CHAPTER VI

FIRST RESULTS, AND THOSE THAT

FOLLOWED

In the days that followed, several friends, both of Tomasine and of her

mother, came to express their sympathy and offer help, but she refused

to see any one.

During all that afternoon when she had sat locked in her room, robbed

of her clothes, her youth, her self-respect, trembling for her life,

she had called to mind that at that moment John Kurt was sitting at

table in the best society of the town. If society had not approved John

Kurt, she would never, inexperienced girl that she was, have been

sitting there. Society had surrendered her to him. Yes, surrender, that

was the word; and yet, if she were not mistaken, every one was fond of

her and respected her. She would never see them again. If she had been

free, she would have left the country. Her own fault? She saw it, saw

it. She would never show her face again.

_Now_ she was free! But something fresh bound her. A terrible

uncertainty. Was she _enceinte_, or was she not? Would she perhaps

bring another insane being into the world? For now that John was gone,

she wished to think that he had been mad, like several of his family.

Would she give birth to a child whose nature might combine any

possibilities, and afterwards be bound to it for the rest of her life,

because those people down in the town had surrendered her, and she had

not understood herself?

In the course of a few weeks she became the shadow of her former self.

It was wonderful, almost as soon as uncertainty changed to the

certainty that she was to become a mother, a feeling of solemnity came

with the decision she formed; she did not understand how it was that

she had not discovered so clear, so natural a thing before. The being

under her bosom should determine the question; if it were a miserable

little wretch everything would be at an end, she would not live to

nourish such a brat; but if the child combined the qualities of her own

honourable race with what was best in his, it would be a great, great

boon that she was left alone with it. At all events, she must wait to

see.

Tomasine was awakened, and from this time a natural grandeur began to

develop itself in her. She had borne both the actual and mental

struggles alone, alone she regulated her own character. It required

time, for her thoughts did not move quickly. She ate, rested, and

regained all her vigour. So finally everything was prepared. She first

called in the head gardener, a handsome, fair man, with a determined

manner and great powers of self-reliance. He was no other than Andreas

Berg, whose Sunday jacket John Kurt had cut to pieces. He had remained

on "The Estate" ever since. Andreas Berg, had borne everything with the

hasty-tempered old Kurt, who would undoubtedly have made him his heir,

if his son had not returned. In later times he had put up with all

John's freaks and bursts of passion.

Tomasine asked him to sit down. She inquired if he had any other

intention, than to stay with her.

"No, he wished to stay, if Fru Kurt would allow him."

She could depend on him, then?

"Yes, that she could."

The first thing she had to ask him was not to call her Fru Kurt any

longer, but Fru Rendalen, and to get the others to do the same. Their

eyes met. Hers shone uncertainly behind her spectacles; his in wide

open astonishment. But when he saw that her glasses were gradually

dimmed by the tears, which could not find a free course, and that her

flat nose worked until the spectacles slipped down on to her cheek, he

hastened to say, "Very good. That shall be done."

She took off her glasses, wiped her eyes first, and them afterwards,

and began, after a pause, with the next question.

"Dear Berg," she said, and put on her glasses, "could you not, quite

quietly, so that no one would notice, have all these portraits

destroyed--indeed, all the pictures, for I cannot always distinguish

them? Have them all burnt, or disposed of in some way, so that they do

not remain here and as soon as you can manage it. Do you understand

me?"

"Yes, Frue, but ..."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be rather difficult if no one is to see."

She considered for a while.

"Even if it is noticed, it may be done all the same, Berg."

"Very good. Then of course it shall be done."

And done it was, with an infernal smell of burnt canvas and burnt

leather, and a general smell of burning. A soft breeze drove it one

afternoon all over the town, the smoke drifting almost to the works,

out by the river-banks. She then invited her father, with all his

family, to come up to her. That was done at once. She handed over all

the housekeeping to old Mariane, and let her have what help she wanted.

The rest of the family lived in the rooms behind her own.

Soon afterwards an advertisement appeared in the local paper:

FRU TOMASINE RENDALEN

_Will resume her Instructions in English, French, and German_.

_Information to be obtained at_ "_The Estate_."

She changed her name with all legal formalities. Besides her classes,

of which she had as many as she wished, she studied book-keeping, and

soon herself began to keep the accounts of the house, garden, and

dairy. At the same time she began to learn a little about the working

of the business, the accounts of which she kept. She wished to qualify

herself to undertake it. Perhaps she would never have to do so, but it

gave her present occupation. It left no time for brooding; that was the

main thing. She was so tired every evening, that she slept the moment

her head was on the pillow, and, like all thoroughly healthy people,

she was wide awake directly she opened her eyes, and was into her bath

the next instant.

Notwithstanding this, as time went on the more oppressive became the

secret thoughts which were ever present to her mind. She had cleared

away every trace of the Kurt family, she had surrounded herself with

her own. Every time that a thought of the former presented itself to

her mind, she met it with some thought of the latter. She knew nothing

of her mother's family, but as a child she had been in Rendalen, and

there seen her father's relations, and listened to their sagas. There

was nothing remarkable about them. The family disposition, even and

rather heavy, had every now and then, after a too long period of

general respect, or when pressed to the uttermost, come out into

something uncommon, but otherwise they were an orderly race, toiling on

with quiet perseverance. But everything she knew about them, appearance

as well as disposition, she placed in opposition to all which could

come from the side of the Kurts. The Kurts were dark, the Rendalens

essentially fair; fair in hair and complexion, fair and open in

disposition. She had such practice in moving pictures in and out of her

mind, that the very moment a Kurt memory intruded, it was driven away

by a commanding fair Rendalen without eyebrows. The result was, that

dark or light became a sort of finality with her. The outward

appearance was a sign of the inward disposition; the first sight of her

child, therefore, might well determine her life. Her whole anxiety

centred itself upon that first moment.

The nearer the great moment came, the more her dread increased. Her

ordinary occupations no longer sufficed to deaden it. She dismissed her

pupils and took part in the work, both in the house and out of doors.

The spring was late that year, and in her ardour she let herself take

cold; she struggled against it as long as she could, but at last she

was obliged to keep indoors, and take to her bed. And now her anxiety

so entirely got the better of her that she fancied, before the time,

that the birth-pains were upon her, and became absolutely light-headed.

She again began the struggle with John Kurt, and even when, completely

exhausted, her mind became clear, her anxiety by no means subsided. The

first sight of the child would be enough, and in her distress and

desperation she came to believe that dark or light hair would be

decisive. "If it is dark," she thought, "I am doomed--I shall be unable

to bend the child. And it _will_ be dark, the Kurt race is so strong.

Its fierce strength has already impressed itself too deeply upon me,

its fancies overshadow me. I cannot even think as I will."

She tried to gain comfort from the answering thought that old Konrad

Kurt had been worthy. "There are good qualities in the Kurt family;

seeds of good which perhaps will grow again in the child which will be

born. Even if the good be not unmixed--I do not ask so much--but if it

may be the stronger." She prayed for it--ah! how she prayed!--until she

remembered that it was too late!--it had been decided long ago. She

constantly saw the back of a neck brooding over her--the neck in the

picture of the first Kurt. She used her old power, to call up images of

her own people against it, but the fair race would not shine. The neck

remained. It had no right to be there, it was no longer in the Kurt

family; neither Konrad Kurt had it, nor John.

"Take away that neck," she cried to those near her. And with the sound

of "Away, take it away," new fancies shaped themselves around her. John

Kurt appeared, to tell her that he would never go away. She would

never, by all the devils, get rid of him. His white forehead gleamed,

and he swore till nothing but r-r-r-r thrilled and drummed close up

beside her cheek.

To such a degree was she exhausted by this inward struggle, that it was

a relief when the birth-pains began in reality, imperiously commanding

all else to stand aside.

All fever had left her, and she bravely gathered her strength together,

but it was less than any one supposed. Therefore it was a long time

before she heard a feeble cry, and "A son, Frue, you have a son," and

afterwards, gently and kindly, "Tomasine, you have a son."

A gentle peace had filled her. It was soon broken. She collected her

thoughts at the word "son"--she had a son. The wave of peace broke

against a wave of dread. "His hair?" she contrived to whisper. She

could not say more. "Red, Frue." She had a dim idea that that might be

either dark or light, perhaps more likely dark. It was not clear--it

was---- And everything passed away from her.

For some time those near did not notice her. No one imagined that this

powerful woman could be fainting, and therefore some time elapsed

before she was brought round, and there was some alarm. It was only by

degrees that she realised what had happened--what the whimpering was

she heard somewhere--why she had a remembrance of pain. The child was

now clothed, and they lifted it up to her, but still not near enough.

She could not see it properly. She wished to sign to them to bring it

nearer, but it was difficult; she could neither do it with her voice,

nor by moving her head, and she did not think of her hand, or perhaps

she could not move it. But some one was there who understood, and held

the baby up to her, so that it touched her cheek, just where she had

felt its father's breath. She felt something soft, something warm,

something delicate, the softest thing she had ever touched. She heard a

cluck, a whimper, and now she saw--the eyebrows, they were her own, her

family's light sparse bristles.

It was too much joy, too much happiness. Her blood circulated more

quickly, and soon the warmth came to her cheeks, the tears to her eyes.

She lay there weeping quietly, while her little one was held fast to

her motherly breast.

With God's help, she would try to accomplish the rest.

III

A LECTURE

CHAPTER I

DETHRONED

Fru Tomasine Rendalen herself carried the child to the font, and gave

him her own name.

