CHAPTER I

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://books.google.com/books?id=b-UsAAAAMAAJ

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

THE NOVELS OF

BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON

_Edited by EDMUND GOSSE_

VOLUME XII

_THE NOVELS OF_

_BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON_

_Edited by EDMUND GOSSE_

_Fcap. 8vo, cloth_

_Synnoeve Solbakken_

_Arne_

_A Happy Boy_

_A Fisher Lass_

_The Bridal March, & One Day_

_Magnhild, & Dust_

_Captain Mansana, & Mother's Hands_

_Absalom's Hair, & A Painful Memory_

_In God's Way_ (2 _vols._)

_Heritage of the Kurts_ (2 _vols._)

_NEW YORK_

_THE MACMILLAN COMPANY_

THE HERITAGE OF

THE KURTS

BY

BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON

_Translated from the Norwegian by_

_Cecil Fairfax_

VOLUME II

NEW YORK

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1908

_Printed in England_

_All rights reserved_

CONTENTS

IV.--_THE STAFF_--(_continued_)

CHAP.

II. THE STAFF

III. THE SOCIETY

IV. ON THE STEPS

V.--_THE HUNT_

I. THE HUNT

II. IN THE DOVECOTE

III. SEPARATED FROM THE OTHERS

IV. THE HUNT

VI.--_WHAT FIDELITY WILL SAY_

I. HAPPINESS

II. A MISFORTUNE

III. PEACE-MAKING WITHIN, PROPOSALS OF PEACE WITHOUT

IV. WAR

VII.--_THE FIGHT ITSELF_

I. IN BOTH CAMPS

II. A GALA DAY IN TOWN AND HARBOUR

CHAPTER II

THE STAFF

Fair Milla and brown Tora,

Broad Tinka and slender Nora.

It was disputed where this remarkable verse with its rhythm and rhyme

was heard for the first time, whether in the senior Latin or senior

Commercial. The dispute can never be settled now, but when these girls

showed themselves it was often shouted, sung, and bawled after them--at

first in turns with another by Doesen, which ran, "_Nora, Tora, ora pro

nobis_;" but as it was incomplete, the names of Tinka and Milla not

being mentioned, it was dropped in favour of the former. This one was

also given up; it was perfectly well known who was father to the latest

name for them; Rendalen called them on a certain occasion "The Staff,"

and after him the whole school, after it the boys' school, and at last

all who were inclined to pay them a compliment. We know three of the

Staff already--that is to say, we know them from the others, not more

than that. "Fair Milla" is no other than Emilie Engel; she looked like

a picture in enamel in her mourning. Broad Tinka is Katinka Hansen,

Augusta's sister, the contralto; and slender Nora is the Sheriff's

daughter, the one who hid under the sail, the one with big eyes and

wavy hair.

Brown Tora, on the other hand, we do not know, and she shall remain a

little longer shrouded in mystery.

A year ago a new sheriff was appointed to that part of the country, a

secretary in a government office, called Jens Tue, otherwise known as

the ladies' man.[1] Instead of becoming resident he went abroad with

his wife, whose chest was rather delicate.

This lady had, by jealousy and insincerity, missed her true foothold in

life, and both in her thoughts and actions she flitted like a bird from

one interest to another; she wished to appear so immensely delighted,

so taken up with intellectual questions and music--until one day her

strength proved insufficient; she collapsed.

Her husband carried her off with him, and as during their tour he was

all that was pleasant and amiable, her bird-like nature required

nothing more. She came home again, well and happy.

It would have seemed more natural for Nora to remain at Christiania

with her friends and relations. It was said certainly that Fru

Rendalen's school was so very superior, but that could hardly be the

whole explanation; all were curious about the Sheriff's daughter when

she appeared. She was a fashionable young lady, tall and slender,

and if not exactly elegant, still stylish in dress and manner; a little

supercilious; still she did not give offence--she was too pliable for

that, too quick as well, entirely taken up with the fancy of the

moment. She gave an impetus to all she did, and people forgive a great

deal for that.

But no one would forgive her letter-writing, or the incredible number

of letters which she received weekly! Not the teachers, for she

neglected the school work; not her companions, for she neglected them;

nay, she had hardly looked at them! She went to sleep every night with

inky fingers and a heap of letters beside her bed; either she was

writing letters or reading letters, or crying over them. During every

recreation time she ran upstairs to add a few lines, or to read a

letter over again which she had just received. As she was worried by

the pursuit of the others, she disappeared after every meal. Where was

she? There was a hunt for her, and she was found up in the top attic,

writing of course, this time upon a large barrel; she was blue with

cold. She had left at least twenty particular friends behind her at

Christiania; all the twenty wrote to her, and all received answers,

long answers--one must never be shorter than the others. Happily, she

had another passion, and it often chances that one thing counteracts

another. She was crazy about music. She sang snatches of songs with

great feeling, but, partly because at her age she could not sing much

at a time, partly because she had not training enough to carry out a

delicate interpretation, she could never properly render anything as a

whole. But even so, she was much admired by her companions, and by none

more than Tinka Hansen. For Tinka was herself musical, but in another

and more unpretending fashion. Like her sister Augusta, she had

developed early, especially in her powers of conversation. Katinka was

even-tempered, bright, dependable; everything she played, and that was

a great deal, she knew by heart. It was therefore she who obediently

accompanied Nora's songs. But her execution was not worth much; Nora

very soon took her in hand, and was not satisfied until she had brought

her to the point she wished; Tinka was extremely grateful for all this.

One day Nora discovered Tinka's powerful contralto, and from that time

there were duets and duets. Their age suggested prudence, and if Nora

would not use moderation, Tinka both would and could. Nora was used to

command, so there were quarrels; but Tinka was so accustomed to conquer

when her conscience told her that she was right, that Nora was

completely vanquished. This was the foundation of their friendship. To

have a friend who at once admired and restrained her was especially

safe and good for Nora. But Nora acted upon Tinka like a succession of

impressions of art upon one who has seen nothing up to that time. As

Nora was absolutely confidential, it seemed to the conscientious Tinka

that this ought to be returned.

Every one knew it, but not to a living being would she have admitted

it: Tinka was engaged. He, the man, had just gone to college; she had a

letter from him once a week; for many reasons she did not wish to have

them oftener. He was called Frederik--Frederik Tygesen; his father was

the stipendiary judge Tygesen, here in the town. Nora was "the first

person in the world" whom she had told this to.

How delighted Nora was! Really, properly engaged, with letters every

week and the tacit consent of her parents. How had it come about? Well,

that was the odd thing about it; they neither of them knew. They had

once when she was eight years old, through an open door, heard Fru

Rendalen and her mother talking about Augusta and Tomas Rendalen, about

what _he_ had said to _his_ mother about Augusta, and what _she_ had

said to _her_ mother about Tomas. Ever since then these children had

been fond of each other, just as those other two had been; but they had

never spoken about it--never. A sincere friendship was founded between

Nora and Tinka upon this confidence, and Tinka's friendship brought

others with it. Nora was obliged to recall some of her interests from

Christiania, and by degrees to form a new circle of admirers.

She began to write less frequently to the friends in Christiania, and

the letters would begin, "It is a terribly long time since," or "I

really am a wretch who----," or "Procrastination is to blame."

But there was a limit to those whom she could conquer in the new senior

class, and this did not please her; in fact, she principally coveted

the friendship of those who withheld it, but all the same she could not

pass this boundary. The fact was that a queen had reigned there before

her--nay, was there still. Her ways of gaining power were different

from Nora's; whether they were less or not, depended on who it was who

measured them. First of all, she was the richest heiress in the town;

secondly, if there were the slightest sign of rain, snow, or cold wind,

a servant drove up to fetch her home, and then it was a question who

should drive home with her.

She had almost always something good with her; her pocket-money was of

that description that the more she spent, the more she had; the

resources of her dainty little purse were incredible in this respect.

She got money from her mother, from her father, from two unmarried

uncles. As well as this she was pretty, discreet, attentive; no one had

ever known her to use a hasty word, or be rough, even at the gymnasium;

she was always very polite and a little subdued. In her eyes, to forget

yourself was the worst of crimes. She had lived, so to say, wrapped up

in cotton wool, and one felt this whenever one approached her. We know

her already; she is Emilie Engel.

She was not specially gifted, but was industrious; she really worked

hard when there was anything on foot. Every one liked her, several paid

court to her, one or two absolutely raved about her.

Tinka Hansen belonged to none of these groups; if ever she devoted

herself to any one it would be to her opposite; quiet, dutiful Milla

was too like herself.

As Nora first attached herself to Tinka, and through Tinka to others,

Milla was offended. When Nora turned to her it was too late; there was

plenty of politeness and willingness to oblige, but not a word for her

singing, not a smile for her Christiania witticisms; never so much as a

glance when the whole class, during one of her lively descriptions,

hung admiringly on her words.

Nora could not endure this indifference; she condescended to pay court

to her in all those ways which are only known to a young girl. In vain.

At last they divided into parties. Nora considered Milla insignificant,

egotistic, cold, prim, missish; Milla considered Nora--no, Milla did

not consider Nora anything, she let her friends talk and she listened.

Nora's jaunty Christiania style of manner and speech were unbecoming,

her caprices could not be endured by any one who respected herself; her

accomplishments were all superficial, she was characterless; besides,

it was considered that some of her remarks showed a want of religion,

and Milla's party was religious.

Milla had been confirmed at Easter. The increasing weakness of Fru

Engel had given a tone of enthusiasm to her religious thoughts and to

the aspect of her mind; she found comfort through it, and need for it,

and she endeavoured to lead her daughter in the same direction.

At the time of her confirmation Milla found a confidant in the niece of

the Froekener Jensens, little Anna Rogne, who was extremely religious;

she was two years her elder, but she was small and delicate; indeed, on

more than one occasion her life had been despaired of. Anna had more

religious knowledge than most grown people, and she enraptured Karl

Vangen at the confirmation classes. Milla, whom she had imbued with

some of her enthusiasm, had no objection to share in it to a slight

degree. As soon as little Anna observed this reflection of her own

thoughts, she rejoiced from the bottom of her heart, and declared Milla

to be "spiritually minded." She was astonished that they had not

discovered each other before.

Then came the time when Milla's mother was given up by the doctors.

Little Anna's energy was more than natural; she watched beside the

sick-bed with her friend, she read, she sang, she prayed; for Fru

Engel's life must and should be saved; the doctor could not save her,

but prayer could--how confident she was, how enraptured! And then when

Fru Engel died notwithstanding, she would literally have rejoiced to

have given her life for Milla; it was so beautiful to her to see the

rich heiress, surrounded with all the comforts of life, pleading on her

knees to Jesus; and now, when the prayers had not availed, she still

trusted--nay, in the midst of her sorrow she thanked God with her,

entirely submissive to His will. Little Anna felt from the bottom of

her heart that a bond had been twined between them which death alone

could sever.

Milla returned to school three weeks later than the others; she took a

place next to Anna Rogne. They drove up together nearly every day, and

they returned together in the carriage, for Milla was still living in

the country, and Anna was almost always with her.

Milla's return made a stir. Her mourning suited her to perfection; her

pale face and subdued manner accorded with it like dull silver work on

velvet. The quiet gentleness with which she accepted everything, even

Nora's eager worship, gained her much considerate kindness.

The first day or two seemed devoted to expressing sympathy with Milla.

But there was a new face among them, a new figure there on the form in

front of her, a new voice, fresh ways--and what was not less important

to Milla--a new dress. Especially when the new hat and mantle were

added to it, a more daring choice of colours was presented, a more

delicate cut, richer details, than she had ever seen before. She knew

who the new-comer was--the daughter of the chief custom-house officer

Holm, from Bergen, the one with the brown face, large dark eyes, and

curly white hair: a curiously shy man, who drank, drank so that it was

only through forbearance that he retained his post; he had ten

children!

Tora was the eldest, and had been brought up, from her twelfth year,

partly in England, partly in France, by an uncle who had been a

shipbroker, first in the one country, then in the other; he had just

died, leaving his adopted daughter a small annuity. Milla knew all

this. Anna had also incidentally observed that Tora Holm was pretty.

But this was not the right word. Where were Anna's eyes? Tora was a

beauty, and her beauty was singular and "foreign." Anna had used her

ears as little as her eyes, for there was but one opinion about it.

Milla did nothing the whole of the first day but look at Tora, who,

although her back was turned towards her, could not keep quiet, but

twisted and turned as though she could feel the other's eyes on her

neck. The more restless Tora became, the more calmly Milla studied her.

At home, in the sitting-room, stood a head of the young Augustus in

marble; it had been Milla's admiration from childhood. And now, there

it was, on a girl's body, on the bench before her, moving in brightness

and colour.

The brow was exactly the same, the whole shape of the head, broad

above; the curve of the cheeks and chin, the arch of the eyebrows the

same, all the same! The eyes were different and more full of life, for

those of the Augustus gave the impression of dulness, or at least

heaviness. These sparkled incessantly in changing shades of blue-grey,

under long dark eyelashes. The mouth was full and curved, the hair

black-brown, or brown-black, as the light fell upon it. The complexion

was a sort of pale olive. Milla had no words to express it; it was a

combination she had never seen before. There was a large, very large

birth-mark on her cheek, perhaps it was that which disturbed her, for

she never turned that cheek when she looked round at Milla. Her figure

was developed, very strong and statuesque. Apparently she was a little

over sixteen. She did not look well at the moment, she was flushed and

had dark lines under her eyes; the perspiration stood on her face.

Her whole appearance was striking; Milla looked at her without a trace

of envy. What taste this new girl had, beyond anything she had ever

seen; how much she must know!

Every now and then Milla looked at her next neighbour. Anna sat there,

spare and angular; her thin, blue, and inordinately long fingers

especially occupied Milla to-day. What a contrast!

Should she speak to the new-comer, be friendly to her? Perhaps it would

be a little forward. From the moment that she saw her during the next

"recreation," walking arm in arm with Nora, this idea was dropped as a

matter of course.

During the three weeks which preceded Milla's return, a good deal had

happened; a revolution had silently begun which was not yet at an end.

Tora Holm made her appearance in the school rather untowardly. She

arrived late, met no one in the hall, and did not know where to go;

every one was assembled in the "laboratory" for morning prayers. At

that moment Karl Vangen, who had been detained at the bedside of a sick

person, rushed in and almost overturned her; then became as confused as

only a young clergyman can, mistook her for the new teacher, and

bewildered himself and her by his embarrassment. It was therefore some

little time before she, in her Bergen sing-song, could explain who she

was, and when he heard it, and it flashed into his mind that she was in

trouble for her uncle's death and had returned to an unhappy home, he

broke out, "We will all be so kind to you here; so"--he seized her

hand--"welcome, welcome!" Before he could say more she began to cry.

