The next day was foggy. Although Ragni had slept well and dreamlessly,
her head felt heavy and she went about in the same cheerless way as
yesterday; there was no longer any gloss on anything. At first she
would not even go to the kitchen; she imagined that from the window
there she could see the house where Kule lived. However, she had doubts
about it and ventured out; she could not see it. Then she dared not go
for her morning round in the garden; he might come driving past. At
last she sat down to the piano, but got up again without playing. Then
she wrote a letter to Karl; she owed him an answer to two of his, and
she must occupy herself with something. She wrote according to the
mood she was in, that all kinds of wickedness, lying, treachery,
double dealing, arbitrary persecution, cunning, deceit, were like a
death-chill. It was that we had to fight against; for life is warmth.
Some people were more susceptible to cold than others; just as some
could suffer from tubercular disease, and others not, and she was
surely one of those unfortunate ones. From the time she was a child she
had been exposed to many a cold chill, and at last this rush of cold
air was stronger than were her powers of resistance; this was the whole
question.
It was not a long letter; for in thinking of her childhood and of all
she had gone through later on, until her marriage with Kule, she felt a
desire to write it all down, and, when the occasion offered, to give it
into Kallem's faithful keeping. She could not tell it him by word of
mouth; but could she write it? Yes, now she could. A vague fear urged
her on, and she began that same day.
She summoned up all her strength to enable her to be calm and collected
when Kallem came home. He looked searchingly at her, but was himself in
a great state of excitement about something fresh and quite different.
He was about to perform an operation that both the other doctors, and a
third who had been called in from some distance, thought doubtful.
One of the most highly thought of men in those parts, a Colonel Baier,
had suffered for more than a month from inflammation of the coat of the
stomach with symptoms of septicæmia. The military surgeon, Dr. Arentz,
was his family doctor, and treated him in the usual way, with water
compresses and opium. But the illness was a serious one, and Arentz
wished that Kallem should join in the consultation. The wife was
opposed to this--not exactly because she was a zealous Christian, but
because she had an uncomfortable feeling when with Kallem. She was a
good, warm-hearted creature, but hysterical, and such people are
generally either violently for, or violently against, one. Tuft, the
minister, had once saved her; she was ill from sheer weakness, nothing
did her any good, until he came and roused her will by faith--a fact
none could dispute; since then she raved about him.
The doctor from the neighbouring district, together with Dr. Kent, were
both sent for; but both were honest enough to say that nothing could be
done, the colonel was rapidly dying, and an operation would be
impossible.
But now her love for her husband proved stronger than her antipathy for
Kallem; she had the horses put to the carriage and drove herself to
fetch him; he was willing to perform the operation and at once. Without
allowing himself to be over-ruled by the others' objections, he opened
the abdominal cavity, discovering therein pus, and also opened the
large intestine.
This incident called for all his strength of character, especially as
the others had been so opposed to it. The colonel was looked up to and
respected by all; all were interested, both in town and country, and
his wife's state was such that, should the husband die, she would go
out of her mind. From having disliked Kallem, she grew to have the most
unbounded confidence in him; his presence seemed to magnetize her.
Kallem was, of course, very anxious.
Ragni found other things to think of besides herself when she saw in
what a state of anxiety and responsibility he was in before the
operation, and it was even worse the first few days after. In such like
emergencies she would always keep all petty trifles from him with rare
tact, encouraging and pleasing him, living solely and entirely for him.
To be allowed to be something for such a man as that, that in itself
spread "warmth" enough!
The colonel recovered, Kallem went about in the best of humours, Ragni
took up her playing again, and all her usual work, even ventured out
into the garden and allowed her eyes to wander to the house up yonder!
She heard the carriage rumbling past without trembling more than the
least little wee atom; she was accosted by the Norland servant going to
market with her basket, and although she felt it was like being stung
by a snake, yet she survived it. One day she even managed to talk to
her--and accustomed herself to expect her coming every morning without
making her escape. This was not because she was courageous, far from
it; but she did it, and felt more at her ease.
The weather changed to severe cold; the leaves blew about in the north
wind, the fields were frozen and covered with hoar-frost every morning,
the stoves burnt with a roaring noise rivalling the rumbling of carts
and carriages outside on the hollow-sounding frosty ground. Each day
there was a suggestion as to putting in double windows and shutting up
the balcony doors; each day it was put off. There might possibly still
be some fine days.
One day she had had letters from America, from Norland, from
Berlin--the latter was from Karl; she had opened them all, but had not
read any of them; there was too much to do getting the house ready for
the winter. Still she found time to read her sister's letter in the
afternoon, and it troubled her; her sister was not well; Ragni thought
about getting her down to stay with her. The last two or three letters
from Karl had been decidedly home-sick ones, he felt so melancholy; so
she had no particular wish to peruse this last letter. She was just
then reading an American novel, one of Howell's best, an impressive and
exciting soul-picture; so she sat down to that first when she went into
the office toward evening. But something in the story reminded her of
Karl, so she laid the book aside and took out his letter. As usual,
page upon page, very interesting, but so thoroughly heart-sick. When
she came to the last sheet, there was written on it in red ink: "Read
this when you are alone!"
