The Heritage of the Kurts, Volume 2 (of 2)
by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson · English · Gutenberg #37802 · 363,871 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Heritage of the Kurts, Volume 2 (of 2)
Author: Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Translator: Cecil Fairfax
Release date: October 19, 2011 [eBook #37802]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37802
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=b-UsAAAAMAAJ
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE NOVELS OF
BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON
_Edited by EDMUND GOSSE_
VOLUME XII
_THE NOVELS OF_
_BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON_
_Edited by EDMUND GOSSE_
_Fcap. 8vo, cloth_
_Synnoeve Solbakken_
_Arne_
_A Happy Boy_
_A Fisher Lass_
_The Bridal March, & One Day_
_Magnhild, & Dust_
_Captain Mansana, & Mother's Hands_
_Absalom's Hair, & A Painful Memory_
_In God's Way_ (2 _vols._)
_Heritage of the Kurts_ (2 _vols._)
_NEW YORK_
_THE MACMILLAN COMPANY_
THE HERITAGE OF
THE KURTS
BY
BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON
_Translated from the Norwegian by_
_Cecil Fairfax_
VOLUME II
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1908
_Printed in England_
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
IV.--_THE STAFF_--(_continued_)
CHAP.
II. THE STAFF
III. THE SOCIETY
IV. ON THE STEPS
V.--_THE HUNT_
I. THE HUNT
II. IN THE DOVECOTE
III. SEPARATED FROM THE OTHERS
IV. THE HUNT
VI.--_WHAT FIDELITY WILL SAY_
I. HAPPINESS
II. A MISFORTUNE
III. PEACE-MAKING WITHIN, PROPOSALS OF PEACE WITHOUT
IV. WAR
VII.--_THE FIGHT ITSELF_
I. IN BOTH CAMPS
II. A GALA DAY IN TOWN AND HARBOUR
CHAPTER II
THE STAFF
Fair Milla and brown Tora,
Broad Tinka and slender Nora.
It was disputed where this remarkable verse with its rhythm and rhyme
was heard for the first time, whether in the senior Latin or senior
Commercial. The dispute can never be settled now, but when these girls
showed themselves it was often shouted, sung, and bawled after them--at
first in turns with another by Doesen, which ran, "_Nora, Tora, ora pro
nobis_;" but as it was incomplete, the names of Tinka and Milla not
being mentioned, it was dropped in favour of the former. This one was
also given up; it was perfectly well known who was father to the latest
name for them; Rendalen called them on a certain occasion "The Staff,"
and after him the whole school, after it the boys' school, and at last
all who were inclined to pay them a compliment. We know three of the
Staff already--that is to say, we know them from the others, not more
than that. "Fair Milla" is no other than Emilie Engel; she looked like
a picture in enamel in her mourning. Broad Tinka is Katinka Hansen,
Augusta's sister, the contralto; and slender Nora is the Sheriff's
daughter, the one who hid under the sail, the one with big eyes and
wavy hair.
Brown Tora, on the other hand, we do not know, and she shall remain a
little longer shrouded in mystery.
A year ago a new sheriff was appointed to that part of the country, a
secretary in a government office, called Jens Tue, otherwise known as
the ladies' man.[1] Instead of becoming resident he went abroad with
his wife, whose chest was rather delicate.
This lady had, by jealousy and insincerity, missed her true foothold in
life, and both in her thoughts and actions she flitted like a bird from
one interest to another; she wished to appear so immensely delighted,
so taken up with intellectual questions and music--until one day her
strength proved insufficient; she collapsed.
Her husband carried her off with him, and as during their tour he was
all that was pleasant and amiable, her bird-like nature required
nothing more. She came home again, well and happy.
It would have seemed more natural for Nora to remain at Christiania
with her friends and relations. It was said certainly that Fru
Rendalen's school was so very superior, but that could hardly be the
whole explanation; all were curious about the Sheriff's daughter when
she appeared. She was a fashionable young lady, tall and slender,
and if not exactly elegant, still stylish in dress and manner; a little
supercilious; still she did not give offence--she was too pliable for
that, too quick as well, entirely taken up with the fancy of the
moment. She gave an impetus to all she did, and people forgive a great
deal for that.
But no one would forgive her letter-writing, or the incredible number
of letters which she received weekly! Not the teachers, for she
neglected the school work; not her companions, for she neglected them;
nay, she had hardly looked at them! She went to sleep every night with
inky fingers and a heap of letters beside her bed; either she was
writing letters or reading letters, or crying over them. During every
recreation time she ran upstairs to add a few lines, or to read a
letter over again which she had just received. As she was worried by
the pursuit of the others, she disappeared after every meal. Where was
she? There was a hunt for her, and she was found up in the top attic,
writing of course, this time upon a large barrel; she was blue with
cold. She had left at least twenty particular friends behind her at
Christiania; all the twenty wrote to her, and all received answers,
long answers--one must never be shorter than the others. Happily, she
had another passion, and it often chances that one thing counteracts
another. She was crazy about music. She sang snatches of songs with
great feeling, but, partly because at her age she could not sing much
at a time, partly because she had not training enough to carry out a
delicate interpretation, she could never properly render anything as a
whole. But even so, she was much admired by her companions, and by none
more than Tinka Hansen. For Tinka was herself musical, but in another
and more unpretending fashion. Like her sister Augusta, she had
developed early, especially in her powers of conversation. Katinka was
even-tempered, bright, dependable; everything she played, and that was
a great deal, she knew by heart. It was therefore she who obediently
accompanied Nora's songs. But her execution was not worth much; Nora
very soon took her in hand, and was not satisfied until she had brought
her to the point she wished; Tinka was extremely grateful for all this.
One day Nora discovered Tinka's powerful contralto, and from that time
there were duets and duets. Their age suggested prudence, and if Nora
would not use moderation, Tinka both would and could. Nora was used to
command, so there were quarrels; but Tinka was so accustomed to conquer
when her conscience told her that she was right, that Nora was
completely vanquished. This was the foundation of their friendship. To
have a friend who at once admired and restrained her was especially
safe and good for Nora. But Nora acted upon Tinka like a succession of
impressions of art upon one who has seen nothing up to that time. As
Nora was absolutely confidential, it seemed to the conscientious Tinka
that this ought to be returned.
Every one knew it, but not to a living being would she have admitted
it: Tinka was engaged. He, the man, had just gone to college; she had a
letter from him once a week; for many reasons she did not wish to have
them oftener. He was called Frederik--Frederik Tygesen; his father was
the stipendiary judge Tygesen, here in the town. Nora was "the first
person in the world" whom she had told this to.
How delighted Nora was! Really, properly engaged, with letters every
week and the tacit consent of her parents. How had it come about? Well,
that was the odd thing about it; they neither of them knew. They had
once when she was eight years old, through an open door, heard Fru
Rendalen and her mother talking about Augusta and Tomas Rendalen, about
what _he_ had said to _his_ mother about Augusta, and what _she_ had
said to _her_ mother about Tomas. Ever since then these children had
been fond of each other, just as those other two had been; but they had
never spoken about it--never. A sincere friendship was founded between
Nora and Tinka upon this confidence, and Tinka's friendship brought
others with it. Nora was obliged to recall some of her interests from
Christiania, and by degrees to form a new circle of admirers.
She began to write less frequently to the friends in Christiania, and
the letters would begin, "It is a terribly long time since," or "I
really am a wretch who----," or "Procrastination is to blame."
But there was a limit to those whom she could conquer in the new senior
class, and this did not please her; in fact, she principally coveted
the friendship of those who withheld it, but all the same she could not
pass this boundary. The fact was that a queen had reigned there before
her--nay, was there still. Her ways of gaining power were different
from Nora's; whether they were less or not, depended on who it was who
measured them. First of all, she was the richest heiress in the town;
secondly, if there were the slightest sign of rain, snow, or cold wind,
a servant drove up to fetch her home, and then it was a question who
should drive home with her.
She had almost always something good with her; her pocket-money was of
that description that the more she spent, the more she had; the
resources of her dainty little purse were incredible in this respect.
She got money from her mother, from her father, from two unmarried
uncles. As well as this she was pretty, discreet, attentive; no one had
ever known her to use a hasty word, or be rough, even at the gymnasium;
she was always very polite and a little subdued. In her eyes, to forget
yourself was the worst of crimes. She had lived, so to say, wrapped up
in cotton wool, and one felt this whenever one approached her. We know
her already; she is Emilie Engel.
She was not specially gifted, but was industrious; she really worked
hard when there was anything on foot. Every one liked her, several paid
court to her, one or two absolutely raved about her.
Tinka Hansen belonged to none of these groups; if ever she devoted
herself to any one it would be to her opposite; quiet, dutiful Milla
was too like herself.
As Nora first attached herself to Tinka, and through Tinka to others,
Milla was offended. When Nora turned to her it was too late; there was
plenty of politeness and willingness to oblige, but not a word for her
singing, not a smile for her Christiania witticisms; never so much as a
glance when the whole class, during one of her lively descriptions,
hung admiringly on her words.
Nora could not endure this indifference; she condescended to pay court
to her in all those ways which are only known to a young girl. In vain.
At last they divided into parties. Nora considered Milla insignificant,
egotistic, cold, prim, missish; Milla considered Nora--no, Milla did
not consider Nora anything, she let her friends talk and she listened.
Nora's jaunty Christiania style of manner and speech were unbecoming,
her caprices could not be endured by any one who respected herself; her
accomplishments were all superficial, she was characterless; besides,
it was considered that some of her remarks showed a want of religion,
and Milla's party was religious.
Milla had been confirmed at Easter. The increasing weakness of Fru
Engel had given a tone of enthusiasm to her religious thoughts and to
the aspect of her mind; she found comfort through it, and need for it,
and she endeavoured to lead her daughter in the same direction.
At the time of her confirmation Milla found a confidant in the niece of
the Froekener Jensens, little Anna Rogne, who was extremely religious;
she was two years her elder, but she was small and delicate; indeed, on
more than one occasion her life had been despaired of. Anna had more
religious knowledge than most grown people, and she enraptured Karl
Vangen at the confirmation classes. Milla, whom she had imbued with
some of her enthusiasm, had no objection to share in it to a slight
degree. As soon as little Anna observed this reflection of her own
thoughts, she rejoiced from the bottom of her heart, and declared Milla
to be "spiritually minded." She was astonished that they had not
discovered each other before.
Then came the time when Milla's mother was given up by the doctors.
Little Anna's energy was more than natural; she watched beside the
sick-bed with her friend, she read, she sang, she prayed; for Fru
Engel's life must and should be saved; the doctor could not save her,
but prayer could--how confident she was, how enraptured! And then when
Fru Engel died notwithstanding, she would literally have rejoiced to
have given her life for Milla; it was so beautiful to her to see the
rich heiress, surrounded with all the comforts of life, pleading on her
knees to Jesus; and now, when the prayers had not availed, she still
trusted--nay, in the midst of her sorrow she thanked God with her,
entirely submissive to His will. Little Anna felt from the bottom of
her heart that a bond had been twined between them which death alone
could sever.
Milla returned to school three weeks later than the others; she took a
place next to Anna Rogne. They drove up together nearly every day, and
they returned together in the carriage, for Milla was still living in
the country, and Anna was almost always with her.
Milla's return made a stir. Her mourning suited her to perfection; her
pale face and subdued manner accorded with it like dull silver work on
velvet. The quiet gentleness with which she accepted everything, even
Nora's eager worship, gained her much considerate kindness.
The first day or two seemed devoted to expressing sympathy with Milla.
But there was a new face among them, a new figure there on the form in
front of her, a new voice, fresh ways--and what was not less important
to Milla--a new dress. Especially when the new hat and mantle were
added to it, a more daring choice of colours was presented, a more
delicate cut, richer details, than she had ever seen before. She knew
who the new-comer was--the daughter of the chief custom-house officer
Holm, from Bergen, the one with the brown face, large dark eyes, and
curly white hair: a curiously shy man, who drank, drank so that it was
only through forbearance that he retained his post; he had ten
children!
Tora was the eldest, and had been brought up, from her twelfth year,
partly in England, partly in France, by an uncle who had been a
shipbroker, first in the one country, then in the other; he had just
died, leaving his adopted daughter a small annuity. Milla knew all
this. Anna had also incidentally observed that Tora Holm was pretty.
But this was not the right word. Where were Anna's eyes? Tora was a
beauty, and her beauty was singular and "foreign." Anna had used her
ears as little as her eyes, for there was but one opinion about it.
Milla did nothing the whole of the first day but look at Tora, who,
although her back was turned towards her, could not keep quiet, but
twisted and turned as though she could feel the other's eyes on her
neck. The more restless Tora became, the more calmly Milla studied her.
At home, in the sitting-room, stood a head of the young Augustus in
marble; it had been Milla's admiration from childhood. And now, there
it was, on a girl's body, on the bench before her, moving in brightness
and colour.
The brow was exactly the same, the whole shape of the head, broad
above; the curve of the cheeks and chin, the arch of the eyebrows the
same, all the same! The eyes were different and more full of life, for
those of the Augustus gave the impression of dulness, or at least
heaviness. These sparkled incessantly in changing shades of blue-grey,
under long dark eyelashes. The mouth was full and curved, the hair
black-brown, or brown-black, as the light fell upon it. The complexion
was a sort of pale olive. Milla had no words to express it; it was a
combination she had never seen before. There was a large, very large
birth-mark on her cheek, perhaps it was that which disturbed her, for
she never turned that cheek when she looked round at Milla. Her figure
was developed, very strong and statuesque. Apparently she was a little
over sixteen. She did not look well at the moment, she was flushed and
had dark lines under her eyes; the perspiration stood on her face.
Her whole appearance was striking; Milla looked at her without a trace
of envy. What taste this new girl had, beyond anything she had ever
seen; how much she must know!
Every now and then Milla looked at her next neighbour. Anna sat there,
spare and angular; her thin, blue, and inordinately long fingers
especially occupied Milla to-day. What a contrast!
Should she speak to the new-comer, be friendly to her? Perhaps it would
be a little forward. From the moment that she saw her during the next
"recreation," walking arm in arm with Nora, this idea was dropped as a
matter of course.
During the three weeks which preceded Milla's return, a good deal had
happened; a revolution had silently begun which was not yet at an end.
Tora Holm made her appearance in the school rather untowardly. She
arrived late, met no one in the hall, and did not know where to go;
every one was assembled in the "laboratory" for morning prayers. At
that moment Karl Vangen, who had been detained at the bedside of a sick
person, rushed in and almost overturned her; then became as confused as
only a young clergyman can, mistook her for the new teacher, and
bewildered himself and her by his embarrassment. It was therefore some
little time before she, in her Bergen sing-song, could explain who she
was, and when he heard it, and it flashed into his mind that she was in
trouble for her uncle's death and had returned to an unhappy home, he
broke out, "We will all be so kind to you here; so"--he seized her
hand--"welcome, welcome!" Before he could say more she began to cry.
She was nervous and timid, everything was new and strange. He could
think of nothing else to do than to open the door and call out
"Mother."
And out came Fru Rendalen with her spectacles awry, and asked rather
shortly (for Fru Rendalen was particular, and this should not have
happened), "What is it, Karl?"
"Here is Froeken Holm, custom-house officer Holm's daughter, mother."
"Very well, let her come in," answered Fru Rendalen, opening the door
wide. "How do you do?" she said, as she stood in the doorway and held
out her hand to Tora in the half-lighted hall. There was far too much
of a command in her tone for Tora not to advance. Fru Rendalen then saw
that she had come crying to school like a little thing of five years
old. She was surprised; she showed her a place, which Tora shyly took,
and asked one of the teachers to help her off with her hat and cloak,
which the little donkey had kept on--thought Fru Rendalen to herself.
They sang a hymn and Karl spoke about meeting--whenever one discovers
anything good in a person, one meets God--that was his subject.
At the moment Tora was only conscious of the sound of a powerful voice,
she was tormented by the remembrance of her unlucky entrance and the
impression it had made; first and foremost upon Fru Rendalen, but also
on the others; she had seen that plainly. She could not keep quiet; she
turned away when any one looked at her, turned this way and that as
though she wished both to be looked at and not to be looked at. If any
one spoke to her, which happened after a while, she coloured, and
answered something which she at once contradicted. This went on during
the first three days. She knew neither Norwegian geography nor
Norwegian history--indeed, she did not know a single thing except
English and French, and coloured up when this was discovered; but when
it was also discovered that she spoke both these languages fluently,
she coloured up just as much. She would not do gymnastics on any
consideration--at last she said she had no dress. She made herself one
which was a masterpiece of coquetry; but this she denied, and declared
it to be purely and simply ugly. She could not go on long with the
gymnastics, strongly built as she was, but gave in completely and began
to cry. Miss Hall, who superintended the gymnastics and introduced
special exercises for some of the girls, led her towards the window and
looked at her. Miss Hall had partly forgotten her Norse, and did not
remember at the moment that Tora spoke English; she tried to find a
word while she examined her. Tora misunderstood this and ran away from
her, put on her things and went straight home, refusing to return to
school. It required no little trouble before she could be brought back,
not only to school but as a boarder; she needed better food than she
got at home, for she was beginning in _chlorosis_; this was the word
that Miss Hall could not remember. Tora now shared Miss Hall's room;
she was the first, though afterwards one of the pupils always did so.
Little by little the new-comer forgot herself so far as to be able to
sit still, but never if any one looked at her steadily, or talked about
her. She must feel it in her back, her companions said. They tried
experiments, and laughed when she really did by degrees become uneasy,
and at last turned round and looked at them.
Nora had been a boarder during the past year, and was often up at the
school. She did not speak to Tora except just in passing, but one
Sunday Tora asked her if she might do her hair for her. This made as
much stir among the boarders as though she had offered Nora some new
hair. Word was sent from room to room; they all collected, big ones and
little ones, to see Nora with new hair. They stood there, they leaned
over one another, while the great work went on.
For what was done was nothing less; laughter soon changed to
astonishment, to admiration, to applause.
One day, when Nora's hair was untidy, Tora had suddenly noticed that
this was becoming to her. It suited the large, wide-open eyes, by far
the most striking part of her little face. She had next to no forehead,
very small cheeks, a little mouth with cherry lips, and a rather large
nose, a real family nose; but it only seemed to set off the eyes, so
that it was the eyes all the same--nothing but eyes. Now what was
wanted was some way of raising the hair, so that it should help the
eyes as well. Tora had seen a great deal, and often had "inspirations,"
but never as yet in hair-dressing. She had one now. Naturally she began
by letting it all down and combing it out, then took the front hair and
made it into two large rolls, one on each side, lightly twisted; it was
very little in itself, and not at all striking, but the effect in this
case was amazing. When her eyes grew large, the hair looked as though
it would spread its wings and fly away, sometimes almost as though it
flickered--the hair was naturally a little wavy.
Up to this time Nora had never been thought pretty, there were other
qualities in her which one noticed; but now Rendalen himself, who very
rarely looked closely at any one, stopped short as he was reading
aloud, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he caught sight of Nora; the
whole class knew what he thought. The one who was least concerned was
perhaps Nora herself; now she had settled about her hair, and she need
not think anything more about it; but when Tora Holm, as their
friendship increased, began to rave about her talents, and, with her
tendency towards exaggeration, declared that Nora was "all soul," that
her music "absolutely carried one away," and that her chance remarks
always "hit the right nail on the head," that really was something! She
longed for more with insatiable voracity, and cultivated the
friendship. Tora Holm constantly made discoveries; the most important
one was that Nora was always right, even if she had been capricious
towards others, hasty--nay, even when she had had a slight fit of
untruthfulness, Nora was right, quite right--_at the bottom_.