She was nervous and timid, everything was new and strange. He could

think of nothing else to do than to open the door and call out

"Mother."

And out came Fru Rendalen with her spectacles awry, and asked rather

shortly (for Fru Rendalen was particular, and this should not have

happened), "What is it, Karl?"

"Here is Froeken Holm, custom-house officer Holm's daughter, mother."

"Very well, let her come in," answered Fru Rendalen, opening the door

wide. "How do you do?" she said, as she stood in the doorway and held

out her hand to Tora in the half-lighted hall. There was far too much

of a command in her tone for Tora not to advance. Fru Rendalen then saw

that she had come crying to school like a little thing of five years

old. She was surprised; she showed her a place, which Tora shyly took,

and asked one of the teachers to help her off with her hat and cloak,

which the little donkey had kept on--thought Fru Rendalen to herself.

They sang a hymn and Karl spoke about meeting--whenever one discovers

anything good in a person, one meets God--that was his subject.

At the moment Tora was only conscious of the sound of a powerful voice,

she was tormented by the remembrance of her unlucky entrance and the

impression it had made; first and foremost upon Fru Rendalen, but also

on the others; she had seen that plainly. She could not keep quiet; she

turned away when any one looked at her, turned this way and that as

though she wished both to be looked at and not to be looked at. If any

one spoke to her, which happened after a while, she coloured, and

answered something which she at once contradicted. This went on during

the first three days. She knew neither Norwegian geography nor

Norwegian history--indeed, she did not know a single thing except

English and French, and coloured up when this was discovered; but when

it was also discovered that she spoke both these languages fluently,

she coloured up just as much. She would not do gymnastics on any

consideration--at last she said she had no dress. She made herself one

which was a masterpiece of coquetry; but this she denied, and declared

it to be purely and simply ugly. She could not go on long with the

gymnastics, strongly built as she was, but gave in completely and began

to cry. Miss Hall, who superintended the gymnastics and introduced

special exercises for some of the girls, led her towards the window and

looked at her. Miss Hall had partly forgotten her Norse, and did not

remember at the moment that Tora spoke English; she tried to find a

word while she examined her. Tora misunderstood this and ran away from

her, put on her things and went straight home, refusing to return to

school. It required no little trouble before she could be brought back,

not only to school but as a boarder; she needed better food than she

got at home, for she was beginning in _chlorosis_; this was the word

that Miss Hall could not remember. Tora now shared Miss Hall's room;

she was the first, though afterwards one of the pupils always did so.

Little by little the new-comer forgot herself so far as to be able to

sit still, but never if any one looked at her steadily, or talked about

her. She must feel it in her back, her companions said. They tried

experiments, and laughed when she really did by degrees become uneasy,

and at last turned round and looked at them.

Nora had been a boarder during the past year, and was often up at the

school. She did not speak to Tora except just in passing, but one

Sunday Tora asked her if she might do her hair for her. This made as

much stir among the boarders as though she had offered Nora some new

hair. Word was sent from room to room; they all collected, big ones and

little ones, to see Nora with new hair. They stood there, they leaned

over one another, while the great work went on.

For what was done was nothing less; laughter soon changed to

astonishment, to admiration, to applause.

One day, when Nora's hair was untidy, Tora had suddenly noticed that

this was becoming to her. It suited the large, wide-open eyes, by far

the most striking part of her little face. She had next to no forehead,

very small cheeks, a little mouth with cherry lips, and a rather large

nose, a real family nose; but it only seemed to set off the eyes, so

that it was the eyes all the same--nothing but eyes. Now what was

wanted was some way of raising the hair, so that it should help the

eyes as well. Tora had seen a great deal, and often had "inspirations,"

but never as yet in hair-dressing. She had one now. Naturally she began

by letting it all down and combing it out, then took the front hair and

made it into two large rolls, one on each side, lightly twisted; it was

very little in itself, and not at all striking, but the effect in this

case was amazing. When her eyes grew large, the hair looked as though

it would spread its wings and fly away, sometimes almost as though it

flickered--the hair was naturally a little wavy.

Up to this time Nora had never been thought pretty, there were other

qualities in her which one noticed; but now Rendalen himself, who very

rarely looked closely at any one, stopped short as he was reading

aloud, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he caught sight of Nora; the

whole class knew what he thought. The one who was least concerned was

perhaps Nora herself; now she had settled about her hair, and she need

not think anything more about it; but when Tora Holm, as their

friendship increased, began to rave about her talents, and, with her

tendency towards exaggeration, declared that Nora was "all soul," that

her music "absolutely carried one away," and that her chance remarks

always "hit the right nail on the head," that really was something! She

longed for more with insatiable voracity, and cultivated the

friendship. Tora Holm constantly made discoveries; the most important

one was that Nora was always right, even if she had been capricious

towards others, hasty--nay, even when she had had a slight fit of

untruthfulness, Nora was right, quite right--_at the bottom_.

It now struck Nora that Tora Holm was the first person who had ever

thoroughly understood her: to think that a stranger who looked at her

with fresh impartial eyes should have discovered this at once! The more

they saw of each other, the more gifted they thought each other. Tora's

talent for telling stories was the "greatest" Nora had "ever known;"

she gathered all her set round her to listen, and the story-telling

began. Fairy tales and romances by turns--what had not Tora read, what

did she not remember? The girls would listen over and over again to the

"Thousand and One Nights" (not the condensed edition, but the full one)

as though they were little children. As well as this, they liked

pictures of real life which did not go beyond their comprehension,

though they preferred that the lovers (and by inference also

themselves) should be noble and unhappy. These girls of fifteen,

sixteen, and seventeen (Tora herself was nearly seventeen), for various

reasons had, outside their school subjects, read only by stealth, with

the results which naturally follow. The books which Rendalen had read

to them had greatly widened their horizon and increased their desire to

know more, so that Tora was doubly welcome.

But between the story-telling times Nora wished to have her to herself,

really to possess her; Nora-Tora, Tora-Nora, wove themselves together,

no one else could approach them. Nora announced this openly; they two

preferred being by themselves.

Every one knew Nora, and understood that in a few days it would be

over; they only laughed, but there was one who did not laugh.

Tinka Hansen could not endure faithlessness; she had taken Nora to task

on one or two occasions and warned her. This time she was silent, and

allowed the penalty to consist in punctiliously respecting their wish

to remain apart. Nora could never get her to come with her.

Very soon Nora began to feel lonely among all these delightful Oriental

palaces; she did not realise this till she discovered that without

Tinka she did not feel free to do as she liked; without her she dared

not always listen. Tora's romances were often very "French." For more

than a year Nora had been used to the limits which Tinka imposed. She

was not sure if she were now inside or outside them, and an uneasy

conscience was the result. Tora had to suffer for this; Nora did not

know what they ought to do; she peremptorily cut short a story which

had been begun, ordered another, but stopped that as well; made

promises and did not keep them, and felt bored. And it was just at the

beginning of this period that Milla returned to school.

One Thursday evening, in Fru Rendalen's room, Tom as was going to read

a new play to them. Tora Holm, who chanced to be near Milla, looked at

her new black dress, which was a different one from that she wore in

the schoolroom. Without touching the dress she said, showing with her

fingers what she meant, the "trimming ought to have gone so, not so,

and had better have been narrower." She did not wait for an answer, but

walked farther on and sat down.

The day after, before morning prayers began, Milla came up to her and

thanked her; she had tried it, and found that Tora was right. There was

no time for more, but during the first "recreation" they involuntarily

sought each other out. "How could you see that at once?" asked Milla.

"I tried it the other day on a doll," answered Tora.

"On a doll?" asked Milla with a slight blush. Tora felt that she ought

not to have let this out; she was always doubtful about what she ought

to do. What a delicate instinct Milla Engel must have, to blush on her

account!

"So you dress dolls, do you?" said Milla, smiling, as she passed her

the next day. Tora protested; it really was not clear what she

protested, whether it were that she had one or two dolls, or that it

was her sisters who had them, or that even married women often have

dolls, so that there could be nothing odd in that, or else that she

quite saw how unbecoming it was, since every age ought to suit with

its.... She said all this, and a great deal more, in her Bergen

sing-song, and Milla smiled. "Won't you come in and see me this

afternoon? We are back from the country now."

Tora had not refused before Milla had said good-bye, but afterwards she

felt dreadfully embarrassed about it. Nevertheless at six o'clock she

was there.

Tora had a great wish to get up in the world--she would not be chained

to a home such as hers was, to such a fate as threatened her.

Consul Engel's house was almost the only one in the town where the door

was kept closed all day. When one rang, either a man-servant or a maid

opened the door, and one entered a house where there was Brussels

carpet in the passages and on the stairs, as well as in the rooms, and

where, to begin with, one found oneself between two mirrors where one

could see oneself from head to foot.

Tora was shown upstairs. "Froeken Engel's" room was there. She was

heartily welcomed. The rooms were those which Fru Engel had occupied

during the last years of her life; she had very rarely left them.

She had died here, and it was for that reason that the family had gone

so late into the country this year, and had only just returned to the

house.

Every comfort which a room can possess was there; the chairs and

couches were all as soft as the cushions of an invalid, you seemed to

sink into them; they were upholstered in moss-green silk, and the

curtains and portieres were of the same material and colour, the walls

were a dark indefinite colour. There was an old-fashioned rosewood

cabinet in inlaid work, with a number of small pigeon-holes and

receptacles in it. Tora never wearied of looking at it. An Erard piano

with carved heads and emblems, a bookcase in the same style. Pictures,

especially landscapes, which made one long for the evening sun, with

its hazy light and almost sultry heat.

Tora went from one to another; she looked at every single thing as

though it were a person with whom she wished to make friends. From

there she went to the bedroom, and admired the soft carpet into which

her feet sank, the little _chaise-longue_ in one corner, the bed with

its rich hangings, the variety and elegance of the toilette apparatus.

Milla's pleasure at seeing her was expressed in the one remark that she

had never before taken any one up into her mother's rooms.

There was only one piece of furniture which did not please Tora; at

last she could no longer contain herself, it assorted so ill with its

surroundings. "What is there in that press, dear? Why is it here?"

Milla replied, smiling, that it was very incongruous, she knew; it had

not been there before--in fact, it was her own; she had had it ever

since she was a child.

"But can't it stand in another place?"

"No, not very well."

There was something of reserve in this answer, she could not inquire

further. As Tora was leaving Milla asked her to come again soon,

but she had better let her know beforehand, so that they might be

alone--that would be the pleasantest. Tora understood that this was

meant for Anna Rogne, but that was no affair of hers.

It so chanced that the next time she sat telling stories in the

twilight to Nora and her friends, who for convenience had settled

themselves on the floor on some carpets and eider-downs, she let fall

the remark, that "Of all the people I know, the one who is most like

Gulnare is Milla Engel." This, to her audience, was much like saying

before the king that he was not the wisest man in the kingdom. Nora was

amazed, her friends almost broke out into open anger. Tora felt that

she had done a foolish thing; she tried to explain herself by ascribing

that "passive" beauty to Milla which was here implied. The expressions

active and passive were at that time war cries in the senior class;

there were "active" people and "passive" people, "active" eyes and

"passive" eyes, "active" and "passive" colours.

"But, good gracious," said one of the girls, "Milla has not dark hair;

she is fair."

"So is Nora," answered the thoughtless Tora.

"I certainly have no wish to be a passive beauty, or an Eastern

princess," answered Nora angrily. "No, I did not mean that at all, I

only meant ----" she stopped short, for she really did not know why she

had said it.

"That was sheer nonsense," the others declared, and pressed Tora so

hard that she declared, with tears in her eyes, that Milla was the most

refined and the prettiest girl in the school. She (Tora) was only too

happy to know any one who was so considerate, so full of tact; it was

more than could be said of every one.

This was too much. Gina Krog herself, who was always forbearing, did

not now scruple to announce that she had known for two days, but had

not wished to tell, that Tora went to see Milla, and that they were

bosom friends. There was a dead silence. Soon afterwards Nora left, and

the others dispersed. Tora tried to explain, but they would not listen

to her.

None of the boarders belonged to Milla's party; not a girl there had

set her foot inside Milla Engel's door--for the reason that they had

never been asked.

However much Tora tossed about and turned herself and her pillow that

night, she could not sleep; it vexed and hurt her that she could not be

friends with one without losing the friendship of the other. Now the

whole school would look on her as a faithless wretch. Heaven knew that

she was not, yet she might be sent to Coventry for it, it might always

be remembered against her. It was a question of the future for her. She

had been so tossed about, she felt so insecure; she was always

stretching out her arms for something solid to cling to, which as

constantly eluded her grasp. She cried bitterly; she liked them both so

much, each in her own way, though they were so different. Why should

she not if she liked? What could she do? She did not wish to sacrifice

either of them.

The next day was Sunday; she had to go to church, but she would not

wait for the others, who were going as well--so she went straight off

to Milla. Milla was dressed for church; they met in the hall, but she

was surprised when Tora asked if she might speak to her. She took her

into her room and locked the door. Tora began to cry and told her

everything exactly as it had happened; she did not conceal that she was

fond of them both and why she was so, nor how lonely she felt, and what

an effect this might have on her future. Nora had so much influence

both among the boarders and the day girls.

In the midst of the story, just as Tora had paused for a moment to cry,

Milla heard someone at the door; there was a knock, she opened it just

wide enough to step through; in a little time she returned and said

that she and Anna Rogne had made an engagement to go to church

together, but that she had excused herself on the score of a headache;

it was certainly the second Sunday that she had done so, but it could

not be helped. Milla was sorry for Tora; she really was fond of her, it

showed itself now. She promised not to take anything in bad part which

Tora might devise, so as to keep on good terms with Nora and her

numerous friends. Milla really was very sweet.

Tora had only time to put her arms round her and kiss her for this, for

she must show herself in church. But might she come again in the

afternoon? She was very much consoled, but she longed for more; she was

so frightened, she must manage to talk everything over with her. Milla

asked her to come again as early as ever she could.

Tora came again after coffee; as soon as she had locked the door, Milla

whispered, as she put her arm round Tora's neck, that now she was going

to give her a treat, she felt certain that it would please her. To no

one, absolutely to no one, had she shown what Tora was going to see.