He wrote: "From the moment I received your letter about the 'chill cold
of wickedness,' I have been uncertain whether or no I would tell you
that I understood it at once. For long I have known what was said about
us. Such a cruel slander! It was this that nearly drove me mad last
summer, when I heard of it just before we parted. Is it not terrible? I
thought that there could not possibly be anything that would wound me
deeper than this; but now it has come: You have heard of it too--that
must be the meaning of your letter.
"For weeks I have thought about it. But it is better, for my own sake
and for yours, that we should speak about it! Do not let Kallem hear of
it! I am so dreadfully ashamed, I am so unhappy--ah, if you knew how
unhappy I am! but let us spare him!
"Therefore I write this on a separate sheet, and will always do so in
future.
"Also on account of something else which I am now coming to, my dear,
my darling!
"From the very beginning when you were so good to me, you were most
dear to me; I could not think that you or anyone could be more dear.
But now we are as it were linked together by this shame and grief, we
two must bear it alone, and now, God knows, I only live, suffer, and
work in thought of you. You are ever with me, from morn till eve, and
in my dreams at night.
"I love you, love you, love you! I write this weeping. I love you, love
you, love you!
"Perchance this word shocks you, shocks you more than what has gone
before and has called it forth. But if you knew what joy it is just to
write it down and know that you will read it! You are so good, and you
know that I have the most unbounded respect for you."
When Kallem came home at eight o'clock, the supper table was laid in
the dining-room; the lamps were lighted in the office, and it was warm;
but both rooms were empty, the big room was dark. Sigrid came in with
the tea, and told him that her mistress had gone to bed.
To bed? was she ill?
"I think she was only tired."
Kallem went upstairs directly. It was dark; but he saw in the moonlight
a white arm in a night-gown stretched out toward him. "Forgive me," she
said; "but I felt so tired, and then there was a letter from my sister
which made me sad. No, don't light the candles! It is so nice like
this."
What a fresh and healthy atmosphere there was about him, his voice was
so strong as he answered: "From your sister?"
"Yes, she does not thrive up yonder."
"Suppose we get her down here?"
"I was just going to ask you for that. How good you are!" and she began
to cry.
"But, my darling, why do you cry? I assure you the only reason why I
did not speak of it sooner was, that you wanted so much for us to be
alone."
"Yes, of course it is delightful. But supposing one of us were to be
ill?"
"Nonsense, we are not going to be ill. You are strong now too. Your
head is rather hot. Let me feel your pulse! Oh, it is nothing but rest
that you need. It was right of you to go to bed. I shall go down and
have my supper, I am ravenous; then you can be quiet. You had a letter
from Karl?"
"Yes, it is lying on the desk."
"All right, I shall read it while eating. After that I must be busy.
Good-night!"
He kissed her, she put both her arms round his neck, drew him down to
her, and kissed him. "You darling!"
He went away; she heard his quick step on the stairs and going to the
room door; heard him open and shut it.
Again there was that pain in her chest which his coming had dispelled,
his very footstep scared away. It was something oppressive, dreadful,
unheard-of, something she would never get rid of, and then she began to
shiver. Cold, cold, cold; now it had reached to the very innermost. She
felt now, with a shudder, why "the whale" had come and taken possession
of the little house close by, and would not ever leave it. Now she knew
why the others had allowed it.
"Alas! what has happened, what have I done?" moaned she, and tried to
hide from herself. Karl's words of love sounded like a whispering voice
amid thundering billows. Poor boy! She lay there in the dark that she
might not be seen, and in order to think it over. What ought she to do?
She had kept back that last sheet, ought she to show it to Kallem?
When Kallem came up to bed shortly after twelve, she had fallen asleep
in the midst of all her sorrowful reflections. He lighted the candle
behind her, looked into her face, and listened to her breathing. She
was sleeping innocently, open-mouthed.
The next morning she walked backwards and forwards before the south
side of the house, equally terrified, equally undecided. There had been
snow, but it was nearly all melted again; it was the first snow that
winter. A thick fog lay over the mountain ridges, so thick that it
looked like a separate, impenetrable country, bordering on the
mountains and stretching as far as the eye could reach. A long tongue
of this strange country jutted out into the wood like a secret of
utmost importance. She felt cold, she could not go far without being
seen by people on the road, and to-day she could not let herself be
seen, perhaps never again.
A useless fight that, among the different kinds of trees round about
the farms. Furthest away from the houses a forest of firs; it looked
almost black through the heavy mist; nearer to the houses a wood of
leafy trees began, long-necked aspen and twisted birch, showing light
yellow against the dark; nearer still there was mountain-ash and
bird-cherry, blood-red in colour; maple, too, and other trees in
endless variety of shades, from colourless as flax to deep red-gold.
Tall asps and alders, too old to bear foliage, spread their naked
branches out over the bright colours of the others, like blue-gray
smoke.
She stamped her feet, but could not get any warmth into them; she would
not go further, nor yet go in before she had decided what she was to
do! What if Kallem did get to know of it? And what if he did not?
The meadows were divided in two by ploughed fields. Besides that there
were only dull green fields of rye, sown in harvest-time, clover-fields
in stubble. But see those discontented gray-looking fields further away
from the houses, that are never noticed except when they are to be
plundered; there are too many of them in the country.
But Juanita? How did she get into this harvest picture? The freshest,
clearest reminiscence of that first spring? Ah, now awoke her longing
for the children. Now she was sure that he was not where they were; so
she could travel down to Rendalen's and see them.
