filled with an ill-concealed
peevishness. It wished to go high, but also deep. After the way
down had been closed to it, it felt that life was not worth living.
Every spring it was ready to throw off the burden of life in its
discouragement. During the summer when Edith was dying, the young
wood was quite brown. High above the town of flowers stood a gloomy