The press there----

"The press, well----?"

"Once it held my dolls."

"Your dolls!"

"Every one knows that it does not now," said Milla; as she spoke she

flung it open. The large double doors, both the upper and lower ones,

flew back together, and the girls could see four storeys of a house;

the bottom one a complete and marvellously dainty kitchen, scullery,

and dining-room, above a drawing-room, a large elegant apartment with

the most lovely furniture upholstered in silk, a black rosewood table,

fireplace, looking-glass, clock. On the third storey a bedroom, with

the sweetest little beds--real actual beds--and a wash-hand stand,

where everything was to be found, down to the most minute details. On

the fourth storey was the wardrobe, a magnificent doll's wardrobe.

There were changes in silk, velvet, _moire antique_, in different

colours; a whole collection of materials which had not yet been made

up; scraps of every description evidently collected with diligence and

care during many years. All linen, even stockings, and other

underclothing, all in duplicate, as well as hats, mantles, ornaments,

belts.

Tora shrieked; she was down on her knees and up on tiptoe; she did not

at first lay a finger on them, but devoured them with her eyes, unable

to take in the whole--it could not be grasped all at once; there was

too much, too great a variety, it was too wonderfully minute. She had

not even counted the dolls yet. "One, two, three, four--five--six!

seven!! eight!!!"

She had begun softly, but her voice rose at every number, so that Milla

hastened to say, "Twelve, twelve, there are twelve."

"Twelve! actually twelve! Oh dear! oh dear! Have you kept all the dolls

you have ever had in your life, never spoilt a single one?"

Well, yes she had, but never one since she was seven.

"Wait a minute." And solemnly, as though she were afraid they might

disappear, Tora carefully put in her hand and took up the very, very

sweetest doll in light red silk, with shoes and hat of the same colour,

a dark red parasol, and a little fan stuck into her belt; her

underclothes were made like a real person's, with lace and embroidery,

a pocket in her dress with a pocket-handkerchief in it, and elegant

French gloves which fitted her hands; as well a little brooch shaped

like a forget-me-not, and bracelets and watch in the same style. Tora

stood dumb with admiration, while she turned the doll round, inspected

the cut and make of the dress, the underclothes; held it away from her,

then close to her. At that moment there was a knock at the door. Some

one had come right upstairs without the preoccupied girls having heard

the least sound. They were startled. Milla held up her finger. She

turned red and white. Of course it was Anna. But Anna had never seen

the dolls, she would not understand.

There were, she explained later, two more dolls in mourning, but Anna

had been with her so much lately that she had not been able to dress

many of them, otherwise her plan had been to have them all in mourning,

that would have been charming. Another knock, low and hesitating. They

held their breaths; Milla was quite unnerved. They heard her go; they

listened so intently that they could hear her step on the stairs. It

was a most unlucky chance. Milla had given orders that if any one

besides Tora came they were to say that she had gone out for a walk on

account of her headache. But the maid who had received the order,

Milla's own maid, could not have answered the door, although it was her

time for doing so. What should Milla do? But from this consideration

she was swept away by a whirlwind.

Nora lay on the bed in Tinka Hansen's room; a little wainscoted,

blue-painted attic in shoemaker Hansen's new house in the market-place.

As well as the bed there was an open bookshelf painted brown, one or

two chairs, a large washstand intended for two, but for which no other

place could be found; a high short sofa on which Tinka now sat, looking

across at the bed, her right arm resting on her little desk which stood

on the table before her.

Nora lay sobbing loudly, and Tinka sat calmly by and looked at her;

Nora knew now what faithlessness was, how it tasted to be deserted for

the sake of another.

But it was more than being forsaken--she was abandoned, deposed, made

nothing of. Tora had lifted her up to the skies; she was "all mind,"

"could not make a mistake." And now this very Tora had dropped her--for

Milla Engel! The world was nothing but lies and delusions. "Oh dear!

Tinka, why cannot you be kind to me? You do not know how unhappy I am."

But Tinka was silent. "I cannot do without you, Tinka--no, I cannot. I

have discovered since this morning that I made nothing but mistakes. I

have no stability--no, not a bit."

"No, that is it," said Tinka soothingly.

"Not a bit; oh dear, what shall I do? Won't you talk to me?" She cried

dreadfully now.

"You only care for adoration, Nora."

"Not 'only,' Tinka; don't say 'only.'"

"No, no; but you are never happy unless you are adored, and one tires

of that."

"What shall I do, Tinka? Goodness knows I am tired of it myself. Ah,

you do not believe it, but it's true, especially now since Milla is

adored as well. Ugh! it is disgusting to think of."

"That is merely because it is Milla, and not you."

"No indeed, Tinka," and she raised herself on her elbow. "Tora has

given me so much of it that I am tired of it; yes, I am; and to think

that she is with Milla now." She flung herself down again and cried,

with anger and vexation. She raised herself again suddenly: "But I must

get rid of all this; it is disgusting; I despise myself; you do not

know what I have been thinking since this morning. Help me, Tinka; you

are the only one of them all who speaks the truth to me."

Tinka was unmoved: Nora flung herself down again, turned away and

cried.

"I cannot understand," said Tinka at length, "that you who rave so

for----"

"Do not use that word"--Nora interrupted her while she made a gesture

with her hand behind her--"it has become loathsome now that Milla does

it too. Milla 'raves.' Can you imagine anything so----?"

"Well, well, I will not say 'rave.'"

"No, don't."

"Very well, I will say 'interest yourself--you who interest yourself so

much in all that is just and great, and who are also so brave, for you

would cheerfully die for what you think right----"

"Yes, I could, Tinka; I believe I could do that; ah, how nice it is to

hear something good again, and especially from you; I feel quite

astray."

"Yes, but now I am coming to what I want to say--do you understand? Is

it not a shame that any one so excellent should all the same be such a

peacock?"

"A peacock, Tinka?"

"Yes, a peacock; you are just like a peacock!"

"Am I? I think you are----"

"It was not I who said so."

"I thought as much."

"It was Tora who said so."

"Tora! the ungrateful----"

"Yes, but Tora is right; you are dreadfully like a peacock, Nora; that

thin little face of yours, and then you are so slender."

"Come, I say, Tinka."

"Yes, it's true. All we friends agree as to that. We are all to be the

eyes in your tail. Yes, that is it."

Nora threw herself down and howled, with her head and hands in the

eider-down quilt.

"Yes, of course you have offended Tora--you offend every one. You are

so capricious, you are so spoilt."

"Yes, that is what I am!" came from the eider-down.

"That is what you are. Frederik says so as well."

"What does Frederik say?"

Nora raised her red face quickly up from the eider-down. Frederik was

an authority.

"I will read it to you," answered the other, opening the desk, and

taking out a letter of at least five sheets.

"He writes," she said, as she turned to the fourth side of the fourth

sheet, with the same calm deliberation with which she had opened the

desk, looked for the letter, closed the desk again, and now read: "You

must not be too severe with her either, for if that were her real

nature, she would behave differently, and understand how to retain her

worshippers. As it is, she is only a spoilt child, who has never done

anything without being praised for it, and has besides become so

capricious that she is tired to-day of those who praised her

yesterday."

"Oh dear! how true that is, Tinka."

"But perhaps she will weary of caprice as well, for she certainly

desires something more than that. I was impressed by that in the

summer. But you must help her, Tinka."

"Yes, you must."

Nora had raised herself, and now sat on the edge of the bed. She had

folded her hands, and looked at Tinka. "You must always be with me. I

am not content with myself, when you are not with me. Oh, Tinka! I will

never, never, never be like that again. If you see the slightest sign

of it, you must take me to task for it. You know I do want to be

something more than this. I want to be remarkable. Ah! don't laugh; in

reality I have no wish to sing and make fun for the others, and be

flattered and flattered; but it came so, I can't understand why. I

don't want it; I wish to be able to do something, to take up something

with an object. _Yes, that is what I want_. Sometimes I believe I must

go off to the wars, or die with the Nihilists in Russia. Yes, I do

believe it. Or else travel about and lecture; be hissed down and

wounded. Yes, I could. I don't know why it should be, but I long for

it. I don't say it to boast, Tinka, I only say it because I feel it so.

Believe me, I do feel it in that way. If I fail, it will be because it

is nothing but wishing; perhaps I am incapable of it. Well, all the

same I have the wish. I have no wish for the sort of thing I do now,

and for which I am praised. I have such an unconquerably strong,

strong, strong longing."

She raised herself, her eyes sparkled through her tears; her hair stood

on end, she had dishevelled it with her long arms whilst she was

crying. She threw herself down again. Tinka could not resist all the

pleasant remembrances which Nora had awakened. She walked across and

bent her broad full figure over her. And there they sat for some time

together, talking that endearing nonsense which is proper to the

happiness of reconciliation. Tinka did not forget all that she had

treasured in her memory for Nora's benefit, but the sting of it was

gone. Nora's lively answers made it all appear stupid, and at last she

was ready to laugh at what a little time before had seemed something

very serious, immensely important.

In the midst of this, some one rushed up the stairs, step by step, up

the first flight, like the beat of a drum. Then up the second, then the

third, across to the attic, in the same wild unflagging whirl. There

was only one who ever came in that fashion, but it could not very well

be she. The door was not locked; there was no knock; it was pushed

open. Yes, it was Tora! Good heavens!

The amazement, vexation, dignity of the two girls! It could not have

been done better at Court, Tinka's perfect unconsciousness that there

could be such a person as Tora Holm in the world, or Nora's noble and

spiritual, "Don't disturb me," without a word spoken. It was splendid!

Never did so fine a representation more utterly break down. Tora was

beaming with delight, victory, and rejoicing. She talked about _twelve_

dolls, some of which were as big as an ordinary child; of--she really

believed---_fifty_ dolls' dresses of different sorts, _moire antique_,

silk, and velvet, besides morning dresses, embroidered skirts and

drawers, silk stockings, gloves and parasols; of beds and curtains; of

a wash-hand stand, with all belonging to it, down to the most minute

details; of everything from the kitchen to the drawing-room, and the

drawing-room furniture; of a splendid plan about the dolls, who were

all to go to a Court Ball on the King's birthday; about Milla, who was

a hundred thousand times better than they dreamed of, who did not

object, nay wished, that they should both come up with her and see it

all now, at once, and help about the Court Ball--of course as the

deepest of secrets. Yes, it was true; on her word of honour it was

true. She told them how it had all happened; about Milla's room, what

it was like, and that she had been there a number of times without

hearing a word about the dolls. But to-day Milla had shown them to her,

merely out of the goodness of her heart to comfort her. Now she wanted

to show them to the others, if it could be managed, and all four be

friends from this time forward.

Tora had proposed it; Milla had been startled, but she had come round,

and at last thought it a capital plan. Milla was so good, and they must

be so too; no hesitation--they must. Why should there be two parties?

Milla had her ways, Nora hers.

They had never really done each other any harm, not the least bit; if

they would only try to grasp the fact: "we can talk more about it as we

go."

The two looked at each other, but Tora gave them no breathing time. "We

must tell them at home that we are going to stay to tea, for that was

what was meant. It would never do to refuse an invitation, a formal

invitation, to the Engels."

Tora was a perfect whirlwind, carrying all before her, and the storm of

excitement had brought fire to her eyes, her movements--she seemed to

sparkle. She took possession of them.

Not long afterwards they all four stood before the press; the

introduction, the embarrassment from the change of circumstances,

apologies, counter-apologies, occupied the first few minutes; Tora took

hold of Milla and pushed her gently forward to the front of the press.

"Open! open!--we can talk afterwards--open!" Milla herself felt that

here action was better than words, and opened the door.

The cry of delight which was given by the newcomers fully rewarded her.

There was an amount of industry, order, loyalty, and sense of beauty in

this little collection which she was aware of herself, and which made

it dear to her heart. It was her treasure, never seen by many people,

and for the last two or three years only by herself; there was

therefore a special charm of secrecy in it; it would be enjoyed when

some day it was opened before the astonished eyes of others. And now,

how it was enjoyed!

Each one found a special pleasure in it. Tinka looked upon the dolls as

so many little children, she talked baby talk to them: "Doodnes

dacious" for "Goodness gracious," and "tweet" for "sweet." She began to

undress one for the pleasure of dressing it again.

Tora delighted in the stuffs, felt each one, held them up against the

light, laid them one against the other. There was a special piece of

brocade which she now saw for the first time (Milla looked it out for

her), which absolutely enraptured her; it suggested plan upon plan, she

talked without a pause. Nora regarded the press as a collection of

works of art. Milla became a new person in her eyes. It was evident

what she thought of her now, one saw it in Milla's slightly heightened

colour.

They treated each other the whole evening with a distinction which the

others considered as only natural.

They were soon all sitting round the table with the dolls shared among

them; the materials and everything which could be of use for this great

object, a Court Ball, lay scattered before them, and eight eyes and

forty fingers rummaged among them. They could not agree; Tora wished to

have a costume ball, her endless chatter filled the air with fancies

and varying colours, a perfect whirl of figures of damsels and _rococo_

dames with ribbons, feathers, and hats. Milla preferred the present

day, the fashion plates, especially some quite new ones.

Nora was sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, according as

some special thing took her fancy. Tinka opposed the idea; they could

each one dress her doll according to her own fancy. Nora and Tora

rebelled against this; there ought to be some style in it. Milla dealt

with the proposal with more deliberation, but was against it. Nora

quickly grew impatient at this, and then, by a sleight of hand

which only girls understand, this discussion turned into a dispute

about--Tomas Rendalen and Karl Vangen! Not between Tinka and the

others, but Tora against Nora and Tinka. Tora being herself nervous,

could not endure Rendalen's nervousness. It was either this, or that

she was inclined to be in opposition; otherwise it cannot be explained

how it was that from the first day she had been unable to get on with

Rendalen. A speaking resemblance between a red-spotted stuff and

Rendalen's hands had started the dispute. Nora had hastily answered

that his hands were clever, really speaking hands; Vangen's, on the

contrary, were "big and stupid, as broad at one end as the other."

When there are only two masculine teachers in a girls' school, the

pupils very rarely praise both--one must be censured when the other is

applauded; and at school it was generally honest Karl Vangen who was

used as a foil whenever any one felt inclined to become enthusiastic

over the intellectual Rendalen.

But on this point Tora was in opposition from the moment when Karl

Vangen had grasped her hand in warm welcome, and had beamed down at her

with his kind eyes, and besides had made their meeting the text of his

address that day--since then she had been fond of him. And the more

awkward and simple he was, the more she liked him--she fought for him

until the others were forced to respect her.