As long as that lasted she would not be forced to decide what was the
right thing to do; and she needed a respite. Just a short little letter
to Karl Meek, that he must not write to her oftener just now, perhaps
later on; she would let him know. These few words to Karl--should she
telegraph them? Not from here! But she would start at once and
telegraph on her way.
There arose in her a purpose, a command as strong as though she had
nothing left for her to do but to see the children once again. When
Kallem came home soon after, and she was pacing up and down the floor
to try and get her feet warm, she said to him that she must see the
children again, and it seemed to him that the recollection of her life
together with Kule had turned into a longing for the children; this was
very natural. "Start at once!" said he; "later on it may be too cold."
He did not quite mean it to have been to-day; but that was what she
wished, and in the afternoon he took her to the station.
As soon as she arrived at the Rendalens, she wrote a despairing letter,
the meeting with the children had been terrible; they did not know her!
And she, too, hardly recognised them! They were certainly well brought
up children, but not as though they had belonged to her sister; there
was no family likeness there, but a likeness to him, the father--he
come of a stronger race. They were big, fat children; they stared at
her without being able to understand her. And all the other strange
faces, always noticing and watching her. She would have gone home again
directly, if she had not had such a very bad cold. Her next letter was
a little more cheerful; not because she was better pleased with the
children--they were just like strangers and were wanting in
"spirituality;" each time she took them in to her room to talk to them,
or play for them, she could feel that it bored them. But her
intercourse with the excellent people at the school and in the
neighbourhood, afforded her great pleasure; "if only we had something
similar," said she, with a sigh.
He had a letter from Rendalen, too, expressing, in strong terms, the
delight of the entire little colony at having her amongst them. He put
forward "an unanimous request" to be allowed to keep her for a time;
she seemed tired after her journey and not very well; it would be good
for her to have a rest.
She remained away a fortnight altogether. She came home again one cold
day in mid-winter, looking pale, having still a bad cold, and very
nervous, incapable of saying how dreadful it was for her to be again
amongst people who looked upon her as an improper person. Kallem was
alarmed at her cold and at her looking so ill; their meeting could
hardly be called a meeting, there was an anxious examination of her
chest, a languid account of her visit; she was tired and wished to go
to bed.
Kallem asked if she had had any letter from Karl? None had been
received here. No, she had had none either. Had she not written to him?
No, Karl had confided a secret to her which she did not approve of.
Often before there had been, so to speak, knots on the thread, which
had only been explained to him later, and now, as she did not look up
at her husband, he felt that he ought not to ask questions.
She was in bed several days. There was no getting rid of a nasty dry
cough she had; otherwise there were no dangerous symptoms; none at all.
The first day she was up he thought she had grown very thin; her face
had a tired, delicate expression, and there were dark rings under her
eyes. She longed for fresh air, but she refused, in the most determined
way, to go for any walks outside the garden. At first she said it was
so tiresome; when that excuse did not hold good, she hit upon a better
one: she began to cry. He thought this was a strange symptom; was it
possible that she was in the family way? He comforted himself with this
hope and waited. She went for walks in the garden, and then told him
about them with much pride; but she hid from him the fact that she
always went out at dusk. Meanwhile she herself thought she was better,
and he fancied so too.
Time went on; he was expecting that which he longed to hear, and
thought he noticed other symptoms; but he was alarmed too sometimes, as
she seemed to him to grow thinner and thinner; he could not get her to
eat. One evening, when he was out, she had as usual gone into the
garden and walked about at dusk, had felt a chill afterwards, and great
oppression on the chest! She was asleep when Kallem went to bed, but he
was awakened later by her coughing. He lit the light and saw that she
pressed her hand to her chest.
"Have you a pain there?"
"Yes."
"Where is the pain?"
"Here!" and she pointed to the right collar bone.
"Does it hurt you there when you cough?"
"Yes." And at that moment she was seized with a violent fit of
coughing. He got up, dressed himself, put fire in the stove, rang the
bell for the servant to fetch him some medicine, and then sounded her
chest, asking her many questions. She told him about the chill she had
had that evening, and that she was in the habit of taking her walks at
dusk.
"At dusk!" exclaimed he, and that was sufficient to make her hide her
face. She must promise him now to be good and not do such things any
more; she would have to stay in bed now for several days. She did not
relish the mustard-plaster on her chest; but the cough lozenges were a
success. He concealed his distress by joking and by petting her--and in
a few days she did actually seem as well as he could expect. And now
she had become so obedient; she kept in the house quite quietly for a
fortnight. Her cough was less frequent; those violent fits of coughing
had made her chest so sore; but, on the whole, she felt tolerably well,
only very tired and breathless; feeling as if she had no wish to touch
the piano.
A path was made for her in the garden, and she went out there for the
first time with Kallem in the middle of the day, but went in again
almost directly. At first he was frightened, seriously alarmed; but
then from her manner he concluded it was only a little capriciousness.
However, she felt weaker even than she would allow. The next day she
tried together with Sigrid; but after the first few steps she became so
breathless that she was obliged to stop and rest; she begged Sigrid not
to tell; it would pass over when she "had more practice." The weather
was mild, in the middle of the day there were even a few degrees of
warmth, and she felt better, could walk further; Kallem was delighted
when he saw one day that she had opened the piano.