Little Tomas's cradle stood by the side of the bed in which she slept.

The room was both her reading and working room. The other remained

vacant as though only for show. Through her friends in England,

France, and Germany she obtained books in three languages on the

bringing up of children. But she soon laid them aside; they were all

either too vague, or too dogmatic. She began to widen her acquirements

in other respects. She wished to be his teacher in everything. But,

from the time that he was six months old her work was much interrupted,

for he was a most restless child. The doctor assured her that, so far

as he could see, the boy ailed nothing. He did not scream from pain.

If, at the moment he opened his eyes, for example, the person he wanted

was not there--that is to say, the one who could give him food--he not

only screamed till she came, which was to be expected, but after she

had come and had forced him to drink, he screamed while the milk ran

out of his mouth, and continued to give blows, slaps, and spiteful

cries. He could not forget. If there were anything he did not like, he

screamed himself black in the face, and made himself rigid. Sometimes

it seemed to Tomasine as though she had a log on her lap, and not a

human being. When he was nine months old, she was obliged to give up

nursing him, for he kept her in such a state of irritation and terror,

that his health became affected through her. The struggle which ensued

on this, was terrible. It lasted altogether for three days and nights,

during which time he could only be induced to touch a drop of the

strange food by artifice.

As Tomasine hung about in the outer room or in the passage, listening

to the hoarse screams, for he had no voice left--not allowed to see

him, or go to his help--she remembered more than once, with shame, what

she had thought and determined before he was born. The boy cried

inside, the mother outside, and no one could get her away. And this,

his first great fight in the world, to keep possession of his mother's

breast, had no happy influence upon him, for from that time he tried,

more than ever, to get everything by screaming.

Tomasine was a strong, long-suffering woman, but she became thin and

nervous. She hoped that things would improve as he grew bigger, and

waited till he should be a year old; but still had to wait, for the

stronger he grew the more persistently he screamed. Some new method

must be adopted. The specialists did not touch on this, or else she had

not understood them. She consulted experienced people, and was advised

to keep him continually amused. That answered for a while. He was quiet

when he saw anything new, but he would not look at the same thing more

than twice at the outside. If she forgot this, he became so furious

that the very newest thing in the world would not pacify him. Some one

else advised her to let the child scream as much as he liked. Eternal

Powers, how he yelled! If he had been chosen as the representative of

all the sorrow and trouble in the town he could not have done better.

"No," thought Tomasine, "that will torture the life out of both him and

me." So she turned to the exactly opposite course, and tried to guess

his thoughts before he had formed them, and indulged him in everything.

This helped, but if she guessed wrong, there was no use in guessing

right afterwards.

At last his maternal retainer and slave, like many before her, was

brought to such a state of distress and despair, that she determined to

revolt. The little despot must be dethroned. The revolution broke out

with six slaps on his little person. All the horrors of a civil war

at once showed themselves. But six, seven, eight to twelve slaps

followed. To give up one's power before one's life, is hard even for a

not-two-years-old tyrant, so the battle lasted several hours until--he

gave in? No, that he would not do, but he fell asleep.

Tomasine was so worn out by months of worry, anxiety, and sleepless

nights, and finally by the fight itself, that she was trembling and

bathed in perspiration. She stood over him as he slept, as David is

said to have stood over Saul. She grieved for his fallen greatness. She

heard him sob as he lay there in his helplessness. She saw the last

tear dry on his cheek, the convulsive movements of his chubby hands,

and the twitching of the thin skin of his head. Who should be good to

him if not she? How she longed for his waking, that she might let him

see her face with its gentlest expression, and caress him, and practise

all those small arts which are the delight of every mother! More than

all, she longed to make him screw up his mouth for a kiss. When he did

that, he was irresistible.

At last he began to move and to rub his hand over his nose. In her

impatience she put her hands under him, and laid her face down to his

head, to breathe the warm fragrance from it.

He screwed up his mouth for a grimace; despair rose darker and darker

in his eyes, and at last he gave a shriek, a frightful and frightening

shriek, while he thrust himself away from her, with hands, head, and

body.

She was obliged hastily to let go of him, and call her sister. To her,

the little arms were raised at once, and he pressed himself closely to

her, so as to be thoroughly safe.

The forsaken mother stood and looked on. She felt as though she had

been driven round the whole compass, and was now at the same point from

which she had started some months before. Her first feeling was one of

miserable helplessness, then came a strong sense of shame, and suddenly

she snatched the boy away from her sister, and dressed him herself,

whether he would or no.

He screamed the whole time, and when he was dressed, and would not take

food from her, a perfect hail of slaps and rain of scolding ensued, nor

did she leave off till he really struggled to be quiet; checking the

sound so suddenly that he gasped for breath as though he were choking.

By degrees the rebellion was reduced to subdued sounds strongly

restrained; whenever they broke out again they were forced back. At

last he showed that he was entirely subdued by screwing up his mouth

for a kiss, to prove to her that it really was against his will if a

cry every now and then escaped him. It was comically touching. He was

finally forced to eat, and, now completely mastered, he sobbed himself

to sleep.

Tomasine went out for a walk, and on her return sat once more,

anxiously waiting for his awakening. He had hardly opened his eyes, and

seen her, before there were threatenings of a prolonged howl, but he

restrained it from fear; nay, he even held out his hands to her as she

stood smiling over him. There have been many more fortunate conquerors,

both before and since the time, when Fru Tomasine Rendalen deposed her

son, and seated herself on his throne. Besides which, the pleasure was

diminished by the knowledge that she should have done this at first,

long, long ago; but all the same she was just as delighted with her

tardy victory, as any general could have been with a more timely one,

and as she lay down that night, she was as weary and as confident

as the conqueror of a city. At that time Tomas was a year and nine

months old. She thoroughly understood that this struggle would not be

the last, but with that knowledge came the conviction that in the

uncertain voyaging through which his whims had led him, he had

discovered his mother. From that time forward she would be his

mainland. She soon obtained a proof of this. Whether it were in the

intoxication of victory that she began to wear a cap, or whether it

were a long-nourished plan for concealing the hair which had always

annoyed her, and putting something visible in its place, the fact

remains that the cap first appeared at this time. The boy must and

would have it off. For his sake she had temporarily offered up her

spectacles, against which he had also waged war. But she would not

sacrifice her cap. Now many people are content to lose the realities of

power, but cannot bear to be deprived of its symbols; and to be able to

lord it over his mother's hair and head was a great, a strong proof of

power, which he would not give up.

And so a fight ensued, but he yielded before things had reached a

climax. His little hands were pushed back time after time, and always

with more force, notwithstanding his screams, till suddenly he flung

himself on her neck, and the little war ended charmingly.

She was a happy mother as she looked forward to his second birthday. An

English friend, with whom she exchanged letters from time to time,

since she no longer visited in the town, had sent her, for this great

day, Charles Dickens' "David Copperfield," at that time the most

popular novel in England. The book came a day too soon. She read a

great deal of it at once, and all the life-like forms gathered

themselves round little Tomas for his own day, when he was to be

dressed in new clothes from top to toe. She dreamt of little Em'ly and

little Tomas. She woke on his birthday morning a little earlier than

he. He was lying quite still. He had not disturbed her the whole night,

a thing which did not happen once in two months. Proud and happy, she

gave him his birthday greeting. The first hours passed in unbroken

delight. At nine o'clock he was sitting on the floor of the parlour,

dressed in his new clothes and surrounded by all the toys which she and

her family had given him. She herself sat by the window, dressed in her

best, reading "David Copperfield." She had tried having the window

open, to enjoy the fresh air, but the spring day was rather cold.

After a time she was called into the kitchen. He never liked her to

leave him, but he was so occupied at that moment, that she thought she

might venture, though she took the precaution of going through the

bedroom and across the hall into the kitchen. She left the kitchen-door

open, for fear he should think her too long gone, and begin to call for

her.

In the parlour all remained quiet, suspiciously quiet. He had in fact

closely observed the book that his mother was reading, for, according

to the English fashion, it had a bright-coloured binding, with a

picture on it.

He noticed that she put it down on the table, and felt that he too

should like to read a little of it, if he could do so without

interruption. He dropped his toys as soon as ever he was alone, got up,

and toddled off, pushed a stool forward, when he found he could not

reach up, pulled the book on to the floor, and sat himself down beside

it.

Some time elapsed before he again learnt, as he had done previously,

but had forgotten, that it is not easy to read a number of pages at

once, but, on the contrary, one should take them one or two at a time;

that did very well. Then he tore them out of the book, they were so

much easier to read in that way.

After the first one or two, he took them out several at a time, twenty

in all, before his mother returned. They soon had a difference of

opinion over this style of reading. She lost her temper, and took the

book hastily from him, telling him sharply, that he knew quite well

that he ought not to touch her books. He was frightened at first, but

after a while he stretched out both his hands and said, "Me book, mama,

me book."

She naturally took no notice of him, so he came up to her and repeated

very coaxingly, "Me book, mama, me book." "No," she answered sharply,

for unluckily the book had been shamefully treated, just at the place

where she was reading. He waited a little, but began again, "Me book,

mama, me book." She remembered that it was his birthday, and answered

him more gently, showing him what harm he had done. He listened and

answered, "Me book, mama, me book."