It now struck Nora that Tora Holm was the first person who had ever
thoroughly understood her: to think that a stranger who looked at her
with fresh impartial eyes should have discovered this at once! The more
they saw of each other, the more gifted they thought each other. Tora's
talent for telling stories was the "greatest" Nora had "ever known;"
she gathered all her set round her to listen, and the story-telling
began. Fairy tales and romances by turns--what had not Tora read, what
did she not remember? The girls would listen over and over again to the
"Thousand and One Nights" (not the condensed edition, but the full one)
as though they were little children. As well as this, they liked
pictures of real life which did not go beyond their comprehension,
though they preferred that the lovers (and by inference also
themselves) should be noble and unhappy. These girls of fifteen,
sixteen, and seventeen (Tora herself was nearly seventeen), for various
reasons had, outside their school subjects, read only by stealth, with
the results which naturally follow. The books which Rendalen had read
to them had greatly widened their horizon and increased their desire to
know more, so that Tora was doubly welcome.
But between the story-telling times Nora wished to have her to herself,
really to possess her; Nora-Tora, Tora-Nora, wove themselves together,
no one else could approach them. Nora announced this openly; they two
preferred being by themselves.
Every one knew Nora, and understood that in a few days it would be
over; they only laughed, but there was one who did not laugh.
Tinka Hansen could not endure faithlessness; she had taken Nora to task
on one or two occasions and warned her. This time she was silent, and
allowed the penalty to consist in punctiliously respecting their wish
to remain apart. Nora could never get her to come with her.
Very soon Nora began to feel lonely among all these delightful Oriental
palaces; she did not realise this till she discovered that without
Tinka she did not feel free to do as she liked; without her she dared
not always listen. Tora's romances were often very "French." For more
than a year Nora had been used to the limits which Tinka imposed. She
was not sure if she were now inside or outside them, and an uneasy
conscience was the result. Tora had to suffer for this; Nora did not
know what they ought to do; she peremptorily cut short a story which
had been begun, ordered another, but stopped that as well; made
promises and did not keep them, and felt bored. And it was just at the
beginning of this period that Milla returned to school.
One Thursday evening, in Fru Rendalen's room, Tom as was going to read
a new play to them. Tora Holm, who chanced to be near Milla, looked at
her new black dress, which was a different one from that she wore in
the schoolroom. Without touching the dress she said, showing with her
fingers what she meant, the "trimming ought to have gone so, not so,
and had better have been narrower." She did not wait for an answer, but
walked farther on and sat down.
The day after, before morning prayers began, Milla came up to her and
thanked her; she had tried it, and found that Tora was right. There was
no time for more, but during the first "recreation" they involuntarily
sought each other out. "How could you see that at once?" asked Milla.
"I tried it the other day on a doll," answered Tora.
"On a doll?" asked Milla with a slight blush. Tora felt that she ought
not to have let this out; she was always doubtful about what she ought
to do. What a delicate instinct Milla Engel must have, to blush on her
account!
"So you dress dolls, do you?" said Milla, smiling, as she passed her
the next day. Tora protested; it really was not clear what she
protested, whether it were that she had one or two dolls, or that it
was her sisters who had them, or that even married women often have
dolls, so that there could be nothing odd in that, or else that she
quite saw how unbecoming it was, since every age ought to suit with
its.... She said all this, and a great deal more, in her Bergen
sing-song, and Milla smiled. "Won't you come in and see me this
afternoon? We are back from the country now."
Tora had not refused before Milla had said good-bye, but afterwards she
felt dreadfully embarrassed about it. Nevertheless at six o'clock she
was there.
Tora had a great wish to get up in the world--she would not be chained
to a home such as hers was, to such a fate as threatened her.
Consul Engel's house was almost the only one in the town where the door
was kept closed all day. When one rang, either a man-servant or a maid
opened the door, and one entered a house where there was Brussels
carpet in the passages and on the stairs, as well as in the rooms, and
where, to begin with, one found oneself between two mirrors where one
could see oneself from head to foot.
Tora was shown upstairs. "Froeken Engel's" room was there. She was
heartily welcomed. The rooms were those which Fru Engel had occupied
during the last years of her life; she had very rarely left them.
She had died here, and it was for that reason that the family had gone
so late into the country this year, and had only just returned to the
house.
Every comfort which a room can possess was there; the chairs and
couches were all as soft as the cushions of an invalid, you seemed to
sink into them; they were upholstered in moss-green silk, and the
curtains and portieres were of the same material and colour, the walls
were a dark indefinite colour. There was an old-fashioned rosewood
cabinet in inlaid work, with a number of small pigeon-holes and
receptacles in it. Tora never wearied of looking at it. An Erard piano
with carved heads and emblems, a bookcase in the same style. Pictures,
especially landscapes, which made one long for the evening sun, with
its hazy light and almost sultry heat.
Tora went from one to another; she looked at every single thing as
though it were a person with whom she wished to make friends. From
there she went to the bedroom, and admired the soft carpet into which
her feet sank, the little _chaise-longue_ in one corner, the bed with
its rich hangings, the variety and elegance of the toilette apparatus.
Milla's pleasure at seeing her was expressed in the one remark that she
had never before taken any one up into her mother's rooms.
There was only one piece of furniture which did not please Tora; at
last she could no longer contain herself, it assorted so ill with its
surroundings. "What is there in that press, dear? Why is it here?"
Milla replied, smiling, that it was very incongruous, she knew; it had
not been there before--in fact, it was her own; she had had it ever
since she was a child.
"But can't it stand in another place?"
"No, not very well."
There was something of reserve in this answer, she could not inquire
further. As Tora was leaving Milla asked her to come again soon,
but she had better let her know beforehand, so that they might be
alone--that would be the pleasantest. Tora understood that this was
meant for Anna Rogne, but that was no affair of hers.
It so chanced that the next time she sat telling stories in the
twilight to Nora and her friends, who for convenience had settled
themselves on the floor on some carpets and eider-downs, she let fall
the remark, that "Of all the people I know, the one who is most like
Gulnare is Milla Engel." This, to her audience, was much like saying
before the king that he was not the wisest man in the kingdom. Nora was
amazed, her friends almost broke out into open anger. Tora felt that
she had done a foolish thing; she tried to explain herself by ascribing
that "passive" beauty to Milla which was here implied. The expressions
active and passive were at that time war cries in the senior class;
there were "active" people and "passive" people, "active" eyes and
"passive" eyes, "active" and "passive" colours.
"But, good gracious," said one of the girls, "Milla has not dark hair;
she is fair."
"So is Nora," answered the thoughtless Tora.
"I certainly have no wish to be a passive beauty, or an Eastern
princess," answered Nora angrily. "No, I did not mean that at all, I
only meant ----" she stopped short, for she really did not know why she
had said it.
"That was sheer nonsense," the others declared, and pressed Tora so
hard that she declared, with tears in her eyes, that Milla was the most
refined and the prettiest girl in the school. She (Tora) was only too
happy to know any one who was so considerate, so full of tact; it was
more than could be said of every one.
This was too much. Gina Krog herself, who was always forbearing, did
not now scruple to announce that she had known for two days, but had
not wished to tell, that Tora went to see Milla, and that they were
bosom friends. There was a dead silence. Soon afterwards Nora left, and
the others dispersed. Tora tried to explain, but they would not listen
to her.
None of the boarders belonged to Milla's party; not a girl there had
set her foot inside Milla Engel's door--for the reason that they had
never been asked.
However much Tora tossed about and turned herself and her pillow that
night, she could not sleep; it vexed and hurt her that she could not be
friends with one without losing the friendship of the other. Now the
whole school would look on her as a faithless wretch. Heaven knew that
she was not, yet she might be sent to Coventry for it, it might always
be remembered against her. It was a question of the future for her. She
had been so tossed about, she felt so insecure; she was always
stretching out her arms for something solid to cling to, which as
constantly eluded her grasp. She cried bitterly; she liked them both so
much, each in her own way, though they were so different. Why should
she not if she liked? What could she do? She did not wish to sacrifice
either of them.
The next day was Sunday; she had to go to church, but she would not
wait for the others, who were going as well--so she went straight off
to Milla. Milla was dressed for church; they met in the hall, but she
was surprised when Tora asked if she might speak to her. She took her
into her room and locked the door. Tora began to cry and told her
everything exactly as it had happened; she did not conceal that she was
fond of them both and why she was so, nor how lonely she felt, and what
an effect this might have on her future. Nora had so much influence
both among the boarders and the day girls.
In the midst of the story, just as Tora had paused for a moment to cry,
Milla heard someone at the door; there was a knock, she opened it just
wide enough to step through; in a little time she returned and said
that she and Anna Rogne had made an engagement to go to church
together, but that she had excused herself on the score of a headache;
it was certainly the second Sunday that she had done so, but it could
not be helped. Milla was sorry for Tora; she really was fond of her, it
showed itself now. She promised not to take anything in bad part which
Tora might devise, so as to keep on good terms with Nora and her
numerous friends. Milla really was very sweet.
Tora had only time to put her arms round her and kiss her for this, for
she must show herself in church. But might she come again in the
afternoon? She was very much consoled, but she longed for more; she was
so frightened, she must manage to talk everything over with her. Milla
asked her to come again as early as ever she could.
Tora came again after coffee; as soon as she had locked the door, Milla
whispered, as she put her arm round Tora's neck, that now she was going
to give her a treat, she felt certain that it would please her. To no
one, absolutely to no one, had she shown what Tora was going to see.
The press there----
"The press, well----?"
"Once it held my dolls."
"Your dolls!"
"Every one knows that it does not now," said Milla; as she spoke she
flung it open. The large double doors, both the upper and lower ones,
flew back together, and the girls could see four storeys of a house;
the bottom one a complete and marvellously dainty kitchen, scullery,
and dining-room, above a drawing-room, a large elegant apartment with
the most lovely furniture upholstered in silk, a black rosewood table,
fireplace, looking-glass, clock. On the third storey a bedroom, with
the sweetest little beds--real actual beds--and a wash-hand stand,
where everything was to be found, down to the most minute details. On
the fourth storey was the wardrobe, a magnificent doll's wardrobe.
There were changes in silk, velvet, _moire antique_, in different
colours; a whole collection of materials which had not yet been made
up; scraps of every description evidently collected with diligence and
care during many years. All linen, even stockings, and other
underclothing, all in duplicate, as well as hats, mantles, ornaments,
belts.
Tora shrieked; she was down on her knees and up on tiptoe; she did not
at first lay a finger on them, but devoured them with her eyes, unable
to take in the whole--it could not be grasped all at once; there was
too much, too great a variety, it was too wonderfully minute. She had
not even counted the dolls yet. "One, two, three, four--five--six!
seven!! eight!!!"
She had begun softly, but her voice rose at every number, so that Milla
hastened to say, "Twelve, twelve, there are twelve."
"Twelve! actually twelve! Oh dear! oh dear! Have you kept all the dolls
you have ever had in your life, never spoilt a single one?"
Well, yes she had, but never one since she was seven.
"Wait a minute." And solemnly, as though she were afraid they might
disappear, Tora carefully put in her hand and took up the very, very
sweetest doll in light red silk, with shoes and hat of the same colour,
a dark red parasol, and a little fan stuck into her belt; her
underclothes were made like a real person's, with lace and embroidery,
a pocket in her dress with a pocket-handkerchief in it, and elegant
French gloves which fitted her hands; as well a little brooch shaped
like a forget-me-not, and bracelets and watch in the same style. Tora
stood dumb with admiration, while she turned the doll round, inspected
the cut and make of the dress, the underclothes; held it away from her,
then close to her. At that moment there was a knock at the door. Some
one had come right upstairs without the preoccupied girls having heard
the least sound. They were startled. Milla held up her finger. She
turned red and white. Of course it was Anna. But Anna had never seen
the dolls, she would not understand.
There were, she explained later, two more dolls in mourning, but Anna
had been with her so much lately that she had not been able to dress
many of them, otherwise her plan had been to have them all in mourning,
that would have been charming. Another knock, low and hesitating. They
held their breaths; Milla was quite unnerved. They heard her go; they
listened so intently that they could hear her step on the stairs. It
was a most unlucky chance. Milla had given orders that if any one
besides Tora came they were to say that she had gone out for a walk on
account of her headache. But the maid who had received the order,
Milla's own maid, could not have answered the door, although it was her
time for doing so. What should Milla do? But from this consideration
she was swept away by a whirlwind.
Nora lay on the bed in Tinka Hansen's room; a little wainscoted,
blue-painted attic in shoemaker Hansen's new house in the market-place.
As well as the bed there was an open bookshelf painted brown, one or
two chairs, a large washstand intended for two, but for which no other
place could be found; a high short sofa on which Tinka now sat, looking
across at the bed, her right arm resting on her little desk which stood
on the table before her.
Nora lay sobbing loudly, and Tinka sat calmly by and looked at her;
Nora knew now what faithlessness was, how it tasted to be deserted for
the sake of another.
But it was more than being forsaken--she was abandoned, deposed, made
nothing of. Tora had lifted her up to the skies; she was "all mind,"
"could not make a mistake." And now this very Tora had dropped her--for
Milla Engel! The world was nothing but lies and delusions. "Oh dear!
Tinka, why cannot you be kind to me? You do not know how unhappy I am."
But Tinka was silent. "I cannot do without you, Tinka--no, I cannot. I
have discovered since this morning that I made nothing but mistakes. I
have no stability--no, not a bit."
"No, that is it," said Tinka soothingly.
"Not a bit; oh dear, what shall I do? Won't you talk to me?" She cried
dreadfully now.
"You only care for adoration, Nora."
"Not 'only,' Tinka; don't say 'only.'"
"No, no; but you are never happy unless you are adored, and one tires
of that."
"What shall I do, Tinka? Goodness knows I am tired of it myself. Ah,
you do not believe it, but it's true, especially now since Milla is
adored as well. Ugh! it is disgusting to think of."
"That is merely because it is Milla, and not you."
"No indeed, Tinka," and she raised herself on her elbow. "Tora has
given me so much of it that I am tired of it; yes, I am; and to think
that she is with Milla now." She flung herself down again and cried,
with anger and vexation. She raised herself again suddenly: "But I must
get rid of all this; it is disgusting; I despise myself; you do not
know what I have been thinking since this morning. Help me, Tinka; you
are the only one of them all who speaks the truth to me."
Tinka was unmoved: Nora flung herself down again, turned away and
cried.
"I cannot understand," said Tinka at length, "that you who rave so
for----"
"Do not use that word"--Nora interrupted her while she made a gesture
with her hand behind her--"it has become loathsome now that Milla does
it too. Milla 'raves.' Can you imagine anything so----?"
"Well, well, I will not say 'rave.'"
"No, don't."
"Very well, I will say 'interest yourself--you who interest yourself so
much in all that is just and great, and who are also so brave, for you
would cheerfully die for what you think right----"
"Yes, I could, Tinka; I believe I could do that; ah, how nice it is to
hear something good again, and especially from you; I feel quite
astray."
"Yes, but now I am coming to what I want to say--do you understand? Is
it not a shame that any one so excellent should all the same be such a
peacock?"
"A peacock, Tinka?"
"Yes, a peacock; you are just like a peacock!"
"Am I? I think you are----"
"It was not I who said so."
"I thought as much."
"It was Tora who said so."
"Tora! the ungrateful----"
"Yes, but Tora is right; you are dreadfully like a peacock, Nora; that
thin little face of yours, and then you are so slender."
"Come, I say, Tinka."
"Yes, it's true. All we friends agree as to that. We are all to be the
eyes in your tail. Yes, that is it."
Nora threw herself down and howled, with her head and hands in the
eider-down quilt.
"Yes, of course you have offended Tora--you offend every one. You are
so capricious, you are so spoilt."
"Yes, that is what I am!" came from the eider-down.
"That is what you are. Frederik says so as well."
"What does Frederik say?"
Nora raised her red face quickly up from the eider-down. Frederik was
an authority.
"I will read it to you," answered the other, opening the desk, and
taking out a letter of at least five sheets.
"He writes," she said, as she turned to the fourth side of the fourth
sheet, with the same calm deliberation with which she had opened the
desk, looked for the letter, closed the desk again, and now read: "You
must not be too severe with her either, for if that were her real
nature, she would behave differently, and understand how to retain her
worshippers. As it is, she is only a spoilt child, who has never done
anything without being praised for it, and has besides become so
capricious that she is tired to-day of those who praised her
yesterday."
"Oh dear! how true that is, Tinka."
"But perhaps she will weary of caprice as well, for she certainly
desires something more than that. I was impressed by that in the
summer. But you must help her, Tinka."
"Yes, you must."
Nora had raised herself, and now sat on the edge of the bed. She had
folded her hands, and looked at Tinka. "You must always be with me. I
am not content with myself, when you are not with me. Oh, Tinka! I will
never, never, never be like that again. If you see the slightest sign
of it, you must take me to task for it. You know I do want to be
something more than this. I want to be remarkable. Ah! don't laugh; in
reality I have no wish to sing and make fun for the others, and be
flattered and flattered; but it came so, I can't understand why. I
don't want it; I wish to be able to do something, to take up something
with an object. _Yes, that is what I want_. Sometimes I believe I must
go off to the wars, or die with the Nihilists in Russia. Yes, I do
believe it. Or else travel about and lecture; be hissed down and
wounded. Yes, I could. I don't know why it should be, but I long for
it. I don't say it to boast, Tinka, I only say it because I feel it so.
Believe me, I do feel it in that way. If I fail, it will be because it
is nothing but wishing; perhaps I am incapable of it. Well, all the
same I have the wish. I have no wish for the sort of thing I do now,
and for which I am praised. I have such an unconquerably strong,
strong, strong longing."
She raised herself, her eyes sparkled through her tears; her hair stood
on end, she had dishevelled it with her long arms whilst she was
crying. She threw herself down again. Tinka could not resist all the
pleasant remembrances which Nora had awakened. She walked across and
bent her broad full figure over her. And there they sat for some time
together, talking that endearing nonsense which is proper to the
happiness of reconciliation. Tinka did not forget all that she had
treasured in her memory for Nora's benefit, but the sting of it was
gone. Nora's lively answers made it all appear stupid, and at last she
was ready to laugh at what a little time before had seemed something
very serious, immensely important.
In the midst of this, some one rushed up the stairs, step by step, up
the first flight, like the beat of a drum. Then up the second, then the
third, across to the attic, in the same wild unflagging whirl. There
was only one who ever came in that fashion, but it could not very well
be she. The door was not locked; there was no knock; it was pushed
open. Yes, it was Tora! Good heavens!
The amazement, vexation, dignity of the two girls! It could not have
been done better at Court, Tinka's perfect unconsciousness that there
could be such a person as Tora Holm in the world, or Nora's noble and
spiritual, "Don't disturb me," without a word spoken. It was splendid!
Never did so fine a representation more utterly break down. Tora was
beaming with delight, victory, and rejoicing. She talked about _twelve_
dolls, some of which were as big as an ordinary child; of--she really
believed---_fifty_ dolls' dresses of different sorts, _moire antique_,
silk, and velvet, besides morning dresses, embroidered skirts and
drawers, silk stockings, gloves and parasols; of beds and curtains; of
a wash-hand stand, with all belonging to it, down to the most minute
details; of everything from the kitchen to the drawing-room, and the
drawing-room furniture; of a splendid plan about the dolls, who were
all to go to a Court Ball on the King's birthday; about Milla, who was
a hundred thousand times better than they dreamed of, who did not
object, nay wished, that they should both come up with her and see it
all now, at once, and help about the Court Ball--of course as the
deepest of secrets. Yes, it was true; on her word of honour it was
true. She told them how it had all happened; about Milla's room, what
it was like, and that she had been there a number of times without
hearing a word about the dolls. But to-day Milla had shown them to her,
merely out of the goodness of her heart to comfort her. Now she wanted
to show them to the others, if it could be managed, and all four be
friends from this time forward.