One evening Sören Pedersen appeared, pale and by himself--two very
unusual things. What was the matter? The matter was that Kristen
Larssen's ghost haunted the place! Kallem shouted with laughter, but
Sören's face never altered; it was quite true that Kristen Larssen's
ghost had been seen! The latter years of his life Kristen Larssen had
never played the violin; he gave it to Aune. But now he plays the
violin, and in his own house! Did nobody live there? No, the house was
shut up; but all the same he played! Several people had heard it; there
was not the slightest doubt. It must be some lover of practical jokes
who had got in there. Who kept the key?
"A nephew of the widow."
"And who may that be?"
"Aune."
"There we have it!"
"But Aune has himself helped to search the house; and Aune is the most
frightened of the lot."
A servant, whose child was ill--Kallem knew her, he was her doctor--had
seen Kristen Larssen one night when she was out, vanishing along by the
wall of the house! Since then several others had seen it. "No one
doubts it," said he. What did the doctor think of this, that the
colonel's wife, went into the saddler's shop one day to tell them that
she had dreamt she saw Kristen Larssen sitting in a long room, amongst
many clever and learned men who were all being taught to spell. She had
felt drawn to tell Sören Pedersen this, as it was Kristen Larssen who
had led him astray. "And will you believe it, doctor, that very night
both Aune and I had dreamt that the colonel's wife came to the shop!"
"Now I will tell you something just as strange, Sören Pedersen. The
first day that my wife and I were here in the town, we met Andersen,
the mason, Karl Meek, Kristen Larssen, Sigrid, you and your wife, all
in the course of a quarter of an hour!"
Sören Pedersen rolled his round eyes about in a stupid sort of fashion;
there was nothing so very strange in that.
"Not at all; for the other hundred people we took no notice of. Just as
you, Sören Pedersen, never think about the hundreds of people you and
Aune dream of without seeing them come to the shop the following day."
This did not convince Sören Pedersen.
Superstition was afloat. One person followed the other's lead; the
whole town soon talked of nothing else, and particularly after the
minister was mixed up in the affair. He had lived alone with his mother
since the spring. His wife and child had been away, and had only
returned quite recently. During all this time his preaching had
increased in severity, latterly it had had a passionate ring which
foreboded a storm. He announced at the meeting-house that believers
were aware that spirits live and work amongst us, and that many poor
souls had to wander about after death; these were well-known facts,
sent as warnings to each generation.
When Kallem heard about this he decided to act on a thought which he
had had for some time, namely, to get Aune in his power. He was very
unwilling; having an inventive mind, he generally managed to get out of
most scrapes; he could talk so persuasively that he had before this
taken Kallem in; but now he was not to escape! His wife agreed to it,
so one Sunday morning Kallem hypnotized him, in her presence, down in
the office of the hospital--first of all on account of the brandy, but
also to clear up this ghost story, which of course no other than this
rascal had set afloat! Thus it happened. Now, there was one great
difficulty about it: if it were discovered, Aune would be done for; his
wife thought of this and interceded for him. There was nothing left but
to forbid his proceedings--and then hold their tongues.
This did not prevent Kallem, on his morning rounds, telling Kent, who
did not believe in ghosts more than he himself did, that he had
discovered where the tale of Kristen Larssen's ghostly reappearance
sprang from; the whole was a prearranged affair. So, when Dr. Kent met
Josephine one day visiting one of his patients, and knowing that
nothing was so dear to her as hearing news of her brother, he repeated
Kallem's words. During dinner little Edward, who held forth
everlastingly about these ghost stories, told them that Kristen Larssen
had again appeared to two boys; one was a son of Aune, and the other
was a son of the lay-preacher! Edward was bursting with excitement.
Shortly and decidedly, his mother proved to him that this was nothing
but deception; one of the doctors from the town had found out who was
at the bottom of this fraud; there was not such a thing as Kristen
Larssen's ghost at all.
As soon as the boy had left the dinner-table, the minister reproved
Josephine for her tactless conduct.
"How, tactless?"
"Yes, that you could say that to the boy; did you hear how he at once
tried to screen himself by saying that I believed in ghosts?" The
minister's tone was not arrogant or even reproachful, and she felt that
he was right; therefore she did not answer. But it did not rest here,
soon after she was in the study.
"I have been thinking of what you said." He was lying on the sofa,
smoking, but got up to make room for her; he was glad she came in. She,
however, remained standing. "Is the boy to believe a thing because you
say it, even if it be untrue?"
"No; but then you could leave it to me to correct the error."
"Are you quite sure that you would do so?"
"Pray, what do you mean by that?"
"Only that you continually teach him things that you yourself cannot
possibly believe."
"What are you driving at?" He got very red; for he felt that this was
the beginning of an explanation.
"I have often thought of speaking to you of this," she said, "and now
the right moment has come. You surely don't believe that the world was
created as it is now in six days, six thousand years ago, and that the
story of the first man and woman, and the patriarchs is anything but a
tradition? Likewise everything about Paradise. The world and human
beings cannot have begun by being perfect. But this is what you teach
the children, and of late even Edward."
He now walked up and down the room; she stood in the doorway between
the room and the passage. Every time he approached her he gave her a
decided, yes, even a look full of power; this was not the look of an
evil conscience, she felt that. To show her in what spirit he wished to
act, he stopped and said, quietly: "Shan't we sit down, Josephine?"
"No," answered she, "I did not come to stay."
"What you call a tradition," he said, "is the everlasting truth that
God created everything and everyone, and that sin is a falling away
from Him."