Some sweets were lying there; she gave him some, which he ate up,

saying, as he did so, "Me book, mama, me book." She laid the book

aside, took him up, and danced round with him, then set him down among

his toys, and went back to smooth out the crumpled leaves. He was soon

by her side again, reaching up to the table with one hand, while he

steadied himself with the other: "Me book, mama, me book." Once more

she left her occupation, and fetched his outdoor things in order to go

out with him.

This he would not have on any terms. He made himself as stiff as a

poker, but she was determined that out he should go. They remained in

the garden for an hour, and he amused himself while he was there.

While she was taking off his things again in the parlour, he stretched

his disengaged hand towards the table: "Me book, mama, me book," saying

it with the most coaxing tone and look of which he was capable. She

thought it the best way to appear deaf to it, and gave herself up to

cutting bits of paper, in order to gum them over the torn leaves. It

was slow work, and all the time he stood, and begged, and prayed,

giving little stamps, and stretching himself up: "Me book, mama, me

book."

"He will stop some time," she thought, but he was still persevering

when she had accomplished her task.

She was very anxious to leave his society for that of the characters in

the book, who were certainly much more amusing, but she did not wish to

be cross, and so began to play the flute--that is to say, she moved her

fingers as though she were playing a piccolo, whistling at the same

time; a performance in which she had a good deal of practice.

He pulled and dragged at her dress, and she replied with her flute. She

became quite merry over it, and her merriment increased when he became

angry, and called out "No, no," to her playing, and cried, and hit her.

The flute playing became much quicker; he would not leave off, nor

would she; the spirits of the Kurts were in every chink and corner.

Then the child threw himself down on his back on the floor, drumming

with his heels and screaming in good earnest. She played on, but more

softly, for she felt that it was actually he who had won, while she was

teasing him.

She could not take up the old fight again at once. In one moment the

flute-playing changed to crying--helpless, inconsolable crying. The

boy, who in the midst of his anger, had kept a sharp watch on her, was

so astonished that he forgot to scream. She had been suddenly seized by

her old dread, and neither saw nor heard anything, till she felt

something warm against one of her hands. She had let it hang as she

flung herself backward in her misery, raising the other to her face.

She lifted her head, and looked into a wondering face, the tear-stained

face of her own red-haired boy.

As soon as he saw her look at him, he put up his lips for a kiss,

stretching out his hands to her. So the little flat nose was lifted up

to the big one, and she murmured, and prattled, and fondled him, all

over his face and head, as he held his arms round her neck. She did not

take the book again. She kept him instead, and he never once looked

towards the table where it lay. That was their last great struggle.

There were a thousand lesser ones, of course, but never one which

lasted more than a few minutes.

CHAPTER II

ON THE MOUNTAIN

Tomasine always had her boy under her own care; the lively, clever

child needed a watchful eye; but all the same she looked forward to his

fourth birthday with good courage, and on that day something chanced,

which made her form a determination.

Tomas had had several playfellows; as he was accustomed to be alone he

always wanted things his own way, so he had not been very good-natured.

On his fourth birthday he received, among other presents, a book about

brothers and sisters, which told how good brothers were to their

sisters, so indulgent and helpful; this was illustrated by sketches in

which the little brother always led his little sister by the hand.

Tomas derived another idea in the meantime from the book; he asked "Why

he had not a sister too? Could he not get one?"

Tomasine Rendalen had certainly often remembered that he had a sister,

but not as a matter which concerned herself; it did not seem to her of

any further consequence, but he begged so continuously, that she began

to think a little more seriously about it. Suppose his sister should be

in want? The property had been John Kurt's, and it had prospered

greatly, thanks to his own plan, that of extending the gardens further

up the hill, thus making them nearly twice as large. John Kurt's child

must be properly provided for, there ought to be no doubt about it.

She made inquiries about the child, and learned that her little

namesake lived with her grandmother, Marit Stoeen, "Mother Stoea," as

they called her, the widow of the pilot who had gained a great

reputation on that coast. Marit Stoeen lived up on the mountain,

therefore to the left of "The Estate": Tomasine decided to see the

child.

As there was no hurry about it, she determined to do so the first fine

Sunday. As it chanced, the weather for a number of Sundays was bad, so

it was full summer before one came which tempted her to go. Andreas

Berg accompanied her.

The road to the mountain led to the left from the market-place, past

the new churchyard, and further out into the country. But after that,

when they turned towards the mountain, the way was more of a quagmire

than a road.

Till that time the poorer people of the town had been allowed to build

as they liked, and live as they could, and a regular road was only just

being constructed. Down by the sea, the boats lay side by side, as

close together as possible, for the left side of the mountain sheltered

them. All round the boats, and in them, were a number of children,

mostly little ones, and there was as much noise as if there were a

thousand of them.

Tomasine wondered if the one she sought were there as well. She looked

into each wild little face to see if she could find anything familiar.

It was not a pleasant occupation. The rough children gathered round her

in a swarm, when she inquired for Mark Stoeen, and at least twenty

pointed up the hill. But she could not distinguish what they said to

her all together. Nor did she wish to stay, but, with Andreas Berg,

began to climb all the corkscrew turnings of the road.

The shouts from below followed her, but none of the children, so that

she concluded that none of them had anything to do with Marit Stoeen.

It was a rough road, over the solid rock for the most part, though here

and there a step had been made, and now and then it had been slightly

hollowed.

It turned from left to right and from right to left; there were not

four houses standing on the same level. And how extraordinary many of

them were! Some nothing more than a ship's caboose, with a broad

penthouse over it. There were several with the stairs leading to the

upper story built outside, and, in one or two, they went right across

the roof, to an attic room which had been added later. Many were so

built that the lower story had its exit to the west, with the road on a

level with the door, but the upper story had an exit to the east, for

there the road and door were still on the same level.

Almost all the houses had odd outbuildings, mostly boats standing up,

with one end cut off, though in some cases boats were used as roofs, by

being turned upside down and supported by walls of boards or stone.

Little strips of garden wound in and out everywhere, often in the most

unlikely places, where they were so narrow that two turnips could

hardly grow side by side. Rank odours of all sorts, sometimes

pleasantly modified by the smell of tar, hung over the whole mountain,

rising and spreading as a rich offering up into the Sabbath sky--all

according to the ordinary customs in that part of the world.

The noise of the children down by the sea came ringing up the hillside

like a constant chime, now and then broken by a cry. A cock crowed; a

dog on board one of the ships in the harbour barked at a passing boat,

and was answered by some shaggy comrade on the mountain. Otherwise all

was still; they only heard their own steps crunching on the gravel,

and, as they got higher up, something like the frantic screaming of a

child.

Tomasine looked out over the islands, and the Sound, away to the open

sea--shining and still and clear under the sky. In the streets of the

town a few people were walking about, and, in some places, little

groups of children. But it was too far off for any sound to mingle with

the shouts of those below.

To the right lay "The Estate," the first column of smoke, just curling

from the kitchen chimney; all round here the chimneys had been smoking

for a long time, and a little smoke hung here and there over the town.

The day was warm. They toiled, perspiring, up the mountain-side, and

she thought of those who, after a day's hard work, had every evening to

climb these twenty, thirty, or even fifty stages for supper, wood

chopping, and bed.

She did not meet a single person, though she saw several, mostly old

men, sitting before the doors with their pipes. The working men

generally slept till dinner time on Sundays, and the women were all by

the kitchen fires. Here and there an idle lass might be seen, sitting

on a step, chatting to a girl-friend who had most likely come up to

join in the evening's amusements. Or perhaps a young sailor, who, with

his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, leant over a wall

talking to a girl who stood shyly before him.

Little more than half-way up they came upon a party of lads and girls

who lay or sat round a large flat stone. There was no noise or talking;

Tomasine did not know they were there, until she was close upon them.

They were in the very worst of the smells, but that did not seem to

affect them. What could they be engaged in? There was nothing to show

it. She inquired the way, and one or two half rose, while one, who was

older, answered her, pointing to a red house with white painted

window-frames.

Tomasine had just wiped her spectacles and she could see the house, but

she also saw distinctly by their manner that they all knew her, and

every one guessed just what she wanted at Mother Stoea's. No one said

anything, but she heard a little tittering and whispering when she had

gone by.

She asked Berg what they could be doing, since they were all so quiet;

and he replied that he believed that the boys were playing cards, and

the girls looking on, but that, as it was at the time of the Sunday

sermon, they hid the cards away if a stranger went by. She began to

reflect on the difference between the working people in a little

Norwegian town and those of a large foreign city, raising thereby many

old memories. But something occupied her along with her thinking, a

disagreeable something which would not leave off. What was that? Yes,

it was the same frantic screaming from up the hill. Now that she came

nearer, she recognised it, and it brought a painful feeling with it. It

was her son's old, spiteful scream. There was no doubt of it--the same

to such a degree in tone of voice, in description, and vigour, that it

tortured and stabbed her. Could it be his sister who was up there

scoffing at her? She had been hot before, and now she was in a glow;

some of the old dread seized upon her, bewildering thoughts from the

old days, of struggles with her son. But, "Frue, you are going too

fast," called Andreas Berg from lower down the hill; she could hardly

see him, her glasses were dim; she took them off and wiped them, and

her eyes as well, drew a long breath and began to laugh. Berg came up

slowly. The child's crying continued, but now that she had recovered

her senses, she noticed that it came from the right, while she could

see Marit Stoeen's house, the red one with white window-frames, almost

exactly before her on the slope to the left; it was the largest house

up there, and undoubtedly the one she had seen, she could not be

mistaken; she felt quite lighthearted as she walked towards it.