This time it began very mildly; they merely taunted her with Karl

Vangen's "thick head," his wide mouth, his long fingers, long legs and

big feet; and she replied with allusions to Rendalen's red hair,

screwed-up eyes, his feminine preciseness, his scented handkerchief;

but it soon became more serious. Tora's quick wit cited instances of

Rendalen's uncontrolled impetuosity, and what mistakes he made in

consequence. Instances of his uneven temper--how sometimes he rushed up

and down the class without speaking, without hearing, without seeing;

at other times he was nothing but life, absolutely given up to fun--far

too much so. The others considered that this was unjust, because if

this were mentioned by itself, no one would have the least idea of

Rendalen, who was, for all that, the best and cleverest teacher in the

world. Tinka had a capricious talent for mimicry and not the slightest

leaning towards piety, so that Karl Vangen very easily appeared to her

in a ludicrous light; she now began to preach, or rather to bleat, like

him, with eyes gazing fixedly heavenwards. Nora laughed violently, Tora

cried, Milla could not prevent herself from laughing, but all the same,

she now took Karl Vangen's part; she quietly remarked that she thought

him "delightful"; she did not mention Rendalen. As Milla was the

hostess and Nora and Tinka at her house for the first time, they said

no more; but Tora would not give in; she now seriously began to sing

Karl Vangen's praises. In order not to answer and admit that there

might be some truth in it, Nora walked away humming and looked out of

the window. "Good gracious! why, there goes Anna Rogne," she said.

"Has she been here?" asked Milla, turning pale; she got up and came

towards the window. Yes, certainly she saw Anna hurrying away, she must

be much disturbed; she herself, with as much speed as was becoming,

hastened out of the door and down the stairs. Some time elapsed before

she returned. She was silent and really upset; Anna had been right

upstairs and therefore outside their door. There was general

astonishment. Milla told them what had happened that morning, and how

innocent she really was in the matter. Tora at once took it upon

herself, and was terribly unhappy.

"No, the blame is mine alone," said Milla.

What should she do? She had ordered the carriage.

No one answered, but they looked involuntarily at Tinka.

"Yes," said Tinka, "we will all go together to fetch Anna and explain

to her how it happened." Nora and Tora agreed at once that that was the

only right thing to do. Milla, too, admitted that this would be best,

but she had never said anything to Anna about the dolls; Anna did not

care for such things, and now it could not very well be explained to

her without offence. Nora and Tora were sensible of this; it would not

do.

Tinka held to her opinion; she would gladly undertake it by herself.

No; if any one were to do so it should be Milla.

This put the idea into Milla's head to write. Simply say to Anna that

the others were here, would she not come too? She sent the carriage.

Yes, the others thought that would do.

"Go yourself!" said Tinka.

"No, I am not so discourteous as that to my guests," laughed Milla. She

sat down to write.

The others were quiet for a time; at last Nora broke in with, "Tinka is

certainly right; go yourself, we can easily go out just for that time."

"No," answered Milla, looking up from her letter; "Anna need not know

that we saw her. Then it would be the most natural thing in the world

for me to send a message to her when you are here." The others could

not contradict this. She finished off the note and hurried down with

it; as she came up again they heard the carriage drive out of the gate,

at the side of the house. Milla smiled; "I said I would explain another

time why you had come. I told Hans to be quick and to drive a little

way round so as not to pass Anna; perhaps the carriage will be there

before she is." It was evident that she was pleased at having proved

equal to a difficult occasion.

They resumed their discussion on the dolls' festival; but before the

carriage returned with Anna, the dolls and their things must be back in

the press.

Suddenly Nora broke out: "If we are not to mention the dolls to Anna,

why in the world could we not have all gone to her together?"

They looked puzzled at each other for a moment. It was true! They burst

out laughing. What had given them the mad idea that for them all to go

together would be to let out the secret of the dolls. They tried to

recall the course of their conversation, but could not determine it; at

all events, it showed that they had uneasy consciences. Tinka proposed

in good time to put away the dolls, their wardrobe and stuffs, under

Milla's superintendence; but Milla undertook to put the whole thing

tidy later on, they could sit quiet while she did so. They all objected

to this; it would be awfully amusing to put them away. And so it was

settled.

The carriage returned without Anna--she had a headache. Tora looked at

Milla, and Milla at Tora; this was a final good-bye. It put them all

out of tune for a little while, but when they remembered that at all

events they could take the dolls out again, the three guests soon

consoled themselves.

As soon as they had got to work, the conversation naturally turned upon

Anna; none of the three liked her; they thought her artificial,

_pretentieuse_, as Tora expressed it in rather affected French; Anna

was always trying to take up some special line; everything she said, or

did, must be so dreadfully thorough. But they all agreed that she wrote

well; it was true, for the two things went naturally together.

They then began to make fun of her extreme piety. Milla had said

nothing about the first; as regarded the second, she contented herself

by remarking that she had perhaps a little too much of it.

Nora was the first to forsake the table. She could not go on any

longer; she must have a little music, she said. The grand piano was

tried. Milla was afraid that it was not quite in tune; nor was it, but

what a tone! Nora sang, while the others dressed dolls; then she

worried Tinka to join her, but at first Tinka would not leave her blue

doll; at last Milla asked her to do so. They had sung one or two songs

when there was a knock at the door. Milla's maid announced that the

Consul had arrived; there was great surprise, he was not expected.

Milla hurried down. The others all agreed at once that they must go, it

would be dull work having tea with the Consul. Tora especially shrank

from it; her cuffs were not quite clean; would it do to ask Milla to

lend her a pair? During this discussion the door was opened, in came

Milla, quicker than any one believed it possible for her to move.

"Father's coming," she whispered, and hurried to the table with the

others after her. From there to the press, from the press to the table,

from the table to the press; heads and shoulders were knocked together,

toes trodden on, amid smothered cries, laughter, and scolding;

everything was off the table and locked up as the Consul knocked at the

door. Nora had pushed Tinka on to the sofa, she herself sat gravely on

a chair, Milla and Tora stood by the press. The Consul came in, elegant

and smiling as usual. He saw the four girls red with suppressed

laughter, or whatever it might be, embarrassed, constrained. "What the

deuce is it?" he thought, and came forward to Nora, the Sheriff's

daughter, bowed politely, bade her welcome, and asked after her

parents; then to the others as Milla introduced them, and then back

again to Nora; he asked merrily if he might have the pleasure of taking

her downstairs. He had just come from the steamer, and was as hungry as

one only can be after a sea voyage.

She took his arm, but he wished the others to go first, which they

hesitated to do; it seemed as though one were waiting for the other.

Tinka could not understand why Tora did not move, and when the Consul

turned towards her again she came forward, although it was rather

embarrassing. Why did not Milla help her? She stood there too, as

though she had taken root. The Consul gave his daughter a little push:

"_Avancez, mesdemoiselles_." She was obliged to come a little forward,

and the lower part of a doll become visible! It lay there, "naked and

face downwards," as the song says. Tora tried to cover it up, but the

Consul had caught sight of it, and with a "Pardon me, Froeken," he

stooped and picked it up. Tora ran, Tinka ran, Milla ran, Nora let go

his arm and ran, and the Consul after them with the doll. "What is

this--what in the world is this?"

They all rushed into the dining-room and stood there in a group,

convulsed with laughter, as the Consul followed them with the doll in

the air like a flag. It was the blue doll which Tinka had undressed for

the third time, and was going to put to bed just as the Consul came and

everything was hurry-scurry. It must have slipped down and bashfully

hidden itself under a skirt at the time the press was closed. Milla and

Tora had discovered it at the same moment, and both placed themselves

over it.

The Consul sat down with the doll in his arms; then he laid it down in

his table napkin, and after looking at it once or twice he put it on

the table with a teacup under its head. Milla snatched it from him.

"Do you really play with dolls?"

No, indeed; they had come to consult together about Christmas presents.

Milla gave this answer.

"Why should you hide such a harmless thing?" asked the Consul.

"Because the doll was undressed, of course," answered his daughter.

Nora soon joined in; she was used to this sort of thing. She also had a

father who loved to tease girls.

The other two took but little part, but as against that the Consul kept

his eyes on them almost continually. Tinka could quite understand that

Tora might attract his attention, but why should she? She grew uneasy

by degrees. Her dress might have come unsewn somewhere near the arm, it

happened so to her sometimes; she looked as well as she could, but

failed to discover anything; she felt as though she had no dress on at

all.

The Consul was very merry; suddenly he turned all his attention to

Tora, they had only been a short time at table and she had finished

already! The fact was that the unlucky cuffs worried Tora to such an

extent that they ran between her and her wits. The Consul looked at her

suddenly; it was not the birth-mark that he was looking at, for she had

been careful to have that side next to Milla; it was certainly not her

face, his looks were directed lower than that. She put down her knife

and fork and hid her hands under the table.

"You are not eating, my dear Froeken Holm; are you not well, missie?

What's amiss with you? Or is there anything particular you want? Just

say what it is. Milla, give Froeken Holm another cup of tea. No tea

either? A glass of wine? Come now, just a glass of wine. Your good

health, Froeken! But you won't drink any? Do you prefer Madeira? Good

gracious, are you blushing about it? Headache? Dear, dear! Perhaps you

would like----? Shall Milla help you? Not that either? Just say what

you want, my dear. Have you often a headache, Froeken Holm? What, you

have not got one? I once knew a girl who would have a headache merely

if something were amiss with her cuffs. But, my dear Milla, I do not

want to tease Froeken Holm. Is that what it is, Froeken Holm?"

Tora was overcome by a feeling of helplessness which would seize her

for even a smaller cause than this, and which always made her cry. She

had to leave the table and hasten upstairs.

Milla rose with a dignity which her friends admired, and followed her.

When the others joined her, Tora was gone. Milla looked pale, but was

completely silent as to what had passed. Nora and Tinka began to put on

their things, Milla making no objection. She kissed them and begged

them to come again, repeating her invitation down in the hall. It was

only when she was upstairs alone, and had locked the door, that she

burst into tears. Such a thing would never have happened if her mother

had been at table, she could not fill her place; her father had vexed

her terribly. Her mother had left her so much too soon. "Oh, mother,

mother, mother!" There was a knock at the door. She asked who it was.

Her father; of course she had to open, but she went back to the sofa

and flung herself crying into the furthermost corner. He sat down

quietly, and after a few moments he said very gently, almost in a

whisper, "Listen, Milla; I am sorry for what has happened; I wish I

knew better how it had come about. But it is annoying, of course,

chiefly for your sake. I never thought she could take it so to heart. I

was so pleased that your friends should come to see you. Especially

these girls. All the same, and perhaps it was that feeling which

influenced me, have you been careful enough in the choice of one of

them, Milla?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing particular; don't be so vehement, my dear! You do not quite

understand me. A girl who is so uncertain of herself and--well--whom

one can so easily confuse--there might come a time when you would

repent that you had been intimate with her."

Milla got up, literally as white as a sheet. She felt exactly as though

he had spoken of her; there are very few girls of her age who would not

have felt so. But she did not say a word. She cried bitterly as she

went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

The next day, the moment the time for recreation was sounded, Milla

took Tora by the arm, and during every recreation it was the same

thing. They were both beaming with good-humour; Nora and Tinka greatly

admired Milla for this. They had not thought that she had so much heart

and spirit.

This little occurrence, more than anything else laid the foundation of

their friendship.

The Staff was formed.

CHAPTER III

THE SOCIETY

It was soon noticed that the whole of the senior class and that next to

it had come under a single influence.

Rendalen was so much struck by the alteration, without understanding

the ground for it, that at last he made inquiries, and it was explained

to him. He was much amused, gave the four girls their celebrated name,

and at the same time suggested that they should form a "Society." It

was true that they already had social evenings at his mother's, and

they would continue these, but it would be better if they took the

whole affair into their own hands; select the subjects for readings and

lectures, or for discussion, among themselves. The last especially.

Girls had so many "fancies" in their heads that they ought to learn in

early life to be able to carry out a thought, to pursue a special

interest. A Society! The senior class is to institute a Society. They

may invite their friends from the town or the elder girls from the

second class. They will be allowed to speak at the meetings on what

subjects they choose, invite whom they like to take part in the

readings and music, they and no one else. They were to be empowered to

make rules, elect a president and secretary, impose fines! What fancies

this awakened, not in the senior class alone, but in all of them, down

to the little ones who learned to spell and sing songs about the cat.

What a stir at meal-times, what a whispering during lessons, what

commotions at play-time! When a school is excited by a question which

must not be openly discussed in lesson hours, it causes despair among

the teachers. No one studies, no one listens, no one keeps order or

remembers anything. If one wishes really to be amused by the suppressed

excitement of the class, one must not stand in front of them; there

they restrain themselves.

No, take up your position behind them and observe their plaits; you

might imagine that they had gained an independent life--they jump, they

dance, they curl and uncurl themselves. The changes of colour during

this extreme restlessness are comical. All the fiery red, sandy and

brown-red, up to black, look as though they were wet or shining with

oil, or take a dead colour like coffee grounds. There are locks which

are black above and brown underneath, and those of absolute raven

black; there are light ones in every shade of ashen, of yellow, or an

ugly mixture of both, with green for a foundation. All these assume the

wonderful changes of colour which belong to their years. The braids are

as excited as though they were chattering to each other, playing tricks

on one another, springing towards each other. The life behind is a

perfect reflex of that in front.

At the first--that is to say, the preliminary--meeting of the Society,

Nora was elected president; Tinka was so accustomed to have all the

work put upon her that she knew beforehand that she would be chosen

secretary; she was right, she was chosen unanimously.

It had this advantage, Nora considered, that she would thus be able to

copy the minutes of the proceedings for Frederik. It was true that

their earliest determination was that the proceedings should not be

made public, but then Tinka was engaged.

Otherwise they began without written rules, but Frederik wrote from

Christiania requiring the most clearly defined ones. He sent a draft.

There were fines for non-attendance, fines for disregarding the rules

therein set down, fines for every other kind of disorder, fines for

omitting to vote. But the girls took it more practically than he--the

donkey--as Tinka called him on this occasion. Nora and she worked out,

quite quietly, a new set of rules; they were discussed at the next

meeting amid some disorder; rules did not appear to be to their taste.

