"I wonder if you enjoy life in community?"
This was still stranger. I could but reply that I had never known any
other life; that I was fitted for nothing else.
"But still," persisted he, "would you not like to leave it--to have a
career of your own before you die? Do you think this is what a man is
created for--to give away his chance to live?"
"Edouard, you are interrogating your own conscience," I answered.
"These are questions which you must have answered yourself, before you
took your vows. When you answered them, you sealed them."
Perhaps I spoke too harshly, for he colored and drew up his feet. Such
shapely little feet they were. I felt ashamed of my crustiness.
"But, Edouard," I added, "your vows are those of the novitiate. You are
not yet twenty-eight. You have still the right to ask yourself these
things. The world is very fair to men of your age. Do not dream that I
was angry with you."
He sat gazing into the fire. His face wore a strange, far-away
expression, as he reached forth his hand, in a groping way, and rested
it on my knee, clutching the gown nervously. Then he spoke slowly,
seeking for words, and keeping his eyes on the flames.
"You have been good to me, Brother Sebastian. Let me ask you: May I
tell you something in confidence--something which shall never pass your
lips? I mean it."
He had turned and poured those marvelous eyes into mine with
irresistible magnetism. Of course I said, "Speak!" and I said it
without the slightest hesitation.
"I am not a Christian Brother. I do not belong to your order. I have no
claim upon the hospitality of this roof. I am an impostor!"
He ejected these astounding sentences with an energy almost fierce,
gripping my knee meanwhile. Then, as suddenly, his grasp relaxed, and
he fell to weeping bitterly.
I stared at him solemnly, in silence. My tongue seemed paralyzed.
Confusing thoughts whirled in a maze unbidden through my head. I could
say nothing. But a strange impulse prompted me to reach out and take
his hot hand in mine. It was piteous to hear him sobbing, his head upon
his raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion. I had never
seen any one weep like that before. So I sat dumb, trying in vain to
answer this bewildering self-accusation. At last there came out of the
folds of the chair the words, faint and tear-choked:
"You have promised me secrecy, and you will keep your word; but you
will hate me."
"Why, no, no, Edouard, not hate you," I answered, scarcely knowing what
I said. I did not comprehend it at all. There was nothing more for me
to say. Finally, when some power of thought returned, I asked:
"Of all things, my poor boy, why should you choose such a dreary life
as this? What possible reason led you to enter the community? What
attractions has it for you?"
Edouard turned again from the fire to me. His eyes sparkled. His teeth
were tight set.
"Why? Why? I will tell you why, Brother Sebastian. Can you not
understand how a poor hunted beast should rejoice to find shelter in
such an out-of-the-way place, among such kind men, in the grave of this
cloister life? I have not told you half enough. Do you not know in the
outside world, in Toulon, or Marseilles, or that fine Paris of yours,
there is a price on my head?--or no, not that, but enemies that are
looking for me, searching everywhere, turning every little stone for
the poor privilege of making me suffer? And do you know that these
enemies wear shakos, and are called gens d'armes? Would you be pleased
to learn that it is a prison I escape by coming here? _Now_, will you
hate me?"
The boy had risen from his chair. He spoke hurriedly, almost
hysterically, his eyes snapping at mine like coals, his curls
disheveled, his fingers curved and stiffened like the talons of a hawk.
I had never seen such intense earnestness in a human face. Passions
like these had never penetrated the convent walls before.
While I sat dumb before him, Edouard left the room. I was conscious of
his exit only in a vague way. For hours I sat in my chair beside the
grate thinking, or trying to think. You can see readily that I was more
than a little perplexed. In the absence of Elysee, I was director. The
management of the house, its good fame, its discipline, all rested on
my shoulders. And to be confronted by such an abyss as this! I could do
absolutely nothing. The boy had tied my tongue by the pledge. Besides,
had I been unsworn, I am sure the idea of exposure would never have
come to me. It was late before I retired that night. And I recall with
terrible distinctness the chaos of brain and faculty which ushered in a
restless sleep almost as dawn was breaking.