"Why not teach them in this wise, instead of by untrue pictures?"
"Children understand pictures best, Josephine."
"Then tell them that it is only a fairy tale."
"That's of no consequence."
"It is of the greatest consequence that children should not learn
everlasting truths in an untrue form--at least, so I think."
He saw that she was working herself up into a state of excitement, and
reproved her for it; surely they ought to be able to talk together
without that.
"No," she said, "I cannot; for you must know that not only our boy's
future, but yours and mine too, depend on this." She went up to the
desk to be nearer to him, maybe too she needed support.
But he was not to be put down. "If you yourself, Josephine, were as
thoroughly convinced of the eternal truth as you pretend to be, and
were you protesting for that truth's sake, then all the rest would be
of small importance. And what we wish to put in its stead is very
uncertain too; we know that everything did not exactly happen as the
revered Book tells us; what we do not know is what the real state of
things was. This only we do know, that our life proceeds from God, and
in God alone can we be happy; therefore, let both children and grown-up
people accept the first teachings of our fathers, at any rate for the
present." There was all the honest strength of conviction in his words,
and they were full of power. She was silent for a long time; but all at
once something else came over her.
"Do you know that, if it had not been for the total mismanagement
of my intelligence and character when I was a child, I too would have
become--different from what I am now?"
"Yes," he said, coldly, "I hear that latterly you have come to this
conclusion; that faith is the misfortune of your life."
"I never said that!" she exclaimed, very pale, "never meant it either!"
But she added, more quietly: "I have never allowed faith in God and
salvation through Jesus to be a restraint on my intelligence. Never!"
"Dear me, how fortunate!" said he, but he sighed deeply afterwards.
"Well, if you don't intend to listen to me," she said, "I will just
tell you my business straight out. Either you stop telling the boy
those fairy tales which are not innocent ones, since they thus ensnare
his understanding, or else, Ole, I can no longer consider you as wholly
conscientious."
It was not the first time she had spoken harshly; they had had many a
long and bitter quarrel. But she had never spoken quite so harshly,
never before attacked his faith in that way. She had pleaded her right
to have her own opinions, but always with much abuse of his; she had
parried his attacks with sharp weapons; but never before had she
talked like that or laid down conditions. For long he had been weighed
down by the knowledge that she was brooding over something; but this
fully armed purpose, sustained by such strength of mind and so much
anger--there they stood facing each other; each sounding the depths of
the other's will. He too was boiling over with indignant rage, and to
put an end at once to anything she might imagine, he said: "The boy
remains with me!"
"With you?" she turned ashy pale. "Have you more right to him than I?
Are you his mother?"
"I am his father. The Bible and the law constitute the father owner of
the child."
She began to walk up and down, but only between the window and door, as
though they were the bars of a cage; her bosom heaved, her breathing
was audible, the paleness of her face, her voice, her eyes, all told of
the dreadful agitation she was in; she would never have thought him
capable of such a thing.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself? Would you keep the boy?"
"Such is my intention, as sure as God orders me to do it. You shall not
corrupt our boy!"
"Corrupt him? I? No, that is too much, now I will speak out! From my
childhood up you gained power over me in that very same way. Through
your unwavering faith you gained power over my mind without my knowing
it, for you were so good and devoted. In that way you ruined my
nature--that you did--it was meant for other things. You gave me an
aim, a choice in life, I knew nothing of it myself. I tell you all this
as it was, without blaming you for it. But you must know that you shall
not have the same power over my child. Not as long as there is a spark
of life in me, in spite of both law and Bible. Now you know that, and
you shall see it too!"
Had she but known that for long, very long, he had expected that she
would confront him in this way, she would have spared herself such a
terrible outburst of passion. He himself was thoroughly master of his
feelings.
"Of course, I have led astray your most divine nature, I have known it
long! I have done it through that faith which you do not possess. My
dear, I was aware of that before you went away!" He spoke slowly and
impressively.
"Oh, so you do know it!" she burst forth, passionately; "you do know
it! Your faith has never been mine; it did not suit me. But I have had
none other instead; I went about thinking it was a sin that I could not
have the same faith as you; I was crushed and overwhelmed, not being
able to devote all my strength to something of my own. Therefore I have
never been like others. It has all been wrong!"
"What would you have been, you?"
"Let me say the worst--a circus rider," answered she, without as much
as moving an eye. He stopped abruptly, he could neither believe his
ears nor his eyes.
"Circus rider?" He laughed scornfully. "Indeed, it has been a great
loss for the world--and for yourself, Josephine, that you did not
become one!"
"I knew you would think so! But if I had had to do with the management
of a circus I could have provided bread for hundreds, and healthy
amusement for thousands. That is not so little--it is more than most
can do. As it is, what have I done? What empty trifles have I been
struggling with? And to what have I attained? That I am on the point of
despising both yourself and me! What has our life--what has our
intercourse come to? Can you even say that you cherish any love for me?
Can I say that I am fond of you?"
"No, Josephine, we both know of whom you are fond."
Had he struck her as her brother had done, she could not have been more
furious--partly because he had said that (she scarcely knew that it had
been in his thoughts), and partly because this man who made that speech
owed everything to her brother and to herself, and yet it was he who
had come between the brother and sister and separated them.
"Ah, he possesses that which you have not!" she answered, seeking to
wound him. "Nevertheless, it is cowardly of you to say such a thing."