A great deal of fun was made in the town over the "Society;" there were

some, however, who considered it unbecoming, some thought it dangerous,

but when a theatrical company visited the town and its most select

representation fell on the same day as a meeting of the Society, and

the members, with a few exceptions, were with difficulty persuaded to

sacrifice this meeting, it was allowed that a proof had been given of

their zeal. No one thought it worth while to raise the question again

as regarded the chief representation; they were left in peace.

Very soon a serious error showed itself in the rules of the Society.

Any one might anonymously propose a subject for discussion to the

president, and it was decided by vote whether it should be placed on

the agenda.

Thus it was anonymously proposed to discuss "Immortality," but this did

not obtain a single vote. The proposer was evidently not a member.

Another proposal ran, "Ought men to be allowed to wear moustaches?" and

this was written in the same hand. It was now suggested that no notice

should be taken of any communication which was not laid on the

secretary's table during the course of the meeting. It was objected

that the proposal in this case would no longer remain anonymous, but

they were sufficiently confident in their own adroitness, for it was

adopted.

Although the discussions were absolutely private, it was maintained in

the town that one young lady in the course of her lecture had declared

that it was most pitiful of men that they could not keep their vows of

chastity so well as women. It was then that Doesen composed his famous

"_Nora, Tora, ora pro nobis_."

With this exception it was not certain what the girls discussed, they

had agreed to pretend that everything that was said about them was

true, a roguish Freemasonry kept this joke going.

One of those who teased them the most was Consul Engel. He had soon

made his peace with the Staff, having sent his apologies through his

daughter. Besides this, he had presented Tora with a nest of Japanese

boxes, in the smallest of which was a charming pin. In order to make

everything smooth again, he gave a "Reconciliation Dinner," to which

Milla invited several of her friends. An enormous doll had been sent by

_grande vitesse_, which he set up on the table and ceremoniously

introduced to the four girls. It was magnificent; Tinka had put on her

stoutest dress; Tora, who was in a wild mood, sat next to Milla. She

chattered without stopping for a moment, so that Milla had to pinch her

under the table to make her be silent, at which Tora laughed as though

she were mad. Nora ran to the piano in the middle of dessert, to sing a

song which the Consul had never heard. He declared afterwards that he

had never amused himself more innocently. His only notion of talking to

them was to tease them, his favourite theme was the Society. They

laughed at his jokes and kept them up, but they would not give in; for

women are used to having the things they are fond of held up to

contempt. The Society was a new thing in their lives, soon it became

something more. But to show this we must return to one who is waiting

for us. Anna Rogne did not come to school that Monday; Milla came up to

muster with her heart full of self-reproach. Directly after school she

drove round to see her, but Anna was ill; her aunts came out smiling

and told her that she could not be disturbed. The next day Milla came

again. She asked if she might not at least be allowed to see the

invalid. Anna and she had begun to read Fabiola together; might she not

read aloud to her? "Little Anna hoped she would excuse her," they said

smiling, and Milla went away. Anna was away three weeks, and Milla

called two or three times more, but did not see her. After that she

gave up the attempt.

Anna was not ill, she told her aunts openly what was the matter; she

had been deceived and slighted--nay, more than that, she had been

robbed. What she meant by this last she would not explain for a long

time; she could not. She must be quite alone. They could hear her the

whole day walking about in the attic, and sometimes in the night as

well; they were terribly frightened, but did as she wished. They always

told her when they were going to have prayers, but she would never join

them; when she noticed their increasing astonishment and anxiety, she

at last told them that _that_ had been her greatest loss; for all that

she valued most she had shared with Milla. Not to speak of their mutual

profession, there was not a prayer, not a hymn, not a favourite passage

of Scripture which had not been exchanged between her and her friend,

as lovers exchange their betrothal rings, make presents to each other,

and kiss each other's portraits.

She could no longer bear to see, to be present, to hear or think any

more about the subject.

She did not cry, at all events not when any one saw her; little Anna

had a strong will. She looked on what had happened as one foe looks at

another. Her feelings did not take the form of _pain_, but of _anger_.

She hated the others, she pitied herself. The misapprehension she had

laboured under, up to the last hour of that last day when she stood

before Milla's door and heard the others laughing inside--could

anything more absurd be imagined! What had she not, in utmost

seriousness, shared with a girl like that, and the inward strength with

which she had credited her; there were no bounds to her sense of shame

when she thought of it, and yet she was obliged to think of it. She

forced herself to confess it to her aunts, she forced herself to probe

down into the most remote causes; it became an employment which brought

others in its train. She roused herself, began to stir about, to take

long lonely walks, and at last to read. At the end of three weeks she

returned to school, rather paler than usual and a little thinner, but

in all other respects, apparently, just as before. She did not take her

old place, but was still friendly with every one, even with Milla.

Milla made no further attempts at explanation, though it was not

perhaps without her knowledge that Tora did so. Anna listened to her,

and asked for a little yellow cotton; she would return it the next day.

She attended all the meetings of the Society most regularly; it was

evident that it interested her, but she took no active part.

Just before Christmas Rendalen was invited, on a suggestion of Nora, to

tell them something about Henrik Ibsen's "Ghosts." He refused this, but

asked leave to speak to them a little on hereditary responsibility; he

considered that in this, when it had been thoroughly worked out and

realised, were contained several new moral laws--indeed, that a

revolution would be caused by it in many things.

There was great eagerness over this; they looked forward to a quiet and

interesting account, but were given a wild though stirring lecture. The

girls were not less frightened by Rendalen's personal agitation than by

his words. At the end he shouted out that those who passed on an

hereditary disease to their children--those, for example, who had

frequent insanity in their families, and nevertheless, married; those

who, though weakened by debauchery, brought children into the world;

those who, for the sake of money, married cripples or unhealthy people

and endowed their children with these afflictions--were worse than the

greatest scoundrels, worse than thieves, forgers, robbers, murderers;

that he would maintain.

Something must have happened: for several days Fru Rendalen had gone

about with red eyes, and he himself had been away, probably to

Christiania. Anna came forward and thanked him for his lecture in her

own _pretentieuse_ manner; after he had gone, she said it was the best

she had heard. Only one person agreed with her, and that was Miss Hall;

the others said nothing, there was a painful silence. At last some one

said that the lecture appeared to her to be terribly violent. Little

Anna replied that people must be roused, everything was made into an

_amusement_. There was too much of that in the Society itself. This

caused still greater discord; Nora was annoyed, and asked if Anna would

not in that case do something to help it. Anna coloured, but to every

one's astonishment she replied: "Yes, she would try."

She disappeared from school for several days; but she announced that

she would give a lecture at the next meeting. She wished that Rendalen,

Fru Rendalen, and Karl Vangen should hear it; this was certainly not

hiding her light under a bushel, her companions thought. Of course the

invited guests came.

When little Anna arrived she looked overstrung, her hands trembled as

her thin fingers turned the pages of her manuscript and arranged the

lights on the tribune. Her voice and delivery were measured, sometimes

almost sharp; she did not often raise her large eyes, but when she did

so it was with a significance which was most irritating. She read her

lecture--the opening was especially pointed:

"Woman does not labour to improve herself in the same degree that she

expects man to do. She does not lay aside the failings which she

acquired when in another and worse position. I will this evening

mention one fault--lying. In her position as the weaker, woman has

accustomed herself to lying, but she is no longer so defenceless as to

need this. Thus I consider that in making herself appear so gentle, so

pious, so modest, so lovable before strangers, even if only one is

present, she lies. It is the same thing when, a straight course being

disagreeable to her, she at once takes a crooked one; she gives a false

reason, she makes excuses. If there is anything to be done which has

grown distasteful she pleads a headache; if any one calls whom she does

not wish to see, she is 'out,' though she is sitting in the parlour. It

does not disturb her in the least to make her servant, her daughter, or

her friend lie for her when she cannot do so herself.

"Some ladies, possibly a large proportion, have so accustomed

themselves to giving untrue reasons, or to concealing the real ones, to

making up excuses, that they do it without any necessity; they delight

in it as in a kind of coquetry.

"Would this were only in their relations with mankind, but it is the

same towards God. I will quote a writer on the subject; he says, 'It is

difficult to judge woman's religious faith so long as religion remains

her single intellectual interest; but when one sees a hundred, two

hundred, three hundred ladies round one fashionable preacher, one

suspects mischief. The easiest thing to think of is to allow oneself to

be guided by another's words; it is only a step further to be

enthusiastic about the preacher himself, easiest of all to feign an

enthusiasm which others feel.

"'The faith which has lost its ideals on earth, and therefore transfers

them to heaven, is certainly not so secure of a good reception there as

the clergy promise. As a rule, there does not remain much more than a

vague need.

"'There are besides many women who are very cautious; it is best to

make things safe for them and theirs. I often wonder what our Lord says

when they begin.'"

She quoted further, and many of the quotations aroused laughter. Karl

Vangen was especially amused. From this she passed on to woman's share

in societies for charitable objects; how the needs of the poor

furnished an excuse for gay dances ("the proceeds for the poor," as

they say); how amusing balls and even theatrical performances are

organised in aid of the sufferers from shipwreck or fire.

She described how a society such as this trifled with great questions

and raved about particular lecturers. Anna was severe, as young people

generally are when they take upon themselves to criticise.

When she left the tribune she did not grasp what was said to her; she

answered at cross purposes, or asked them what they had said, but

little by little she recovered herself; when she looked for Rendalen he

was gone.

She was utterly astonished; she slipped across to Fru Rendalen to hear

the reason. Of course, she had to begin by asking her what _she_ had

thought of it.

"Yes, my child, there is a great deal of right in what you say, but I

fear that you will all inflate it into something to be taken seriously.

Poor things, you will learn then to lie to some purpose. Few women can

take this seriously, my child, but they can affect to do so and

overstrain themselves as well--ah yes, they often become horribly

unnatural----"

At last, slowly and cautiously, came Anna's question, "Why did Herr

Rendalen go?"

"Heaven knows!" She sighed, looked towards the door where he had

disappeared, got up, and left the room.

Karl Vangen was talking to Tora; he now saw that Anna was disengaged,

and came up to her to say that he had been "very much delighted" with

some of the quotations; he knew the book. Karl Vangen had been on the

high road to become a fashionable preacher; happily he had escaped, but

the terror still remained with him. Anna knew this from her aunts, so

she had the secret key to his remarks. He believed entirely in woman's

religious convictions, he said, and did not quite agree with her.

She asked him his opinion in other respects. "I know so little about

women in other ways," he said, colouring slightly, "I dare not enter

into it."

As soon as ever the elders were gone, the enthusiasm of the girls broke

out. "Little Anna" was the eldest of them, a thing people very easily

forgot--she was so undeveloped in appearance. They had never thought

her capable of such an effort. "What a remarkable point of view! how

well expressed! and that by one of ourselves."

Nora and Tora were especially charmed. "That is just what we are, just

as untruthful, principally in little things of course. And how we play

with serious questions. We must have deeds as well, or if not deeds,

then----"

"Snuff," said somebody, and the whole party burst into roars of

laughter, but they began again: "It is true, Heaven knows it is true.

It must be altered; it is shameful to be as we are."

As a beginning they would all escort Anna home. Yes, they would! And so

they did, and the two crooked old aunts were startled out of their

sleep when, between eleven and twelve at night, they heard the swarm

buzzing before the house, and the call of "Good-night, good-night,

good-night," from twenty ringing girls' voices. And little Anna

herself! She had to go in and tell them what it was all about, but she

merely said they had come home with her. She could not say more just

then. She felt so uncertain. She had written this lecture with her

heart's blood; she had turned her bitterest feelings into an assault;

she had felt certain that she would be assailed for it, hated for it,

and lo and behold, she had been thanked for it over and over again;

nothing had been heard but exultation and praise.

She lay in bed, but could not sleep. Was it from pleasure? Was it from

fear? Or had she been for the first time moved by them? It was not

disagreeable.

At the same time more than one little head lay pondering what course

should be pursued. The impulse to take this seriously, to be terribly

truthful, must have nourishment, otherwise it would certainly die. And

they found something real to do!

Milla was in mourning; Milla could not go to balls this Christmas. They

would none of them go to balls this Christmas either. Yes, laugh if you

like, but it was unanimously determined upon. One does not desert a

friend in sorrow: not one of the Staff would go to a dance the whole

winter through. Milla felt flattered by so much sympathy, but---- "No

buts!" Immovable, unanimous determination.

And that should not be all, they would think of something more.

The young fellows of the town mourned over the loss of so many merry

young partners that Christmas, but all unavailingly. Indeed, it pleased

the girls that their absence was regretted.

As has been said, it was not to end here.

CHAPTER IV

ON THE STEPS

This union of the leaders among the girls, this real desire for

knowledge and independent thought, even if it had to endure criticism

and even a little derision, was still an incontrovertible proof that

the school was now on the high road to success. Even if there were

derision expressed in the town, there could be no doubt that every one

was struck by the decided, and above all intelligent, comprehension

which the superiority of the apparatus, experiments, and method aroused

in the scholars on subjects which every one understood, and which

belonged to the most special needs of life.

At home the girls overflowed with narrations and desire for

information, and constantly asked permission to buy materials for

experiments in chemistry and physics, microscopes, and historical

pictures which illustrated beliefs and habits of life through all ages.

There was no longer any comparison between girls and boys when energy

and information were in question.

This made the lesson hours happy; the great gatherings for "breakfast"

at twelve o'clock were feasts, and the pupils ran down the slope in the

afternoon without books, unburdened by lessons--free, free, free!

But the happiest of them all remained behind, Fru Rendalen and Karl

Vangen.

How Fru Rendalen hurried about with her spectacles awry, a habit she

had acquired in later years; it was like meeting a load of hay at

hay-harvest, it smells so sweet from such a distance, and one so gladly

stands aside to let the mighty, useful, close-packed object pass. Karl

Vangen was one constant smile; he had no time to leave off. He beamed

with delight if any one so much as looked towards the school, and would

tell, over and over again, all the little incidents which occurred

there: they were every one either remarkable or amusing.

It was only Tomas who was not quite in accord with them, but there

never was much "comfort" about him, if by that one understands

confidential intercourse, and even good temper. He either wanted tall

Vangen to "give him a back" out in the garden walks, or even sometimes

in the sitting-room, while he jumped over him as one boy jumps over

another; or he walked up and down, up and down, generally whistling,

with his hands in his pockets, till it made one giddy to look at him;

or else he would play the piano by the hour together. Sometimes he

worked for, and in, the school without intermission; or read a new book

regardless of any interruption; or he took endless walks or read aloud,

and amused himself with the girls as though they were all comrades; or

else he could not bear them, or the school, or anything which belonged

to it.