I had fancied that Brother Edouard would find life intolerable in
community after his revelation to me. He would be chary of meeting me
before the brothers; would be constantly tortured by fear of detection.
As I saw this prospect of the poor innocent--for it was absurd to think
of him as anything else--dreading exposure at each step in his false
life, shrinking from observation, biting his tongue at every word--I
was greatly moved by pity. Judge my surprise, then, when I saw him the
next morning join in the younger brothers' regular walk around the
garden, joking and laughing as I had never seen before. On his right
was thin, sickly Victor, rest his soul! and on the other pursy,
thick-necked John, as merry a soul as Cork ever turned out. And how
they laughed, even the frail consumptive! It was a pleasure to see his
blue eyes brighten with enjoyment and his warm cheeks blush. Above
John's queer, Irish chuckle, I heard Edouard's voice, with its dainty
Parisian accent, retailing jokes and leading in the laughter. The tramp
was stretched out longer than usual, so pleasant did they find it. At
this development I was much amazed.
The same change was noticeable in all that Edouard did. Instead of the
apathy with which he had discharged his nominal duties, his baby pupils
(for Photius had gone to Peru) now became bewitched with him. He told
them droll stories, incited their rivalry in study by instituting
prizes for which they struggled monthly, and, in short, metamorphosed
his department. The change spread to himself. His cheeks took on a
ruddier hue, the sparkle of his black eyes mellowed into a calm and
steady radiance. There was no trace of feverish elation which, in
solitude, recoiled to the brink of despair. He sang to himself evenings
in his dormitory, clearly and with joy. His step was as elastic as that
of any schoolboy. I often thought upon this change, and meditated how
beautiful an illustration of confession's blessings it furnished.
Frequently we were alone, but he never referred again to that memorable
evening, even by implication. At first I dreaded to have the door close
upon us, feeling that he must perforce seek to take up the thread where
he had broken it then. But he talked of other things, and so easily and
naturally that I felt embarrassed. For weeks I could not shake off the
feeling that, at our next talk, he would broach the subject. But he
never did.
Elysee returned, bringing me kind words from the Mother house, and a
half-jocular hint that Superior General Philippe had me much in his
mind. No doubt there had been a time when the idea of becoming a
Director would have stirred my pulses. Surely it was gone now. I asked
for nothing but to stay beside Edouard, to watch him, and to be near to
lend him a helping hand when his hour of trouble should come. From that
ordeal, which I saw approaching clearly and certainly, I shrank with
all my nerves on edge. As the object of my misery grew bright-eyed and
strong, I felt myself declining in health. My face grew thin, and I
could not eat. I saw before my eyes always this wretched boy singing
upon the brow of the abyss. Sometimes I strove not to see his fall--
frightful and swift. His secret seemed to harass him no longer. To me
it was heavier than lead.
The evening the Brother Director returned, we sat together in the
reading-room, the entire community. Elysee had been speaking of the
Mother house concerning which Brother Barnabas, an odd little Lorrainer
who spoke better German than French, and who regarded Paris with the
true provincial awe and veneration, exhibited much curiosity. We had a
visitor, a gaunt, self-sufficient old Parisian, who had spent fourteen
days in the Mazas prison during the Commune. I will call him Brother
Albert, for his true name in religion is very well known.
"I heard a curious story in the Vaugirard house," said the Brother
Director, refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff, "which made the
more impression upon me that I once knew intimately one of the persons
in it. Martin Delette was my schoolmate at Pfalsbourg in the old days.
A fine, studious lad he was, too. He took orders and went to the north,
where he lived for many years a quiet country cure. He had a niece, a
charming girl who is not now more than twenty or one-and-twenty. She
was an orphan, and lived with him, going to a convent to school and
returning at vacations. She was not a bad girl, but a trifle wayward
and easily led. She gave the Sisters much anxiety. Last spring she
barely escaped compromising the house by an escapade with a young
_miserable_ of the town, named Banin."