Tora had proposed it; Milla had been startled, but she had come round,
and at last thought it a capital plan. Milla was so good, and they must
be so too; no hesitation--they must. Why should there be two parties?
Milla had her ways, Nora hers.
They had never really done each other any harm, not the least bit; if
they would only try to grasp the fact: "we can talk more about it as we
go."
The two looked at each other, but Tora gave them no breathing time. "We
must tell them at home that we are going to stay to tea, for that was
what was meant. It would never do to refuse an invitation, a formal
invitation, to the Engels."
Tora was a perfect whirlwind, carrying all before her, and the storm of
excitement had brought fire to her eyes, her movements--she seemed to
sparkle. She took possession of them.
Not long afterwards they all four stood before the press; the
introduction, the embarrassment from the change of circumstances,
apologies, counter-apologies, occupied the first few minutes; Tora took
hold of Milla and pushed her gently forward to the front of the press.
"Open! open!--we can talk afterwards--open!" Milla herself felt that
here action was better than words, and opened the door.
The cry of delight which was given by the newcomers fully rewarded her.
There was an amount of industry, order, loyalty, and sense of beauty in
this little collection which she was aware of herself, and which made
it dear to her heart. It was her treasure, never seen by many people,
and for the last two or three years only by herself; there was
therefore a special charm of secrecy in it; it would be enjoyed when
some day it was opened before the astonished eyes of others. And now,
how it was enjoyed!
Each one found a special pleasure in it. Tinka looked upon the dolls as
so many little children, she talked baby talk to them: "Doodnes
dacious" for "Goodness gracious," and "tweet" for "sweet." She began to
undress one for the pleasure of dressing it again.
Tora delighted in the stuffs, felt each one, held them up against the
light, laid them one against the other. There was a special piece of
brocade which she now saw for the first time (Milla looked it out for
her), which absolutely enraptured her; it suggested plan upon plan, she
talked without a pause. Nora regarded the press as a collection of
works of art. Milla became a new person in her eyes. It was evident
what she thought of her now, one saw it in Milla's slightly heightened
colour.
They treated each other the whole evening with a distinction which the
others considered as only natural.
They were soon all sitting round the table with the dolls shared among
them; the materials and everything which could be of use for this great
object, a Court Ball, lay scattered before them, and eight eyes and
forty fingers rummaged among them. They could not agree; Tora wished to
have a costume ball, her endless chatter filled the air with fancies
and varying colours, a perfect whirl of figures of damsels and _rococo_
dames with ribbons, feathers, and hats. Milla preferred the present
day, the fashion plates, especially some quite new ones.
Nora was sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, according as
some special thing took her fancy. Tinka opposed the idea; they could
each one dress her doll according to her own fancy. Nora and Tora
rebelled against this; there ought to be some style in it. Milla dealt
with the proposal with more deliberation, but was against it. Nora
quickly grew impatient at this, and then, by a sleight of hand
which only girls understand, this discussion turned into a dispute
about--Tomas Rendalen and Karl Vangen! Not between Tinka and the
others, but Tora against Nora and Tinka. Tora being herself nervous,
could not endure Rendalen's nervousness. It was either this, or that
she was inclined to be in opposition; otherwise it cannot be explained
how it was that from the first day she had been unable to get on with
Rendalen. A speaking resemblance between a red-spotted stuff and
Rendalen's hands had started the dispute. Nora had hastily answered
that his hands were clever, really speaking hands; Vangen's, on the
contrary, were "big and stupid, as broad at one end as the other."
When there are only two masculine teachers in a girls' school, the
pupils very rarely praise both--one must be censured when the other is
applauded; and at school it was generally honest Karl Vangen who was
used as a foil whenever any one felt inclined to become enthusiastic
over the intellectual Rendalen.
But on this point Tora was in opposition from the moment when Karl
Vangen had grasped her hand in warm welcome, and had beamed down at her
with his kind eyes, and besides had made their meeting the text of his
address that day--since then she had been fond of him. And the more
awkward and simple he was, the more she liked him--she fought for him
until the others were forced to respect her.
This time it began very mildly; they merely taunted her with Karl
Vangen's "thick head," his wide mouth, his long fingers, long legs and
big feet; and she replied with allusions to Rendalen's red hair,
screwed-up eyes, his feminine preciseness, his scented handkerchief;
but it soon became more serious. Tora's quick wit cited instances of
Rendalen's uncontrolled impetuosity, and what mistakes he made in
consequence. Instances of his uneven temper--how sometimes he rushed up
and down the class without speaking, without hearing, without seeing;
at other times he was nothing but life, absolutely given up to fun--far
too much so. The others considered that this was unjust, because if
this were mentioned by itself, no one would have the least idea of
Rendalen, who was, for all that, the best and cleverest teacher in the
world. Tinka had a capricious talent for mimicry and not the slightest
leaning towards piety, so that Karl Vangen very easily appeared to her
in a ludicrous light; she now began to preach, or rather to bleat, like
him, with eyes gazing fixedly heavenwards. Nora laughed violently, Tora
cried, Milla could not prevent herself from laughing, but all the same,
she now took Karl Vangen's part; she quietly remarked that she thought
him "delightful"; she did not mention Rendalen. As Milla was the
hostess and Nora and Tinka at her house for the first time, they said
no more; but Tora would not give in; she now seriously began to sing
Karl Vangen's praises. In order not to answer and admit that there
might be some truth in it, Nora walked away humming and looked out of
the window. "Good gracious! why, there goes Anna Rogne," she said.
"Has she been here?" asked Milla, turning pale; she got up and came
towards the window. Yes, certainly she saw Anna hurrying away, she must
be much disturbed; she herself, with as much speed as was becoming,
hastened out of the door and down the stairs. Some time elapsed before
she returned. She was silent and really upset; Anna had been right
upstairs and therefore outside their door. There was general
astonishment. Milla told them what had happened that morning, and how
innocent she really was in the matter. Tora at once took it upon
herself, and was terribly unhappy.
"No, the blame is mine alone," said Milla.
What should she do? She had ordered the carriage.
No one answered, but they looked involuntarily at Tinka.
"Yes," said Tinka, "we will all go together to fetch Anna and explain
to her how it happened." Nora and Tora agreed at once that that was the
only right thing to do. Milla, too, admitted that this would be best,
but she had never said anything to Anna about the dolls; Anna did not
care for such things, and now it could not very well be explained to
her without offence. Nora and Tora were sensible of this; it would not
do.
Tinka held to her opinion; she would gladly undertake it by herself.
No; if any one were to do so it should be Milla.
This put the idea into Milla's head to write. Simply say to Anna that
the others were here, would she not come too? She sent the carriage.
Yes, the others thought that would do.
"Go yourself!" said Tinka.
"No, I am not so discourteous as that to my guests," laughed Milla. She
sat down to write.
The others were quiet for a time; at last Nora broke in with, "Tinka is
certainly right; go yourself, we can easily go out just for that time."
"No," answered Milla, looking up from her letter; "Anna need not know
that we saw her. Then it would be the most natural thing in the world
for me to send a message to her when you are here." The others could
not contradict this. She finished off the note and hurried down with
it; as she came up again they heard the carriage drive out of the gate,
at the side of the house. Milla smiled; "I said I would explain another
time why you had come. I told Hans to be quick and to drive a little
way round so as not to pass Anna; perhaps the carriage will be there
before she is." It was evident that she was pleased at having proved
equal to a difficult occasion.
They resumed their discussion on the dolls' festival; but before the
carriage returned with Anna, the dolls and their things must be back in
the press.
Suddenly Nora broke out: "If we are not to mention the dolls to Anna,
why in the world could we not have all gone to her together?"
They looked puzzled at each other for a moment. It was true! They burst
out laughing. What had given them the mad idea that for them all to go
together would be to let out the secret of the dolls. They tried to
recall the course of their conversation, but could not determine it; at
all events, it showed that they had uneasy consciences. Tinka proposed
in good time to put away the dolls, their wardrobe and stuffs, under
Milla's superintendence; but Milla undertook to put the whole thing
tidy later on, they could sit quiet while she did so. They all objected
to this; it would be awfully amusing to put them away. And so it was
settled.
The carriage returned without Anna--she had a headache. Tora looked at
Milla, and Milla at Tora; this was a final good-bye. It put them all
out of tune for a little while, but when they remembered that at all
events they could take the dolls out again, the three guests soon
consoled themselves.
As soon as they had got to work, the conversation naturally turned upon
Anna; none of the three liked her; they thought her artificial,
_pretentieuse_, as Tora expressed it in rather affected French; Anna
was always trying to take up some special line; everything she said, or
did, must be so dreadfully thorough. But they all agreed that she wrote
well; it was true, for the two things went naturally together.
They then began to make fun of her extreme piety. Milla had said
nothing about the first; as regarded the second, she contented herself
by remarking that she had perhaps a little too much of it.
Nora was the first to forsake the table. She could not go on any
longer; she must have a little music, she said. The grand piano was
tried. Milla was afraid that it was not quite in tune; nor was it, but
what a tone! Nora sang, while the others dressed dolls; then she
worried Tinka to join her, but at first Tinka would not leave her blue
doll; at last Milla asked her to do so. They had sung one or two songs
when there was a knock at the door. Milla's maid announced that the
Consul had arrived; there was great surprise, he was not expected.
Milla hurried down. The others all agreed at once that they must go, it
would be dull work having tea with the Consul. Tora especially shrank
from it; her cuffs were not quite clean; would it do to ask Milla to
lend her a pair? During this discussion the door was opened, in came
Milla, quicker than any one believed it possible for her to move.
"Father's coming," she whispered, and hurried to the table with the
others after her. From there to the press, from the press to the table,
from the table to the press; heads and shoulders were knocked together,
toes trodden on, amid smothered cries, laughter, and scolding;
everything was off the table and locked up as the Consul knocked at the
door. Nora had pushed Tinka on to the sofa, she herself sat gravely on
a chair, Milla and Tora stood by the press. The Consul came in, elegant
and smiling as usual. He saw the four girls red with suppressed
laughter, or whatever it might be, embarrassed, constrained. "What the
deuce is it?" he thought, and came forward to Nora, the Sheriff's
daughter, bowed politely, bade her welcome, and asked after her
parents; then to the others as Milla introduced them, and then back
again to Nora; he asked merrily if he might have the pleasure of taking
her downstairs. He had just come from the steamer, and was as hungry as
one only can be after a sea voyage.
She took his arm, but he wished the others to go first, which they
hesitated to do; it seemed as though one were waiting for the other.
Tinka could not understand why Tora did not move, and when the Consul
turned towards her again she came forward, although it was rather
embarrassing. Why did not Milla help her? She stood there too, as
though she had taken root. The Consul gave his daughter a little push:
"_Avancez, mesdemoiselles_." She was obliged to come a little forward,
and the lower part of a doll become visible! It lay there, "naked and
face downwards," as the song says. Tora tried to cover it up, but the
Consul had caught sight of it, and with a "Pardon me, Froeken," he
stooped and picked it up. Tora ran, Tinka ran, Milla ran, Nora let go
his arm and ran, and the Consul after them with the doll. "What is
this--what in the world is this?"
They all rushed into the dining-room and stood there in a group,
convulsed with laughter, as the Consul followed them with the doll in
the air like a flag. It was the blue doll which Tinka had undressed for
the third time, and was going to put to bed just as the Consul came and
everything was hurry-scurry. It must have slipped down and bashfully
hidden itself under a skirt at the time the press was closed. Milla and
Tora had discovered it at the same moment, and both placed themselves
over it.
The Consul sat down with the doll in his arms; then he laid it down in
his table napkin, and after looking at it once or twice he put it on
the table with a teacup under its head. Milla snatched it from him.
"Do you really play with dolls?"
No, indeed; they had come to consult together about Christmas presents.
Milla gave this answer.
"Why should you hide such a harmless thing?" asked the Consul.
"Because the doll was undressed, of course," answered his daughter.
Nora soon joined in; she was used to this sort of thing. She also had a
father who loved to tease girls.
The other two took but little part, but as against that the Consul kept
his eyes on them almost continually. Tinka could quite understand that
Tora might attract his attention, but why should she? She grew uneasy
by degrees. Her dress might have come unsewn somewhere near the arm, it
happened so to her sometimes; she looked as well as she could, but
failed to discover anything; she felt as though she had no dress on at
all.
The Consul was very merry; suddenly he turned all his attention to
Tora, they had only been a short time at table and she had finished
already! The fact was that the unlucky cuffs worried Tora to such an
extent that they ran between her and her wits. The Consul looked at her
suddenly; it was not the birth-mark that he was looking at, for she had
been careful to have that side next to Milla; it was certainly not her
face, his looks were directed lower than that. She put down her knife
and fork and hid her hands under the table.
"You are not eating, my dear Froeken Holm; are you not well, missie?
What's amiss with you? Or is there anything particular you want? Just
say what it is. Milla, give Froeken Holm another cup of tea. No tea
either? A glass of wine? Come now, just a glass of wine. Your good
health, Froeken! But you won't drink any? Do you prefer Madeira? Good
gracious, are you blushing about it? Headache? Dear, dear! Perhaps you
would like----? Shall Milla help you? Not that either? Just say what
you want, my dear. Have you often a headache, Froeken Holm? What, you
have not got one? I once knew a girl who would have a headache merely
if something were amiss with her cuffs. But, my dear Milla, I do not
want to tease Froeken Holm. Is that what it is, Froeken Holm?"
Tora was overcome by a feeling of helplessness which would seize her
for even a smaller cause than this, and which always made her cry. She
had to leave the table and hasten upstairs.
Milla rose with a dignity which her friends admired, and followed her.
When the others joined her, Tora was gone. Milla looked pale, but was
completely silent as to what had passed. Nora and Tinka began to put on
their things, Milla making no objection. She kissed them and begged
them to come again, repeating her invitation down in the hall. It was
only when she was upstairs alone, and had locked the door, that she
burst into tears. Such a thing would never have happened if her mother
had been at table, she could not fill her place; her father had vexed
her terribly. Her mother had left her so much too soon. "Oh, mother,
mother, mother!" There was a knock at the door. She asked who it was.
Her father; of course she had to open, but she went back to the sofa
and flung herself crying into the furthermost corner. He sat down
quietly, and after a few moments he said very gently, almost in a
whisper, "Listen, Milla; I am sorry for what has happened; I wish I
knew better how it had come about. But it is annoying, of course,
chiefly for your sake. I never thought she could take it so to heart. I
was so pleased that your friends should come to see you. Especially
these girls. All the same, and perhaps it was that feeling which
influenced me, have you been careful enough in the choice of one of
them, Milla?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing particular; don't be so vehement, my dear! You do not quite
understand me. A girl who is so uncertain of herself and--well--whom
one can so easily confuse--there might come a time when you would
repent that you had been intimate with her."
Milla got up, literally as white as a sheet. She felt exactly as though
he had spoken of her; there are very few girls of her age who would not
have felt so. But she did not say a word. She cried bitterly as she
went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
The next day, the moment the time for recreation was sounded, Milla
took Tora by the arm, and during every recreation it was the same
thing. They were both beaming with good-humour; Nora and Tinka greatly
admired Milla for this. They had not thought that she had so much heart
and spirit.
This little occurrence, more than anything else laid the foundation of
their friendship.
The Staff was formed.
CHAPTER III
THE SOCIETY
It was soon noticed that the whole of the senior class and that next to
it had come under a single influence.
Rendalen was so much struck by the alteration, without understanding
the ground for it, that at last he made inquiries, and it was explained
to him. He was much amused, gave the four girls their celebrated name,
and at the same time suggested that they should form a "Society." It
was true that they already had social evenings at his mother's, and
they would continue these, but it would be better if they took the
whole affair into their own hands; select the subjects for readings and
lectures, or for discussion, among themselves. The last especially.
Girls had so many "fancies" in their heads that they ought to learn in
early life to be able to carry out a thought, to pursue a special
interest. A Society! The senior class is to institute a Society. They
may invite their friends from the town or the elder girls from the
second class. They will be allowed to speak at the meetings on what
subjects they choose, invite whom they like to take part in the
readings and music, they and no one else. They were to be empowered to
make rules, elect a president and secretary, impose fines! What fancies
this awakened, not in the senior class alone, but in all of them, down
to the little ones who learned to spell and sing songs about the cat.
What a stir at meal-times, what a whispering during lessons, what
commotions at play-time! When a school is excited by a question which
must not be openly discussed in lesson hours, it causes despair among
the teachers. No one studies, no one listens, no one keeps order or
remembers anything. If one wishes really to be amused by the suppressed
excitement of the class, one must not stand in front of them; there
they restrain themselves.
No, take up your position behind them and observe their plaits; you
might imagine that they had gained an independent life--they jump, they
dance, they curl and uncurl themselves. The changes of colour during
this extreme restlessness are comical. All the fiery red, sandy and
brown-red, up to black, look as though they were wet or shining with
oil, or take a dead colour like coffee grounds. There are locks which
are black above and brown underneath, and those of absolute raven
black; there are light ones in every shade of ashen, of yellow, or an
ugly mixture of both, with green for a foundation. All these assume the
wonderful changes of colour which belong to their years. The braids are
as excited as though they were chattering to each other, playing tricks
on one another, springing towards each other. The life behind is a
perfect reflex of that in front.
At the first--that is to say, the preliminary--meeting of the Society,
Nora was elected president; Tinka was so accustomed to have all the
work put upon her that she knew beforehand that she would be chosen
secretary; she was right, she was chosen unanimously.
It had this advantage, Nora considered, that she would thus be able to
copy the minutes of the proceedings for Frederik. It was true that
their earliest determination was that the proceedings should not be
made public, but then Tinka was engaged.
Otherwise they began without written rules, but Frederik wrote from
Christiania requiring the most clearly defined ones. He sent a draft.
There were fines for non-attendance, fines for disregarding the rules
therein set down, fines for every other kind of disorder, fines for
omitting to vote. But the girls took it more practically than he--the
donkey--as Tinka called him on this occasion. Nora and she worked out,
quite quietly, a new set of rules; they were discussed at the next
meeting amid some disorder; rules did not appear to be to their taste.
A great deal of fun was made in the town over the "Society;" there were
some, however, who considered it unbecoming, some thought it dangerous,
but when a theatrical company visited the town and its most select
representation fell on the same day as a meeting of the Society, and
the members, with a few exceptions, were with difficulty persuaded to
sacrifice this meeting, it was allowed that a proof had been given of
their zeal. No one thought it worth while to raise the question again
as regarded the chief representation; they were left in peace.
Very soon a serious error showed itself in the rules of the Society.
Any one might anonymously propose a subject for discussion to the
president, and it was decided by vote whether it should be placed on
the agenda.
Thus it was anonymously proposed to discuss "Immortality," but this did
not obtain a single vote. The proposer was evidently not a member.
Another proposal ran, "Ought men to be allowed to wear moustaches?" and
this was written in the same hand. It was now suggested that no notice
should be taken of any communication which was not laid on the
secretary's table during the course of the meeting. It was objected
that the proposal in this case would no longer remain anonymous, but
they were sufficiently confident in their own adroitness, for it was
adopted.
Although the discussions were absolutely private, it was maintained in
the town that one young lady in the course of her lecture had declared
that it was most pitiful of men that they could not keep their vows of
chastity so well as women. It was then that Doesen composed his famous
"_Nora, Tora, ora pro nobis_."
With this exception it was not certain what the girls discussed, they
had agreed to pretend that everything that was said about them was
true, a roguish Freemasonry kept this joke going.