At such times his mother had to take the literature lesson for him,

Miss Hall the chemistry and physics, Nora the singing; he would not, he

could not.

Then he would come back again, brighter and happier than ever, and do

the work of two. His mother put this down as the result of all the

years he had lived without regular employment. If they had company he

did not appear at all, or else came and carried everything before him,

or came and sat silent. If he spoke to any one, it was "Yes, just so,"

"Quite right." And then he would leave the room and not return. Looked

at in a certain way, this showed genius: there was something of a

genius about Tomas Rendalen.

Before he went to America he had "discovered" a history teacher: he was

very great at "discoveries." She was called Karen Lote, and taught

needlework, writing, and drawing. Rendalen had noticed her acquirements

in the different kinds of drawing, and found out that the girl

possessed a by no means insignificant knowledge of history. "Extend

that into the history of civilisation," he said. He was never tired of

giving this advice. "Here at home the history of civilisation is worse

than meagre, and it is the only one which is worth anything in a

school."

He had then begun to make the large collection of historical pictures

which the school now possessed, and through these he captivated her

interest; he kept it, while he was abroad, by sending a number of these

pictures to her, as well as books and advice; and he was hardly home

again before he undertook the history lessons of the whole school to

explain to her what his ideas were; he sought to show development and

connection by a clear historical summary accompanied by maps and

pictures; he made it slight for the younger, and more elaborate

for the elder ones; only using details as characteristics. He made it

one-sided, but there was power and colour in its historical

representations. Karen Lote was captivated; the novelty of his

appearance, his opinions, his wonderful talent for teaching, his

inimitable way of making one believe there was nothing in the world for

him beyond what was before him at the moment; his exquisite taste in

dress, his well-ordered person, even the slight odour of delicate scent

which always followed him, all gave the girl a deep interest in him.

Nothing in the six-and-twenty years of her life had ever in the

slightest degree approached it. To think of being helped in her work by

him every day! The misunderstandings and persecutions which he went

through, and his sufferings under them, brought her feelings to a pitch

of enthusiasm. But she did not trouble any one with it. Then came the

time when he became the principal of the school. He would come and

listen to her teaching whenever he had a spare moment, share eagerly in

it, or go away without saying a word; remain away for a long time, then

come again every day, and take the whole lesson out of her hands; or

else walk up and down, up and down, and then remain away again.

Just before Christmas Karen Lote went to Fru Rendalen, and told her

that she could not stay a day longer in the school. If she merely heard

Rendalen's step in the passage she trembled; when he was near she could

not relate the simplest occurrence or give an explanation. "But why?"

He treated her with the greatest contempt; she burst into tears.

"Contempt?" Yes! either he continually interrupted her, took the whole

lesson away from her, or else he did not consider her worth correcting,

turned his back on her, did not bow, did not come at all. There was no

end to her complaints.

Fru Rendalen assembled the teachers and laid Froeken Lote's complaint

before them, convinced that it must be the most extraordinary

misunderstanding. But the teacher who had succeeded Froeken Lote as

drawing mistress assured her that if she had not had a mother to

support, she would have left long ago; she would not have borne his

continual corrections in the children's hearing; he was an unbearable

tyrant.

Everything must be done in one particular way, without the least

variation. He had made her so nervous that she trembled if she even

heard him in the passage. And she cried too.

The startled Fru Rendalen turned quickly to the others. "What could

this mean? The teachers of languages, her pupils from their childhood,

her friends, who through her help had improved themselves abroad, they

must speak." They felt sure that Rendalen had not the least idea that

he "set people right," and as little that he offended people by

interfering, so that the children noticed his immense air of

superiority, but all the same it was often very annoying. He was so

uncertain both with teachers and children, he never took things twice

in the same way, it was always according to his temper. The conclusion

which they all came to was that he was most unfit to direct a school.

Miss Hall herself, who otherwise had no complaint to make, agreed with

this.

Fru Rendalen implored them, for God's sake, to reconsider it; surely

they did not wish to ruin the school; she was much agitated, and said

that provisionally she would resume the direction. But they must not

let this be known. She broke down with all the violence which was

natural to her. The others were frightened, there was a touching scene;

they praised her son, one against the other; nay, any one who had not

heard what had gone before, would have believed that they were all

glowing with enthusiasm for him. After all, to form a wonderful plan

for a school, according to all the best examples of modern times, and

himself to be an exceptional teacher, was something quite different,

and a great deal more than to be an able principal. They and his mother

soon agreed over this, and consoled themselves with it as well as they

could.

But this school had been the object of Rendalen's life; if he were to

lose this there would be nothing left for him. From the time that

Augusta died, and he learned that it would be better that he should not

found a family, the idea of taking his mother's school, and making it

all that she had dreamed of, but had not accomplished, had been

betrothal, marriage, and the foundation of a family to him. He was

proud of it. This gave the intense energy to his early youth, to his

work, to his sense of right. It was the object of Karl Vangen's

unfailing admiration, the secret text for Fru Rendalen's conversations

and letters.

Notwithstanding this, temptations came, and his unruly nature did not

always emerge victorious from them, but each time he was seized with a

feeling of shame for his ideal, which amounted to dread--that awful

dread which his mother had felt while she bore him under her bosom. She

had often described this in vivid colours, but it was nothing compared

to what he had gone through; it had been terrible. This drove him back

to his mother's confidence, and made him hold that confidence fast.

There was sober earnest between these two, they had a common aim in

life. It might have been that he would have cast her, his aim of life,

and this dread to the winds, if his passions had concentrated

themselves on, or been seized by, any one person, for there was a wild

energy in him which would have made him cling closely to another; but

the hereditary restlessness in his nature mingled one impression with

another, his dread had time to come between them with ever stronger

force, and it became at last the most powerful of all. The aim of life

was saved. From the time that he had conquered, a dissatisfied feeling

developed itself; it had always been there; it reminded one of his

father's power of imagination, his love of perfection.

His studies were forced. Never one thing at a time, but one clashing

with the other. If the examination subjects had not in such a special

degree been necessary for him, he would never have passed one at all;

he was ready long before the time with some things, and was as much

behind with others. He was always in advance with the subject he was

full of at the moment, it was a link in a visible or ideal entirety. To

Karl Vangen, who knew his method of study, it was amazing what he

accomplished. It was the same thing with his intercourse with his

fellow-creatures; he often seemed to be inattentive, and yet he

received original impressions, but they were all on the same lines. He

saw images and demonstrations in any thing he was engaged in; not

people, but phenomena; not facts, but ideas. As long as Karen Lote was

learning his historical method she interested him deeply, but

afterwards not in the least; it was much the same with the other

teachers, excepting Miss Hall; her teaching was new, and he was eager

to see the result of it--first intellectually, then morally.

But _his own work?_ When the long restless rush about the world after

appliances and methods was over, after the plans for the school,

conceived years ago, and since then endlessly arranged and drafted,

were at last set going; especially after the rude resistance from

without was overcome, what was it that gradually came over him? Could

he not? Would he not? Was it no longer enough for him?

Everyone round him rejoiced in the school, his mother's delight in

especial was touching. "This is the school that I have dreamed of, my

son, my dear Tomas!" He heard it nearly every day, he thanked her and

kissed her for it, he needed it; but all the same.... As for teaching,

his principal talent, he could interest himself in making a thing

absolutely clear, and in having the main points properly remembered,

the most difficult ones understood; it could delight him to give a new

view of something to the elder pupils, or to direct their attention to

a question of the day. Whenever a problem presented itself, he would

take it up with patient ingenuity; beyond that there was nothing--no,

nothing! He realised his failings thoroughly, self-occupied though he

was; they harassed him more and more. There were times when he could

not endure the school. Then he felt himself without spirit, without

aspiration, without--he could almost have said without affection--if

his mother had not been there, and Karl as well; he was deeply attached

to Karl.

This was no longing for a wife and family, at all events in no special

degree; indeed, he felt no particular attraction to anything.

Was this the cause of his unhappiness--that he could not attach himself

firmly to any conditions? He had been able to do so as a child.

A man who has deliberated in this way from one day to another, and at

last, one evening, receives his mother's tears and lamentations because

the teachers can no longer endure him as principal, does not start up

as at something unexpected. Tomas remained at the piano, where he had

been seated when she came in; he touched it with one finger now and

then during her long and interrupted narration; he saw her despair and

concealed his own. He felt as though now he had nothing more to do

here.

He observed quietly that perhaps she had better resume the direction of

the school for a time; he went on strumming as he said this, as though

it had no further significance. She answered that she had already

promised them to-do so. He grew as white as a sheet. She hastened to

add, that of course only he could superintend his own plan; she begged

him to speak to the teachers at once; he never would speak to any one,

they entirely misunderstood him; he offended them by showing no

confidence in them, and he was not always considerate. Did he not like

them?

This was too much for Tomas; he flung himself down on the piano and

cried, got up hastily, put on his hat and coat and went out, heedless

of his mother's prayers to him to stay and talk it over with her, as

they used to do in old days. He could not do it; for there was

something in his mother's behaviour towards him which wounded him. When

he had come home she had received him with the greatest admiration,

everything he said and did was right; but after the lecture she began

to doubt. This had gradually increased, until now she put a note of

interrogation to everything he said. At the first complaint from the

teachers she had taken the school from him; and she could reconcile

this with her pride in his way of ordering it, and a crooning quiet

delight over its success.

Not that her doubt was greater than a practical understanding like hers

had perhaps a right to; he did not blame her for it, but he could not

bear it.

This affair with the teachers was dreadful. He really considered them

most excellent, none more so than Karen Lote, otherwise he would never

have troubled himself about her.

There must be something at the very root of his behaviour towards

people, which was terribly astray when he could be thus utterly

misunderstood. Perhaps his own feeling of emptiness and distaste arose

from the same cause.

These ladies had raved about him. They and the senior class, and....

Was that, too, nothing but a delusion, or was it past and gone?

"Raved about him." What is that? He drove it from him with contempt,

yet once it pleased and deluded him. He had believed it would always

continue.

No, he who would have the affection of others must show affection to

them. And he could not do it--in the way that others could.

After all that was not strange. His race had perhaps exhausted its

power of winning human affection.

Was not that the natural result when generation after generation broke

down mankind's precepts of fidelity, and flung aside man's good

opinion? The race itself had been ruined, as each one weakened himself

and his offspring--ay, and others and their offspring as well.

He walked into the country to the left--the same walk that he had taken

that spring evening after he had given his lecture. He recalled to his

mind how happy had been his return from America, how he had dreamed of

giving his countrymen an example which, if they would follow it, would

shine throughout the world. What was nobler for a small country than to

centre its greatest powers on the teaching of its children, to expend

its surplus there; let the great nations waste theirs on armies!

He remembered how it then delighted him to think that in this way the

sins of his forefathers might be expiated.

Everything on earth had been thus developed.

Awakening had come to the strongest races. Instinctively they had felt

their failings, and had sought to combat them by an admixture of fresh

blood. Everything, therefore, that is strong and good has some family

for its progenitor, whose sufferings have been the foundation of

its needs, its needs the foundation of its work; its work, its

self-command, the foundation of its discoveries--all gathering round

the original discovery. When the school should be alive with a hundred

young creatures; when sparkling eyes gazed upon the aim which he had

set up; when the elder ones among them, influenced by him, and in their

turn influenced others--hoisted their colours--it would be remembered

that they had lived in the house of one particular family, from that

family they would have received their instruction. It was _he_ who had

made the school.

But there lay an inherent weakness in its inmost recesses. The germs of

destruction lay in him who had built it up. He could not advance it

further. He did not possess the necessary long-suffering gentleness.

Plenty of foresight, energy, ambition, but--talents for war, perhaps,

but not for peace.

As he had walked along that evening after the lecture, sick at heart,

anxious--ah! how anxious! because the certainty of years had been

baffled, Karl Vangen had trudged silently by his side like a great

long-legged dog with honest eyes. He went the same way now, only it was

winter, and he was alone; he was ashamed to have any one with him. The

suspicion of insecurity which had shaken him the first time was now a

certainty. He could not go on--O God! he could not: he was a blight in

the school.

The snow in the fields had melted, but farther away it lay in patches,

looking ghostly in the moonlight. It still lay thick under the

fir-woods; and here and there on the road, which had frozen hard with

deep ruts in it, and small sharp stones and solid horse-dung. Where it

was bare, or partly bare, it was difficult to walk. He came back so

weary in body and mind that he never remembered to have felt more

tired. By the new churchyard, where his father and grandfather lay, and

where the sea washed up to the other side of the roadway, rolling and

black, he felt that a little might bring him into the one or beyond the

other--or perhaps to both--they were not incompatible.

It was past twelve, as on the night of the lecture; he would not go

home before he felt certain that his mother had given up waiting for

him. Under ordinary circumstances she went to bed between nine and ten.

But as he struggled up the avenue, he saw that there was a light in the

sitting-room; and as he got a little further, that there was one in

Karl's room as well. If he had not been so utterly weary he would have

turned back, but now things must go as they could.

His mother met him in the hall with a light in her hand. "Oh, Tomas,

how you have frightened me!" she whispered.

What did she mean by that? He looked at her; poor thing, she appeared

at least ten years older, with such red eyes--so upset, so miserably

overdone.

She began, "Tomas, just let us----"

"No, mother," he waved her away with his hand; "I am so fearfully, oh,

so fearfully tired." He went slowly across her room to the inner

passage without a good-night, without looking round.

She heard his step in the passage, heard him open the door of his room,

shut it, and turn the key on the inside! It always awakened memories,

that dreadful sound!

Why did he do it? It seemed as though he were shutting her away from

him.

As he was lighting his candle he heard Karl at the door between their

rooms. Tomas set down the candle, came out from behind the curtain, and

saw Karl's pale, anxious face looking in from the doorway.

Why had he and his mother sat up, each in their own room? Evidently so

that the mother should be able to talk to her son alone when he came

in.

Tomas flung himself on Karl's neck and sobbed violently. All that he

had held back, when he saw his mother, now found vent. Karl's firm

confidence in him was his chief support. That confidence was there now,

he could see it through all his distress precisely as he saw the light

streaming behind Karl's head and body in the doorway. It was dark

between them. "No, dear Karl, not to-night, I am so tired." Slowly,

noiselessly, Karl drew his long legs back again and shut the door

behind him. The door-handle was turned, oh, so gently.