"I know your story," said Albert, with an air which hinted that this
was a sufficient reason why the rest should not hear it. "Banin is in
prison."
Elysee proceeded: "The girl was reprimanded. Next week she disappeared.
To one of her companions she had confided a great desire to see Paris.
So good Father Delette was summoned, and, after a talk with the
Superioress, started post-haste for the capital. He found no signs
either of poor Renee or of Banin, who had also disappeared. The Cure
was nearly heart-broken. Each day, they told me, added a year to his
appearance. He did not cease to importune the police chiefs and to
haunt the public places for a glimpse of his niece's face. But the
summer came, and no Renee. The Cure began to cough and grow weak. But
one day in August the Director, good Prosper, called him down to the
reception-room to see a visitor.
"'There is news for you,'" he whispered, pressing poor Martin's hand.
In the room he found--"
"In the room he found--" broke in Albert, impertinently, but with a
quiet tone of authority which cowed good Elysee, "a shabby man, looking
like a poorly fed waiter. This person rose and said, 'I am a detective;
do you know Banin--young man, tall, blond, squints, broken tooth upper
jaw, hat back on his head, much talk, hails from Rheims?'
"'Ah,' said Delette, 'I have not seen him, but I know him too well.'
"The detective pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder. 'He is in
jail. He is good for twenty years. I did it myself. My name is
So-and-so. Good job. Procurator said you were interested--some woman in
the case, parishioner of yours, eh?'
"'My niece,' gasped the Cure.
"'O ho! does you credit; pretty girl, curly head. good manners. Well,
she's off. Good trick, too. She was the decoy. Banin stood in the
shadow with club. She brought gentleman into alley, friend did work.
That's Banin's story. Perhaps a lie. You have a brother in Algiers?
Thought so. Girl went out there once? So I was told. Probably there
now. African officers say not; but they're a sleepy lot. If I was a
criminal I'd go to Algiers. Good hiding. The detective went. Delette
stood where he was in silence. I went to him, and helped carry him
upstairs. We put him in his bed. He died there."
Brother Albeit stopped. He had told the story, dialogue and all, like a
machine. We did not doubt its correctness. The memory of Albert had
passed into a proverb years before.
Brother Albert raised his eyes again, and added, as if he had not
paused, "He was ashamed to hold his head up. He might well be."
A strange, excited voice rose from the other end of the room. I looked
and saw that it was Edouard who spoke. He had half arisen from his
chair and scowled at Albert, throwing out his words with the tremulous
haste of a young man first addressing an audience:
"Why should he be ashamed? Was he not a good man? Was the blame of his
bad niece's acts his? From the story, she was well used and had no
excuse. It is he who is to be pitied, not blamed!"
The Brother Director smiled benignly at the young enthusiast. "Brother
Edouard is right," he said. "Poor Martin was to be compassioned. None
the less, my heart is touched for the girl. In Banin's trial it
appeared that he maltreated her, and forced her to do what she did by
blows. They were really married. Her neighbors gave Renee a name for
gentleness and a good heart. Poor thing!"
"And she never was found?" asked Abonus, eagerly. He spoke very rarely.
He looked now at me as he spoke, and there was a strange, ungodly
glitter in his eyes which made me shudder involuntarily.
"Never," replied the Director, "although there is a reward, 5,000
francs, offered for her recovery. Miserable child, who can tell what
depths of suffering she may be in this moment?"
"It would be remarkable if she should be found now, after all this
time," said Abonus, sharply. His wicked, squinting old eyes were still
fastened upon me. This time, as by a flash of eternal knowledge, I read
their meaning, and felt the ground slipping from under me.
I shall never forget the night that followed. I made no pretence of
going to bed. Edouard's little dormitory was in another part of the
house. I went once to see him, but dared not knock, since Abonus was
stirring about just across the hall, in his own den. I scratched on a
piece of paper "Fly!" in the dark, and pushed it under the door. Then I
returned to walk my chamber, chafing like a wild beast. Ah, that night,
that night!