One of those who teased them the most was Consul Engel. He had soon
made his peace with the Staff, having sent his apologies through his
daughter. Besides this, he had presented Tora with a nest of Japanese
boxes, in the smallest of which was a charming pin. In order to make
everything smooth again, he gave a "Reconciliation Dinner," to which
Milla invited several of her friends. An enormous doll had been sent by
_grande vitesse_, which he set up on the table and ceremoniously
introduced to the four girls. It was magnificent; Tinka had put on her
stoutest dress; Tora, who was in a wild mood, sat next to Milla. She
chattered without stopping for a moment, so that Milla had to pinch her
under the table to make her be silent, at which Tora laughed as though
she were mad. Nora ran to the piano in the middle of dessert, to sing a
song which the Consul had never heard. He declared afterwards that he
had never amused himself more innocently. His only notion of talking to
them was to tease them, his favourite theme was the Society. They
laughed at his jokes and kept them up, but they would not give in; for
women are used to having the things they are fond of held up to
contempt. The Society was a new thing in their lives, soon it became
something more. But to show this we must return to one who is waiting
for us. Anna Rogne did not come to school that Monday; Milla came up to
muster with her heart full of self-reproach. Directly after school she
drove round to see her, but Anna was ill; her aunts came out smiling
and told her that she could not be disturbed. The next day Milla came
again. She asked if she might not at least be allowed to see the
invalid. Anna and she had begun to read Fabiola together; might she not
read aloud to her? "Little Anna hoped she would excuse her," they said
smiling, and Milla went away. Anna was away three weeks, and Milla
called two or three times more, but did not see her. After that she
gave up the attempt.
Anna was not ill, she told her aunts openly what was the matter; she
had been deceived and slighted--nay, more than that, she had been
robbed. What she meant by this last she would not explain for a long
time; she could not. She must be quite alone. They could hear her the
whole day walking about in the attic, and sometimes in the night as
well; they were terribly frightened, but did as she wished. They always
told her when they were going to have prayers, but she would never join
them; when she noticed their increasing astonishment and anxiety, she
at last told them that _that_ had been her greatest loss; for all that
she valued most she had shared with Milla. Not to speak of their mutual
profession, there was not a prayer, not a hymn, not a favourite passage
of Scripture which had not been exchanged between her and her friend,
as lovers exchange their betrothal rings, make presents to each other,
and kiss each other's portraits.
She could no longer bear to see, to be present, to hear or think any
more about the subject.
She did not cry, at all events not when any one saw her; little Anna
had a strong will. She looked on what had happened as one foe looks at
another. Her feelings did not take the form of _pain_, but of _anger_.
She hated the others, she pitied herself. The misapprehension she had
laboured under, up to the last hour of that last day when she stood
before Milla's door and heard the others laughing inside--could
anything more absurd be imagined! What had she not, in utmost
seriousness, shared with a girl like that, and the inward strength with
which she had credited her; there were no bounds to her sense of shame
when she thought of it, and yet she was obliged to think of it. She
forced herself to confess it to her aunts, she forced herself to probe
down into the most remote causes; it became an employment which brought
others in its train. She roused herself, began to stir about, to take
long lonely walks, and at last to read. At the end of three weeks she
returned to school, rather paler than usual and a little thinner, but
in all other respects, apparently, just as before. She did not take her
old place, but was still friendly with every one, even with Milla.
Milla made no further attempts at explanation, though it was not
perhaps without her knowledge that Tora did so. Anna listened to her,
and asked for a little yellow cotton; she would return it the next day.
She attended all the meetings of the Society most regularly; it was
evident that it interested her, but she took no active part.
Just before Christmas Rendalen was invited, on a suggestion of Nora, to
tell them something about Henrik Ibsen's "Ghosts." He refused this, but
asked leave to speak to them a little on hereditary responsibility; he
considered that in this, when it had been thoroughly worked out and
realised, were contained several new moral laws--indeed, that a
revolution would be caused by it in many things.
There was great eagerness over this; they looked forward to a quiet and
interesting account, but were given a wild though stirring lecture. The
girls were not less frightened by Rendalen's personal agitation than by
his words. At the end he shouted out that those who passed on an
hereditary disease to their children--those, for example, who had
frequent insanity in their families, and nevertheless, married; those
who, though weakened by debauchery, brought children into the world;
those who, for the sake of money, married cripples or unhealthy people
and endowed their children with these afflictions--were worse than the
greatest scoundrels, worse than thieves, forgers, robbers, murderers;
that he would maintain.
Something must have happened: for several days Fru Rendalen had gone
about with red eyes, and he himself had been away, probably to
Christiania. Anna came forward and thanked him for his lecture in her
own _pretentieuse_ manner; after he had gone, she said it was the best
she had heard. Only one person agreed with her, and that was Miss Hall;
the others said nothing, there was a painful silence. At last some one
said that the lecture appeared to her to be terribly violent. Little
Anna replied that people must be roused, everything was made into an
_amusement_. There was too much of that in the Society itself. This
caused still greater discord; Nora was annoyed, and asked if Anna would
not in that case do something to help it. Anna coloured, but to every
one's astonishment she replied: "Yes, she would try."
She disappeared from school for several days; but she announced that
she would give a lecture at the next meeting. She wished that Rendalen,
Fru Rendalen, and Karl Vangen should hear it; this was certainly not
hiding her light under a bushel, her companions thought. Of course the
invited guests came.
When little Anna arrived she looked overstrung, her hands trembled as
her thin fingers turned the pages of her manuscript and arranged the
lights on the tribune. Her voice and delivery were measured, sometimes
almost sharp; she did not often raise her large eyes, but when she did
so it was with a significance which was most irritating. She read her
lecture--the opening was especially pointed:
"Woman does not labour to improve herself in the same degree that she
expects man to do. She does not lay aside the failings which she
acquired when in another and worse position. I will this evening
mention one fault--lying. In her position as the weaker, woman has
accustomed herself to lying, but she is no longer so defenceless as to
need this. Thus I consider that in making herself appear so gentle, so
pious, so modest, so lovable before strangers, even if only one is
present, she lies. It is the same thing when, a straight course being
disagreeable to her, she at once takes a crooked one; she gives a false
reason, she makes excuses. If there is anything to be done which has
grown distasteful she pleads a headache; if any one calls whom she does
not wish to see, she is 'out,' though she is sitting in the parlour. It
does not disturb her in the least to make her servant, her daughter, or
her friend lie for her when she cannot do so herself.
"Some ladies, possibly a large proportion, have so accustomed
themselves to giving untrue reasons, or to concealing the real ones, to
making up excuses, that they do it without any necessity; they delight
in it as in a kind of coquetry.
"Would this were only in their relations with mankind, but it is the
same towards God. I will quote a writer on the subject; he says, 'It is
difficult to judge woman's religious faith so long as religion remains
her single intellectual interest; but when one sees a hundred, two
hundred, three hundred ladies round one fashionable preacher, one
suspects mischief. The easiest thing to think of is to allow oneself to
be guided by another's words; it is only a step further to be
enthusiastic about the preacher himself, easiest of all to feign an
enthusiasm which others feel.
"'The faith which has lost its ideals on earth, and therefore transfers
them to heaven, is certainly not so secure of a good reception there as
the clergy promise. As a rule, there does not remain much more than a
vague need.
"'There are besides many women who are very cautious; it is best to
make things safe for them and theirs. I often wonder what our Lord says
when they begin.'"
She quoted further, and many of the quotations aroused laughter. Karl
Vangen was especially amused. From this she passed on to woman's share
in societies for charitable objects; how the needs of the poor
furnished an excuse for gay dances ("the proceeds for the poor," as
they say); how amusing balls and even theatrical performances are
organised in aid of the sufferers from shipwreck or fire.
She described how a society such as this trifled with great questions
and raved about particular lecturers. Anna was severe, as young people
generally are when they take upon themselves to criticise.
When she left the tribune she did not grasp what was said to her; she
answered at cross purposes, or asked them what they had said, but
little by little she recovered herself; when she looked for Rendalen he
was gone.
She was utterly astonished; she slipped across to Fru Rendalen to hear
the reason. Of course, she had to begin by asking her what _she_ had
thought of it.
"Yes, my child, there is a great deal of right in what you say, but I
fear that you will all inflate it into something to be taken seriously.
Poor things, you will learn then to lie to some purpose. Few women can
take this seriously, my child, but they can affect to do so and
overstrain themselves as well--ah yes, they often become horribly
unnatural----"
At last, slowly and cautiously, came Anna's question, "Why did Herr
Rendalen go?"
"Heaven knows!" She sighed, looked towards the door where he had
disappeared, got up, and left the room.
Karl Vangen was talking to Tora; he now saw that Anna was disengaged,
and came up to her to say that he had been "very much delighted" with
some of the quotations; he knew the book. Karl Vangen had been on the
high road to become a fashionable preacher; happily he had escaped, but
the terror still remained with him. Anna knew this from her aunts, so
she had the secret key to his remarks. He believed entirely in woman's
religious convictions, he said, and did not quite agree with her.
She asked him his opinion in other respects. "I know so little about
women in other ways," he said, colouring slightly, "I dare not enter
into it."
As soon as ever the elders were gone, the enthusiasm of the girls broke
out. "Little Anna" was the eldest of them, a thing people very easily
forgot--she was so undeveloped in appearance. They had never thought
her capable of such an effort. "What a remarkable point of view! how
well expressed! and that by one of ourselves."
Nora and Tora were especially charmed. "That is just what we are, just
as untruthful, principally in little things of course. And how we play
with serious questions. We must have deeds as well, or if not deeds,
then----"
"Snuff," said somebody, and the whole party burst into roars of
laughter, but they began again: "It is true, Heaven knows it is true.
It must be altered; it is shameful to be as we are."
As a beginning they would all escort Anna home. Yes, they would! And so
they did, and the two crooked old aunts were startled out of their
sleep when, between eleven and twelve at night, they heard the swarm
buzzing before the house, and the call of "Good-night, good-night,
good-night," from twenty ringing girls' voices. And little Anna
herself! She had to go in and tell them what it was all about, but she
merely said they had come home with her. She could not say more just
then. She felt so uncertain. She had written this lecture with her
heart's blood; she had turned her bitterest feelings into an assault;
she had felt certain that she would be assailed for it, hated for it,
and lo and behold, she had been thanked for it over and over again;
nothing had been heard but exultation and praise.
She lay in bed, but could not sleep. Was it from pleasure? Was it from
fear? Or had she been for the first time moved by them? It was not
disagreeable.
At the same time more than one little head lay pondering what course
should be pursued. The impulse to take this seriously, to be terribly
truthful, must have nourishment, otherwise it would certainly die. And
they found something real to do!
Milla was in mourning; Milla could not go to balls this Christmas. They
would none of them go to balls this Christmas either. Yes, laugh if you
like, but it was unanimously determined upon. One does not desert a
friend in sorrow: not one of the Staff would go to a dance the whole
winter through. Milla felt flattered by so much sympathy, but---- "No
buts!" Immovable, unanimous determination.
And that should not be all, they would think of something more.
The young fellows of the town mourned over the loss of so many merry
young partners that Christmas, but all unavailingly. Indeed, it pleased
the girls that their absence was regretted.
As has been said, it was not to end here.
CHAPTER IV
ON THE STEPS
This union of the leaders among the girls, this real desire for
knowledge and independent thought, even if it had to endure criticism
and even a little derision, was still an incontrovertible proof that
the school was now on the high road to success. Even if there were
derision expressed in the town, there could be no doubt that every one
was struck by the decided, and above all intelligent, comprehension
which the superiority of the apparatus, experiments, and method aroused
in the scholars on subjects which every one understood, and which
belonged to the most special needs of life.
At home the girls overflowed with narrations and desire for
information, and constantly asked permission to buy materials for
experiments in chemistry and physics, microscopes, and historical
pictures which illustrated beliefs and habits of life through all ages.
There was no longer any comparison between girls and boys when energy
and information were in question.
This made the lesson hours happy; the great gatherings for "breakfast"
at twelve o'clock were feasts, and the pupils ran down the slope in the
afternoon without books, unburdened by lessons--free, free, free!
But the happiest of them all remained behind, Fru Rendalen and Karl
Vangen.
How Fru Rendalen hurried about with her spectacles awry, a habit she
had acquired in later years; it was like meeting a load of hay at
hay-harvest, it smells so sweet from such a distance, and one so gladly
stands aside to let the mighty, useful, close-packed object pass. Karl
Vangen was one constant smile; he had no time to leave off. He beamed
with delight if any one so much as looked towards the school, and would
tell, over and over again, all the little incidents which occurred
there: they were every one either remarkable or amusing.
It was only Tomas who was not quite in accord with them, but there
never was much "comfort" about him, if by that one understands
confidential intercourse, and even good temper. He either wanted tall
Vangen to "give him a back" out in the garden walks, or even sometimes
in the sitting-room, while he jumped over him as one boy jumps over
another; or he walked up and down, up and down, generally whistling,
with his hands in his pockets, till it made one giddy to look at him;
or else he would play the piano by the hour together. Sometimes he
worked for, and in, the school without intermission; or read a new book
regardless of any interruption; or he took endless walks or read aloud,
and amused himself with the girls as though they were all comrades; or
else he could not bear them, or the school, or anything which belonged
to it.
At such times his mother had to take the literature lesson for him,
Miss Hall the chemistry and physics, Nora the singing; he would not, he
could not.
Then he would come back again, brighter and happier than ever, and do
the work of two. His mother put this down as the result of all the
years he had lived without regular employment. If they had company he
did not appear at all, or else came and carried everything before him,
or came and sat silent. If he spoke to any one, it was "Yes, just so,"
"Quite right." And then he would leave the room and not return. Looked
at in a certain way, this showed genius: there was something of a
genius about Tomas Rendalen.
Before he went to America he had "discovered" a history teacher: he was
very great at "discoveries." She was called Karen Lote, and taught
needlework, writing, and drawing. Rendalen had noticed her acquirements
in the different kinds of drawing, and found out that the girl
possessed a by no means insignificant knowledge of history. "Extend
that into the history of civilisation," he said. He was never tired of
giving this advice. "Here at home the history of civilisation is worse
than meagre, and it is the only one which is worth anything in a
school."
He had then begun to make the large collection of historical pictures
which the school now possessed, and through these he captivated her
interest; he kept it, while he was abroad, by sending a number of these
pictures to her, as well as books and advice; and he was hardly home
again before he undertook the history lessons of the whole school to
explain to her what his ideas were; he sought to show development and
connection by a clear historical summary accompanied by maps and
pictures; he made it slight for the younger, and more elaborate
for the elder ones; only using details as characteristics. He made it
one-sided, but there was power and colour in its historical
representations. Karen Lote was captivated; the novelty of his
appearance, his opinions, his wonderful talent for teaching, his
inimitable way of making one believe there was nothing in the world for
him beyond what was before him at the moment; his exquisite taste in
dress, his well-ordered person, even the slight odour of delicate scent
which always followed him, all gave the girl a deep interest in him.
Nothing in the six-and-twenty years of her life had ever in the
slightest degree approached it. To think of being helped in her work by
him every day! The misunderstandings and persecutions which he went
through, and his sufferings under them, brought her feelings to a pitch
of enthusiasm. But she did not trouble any one with it. Then came the
time when he became the principal of the school. He would come and
listen to her teaching whenever he had a spare moment, share eagerly in
it, or go away without saying a word; remain away for a long time, then
come again every day, and take the whole lesson out of her hands; or
else walk up and down, up and down, and then remain away again.
Just before Christmas Karen Lote went to Fru Rendalen, and told her
that she could not stay a day longer in the school. If she merely heard
Rendalen's step in the passage she trembled; when he was near she could
not relate the simplest occurrence or give an explanation. "But why?"
He treated her with the greatest contempt; she burst into tears.
"Contempt?" Yes! either he continually interrupted her, took the whole
lesson away from her, or else he did not consider her worth correcting,
turned his back on her, did not bow, did not come at all. There was no
end to her complaints.
Fru Rendalen assembled the teachers and laid Froeken Lote's complaint
before them, convinced that it must be the most extraordinary
misunderstanding. But the teacher who had succeeded Froeken Lote as
drawing mistress assured her that if she had not had a mother to
support, she would have left long ago; she would not have borne his
continual corrections in the children's hearing; he was an unbearable
tyrant.
Everything must be done in one particular way, without the least
variation. He had made her so nervous that she trembled if she even
heard him in the passage. And she cried too.
The startled Fru Rendalen turned quickly to the others. "What could
this mean? The teachers of languages, her pupils from their childhood,
her friends, who through her help had improved themselves abroad, they
must speak." They felt sure that Rendalen had not the least idea that
he "set people right," and as little that he offended people by
interfering, so that the children noticed his immense air of
superiority, but all the same it was often very annoying. He was so
uncertain both with teachers and children, he never took things twice
in the same way, it was always according to his temper. The conclusion
which they all came to was that he was most unfit to direct a school.
Miss Hall herself, who otherwise had no complaint to make, agreed with
this.
Fru Rendalen implored them, for God's sake, to reconsider it; surely
they did not wish to ruin the school; she was much agitated, and said
that provisionally she would resume the direction. But they must not
let this be known. She broke down with all the violence which was
natural to her. The others were frightened, there was a touching scene;
they praised her son, one against the other; nay, any one who had not
heard what had gone before, would have believed that they were all
glowing with enthusiasm for him. After all, to form a wonderful plan
for a school, according to all the best examples of modern times, and
himself to be an exceptional teacher, was something quite different,
and a great deal more than to be an able principal. They and his mother
soon agreed over this, and consoled themselves with it as well as they
could.
But this school had been the object of Rendalen's life; if he were to
lose this there would be nothing left for him. From the time that
Augusta died, and he learned that it would be better that he should not
found a family, the idea of taking his mother's school, and making it
all that she had dreamed of, but had not accomplished, had been
betrothal, marriage, and the foundation of a family to him. He was
proud of it. This gave the intense energy to his early youth, to his
work, to his sense of right. It was the object of Karl Vangen's
unfailing admiration, the secret text for Fru Rendalen's conversations
and letters.
Notwithstanding this, temptations came, and his unruly nature did not
always emerge victorious from them, but each time he was seized with a
feeling of shame for his ideal, which amounted to dread--that awful
dread which his mother had felt while she bore him under her bosom. She
had often described this in vivid colours, but it was nothing compared
to what he had gone through; it had been terrible. This drove him back
to his mother's confidence, and made him hold that confidence fast.
There was sober earnest between these two, they had a common aim in
life. It might have been that he would have cast her, his aim of life,
and this dread to the winds, if his passions had concentrated
themselves on, or been seized by, any one person, for there was a wild
energy in him which would have made him cling closely to another; but
the hereditary restlessness in his nature mingled one impression with
another, his dread had time to come between them with ever stronger
force, and it became at last the most powerful of all. The aim of life
was saved. From the time that he had conquered, a dissatisfied feeling
developed itself; it had always been there; it reminded one of his
father's power of imagination, his love of perfection.
His studies were forced. Never one thing at a time, but one clashing
with the other. If the examination subjects had not in such a special
degree been necessary for him, he would never have passed one at all;
he was ready long before the time with some things, and was as much
behind with others. He was always in advance with the subject he was
full of at the moment, it was a link in a visible or ideal entirety. To
Karl Vangen, who knew his method of study, it was amazing what he
accomplished. It was the same thing with his intercourse with his
fellow-creatures; he often seemed to be inattentive, and yet he
received original impressions, but they were all on the same lines. He
saw images and demonstrations in any thing he was engaged in; not
people, but phenomena; not facts, but ideas. As long as Karen Lote was
learning his historical method she interested him deeply, but
afterwards not in the least; it was much the same with the other
teachers, excepting Miss Hall; her teaching was new, and he was eager
to see the result of it--first intellectually, then morally.