Tomas went straight to bed, and slept at once and without interruption

through the night. When he woke, raised himself and looked at the

clock, it was past eight. The sorrows of yesterday, which had at once

rushed upon him, yielded before this proof of a long sound sleep.

"There cannot possibly be so much the matter as I believed, if I am not

worse than this." He jumped up. "There must be some other work in life

reserved for me, if this is not to be the one." He dressed himself

quickly, and while doing so determined to go away for several days. He

wished to consider, and to be calm while he did so.

This was all the information which his mother received when she came in

as he sat at breakfast. He sent a message to Karl, and left at ten

o'clock. This was not altogether disagreeable to Fru Rendalen. "He has

such sudden changes," she thought. "He will very likely return home a

different man." His great failing, of talking and acting according to

the temper of the moment, made her take this view, made her question

all he said. He was conscious of this now. He hated it.

This time, however, she was mistaken; he returned exactly the same as

he had gone away, only she noticed the first time that she talked to

him that he was a little bitter against the teachers: "ungrateful

asses," he called them. He had taught them more than it was in the

power of any human being to do who had not travelled as he had done,

and had his experience and reading; he would have nothing to do with

them. He annoyed them by his elegant courtliness. This amused him; he

was really dreadful with them. He resumed his teaching, with the

exception of the singing, which was given over to Nora, who was now

both pupil and teacher. He declared that she possessed the gift of

teaching in the highest degree.

"Perhaps he could interest himself in the school again," thought Karl,

"if there were a new staff of teachers." He spoke of this to Fru

Rendalen. She would try to find out, and began by talking to Tomas

about the observatory which they had arranged in a small way in the

tower. They had been obliged to stop for want of money. By next summer

she hoped to have the means to set it going.

"God knows where I shall be then," he answered, and hurried away. "If I

were to speak plainly to the teachers," thought his indefatigable

mother, "if I could induce them to beg his pardon." She assembled them

one day just before Christmas, and told them, betraying emotion as she

did so, that her son had repeatedly let fall remarks which showed that

he intended to go away. There was a movement of dismay.

Froeken Lote, on whom all eyes were fixed, at last broke the silence.

She had not meant it in that way, she had only meant--she had really

not meant anything--but she was so dreadfully nervous. She thought he

was not pleased with her. The drawing and needle-work mistress, a

clear-headed, tall, fair woman, coloured furiously. The Spenser method

of drawing which Rendalen had introduced was not clear to begin with,

she said, but he was always beyond her; but for all that she ought not

to have said anything, indeed she ought not. She began to cry.

The teachers all protested that they felt the greatest gratitude; he

had, of course, seen and heard so much on every subject, but it was

most embarrassing that he treated them like dirt beneath his feet.

Fru Rendalen took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on

again; pulled them off again, rubbed them, and put them on.

Well then, Miss Hall would say what was the matter. It was that he

treated everything and everybody so unevenly. This made the teachers

uncertain, and destroyed the children's sense of justice, and that was

almost the greatest loss that a child could sustain. She would so

gladly have spoken to Rendalen, said the little American, but he made

himself so unapproachable. To-day, too, she felt nervous.

This destroyed Fru Rendalen's plan; she did not know what to answer.

All further negotiations were meanwhile broken off.

A loud chorus of joyous girls' voices sounded from the steps, and they

all hurried to the window. It was Nora and her pupils. These last few

days before Christmas, the pupils had but few lessons to do, and

therefore had employed themselves in practising some part songs, the

practice always concluding out on the steps--one of Nora's many

fancies.

This gave such immense pleasure, that not only all the little ones, who

did not join in the singing, waited up there till the great moment, but

people would collect in the avenue. As soon as the girls came racing

round the corner in walking dress and mounted the steps, the crowd in

the avenue increased and drew nearer; Fru Rendalen and the teachers had

put on their things, and were now standing at the open windows. The

girls had arranged themselves from top to bottom of the steps; the

little ones, who did not sing, occupied the sides. Right at the bottom

stood Nora, with her fair hair turned back under the hood which was

always on the back of her neck.

She had adopted Rendalen's method of conducting--the only thing that

restless being did quietly; he merely moved his right wrist, and gave

the sign with his left hand. Nora carefully held her right hand in the

same place as he did, before her breast. She heard about it often

enough.

The song sounded grandly from the steps, the notes were powerfully

given. It might be, too, that the view before them heightened the

effect by its beauty; perhaps, too, "An Old Manuscript,"[2] which had

just been printed in a Christmas number, and which every third person

in the town, from twelve years old knew, at first, second, or third

hand, may also have enhanced it, for perhaps those dark voices from the

past were heard at the same time, and by the power of contrast made the

girls' song brighter, and the moment fairer.

Below them lay the town, with the harbour between the two points of

land; now that winter was here, full of ships from side to side. At the

head of the bay, along the clay banks, were all the workshops and the

great timber-yards. To the left, the mountain, with the crowd of houses

at the top, the boat harbour below, and out beyond the mountain and the

town, the islands and the open sea. Weather on the coast is uncertain;

generally, as they looked out, taking in the view as they sang, there

were either driving clouds or gleams of sunlight over the landscape, or

if it were peaceful and bright inland, it was threatening out to sea.

Perhaps this may explain why the girls generally chose melancholy

songs.

For the teachers as well as for the pupils, the singing on the steps,

from its first beginning, had been the glory of the school. If the work

from every class during every week in the year could have woven itself

into a thousand delicate threads, and fallen on them as crowns; if all

the fruitful incentives, small determinations, uncertain beginnings,

could have joined in harmony in those voices, the singing could not

have made them happier. As far as the teachers were concerned, perhaps

for the very reason that, at the same time, something had occurred to

pain them.

The elder girls, especially the members of the Society, looked upon

this time as one for exchange of thought. All those higher ideas which

one has in common with others, come to the front when there is singing;

all strivings after the ideal, have a natural relationship to

harmonised notes.

But he who felt it the most was one who had hidden himself behind a

closed window, because he would on no account be seen.

He saw Nora beating time, standing there in her light cloak, her hood

flung back on her neck.

The song, which sounded out over the town, the one which had first been

heard by Fru Engel's grave, contained, as it sounded from these girlish

voices, all that he wished for on earth.

How miserable it made him now! He tried, as a counterpoise, to remember

all that he had conquered before in many a hard struggle. It was

something to remember.

It was not an ordinary victory which he had achieved: was it to end in

sorrow? Would the singing soon cease, or sound again after he was gone?

He thought of his mother. It was he in reality who was "on the steps."

Was it to be in or out?

The whole troop tore away in merry groups down the avenue. The Staff

last of all, for Tora had something either to tell or propose; they

walked slowly, often pausing. Yes, that was what it all depended upon;

to be able to share one's joys and sorrows with others.

V

THE HUNT

CHAPTER I

Child or woman, which is she?

Hard to answer that will be.

Wouldst thou then a woman snare?

See a child in captive there!

And when thou bidd'st the child to stay,

A woman from thee flies away.

Spring had come betimes, and great rejoicing thereat rose, from all the

pupils, to the soft skies.

The spring was in their blood, bringing a restless feeling, a power of

invention, glorious plans, subdued noise, effervescing spirits in its

train; these were days when the whole school routine threatened to be

destroyed, and when orders seemed a mere joke. Much commotion, with

scoldings, smacks, increased attention, and many arts were required

before this small sphere could be guided through the dangerous region

of spring without too severe collisions and shocks.

Even the Society itself was shaken. It was not possible, when the trees

in the garden were bursting into leaf, to go off to the back premises

and pretend that there was something in a friend's composition on

ladies' modern dress. If the meeting had been held in the wood, they

might have allowed modern dress to roll about in the heather till it

was torn to pieces, or they could have hung it up in a tree. They could

have let the birds sing songs over it. Now they gave modern dress to

the deuce, it could all be learned from a fashion book; they simply

held no meetings.

Nora employed all her powers of persuasion, all her inventive genius,

in vain. A great event, however, occurred, also perhaps born of the

spring and spring impulses, and the Society recovered itself.

Miss Hall had energetically sought to lay some foundation, in the

senior class, for the lectures which she delivered to them on her

special subject. Both she and the eldest girls in the class had really

all been obliged to exert themselves. But a further result was, that

during this hard work they had gained confidence in the little lady;

everything belonging to women's constitution and health, and to the

tending of children, was spoken of with perfect openness. The mothers

kept up as long as possible an appearance of shamefacedness on behalf

of their children, who would not be shamefaced themselves. The fathers

helped their better halves in this; they were bashful to a degree. But

as the shameless maidens continued to acquire knowledge, this answered

no purpose.

As concerned the Society, this information, and especially this

confidence with Miss Hall, had the result that, by degrees, the woman

question began to be looked at in its physical aspect, and its real

foundations were sought there.

A book in our literature was again brought forward, which asserts that

the freedom which man allows himself before marriage, and sometimes

afterwards, destroys his character and woman's position, carrying

faithlessness and tyranny from generation to generation.

Karen Lote had, in her studies in the history of civilisation,

especially noted the history of the development of races. She knew now

that the compromise which was often proposed, of giving woman the same

freedom that man took for himself, would be a step in the wrong

direction, an unheard-of breach of development. She advocated strongly

that inviolable monogamy should be as sacred for men as for women. Miss

Hall took up the subject at the next meeting, from its physical side.

Can it be physically proved that man has stronger temptation than

woman, and therefore has a greater excuse? She declared, on the

contrary, that woman's temptation might be very much greater.

Notwithstanding which, the rule was that woman respected marriage in a

chaste life, while for man's part the rule might still be said to be

the contrary.

This aroused violent feeling.

Man had therefore here as well, used the right of the strongest for his

own advantage, but in reality with the result of rendering himself and

the community depraved. Woman, on the contrary, has in civilised

society, through hundreds of generations, only belonged to one man,

therefore she has an inherited power of remaining faithful. It follows,

of course, that man could gain this power as well.

During the conversation which followed the lecture, the excitement

increased; and in the course of the week so many thoughts had gathered

around this subject, that they had to fix an earlier date for the next

meeting.

For the first time since the institution of the Society, Tinka Hansen

spoke. The woman who married a man who had led an immoral life joined

herself in his guilt; she condoned the ill-treatment of her sex, and

was herself punished for it.

Did any woman persuade herself that a man who had accustomed himself to

such a life would give it up? At all events, they could not so deceive

themselves, who had during the last few years heard a series of

lectures which made it plain that habit is a nerve-question; not more

than one in a hundred can conquer a habit of his own free will; there

must, as a rule, be some hard necessity as well.

Tinka had, as usual, discussed the subject with Frederik; it was

therefore not surprising that, as she stood there, she had the

authority of two.

Rarely had such noise and commotion been heard since the institution of

the Society. From all sides came exclamations which clearly showed what

they felt, such as, "Fancy being kissed by a man who----! Fancy being

married to a man who----!"

Nora gave voice to these whispered expressions of disgust as she went

up to the tribune, and said that they must not separate that evening

without promising each other that _they_, at least, would do what they

could here to give woman responsibility and self-respect.

She had not finished speaking before they all stood up to express their

acquiescence.

Some days later they had another meeting: something had occurred to

divide their opinions.

It will be remembered that Tora was fond of telling fantastic fairy

tales, and romances scarcely less so; her favourite was "A Strange

Story," by Bulwer. Her little Augustus head--which was crammed with

ideas of rich stuffs, of sweeping garments, of foreign speech, and home

gossip, and every earthly vanity--delighted in the mysterious.

From a certain day none of her friends were allowed to hear a word more

on these subjects; only one, one single one, should henceforth see this

obscure side of her varied nature.

Was it because she wished to share this with but one alone, as girls so

often do; or was there a little sense of mystery here as well, that he

was the only one for whom this was suited?

Whenever, after this, she met Karl Vangen, whether they were alone, or

if twenty were present, she always contrived that they should converse

in whispers. Her friends were greatly astonished. What on earth had she

to whisper about with the parson? He had recently lent her a book about

John Wesley, which she devoured, as she did all books, and they had

many conversations about his sudden conversions. People who came under

the spell of his looks, his words, his presence, yielded to them at

once, and were his from that moment. John Wesley came of a long race of

clergymen, both on his father's and mother's side; naturally this had

in a high degree strengthened his faith and power of preaching. It was

like an electric shock, certain natures could not stand against it.

How this was made to lead up to the Kurts, who interested Tora

immensely at that time, is her secret; but honest Karl began at once to

speak with animation of Tomas's struggle to free himself from the Kurt

inheritance. There had been an infusion of new blood into the family

before, and a struggle against its sins; but Tomas Rendalen's bringing

up and the struggle he had gone through, were worthy of his energetic

character.

Vangen asked her confidentially if she had not noticed Tomas's

neatness, his careful toilette? If she had perceived the slight, hardly

perceptible, odour of a delicate and very expensive scent? It always

followed him. He was always washing and bathing, added the young

clergyman, blushing; most people believed that this arose from vanity,

and vain he certainly was; but could she not guess what it meant? Tomas

Rendalen had gained in the course of his struggle the same need for,

the same sacred feeling about, cleanliness with which girls are born.

For him all cares for the body; dress, scent, were a species of service

for the temple; just as it is to young women, when they have the means

and time to perform it.

Some remarks of Tomas had made him understand this; he was certain that

such was the fact. But it was curious that it should take that

particular form, was it not? Perhaps it was because he had been brought

up among girls. What did she think about it? Karl Vangen hazarded this

conjecture with great bashfulness. For some reason or other, it was of

great importance that she should understand at once that a man might be

an excellent member of society, without being exactly a dandy, and

using scent.

From that moment Tora Holm had one more person to rave about, added to

her rich collection!

Now she persuaded herself that she understood Rendalen's theory of life

and work among them. She did not understand, or rather did not think

about, the reasons for his restless moods, his want of steadfastness;

her image of this "energetic" nature was not disturbed by them. She

loved him. There was no other word for it. There was nothing that she

would not do for him if she could, and it was thus that she expressed

herself, first to her dearest friends, then to her next dearest, then

to those next to them. With unflagging energy the same story, to the

same tune, was repeated for the twentieth time to the last of her chain

of friends before the next day was past. Such enthusiasm was

infectious; those who had not raved about Tomas Rendalen before, raved

about him now. Notwithstanding the red hair, the freckled skin, the

broad nose, and pale screwed-up eyes, the absence of eyebrows, the

restless expression--he was an ideal man! He damped their ardour a

little when he came into the classrooms and strode past the forms,

without looking at a single one of them; or when he hastily pitched

upon something which interfered with the lesson, with such violence as

to make them jump! for he was not to be trifled with! He nevertheless

became their ideal again as soon as he was gone, or, better still, if

he were in the humour for teaching, and stayed and took part in it, in

his clear energetic style. He had not his equal then.