With the first cock crow in the village below, long before the bell, I
left my room. I wanted air to breathe. I passed Abonus on the broad
stairway. He strode up with unwonted vigor, bearing a heavy caldron of
water as if it had been straw. His gown was tumbled and dusty; his
greasy _rabat_ hung awry about his neck. I had it in my head to speak
with him, but could not. So the early hours, with devotions which I
went through in a dream, wore on in horrible suspense, and breakfast
came.
We sat at the long table, five on a side, the Director--looking
red-eyed and weary from the evening's unaccustomed dissipation--sitting
at the head. Below us stood Brother Albert, reading from Tertullian in
a dry, monotonous chant. I recall, as I write, how I found a certain
comfort in those splendid, sonorous Latin sentences, though I was
conscious of not comprehending a word. I dreaded the moment they should
end. Edouard sat beside me. We had not exchanged a word during the
morning. How could I speak? What should I say? I was in a nervous
flutter, like unto those who watch the final pinioning of a criminal
whose guillotine is awaiting him. I could not keep my eyes from the
fair face beside me, with its delicately cut profile, made all the more
cameo-like by its pallid whiteness. The lips were tightly compressed. I
could see askant that the tiny nostrils were quivering with excitement.
All else was impassive on Edouard's face. We two sat waiting for the
axe to fall.
It is as distinct as a nightmare to me. Abonus came in with his great
server laden with victuals. He stumbled as he approached. He too was
excited. He drew near, and stood behind me. I seemed to feel his breath
penetrate my skull; and yet I was forced to answer a whispered question
of Brother John's with a smooth face. I saw Edouard suddenly reach for
the milk glass in front of his plate, and hand it back to Abonus with
the disdain of a duchess. He said, in a sharp, peremptory tone:
"Take it away and cleanse it. No one but a dirty monk would place such
a glass on the table."
Albert ceased his reading. Abonus did not touch the glass. He shuffled
hastily to the sideboard and deposited his burden. Then he came back
with the same eager movement. He placed his fists on his hips, like a
fish-woman, and hissed, in a voice choking with concentrated rage:
"No one but a woman would complain of it!"
The brothers stared at each other and the two speakers in mute
surprise. But they saw nothing in the words beyond a personal
wrangle--though even that was such a novelty as to arrest instant
attention. I busied myself with my plate. The Director assumed his
harshest tone, and asked the cause of the altercation. Abonus leaned
over and whispered something in his ear. I remember next a room full of
confusion, a babel of conflicting voices, and a whirling glimpse of
uniforms. Then I fainted.
When I revived I was in my own room, stretched upon my pallet. I looked
around in a dazed way and saw the Brother Director and a young gendarme
by the closed door. Something black and irregular in the outline of the
bed at my side attracted my eyes. I saw that it was Edouard's head
buried in the drapery. As in a dream I laid my numb hand upon those
crisp curls. I was an old man, she was a weak, wretched girl. She
raised her face at my touch, and burned in my brain a vision of
stricken agony, of horrible soul-pain, which we liken, for want of a
better simile, to the anguish in the eyes of a dying doe. Her lips
moved; she said something, I know not what. Then she went, and I was
left alone with Elysee. His words--broken, stumbling words--I remember:
"She asked to see you, Sebastian, my friend. I could not refuse. Her
papers were forged. She did come from Algiers, where her uncle is a
Capuchin. I do not ask, I do not wish to know, how much you know of
this. Before my Redeemer, I feel nothing but pity for the poor lamb.
Lie still, my friend; try to sleep. We are both older men than we were
yesterday."
There is little else to tell. Only twice have reflections of this
episode in my old life reached me in the seclusion of a missionary post
at the foot of the Andes. I learned a few weeks ago that the wretched
Abonus had bought a sailor's cafe on the Toulon wharves with his five
thousand francs. And I know also that the heart of the
Marshal-President was touched by the sad story of Renee, and that she
left the prison La Salpetriere to lay herself in penitence at the foot
of Mother Church. This is the story of my friendship.
