wood for mother, so I've got to wait a few days till it's well." And
he held out one thin little hand, showing two fingers badly bruised
and raw.
"Poor little man! I must tell Bramsen to lend you a hand with the
chopping."
"And, please, I was to bring you this letter from Mr. Bess; he asked
me to take it up to you myself. It's the bill for my lessons, I
think," he added quickly, "and he wants the money because of the
rent." Hans was well acquainted with such things from his own home
life, and having heard the organist and his wife talking about the
rent falling due, he at once took it for granted that the case was as
urgent then as when his own mother lay awake at nights wondering how
to meet a similar payment.
Holm took the letter and read:
"In accordance with your request, I have been giving lessons for
some time to little Hans Martinsen, whose gift for music is
really surprising. Though I do not consider myself fully
qualified to judge the precise value of his talent, I would say,
as my personal opinion, that the child shows quite unusual
promise. And I am convinced that with skilful and attentive
tuition, he could in time become a player of mark.
"I am an old man now, and am not otherwise competent to train
such talent as it should be trained, but as a lover of music
myself, I beg you to assist the child; you will find your
reward, I'm sure. If I could afford it, I would gladly contribute
as far as I was able, but as you know I am not in a position to
do so. I will not, however, accept any payment for the lessons
given, but should be glad to feel that I have made some little
offering myself towards his future."
Holm read the letter through once more.
"Little man, we must send you to Christiania to study there. I'll
arrange it all, and you shall have the best teacher that's to be
had."
Hans sat twirling his cap, and made no answer.
"Well, Hans, aren't you glad? Wouldn't you like to go on with your
music?"
"Yes, but I can't. I can't go away and leave mother; there'll be
nobody to help her then."
"Don't worry about that, my boy; your mother shall go with you. No
more washing; all she'll need to do will be just to look after you."
"But--how? Mother couldn't go away like that!"
"We'll manage that all right. It's very simple. I'll lend your mother
the money, do you see, and then, when you've learnt enough and can
play properly yourself, you can pay it back--if you want to, that
is."
"Oh--oh, how good you are! May I run home and tell mother, now?"
"Yes, run along and tell her as quickly as you like. Only understand,
not a word to anyone else about it. I'll come round this evening,
anyway, and fix it all up."
Hans, in his delight, forgot all about hiding the hole in his
trousers; he grasped his friend's hands and looked at him with
glistening eyes.
"Is it really true--that I'm to go to Christiania?"
"True as ever could be, little lad, and now off you go--I'll come
along soon."
Holm took the organist's letter and read it through once again.
"Noble old fellow--so you'd sacrifice your hard-earned money and give
your trouble for nothing? Not if I know it; you shan't be a loser
there. And as for Hans, I'll see to his education myself. He shall go
to Paris instead of those madcap youngsters with their parties. My
'52 Madeira too! But we'll soon put a stop to that."
V
MRS. RANTZAU'S STORY
She was a teacher of singing, and had only recently settled in the
town. Holm had never seen her, but now that her daughter was working
in his office, and Marie had begun taking lessons with Mrs. Rantzau
herself, he felt it his duty to call.
Moreover, he had some secret hope that it might be possible here to
find an ally in his plan for combating Marie's artistic craze. In
addition to which, she was Betty's mother....
The place was four storeys up, and Holm, tired after his climb, sat
down at the top of the stairs for a moment before ringing the bell.
Tra-la-la-la-la-la--he could hear a woman's voice singing scales
inside, the same thing over and over again. A little after came
another voice, which he took to be Mrs. Rantzau's.
"Mouth wide open, please; that's it--now breathe!"
Holm rang the bell and Mrs. Rantzau opened the door.
He stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at her.
"Heavens alive--it can't be--Bianca, is it really you?"
She turned pale, came close to him and whispered:
"For Heaven's sake, not a word." Then, taking him by the arm, she
thrust him gently into a room adjoining.
He heard the young lady take her departure, and a moment later Mrs.
Rantzau stood before him.
She was still a magnificently handsome woman. The dark eyes were deep
and clear as ever, the black hair waved freely over the forehead,
albeit with a thread of silver here and there. Her figure was slender
and well-poised, her whole appearance eloquent of energy and life.