But just because there was one Tomas Rendalen, it naturally happened

that some of the weaker natures began to reflect: "Good heavens, he is

only one, and there are so many of us." Yes, there was the question. We

will not say who they were, or how many there were, who began to feel

this doubt. The question is the smallest part of the affair; it is the

answer which is the serious matter. The answer! For we may as well

confess, soon as late, that some of the girls had gone a little beyond

themselves that evening, when they all said "yes" to Tinka Hansen's

high-minded views and Nora's proposition. These ones acknowledged

afterwards that when one came to think quietly about the one whom one

almost loves, or at least would willingly be loved by, and even if one

knows that he has already ... Yes, the old Kurt town was a terrible

place for scandals.

One at last begins to doubt the sincerity of these expressions. Might

not the young man in question, no matter what he had done, be depended

upon, when he had promised _her_ anything? And when she had made him a

promise in return, of course he might! He would be a good boy, that he

would, if only she got hold of him. One cannot live upon grand

theories.

There were some, however, who considered that this was treachery; they

were very angry and a new meeting was called. Those who had dared to

change their opinions since the last meeting were called upon to

explain themselves. For a long time no one would do so, but at last a

courageous dark-haired girl declared openly that it seemed to her that

they had gone too far the last time. "If all men were--as one could

wish them to be--well, then. But they are not so by any means. So what

is to be done? That is just how we stand."

"And so we will stand," was the answer. This heroic response elicited

another in its turn, so that two parties were formed, with a third set

of moderates; no one felt certain about these last, as is often the

case with a third party. Tinka Hansen (and Frederik) and all who agreed

with her and him ("The Frederikers," as they were called), were for

absolute equality between the sexes. Infidelity ought from henceforth

to be condemned equally severely--no matter whether man or woman were

guilty of it. Miss Hall was the only one among the teachers who took

part in this debate, and she was a very enthusiastic Frederiker.

According as our knowledge becomes more acute, she declared, the

punishment of unchasteness should be the same for the two sexes.

Neither ought this sin to be any longer held up as a special accusation

against women. Those who made the distinction that woman's offence

injured the home, while man's injured another home, another's wife or

daughter, must for very shame hold their tongues.

Miss Hall brought this forward at least twice, for there was no answer

made to it. The opposite party entirely put that on one side. They

repeated over and over again that a man might be excessively worthy

even if, things standing as they did at present, he had offended in

this particular. Only notorious immorality made a marriage impossible.

The Frederikers were scandalised at this "light-minded" talk. That was

to open the door to the extension of immorality. They made use of such

strong expressions, that the others became angry. There was a perfect

hubbub; every one talked, no one would listen.

This was on a Thursday. The following evening, "The Staff" was

assembled in Milla's room. They had begun on the same subject, but by

degrees had wandered back to Rendalen, who was still of more unfailing

interest than the other. Tinka was imitating Rendalen's handwriting on

a large sheet of paper. The others watched her efforts with attention,

his large handwriting was just the opposite to his careful toilette; it

was all run together without any division, each letter and each word

absolutely joined on to the others. Tinka's caricatured attempts were

like so many embroidery patterns. She wrote: "I can bear it no longer;

meet me in the market-place at nine o'clock." She wrote it as a

commentary on what they had been talking about--namely, how delightful

it would be to receive such a letter. She wrote this closely across a

whole sheet of letter-paper. She decorated one sheet after another in

this fashion.

Who was it who first proposed what now followed? They never could agree

upon this afterwards. _One_ thing is certain, that Milla alone raised

any objection, but it was so feebly and laughingly made, that it might

well be taken for the opposite of what it purported to be. Each one of

them took charge of a note on Saturday morning; one was put into Karen

Lote's cloak, one into the pocket of the drawing mistress's long faded

blue wrap, the third and fourth were slipped down, one into Miss Hall's

mantle, and the other into that of one of the teachers of languages.

The letters were not signed, the envelopes open and bearing no address;

the request was written in so extravagant a style that the whole might

pass for a joke, but that was just where the temptation lay. For, on

the other side, it could not be denied that the hasty writing could

very easily be mistaken for Rendalen's style when he was worried and in

a hurry to finish.

At nine o'clock on Saturday evening the last of the worthy townsfolk

came home from their romantic evening walks on both sides of the town,

looking so peaceful and inoffensive that not even a cat could have

suspected treachery. Most of them went soberly across the market-place

into the town. At this time, too, the boarders who had been out in

search of amusement in the town were returning disappointed up the

avenue. It had been calculated that if the Staff could join one of

these parties, they would be free from suspicion while they watched

their snares. Of course they were all four there; they met several

ill-humoured friends from among the boarders a little way down, and

joined company with them.

They arranged it so that they should not cross the market-place till

just at the time named. And truly, gracious powers! At the top of the

marketplace, just a little to the right of the avenue, at that moment

appeared _Karen Lote_; no one could mistake her erect figure, her grey

cloak, and the feather in her hat. The four had so little expected to

meet _her_, that if the boarders had not been so sulky and tired, they

would have noticed their embarrassment. Could it really be Karen Lote!

She turned back to the left; it was patent to all the world that she

had come here to wait for some one.

They looked from her to each other; they did not laugh, they did not

make a sign--they were frightened.

But there was a revulsion of feeling when they saw the tall drawing

mistress come swinging across, and turn into the avenue. She came

quickly towards them; she had been given an appointment there at the

same time.

Milla crept behind Tora; Tora would gladly have got behind some one;

they had to find some excuse to account for their laughter. As the

drawing mistress passed them, hurried and excited, they had just

contrived to push Tinka into a ditch, which fortunately was dry.

And now they were eager to spy on the two other traps. They went up

into the boarders' rooms, whence they could see out over the courtyard;

they had given Miss Hall a rendezvous behind the gymnasium, but, unless

she were standing absolutely still behind it, she had not come. It did

not fare much better with their flight across the garden towards the

right, where they had given the language teacher rendezvous; they met

her, certainly, coming down the path, but it was with several others;

running quickly up from the wood, she never so much as looked round. If

she had read the letter, she had taken it as a joke. The four girls

slipped through the garden-gate and along the same way; they did not

want to meet Karen Lote again.

Something, however, had happened a few hours before, which if it had

not been stopped would have brought the whole affair to light, in which

case not one of the four would ever have set foot in the school again.

On her return from her walk at about six, Miss Hall, very nervous but

very determined, had asked to be allowed to speak to Herr Rendalen. She

gave him the letter directly he came in. He took it, read it, held it a

little way from him, and began to laugh; and when she took it

seriously, he laughed still more, quite uncontrollably at last. Ten

minutes later he received a note from Miss Hall, in which she informed

him that she should leave by the next steamer. On this he rushed off

for his mother, whom he found at last in the cow-house. He explained

the whole matter contemptuously to her, declaring that Miss Hall must

be mad. Fru Rendalen at once went to her. Miss Hall was greatly

exasperated; she cried, and gave confused, hasty explanations, while

Fru Rendalen pulled off her spectacles, and rubbed and rubbed them; she

could not comprehend it in the least. Perhaps, if we were to talk

English, she thought; but it all remained as obscure as ever. Plainly

and shortly, what was she angry about? Why did she wish to go? What had

happened? What redress did she demand?

She demanded that the culprits should be _punished_.

Nothing more than that! They both set off to the boarders' room, which

was now empty; they began to search through the exercise books,

portfolios, bookshelves; they wished to find out who it was who was so

abominable as to copy Rendalen's handwriting. From thence they went

into the class-rooms. That of the senior class stood just as it had

been left; for the cleaning day for this room was Thursday, and the

evening sweeping had not yet been done. There they carefully collected

all the bits of paper which had been thrown away, straightened them

out, and examined them; they peeped into exercise books, lesson books,

and desks. They must find out who the unhappy person was who imitated

Rendalen's handwriting.

_They all did it!_

As soon as the fact became clear that every senior girl in the school

had been occupied with _Rendalen_ and _Rendalen_, and again _Rendalen_,

Miss Hall gave in; at last they both left the schoolroom--neither of

them said a word to the other.

Miss Hall never said anything more about it. But Fru Rendalen talked it

over with Karl Vangen. His discourse on Monday had for its subject how

wrong it was to do to others, what they would not like others to do to

them. This was often the case with young people, "who found great

pleasure in discovering the weakness and tender points of others, and

playing upon them."

The four dare not look up, but they gave side-glances at the drawing

mistress, who chanced that day to be sitting near the laboratory table,

facing the others. She rested her long arms on it. Her hands toyed with

something standing there, which she looked at intently; but tear after

tear rolled down her cheeks, without her making an attempt to dry them.

She was quite absent.

All four girls noticed it, and when at the third recreation she was

still inconsolable and cried as much as ever. Nora could bear it no

longer, but drew her into one of the rooms, and with her arms round her

neck whispered, "Pardon, pardon, pardon:" she did not say for what.

They gave each other a confidential hug--regret, sympathy,

shamefacedness all mingled together. The poor girl, whom they had

befooled out of her most precious secret, was comforted at last by such

boundless repentance, such thorough comprehension, such heartfelt

devotion.

The same day Tora and Tinka heard what Nora had done; they wanted to do

the same, but she forbade them; the poor girl must not on any account

know that there was more than one who knew her secret.

Karen Lote was ill; Rendalen had to take her place, and give some of

his work to Miss Hall. All three felt that Karen Lote must not be

approached by any one.

How could they have thought of anything so disgusting as what they had

done! And that, too, in the midst of serious discussions on woman's

position, on woman's honour and responsibility.

Milla would not talk to the others; at school she held aloof, and when

any one went to see her at home, her door was fastened. They all felt

as though a storm were brewing.

That Milla should hold back from them as though _they_ were the guilty

ones and not she, Nora would not endure; one day, therefore, they all

surrounded her, and asked for an explanation. Milla was offended and

tried to get away, but it did no good. She then told them that they had

led her into doing what was not right, and she would have nothing more

to do with it. The only answer she got was from Nora's great eyes, but

she reddened under them. Of course she had taken part in what had been

done, she did not deny it; but she did not wish to feel as ashamed of

herself again as she had done during the last few days. The others

asked if she thought they had been less ashamed than she?

Milla now told them, with a slight air of superiority, that in her

first fright at Karl Vangen's discourse, she had asked her father if

she might accompany him when he went to the South German Baths. He had

consented with great pleasure. She could not draw back now, they were

to start in a few days.

At first, all the friends felt Milla's coldness in having proposed to

go away without telling them. But Milla now felt this herself, for she

altered her demeanour from that moment, and tried to do away with the

impression. It was _she_ now who was most amiable about everything.

When the drawing mistress appeared in a very pretty cloak and hat,

without any one being able to find out who "the kind friend" was from

whom she had received them, it was at once clear to the three friends

that they came from Milla. She denied it certainly, but that was all

the nicer of her. So the short resentment changed on both sides to a

closer friendship during the few days that she still had with them. Her

father gave a "farewell dinner," the great event at which was the

unveiling of a cake, on the top of which four sugar girls held each

other with fingerless hands as they danced round a red flag with

"Emancipation" on it; round the plinth was written "The Society." But

derision was useless. This same Society gave a farewell entertainment

to Milla the next day. All good spirits hovered over this, their last

meeting, with its many short speeches, its music and songs--over its

whole tone.

A girl of a serious turn of mind recalled that all the pleasure that

they had had together during their school year had been begun beside

Fru Engel's grave; it was closing with Milla's farewell entertainment.

Milla was touched, quite overwhelmed; she declared that she was

altogether unworthy, she did not deserve the kindness which they showed

her; she was not all they thought her.

Tora came up and embraced her, and they all felt that this was genuine.

Tora was grateful for the happiest days of her life; she whispered this

to Milla, which had a good effect. They ended by seeing Milla home; she

took Tora's arm. "Bad times are beginning for me," sobbed Tora.

"But I shall come back again, Tora."

Tinka scolded her for her extravagant way of speaking, it was making

the whole thing into a caricature and an absurdity; but this was not

the first time that Tora had done so.

When they said good-bye before Milla's door, Tora ran after her up the

steps and into the hall; she was never satisfied. When inside she took

out a box which Milla knew at once--it contained her one ornament; she

had inherited it from her uncle, who had brought it in his youth from

California. It was some pieces of rough gold made into a heavy chain, a

beautiful piece of work; she pressed it into Milla's hand; she had

never worn it herself. But Milla would not think of taking it from her,

she did not know how she could justify herself to her father if she

were to do so; she refused it decidedly, coldly at last, so that Tora

was vexed and ran off. But Milla fetched her in again, held her tightly

in her arms, and kissed her. Did she not believe that Milla realised

what a great thing it was which she wished to do? But it was a matter

of conscience for Milla to say no. They must not part in this way; Tora

should stay with her, she should stay the night there. And it was so

settled. When girls are really fond of each other, they love to sleep

together.

The others, who had remained outside, waited a while. As Tora did not

rejoin them, they walked on a little way; they were annoyed with her.

They all returned, however, and came quietly through the garden-gate

and past the office. A little while afterwards the two friends up in

the bedroom heard a subdued chorus of girls' voices under the window,

led by Tinka's contralto: they sang "Sleep in peace."

The curtain was half raised; they saw two figures in white; two

heads--one dark, one fair-looked, nodding and laughing, out.

The whole school was down at the customhouse the next day; Fru

Rendalen, all the teachers, male and female, every one--with the

exception of Anna Rogne, who had not been at the meeting the previous

day.

There was universal crying, and kissing, and admiration over Milla's

travelling dress. The little ones thought they must join in; they could

not cry, but they could kiss. First one little mouth was offered, then

two, then five. At last they all insisted on being kissed by Milla, and

then sprang back tittering.

The stewardess had all the vases in the cabin, and some dishes as well,

filled with flowers. She really toiled over them. Tora, her eyes red

with crying, had come with Milla and Consul Engel, and had been the

object of all the latter's attentions, but she now kept quite in the

background. Milla had to look for her to press her hand for the last

time, to give her a last kiss. As the steamer swung round and left the

quay, the slender black figure waved her handkerchief to her friends,

her veil, which had become loosened, waving with it. In a moment the

whole quay was white; the little ones in front, the elder ones behind

them, all waved their handkerchiefs. From the steamer, it looked like

the foam from a waterfall dashing down into the sea.