While the subject was under discussion, the Prost came driving over
from the village, to make known that he had secured a teacher for the
neighborhood, who would collect the children together for instruction,
as ought to have been the case long before. The family rejoicings
were great; but the question now arose, how was the boy to get to the
school? A Dalecarnian mother would easily have led him thither, with
her baby strapped upon her back; but Viola was not strong enough for
such an undertaking. But as the grandfather's rheumatism had only
disabled his hands, he volunteered as escort, and as the old man and
the child went to and fro together, many were the godly instructions
that fell into the receptive, youthful soul. Not to be entirely outdone
by her husband, the grandmother every morning plucked a clover-leaf
for the boy, to insure good luck. She was yet in the prime of life;
tall and strong and ruddy; she could work on their bit of land like a
ploughman, and understood all the petty economies peculiar to the hard
lives of her country-women. Bark-bread, revolting to Viola, nourished
her powerful frame, and the bracing air of her native valley gave color
to her cheek. But for her, Viola could never have endured the hardships
of her lot.
Olaf, meanwhile, had, during the winter evenings, manufactured a
sufficient quantity of articles to justify another pedestrian trip
to Italy, but when he spoke of it, Viola clung to him, with tears,
entreating him not to go. But he yearned for change; the novelty of
domestic life was over; the spirit that had brought Viola's master and
his friends to the North, urged him to the South.
"Don't cry, little one," he said, "I sha'n't be gone long, and shall
bring back what will make us comfortable for a long time. Pray for me,
night and morning; take the communion faithfully; watch over the boy's
soul in my place, and see that his grandmother reads the Bible to him
every day."
Eric watched the parting between them with his usual keen observation.
Why did the mother cry, and the father smile, he wondered; and why
should his soul be watched over more than Carina's? And where was his
soul, after all?
"Carina mia," he said solemnly, as he started for school next morning,
"you should put your arms around my neck and weep when we part, like
the dear mother. And I shall watch over your soul, as the father has
watched mine."
"Was there ever such a boy?" cried Viola.
Eric gave her one of his guileless smiles, and said:
"No, never," exactly as if he were talking of some third party; and
then, with the usual good-bye kiss, proceeded on his way.
Everybody they met on the way to and from school was hard at work, save
very aged men and women, who, however, were not idle, but might often
be seen seated amid groups of fishermen, or peasants at work in the
fields, reading the Bible aloud. Eric marked, and inwardly digested,
this, and though he had not yet learned to read well, could pretend
to do so to perfection. In his father's absence his grandparents read
a chapter to him every day; he would then take the book and, by a
wonderful act of memory, with his eyes fixed upon the page, repeat word
for word to the bewildered Carina.
As Olaf pursued his solitary way, his thoughts dwelt fondly on his
little home, and proudly on his boy. But when he reflected that his
education would, at best, be limited, and that he would grow up to a
heritage of economy and care, he sighed, and wondered why nature made
such mistakes--lavishing gifts upon the poor, to whom they were of no
use, and often withholding them from the rich, to whom they would have
been so welcome.
He made his way once more into Italy, and disposed of his wares quite
readily--more so than ever before, because he now spoke Italian
readily. His weary shoulders were gladly relieved of the heavy pack
they had borne, and he now bethought himself that he might indulge
Viola with some memento of her native land. But what should it be? It
was an event in his life to make a present, and he felt almost ashamed
of himself for being so sentimental. While he stood stupidly scratching
his head, a merry, musical voice fell on his ear, that was so like
Viola's that he started and turned, almost expecting to see her before
him. It was a young girl, daughter of the man to whom he had sold his
wares, and she was asking if he did not mean to carry home some gift to
his wife, unconsciously hoping that he hadn't one.
Olaf felt that he could confide in one of Viola's country-women, and in
a few words told her the dilemma he was in.
A quick flash of intelligence lighted the girl's face, and she began
searching among the heterogeneous articles scattered about, and finally
held up, in triumph, a small picture, in which Italy's beautiful blue
was the color that chiefly caught the eye.
Olaf knew little about art, but had some general idea that even this
small study was beyond his means. But the musical tongue ran merrily
on; he should have it for her country-woman for a mere song, and it
would warm her heart to see a bit of her own sky.
"Yours," she said, "is bleak and cold. I would not live there; it would
kill my heart!"
At the same time she would have tried the experiment under the guidance
of such a genial-looking man as Olaf, provided he had no wife.
"And now," she said, "something for the boy, with his blue eyes and
rosy cheeks."
"Black eyes and olive cheeks, like thine!" cried Olaf.
The girl blushed and smiled.
"Would this please him, think you?" she asked, producing a miniature
palette, on which were fastened cakes, in water colors--a cheap affair,
such as, however, has gladdened many a child's heart.
"And, stay, here are brushes, likewise--a gift to the Swedish boy with
my eyes and hair."
Olaf received the little gracefully-offered gift, and took leave, the
young girl following his sturdy figure with her eyes as long as it was
in sight.