A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
--------------------
BY HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
_Hjalmar Hjorth Boyescn (born at Frederiksvaern, Norway, September 23,
1848; died in 1895) was a university graduate who came to this country
in 1869 to take a professorship of languages in a small Ohio college.
Soon after he was called to Cornell, and in 1882 he became Professor of
German in Columbia. His proficiency in the English language was
phenomenal. His mastery of scholarly English in the essay form was to
be expected, but his ready command of the delicately shaded style
required of a literary novelist has not been equaled by any other
naturalized American author. Hence in this series he has received
citizenship among those to the manner born. The story selected by his
son, as representative of his work in brief fiction, is a fine study of
character, with a pathetic ending, whose poignancy is due to its
fidelity to truth._
A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
BY HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
[Footnote: By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1876,
by James R. Osgood & Co.]
I
Ralph Grim was born a gentleman. He had the misfortune of coming into
the world some ten years later than might reasonably have been
expected. Colonel Grim and his lady had celebrated twelve anniversaries
of their wedding-day, and had given up all hopes of ever having a son
and heir, when this late comer startled them by his unexpected
appearance. The only previous addition to the family had been a
daughter, and she was then ten summers old.
Ralph was a very feeble child, and could only with great difficulty be
persuaded to retain his hold of the slender thread which bound him to
existence. He was rubbed with whiskey, and wrapped in cotton, and given
mare's milk to drink, and God knows what not, and the Colonel swore a
round oath of paternal delight when at last the infant stopped gasping
in that distressing way and began to breathe like other human beings.
The mother, who, in spite of her anxiety for the child's life, had
found time to plot for him a career of future magnificence, now
suddenly set him apart for literature, because that was the easiest
road to fame, and disposed of him in marriage to one of the most
distinguished families of the land. She cautiously suggested this to
her husband when he came to take his seat at her bedside; but to her
utter astonishment she found that he had been indulging a similar train
of thought, and had already destined the infant prodigy for the army.
She, however, could not give up her predilection for literature, and
the Colonel, who could not bear to be contradicted in his own house, as
he used to say, was getting every minute louder and more flushed, when,
happily, the doctor's arrival interrupted the dispute.
As Ralph grew up from infancy to childhood, he began to give decided
promise of future distinction. He was fond of sitting down in a corner
and sucking his thumb, which his mother interpreted as the sign of that
brooding disposition peculiar to poets and men of lofty genius. At the
age of five, he had become sole master in the house. He slapped his
sister Hilda in the face, or pulled her hair, when she hesitated to
obey him, tyrannized over his nurse, and sternly refused to go to bed
in spite of his mother's entreaties. On such occasions, the Colonel
would hide his face behind his newspaper, and chuckle with delight; it
was evident that nature had intended his son for a great military
commander. As soon as Ralph himself was old enough to have any thoughts
about his future destiny, he made up his mind that he would like to be
a pirate. A few months later, having contracted an immoderate taste for
candy, he contented himself with the comparatively humble position of a
baker; but when he had read "Robinson Crusoe" he manifested a strong
desire to go to sea in the hope of being wrecked on some desolate
island. The parents spent long evenings gravely discussing these
indications of uncommon genius, and each interpreted them in his or her
own way.
"He is not like any other child I ever knew," said the mother.
"To be sure," responded the father, earnestly. "He is a most
extraordinary child. I was a very remarkable child too, even if I do
say it myself; but, as far as I remember, I never aspired to being
wrecked on an uninhabited island."
The Colonel probably spoke the truth; but he forgot to take into
account that he had never read "Robinson Crusoe."
Of Ralph's school-days there is but little to report, for, to tell the
truth, he did not fancy going to school, as the discipline annoyed him.
The day after his having entered the gymnasium, which was to prepare
him for the Military Academy, the principal saw him waiting at the gate
after his class had been dismissed. He approached him, and asked why he
did not go home with the rest.
"I am waiting for the servant to carry my books," was the boy's answer.
"Give me your books," said the teacher.