They could not go straight to it, but were obliged to make a circuit

and come back along Marit Stoeen's garden fence, which had also been

painted, though evidently not so recently.

The two windows of the house looked out towards the garden, and there

was an extensive view from them, but the door was in the end wall to

the left, to which a porch had been added, with a few steps leading up

to it. All was quiet here, inside and out, but the jubilant voices of

the little ones below, and the screams of the angry child from the

other side, further away, met in the air.

The garden, along which they passed, was the largest they had seen on

the mountains, though certainly neither it, nor the house, were what

one would call well kept. But there was comfort, or whatever one might

call it: Tomasine hesitated for the right word. She now saw a child

with dark hair and bright, wondering eyes, who got up from the steps,

letting something fall from her lap, as she ran quickly into the

house-place. Immediately afterwards there appeared a tall elderly

woman, with dark untidy hair, and a handsome and intelligent, though

rather dirty face. The woman at once recognised Tomasine, who now came

up the steps and entered the porch.

"Have you come to see us, Frue?" she asked, smiling.

Tomasine was again busy with her eternal spectacles, and when she put

them on again, the woman had tidied up the place as well as she could,

with the little girl clinging with both hands to her skirt, so that,

however the woman turned, the child was hidden from the strange lady.

Andreas Berg remained outside. Marit Stoeen apologised for her untidy

room, with a pleasant voice and simple skill. It was getting on to

dinner-time, she said, and everything certainly ought to be very

different. But there had been a dance there the evening before. They

like to keep it up a long time, you see. She would still less like to

ask the lady to come into the parlour, for it was even worse, she said,

laughing. It was by no means a small sum that she made by letting the

room, and by the coffee she sold. Her room was the largest on that

side; for the mountain was divided in two as it were. "The people here

will have nothing to do with those on the other side." And she laughed

again.

Tomasine Rendalen had taken a seat, but when she began to look round

the room, she found that the spectacles must come off again. She was

warmer than she had supposed. As she took them off, she asked after the

child's mother. The woman replied that Petrea was married.

"Married!"

"Yes, to a mate of the name of Aslaksen. He was a smart, clever fellow,

and he would have her. They did not live here any longer," she said,

and proceeded to explain their circumstances in detail. "Aslaksen would

soon get a ship."

The child peeped now and again from behind her grandmother's skirts,

and each time Tomasine glanced towards her. She had a shock of dark

hair like her grandmother's, and in other respects was a blending of

John Kurt and the woman standing before her--a blending which, she

could not deny it, gave her a feeling of aversion. And yet the little

thing was pretty. She had undoubtedly Kurt's wild eyes, but there was

laughter in them as well as wildness.

"So the child remains with you?" said Tomasine, pointing with her

parasol to where she was hiding.

"The child, yes, she's all right," answered the grandmother, while she

patted her grandchild's head. "John Kurt, he paid for Petrea, as soon

as ever she had her misfortune. And had a christening, so grand as you

would hardly believe, and along a' that, he gives her a savings-bank

book with a hundred specie-daler in it, and his father gave her another

on top of it with just as much in it again." And Marit Stoeen began to

cry from sheer gratitude, because John Kurt had given two hundred daler

to his own child.

Up to that time Tomasine had had no idea of this "Have you any of the

money left?" she asked.

"I should think we have some of it left," laughed Marit; "why that is a

likely idea that the little 'un could want it all." She laughed, and

again took hold of the child's curly head, and drew it towards her. But

the little one slipped back again directly.

"Is she not very much in the way, now you are alone and have to work?"

"Oh! as for that, no. We are not so particular as all that comes to.

She sits herself away somewhere;" and she turned half round, laughing,

towards the child behind her.

"Is she easy to manage--not passionate?"

"Oh! not so bad," laughed Marit; "and she's so comical as well, poor

little thing." And she now forcibly pulled her forward, the child still

struggling against her. "Now, now, don't be such a silly."

Tomasine, however, did not wish to come into close contact with the

child. So she got up, and looked round the house-place. The hearth was

in the corner of the inner room; close by the window stood the table,

with the remains of breakfast on it; a coffee-cup and a milk-bowl, with

the dregs still in them.

On the wall opposite, and also on that between the fire-place and the

door, hung some daguerreotypes, and two or three pictures were nailed

up as well. The daguerreotypes, of course, represented Aslaksen and

Petrea. Fru Rendalen passed these without looking at them. The pictures

were, one a large ship in full sail, the others, the new Emperor and

Empress of the French. As Tomasine had never seen any likeness of the

latter she went up to them. The Emperor, who had a large nose, looked

about twenty-four; the Empress was but lightly clad, though she looked

all the same a very innocent little girl of hardly sixteen.

"They are only the sort o' things they carry about to sell," explained

Marit. "I thought it would be amusing like to have her. She was not

born to it, nor, for the matter of that, was he."

Tomasine was now opposite the open door. "Good gracious!" she

exclaimed, "what child can that be who is always screaming?"

Marit laughed. "Oh! that's Lars Tobiassen's boy, that is."

"He never does anything else but scream," was suddenly heard from the

little girl behind her grandmother's gown. She came forward in her

excitement. Then, frightened at the sound of her own voice, she hid her

head again.

"Perhaps the lady knows Lars Tobiassen?" inquired Marit.

Tomasine noticed something in her voice. "No, what is he?"

"It is rather a difficult job to say, that," answered Marit. "He's such

a lot of things. He's a hard drinker, he is. He's turned butcher

lately, for they say as drinking won't do no harm in that business.

Have you never seen him?"

"No, why do you ask me?"

"Ah, I don't hardly like to say anything about it," and she laughed

rather slyly.

"But why not?"

"Well, I only says what others says to me. It was not as found it out,"

and she laughed again.

"What is said, then?"

"Well, folk do say that he's a Kurt too. Not any of them last ones, but

a bit further back."

She saw this made some impression on Tomasine, and hastily added, "Like

enough, it's nought but talk. He's like no Kurt that ever I saw. He's a

rare fighter, he is."

"Some of the Kurts have been that too," answered Tomasine, by way of

saying something; and she turned to the window and looked out.

"Yes, I've heard that," answered Marit; "there are two sorts of 'em.

Some fat and dark, and others just as thin; but they have always been

good-natured, the most of 'em. Folk can say what they will, but to the

poor people...." Her hand sought the child.

Tomasine turned at the moment and beckoned to Marit. Through the window

they could see a number of people beyond the garden-fence. Andreas Berg

was there as well, talking to some of them, perhaps to keep them there,

and prevent them from coming to the door. They were mostly young. Now

she saw that they were the same whom she had passed down below, sitting

round the flat stone; a few others might perhaps have joined them. They

all stood staring up at the window.

"My, what a lot there are!" cried Marit.

"Do you see that ragged boy, with the fair curly hair?" asked Tomasine.

"Yes, he is easy enough to see," and Marit's voice showed that she

understood what Tomasine wished to know. "He is the son of young Consul

Fuerst, and like enough to his father." It was true. That curly hair,

those blue eyes, re-recalled the partner of many a dance. Tomasine

blushed crimson. "Why, my gracious, and you did not know before, Frue?

Well, it's my turn to ask you something now," she continued. "Do you

know that lass over there, as is holding her petticoat on with her

hand? She has pulled off the string, poor thing. Her, without much more

on than her shift. Her with hair as is neither yellow nor red, and a

ridiculous white skin. Dear me, _that_ one over there. Can't you really

see who she is?" Yes, Tomasine had done so long ago; she had had plenty

of practice in the foreign schools in recognising parents by their

children, and children by their parents. "Yes, she's Froeken Engel right

enough, if any one chose to call her so," laughed Marit, "though she's

not dressed in silks." Tomasine drew back from the window.

Again Marit laughed, though this time not altogether without malice.

"One sees the wrong side of the world up here on the mountain."

Tomasine hastened to say that she had thought of giving the child sixty

daler a year. Here was the first thirty for the past six months. If

Marit needed any more help, she must come and tell her. When the child

was bigger, they would talk of what was further to be done with her.

Marit stood with the money in her hand: "That really was something, far

more than any one could expect; if everybody behaved like that when any

one had a misfortune...." And she began to cry again.

In the meantime the child had let go the dress, rousing up when she

heard that there were people outside in the garden. She had sidled

right into the porch. She now came rushing in again, while loud

laughter from outside rang through the house. The little girl only said

"Lars Tobiassen," seized her grandmother's dress with both her hands,

and huddled it round her. Tomasine, frightened lest he should be coming

in, went hurriedly to the door without even saying goodbye, tying her

bonnet strings, which she had loosened, as she went. In so doing she

nearly fell, and had a narrow escape of descending the steps quicker

than she had intended. But Lars Tobiassen had just passed. The laughter

seemed to have burst out as he clambered up the steps to the right. He

was roaring drunk.

Tomasine came out just as, with his back towards her, he had surmounted

the first obstacle. She noticed his close-cropped neck. Where had she

seen that bronze bull-neck before, and the point of hair in the middle?

Oh! Heavens, that fearful neck which had hung over her, the night

her child was born. The eldest Kurt's neck: that was it. And the

bull-necked man now called out, "Now just you wait--devil take you!

I'll give you something to scream for, I will." Tomasine was down

the steps, out of the garden, through the crowd; she would not hear

that swearing again, nor the sound of blows, and not, oh! not that

half-insane screaming. She rather flew than walked through the people,

who made way for her. But barely sufficient, so that she jostled

against several of them, and when the descent began, she sprang from

step to step, fancying she heard laughter behind her, but only running

on the faster. She was fit to drop, but would not give in.