But _his own work?_ When the long restless rush about the world after
appliances and methods was over, after the plans for the school,
conceived years ago, and since then endlessly arranged and drafted,
were at last set going; especially after the rude resistance from
without was overcome, what was it that gradually came over him? Could
he not? Would he not? Was it no longer enough for him?
Everyone round him rejoiced in the school, his mother's delight in
especial was touching. "This is the school that I have dreamed of, my
son, my dear Tomas!" He heard it nearly every day, he thanked her and
kissed her for it, he needed it; but all the same.... As for teaching,
his principal talent, he could interest himself in making a thing
absolutely clear, and in having the main points properly remembered,
the most difficult ones understood; it could delight him to give a new
view of something to the elder pupils, or to direct their attention to
a question of the day. Whenever a problem presented itself, he would
take it up with patient ingenuity; beyond that there was nothing--no,
nothing! He realised his failings thoroughly, self-occupied though he
was; they harassed him more and more. There were times when he could
not endure the school. Then he felt himself without spirit, without
aspiration, without--he could almost have said without affection--if
his mother had not been there, and Karl as well; he was deeply attached
to Karl.
This was no longing for a wife and family, at all events in no special
degree; indeed, he felt no particular attraction to anything.
Was this the cause of his unhappiness--that he could not attach himself
firmly to any conditions? He had been able to do so as a child.
A man who has deliberated in this way from one day to another, and at
last, one evening, receives his mother's tears and lamentations because
the teachers can no longer endure him as principal, does not start up
as at something unexpected. Tomas remained at the piano, where he had
been seated when she came in; he touched it with one finger now and
then during her long and interrupted narration; he saw her despair and
concealed his own. He felt as though now he had nothing more to do
here.
He observed quietly that perhaps she had better resume the direction of
the school for a time; he went on strumming as he said this, as though
it had no further significance. She answered that she had already
promised them to-do so. He grew as white as a sheet. She hastened to
add, that of course only he could superintend his own plan; she begged
him to speak to the teachers at once; he never would speak to any one,
they entirely misunderstood him; he offended them by showing no
confidence in them, and he was not always considerate. Did he not like
them?
This was too much for Tomas; he flung himself down on the piano and
cried, got up hastily, put on his hat and coat and went out, heedless
of his mother's prayers to him to stay and talk it over with her, as
they used to do in old days. He could not do it; for there was
something in his mother's behaviour towards him which wounded him. When
he had come home she had received him with the greatest admiration,
everything he said and did was right; but after the lecture she began
to doubt. This had gradually increased, until now she put a note of
interrogation to everything he said. At the first complaint from the
teachers she had taken the school from him; and she could reconcile
this with her pride in his way of ordering it, and a crooning quiet
delight over its success.
Not that her doubt was greater than a practical understanding like hers
had perhaps a right to; he did not blame her for it, but he could not
bear it.
This affair with the teachers was dreadful. He really considered them
most excellent, none more so than Karen Lote, otherwise he would never
have troubled himself about her.
There must be something at the very root of his behaviour towards
people, which was terribly astray when he could be thus utterly
misunderstood. Perhaps his own feeling of emptiness and distaste arose
from the same cause.
These ladies had raved about him. They and the senior class, and....
Was that, too, nothing but a delusion, or was it past and gone?
"Raved about him." What is that? He drove it from him with contempt,
yet once it pleased and deluded him. He had believed it would always
continue.
No, he who would have the affection of others must show affection to
them. And he could not do it--in the way that others could.
After all that was not strange. His race had perhaps exhausted its
power of winning human affection.
Was not that the natural result when generation after generation broke
down mankind's precepts of fidelity, and flung aside man's good
opinion? The race itself had been ruined, as each one weakened himself
and his offspring--ay, and others and their offspring as well.
He walked into the country to the left--the same walk that he had taken
that spring evening after he had given his lecture. He recalled to his
mind how happy had been his return from America, how he had dreamed of
giving his countrymen an example which, if they would follow it, would
shine throughout the world. What was nobler for a small country than to
centre its greatest powers on the teaching of its children, to expend
its surplus there; let the great nations waste theirs on armies!
He remembered how it then delighted him to think that in this way the
sins of his forefathers might be expiated.
Everything on earth had been thus developed.
Awakening had come to the strongest races. Instinctively they had felt
their failings, and had sought to combat them by an admixture of fresh
blood. Everything, therefore, that is strong and good has some family
for its progenitor, whose sufferings have been the foundation of
its needs, its needs the foundation of its work; its work, its
self-command, the foundation of its discoveries--all gathering round
the original discovery. When the school should be alive with a hundred
young creatures; when sparkling eyes gazed upon the aim which he had
set up; when the elder ones among them, influenced by him, and in their
turn influenced others--hoisted their colours--it would be remembered
that they had lived in the house of one particular family, from that
family they would have received their instruction. It was _he_ who had
made the school.
But there lay an inherent weakness in its inmost recesses. The germs of
destruction lay in him who had built it up. He could not advance it
further. He did not possess the necessary long-suffering gentleness.
Plenty of foresight, energy, ambition, but--talents for war, perhaps,
but not for peace.
As he had walked along that evening after the lecture, sick at heart,
anxious--ah! how anxious! because the certainty of years had been
baffled, Karl Vangen had trudged silently by his side like a great
long-legged dog with honest eyes. He went the same way now, only it was
winter, and he was alone; he was ashamed to have any one with him. The
suspicion of insecurity which had shaken him the first time was now a
certainty. He could not go on--O God! he could not: he was a blight in
the school.
The snow in the fields had melted, but farther away it lay in patches,
looking ghostly in the moonlight. It still lay thick under the
fir-woods; and here and there on the road, which had frozen hard with
deep ruts in it, and small sharp stones and solid horse-dung. Where it
was bare, or partly bare, it was difficult to walk. He came back so
weary in body and mind that he never remembered to have felt more
tired. By the new churchyard, where his father and grandfather lay, and
where the sea washed up to the other side of the roadway, rolling and
black, he felt that a little might bring him into the one or beyond the
other--or perhaps to both--they were not incompatible.
It was past twelve, as on the night of the lecture; he would not go
home before he felt certain that his mother had given up waiting for
him. Under ordinary circumstances she went to bed between nine and ten.
But as he struggled up the avenue, he saw that there was a light in the
sitting-room; and as he got a little further, that there was one in
Karl's room as well. If he had not been so utterly weary he would have
turned back, but now things must go as they could.
His mother met him in the hall with a light in her hand. "Oh, Tomas,
how you have frightened me!" she whispered.
What did she mean by that? He looked at her; poor thing, she appeared
at least ten years older, with such red eyes--so upset, so miserably
overdone.
She began, "Tomas, just let us----"
"No, mother," he waved her away with his hand; "I am so fearfully, oh,
so fearfully tired." He went slowly across her room to the inner
passage without a good-night, without looking round.
She heard his step in the passage, heard him open the door of his room,
shut it, and turn the key on the inside! It always awakened memories,
that dreadful sound!
Why did he do it? It seemed as though he were shutting her away from
him.
As he was lighting his candle he heard Karl at the door between their
rooms. Tomas set down the candle, came out from behind the curtain, and
saw Karl's pale, anxious face looking in from the doorway.
Why had he and his mother sat up, each in their own room? Evidently so
that the mother should be able to talk to her son alone when he came
in.
Tomas flung himself on Karl's neck and sobbed violently. All that he
had held back, when he saw his mother, now found vent. Karl's firm
confidence in him was his chief support. That confidence was there now,
he could see it through all his distress precisely as he saw the light
streaming behind Karl's head and body in the doorway. It was dark
between them. "No, dear Karl, not to-night, I am so tired." Slowly,
noiselessly, Karl drew his long legs back again and shut the door
behind him. The door-handle was turned, oh, so gently.
Tomas went straight to bed, and slept at once and without interruption
through the night. When he woke, raised himself and looked at the
clock, it was past eight. The sorrows of yesterday, which had at once
rushed upon him, yielded before this proof of a long sound sleep.
"There cannot possibly be so much the matter as I believed, if I am not
worse than this." He jumped up. "There must be some other work in life
reserved for me, if this is not to be the one." He dressed himself
quickly, and while doing so determined to go away for several days. He
wished to consider, and to be calm while he did so.
This was all the information which his mother received when she came in
as he sat at breakfast. He sent a message to Karl, and left at ten
o'clock. This was not altogether disagreeable to Fru Rendalen. "He has
such sudden changes," she thought. "He will very likely return home a
different man." His great failing, of talking and acting according to
the temper of the moment, made her take this view, made her question
all he said. He was conscious of this now. He hated it.
This time, however, she was mistaken; he returned exactly the same as
he had gone away, only she noticed the first time that she talked to
him that he was a little bitter against the teachers: "ungrateful
asses," he called them. He had taught them more than it was in the
power of any human being to do who had not travelled as he had done,
and had his experience and reading; he would have nothing to do with
them. He annoyed them by his elegant courtliness. This amused him; he
was really dreadful with them. He resumed his teaching, with the
exception of the singing, which was given over to Nora, who was now
both pupil and teacher. He declared that she possessed the gift of
teaching in the highest degree.
"Perhaps he could interest himself in the school again," thought Karl,
"if there were a new staff of teachers." He spoke of this to Fru
Rendalen. She would try to find out, and began by talking to Tomas
about the observatory which they had arranged in a small way in the
tower. They had been obliged to stop for want of money. By next summer
she hoped to have the means to set it going.
"God knows where I shall be then," he answered, and hurried away. "If I
were to speak plainly to the teachers," thought his indefatigable
mother, "if I could induce them to beg his pardon." She assembled them
one day just before Christmas, and told them, betraying emotion as she
did so, that her son had repeatedly let fall remarks which showed that
he intended to go away. There was a movement of dismay.
Froeken Lote, on whom all eyes were fixed, at last broke the silence.
She had not meant it in that way, she had only meant--she had really
not meant anything--but she was so dreadfully nervous. She thought he
was not pleased with her. The drawing and needle-work mistress, a
clear-headed, tall, fair woman, coloured furiously. The Spenser method
of drawing which Rendalen had introduced was not clear to begin with,
she said, but he was always beyond her; but for all that she ought not
to have said anything, indeed she ought not. She began to cry.
The teachers all protested that they felt the greatest gratitude; he
had, of course, seen and heard so much on every subject, but it was
most embarrassing that he treated them like dirt beneath his feet.
Fru Rendalen took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on
again; pulled them off again, rubbed them, and put them on.
Well then, Miss Hall would say what was the matter. It was that he
treated everything and everybody so unevenly. This made the teachers
uncertain, and destroyed the children's sense of justice, and that was
almost the greatest loss that a child could sustain. She would so
gladly have spoken to Rendalen, said the little American, but he made
himself so unapproachable. To-day, too, she felt nervous.
This destroyed Fru Rendalen's plan; she did not know what to answer.
All further negotiations were meanwhile broken off.
A loud chorus of joyous girls' voices sounded from the steps, and they
all hurried to the window. It was Nora and her pupils. These last few
days before Christmas, the pupils had but few lessons to do, and
therefore had employed themselves in practising some part songs, the
practice always concluding out on the steps--one of Nora's many
fancies.
This gave such immense pleasure, that not only all the little ones, who
did not join in the singing, waited up there till the great moment, but
people would collect in the avenue. As soon as the girls came racing
round the corner in walking dress and mounted the steps, the crowd in
the avenue increased and drew nearer; Fru Rendalen and the teachers had
put on their things, and were now standing at the open windows. The
girls had arranged themselves from top to bottom of the steps; the
little ones, who did not sing, occupied the sides. Right at the bottom
stood Nora, with her fair hair turned back under the hood which was
always on the back of her neck.
She had adopted Rendalen's method of conducting--the only thing that
restless being did quietly; he merely moved his right wrist, and gave
the sign with his left hand. Nora carefully held her right hand in the
same place as he did, before her breast. She heard about it often
enough.
The song sounded grandly from the steps, the notes were powerfully
given. It might be, too, that the view before them heightened the
effect by its beauty; perhaps, too, "An Old Manuscript,"[2] which had
just been printed in a Christmas number, and which every third person
in the town, from twelve years old knew, at first, second, or third
hand, may also have enhanced it, for perhaps those dark voices from the
past were heard at the same time, and by the power of contrast made the
girls' song brighter, and the moment fairer.
Below them lay the town, with the harbour between the two points of
land; now that winter was here, full of ships from side to side. At the
head of the bay, along the clay banks, were all the workshops and the
great timber-yards. To the left, the mountain, with the crowd of houses
at the top, the boat harbour below, and out beyond the mountain and the
town, the islands and the open sea. Weather on the coast is uncertain;
generally, as they looked out, taking in the view as they sang, there
were either driving clouds or gleams of sunlight over the landscape, or
if it were peaceful and bright inland, it was threatening out to sea.
Perhaps this may explain why the girls generally chose melancholy
songs.
For the teachers as well as for the pupils, the singing on the steps,
from its first beginning, had been the glory of the school. If the work
from every class during every week in the year could have woven itself
into a thousand delicate threads, and fallen on them as crowns; if all
the fruitful incentives, small determinations, uncertain beginnings,
could have joined in harmony in those voices, the singing could not
have made them happier. As far as the teachers were concerned, perhaps
for the very reason that, at the same time, something had occurred to
pain them.
The elder girls, especially the members of the Society, looked upon
this time as one for exchange of thought. All those higher ideas which
one has in common with others, come to the front when there is singing;
all strivings after the ideal, have a natural relationship to
harmonised notes.
But he who felt it the most was one who had hidden himself behind a
closed window, because he would on no account be seen.
He saw Nora beating time, standing there in her light cloak, her hood
flung back on her neck.
The song, which sounded out over the town, the one which had first been
heard by Fru Engel's grave, contained, as it sounded from these girlish
voices, all that he wished for on earth.
How miserable it made him now! He tried, as a counterpoise, to remember
all that he had conquered before in many a hard struggle. It was
something to remember.
It was not an ordinary victory which he had achieved: was it to end in
sorrow? Would the singing soon cease, or sound again after he was gone?
He thought of his mother. It was he in reality who was "on the steps."
Was it to be in or out?
The whole troop tore away in merry groups down the avenue. The Staff
last of all, for Tora had something either to tell or propose; they
walked slowly, often pausing. Yes, that was what it all depended upon;
to be able to share one's joys and sorrows with others.
V
THE HUNT
CHAPTER I
Child or woman, which is she?
Hard to answer that will be.
Wouldst thou then a woman snare?
See a child in captive there!
And when thou bidd'st the child to stay,
A woman from thee flies away.
Spring had come betimes, and great rejoicing thereat rose, from all the
pupils, to the soft skies.
The spring was in their blood, bringing a restless feeling, a power of
invention, glorious plans, subdued noise, effervescing spirits in its
train; these were days when the whole school routine threatened to be
destroyed, and when orders seemed a mere joke. Much commotion, with
scoldings, smacks, increased attention, and many arts were required
before this small sphere could be guided through the dangerous region
of spring without too severe collisions and shocks.
Even the Society itself was shaken. It was not possible, when the trees
in the garden were bursting into leaf, to go off to the back premises
and pretend that there was something in a friend's composition on
ladies' modern dress. If the meeting had been held in the wood, they
might have allowed modern dress to roll about in the heather till it
was torn to pieces, or they could have hung it up in a tree. They could
have let the birds sing songs over it. Now they gave modern dress to
the deuce, it could all be learned from a fashion book; they simply
held no meetings.
Nora employed all her powers of persuasion, all her inventive genius,
in vain. A great event, however, occurred, also perhaps born of the
spring and spring impulses, and the Society recovered itself.
Miss Hall had energetically sought to lay some foundation, in the
senior class, for the lectures which she delivered to them on her
special subject. Both she and the eldest girls in the class had really
all been obliged to exert themselves. But a further result was, that
during this hard work they had gained confidence in the little lady;
everything belonging to women's constitution and health, and to the
tending of children, was spoken of with perfect openness. The mothers
kept up as long as possible an appearance of shamefacedness on behalf
of their children, who would not be shamefaced themselves. The fathers
helped their better halves in this; they were bashful to a degree. But
as the shameless maidens continued to acquire knowledge, this answered
no purpose.
As concerned the Society, this information, and especially this
confidence with Miss Hall, had the result that, by degrees, the woman
question began to be looked at in its physical aspect, and its real
foundations were sought there.
A book in our literature was again brought forward, which asserts that
the freedom which man allows himself before marriage, and sometimes
afterwards, destroys his character and woman's position, carrying
faithlessness and tyranny from generation to generation.
Karen Lote had, in her studies in the history of civilisation,
especially noted the history of the development of races. She knew now
that the compromise which was often proposed, of giving woman the same
freedom that man took for himself, would be a step in the wrong
direction, an unheard-of breach of development. She advocated strongly
that inviolable monogamy should be as sacred for men as for women. Miss
Hall took up the subject at the next meeting, from its physical side.
Can it be physically proved that man has stronger temptation than
woman, and therefore has a greater excuse? She declared, on the
contrary, that woman's temptation might be very much greater.
Notwithstanding which, the rule was that woman respected marriage in a
chaste life, while for man's part the rule might still be said to be
the contrary.
This aroused violent feeling.
Man had therefore here as well, used the right of the strongest for his
own advantage, but in reality with the result of rendering himself and
the community depraved. Woman, on the contrary, has in civilised
society, through hundreds of generations, only belonged to one man,
therefore she has an inherited power of remaining faithful. It follows,
of course, that man could gain this power as well.
During the conversation which followed the lecture, the excitement
increased; and in the course of the week so many thoughts had gathered
around this subject, that they had to fix an earlier date for the next
meeting.
For the first time since the institution of the Society, Tinka Hansen
spoke. The woman who married a man who had led an immoral life joined
herself in his guilt; she condoned the ill-treatment of her sex, and
was herself punished for it.
Did any woman persuade herself that a man who had accustomed himself to
such a life would give it up? At all events, they could not so deceive
themselves, who had during the last few years heard a series of
lectures which made it plain that habit is a nerve-question; not more
than one in a hundred can conquer a habit of his own free will; there
must, as a rule, be some hard necessity as well.
Tinka had, as usual, discussed the subject with Frederik; it was
therefore not surprising that, as she stood there, she had the
authority of two.
Rarely had such noise and commotion been heard since the institution of
the Society. From all sides came exclamations which clearly showed what
they felt, such as, "Fancy being kissed by a man who----! Fancy being
married to a man who----!"
Nora gave voice to these whispered expressions of disgust as she went
up to the tribune, and said that they must not separate that evening
without promising each other that _they_, at least, would do what they
could here to give woman responsibility and self-respect.
She had not finished speaking before they all stood up to express their
acquiescence.
Some days later they had another meeting: something had occurred to
divide their opinions.
It will be remembered that Tora was fond of telling fantastic fairy
tales, and romances scarcely less so; her favourite was "A Strange
Story," by Bulwer. Her little Augustus head--which was crammed with
ideas of rich stuffs, of sweeping garments, of foreign speech, and home
gossip, and every earthly vanity--delighted in the mysterious.
From a certain day none of her friends were allowed to hear a word more
on these subjects; only one, one single one, should henceforth see this
obscure side of her varied nature.
Was it because she wished to share this with but one alone, as girls so
often do; or was there a little sense of mystery here as well, that he
was the only one for whom this was suited?
Whenever, after this, she met Karl Vangen, whether they were alone, or
if twenty were present, she always contrived that they should converse
in whispers. Her friends were greatly astonished. What on earth had she
to whisper about with the parson? He had recently lent her a book about
John Wesley, which she devoured, as she did all books, and they had
many conversations about his sudden conversions. People who came under
the spell of his looks, his words, his presence, yielded to them at
once, and were his from that moment. John Wesley came of a long race of
clergymen, both on his father's and mother's side; naturally this had
in a high degree strengthened his faith and power of preaching. It was
like an electric shock, certain natures could not stand against it.