Ralph reluctantly obeyed. That day the Colonel was not a little
surprised to see his son marching up the street, and every now and then
glancing behind him with a look of discomfort at the principal, who was
following quietly in his train, carrying a parcel of school-books.
Colonel Grim and his wife, divining the teacher's intention, agreed
that it was a great outrage, but they did not mention the matter to
Ralph. Henceforth, however, the boy refused to be accompanied by his
servant. A week later he was impudent to the teacher of gymnastics, who
whipped him in return. The Colonel's rage knew no bounds; he rode in
great haste to the gymnasium, reviled the teacher for presuming to
chastise _his_ son, and committed the boy to the care of a private
tutor.
At the age of sixteen, Ralph went to the capital with the intention of
entering the Military Academy. He was a tall, handsome youth, slender
of stature, and carried himself as erect as a candle. He had a light,
clear complexion of almost feminine delicacy; blond, curly hair, which
he always kept carefully brushed; a low forehead, and a straight,
finely modeled nose. There was an expression of extreme sensitiveness
about the nostrils, and a look of indolence in the dark-blue eyes. But
the _ensemble_ of his features was pleasing, his dress irreproachable,
and his manners bore no trace of the awkward self-consciousness
peculiar to his age. Immediately on his arrival in the capital he hired
a suite of rooms in the aristocratic part of the city, and furnished
them rather expensively, but in excellent taste. From a bosom friend,
whom he met by accident in the restaurant's pavilion in the park, he
learned that a pair of antlers, a stuffed eagle, or falcon, and a
couple of swords, were indispensable to a well-appointed apartment. He
accordingly bought these articles at a curiosity shop. During the first
weeks of his residence in the city he made some feeble efforts to
perfect himself in mathematics, in which he suspected he was somewhat
deficient. But when the same officious friend laughed at him, and
called him "green," he determined to trust to fortune, and henceforth
devoted himself the more assiduously to the French ballet, where he had
already made some interesting acquaintances.
The time for the examination came; the French ballet did not prove a
good preparation; Ralph failed. It quite shook him for the time, and he
felt humiliated. He had not the courage to tell his father; so he
lingered on from day to day, sat vacantly gazing out of his window, and
tried vainly to interest himself in the busy bustle down on the street.
It provoked him that everybody else should be so light-hearted, when he
was, or at least fancied himself, in trouble. The parlor grew
intolerable; he sought refuge in his bedroom. There he sat one evening
(it was the third day after the examination), and stared out upon the
gray stone walls which on all sides inclosed the narrow courtyard. The
round stupid face of the moon stood tranquilly dozing like a great
Limburger cheese suspended under the sky.
Ralph, at least, could think of a no more fitting simile. But the
bright-eyed young girl in the window hard by sent a longing look up to
the same moon, and thought of her distant home on the fjords, where the
glaciers stood like hoary giants, and caught the yellow moonbeams on
their glittering shields of snow. She had been reading "Ivanhoe" all
the afternoon, until the twilight had overtaken her quite unaware, and
now she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to write her German
exercise. She lifted her face and saw a pair of sad, vacant eyes gazing
at her from the next window in the angle of the court. She was a little
startled at first, but in the next moment she thought of her German
exercise and took heart.
"Do you know German?" she said; then immediately repented that she had
said it.
"I do," was the answer.
She took up her apron and began to twist it with an air of
embarrassment.
"I didn't mean anything," she whispered, at last. "I only wanted to
know."
"You are very kind."
That answer roused her; he was evidently making sport of her.
"Well, then, if you do, you may write my exercise for me. I have marked
the place in the book."
And she flung her book over to the window, and he caught it on the edge
of the sill, just as it was falling.
"You are a very strange girl," he remarked, turning over the leaves of
the book, although it was too dark to read. "How old are you?"
"I shall be fourteen six weeks before Christmas," answered she,
frankly.
"Then I excuse you."
"No, indeed," cried she, vehemently. "You needn't excuse me at all. If
you don't want to write my exercise, you may send the book back again.
I am very sorry I spoke to you, and I shall never do it again."