Notwithstanding all her efforts, she could hear behind her the

incessant terrified cries of the child, the drunken voice, and a

woman's passionate scream. Dogs woke up and barked, but not near enough

to drown the shriek, that fearful shriek, until, thank God, the bells

from the two churches in the town began to ring at the same moment,

filling the whole air with their clangour. She had come to the flat

stone where the young people had been. It was deserted now; she sank

down on it, and burst into tears. At last Andreas Berg came after her.

His dignified pace made her feel that she had behaved somewhat

strangely. She dare not wait till he got up with her, but without

looking round she walked on. Her knees trembled, but she would no

longer allow herself to be hunted by phantoms. The blessed church bells

saved her from hearing anything else, and they continued till she was

right down at the bottom. The children were no longer there. It was

dinner-time.

A quarter of an hour later she was sitting with her little boy in her

lap. He was very much puzzled by her excitement and tears, assuring her

eagerly that he had been "dood" the whole time. She thanked him for it

over and over again, with caresses, hugs, and kisses, but cried all the

more. Now she began to feel how bad it had been of her never to lay her

hand on his little sister's head, although she had been "dood" too.

The boy's playthings lay strewn around him. She remembered the bit of

firewood, with an apron round it, which his little sister had let fall

when she ran frightened away from the door-step. Tomasine had noticed

it, for she almost fell over it as she hurried away. But nothing had

melted her. Yet the child could not help having the same father! No, it

was Tomasine who had not been "dood" that morning.

CHAPTER III

THE CHILD

The first result of this visit was that Tomasine felt she must have

some one to talk to, for there were other bad inheritances in the world

beside the Kurts'. She must gain further knowledge. Without hesitation

she chose the man for whom she had the greatest respect, "Old Green."

Now as surely as the afternoon came old Green passed by. The way he

took was along the garden, on the right, where the road used to run,

and where a path still led up to the woods. This walk among the hills

and woods was Dean Green's favourite one. Tomasine began to watch for

him, but lately he had hardly ever been alone. Nils Hansen, the

shoemaker, was generally with him, the greatest character in the town,

and married to a lady whom Tomasine had known abroad, and who had been

one of her friends.

One day, as Tomasine had stationed herself at the gate, to watch if the

Dean were alone, she heard him and Hansen far down the slope. Mormonism

was beginning at this time to be made known in the North by its first

emissaries. The newspapers constantly contained something about this

new teaching. Nils Hansen was talking loudly. "Mormonism," he said, "we

are as good Mormons here as in America. How many wives has a man before

he is married in church, and afterwards as well? The merchants are the

worst, but there are others beside."

They had drawn nearer before the Dean answered. "Look you, Hansen. I

take it for granted that the races which have attained to monogamy,

actual monogamy...."

"And what sort of thing may that be?"

The Dean stood still. "It means having one wife. Polygamy is having

several wives."

"Oh! that's it, is it."

"The races which have really and truly come to be monogamists,"

continued the Dean, "are but few. The most part are still polygamists."

They walked on again.

Nils Hansen agreed. "Yes, that is--devil take it--my opinion as well."

The Dean: "Progress consists in this, that the disgrace...." She heard

no further.

"There are bad inheritances in the world beside the Kurts," thought

Tomasine again. "How otherwise could he have been endured: nay, even

liked? No doubt he appealed to some secret feeling in most of them."

As she had not the courage to go straight down to Dean Green, she went

first to Nils Hansen's. It was generally said of Nils Hansen, that he

flourished, and that in the greatest prosperity, on the hatred of the

whole town. His crime consisted in his having several years before

mustered the lesser townsfolk in a struggle against those of more

importance, or rather in the fact that he had been victorious. He had

taken the town councillorship from them, seized the pews in church, so

that now every one had equal rank and place there. He had had

everything supervised and the financial estimates inspected, in a way

that the leading people looked upon as extremely wrong. His worse

villainy admittedly was, that, aided by some pecuniary help from

non-residents, he had established a bank for poor people, called the

penny bank, which had helped a number of the lower orders, even in some

cases bringing them quite to independence; for all the vested

interests, his sharp and amusing answers were like a wireworm at the

root of a tree.

It had aroused incredible merriment when a school-mistress in the town,

a pretty, fair woman, with more than usual endowments, and even with

the expectation of a fortune, refused several eligible offers, to

engage herself to rough, rude, shoemaker Hansen. She was desperately in

love with him into the bargain. She smiled and blushed if he were so

much as named, and it can be imagined what it was when he himself hove

in sight--one shoulder a little higher than the other, by the way--with

his odd face, blinking eyes, broad shoulders, and huge hands. Endless

jokes were made behind their backs, because, both while they were

engaged, and afterwards when they were married, she taught Hansen, and

he boasted of it. But they afterwards felt the result of this

schooling, and paid for it as well. She was older than Tomasine, and

had once been some months with her in England. When Tomasine returned,

Fru Hansen had been married a year, and was therefore somewhat outside

the circle in which the former moved, though she often went to see her,

for she was very fond of the healthy, clear-headed little housewife.

It was therefore with her that Tomasine was especially angry when it

transpired what kind of man John Kurt was. Why had she not by a single

word dissuaded her from taking him? After his death Laura Hansen had

tried to have some talk with Tomasine, but in vain. But now the latter

thought, "Perhaps most wives have something to complain of, and yet

this does not prevent girls from marrying; so why should I have

expected them to advise me to act differently from what they would have

done themselves?" So she went down to Laura Hansen.

They lived in a small, old house on the marketplace, next door to

Fuerst's. The queer building, with a narrow alley on one side and a

large door leading to the rambling courtway on the other, was the

inheritance which Laura had expected, and now possessed. She was a

slender but well-grown woman, with an open countenance. Some people

considered her sullen, some thought her shy: that depended very much on

what was passing. By some she was called talkative, by others sparing

of her words. She took both people and circumstances into

consideration. The friends had not met for five years. Laura sat sewing

in the room behind the shop, the one with the window towards the alley.

She rose, astonished, flushed, and somewhat agitated. Tomasine was

really once more in her house. They were both a little stiff at first.

A little dark-haired, thickset girl sat on a stool learning to sew. She

looked solemnly up at them, but was soon sent out of the room. Her

mother understood at once that they two, friends of old days, must be

alone, and make it up together. And they did so.

After several introductory remarks, Tomasine laid her complaint against

Laura and her other friends, considerately, but still clearly.

Laura answered: "When a girl does not allow herself to be hindered by

the kind of life that John Kurt led, there is no use in any one else

talking to her about it." Laura, for her part, had refused several men

just because their conduct in that particular had been doubtful, or

more than doubtful. But Hansen, she knew, was honourable in that

respect as in others.

The tall Tomasine felt very small under little Laura's steady gaze and

quiet words. She fell from the position of accuser to that of accused,

and her fall was no trifling one. She had felt very superior up there

for several years, and a few words spoken in the course of a minute or

two had laid her low. She did not feel much respect for her own powers;

nay, for a moment, it made her unhappy to think how short-sighted she

had been. She actually felt anxious to discover if she were equally

stupid in other things, but she soon so far regained her balance as to

understand that to look only at one side of things may be partly the

fault of circumstances.

She sat there without speaking, without listening; she had fallen into

a reverie. Laura took the opportunity of leaving the room to prepare

some chocolate, and to ask her husband to take her place while she was

away. This, however, he had not time for at the moment, but still was

so pleased that Tomasine had come again, that he felt he must just put

his head in at the door to say so. He had on his leather apron, and

held a shoemaker's stirrup in his left hand. Tomasine rose to grasp the

other, but he waved her back, laughing. It was not fit to touch. "I

only wanted to say many, many 'good days' to an old friend," he said

after his fashion, as he drew back. But at that moment little Augusta

came in again from the shop. She heard her father. He popped his head

in again. "Just look at her. I always say that a dark person ought to

marry a fair one. That is just what our two young ones are." And he

shut the door.

Augusta was unusually tall and strong for her age. She was a full year

older than Tomas. When Tomasine called her and spoke to her, the child

surprised her.

There was a serenity in her eyes and brow, and a quietness in her way

of talking, more like a grown person than a child. She was a contrast

to Tomasine's own nervous little "Red-head," who never asked three

questions about the same thing--a most pleasant contrast both outwardly

and inwardly. Little Augusta went on questioning until the subject was

clear to her own mind, and then would pass on to the next topic which

came up.

Her hands were plump, but firm; his, thin, freckled, restless in their

very shape. Her hair was dark and unusually plentiful, notwithstanding

which it made the smoothest plaits; his stood up and stuck out in red

bristles, which seemed to grow in layers; it was never tidy unless it

were close cropped. He was bony and thin; she so plump, though

thoroughly healthy. Tomasine recalled what she herself had been as a

child. Why was not her child the same? She felt something almost like

envy; to think that the little velvet jacket that Augusta wore was

without a spot, though it was evidently far from new. Tomasine searched

for one until it seemed to her that the whole little figure was solid

soft velvet.

Her mother came in with the chocolate, and the ice being now broken,

they found plenty of subjects of conversation, especially after Augusta

had again been sent away.

Tomasine asked how the child had become so lovable, gentle, and

sensible; and was told that she had never been headstrong. "Not even at

first?" "Never, but clear-headed and staid from a tiny child."