"Is it, indeed? Do you not think that I know it is his fault that I
have lost you, lost the peace of my home, lost, too, all joy in my
calling, and am now threatened with the loss of my child?"
His voice trembled, he began in anger, but it turned to deep grief, and
it was the same with her. She felt inclined to sob and cry. But neither
of them would give way to such weakness. She stood looking out of the
window; he walked up and down the room. There was a long, long pause.
Again she was overcome with anger. His step, too, sounded defiant;
still there was silence. What he had just said was shameful, certainly.
"Well," she said, without looking round, "now you know the conditions.
You can preach about such tales as that of Kristen Larssen's haunting
the place, and you have not even sought to inquire into the matter!
Just as with your tales of Paradise; you don't believe in them
yourself, and yet you can repeat them! Can I have any respect for such
conduct? I must say, my brother is much more honest than that! If you
come again to my boy with those tales without telling him that they are
only fairy tales," and she turned around to him, "then, Ole, there will
be an end to our living together. Before God, this is the truth. It
will never be any use your trying to take him from me by such means."
She moved toward him: "I will never submit to it, Ole!" She left him.
On that very Sunday, at the self-same hour, Kallem returned home to
dine; his dinner hour was somewhat later than his brother-in-law's.
He could see Ragni through the kitchen door, with a long apron on which
reached up to her chin; she was cutting up vegetables on the kitchen
table. He took his things off in the passage and went in and joined
her; latterly he had an ever-increasing fear which he had to conceal.
Was it the white apron that threw a pale shadow over her, or the steam
from Sigrid's cooking? She really was looking fearfully ill. And surely
she had been crying! It sent a pang through his heart. She did not look
up from her work, but said:
"We are to have a guest for dinner."
"We are?"
"Yes, Otto Meek, Karl's father; he was here this morning, and is now
coming to dinner."
"How is Karl getting on?"
"Not well. Oh, here comes Meek!"
His big head under a fur cap could be seen appearing over the
prosperous-looking top-coat; he was at the other side of the hedge; now
he turned in, and Kallem went to meet him. During the time that Meek
practised he had turned his attention particularly to diseases of the
chest, which were but too prevalent in these parts of the country, and
he took the most lively interest in Kallem's writings and in his work
at the hospital; Kallem was glad when he came. As he helped him off
with his coat he said that Ragni had told him Karl was not well.
"No, he is not."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Well, that is the reason of my coming here," answered Meek.
"You have spoken to my wife?"
"Yes." They both went in. The room was warm and cosy, the piano stood
open. Had she been playing when Meek knocked at the door? If that were
the case, then she could not be as ill as she looked; he longed to
examine her chest.
Meek was more silent and gloomy than ever that day.
"Well," said Kallem, "did you and my wife come to an agreement about
Karl?"
Meek looked up at him, rather surprised. "Do you mean about writing to
him?"
"Yes. You know there has been one or other knotty point, as was often
the case."
"Yes," answered Meek, and remained sitting there quite silent.
"Do you imagine I know anything of it? Not I, not a scrap."
Meek appeared to be more and more perplexed. "I said to your wife she
ought to tell you. It is very good of her not to do so. But the case is
serious." His melancholy eyes looked into Kallem's.
"Serious, do you call it?"
"Yes, I shall be obliged to take him home."
Kallem jumped up from his scat. Meek continued:
"It is altogether useless, his being there."
"But what is wrong? Would you like us to try with him again?" Kallem
thought there was a possibility of the youth's having relapsed into his
old ways. Meek looked enquiringly at him, almost frightened.
"How do you think your wife really is?" he asked.
Kallem turned red; it struck him like a shot in the midst of his own
secret fears. "She caught a nasty cold which she cannot get rid of; for
a while I thought, ... I'll tell you what! Can't you sound her chest?"
His own doubts had become certainty, his heart beat so that he would
not have been capable of examining her himself. Meek continued to gaze
at him and Kallem grew more frightened. "Won't you examine her?"
"Yes, of course. Has it not been done recently?"
"Not very recently. No. I don't wish to alarm her. Because if her
imagination begins to work then there is danger for her. Besides, there
was something else ... However, now I will--" he would have gone to
fetch her.
"Did you know her father?" asked Meek, Kallem shuddered.
"Did you?"
"Yes, I was doctor to the fisheries up there."
"Was he--?" Kallem asked breathlessly and unable to finish his
sentence. Meek merely nodded, Kallem clasped his head with both hands,
hurried to the door, came back again: "You will examine her now, here,
at once?"
Kallem led her in tenderly, without giving her time to take off her
apron; and carefully brought her up close to the windows. Evidently she
had been crying--and those rings under her eyes, her thinness, her
colour! She saw his alarm but mistook the cause. Out in the kitchen she
had been thinking; now they must be talking about Karl; now Kallem will
hear why it is I get no more letters from him. And now that she saw
Kallem's agitation she thought, can he be angry because I did not tell
him? She could not bear the idea of that, it made her hot and cold by
turns.
"Ragni, darling, Dr. Meek would like to sound your chest."
Was that what it was! She was much alarmed, she looked at him with
imploring eyes like a stricken deer, begging to be spared. But again he
entreated her and began carefully taking off her big apron; submissive
as she was she gave herself up to them.