"But you will not get the book back again without the exercise,"
replied he, quietly. "Good-night."
The girl stood long looking after him, hoping that he would return.
Then, with a great burst of repentance, she hid her face in her lap,
and began to cry.
"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to be rude," she sobbed. "But it was Ivanhoe
and Rebecca who upset me."
The next morning she was up before daylight, and waited for two long
hours in great suspense before the curtain of his window was raised. He
greeted her politely; threw a hasty glance around the court to see if
he was observed, and then tossed her book dexterously over into her
hands.
"I have pinned the written exercise to the flyleaf," he said. "You will
probably have time to copy it before breakfast."
"I am ever so much obliged to you," she managed to stammer.
He looked so tall and handsome, and grown-up, and her remorse stuck in
her throat, and threatened to choke her. She had taken him for a boy as
he sat there in his window the evening before.
"By the way, what is your name?" he asked, carelessly, as he turned to
go.
"Bertha."
"Well, my dear Bertha, I am happy to have made your acquaintance."
And he again made her a polite bow, and entered his parlor.
"How provokingly familiar he is," thought she; "but no one can deny
that he is handsome."
The bright roguish face of the young girl haunted Ralph during the
whole next week. He had been in love at least ten times before, of
course; but, like most boys, with young ladies far older than himself.
He found himself frequently glancing over to her window in the hope of
catching another glimpse of her face; but the curtain was always drawn
down, and Bertha remained invisible. During the second week, however,
she relented, and they had many a pleasant chat together. He now
volunteered to write all her exercises, and she made no objections. He
learned that she was the daughter of a well-to-do peasant in the
sea-districts of Norway (and it gave him quite a shock to hear it), and
that she was going to school in the city, and boarded with an old lady
who kept a pension in the house adjoining the one in which he lived.
One day in the autumn Ralph was surprised by the sudden arrival of his
father, and the fact of his failure in the examination could no longer
be kept a secret. The old Colonel flared up at once when Ralph made his
confession; the large veins upon his forehead swelled; he grew
coppery-red in his face, and stormed up and down the floor, until his
son became seriously alarmed; but, to his great relief, he was soon
made aware that his father's wrath was not turned against him
personally, but against the officials of the Military Academy who had
rejected him. The Colonel took it as insult to his own good name and
irreproachable standing as an officer; he promptly refused any other
explanation, and vainly racked his brain to remember if any youthful
folly of his could possibly have made him enemies among the teachers of
the Academy. He at last felt satisfied that it was envy of his own
greatness and rapid advancement which had induced the rascals to take
vengeance on his son. Ralph reluctantly followed his father back to the
country town where the latter was stationed, and the fair-haired Bertha
vanished from his horizon. His mother's wish now prevailed, and he
began, in his own easy way, to prepare himself for the University. He
had little taste for Cicero, and still less for Virgil, but with the
use of a "pony" he soon gained sufficient knowledge of these authors to
be able to talk in a sort of patronizing way about them, to the great
delight of his fond parents. He took quite a fancy, however, to the ode
in Horace ending with the lines:
Dulce ridentem,
Dulce loquentem,
Lalagen amabo.
And in his thought he substituted for Lalage the fair-haired Bertha,
quite regardless of the requirements of the metre.
To make a long story short, three years later Ralph returned to the
capital, and, after having worn out several tutors, actually succeeded
in entering the University.
The first year of college life is a happy time to every young man, and
Ralph enjoyed its processions, its parliamentary gatherings, and its
leisure, as well as the rest. He was certainly not the man to be
sentimental over the loss of a young girl whom, moreover, he had only
known for a few weeks. Nevertheless, he thought of her at odd times,
but not enough to disturb his pleasure. The standing of his family, his
own handsome appearance, and his immaculate linen opened to him the
best houses of the city, and he became a great favorite in society. At
lectures he was seldom seen, but more frequently in the theatres, where
he used to come in during the middle of the first act, take his station
in front of the orchestra box, and eye, through his lorgnette, by
turns, the actresses and the ladies of the parquet.