How this was made to lead up to the Kurts, who interested Tora
immensely at that time, is her secret; but honest Karl began at once to
speak with animation of Tomas's struggle to free himself from the Kurt
inheritance. There had been an infusion of new blood into the family
before, and a struggle against its sins; but Tomas Rendalen's bringing
up and the struggle he had gone through, were worthy of his energetic
character.
Vangen asked her confidentially if she had not noticed Tomas's
neatness, his careful toilette? If she had perceived the slight, hardly
perceptible, odour of a delicate and very expensive scent? It always
followed him. He was always washing and bathing, added the young
clergyman, blushing; most people believed that this arose from vanity,
and vain he certainly was; but could she not guess what it meant? Tomas
Rendalen had gained in the course of his struggle the same need for,
the same sacred feeling about, cleanliness with which girls are born.
For him all cares for the body; dress, scent, were a species of service
for the temple; just as it is to young women, when they have the means
and time to perform it.
Some remarks of Tomas had made him understand this; he was certain that
such was the fact. But it was curious that it should take that
particular form, was it not? Perhaps it was because he had been brought
up among girls. What did she think about it? Karl Vangen hazarded this
conjecture with great bashfulness. For some reason or other, it was of
great importance that she should understand at once that a man might be
an excellent member of society, without being exactly a dandy, and
using scent.
From that moment Tora Holm had one more person to rave about, added to
her rich collection!
Now she persuaded herself that she understood Rendalen's theory of life
and work among them. She did not understand, or rather did not think
about, the reasons for his restless moods, his want of steadfastness;
her image of this "energetic" nature was not disturbed by them. She
loved him. There was no other word for it. There was nothing that she
would not do for him if she could, and it was thus that she expressed
herself, first to her dearest friends, then to her next dearest, then
to those next to them. With unflagging energy the same story, to the
same tune, was repeated for the twentieth time to the last of her chain
of friends before the next day was past. Such enthusiasm was
infectious; those who had not raved about Tomas Rendalen before, raved
about him now. Notwithstanding the red hair, the freckled skin, the
broad nose, and pale screwed-up eyes, the absence of eyebrows, the
restless expression--he was an ideal man! He damped their ardour a
little when he came into the classrooms and strode past the forms,
without looking at a single one of them; or when he hastily pitched
upon something which interfered with the lesson, with such violence as
to make them jump! for he was not to be trifled with! He nevertheless
became their ideal again as soon as he was gone, or, better still, if
he were in the humour for teaching, and stayed and took part in it, in
his clear energetic style. He had not his equal then.
But just because there was one Tomas Rendalen, it naturally happened
that some of the weaker natures began to reflect: "Good heavens, he is
only one, and there are so many of us." Yes, there was the question. We
will not say who they were, or how many there were, who began to feel
this doubt. The question is the smallest part of the affair; it is the
answer which is the serious matter. The answer! For we may as well
confess, soon as late, that some of the girls had gone a little beyond
themselves that evening, when they all said "yes" to Tinka Hansen's
high-minded views and Nora's proposition. These ones acknowledged
afterwards that when one came to think quietly about the one whom one
almost loves, or at least would willingly be loved by, and even if one
knows that he has already ... Yes, the old Kurt town was a terrible
place for scandals.
One at last begins to doubt the sincerity of these expressions. Might
not the young man in question, no matter what he had done, be depended
upon, when he had promised _her_ anything? And when she had made him a
promise in return, of course he might! He would be a good boy, that he
would, if only she got hold of him. One cannot live upon grand
theories.
There were some, however, who considered that this was treachery; they
were very angry and a new meeting was called. Those who had dared to
change their opinions since the last meeting were called upon to
explain themselves. For a long time no one would do so, but at last a
courageous dark-haired girl declared openly that it seemed to her that
they had gone too far the last time. "If all men were--as one could
wish them to be--well, then. But they are not so by any means. So what
is to be done? That is just how we stand."
"And so we will stand," was the answer. This heroic response elicited
another in its turn, so that two parties were formed, with a third set
of moderates; no one felt certain about these last, as is often the
case with a third party. Tinka Hansen (and Frederik) and all who agreed
with her and him ("The Frederikers," as they were called), were for
absolute equality between the sexes. Infidelity ought from henceforth
to be condemned equally severely--no matter whether man or woman were
guilty of it. Miss Hall was the only one among the teachers who took
part in this debate, and she was a very enthusiastic Frederiker.
According as our knowledge becomes more acute, she declared, the
punishment of unchasteness should be the same for the two sexes.
Neither ought this sin to be any longer held up as a special accusation
against women. Those who made the distinction that woman's offence
injured the home, while man's injured another home, another's wife or
daughter, must for very shame hold their tongues.
Miss Hall brought this forward at least twice, for there was no answer
made to it. The opposite party entirely put that on one side. They
repeated over and over again that a man might be excessively worthy
even if, things standing as they did at present, he had offended in
this particular. Only notorious immorality made a marriage impossible.
The Frederikers were scandalised at this "light-minded" talk. That was
to open the door to the extension of immorality. They made use of such
strong expressions, that the others became angry. There was a perfect
hubbub; every one talked, no one would listen.
This was on a Thursday. The following evening, "The Staff" was
assembled in Milla's room. They had begun on the same subject, but by
degrees had wandered back to Rendalen, who was still of more unfailing
interest than the other. Tinka was imitating Rendalen's handwriting on
a large sheet of paper. The others watched her efforts with attention,
his large handwriting was just the opposite to his careful toilette; it
was all run together without any division, each letter and each word
absolutely joined on to the others. Tinka's caricatured attempts were
like so many embroidery patterns. She wrote: "I can bear it no longer;
meet me in the market-place at nine o'clock." She wrote it as a
commentary on what they had been talking about--namely, how delightful
it would be to receive such a letter. She wrote this closely across a
whole sheet of letter-paper. She decorated one sheet after another in
this fashion.
Who was it who first proposed what now followed? They never could agree
upon this afterwards. _One_ thing is certain, that Milla alone raised
any objection, but it was so feebly and laughingly made, that it might
well be taken for the opposite of what it purported to be. Each one of
them took charge of a note on Saturday morning; one was put into Karen
Lote's cloak, one into the pocket of the drawing mistress's long faded
blue wrap, the third and fourth were slipped down, one into Miss Hall's
mantle, and the other into that of one of the teachers of languages.
The letters were not signed, the envelopes open and bearing no address;
the request was written in so extravagant a style that the whole might
pass for a joke, but that was just where the temptation lay. For, on
the other side, it could not be denied that the hasty writing could
very easily be mistaken for Rendalen's style when he was worried and in
a hurry to finish.
At nine o'clock on Saturday evening the last of the worthy townsfolk
came home from their romantic evening walks on both sides of the town,
looking so peaceful and inoffensive that not even a cat could have
suspected treachery. Most of them went soberly across the market-place
into the town. At this time, too, the boarders who had been out in
search of amusement in the town were returning disappointed up the
avenue. It had been calculated that if the Staff could join one of
these parties, they would be free from suspicion while they watched
their snares. Of course they were all four there; they met several
ill-humoured friends from among the boarders a little way down, and
joined company with them.
They arranged it so that they should not cross the market-place till
just at the time named. And truly, gracious powers! At the top of the
marketplace, just a little to the right of the avenue, at that moment
appeared _Karen Lote_; no one could mistake her erect figure, her grey
cloak, and the feather in her hat. The four had so little expected to
meet _her_, that if the boarders had not been so sulky and tired, they
would have noticed their embarrassment. Could it really be Karen Lote!
She turned back to the left; it was patent to all the world that she
had come here to wait for some one.
They looked from her to each other; they did not laugh, they did not
make a sign--they were frightened.
But there was a revulsion of feeling when they saw the tall drawing
mistress come swinging across, and turn into the avenue. She came
quickly towards them; she had been given an appointment there at the
same time.
Milla crept behind Tora; Tora would gladly have got behind some one;
they had to find some excuse to account for their laughter. As the
drawing mistress passed them, hurried and excited, they had just
contrived to push Tinka into a ditch, which fortunately was dry.
And now they were eager to spy on the two other traps. They went up
into the boarders' rooms, whence they could see out over the courtyard;
they had given Miss Hall a rendezvous behind the gymnasium, but, unless
she were standing absolutely still behind it, she had not come. It did
not fare much better with their flight across the garden towards the
right, where they had given the language teacher rendezvous; they met
her, certainly, coming down the path, but it was with several others;
running quickly up from the wood, she never so much as looked round. If
she had read the letter, she had taken it as a joke. The four girls
slipped through the garden-gate and along the same way; they did not
want to meet Karen Lote again.
Something, however, had happened a few hours before, which if it had
not been stopped would have brought the whole affair to light, in which
case not one of the four would ever have set foot in the school again.
On her return from her walk at about six, Miss Hall, very nervous but
very determined, had asked to be allowed to speak to Herr Rendalen. She
gave him the letter directly he came in. He took it, read it, held it a
little way from him, and began to laugh; and when she took it
seriously, he laughed still more, quite uncontrollably at last. Ten
minutes later he received a note from Miss Hall, in which she informed
him that she should leave by the next steamer. On this he rushed off
for his mother, whom he found at last in the cow-house. He explained
the whole matter contemptuously to her, declaring that Miss Hall must
be mad. Fru Rendalen at once went to her. Miss Hall was greatly
exasperated; she cried, and gave confused, hasty explanations, while
Fru Rendalen pulled off her spectacles, and rubbed and rubbed them; she
could not comprehend it in the least. Perhaps, if we were to talk
English, she thought; but it all remained as obscure as ever. Plainly
and shortly, what was she angry about? Why did she wish to go? What had
happened? What redress did she demand?
She demanded that the culprits should be _punished_.
Nothing more than that! They both set off to the boarders' room, which
was now empty; they began to search through the exercise books,
portfolios, bookshelves; they wished to find out who it was who was so
abominable as to copy Rendalen's handwriting. From thence they went
into the class-rooms. That of the senior class stood just as it had
been left; for the cleaning day for this room was Thursday, and the
evening sweeping had not yet been done. There they carefully collected
all the bits of paper which had been thrown away, straightened them
out, and examined them; they peeped into exercise books, lesson books,
and desks. They must find out who the unhappy person was who imitated
Rendalen's handwriting.
_They all did it!_
As soon as the fact became clear that every senior girl in the school
had been occupied with _Rendalen_ and _Rendalen_, and again _Rendalen_,
Miss Hall gave in; at last they both left the schoolroom--neither of
them said a word to the other.
Miss Hall never said anything more about it. But Fru Rendalen talked it
over with Karl Vangen. His discourse on Monday had for its subject how
wrong it was to do to others, what they would not like others to do to
them. This was often the case with young people, "who found great
pleasure in discovering the weakness and tender points of others, and
playing upon them."
The four dare not look up, but they gave side-glances at the drawing
mistress, who chanced that day to be sitting near the laboratory table,
facing the others. She rested her long arms on it. Her hands toyed with
something standing there, which she looked at intently; but tear after
tear rolled down her cheeks, without her making an attempt to dry them.
She was quite absent.
All four girls noticed it, and when at the third recreation she was
still inconsolable and cried as much as ever. Nora could bear it no
longer, but drew her into one of the rooms, and with her arms round her
neck whispered, "Pardon, pardon, pardon:" she did not say for what.
They gave each other a confidential hug--regret, sympathy,
shamefacedness all mingled together. The poor girl, whom they had
befooled out of her most precious secret, was comforted at last by such
boundless repentance, such thorough comprehension, such heartfelt
devotion.
The same day Tora and Tinka heard what Nora had done; they wanted to do
the same, but she forbade them; the poor girl must not on any account
know that there was more than one who knew her secret.
Karen Lote was ill; Rendalen had to take her place, and give some of
his work to Miss Hall. All three felt that Karen Lote must not be
approached by any one.
How could they have thought of anything so disgusting as what they had
done! And that, too, in the midst of serious discussions on woman's
position, on woman's honour and responsibility.
Milla would not talk to the others; at school she held aloof, and when
any one went to see her at home, her door was fastened. They all felt
as though a storm were brewing.
That Milla should hold back from them as though _they_ were the guilty
ones and not she, Nora would not endure; one day, therefore, they all
surrounded her, and asked for an explanation. Milla was offended and
tried to get away, but it did no good. She then told them that they had
led her into doing what was not right, and she would have nothing more
to do with it. The only answer she got was from Nora's great eyes, but
she reddened under them. Of course she had taken part in what had been
done, she did not deny it; but she did not wish to feel as ashamed of
herself again as she had done during the last few days. The others
asked if she thought they had been less ashamed than she?
Milla now told them, with a slight air of superiority, that in her
first fright at Karl Vangen's discourse, she had asked her father if
she might accompany him when he went to the South German Baths. He had
consented with great pleasure. She could not draw back now, they were
to start in a few days.
At first, all the friends felt Milla's coldness in having proposed to
go away without telling them. But Milla now felt this herself, for she
altered her demeanour from that moment, and tried to do away with the
impression. It was _she_ now who was most amiable about everything.
When the drawing mistress appeared in a very pretty cloak and hat,
without any one being able to find out who "the kind friend" was from
whom she had received them, it was at once clear to the three friends
that they came from Milla. She denied it certainly, but that was all
the nicer of her. So the short resentment changed on both sides to a
closer friendship during the few days that she still had with them. Her
father gave a "farewell dinner," the great event at which was the
unveiling of a cake, on the top of which four sugar girls held each
other with fingerless hands as they danced round a red flag with
"Emancipation" on it; round the plinth was written "The Society." But
derision was useless. This same Society gave a farewell entertainment
to Milla the next day. All good spirits hovered over this, their last
meeting, with its many short speeches, its music and songs--over its
whole tone.
A girl of a serious turn of mind recalled that all the pleasure that
they had had together during their school year had been begun beside
Fru Engel's grave; it was closing with Milla's farewell entertainment.
Milla was touched, quite overwhelmed; she declared that she was
altogether unworthy, she did not deserve the kindness which they showed
her; she was not all they thought her.
Tora came up and embraced her, and they all felt that this was genuine.
Tora was grateful for the happiest days of her life; she whispered this
to Milla, which had a good effect. They ended by seeing Milla home; she
took Tora's arm. "Bad times are beginning for me," sobbed Tora.
"But I shall come back again, Tora."
Tinka scolded her for her extravagant way of speaking, it was making
the whole thing into a caricature and an absurdity; but this was not
the first time that Tora had done so.
When they said good-bye before Milla's door, Tora ran after her up the
steps and into the hall; she was never satisfied. When inside she took
out a box which Milla knew at once--it contained her one ornament; she
had inherited it from her uncle, who had brought it in his youth from
California. It was some pieces of rough gold made into a heavy chain, a
beautiful piece of work; she pressed it into Milla's hand; she had
never worn it herself. But Milla would not think of taking it from her,
she did not know how she could justify herself to her father if she
were to do so; she refused it decidedly, coldly at last, so that Tora
was vexed and ran off. But Milla fetched her in again, held her tightly
in her arms, and kissed her. Did she not believe that Milla realised
what a great thing it was which she wished to do? But it was a matter
of conscience for Milla to say no. They must not part in this way; Tora
should stay with her, she should stay the night there. And it was so
settled. When girls are really fond of each other, they love to sleep
together.
The others, who had remained outside, waited a while. As Tora did not
rejoin them, they walked on a little way; they were annoyed with her.
They all returned, however, and came quietly through the garden-gate
and past the office. A little while afterwards the two friends up in
the bedroom heard a subdued chorus of girls' voices under the window,
led by Tinka's contralto: they sang "Sleep in peace."
The curtain was half raised; they saw two figures in white; two
heads--one dark, one fair-looked, nodding and laughing, out.
The whole school was down at the customhouse the next day; Fru
Rendalen, all the teachers, male and female, every one--with the
exception of Anna Rogne, who had not been at the meeting the previous
day.
There was universal crying, and kissing, and admiration over Milla's
travelling dress. The little ones thought they must join in; they could
not cry, but they could kiss. First one little mouth was offered, then
two, then five. At last they all insisted on being kissed by Milla, and
then sprang back tittering.
The stewardess had all the vases in the cabin, and some dishes as well,
filled with flowers. She really toiled over them. Tora, her eyes red
with crying, had come with Milla and Consul Engel, and had been the
object of all the latter's attentions, but she now kept quite in the
background. Milla had to look for her to press her hand for the last
time, to give her a last kiss. As the steamer swung round and left the
quay, the slender black figure waved her handkerchief to her friends,
her veil, which had become loosened, waving with it. In a moment the
whole quay was white; the little ones in front, the elder ones behind
them, all waved their handkerchiefs. From the steamer, it looked like
the foam from a waterfall dashing down into the sea.
CHAPTER II
IN THE DOVECOTE
One morning in the gymnasium, when the senior class was practising
rather reluctantly because the weather was splendid, and two panes were
open in the big window that looked towards the mountain, letting the
air pour in, laden with the scent of trees and flowers;--one morning in
the gymnasium, just as Miss Hall had joined them, and had, as usual,
interrupted the ordinary practice by taking away a few of the pupils
for special exercises;--one morning in the gymnasium, when, as the
result of all this, some of the girls had gone over to the window for a
moment to give a glance at the hundreds of fruit-trees in full blossom,
whose dense masses like an amphitheatre covered the opposite hillside
with a single thick crown;--one morning in the gymnasium, when these
same girls could not utilise the moment as fully as they wished,
because a number of impertinent young trees had that year shot up in
such a marvellous manner, that it was impossible to see the glory of
the hillside, except where these young trees allowed it; nay, worse
still, the trees attracted the bees from the hives on the right, and
they were more impertinent still, for they buzzed in at the open
window, and frightened the girls when they were trying to see out
between the trees;--one morning in the gymnasium, just as all those
small labourers in the garden, who in lieu of steel spades, hoes, or
forks, use their own small legs, who begin their work at sunrise so as
to end betimes, working by no forced contract, but also with no
supervision or inspection, through the whole summer and autumn, they
and their wives and children feeding at Fru Rendalen's expense, friends
with all, except the cat;--yes, one morning in the gymnasium, just when
all these tiny workers--oh, hundreds of them--gathered from all parts,
rising high in the air to settle down again and hide themselves in the
bushes in every direction, the girls stood looking on in wonderment.
All at once the trees in the wood bowed their heads, and deeply bowed
those to the left, in front of the garden, while sand and seeds whirled
up in a menacing cloud; a sudden squall from inland had come over the
hill, and without warning drove across from right to left. Almost
before it had reached the garden it was no longer the trees, but the
wind which possessed the blossom; every single petal of every opening
flower was lifted up, strewn far and wide, and carried away lighter,
more lively than the snowflakes, for these are attracted by the earth.
Millions and millions of flower wings--a flashing, whirling atmosphere,
as of white butterflies, through which patches of green appeared like
islands in a sea of cloud, like islets in a mirage.
The girls screamed with delight, shouted, and clapped their hands, all
exclaiming as this marvel was driven gleaming across the garden.
From the wood came a darker shower in pursuit of it, following the same
course; it soon reached the place where the glittering petals had
passed; its track was narrower, but its rush heavier and more rapid.
The girls rushed towards the great door, which was half open; they
wanted to follow the bright moving mass, the fugitives from the
fruit-trees. They forgot that they were in gymnasium dress--besides, at
the back of the house it did not matter; they screamed, they jumped.
Just then the door was pushed right open from outside; on the steps
stood a young man in white trousers and a naval uniform coat and cap.
He laughed and bowed, he bowed and laughed. It was Niels Fuerst.