Kallem guessed at once, by the other's manner, by his stopping and then
listening again that something terrible was coming. Her startled eyes
sought her husband's, and increased his suffering--did she suspect
anything herself? Or was she reproaching him for letting anyone but him
do this?
Now the doctor's great head was pressed to her back. At the right side,
what was it?... a thickening of the tip of the lung? or the tissues? He
imagined the worst, and she did the same; he could see that. Could it
be that she knew more than she would acknowledge? Concealed something
just as he concealed his fears?... Good God, such sorrowfully
beseeching eyes were never seen, save only when the fear of death was
in them. He was seized with it himself.
"Have you been coughing more than usual lately?" She seemed uncertain
as to what she should answer and looked imploringly at Kallem. Her
hands were trembling and she tried to hide it; Meek noticed it! "Do you
get very tired when you are out walking?" he asked. Again she looked at
Kallem in despair, as though she ought to beg his pardon for it. "Do
you become breathless quickly?" continued the other.
"Yes."
"Do you at times feel excessively weak, almost as though you were going
to faint?" She now looked at Kallem in the greatest alarm. "Maybe you
have fainted?"
"Yes."
"Have you?" exclaimed Kallem. "Yes, to-day I did," she said hurriedly,
trembling all over.
"Was that after I had spoken to you?"
"Yes, for I wanted a little fresh air, and then--" here her tears
choked her utterance.
Dr. Meek smiled a little. "When you cough I presume it hurts you here?"
he pointed to the right collarbone. She nodded.
"Have you ever looked at what comes up when you cough?" She made no
answer. "Have you never done that?"
"Yes, I have; yesterday evening."
"And how was it?" She was silent, staring at the floor. "Was there
blood mixed with it?" She nodded, her tears were falling fast, she did
not dare to look up.
Kallem was speechless. Meek asked no more questions. Ragni rearranged
her dress, and Meek silently handed her a shawl she had taken off
whilst he was examining her. And as she sat helplessly trying to put it
on again, Kallem suddenly seemed to think of something he had to fetch
from the office. He did not return. She understood the reason why, and
for a little while she was doubtful whether she could get up from her
chair, and felt as if she would faint again; but the thought of him
alone in the office helped her to overcome her weakness, she must go to
him. So she begged Dr. Meek to excuse her, got up and went toward the
dining-room door and disappeared through it. She too remained away.
Meek waited first a few moments, then a little longer--and still
longer. Then he went out to the passage, put on his coat and hat, told
the servant in the kitchen that he was obliged to leave; and left many
messages for them.
Sigrid looked for them in the rooms, knocked at the door of the office,
could get no answer, she listened and at last opened the door. Kallem
was lying on the sofa, Ragni kneeling beside him close up to him.
Sigrid announced very quietly that the dinner was ready and that Dr.
Meek had gone away. No one answered, no one looked up.
Hitherto Kallem and Ragni had always considered that the day when Ragni
sailed for America was the worst they had ever gone through; both in
their letters and in speaking of it they had said that they felt as
though he must die. But death is different; it is not like anything
else. They learned to know that now.
After that day there came a time full of hopeless struggles, speechless
despair, and tenderest but joyless love. Ragni had various matters "to
arrange," which she quietly set about doing; she had a good deal too to
write, and whenever she was able she was thus occupied. She wrote, then
scratched out; the whole thing, notwithstanding all her work, proved to
be a very short affair. But as long as she was taken up with what she
had set herself to get done, she really seemed tolerably well; Kallem
was quite surprised.
He himself had lost all courage. He saw the worst before him. As long
as he could he shrank from examining her expectoration; ... he knew
beforehand that he would find tubercular bacilli there--that enemy, to
fight against which he had spent both fortune and life. And now it had
conquered him in his own house. But one day he was obliged to do
it--and with the expected result. He did not pace up and down the
laboratory, neither did he weep nor wring his hands. He only tried
whether it were possible to think without her; but it ended always by
his thinking of her only. From the hour they first met--all her little
ways, the most trifling proofs of her charm and talents, her failings
and her silent poetical love, he lived all over again in equal joy and
grief; it was all just as dear to him, and just as impossible to part
with; countless incidents full of humour, warmth, fear, sense of
beauty, devotion; they all followed him about like so many eyes. Where
could he go to, what more could he possibly find to do? She was with
him in all his work. Her portrait, taken in the third year of her stay
in America, was standing on the edge of the stove; it had been sent to
him originally that he might see what effect the progress of her
intellectual development had produced in her face and eyes, a joyful
confirmation of all he had predicted when he sent her over there. Now,
as always, the eyes of the portrait seemed to seek his; during that
time of waiting, their smile had cheered and encouraged him; what had
it not been for him--that portrait? And now there came pouring in on
him all the recollections of their first meeting, the first words,
first shy strangeness, the first full and entire recognition, the first
embrace.
Only to remind him that now all must cease. All, too, that he had
thought of and done in his life together with her; the delight in it,
his capabilities, his faith. What in all the world had happened? He was
bound to speak to her about it; was there anything she wished to hide
from him? Some imprudence which she dare not confess? What could it be?
But he must be very careful about it.
Then one day when he came home she was not downstairs. He went up
to her and found her lying down. She stretched out her hand--how
thin it had become! and fastened her large eyes on him with a faint,
half-veiled expression: "I lay down for a little," she whispered; "only
for an hour or two." She did not look so very ill; perhaps because she
was in bed. He sat down beside the bed and took both her long thin
hands between his.