"The saints grant that the father does not miss the picture, and beat
me for as good as giving it away," she cried; "and if he does, Antonio
shall paint him another. Ah, Antonio, if your eyes were but blue, and
your cheeks ruddy! If you were tall, and straight, and strong, and not
as black as a raven, and round-shouldered, and bow-legged! And still
painted divinely!"
Olaf proceeded rapidly home, and greeted his wife in a way that
procured for Carina, on the part of Eric, embraces, kisses, and
asseverations not a few. But when the picture was produced, and Viola
saw this bit of her native land, a strange complication of emotions
she could not understand made her burst into tears. A sense of the
beautiful had long lain dormant in her soul amid the stern scenes
about her. Now came reminiscences of sunshine, birds and flowers, and
delicious fruit; of works of art seen in the house of her master at
Rome, and dimly appreciated.
"Thou wicked picture, to make the dear mother cry!" said Eric, rushing
at it with a stick of wood. "I'll kill thee!"
But as his eye fell upon it, his hand dropped at his side, and a new
soul illumined his face. They laughed at him, they shook him, they
tried in every way to divert his rapt attention, but all in vain; he
stood like a devotee before a shrine, and lost to all beside.
"Let him alone," said Olaf, at last. "He has gone clean daft over a
picture no bigger than my hand!"
Indeed, he and Viola had enough to talk about, for they had had no
correspondence during their absence, as Viola could not write.
"I have had a strange proposition made to me," said Olaf. "Before
selling my wares, who should I stumble upon but your Signor and
Signora. The Signor recognized me at once, and made friendly inquiries
about you. The Signora was, at first, very haughty and distant; but
after a while became more gracious, and spoke of you in a way that made
me proud of you. She says she is out of health, and sad, and lonely;
and that if we would all come to their villa, near Rome--you to be to
her what you once were, and I his valet--they would make it a great
object to us."
"And I suppose our children count for nothing," said Viola, indignantly.
"Yes; they seemed to think the children could stay with their
grandparents. But isn't it a pity now that we could not go just for a
time, and earn money to educate the boy?"
"Olaf, I am ashamed of you," said Viola. "Leave our children, and go
and live in that idolatrous land!"
"But you hate so to spin."
"I adore spinning."
"And the bark-bread is so nauseous to you."
"It is delicious."
"And you have no grapes, no peaches, no melons."
"Grapes, and peaches, and melons! Ugh! Disgusting things!"
Olaf listened, bewildered, but convinced.
"I thought," he faltered, "that you had often said you used to revel in
luxuries; but it seems I was mistaken."
"Indeed you were, you bad child. Talk not to me of Counts and villas.
Did I not enter Paradise when I left them?"
"Then the picture does not please you? My mind misgave me when I bought
it. But the maiden who selected it was like you, Carissima, and had me
round her finger."
"The picture is bewitched; it has driven the boy mad. Eric, come to me!"
The boy woke from his dream of ecstacy and bounded towards her.
"See what the father has brought thee! Put in the thumb--so; no, no,
the left thumb; hold the brush thus; ah, I have seen men paint in my
country. Bring me a cup of water, and a bit of paper; there, my little
man, now thou art an Italian, not a Swedish boy, and shalt paint
Carina."
The boy looked at her, and then at the colors, delighted, confused,
trembling, as she made some inartistic dabs upon the paper; then
suddenly seized the materials and began to work himself, making a
rude imitation of the picture that had so entranced him. Amid their
homely, hard-working life, his parents ceased to heed him. He was out
of mischief, and they had much to think of and much to do. Days, weeks
passed, and Eric painted on; always at the one subject, never weary,
never impatient, but discarding one copy, only to begin on another.
At last the Prost drove up in great state, and was in the midst of a
solemn harangue, when his eye suddenly fell upon a row of pictures
pinned to the wall.
"What is all this?" he cried, imperiously.
"The boy only does it in his play-hours," said Viola, apologetically.
"The boy!" repeated the Prost. "Unhappy mother!"
Viola trembled, and caught at the nearest chair.
"What is the matter?" she gasped.
"_The boy is a genius!_" he hissed in her ear.
"Is it my fault?" she asked, piteously. "Did I create him? And what
_is_ a genius? Is it anything to come between him and salvation?"
"Yes, woman, it is. Take these colors away from the child; give him
no more play-hours, and set him at honest work. What has the son of a
peasant to do with genius, I should like to know?"
"We will do all we can to cure him of it," said Olaf, in deep humility.
The Prost departed, leaving the frightened household fluttering behind
him, like poultry besieged by a fox.
When Eric came home from school the terrific announcement was made to
him that his beloved colors were his no longer; that the mother had
thrown them into the fire, and the grandmother raked hot coals over
them. The boy uttered not a word, and did not shed a tear. He was like
one stunned. But there was something awful in his childish silence.
"Eric," said his mother, "we have not done this in anger. But the Prost
willed it, and who dares resist the Prost?"
"Mother, what have I done to anger the Prost?"
"He says you are a genius."
"Is that something very bad?"