"If you knew how I have dreaded this moment, Mr. Holm," she began,
then suddenly stopped.
"H'm--yes. It's a good many years now since last we met, Bianca--beg
pardon, Mrs. Rantzau, I mean."
"Fifteen--yes, it's fifteen years ago. And much has happened since
then. I didn't know really whether to go and call on you myself, and
ask you not to say anything about the way we met, and how I was
living then. But then again, I thought you must have forgotten me
ages ago."
"Forgotten! Not if I live to be a hundred."
"And then, too, I thought it might be awkward for Betty if I tried to
renew our old acquaintance; you might be offended, and not care to
keep her on at the office...."
"But--my dear lady--however could you imagine such a thing?"
"Oh, I know how good and kind you were when I knew you before--but
people change sometimes. And you can understand, I'm sure, Mr. Holm,
that my position here, my connection with my pupils, would be ruined
if the past were known. Not that I've anything to be ashamed of,
thank God, but you know yourself, in a little town like this, how
people would look at a woman--or even a man, for that matter--whose
life has been so--so unusual as mine."
"Dear lady, I understand, of course, but I should never have thought
of mentioning a word of our relations in the past."
"Thanks, thanks! Oh, I can see now you have not changed. Kind and
thoughtful as ever; you were good to me, Mr. Holm--not like the
others." Her voice trembled a little, and she grasped his hand.
Holm flushed slightly, murmured a few polite words, and thought--of
Betty.
Mrs. Rantzau continued: "I should like you to understand, to realise
yourself the position I was placed in then. Will you let me tell you
the whole story--if you've time?"
"Indeed I've time--you took up quite a considerable amount of my time
before, you know," he added kindly.
"Ah, I see you're the same as ever, Mr. Holm, always bright and
cheerful over things."
"Why, yes, I'm glad to say. It would be a pity not to."
"Well, let me begin. My life hasn't been a path of roses--far from
it; it's been mostly thorns. If only I could write, I might make
quite an exciting story of it all. I'm forty-two now, started life as
a parson's daughter up in the north, was married to a poet, and lived
with him in Paris; my child was born, and I was left a widow then. I
had to keep myself and Betty by the work of my hands; sang at
concerts, and accompanied in Hamburg, lived as a countess in
Westphalia----"
"What--a countess?"
"Well, very nearly. But I'll tell you about that later. I taught
French in Copenhagen, and painting in Gothenburg, was housekeeper to
a lawyer in a little Norwegian town, nearly married him but not
quite, and ended up here teaching singing. So you see I've been a
good many things in my time."
"But tell me--tell me all about it," exclaimed Holm eagerly.
"Mr. Holm, you know the darkest part of all my life; it is only fair
that you should know the rest. I've nothing to be ashamed of, for
after all I have managed to earn a livelihood for myself and Betty. I
was seventeen when I left home, and they said I was quite
good-looking----"
"You're equal to anything on the market now, as we say in
business----"
"Well, I came straight from the wilds of the Nordland to Christiania,
and they called me 'the Nordland sun.' I was the most sought after at
all the dances, and perhaps one of the most brilliant, for I came to
the gay life of the capital with the freshness of a novice. It was
not long before I became engaged to a young writer--a poet, he
was----"
"The devil you did! Beg pardon, I'm sure, but to tell the truth I've
no faith in that sort of people, as Banker Hermansen would say."
"We were both of us young and inexperienced; he dreamed of gaining
world-wide fame by his pen, and I used to weep over his passionate
love poems. I was eighteen and he twenty-two, and I promised to
follow him to the end of the world, for better or worse.
"Then one fine day we landed in Paris, without caring a jot for our
people, our friends, or our own country. We were married there at the
Swedish Church, and there I was, a poet's wife, with my people at
home trying to forget the black sheep of the family.
"A few years passed. But every day saw the breaking of one of the
golden threads in our web of illusion, and when Betty was born we
were in desperate straits.
"Poor old Thor, he used to sit up late at night writing stuff for the
papers at home, all about magnificent functions he'd never been to at
all, and warming his frozen fingers over a few bits of coal in the
stove."
"And he might have made quite a decent living in an office," put in
Holm sympathetically.