"There is something in all this," he ventured to say, "which has not
been confided to me. Once I was entirely on a wrong scent, but
latterly, too, it has been more hurried than I could understand, for
this reason, that I have not been watchful enough. There is something
at the bottom of all this, some great, may be oft-repeated imprudence
which I have not been counting on. Darling, tell it me now; I shall
have no peace until you do."
"I will tell you. I have just been thinking about it now. Down-stairs
in my writing-table you will find some papers in the first drawer to
the left; they are all for you. You must read them when--" she broke
off abruptly. "By and by," she added and pressed his hand gently.
"Then I am not to hear about it now?"
"Yes, what you are asking about? Oh, yes. I only had not got so far."
She asked him to help her change her position; he did so. "Yes, you
shall hear it now. It is for your sake I kept it secret," her eyes
filled--"my own"--again a gentle pressure of the hand and a smile. He
dried her tears with his handkerchief, letting it slip in under his own
spectacles as well. She lay gazing at him but did not speak; had she
forgotten or had she changed her mind? He bent down over her:
"Well--?" he asked, "you will not tell me?"
"Oh, yes, the top paper in the drawer, in Karl's handwriting; you may
read that at once. But not the others."
"Does Karl's letter contain it?"
She nodded slightly, it was barely visible; then she closed her eyes.
"The key?" he whispered.
"It is in the drawer," she answered, without opening her eyes and let
his hand go.
He went down-stairs, opened the drawer, and took out the letter we know
of, and sat down to read it properly.
His horror! And his indignation--and his helplessness! Why had he not
known of this in time? He paced up and down the room, raging, he sat
down again like one paralysed; he made plans and rejected them; he
would have gone to every soul in the place and told them they lied. He
would force his way into the meeting-house one fine day when it was
crowded, climb to the pulpit and accuse them of the most cowardly,
treacherous murder ... then he suddenly remembered that even if Ragni
had been perfectly well, that would have been enough to kill her.
He himself lived only to do the best he could for all people; and
amongst them all there was not one honest or grateful enough, or even
indignant enough to tell him that he ought to defend his own and his
wife's good name and the honour of his marriage! What apathy and
indifference! What free and open scope for malice and for unjust
judging of others in this "Christian" community! Now he understood his
sister--she had believed this slander? It was especially to talk to him
about this that she had waited for him that evening when he--! And in
her indignation at this, which she so fully and firmly believed to be
true (for what will not people believe about a free-thinker) she
continued to bring "the whale" right down upon them! Everyone believed
it, everyone condemned her without hesitation. No one stood up for her,
not a soul came to the rescue.
This was what Ragni had had to suffer for being so kind to Karl! It had
been all the more unselfish of her because at first it had cost her a
struggle, and indeed later on it had often been an effort, too; it was
only now that he knew it. In all his life he had never met with any
one as good as she was. To think that her tender-hearted disposition
should thus be ...! The wretches, the false guardians of salvation,
psalm-singing egotists, heartless prayer-makers! He read Karl's letter
over again; he felt so heartily sorry for him. Poor, poor fellow. His
love for her was quite a natural thing; what good honest man would not
adore anyone who had been wronged so unjustly for his sake? The lad's
gratitude and admiration would necessarily turn to love. As soon as
Karl came home, he would have him over--that he would! And he should
stay, too, till she drew her last breath! And he, and none other, would
Kallem have to walk with him ... On that terrible day after her coffin!
He flung himself on the sofa and cried aloud.
Perchance he had been too much taken up with his own work; he ought to
have associated more with people, and taken her more about with him;
then this would never have happened. None who had really felt a lasting
impression of her goodness and pure soul would have dared ... though
indeed who can tell? Such creatures of habit, blinded by their dogmas,
cannot see.
In came Sigrid running, her mistress was very ill, had a terrible fit
of coughing. He crossed the rooms, the passage, and was up the stairs
in nine or ten bounds; the attack was over when he got there; but she
lay bathed in perspiration, so weak and exhausted that she was on the
point of fainting. What she had brought up in coughing was of a
greenish colour and streaked with blood--well did he know the look of
it. He accounted for this, thinking that he had stayed away too long,
her excitement had increased, she had grown too warm, had probably
thrown off the clothes and then ... She lay there with eyes closed and
he tried what he could to make her sleep. After that she never left her
room again.
From her he went straight down to his writing-table and despatched a
letter to Dr. Meek, telling him what had happened, and without entering
into further details, he wrote: "If Karl has come, I suppose we shall
soon see him here? Now I know everything!"
He went out to fetch a woman to sit up at night, but went up to her
again the moment he got back; she seemed to be easier and was asleep,
and when at last she did awake, her eyes fell first on him. He waited
on her, giving her something to drink, and all the questions he so
plainly read in her eyes, he answered by kissing her poor thin hand,
for his lips quivered and his glasses were bedewed with tears.
But they talked about other things--how that her sister would not be
able to come, and that he had himself been to fetch Sissel Aune to help
to nurse Ragni; she was the best person he knew of for that sort of
thing, and then she was truly devoted to them. Ragni nodded her
consent. They never wearied of gazing at each other, as those do who
cannot be satisfied. And they both thought of that which they now both
knew--the cause of her lying there ill. "Poor Karl!" whispered she.