The last thing that Tomasine wished was to say anything against her

little Tomas, but the contrast was so great that somehow all that she

had gone through was told, and what incessant care she had still to

practice.

Laura received, during Tomasine's relation, a firm conviction that this

state of things would in the long run prove too much for her, and

therefore be dangerous for her health.

Accordingly they both went to Dean Green, and from that day forward the

stately old gentleman, in his long-skirted coat and broad-brimmed hat,

often took his way up the avenue, instead of round the garden, when he

set out for his afternoon's walk. Beside this, Tomasine began, little

by little, to gather her old friends about her again. Once more they

strolled in the broad paths of "The Estate" garden, many of them with

their children in their hands. So by degrees happiness and confidence

entered into her life again, and peace as well.

For now, when Tomas's education was to begin, it was done in quite a

different way from what she had imagined. He went to school--a school

which she herself kept for him, and for a number of little girls, the

children of her friends.

At first he thought this incredibly splendid. He was thoroughly happy,

willing, even devoted; but after a while, when he heard from the other

boys that it was a disgrace even to go about with little girls, he

wanted to know why he should be condemned to do so. Could not his

mother send them all home again and have boys there instead? He pleaded

for this--he fumed, he cried; but the girls remained. If only he could

make out what was the use of it all! What had he not to endure from the

lads who attended the boy's public school, who had men for teachers. If

he as much as put his head over the garden wall, he heard, "Petticoat

boy!" "Mamma's darling!" "The women's prince!" "Miss Freckles!"

Especially the last, for he was terribly freckled, regularly speckled

with red all over his face and hands, added to which he had the most

hopelessly red hair. Just think of a boy being called "A Freckle,"

"Miss Freckle," though he were nothing but a freckle amongst the band

of girls. Goodness knows how he disdained them! If, however, he were so

bold as to say so to them, and a boy with his heart in the right place

is often impelled to do so, he cannot always keep his contempt

concealed; well, if he did so he got a beating--a veritable, serious

beating. From his mother? That would have been nothing; no, from those

same wretched little girls. Some held him and half strangled him, and

several more beat him. And this not as a joke. It hurt frightfully. And

his mother stood there and laughed. She laughed till the tears came.

She had to take off her spectacles and dry them. They would have no

domineering little tyrant among them--those girls, no arrogant young

master; though they were always ready, they said to him, to welcome a

well-behaved little gentleman and pleasant companion. If he grimaced at

them they were at him again, down with him again; it was one perpetual

beating. When they had done, they curtseyed to him, one after the

other. There were such a number of them that it was mere fun to them.

The worst, however, has not yet been told. He was desperately in love

with one of the little girls. She knew it, the ungrateful little

monkey, and his mother knew it as well. He was sure of that. It was

principally on account of it that she had laughed so dreadfully. It was

the worst of them, Augusta Hansen, Laura's daughter--Augusta, with whom

he had eaten cherries. That is to say, they had taken them out of each

other's mouths; first she out of his, as he held the stalk in his mouth

close up to the fruit, and then he, in the same way from hers. Augusta,

who had given him her sash to wear as a badge at the tournaments which

he held ... quite alone, by the way. Augusta, to whom in return he had

given his whole collection of blown eggs; he had found every one of

them himself. He had been obliged to ask his mother's leave to give

them away, for it could not very well have been managed without. He had

come behind her to whisper in her ear, he did not wish her to look at

him while he did so. His mother had asked him if he were fond of

Augusta, and he had confided to her that it was especially her hair,

but that she was the most good-natured of the girls, and the cleverest

as well. What Augusta said was always right. His mother had agreed with

him in that. She had not laughed then, but now she stood and looked on

while Augusta thrashed him, for it was Augusta's hand that thumped the

hardest.

After such treachery--and this did not happen only once unfortunately;

it happened very often--he would not speak to Augusta for several days;

once he held out for three. He tried the same with his mother, but he

could never contrive to keep grave when she looked at him. She always

befooled him into laughing.

He now essayed, by a more serious and regular manner of proceeding, to

obtain a different adjustment of things for the future. This struggle

really meant nothing more nor less than the right relationship between

the sexes. Its depths he was truly far from having sounded, but his

masculine instincts told him that it was all upside down, up there in

the garden. Things must be altered. But there was never any "Hands

off," as they say. It was Dean Green whom he suspected of being the

cause of the worst of all this. Of one thing, at all events, he was

certain. It was Dean Green's idea that he, like the girls, should learn

to play the piano. No other boy had to strum like that. Tomas hated the

long-coated parson, with his aquiline nose and bushy eyebrows; who was

always about, and who smiled when he saw him. He hated him to that

extent that, when he shot at a mark, he always tried to draw a picture

of the Dean to shoot at, and then to hit his coat, his nose, or his

eye. But, hit him as much as he would, no change took place; the

piano-playing went on, the girls remained, and even if any day he

brought some boys into the garden, they could never be alone--oh no!

The detestable little girls were always hanging about, and then all the

stories afterwards; any little thing that a boy might have said or done

was used against him; he was done for, he never came again.

And they would say, too, that Tomas had tried to show himself off

before his companions, and play the grown man. He always got a beating

afterwards. Sometimes they divided his offences into several portions,

and he was first beaten for one and then for another. Augusta was

constantly drubbing him with the greatest heartiness, without the

slightest remembrance of the cherries, or the eggs, or any of his

little attentions. There is no telling the number of times that he

renounced his allegiance and loyalty to her, but as Augusta did not

care a rush, and went about just the same, with those thick plaits and

sturdy legs of hers.... Well, then he began to abase himself. He had to

let her understand that he did not exactly disdain her, that perhaps it

might be possible to obtain grace. She never seemed to notice him, and

so it ended that he thought it was not worth remembering any longer.

One thing about Augusta was peculiar, she always really influenced the

others without trying to do so; she let others lead as long as they

liked, she acted exactly in the same way whoever led and whatever plan

they hit upon; but whenever they got into difficulties it was _she_ who

found the way out.

Ah! how Tomas admired her, how often he told her so! and was annoyed

that he could not let it alone. It was with her that he now began to

take his music lessons, and from that time forth playing became his

favourite occupation.

These first stormy years were followed by others, and he attained at

last to such superiority, that he dared to acknowledge his comradeship

with the girls. He settled down at last into accepting their help

against other boys, when they challenged him from outside. Nay--who

would have thought it?--the time came when he fought for his valiant

girl-friends, eager for the battle; especially if one of the boys had

called Augusta "Shoemaker's lass," or even "Sausage." He would gladly

have gone to the death for her; nor was this all boasting, for at nine

years old he was severely mauled because, on this account, he would

fight against ten or twelve at once, of whom three at least were older

than he. That was the proudest moment of his life, as he lay with a

fresh vinegar plaster on his head, and Augusta must come in and change

it instead of his mother.

Now that there really was something worth talking about--not a word.

CHAPTER IV

THE LAST YEARS IN THE GARDEN

At this time a great change took place in Tomas's external life. For

the first time he had a companion.

Some years back, there had died in the town a curate named Vangen, who

had married a very enthusiastic Danish lady. They had led quite an

Arcadian life together--literally without thought for the morrow.

People are always very kind at times of bereavement; she managed to

support her children and herself for the first few years, for those

that followed there was no necessity to do so--she died.

Through Dean Green, her son Karl came to Fru Rendalen "on probation."

He was at that time eleven. Karl Vangen was tall, slight, and dark,

with a large head, his forehead being the most noticeable feature. He

had gentle blue-grey eyes, in large sockets, a wide, straight mouth,

which slowly expanded into a smile. He was quiet, and very modest, and

rather uneasy in his new surroundings. When, at night, he went with

Tomas into the room he now occupied, on the other side of the

bath-room, he knelt down by the side of the new bed, which had been put

up for him there, and prayed silently for a long time, his face buried

in his hands. When he rose from his knees, he smiled across at his

companion, with tears in his eyes, but he did not speak.

Tomas heard him afterwards sobbing under the bed-clothes. This lasted a

long time. Tomas felt at last that he must cry too, but took care that

the other should not hear him.

Every one was kindness itself to the newcomer, but no one so much so as

Tomas. If he could have clasped himself round him like a belt, he would

have done so.

Karl went to the Latin school, where he was received free, so the boys

were separated almost all day, nor did they even study together when he

came home.

Karl allowed himself but little leisure. He was slow at learning, but

still was at the head of his class, and he wished to continue there; so

that Tomas naturally could not see as much of him as he wished, or be

so good to him as he wanted to be.

When Karl did at last come out he was tired, and did not go with Tomas

very willingly.

He did not perhaps estimate all that Tomas had done for him, nor

understand how the boy had waited for him, how glad he was to see him.

He was the first companion that Tomas had ever had, but he himself had

plenty.

The fact was, that Karl was too slow and gentle, always anxious about

his clothes, perfectly obedient to anything that was said to him, and

in this, and other things, a great contrast to Tomas.

At last Tomas discovered that Karl was just a girl, one more girl up

there, and not, by a long way, so amusing as the others.

He soon began to call him Karoline. He mocked at him when he shivered,

or was frightened about his clothes. And when he smiled good-naturedly,

instead of being angry, Tomas would make his mouth wide by stretching

it with his two forefingers.