"Unfortunately, he imagined he was a genius, and gradually, as things
got worse and worse, the struggle for a bare existence made him
bitter, till he hated the world, and looked upon himself as a martyr
condemned to suffering.
"Then he took to staying out late of an evening, and wrote less and
less. By the time we had been there a year, the poet's wife was
washing lace to keep the home together. In the autumn of the second
year, he went down with pneumonia, and a week after the 'Nordland
sun' was a widow. I couldn't go home, for I'd cut myself adrift from
them completely when I married. There was nothing for it but to
struggle along as best I could by myself, unknown and friendless in
the great city. But, thank Heaven, I've always had my health and a
cheerful temper, and little Betty was such a darling."
"Yes, she's a wonderful girl."
"She and I have fought our way together, Mr. Holm, and a hard fight
it has been at times, believe me.
"Well, we got along somehow in Paris, for a few years, doing
needlework, or giving music lessons at fifty centimes an hour. It was
a cheerless existence mostly, as you can imagine, and if it hadn't
been for the child I should have broken down long before.
"Then at last I got the offer of a place as accompanist at a concert
hall in Hamburg, with a salary of a hundred marks a month for three
hours' work every evening and two rehearsals a week. This was
splendid, and I was in the highest spirits when I left Paris.
Besides, it was a little nearer home, and I used to be desperately
home-sick at times, though I knew it was hopeless to think of going
back.
"Imagine my feelings, then, when I got to the place and found it was
a common music hall; though very decent, really, for a place of that
sort."
"It was a beautiful place--at least, I thought so, when I saw you
there."
"Well, there I sat, night after night, accompanying all sorts of more
or less third-rate artistes. It used to make me wild, I remember,
when they sang false, or were awkward in their gestures; I used to
look at them in a way they would remember. And really, I managed to
make them respect me after a time, though I was only twenty-five
myself.
"Then, besides my evenings there, I gradually worked up a little
connection giving music and singing lessons outside, till I was
making enough to live fairly comfortably.
"But one day the whole staff went on strike, and left at a moment's
notice, and there we were. The manager--you remember him, I dare say,
Sonnenthal; man with a black waxed moustache and a big diamond
pin--he came running in to me and said I must sing myself; it would
never do to close down altogether in the height of the season. He
thought he would get at least a couple of other turns, and if I would
help it would get us over the difficulty.
"I told him I couldn't think of it--said I had no talent for that
sort of thing; but he insisted, and offered me fifty marks a night if
I would.
"Fifty marks was a fabulous sum to me for one night, then, after
living on a franc and a half a day in Paris, and it meant so much for
Betty. I began to think it over.
"And really I felt sure myself that I could do better than these
half-civilised cabaret singers, from Lord knows where, that I'd been
playing to for so long. But the parson's daughter found it hard to
come down to performing like that.
"Then Sonnenthal offered me sixty marks. He thought, of course, it
was only a question of money. It was too good to refuse, and I
agreed.
"He got out new posters, with big lettering:
'SIGNORA BIANCA
The World-renowned Singer from Milan now Appearing.'
"I remember how furious I was when the dresser came in to make me up,
and I flung her paints and powders across the room. Sonnenthal came
round and wanted me to go on in short skirts, but I told him in so
many words that I was going to do it my own way or not at all; and,
knowing how he was situated, of course he had to give in.
"I think he was impressed by the way I stood up to him. A little
Roumanian girl, a pale, dark-eyed creature, who was simply terrified
of Sonnenthal, like all the rest of them, came in to me afterwards
and threw her arms round my neck and thanked me for having given him
a lesson at last.
"It was with very mixed feelings that I went on that night for my
first performance. The audience, of course, was composed of all
sorts, and the performers were often interrupted by shouting, not
always of applause.
"The house was full--it was packed. Sonnenthal knew how to advertise
a thing.
"I gave them 'A Mountain Maid' to start with, a touching little
thing, and I put enough feeling into it to move a stone, but not a
hand was raised to applaud. Then I tried 'Solveig's Song' from _Peer
Gynt_--that too was received with chilling silence.
"When I came off after the first two, I could see the others smiling
maliciously: there's plenty of jealousy in that line of business. But
it set my blood boiling, and I felt that irresistible impulse to go
in and do something desperate, as I always do when anything gets in
my way.