Behind him, down in the courtyard stood Kaja Groendal, who wore a light
hat and carried a violet parasol. She looked remarkably smart. She
laughed too.
"Is not Elisa here?" asked Fuerst. No one in either of the senior
classes was called Elisa, no one knew any Elisa in the whole school.
"No, not Elisa," he said; "Olava!" There was no Olava in either of the
classes. "Olava?" No one knew any Olava in the whole school. He was
sure that they all took it for a joke. He looked at them in their
gymnasium dress, turning from one to another. He had both hands full of
flowers, he had to put the ones he held in his right hand against his
breast and press them with his left arm when he wanted to raise his
cap. Fru Groendal was carrying flowers as well; they had evidently just
bought them, and having heard that the senior classes were at the
gymnasium at that moment, he had wished to see them. "Pardon," he said;
"perhaps she was called Petrea, or it may be that she was not here at
all." He raised his cap, his light curls seemed to laugh with him, and
the girls all laughed till the walls of the gymnasium re-echoed. He
sprang down. Fru Groendal turned and went with him; as they passed round
the corner he nodded back at them.
The laughter of the girls sounded round and round the lofty building.
They were most of them in a state of excitement, they kept running to
each other, asking questions without waiting for an answer; if three of
them were standing in a group, others joined them; if some were
laughing more than the others, they all rushed in that direction. Two
began to dispute, and the dispute increased; one or two more joined in,
then several others, all of them at last: the dispute was about the
disturber of the dovecote who had been at the door.
Tinka was one of those who was disputing. She was simply shocked at his
shamelessness; she looked round for supporters. She thus caught sight
of Tora, who was sitting on a bench by the door, as white as a sheet.
Miss Hall was attending to her. Tinka sprang across, calling as she did
so, "What is the matter?" "What has happened?" Tora had continued her
gymnastics by herself, for she had become an enthusiastic gymnast, and
pursued a special system. As she was at the height of her practising,
she caught sight, through the half-open door, of a pair of little birds
which were flitting backwards and forwards about a bush. Was any one
under the bush? Had they a nest there? Was it only their usual antics?
Then she saw Kaja Groendal's light dress come between her and the bush,
a large bouquet and a parasol instead of the birds; a young man in
naval uniform, with his hands full of flowers. She did not know him.
Kaja just then caught sight of her, and either Tora imagined it or she
really did say, "There she is!" The officer looked at Tora and kept his
eyes intently fixed on hers, his eyes both laughed and stabbed. Kaja
Groendal tried to hold him back and then fell behind, but he kept
advancing, did not even stop at the steps, but came up them and still
on, without removing his eyes a single moment from hers. She could not
move. The noise by the window, the squall, which lifted Fru Groendal's
veil and threatened to turn her parasol inside out, the waving of the
bushes, the whistling in the trees; she saw, she heard, but as if at a
great distance. She could not properly understand it, she could not
put it together; a strange weakness came over her, especially in her
knees--they would not support her.
Just then the girls screamed out, and the whole group flew by to the
door, while he pushed it quite open with his foot. She felt as though
she were breathing fresh air, as though some one were supporting her
trembling limbs; but so long as he stood there she could not go away,
although she longed to do so; she _must_ stay.
It was not until after he had gone that she tried to find the bench,
and only when she sat down did she begin to feel ill. She tried to
struggle against the feeling; Miss Hall came to her, and now Tinka as
well; and when Tinka asked what it was, firmly and decidedly, it helped
her--she was able to cry. The others came running up, but they became
quiet at the sight of the deadly white face. They did not ask a single
question.
"She has been doing her gymnastics too violently," whispered Miss Hall.
"She does everything so energetically," added Nora kindly, sitting down
beside Tora, and drawing her head towards her.
The others went away; Miss Hall asked them to do so. One could hear in
the little room, where they changed their dress, the sound of their
returning merriment--one heard them go away, group after group.
Although the dinner-bell was ringing, Tora sat there, with Tinka on one
side and Nora on the other, and Miss Hall in front of them. Tora had
spoken to them several times, and assured them that she was well again
now. They all three believed that she had worked too hard at her
gymnastics--she believed so herself; but she said, "Oh, what an ugly,
horrid man!"
The others looked at each other: "Do you mean Niels Fuerst?"
She did not answer at first: "So that was Niels Fuerst?"
A little time afterwards she shivered as if from cold, but she did not
give any further explanation. She understood what had happened so far
as that the gymnastics had been the cause of it. That, being weakened,
he had had a singular influence upon her. She would not say a word
about it.
Miss Hall now went away. The two others sat there still: Tora asked
them to do so. It was so nice to hold their hands.
CHAPTER III
SEPARATED FROM THE OTHERS
By the next day Tora had heard that Niels Fuerst said she was "out and
away the handsomest girl he had seen in Norway." She would not believe
it at first, but she heard it on all sides during the next few days.
The next time she met Kaja Groendal she told her the same thing. Tora
knew her through Milla, and always spoke to her. She had so far
recovered her usual flippancy that she answered that, "If Lieutenant
Fuerst had not such bad taste, it would have been embarrassing for the
rest of the Norwegian girls."
The summer came in with great heat; every one who could, went into the
country, to different places on the coast, or up to the houses on the
mountains. As soon as ever the school closed they were off; only a few
of the poorer ones remained behind, and Tora among them. Nora went to
the Baths with her mother; Tinka's relations were well to do, and had a
country house. Anna Rogne was in the town; with Rendalen's help she was
preparing herself for the post of history teacher in place of Karen
Lote, who was leaving the school. But Anna was not easy of access, more
especially for Tora, on account of her friendship with Milla. Even
when, for all that, Tora did go to see her, she found her so occupied
and anxious (she was to take the junior classes after the holidays)
that Tora became tired of her. Tora was now again living down at the
Point with her mother (her father was never mentioned), where she
shared an attic with two of her sisters. She lived in a hurry-scurry
and disorder, and had a feeling of self-reproach and disgust for
herself, which she shook off whenever she could cross the ferry and run
up into the wood above "The Estate," or along the road to the right
from the market-place, to the "Groves." This was a pleasure-ground in
the wood near the road, a large open space with a number of small
"groves"--that is to say, levelled patches, sometimes with benches and
tables; an elaborate network of paths went in and out among them.
One Saturday afternoon she wished to go there to listen to the band,
but on the way to the Froeckener Jensens, where she was going to try to
get a companion, she met Kaja Groendal; she had come into the town to
meet her husband, but he had not arrived. "Would not Tora come back
with her instead? The steamer left in an hour's time."
Tora had a great weakness for invitations. Within the hour she was back
again with a large hat-box, in which she had put her night-things and a
white dress.
The next morning, Sunday, she was standing on the terrace before the
Groendals' little country house. On her right were all the flowers from
the house, which had just been brought out to have the benefit of the
rain--as yet it was only wet fog; behind the garden, on the right, it
was drifting among the fir-woods; she could see the nearest trees and a
little of the bare hillside lower down towards the sea, a faintly
gleaming strip of which, was also to be seen. The fog lay very low,
there was not a breath of wind. She could hear the steamer, which had
just whistled, away to the left where the pier was; now she could see
her passing quickly--a vague outline, a thicker, darker, moving
cloud--through the white fog. She did not concern herself further about
her, but looked towards the path which led up from the landing-place
between this garden and the next. Just opposite was a low yellow
railing, a very handsome one, of cast-iron; behind it, some old trees
in a garden blotted out by the fog; there, she knew, stood several
houses which she could not see from here. One of them was the
Wingaards', where there was to be a party to-day.
Who would she meet there? She stood and thought about it. Fru Wingaard
had been a Fuerst; would Niels Fuerst be there? She stood thinking. He
was in the reserve fleet, which was lying in the Channel.
Why should he not come? It was Sunday; why should he not bring several
of the officers with him?
If Tora had known this before she went on board the steamer yesterday,
would she have come? She asked herself the question to-day. Directly
she had heard it she had felt a trembling sensation, she felt it at
times again to-day; but the disagreeable feeling was gone, oddly
enough, she thought. Did she really wish to meet him? She did not want
to be disturbed by him--no, nor yet to be looked at as she had been
before. But to see him, to be seen by him, if it should so chance? Yes,
she did wish that--she wished it very much.
When she went along the terrace, to the steps which led up from the
left, she could see quite into the sitting-room, and also, in a
looking-glass, whether the door of the inner room, where Fru Groendal
slept, was open. No, it was still shut; so she went back to where she
had been before.
She could still follow the steamer--that is to say, a dark moving cloud
among the fog which hung on every side. The balustrade of the terrace
was wet; she dried her hands, forgot, and put them on it again.
She need not have brought the white dress; it was fine rain now. The
birds enjoyed the damp, they were singing all round her. Trees,
flowers, and grass enjoyed it too.
She noticed their different scents; one of these carried her thoughts
far, far away to a country house near Havre, close by the sea; clear
blue air, ships, steamers, a long strip of sand, the lazy wash of the
waves upon it; close to the sea a country house, low and grey; there
they lived. The narrow gate into the garden was open; she stood there
on a stone bench, in a short frock and with bare arms; she could see
herself in the long striped stockings which she had admired so much the
first time she had put them on; she peered over the hedge, and the
scent of the flowers was wafted to her again and again, just as it was
now. It was nearly evening, her uncle would be coming from the town.
The path through the gloomy orchard was gravelled--she heard his step.
Here to the left, in the fine rain, she saw an immense umbrella and
white trousers below it. It was not raised enough for her to see who
was coming; even now, when the garden-gate had to be opened, it was not
lifted, it was only held more forward; but she knew now that the step
on the gravel was coming, not towards the country house at Havre, but
here; it was not her uncle, but----?
The umbrella was raised, its owner stood inside the garden. A dark
coat, a straw hat, and a very puzzled face were seen; she felt
something of the uneasiness from which she had thought herself free,
but as he looked at her it passed off; just the reverse of what had
occurred the last time.
He had evidently not expected to see a dark lady on the terrace,
perhaps no one at all, so early in the day. But it was by no means
disagreeable to him; he smiled and raised his hat, there was nothing in
his eyes to-day which hurt her. He paused at the steps, the umbrella
lay on his right shoulder while he laid his left arm on the balustrade
and leaned against it. That was a well-formed hand with the signet-ring
on it. He was slight and active; his head was noticeable for three
things; a nervous sensuous mouth, which was constantly moving, the lips
twitching backwards and forwards, in and out, as though moved by a
string--the lips themselves being short and full; a pair of large eyes,
roguish and gentle, though they stabbed when he put his head a little
backward and half shut them: excessively curly hair of a golden colour,
and long reddish whiskers. As he leaned over the balustrade, there was
a repose about him full of careless enjoyment. But this mood was not to
be depended upon, nor would one readily do so, for there was something
in the head, body, and hands which, behind the gentle, lazy, pliable
manner, reminded one of a cat.
Tora both felt and saw this, but to-day it was with more curiosity than
fear.
"What an unexpected pleasure to meet you here; have you been here
long?"
"I came here yesterday evening with Fru Groendal; she was in the town."
"Was she, indeed?"
And the two slipped into a conversation about the journey here, the
weather, the place, without having been introduced to each other--a
conversation without any other object than to have an excuse for
looking at one another. The conversation was in short, disjointed
sentences, without colour or calculation, except in so far that the
last remark never remained the last.
He stood below and studied her with growing pleasure; the shape of her
head, her features, her manners and expression. The eyes really shone
under the long thick lashes--what colour were they? They looked black,
but---- And her figure! her neck, arms, complexion, her dark hair, her
dress; he put himself quite on one side, he was entirely occupied with
her. How long this continued, they neither of them knew--it was a
considerable time; he did not wish to disturb himself, she did not wish
to disturb him. She saw herself in a living mirror, but the pleasure
was not an innocent one, for by degrees it made her feel giddy. She
collected herself and broke off the conversation; walked across the
terrace to some flowers, and occupied herself with their petals, among
which she made havoc. He came slowly up, with his umbrella over his
shoulder, drawing his left hand along the balustrade.
"Of course you are going to my sister's this afternoon?"
"Fru Groendal will get an invitation for me," she said.
"Of course; we shall have some dancing--will you give me the first
waltz?"
She did not look up. "Will you not dance the first waltz with me?"
She felt through her whole being that she ought not to answer him. "I
beg your pardon, I forgot that we had not been introduced; but as you
know who my sister is, you must have some idea who I am."
He smiled and came nearer, always with the big umbrella, and with his
left hand gliding along the balustrade. She raised herself, but did not
answer. "So there is some agreement about the first waltz?" He said it
a little carelessly, in rather a patronising way, almost as though he
were offended.
He put down the umbrella and turned towards the entrance. "Of course
Fru Groendal is at home." He went in. Tora was about to add, "But she is
not up." But that would look rather like asking him to stay here.
Besides, Fru Groendal must be so nearly dressed that she could warn him
off herself, when she heard him in the sitting-room.
He went in there, but did not come out again. Had Fru Groendal gone
there? No, there was no talking. She went towards the steps and looked
into the mirror; the bedroom door was wide open.
Down the steps she flew, and through the garden, away into the wood,
out of it again, for it was too wet; and out on to the mountain towards
the sea, under the lee of the wood; there she sat down on a large
stone. She was trembling: her breast heaved as though it would burst.
"Froeken Holm!" called Fru Groendal; "Froeken Holm!" She really was
dressed, then. That call must be either from the terrace or the garden.
Perhaps Fru Groendal had been out when he went into the sitting-room,
that was why there had been no talking. Tora could not collect herself
sufficiently to answer Fru Groendal, and as she had not answered the
first time, it seemed to her that she must disregard the other calls as
well. Very soon she heard no more.
What time was it? Could he have come to make a call on a lady at that
early hour? And to come straight from the landing-place, not to his
sister's, but to Fru Groendal's. What was the time? But she had not her
watch with her, she had forgotten it.
There were the white trousers coming up the hill towards her, and the
umbrella as well! She was pursued and discovered. "Dear me, did you
not hear Fru Groendal call you?" Tora did not answer. "And you are so
wet--without an umbrella too; pray come under mine. Why did you run
away?" No answer. "Fru Groendal has been making egg-flip for us the
whole morning."
"Has she really?"
"Yes, really; her husband was to have been here this morning, and he
owes me some egg-flip. But he has not come."
"What time is it?"
"What on earth do you want to know for? It is just eleven."
"Just eleven?"
"Yes, see for yourself." He held out a massive American gold watch
towards her, opening the case as he did so. She was silent and walked
on. As they approached the garden, she asked him how he had found her
so quickly. Why, he had seen her footprint in the sand here, and he had
drawn his own conclusion. No one would go into the wood when it was so
wet, so she must be on the hill.
They eat egg-flip together very merrily; but an hour later Tora was
sitting alone in her room, in the attics--she had fastened the door;
and at six o'clock the same evening, as the guests were assembling at
the Wingaards', she was on board the steamer, which was returning to
the town.
What had happened? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! But like the fog over
the landscape, which still hung there, although not so low as in the
morning, there lay something over all this, which was vague and
puzzling to her. She could not bear to be with Fuerst and Fru Groendal.
She could not be natural with them; everything she said or did seemed
preposterous.
She did not therefore venture to go to the party; the mere thought of
waltzing with Fuerst made her tremble.
It would not do. There was nothing for it but to fly. She made herself
appear terribly foolish, in trying to find reasons for her flight; such
a one as that she had crumpled her white dress in her hat-box, could be
answered by a hot iron; that her mother expected her, presupposed a
letter by carrier pigeon.
All the same here she was on board the steamer. It was really an
achievement. She was delighted. The rest of the passengers were up on
the bridge, or in the deck cabin; the windows were open. She went
forward where there were two or three work-people. She sat down a long
way from them. It thoroughly delighted her when the steamer swept past
the islets at the entrance; it seemed as though she were leaving
something oppressive.
The evening was fine, notwithstanding the fog; it was mild, and the
rain had ceased. The islands among which they steamed stood out clear,
their many tinted hills, the green patches of grass, the gardens and
houses--for almost all were inhabited--were seen with unusual
distinctness, as well as the people who sat or stood about, and watched
the steamer as she passed. Tora thought she would like to live in such
a place; she made a day-dream that she did so; she sat there and
arranged her house according to her taste--this time with great
simplicity, that soothed her after what she had left.
All at once the discomfort began again, a feeling of depression, the
old sense of insecurity--only a recollection, of course, she thought,
and drew a long breath, but she felt impelled to turn round and look
behind her.
There he stood on the deck, four or five steps away from her. He bowed
and smiled. Deadly white, then crimson, she turned angrily away.
"Come, you must not be angry with me; I would rather go back to the
town with you, than dance till five o'clock in the morning. Is that so
strange? I am not so contemptible for that, am I?"
He sat down behind her; she knew it, and moved a little way from him.
"Why do you do that now? Of course it is only to talk to you that I
have come with you; you can see that."
A feeling of both shame and fear came over her; she was alone now,
separate from all the others. She felt as though she could have called
to them by name. Whenever Tora felt how solitary she was, she began to
cry.
He noticed it, and in quite another tone of voice he said, "Dear Froeken
Holm, you must not misunderstand me; I do not want to annoy you,
anything rather than that. It would give me great pleasure to talk to
you, I confess; may I not be allowed to do so? Why may I not?" She did
not answer, but she ceased crying.
He slipped into conversation on indifferent topics, and calmed her,
lamenting that they had not become acquainted earlier. "The first time
I saw you I said to myself--well, no matter what I said, but I had just
a little wish to see you again; it was fulfilled quite unexpectedly
to-day; but we did not have any conversation, you were so strange; why
was that? Well perhaps you were not strange, but why did you go away? I
might imagine that I was to blame for that. You certainly did not want
to go before I came--eh? You have made me quite curious, I assure you.
If I really did drive you away, I should like to hear what I frightened
you with; was it with the big umbrella--by chance? Ah, now you are
laughing! But why will you insist in travelling about _par tout_,
Froeken? Just tell me that." He moved a little nearer, and she remained
sitting; he chatted and joked without any pause. She once turned half
round to look at his roguish face, and then she laughed with him. He
was very amusing.
Close by one of the numerous stopping-places was a red house, where a
number of young people were gathered round some gymnastic apparatus. A
young man and a young woman each held a rope in a "giant's strides." He
set off after her with all his strength; a few steps on the ground, and
then a long swing in the air; then again a few steps, and another long
swing. Would he reach her? Never! She was the lighter, the more active,
and she had undoubtedly stronger legs--she ran trip, trip, trip, trip;
her legs hardly seemed to be apart, and how she flew swinging through
the air! Her hair, her dress streaming after her, a very Iris! Both
Fuerst and Tora followed this chase, silent but eager. Tora felt his
presence at her back, like fire; he had come nearer; and, turning
abruptly, she went into the cabin and sat down among the others. He was
standing on the landing-place when she went on shore at the Point; he
offered her his hand, but she turned away; he wanted to carry her box,
but she ran off. He went on board again to go up into the harbour.
CHAPTER IV
THE HUNT
Tora reached home about the same time as her father, who had been out
sailing with some friends. He was helped on shore, and his reception at
home was warm. The children fled, Tora locked herself into the attic,
and dare not even go down to supper, although she was hungry. She had
to open the door at last for her sisters; she soon began to quarrel
with them, they had been wearing her best shoes and had almost spoiled
them. It ended in one of them flinging the shoes at her, and they came
to blows over it. Complaints followed, which brought the angry mother
upstairs. Tora cried herself to sleep like a child.