That was so very funny that the girls began to take part in it. They

praised Tomas for his chivalrous behaviour to them, and he was proud of

it himself. But both he, and they, could be very unchivalrous towards

Karl, without its striking them that they were so. As, for instance,

when Tomas conceived the idea that every time Karl showed himself, they

should rush at him, one after the other, and dust his clothes with

their hands, because he was so frightened about them--he had had so

few. So he was brushed and brushed till he began to cry, and was then

immediately called "Say-your-prayers boy" and "Cry-baby." And this grew

worse when they saw that Karl, though both older and bigger than Tomas,

was nevertheless the weaker. So Tomas could show himself off, and at

last they really ill-treated him.

Now, at the bottom it was not altogether disagreeable to Karl to be a

martyr. It seemed something great to him. But the others soon

discovered this, and would not for the life of them stand it. He was

treated worse than ever from that moment.

But where was Augusta while all this developed itself?

Augusta was kind to Karl; indeed, the more the others teased him, the

more good-natured she became. But she did not mix herself with what

they took up. And besides, lately she had shrunk more and more from

anything rough. Whenever Karl sought refuge with her, he was safe for

the time being, so that it happened that he did so oftener and oftener,

and at last constantly. He dare not enter the garden without her.

Tomas was too proud to appear to notice anything, but he made Karl pay

for it.

One especial time, Tomas grumbled about this during a music lesson, and

she answered that so it would continue until he became as good a boy as

Karl, which he was far from being at present. Then he swore vengeance.

On Saturday afternoons, Karl always went to the churchyard, to put

fresh flowers on his parents' graves. On the next Saturday, as he was

going down with his basket, Tomas met him in the avenue, and asked him

if he would promise not to talk any more to Augusta. But Karl, so

accommodating in other things, would not promise this, not even when

Tomas struck him. He struck him again and again, with all the strength

he could muster, but Karl would not promise to give her up. Quite

beside himself, Tomas kicked him in a dangerous manner; he gave a loud

cry and dropped down. Tomas had him carried home, and rushed away for

the doctor. When, his forehead bathed in sweat from anxiety and the

speed with which he had run, he passed the place where Karl had fallen

down, with his eyes fixed upon him, another image of his companion rose

before him--that of the helpless, silent lad who had knelt down and

prayed by his bedside the first evening in his new home.

Tomas kept this resurrection of the former Karl in his soul.

He hurried back home again before the doctor, in order that he might,

as he passed the spot where Karl had fallen, kneel down, unseen by any

one, and cry and pray.

That evening his mother, Andreas Berg, and he sat by themselves in the

parlour. Andreas Berg had come in at Fru Rendalen's request to tell

Tomas the history of his father's (John Kurt's) childhood--to tell it

in her presence without any reserve. Berg was a grave man, not free

from severity. He had been made angry, more than once, by Tomas's

performances with Karl. And he now related the various circumstances of

John Kurt's life when a boy, related them without a single word of

blame; but this only made it fall the heavier. This was part of Berg's

nature.

The mother did not feel it needful to add a single word.

She heard Tomas, late that evening, sobbing and crying beside Karl's

bed, and the next day saw him talking to Augusta in the passage.

In the course of the day he had flung his arms round his mother's neck

and cried. But he had said nothing, though it worked in his mind for a

long while.

In the meantime it was determined that Karl's time of probation should

end, and that he should be considered as a son of the house from that

time. The doctor had declared that he would all his life feel the

effects of the kick which jealousy and domineering had bestowed on him.

And this had decided the question.

Another great revolution took place shortly afterwards. The girls who,

together with Tomas, had enjoyed Fru Rendalen's teaching from the

beginning, were so much more advanced in languages, not only than those

of the same age at the girls' school, but also than the boys at the

Latin school, that many people wished she would extend her classes and

establish the girls school for the town up at "The Estate."

This desire, which became unanimous, was strongly pressed upon her.

Dean Green was the most eager of all. How could she use her knowledge

and powers of administration better? All the development of her

character, all the experience of her life, led her to this goal. Think

of the Kurts' house echoing with confiding, childish laughter; think

that there, the rising generation of women would learn to raise

themselves to independence, either in married life, or outside it. The

subject symbolised itself in this way.

Very few of us have perhaps noticed that certain expectations and

signs, fixed forebodings, chance remembrances, weigh far more in

deciding our plans than the simple circumstances of the present time.

Tomasine Rendalen was no exception to this rule. She was, however,

prudent enough to ask herself sometimes if she were fit for all that

the Dean proposed in the school work. She suspected that he, like all

reformers, was oversanguine, demanding the work of three generations

from one, and expecting a single man to give the result of a thousand.

She also had good sense enough to doubt if a little more knowledge of

languages, a little better teaching of history and similar

acquirements, would seriously help forward morality and independence.

But the symbol outweighed these objections of good sense. And it really

did seem as if a distinct commission had been given to a special

person. Here she was in the Kurt inheritance, well qualified for school

work: that was undoubted. Fancy obliterating the evil example with a

good one. She had had great practice in that. At all events, it gave

her strength. Once determined, she exerted herself to make it go

forward, and made others do the same.

She raised a new loan on her property and renovated the house from top

to bottom. All the windows were removed and enlarged. The rooms on the

ground-floor, on the right as one comes in from the great steps,

remained as they were. But those on the left, in the wing and upstairs,

were for the most part altered, in so far as that the doors between

them were walled up, so that they only led into the long inner passage.

The great Knights' Hall on the left hand, just as one comes in from the

steps, was made into a gymnasium. The pupils were to assemble there,

and morning prayers were to be read in it as well. The double staircase

in the passage, which led up to the first floor, was cut off from the

entrance hall by a wall in which were two doors, one on each side. By

this means Fru Rendalen kept the hall for herself. The famous steps

only led to it, and to the Knights' Hall on great occasions.

The teachers had their separate entrance from the court yard, while the

lower part of the great, empty, useless tower was converted into an

anteroom. Outside, the plaster was removed from the walls, and the red

colour of the bricks freshened up. It all looked like new. There was a

great pilgrimage up there when it was all finished, and many good

wishes were expressed for the new school.

Tomasine incurred considerable debt--she had to pay a large sum for the

school which she took over. But from the first, the influx was

unprecedented. Little girls from the country, nay, even from the

nearest towns, were entered. They were boarded with different people,

whom she recommended. She did not wish at first to have any in the

house. She must regulate the school.

Sometimes it seemed to her that this simple state of things, a

well-regulated school, was what she would never attain to. She got into

difficulties, first and foremost, with the staff of teachers. They did

not come up to the standard which she proposed. She took on trial, and

discharged again, and endured all the discomfort and irregularity, all

the over-exertion, which are the natural results of such a position,

hoping for better days.

The constant wear and tear, the endless unrest, the anxious cares for

money, goaded her on from day to day. The aim that she had originally

set herself, the great aim, now seemed almost ludicrous. One thing

appeared certain: it was losing her her son; not his affection, still

less his obedience, taken as a whole, nor was it his education; but her

influence on his character, their mutual confidence, her happiness in

him. Something impetuous, fantastic, extravagant crept into his games,

his plans, his expression, which she saw increase in a manner she

deeply deplored. When she corrected him she saw a gloomy impatience in

the nervous glance of his eyes. She felt herself condemned by his air

of superiority.

Karl's company only increased this failing, for he was himself an

enthusiast. She therefore begged Augusta to check the boy's hot mood,

and to try to keep him steady by turning his mind to stern realities.

But Augusta never entered into any controversy with him on the subject.

So Fru Rendalen saw this tendency increase. This spoilt her pleasure in

the school when at last, outwardly at any rate, it began to work well.

She asked herself what, as a whole, she had gained by this hunted life

beyond increased debt, and greatly increased anxiety. But now she was

launched into it; she struggled on from day to day; a moment's pause

would bring all in ruins about her.

Of all his mother's anxiety Tomas had not the slightest idea. He led a

happy life, developing quickly. Karl's large amount of information

helped him. Together they wove their daydreams; together they loved.

They devised the strange idea that they would devote themselves to the

service and happiness of "the ladies," they and their comrades, for by

degrees several others had been drawn into the circle. And there was

more beauty, more variety, in all they hit on since boys and girls were

constantly together.

Tomas's strength increased, but unlike his parents, he did not promise

to be tall. He was remarkably well made, with a very erect gait. His

well turned-out feet were so small that he could wear girls' shoes. He

was also nearly as slim in the waist as a girl, but broad-shouldered.

At twelve years old he took the first boy's prize at a gymnastic

display, which had been inaugurated in that part of the country. He had

a powerfully shaped head, his cheekbones strongly marked. His nose had

become much bigger than his mother's, which gave him occasion for much

fun, she always answering that his was at least as broad as hers at the

end. He had small, finely cut lips, his eyes were not large, and seemed

smaller still because he frowned and blinked. They were grey in colour,

with a restless but sharp expression. His forehead was fair like his

father's, but his face, neck, and hands were so covered with freckles,

that they were as red as his hair, which stood on end, and was

generally untidy.

By the side of the tall dark Karl, with his heavy forehead, hollow

eyes, wide, straight mouth, his gentle expression, and slow nature, he

seemed to sparkle. He filled his mother with perhaps greater anxiety

than there was need for. He had become a true friend to Karl. He loved

him heartily. He generally did either love or detest; there was no

moderation in him. Tomas was in his fourteenth year when, in the

autumn, it was arranged that he should take a voyage with his uncle,

who was the master of a vessel, to Hamburg, and from thence to England

and back.