"I rushed on again, and gave the word to the orchestra for 'The
Hungarian Gipsy,' a thing all trills and yodelling and such-like
trick work--a show piece.
"I put all I knew into it this time, and yodelled away till the
audience left their beer-glasses untouched on the tables--and that's
saying a good deal with a crowd like that.
"When I finished, the hall rang with a thunder of applause--everyone
shouting and cheering. I had to come before the curtain again and
again. But I wouldn't give them an encore that time. I thought it
best to have something in reserve, and not make myself cheap like the
others.
"As I came off the last time, I couldn't help saying half aloud what
I thought of my respected audience--_clowns_!
"But I'd found out how to handle them now, and I gave them the stuff
they wanted, and plenty of it. I knew the sort of thing well enough.
For years they'd sat listening to the same type of short-skirted,
rouged and powdered womenfolk, with the same more or less risky
songs, the same antiquated kick-ups and the same cheap favour in
their eyes. I took care myself always to appear as a lady, chose
first-rate songs, and, as my salary increased--for I drew Sonnenthal
gradually up the scale as I wished--I was able to dress in a style
that astonished them.
"Do you remember when I sang 'The Carnival of Venice'?"
"Do I not! Saints alive, but you were a wonder to see. Every evening,
all the month I was there, I came just to sit and look at you."
"Listen, you mean?"
"Well, perhaps that's what I ought to say. Anyhow, I know I strewed
flowers enough at your feet that winter, though they cost me a mark
apiece."
"Yes, you were kind, I know. But do you remember the dress I wore for
that carnival thing? The bodice all white roses, and red and yellow
for the skirt--it was a success--a sensation! 'Flowers in spring'
ah!"
She rose to her feet, and took a step forward, singing as she moved.
"When I came to that part, they all wanted to join in, but I had only
to hold out my hand, so, and all was quiet in a moment, you
remember?"
"Yes, indeed, you had a wonderful power over the sterner sex; I felt
it myself, I know. I swear I've never been more completely head over
ears before or since."
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holm," she protested, with a hearty laugh, "we're
past that sort of thing now, both of us. But you were good to me
then, and I shall never forget it. I had enough and to spare in the
way of offers and attentions, not to speak of making people furious
because I always refused their invitation to champagne suppers behind
the scenes."
"That was just what gave you the position and influence you had, I
think."
"Yes, I think it was. I know that all the time I was there, yours
was the only invitation I ever accepted, because you were a
fellow-countryman, and so kind and considerate as well.
"I remember as if it were yesterday that dinner at the 'Pforte.'
There was a pheasant, with big tail-feathers large as life, do you
remember? And when we got to the coffee, you wanted to hear the story
of my life----"
"And you were silent as an Egyptian mummy."
"My parents were still living then, Mr. Holm, and I wished at least
to spare them the sorrow of learning that their daughter was
performing on the music-hall stage. Well, but I must go on.
"Fortunately, you were the only fellow-countryman I ever came in
contact with while I was there; and, of course, I kept my nationality
a secret as far as possible.
"When the summer came, I was so sick and tired of the life and the
half-civilised surroundings, that I threw it up, and went to
Copenhagen. I had saved enough by that time to keep me more or less
comfortable for a while at least. But there was one little adventure
I must tell about, before I left."
"This is getting quite exciting," said Holm, changing his seat and
placing himself directly opposite her. "Go on. I'm curious to know."
"Well, I was as near as could be to becoming a Countess."
"Were you, though! How did it happen?"
"It's not altogether exceptional, you know, in the profession. But my
little affair there is soon told. One of my most devoted admirers was
a tall middle-aged man, well built, handsome, with dark hair and a
big moustache. He looked like a military man. He was always most
elegantly dressed, in a black frock-coat, with the red ribbon of some
Order in his buttonhole.
"One evening, when I'd just finished dressing for the 'Carnival of
Venice' thing, a card was brought in, bearing the name of
Count--well, never mind his name. It was the Count that did it, I'm
afraid.
"I invariably used to return cards brought in that way, and take no
notice. But this time I suppose my vanity got the better of me for
once, and I let him come in.
"He made me a most respectful bow, and handed me a magnificent
bouquet tied with ribbon in the Italian colours. I was supposed to be
from Milan, you know. He spoke excellent French, and seemed
altogether a gentleman of the first water--or blood, I suppose one
would say.