"Oh, yes! Very, very bad!"
"But you said the dear Lord would not let me be bad, if I prayed to
Him. And I have prayed six times, and four times."
"Well, you must pray fifty times."
"Yes, I will."
He went and knelt down, and folded his hands, looking upward and said:
"Thou, dear Lord, I did not be a genius on purpose. It came its own
self. Help me not to be one any more."
But his pale, sorrowful little face smote his mother to the heart.
Her spirit rose in rebellion against the Prost. Why should he come
with this terrible and mysterious accusation against her godly boy?
She lay awake long that night, thinking what was to be done, and the
next morning, as soon as Olaf had gone to his work, she said to the
grandmother:
"If you will take care of the little ones for me, while I go to the
village, I will spin for you as long as you require."
"And what errand have you at the village, child?"
"The Prostinna is always kind; she will make me understand what is evil
in the boy; as for me, I see no evil in him, and my heart is breaking."
"Yes, go, thou good child. And the dear Lord go with thee!"
The Prostinna received Viola with great sympathy, when she learned that
she had come in sorrow; but when she heard her artless tale, could with
difficulty repress peals of laughter.
"You do not understand the Prost, my poor child," she said, as she
could trust herself to speak. "The boy is a gifted boy; he will become
a great man; there is nothing to be alarmed about."
"But the Prost called me an unhappy mother," objected Viola.
"Yes, for when your son has won a name and riches, and is abroad in the
world, he will despise, nay, he will forget you; you will see him no
more."
"It is not true!" cried Viola, proudly. "No, thank God, it is not thus
my boy will demean himself. And how should having great gifts come
between him and salvation? Are not all gifts from the Lord?"
"They are; and it is their abuse, only, that makes them perilous. Now
let me advise you how to manage the boy. Give him the best education
you can; keep him pure, and simple, and pious; and leave the rest to
God. He can take care of his future, and, if you trust Him, He will."
Viola thanked the kind lady, and went home relieved, though after such
a humiliation as that of the previous day, not proud.
"Eric, my boy," she said to him, "if you trust in God, and pray to Him
every day, as long as you live, it will not be an evil thing to be a
genius. The Pastorinna says that to be one means nothing evil, but only
that you have wings hidden away in your shoulders that will grow and
grow and grow till you are a man, and then they will unfold and be two
great, white, strong pinions, that will carry you all over the world,
if you like; and that sounds to me like being an archangel, such as we
read about in the Bible."
The boy slipped his hand under his blouse, and felt his shoulder.
"I think I feel a very, very little wing growing," he said. "But I
sha'n't want to fly all over the world; I shall fly up to heaven to see
the dear Lord."
Viola's heart gave a great bound of pain.
"You would fly away from us who love you so?" she cried.
"Only to see the dear Lord," said Eric, solemnly.
Then an inward voice spake to Viola, and said:
"Better that than off into the wide, wicked world; better that than
name and fame and riches, and a despised, forgotten mother! Even so,
Father, if so it seem good in Thy sight."
Laura stopped reading, folded her manuscript, and looked shyly about
her.
"Oh, Laura! you don't mean that you killed that beautiful boy?" cried
Belle.
"How could I help it?" asked Laura, the tears running down her cheeks.
"He _would_ die! I tried all I could to have him live, and so did his
father and mother, and all of them. But the wings grew and grew, and he
mounted upward, and passed through the golden gate; but he left it ajar
for Viola."
"Mamma, you'll have to look out," said Frank. "Laura is catching up
with you rather too fast."
"I like to keep step with those I walk with," she replied, with a
smile. "She may catch up, and welcome."
"I never did you any kind of justice, Laura," said Belle.
"That was not your fault. How _can_ one do justice to a butterfly, as
long as it's an ugly chrysalis?"
"But, Laura, how could you have the heart to take both Eric and Viola
away from Olaf?" asked Margaret.
"Poor Olaf, indeed?" cried Laura, "just as if men never survived the
loss of their wives. I have no doubt that by the time the first year
was out he trotted down into Italy and married that pretty little
Italian girl who reminded him so of Viola, and who took such a fancy to
him."
"But she was a Romanist," objected Belle.
"So was Viola; yet he converted her. On the whole, I think I sacrificed
her in a proselyting spirit."
"Well, what put Eric into your head?" asked Cyril Heath.
"What puts anything into anybody's head?" she responded, saucily. "And
when I had got him on my hands, I didn't know what to do with him, and
his death was a mercy."
"I am going to have this story published," said Harry. "I'm right proud
of my wife."
"Suppose I put it into my book," said Mrs. Grey.
"Would you, mamma?" cried Laura, eagerly. "That would be splendid. How
can you bring it in?"
"Very easily. It is not so far off my track that it will at all
interfere with it."
"Well, Miss Oney," said Belle, "so you're an authoress at last. But I
don't envy you. I would rather be the authoress of these babies, than
of any book I know."
"So would I," cried Margaret.
"So would I, you dear old geese!" said Laura, laughing. "But I have to
put up with what comes to me."