The trip had been talked of since the early summer, but had been

postponed. Tomas, who was studying privately, could start at any time,

and it would be more manly to go at the time of the autumn gales. His

preparations were complete; they were only waiting for a fair wind.

One Saturday afternoon, Augusta and he were sitting up in an

apple-tree--he on a branch to the right, and Augusta on one to the

left. They had come to gather the fruit, but the linen bags, which they

had spread round them, still hung limp. She had taken hold of a branch,

on a level with her head, and rested her head on her arm. She sat and

listened to Tomas. They had seen the new doctor, Knut Holmsen, go in to

Fru Rendalen, and this wonderful new doctor was one of those whom Tomas

loved. He had lately been reading with him about the Gracchi in

Mommsen's Roman History, and it was about them that he was talking.

There was nothing equal to the Gracchi in their own history; they were

his ideals. But in the midst of an ardent disquisition it occurred to

him that if he were to be the Gracchi, Augusta must be their mother.

There was nothing grander for a woman than to be the daughter of

Scipio, and the mother of the Gracchi.

But Augusta had no desire for this. She could not wish that the mother

of the Gracchi should live after her sons were killed. Augusta was

always so frightened of death, there was something ugly about it. She

sat there with her head on her arm, and said this quietly, as though to

herself. She looked very sweet.

Or was she tired? he asked. No, she was not tired, but she wished so

much to be quiet. Well, they could easily sit a little longer. She

altered her position, and they went on talking.

Supposing the mother of the Gracchi met her sons in heaven? But would

the Gracchi and she go to heaven? They did not believe in Jesus. After

some discussion the children agreed that now they could be taught about

Jesus, and therefore naturally they had gone to heaven.

But after that, what would they do there? Augusta shuddered, Eternity

was so frightful. She hid her face, and when she lifted it again, she

had been crying. He sat a long time and looked at her.

"Listen, Augusta," he said, "neither of us will die till we have grown

dreadfully old, so old that we cannot even walk. It can't be the same

then, can it?"

Augusta smiled. "That time you gave me the everlastings, you said I was

to think of you when you were dead, you know."

"Yes, I was so frightfully miserable that day, and then I had got that

picture of King Edward's sons. Augusta!"

"Well?"

"At sea, in the autumn gales--they are often very dangerous, the autumn

gales, you know--I shall have myself lashed fast, and I will write to

you exactly what I think. And then you must write down what you think

when you read it."

"That might prove dangerous," laughed Augusta. She was older.

He felt embarrassed, so there was silence. But all the time he looked

at her plump figure, good-natured face, her heavy braids, and long

eyelashes. She sat looking down--yes, she had grown now, she had quite

a figure. And those wrists, those characteristic firm hands. He sat and

gazed at her for a long time, and then said, "Augusta."

"Well?"

"Karl will write to me every day. Mother has promised him the money.

Could not you put a few lines in too--eh!"

"Every day, Tomas! That would be very often."

"But all the same...."

"Interesting things won't happen to me every day, you see, Tomas; it

would be only stupid."

She looked at him simply. "But," he answered, "people who care for each

other always do write."

He was crimson and turned away. She would be sure to laugh. But she did

not laugh. In a few minutes he heard her say (he did not turn round),

"Yes, yes, then I will," and she devoted herself to gathering the

apples.

At the same time Fru Rendalen and the doctor were standing by the

parlour window.

She looked by turns at him, and out towards the children in the

apple-tree. The doctor had just told her that Lars Tobiassen had become

raving mad, and that his son had been frightened, and gone mad also. He

had been near it for a long time. "'Kurt inheritance,' the people on

the mountain say there have been so many mad Kurts there, men and

women." Fru Rendalen had answered that she was aware of that, and that

both before Tomas's birth, and for some time afterwards, she had felt

frightened. She was safe now though--"although," and she laughed,

"Tomas has something unreasonably exaggerated and fantastic about him."

She looked inquiringly at the doctor, who answered, "Yes, his nerves

are good for nothing."

Dr. Knut Holmsen was one of those men who are foreordained to be

bachelors, though some chance may drift them into matrimony; who never

trouble themselves to think or feel with any one else, but always look

at things from their own point of view. So now he blurted out this

answer as a matter of course. It frightened her, however, terribly.

"Could Tomas become mad?" she asked.

He had not intended to say that; he therefore answered, "Not he, but

his children."

She came and stared at him, her face as white as a sheet, and from him

out into the garden.

"Do you know what you are saying?" she asked.

Holmsen coloured, for this rough man was particularly faint-hearted.

And, to relieve his embarrassment, he began to talk about a book which

he had just read, one that every one ought to read--

"Prosper Lucas on Heredity" (_L'heredite naturelle_).

The two young people in the apple-tree soon afterwards saw Dr. Knut

Holmsen go down to the town, accompanied by Fru Rendalen, and a little

later she returned, with two large volumes under her arm.

The following evening Tomas sailed, and remained away for two months.

At both the ports which he visited he found letters, written every day

since he sailed by the faithful Karl, as well as a few lines enclosed

by his mother, but not a line from Augusta. She was ill, had a heart

complaint--an enlarged heart, it was said. And Tomas remembered that

latterly she had always wanted to be in the open air. She had pains in

her heart, but a courageous girl like Augusta would naturally never

succumb. She would get quite well again.

The ship returned to port late one evening. No one at "The Estate" had

any idea of it before Tomas flung himself on to his mother's neck, in

the parlour, as she sat there over her accounts.

"Tomas?" she exclaimed, almost as though she were seriously frightened,

and that made him all the more crazy with delight. He clung to her

portly person with all his strength ... then ... he noticed that she

was crying. Astonished, he relinquished his hold, looked at her, and

flung himself down with his head on the table sobbing loudly.

Augusta had died two days before. The next morning he went with his

mother down to the shoemaker's house to take some flowers; awestruck,

and with his eyes red with crying. Fru Rendalen chose to enter by the

door at the side of the house: she wished to go in by the back way. And

thus Nils Hansen saw her from the workshop, and came out at once.

Tomas was a little behind. It affected him so much to go in by the old

well-known way, that he could not come forward directly. When Nils

Hansen observed him, Augusta's playfellow and greatest friend, he burst

into violent weeping and left them. It was just the same with Fru

Hansen. She was in the large room, occupied with the dead. Her second

girl, two years younger than Augusta, was sitting on the floor beside

her mother, when Fru Rendalen opened the door and went in.

Laura came towards her and thanked her for coming down again. She

appeared composed, but when the heart-broken Tomas came forward with

his flowers, she sank down on a chair and began to cry violently, the

child crying with her. Tomas could not bear it. He laid the flowers

down, he did not know where, and ran home again. He had seen the heavy

braids under the white band, a sleeping face, and the everlastings

between the folded hands. He knew them again by the ribbon.

What a tie Fru Rendalen felt the school at this time, for the sore

little heart constantly yearned towards her. She was so anxious about

Tomas, lest his tendency to extravagance of feeling should receive

fresh nourishment from his sorrow, nor could she discover how she might

be able to prevent this without depriving him of his one consolation.

She was astonished when she saw that Augusta's death had had just the

contrary effect.

Augusta had feared death, perhaps immortality still more; he was

convinced of this, and so would not try to think of her there. It

seemed like tormenting her. Most children shudder at the thought of

being immortal.

It was Karl in especial who wished to dwell on this theme, but he had

to be silent, Tomas would not allow it. It was against her wishes to

try to think of her as dwelling in Eternity, he was sure of that. Karl

gave in; it was not immortality itself which his friend doubted about,

so he humoured him.

Did not Tomas ever try to bring Augusta up before his mind? Yes,

whenever he ran his fingers over the piano, he was in her company--they

had sat side by side there.

It was of the past that he thought. His mother was astonished when one

day, having given her a rather quick answer, he returned at once and

threw himself upon her neck; she was so used to his hasty ways that,

when he was not actually rude, she often took no notice; she looked at

him, "What is it?" He coloured and laid his head down on her shoulder,

as he always did when he did not wish her to look at him while he was

speaking. "Yes; once when I answered you sharply, Augusta came out

after me on to the steps, and said, 'Tomas, you should never answer

your mother like that.' I did not think anything of it then, but

now--now--I remembered it when I got out on the steps."

During this time they read bits at random out of Lucas's work. The

wonderful proofs of heredity in talents and character, coming out even

after very long intervals, impressed Tomas strongly. He had a perfect

mass of questions which he took to the doctor.

Little by little he occupied himself as before, but he became quieter.

CHAPTER V

THE LECTURE

One spring afternoon in the beginning of May, fourteen years later, a

great number of people took their way up the avenue to "The Estate."

_Real-Kandidat_ Tomas Rendalen was to give a lecture at the opening of

the new gymnasium which had been built in the courtyard there; using

the opportunity to explain the plan on which he intended to conduct the

school; he proposed to take it over the following August. It was known

that this had been his intention, even before he became a student at

Christiania; that he had no other object in life, either then or later;

that after he had passed his examinations, he had taught in different

boys' and girls' schools, and during several years had made himself

familiar with both, in Germany, Switzerland, France, England, and last

of all in America; he said that it was in the last-named country that

he had especially found what he wanted.

He had declared that the development of his whole life might be found

in the lecture which he would deliver that day, and this seemed strange

to every one; all became curious.

During the four or five months that he had been at home he had had the

gymnasium built, having turned the Knight's Hall into a place where

chemistry and physics could be studied; people did not clearly

understand what these were, but they hoped to find out some day. The

tower was turned into a little observatory.