"He told me about his home, his estates and his family affairs in the
most simple and natural manner. I could not help liking him a little
from the first. He was in Hamburg on business--some lawsuit or
other--and dropping into the place one evening to pass the time, he
could not help noticing me particularly.
"He was not sparing of his compliments, I must say; he praised me up
to the skies, as an artist, of course. My voice had astonished,
delighted, enchanted him, he told me so at once. And ended up by
advising me to try the opera stage--offered to help me himself in
every way possible, which, he said, might mean something, as he had
many influential friends in that quarter. I told him, however, quite
frankly, that I was perfectly aware myself as to the qualifications
needed for operatic work, and had sense enough to realise that I
could never succeed in that way. He was evidently surprised at my
attitude, but I simply thanked him for his kindness, and got rid of
him then for the time being. But he came again regularly every
evening, bringing me flowers, and at last he made a formal proposal
in the most charming manner, laying his title, estates and all the
rest of it at my feet.
"It was tempting, of course, but thank goodness I had always had a
pretty fair share of common sense, especially as I got older. I told
him I regretted I did not know him sufficiently well to take so
serious a step, but promised to think it over."
"That was a plucky thing to do. There are not many who would have
taken it like that."
"It was just plain common sense. The Count was a little huffy,
though, and hinted that he had expected me to say yes on the spot.
"This happened about a week before my engagement was up, and I had
already, as I told you, decided to go to Copenhagen for a bit.
"I must confess that there were moments when I was weak enough to
think seriously of accepting the Count, but, fortunately, chance came
to my help. There was an old Catholic priest at the house where I was
staying, and I told him all about it. He undertook to make inquiries
about the Count, and a few days after he had found out everything
there was to know. He _was_ a Count right enough----"
"No, really? I hadn't expected that."
"Well, he was--but as poor as a church mouse! He had been an officer
in the army, and inherited an ancient title and a castle with heavily
encumbered estates from his father, but squandered all there was left
in his youth; now he was a sort of travelling inspector for an
insurance company, and lived for the rest by his wits."
"And that was the end of the Count?"
"Yes, of course; but, you see, I was very near becoming a Countess."
"And then you went to Copenhagen?"
"Yes, and after that my story's simple enough. I stayed there some
years, teaching music and painting, managed to get along comfortably
enough. Betty started going to school, and we were as happy as could
be."
"But how did you manage to escape further offers all that time in
Copenhagen?
"Oh, you seem to imagine I had nothing else to think of but getting
married. No, indeed, when one's gone through as much as I have, one
thinks twice before venturing a second time. Well, as the years went
on, and being in Denmark and more in touch with my own country, I
began to long for home again. I thought surely all would be forgotten
by now, and I should be able to make a living there. But it was not
so easy after all. I got a step nearer when I was offered a post as
teacher at a school in Gothenburg; I stayed there five long years. I
had already sent Betty to board with a decent family in Norway, that
she might not grow up altogether a foreigner, and now I was only
waiting for the chance of coming home myself.
"My parents were dead. I had no relatives or friends to come back to,
and yet for all that I was longing to be there again.
"At last the day came; I shall never forget the moment when we
sighted the first glimpse of land. It seemed as if all my years of
exile had been a dream. I felt myself full of life and strength and
happiness, and I vowed to make a new career for myself in my own
country.
"I got a place as housekeeper to an old lawyer in a little town on
the coast, and lived there very comfortably for a year; but it was
too narrow, too confined, so I moved to here--and here I am, doing
what I can to make life tolerable. I've my health and strength,
plenty of energy, and I'm very happy. And there you have it all, Mr.
Holm--the life story of Emilie Rantzau. You can't say it's been an
easy one altogether."
"No indeed, and I admire you for the way you have fought through so
many handicaps and trials."
"Thank Heaven, I've never lost my strength of will, and now at last
things seem to be getting brighter. Betty's so happy here, and
delighted with her place at the office."
"Not more than I am to have her, I assure you. It's been like
constant sunshine about the place since she came."
"Well, then, Mr. Holm, I hope you will keep my secret as if it were
your own. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my past, but all the
same I should not like it to be known here as things are now."