The next day she tried to help her mother in the house, not without
some hard words and sarcasms about such fine elegant ladies only being
in the way. Still she set her will to the task of being a help to her
mother, especially in mending the clothes. She gave what she could from
her little annuity, so that they were on fairly friendly terms; but it
seemed to Tora that she had a right to have some time to herself. A
little while before supper, she would take the ferry across to the
other side and go up either into the wood above "The Estate" or into
the "Groves." There was no peace at home. Whether she went to the wood
or "The Estate," she always landed at Bommen, and went up that way,
though it was not exactly the most direct one; but she did not know a
prettier place in the town than the house in the large garden there, so
she gave herself the pleasure of looking at it every day.
Both house and garden had belonged to the Wingaard family, but they had
exchanged them for the Fuersts' house in the market-place, where the
Wingaards carried on the Fuerst business. The brother-in-law, Niels
Fuerst, therefore now owned the house in the large garden at Bommen.
Tora passed it with a little apprehension, although the man she dreaded
was certainly not there, but on board his ship. This became a change
and occupation, and formed, as it were, an incident in her walk.
Every time it was over, she went more carelessly up to the wood, or out
to the "Groves." In a little Norwegian town like this, all the girls go
about as they like. She met others and joined them, or went on by
herself; generally she wished to be alone for an hour or two; she went,
as a rule, to some particular spot, and when there took out her book,
if she had one, or else she wove day-dreams without the aid of books.
Or else, and this was now almost always the case, she wrote long
letters, one every day, about any curious experience. She had her
portfolio with her and an ink-bottle in her pocket; she lay on the
grass with the portfolio on a stone, or she sat on a stone with the
portfolio spread out on her lap and the ink-bottle by her side. That
did splendidly: true open-air letters, where the words seemed to fly
before the wind, and every varying thought found ready utterance. And
how delightful it was in the thicket, just dappled by the sunbeams,
enlivened by the twittering of the birds, a little startled by the
rustle of a squirrel in the boughs! The distant sounds from the
harbour, from the works by the river-bank, the voices in the "Groves"
and on the road, with every now and then a strain of music, only made
the silence of the place where she was sitting the deeper. This was her
one bit of summer poetry. As soon as she opened her eyes in the
morning, she began to long for it; the noise and quarrelling in the
house passed by her as though they did not concern her--it was here
that she lived. Her great expedition to Fru Groendal, and her remarkable
return home in the steamer, were of course recorded up here in letters
to Milla, Nora, and Tinka; on the fourth day, she read over the work of
the three previous ones; she was very pleased, she knew she had
successfully varied the theme. She became, however, somewhat thoughtful
as she read the first letter, for she remembered the others, and the
difference had become by degrees too great. If the girls were by chance
to compare them, one of those tiresome scenes might easily result when
she would have to pay the reckoning. No, she would have no more of
that. In the first letter she had treated the matter seriously,
described her confusion, her blunders, her fright; no one who read it
could doubt that she had been with a person of whom she had been
frightened. In the second letter she made fun of herself, of him, and
the whole affair. In the third, she described how a maiden with dark
hair was wandering on a foreign strand, when a merman rose from the sea
who had fair whiskers and curly hair. In her terror, the dark maiden
fled on board a ship, to return to her own country. But the merman swam
after the ship the whole way, with his hand on his heart; when she got
to land he gave a wail of sorrow, she heard it still in her dreams at
night.
She tore up all the letters, and did not write any others.
Still she continued her walks. She had not the slightest idea that
Niels Fuerst had returned to the town, that a friend had taken his duty
for him, and that he was quietly studying languages to prepare himself
for a new career, more brilliant than his earlier one, and that he was
living in his own house. Still less did she know that on the first day
of his return to the town he had seen her, in the looking-glass fixed
outside his window, look shyly across at the house as she passed, and
that he saw the same thing happen the next day. He knew that this was
not the shortest way up to the wood, which was where she went the first
day, or out to the "Groves," where she had gone on the second; on both
occasions he had put on his hat and gone out, the third day he sat
ready to follow her; now he thought he understood. He knew something
about girls who will and will not; they acted exactly in this way.
To-day she came as usual, glanced apprehensively across, and strolled
on with her portfolio under her arm. Some one stopped her, and she thus
chanced to look round and so detected him. He was already advancing
quickly; he was in pursuit, he had struck the trail.
She said good-bye, and as soon as she could do so unobserved, she
quickened her ordinary pace to the quickest of which she was capable.
She was frightened, unaccountably frightened. Perhaps it would have
been wiser to have turned back, but to-day she could not endure his
gaze, and there was no one else about. So she walked on, and on, and
on, but suspected that he was gaining on her--she almost knew it. She
dare not run on the high-road, but she trusted to the fact that she was
more at home in the "Groves" than he was, and that she could slip away.
She therefore left the road and made her way through the wood; she saw
to her terror that he plunged into it as well, so she ventured to run
up the hill, but in the direction from which he came; then she stooped
down behind a large stone. She was quite successful, for almost
directly afterwards she saw him pass by a little below the place
where she crouched, her heart beating as though it would burst her
dress. Here, where no one could see him, he ran, he climbed, he
jumped--nothing checked his straight upward course. She waited till he
was out of sight, and then ran off through the wood in the opposite
direction from that in which he had gone; she did not stop till she
found herself far above "The Estate" on a rock under a fir-tree, with
leafy trees all round, and, while hot and panting she looked round her,
thinking how wonderful the view was which she took in in a rapid
glance, he rose before her mind's eye as he had looked when he hurried
past the stone. He was horrible! That man could do anything!
After that, she could never get rid of him. It was always he, nothing
but he; or rather every moment of the day she fled from him, but he
always reappeared.
Her sisters reported to her that he hung about the house and looked in;
walked past and looked in, talked to them, asked them to remember him
to her. This immensely excited them, they were proud of it; his remark
that Tora was "the handsomest girl" had reached them too. But Tora's
terror increased; she was pursued. She knew that he would not give up.
Where could she go to? None of the Rendalens were at home. She could go
to them after the holidays, but nearly three weeks still remained. She
could not speak to any one else, she was too much ashamed. She did not
think once of shoemaker Hansen, but Fru Hansen was severe, she would
not exactly understand. Her mother she never once thought of. But after
all it was a thing which entirely concerned herself; she need be in no
man's power if she did not choose.
No, but when she could not by any means get him out of her thoughts?
On Saturday evening she had flung herself upon her bed, as weary as
though she had passed the day in the hardest manual labour. She lay
there and looked at the yards of a ship which was being towed past. She
watched the folds in the loosely hanging sails which were swaying in
the wind. The vessel was so near that she could almost have touched
her. Outside there was a heavy sea, the storm driving the swell up into
the harbour: she, too, longed to find a haven! It was Saturday evening,
to-morrow she would have to go to church. Karl Vangen's face smiled to
her as she remembered this, and she felt happy before she fell asleep.
If he had been a girl she would have gone to him--just to _him_--with
the trouble which oppressed her.
The next day she occupied a seat at the furthest end of the church.
Karl Vangen had met her, and said how nice it was that she was coming
up to them again to help Fru Rendalen. On account of this remark she
had chosen the most remote seat; she did not feel sure that she might
not begin to cry.
She did not, however; there was something soothing in the church and
the stillness and the people, which was unlike the summer day outside.
But when Karl Vangen went into the pulpit, and his prayer was the one
which he had used on her first school-day--that on meeting, almost word
for word the same--it disturbed her: that even Karl Vangen's prayer
should be a lesson from earlier days. This little coincidence occupied
her, and she did not follow him. She gathered that the sermon dealt
with conversion, and that Karl Vangen, as was his custom, illustrated
what he was saying by examples from real life. But she had heard these
examples at school, every one of them.
She was roused by the name of John Wesley. His conversion, Vangen
considered, was the most thorough, the fullest in every particular,
that he knew of. He related it, and then passed on to give examples of
sudden conversions, especially some by Wesley himself; other natures
with different pasts, with different kinds of knowledge, influenced by
other fears. He wished to speak of these sudden conversions separately
to-day. He had known a young girl who had a burning desire for grace
for her sins, which she could by no means obtain, until one day she saw
Rubens' picture of the Crucifixion, and Mary Magdalene standing with
long flowing hair at the foot of the cross. She would be Mary
Magdalene. And all at once it was a joy to her to imagine herself at
the foot of the cross in the place of Mary Magdalene; her thoughts
dwelt on this so powerfully that it seemed as though she, and no one
else, stood there. At once she received the knowledge that it was for
_her_ that Jesus was crucified, _her_ sins were forgiven. She was
seized with a great, great joy. The preacher knew several such examples
especially among women. They had clung so persistently to some single
incident in the life of Jesus, some single word of His, something
special in the mystery of grace, and had gazed upon it until it had the
effect of a strong light, a special knowledge. From that time all
became clear to them, their sins were taken from them; their will
became stronger from that day and hour.
Tora did not hear more, least of all that it was _against_ this that
Vangen wished to speak. Then and there her mind was occupied with an
attempt to follow these examples. His too familiar voice murmured on;
everything round her seemed to fade away. She saw Jesus on the cross in
a strange country, with driving black clouds above Him, each height,
each valley, each tree veiled and mourning. She saw His eyes close, His
chest rise and fall, and it all became night. She felt her own small
sorrows hidden in that awful moment. How long she remained in this
condition she did not know. The sermon was not over, she could not
therefore go; but she could not listen, she did not desire to do so.
When at length she left the church she had only one wish--to be able to
renew that vision as soon as she could.
Through all these days she had not been outside the door, she must go
this afternoon. From fear of Fuerst she went over towards the mountain,
and from there up into the wood along by the churchyard, and then on to
the big fir-tree on the right, and sat down on the stone under it--it
was smooth and flat. She had not come to dream or to enjoy herself, but
for real help to consecrate her life. These weary days had enlightened
her; she knew now that her character combined a little of everything;
that she wished for a little of everything, even of what was wrong, so
that she would be an easy prey for a rogue. She had not been
sufficiently guarded from the first; she had been completely
unprepared--nay, the danger had had something attractive in it.
This must now be changed; she would do any kind of work, if only it
would be a restraint on her. She had no more ambition now, nothing but
dread.
She fell upon her knees, and with her blood coursing the faster from
her hurried ascent, she offered her prayer in her abasement. It was the
most humble, piteous pleading. Her distress was extreme. Power to
resist the will which conquered hers! She did not doubt for a moment
that her petition would be instantly and literally granted.
Mentally she saw herself endowed with strength, she saw herself without
fear--even with a mission; no matter what it was, so that it continued.
And that should regulate her life. Willingly! Always! She could not
picture to herself greater joy, honour, or riches than to give herself
to some hard task; it was her nature to wish for extremes.
And now she began to contemplate herself--no, she came to a stand, her
mind was disturbed when she thought of her friends. Milla's greatest
anxiety in her last letter had been lest the weather should not
continue fine, and Nora had feared that they might forget to send her
some new music. Why should she alone, who was hiding here, have such
dreadful trouble? Her desolate position ought to have made people pity
her, but it only encouraged them.
She sat, turned away from the view, leaning against the big fir-tree.
Before her she saw alder woods, nothing but young luxuriant alder
woods, and fronds of bracken in a thick mass. Ah! how impotent all that
was, that they had discussed together at the Society's meetings, and at
other places. Only a few weeks ago, and now she must hide herself here.
If this became known, she would no doubt lose the small status she had
gained for herself. She would hardly go again to the Engels, she would
not be allowed to be Milla's friend, perhaps not be able even to go up
to Fru Rendalen's again; she began to cry, but she tried to collect
herself. The image of the sly, excited, accursed face that she had seen
from behind the stone down below, seemed to stab her--to thrill through
her; she understood that the dread with which she terrified herself was
greater danger to her than the actual man.
She ought to have gone home again, but it was a shame not to test her
strength, and so she stayed there.
As Tora, a short time before, was climbing the hill, Niels Fuerst was
sauntering up and down the deck of a vessel, the captain of which he
knew, and just as she reached the flat stone under the fir-tree he had
taken up the new ship's telescope to try it; he focussed it and turned
it towards the river-bank, and from there gradually upwards across the
wooden slopes. Tora had just seated herself on the stone as the
telescope was turned to that point, and he recognised her.
He took a short cut across the market-place, and turned up to the right
of "The Estate" gardens.
Latterly he had thought of nothing but her, he could not occupy
himself, and he slept badly. He had never been in pursuit of so
beautiful a girl before.
Although day after day she passed his house, she constantly eluded his
pursuit, and all his efforts were still fruitless. All that was needed
was to find her in her hiding-place; one could not do her a greater
service. Nay, the oftener she hid herself, the greater would be the
refinement of her pleasure in being discovered. Now he understood why
she had left Fru Groendal's that day--now he saw why she had cried on
board the steamer. Ah, these little girls! But the pursuit would become
wearisome if it continued much longer. His own credit was at stake as
well; no one must suppose that they could befool _him_. His character,
too, would be safer when this was all settled; she would be silent
then. If only she did not see him too soon, if he could only get near
enough to hold her with his eyes!
Notwithstanding his intense excitement, he advanced skilfully, not by
the path, but straight up through the wood under cover of the leaves.
He scrambled where he could not walk, he climbed where he could not
scramble. She sat there, searching for some definite idea which might
be extended until it entirely occupied and engrossed her mind; but she
was not successful--there was something which always distracted her.
Just then a branch snapped down below. She had constantly felt tempted
to turn round. Was there really anything behind her? She looked down
below her. At first she saw nothing; yes, the branches moved and she
heard the leaves rustle. That might be a horse or cow from "The
Estate"; they came up here for pasture. All the same, she felt very
hot; she wanted to get up and go away; but her eyes continued fixed on
the branches below, there was something dark beneath them. A head
pushed its way through, a man--_he!_ How in the world----? Did he know
that she----? How did he come to----? She bewildered herself with
useless, frightened questions. He looked up. With all her power she
raised herself, though her feet felt as heavy as lead; but she did not
turn from him, or attempt to go away, and by degrees she lost the
desire to do so. Now there was only the stone between them, a wave of
terror swept over her and roused her; she turned her head now,
staggered a few steps--and met him. She leaned forward, he took her
hand, his arm slipped under hers--she felt as though a burning band
were round her. She fell so unexpectedly and so heavily that he nearly
fell with her.
VI
WHAT FIDELITY WILL SAY
CHAPTER I
HAPPINESS
"Dear Nora,
"I know beforehand that this will not be a regular letter, I have no
time for one. I almost think that you had better not show it to the
others, they will hardly understand my feelings. Last, but not least,
there is something which divides the others from us two; I feel that
instinctively. If only I could do away with some of what I--feel, I had
almost written again. You must know that I have passed the greatest,
the most beautiful, the most enchanting day in my life.
"Ah! now you are curious. I will not bother you, but all the same I
must begin with how and why I came to do so.
"When we arrived at Copenhagen, who should meet us at the station but
Niels Fuerst! Of course it had been arranged between him and papa. I saw
that at once, but papa is so clever at keeping a secret. Do you know
where Niels Fuerst came from? From Sofiero. Yes, now it is written, and
you understand the whole thing. I told you that, long ago, papa had had
the honour of being invited by his Majesty to come and see Sofiero the
next time he went abroad. There are not many Norwegians to whom that
has happened, so it was very flattering to papa.
"He had said nothing to me; he did not wish to make me nervous before
the time, he said. Fuerst came straight from Sofiero--fancy, he is
perhaps to be made orderly officer to the prince who is a sailor--his
Royal Highness Prince Oscar, that is to say. Fuerst told us at what time
the train would leave the next day. Good heavens! actually the next
day. We were expected, then! I was not allowed to make any toilette, I
was to appear just in my travelling dress, as papa was to do as well.
That naughty Lieutenant Fuerst--you know he is related to us--he calls
me cousin, though I am not one. He said I was pretty enough as I was.
Do you know him?
"It was now a question of getting some sleep after the journey--one
does not look well when one has not slept. I have never struggled so
hard to go to sleep before. I was terribly startled, you see. I thought
about the stupidest things in the world. Do you remember chief
custom-house officer Jacobsen's nose? I lay and stared at his nose,
till I really fell asleep thinking of it and of the town bailiff; and I
can tell you I was so tired, that when I was once asleep, I slept like
a top. I was, thank goodness, none the worse when I got up. But it was
awful, really awful later on. You have never been in such
circumstances, so perhaps it may seem odd to you that the more I
thought of the important moment, and that I had no lady to refer to
(men can never tell one anything, and so they laugh), the more
terrified I became. It was rather a cold morning, and one thing with
the other, the cold and the fright--Fuerst called it cannon fever--I was
most miserably uncomfortable. It was dreadfully silly; at last I could
not altogether conceal it. You understand. But I consoled myself with
the thought that I was not the first girl to whom this had happened,
when she was to be presented at Court. I was really quite ill at last,
and therefore have hardly any impression of the journey, or what we
talked about. For all that, I got into a dispute. Fuerst said that all
the monarchies were trying to gather the wealthy classes about
themselves against the lower classes. That seems to me to be too bad.
Is the monarchy meant to protect itself? I thought it was to protect
the lower classes, and I said so too. Papa began to tease me about the
Society and school, and Karen Lote's history lessons; you can hear him,
can't you? Fuerst asked who was to protect the wealthy classes in that
case? They must protect themselves, I should suppose. At all events, it
is wicked of them to betray the lower classes, is it not?
"Oh, how enchanting Oresund is! When we crossed (I forgot to say that
we came there, that is, to Helsingoer, by railway) you see what I am
to-day.... No, I will pass that altogether, or I shall never be ready.
Father wants me to go out with him this morning, you will soon see why.
I will begin with the Palace, which can be seen from the Sound; it is
magnificently situated, but is not so large as we had expected. So at
last we arrived at Helsingborg. There, now you _will_ be astonished--a
royal carriage was waiting for us. Both papa and Fuerst took it as a
matter of course, but I am certain that they were at least as
astonished as I was.
"The carriage was just like any other; it is the livery which is the
important point. But I was in the most deadly terror how it would all
go off. The weather had, however, become delightful. I was obliged to
leave them for a moment before we got into the carriage.
"You can imagine how upset I was by it all, when I tell you that I
perspired through my gloves. Of course I had another pair to put on
when I got there. Papa drove me to despair by saying, 'My dear child,
how wretched you look.' I really believe I had tears in my eyes, for
Fuerst, who was opposite to me, began to try to amuse me, but I hardly
heard what he said. But still through it all I noticed that the
formation was a mixture of sandstone and coal strata, and that there
was a lot of iron in the rocks. I thought of Rendalen and his maps and
collections. You cannot imagine how all this passed through my mind in
the midst of my fright. If any one would have taken me home again, at
the price of every pretty thing I possess, I would have accepted the
offer, I can assure you. We drove through a little wood, and came out
into a great open quadrangle--the Palace.
"When I saw the quadrangle and the grass there--how do things come into
one's head?--I remembered so distinctly the lesson at school when I
learned that _bowling-green_ meant in English just such a place as
this; and that Fru Rendalen came into the class at the moment and asked
why it was called a bowling-green? and that Tora whispered it to me.
How cleverly Tora could do such things! I have no further recollection
of where we drew up. I got out of the carriage, when a very grand
gentleman met us, and gave me his arm. We were shown to some rooms. A
lady came with me, thank goodness. I was not myself till that moment. I
looked at myself in the glass. What a fright I was! I saw that at once
in papa's face when we met in a sitting-room. Fancy, I never noticed in
what direction we went or where the room was. Guess where we were going
to. Into the garden, where we were to lunch with their Majesties. There
could not have been greater condescension to the townsfolk of a little
Norwegian town, could there? Do you remember how we dressed our dolls
for a Court ball? The same gentleman--Fuerst does not remember his name,
but I believe he was a gentleman-in-waiting--escorted me and said
something to me in Swedish. I could not understand him, my wits were
wool-gathering.
"No one could have been in a greater state of mind. When I saw the
garden and came into it--it all w
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