One morning as Magnhild, after making her toilet, went into the
sitting-room, humming softly to herself and in joyous mood, to open the
window facing the street, she saw a lady standing at the open window of
the house opposite.
It was a low cottage, surrounded by a garden, and belonged to a
government officer who had moved away. Vines were trained about the
windows of the house partially covering them, and the lady was engaged
in arranging one of the sprays that was in the way. Her head was
encircled with ringlets, which were rather black than brown. Her eyes
sparkled, her brow was low but broad, her eyebrows were straight, her
nose was also straight but quite large and round, her lips were full,
her head was so beautifully poised on her shoulders that Magnhild could
not help noticing it. The open sleeves had fallen back during the work
with the vines, displaying her arms. Magnhild was unable to withdraw her
eyes. When the lady perceived Magnhild, she nodded to her and smiled.
Magnhild became embarrassed, and drew back.
Just then a child approached the lady, who stooped and kissed it. The
child also had ringlets, but they were fair; the face was the mother's,
and yet it was not the mother's, it was the coloring which misled, for
the child was blonde. The little one climbed upon a chair and looked
out. The mother caught hold of the vine again, but kept her eyes fixed
on Magnhild, and her expression was a most singular one. Magnhild put on
her hat; it was time for her to go to school; but that look caused her
to go out of the back door and return by the same way, when she came
home an hour later.
He was playing. Magnhild paused for a while in her little garden and
hearkened, until finally she felt that she must go in to see what effect
this music had upon the beautiful lady. She went into her kitchen and
then cautiously entered her sitting-room, shielding herself from
observation. No; there was no beautiful lady at the window opposite. A
sense of relief passed over Magnhild, and she went forward. She was
obliged to move some plants into the sunshine, one of her daily duties,
but she came very near dropping the flowerpot into the street, for as
she held it in her hands the lady's head was thrust into the open
window.
"Do not be frightened!" was the laughing greeting, uttered in tones of
coaxing entreaty for pardon, that surpassed in sweetness anything of the
kind Magnhild had ever heard.
"You will allow me to come in; will you not?" And before Magnhild could
answer, the lady was already entering the house.
The next moment she stood face to face with Magnhild, tall and
beautiful. An unknown perfume hovered about her as she flitted through
the room, now speaking of the lithographs on the wall, now of the
valley, the mountains, or the customs of the people. The voice, the
perfume, the walk, the eyes, indeed the very material and fashion of her
dress, especially its bold intermingling of colors, took captive the
senses. From the instant she entered the room it belonged to her; if she
smelled a flower, or made an observation concerning it, forthwith that
flower blossomed anew; for what her eyes rested upon attained precisely
the value she gave it.
Steps were heard above. The lady paused. Magnhild blushed. Then the
lady smiled, and Magnhild hastened to remark: "That is a lodger--who"--
"Yes, I know; he met me last evening at the wharf."
Magnhild opened her eyes very wide. The lady drew nearer.
"My husband and he are very good friends," said she.
She turned away humming, and cast a glance at the clock in the corner
between the bed-room wall and the window.
"Why, is it so late by your time here?" She drew out her own watch. "We
are to walk to-day at eleven o'clock. You must go with us; will you not?
You can show us the prettiest places in the wood behind the church and
up the mountain slopes."
Magnhild promptly answered, "Yes."
"Listen: do you know what? I will run up-stairs and say that you are
going with us, and then we will go at once--at once!"
She gave Magnhild's hand a gentle pressure, opened the door and sped
swiftly up the stairs. Magnhild remained behind--and she was very pale.
There was a whirling, a raging within, a fall. But there was no
explosion. On the contrary, everything became so empty, so still. A few
creaking steps above, then not another sound.
Magnhild must have stood motionless for a long time. She heard some one
take hold of the door-knob at last, and involuntarily she pressed both
hands to her heart. Then she felt an impulse to fly; but the little fair
curly head of the child, with its innocent, earnest eyes, now appeared
in the opening of the door.
"Is mamma here?" the little one asked, cautiously.
"She is up-stairs," replied Magnhild, and the sound of her own voice,
the very purport of the words she uttered, caused the tears to rise in
her eyes and compelled her to turn her face away.
The child had drawn back its head and closed the door. Magnhild had no
time to become clear in her own mind about what had occurred; for the
child speedily came down-stairs again and into her room.
"Mamma is coming; she said I must wait here. Why are you crying?" But
Magnhild was not crying now. She made no reply, however, to the child,
who presently exclaimed: "Now mamma is coming."
Magnhild heard the lady's step on the stair, and escaped into her
bedroom. She heard the interchange of words between mother and child in
the adjoining room, and then to her consternation the bedroom door was
opened; the lady came in. There was not the slightest trace of guilt in
her eyes: they diffused happiness, warmth, candor through the whole
chamber. But when her gaze met Magnhild's the expression changed,
causing Magnhild to drop her eyes in confusion.
The lady advanced farther into the room. She placed one hand on
Magnhild's waist, the other on her shoulder. Magnhild was forced to
raise her eyes once more and met a grieved smile. This smile was also so
kind, so firm, and therefore so persuasive, that Magnhild permitted
herself to be drawn forward, and presently she was kissed--softly at
first, as though she were merely fanned by a gentle breath, while that
unknown perfume which always accompanied the lady encompassed them both,
and the rustle of the silk dress was like a low whisper; then
vehemently, while the lady's bosom heaved and her breath was deeply
drawn as from some life-sorrow.
After this, utter silence and then a whispered: "Come now!" She went on
in advance, leading Magnhild by the hand. Magnhild was a mere child in
experience. With contending emotions she entered the pretty little
cottage occupied by the lady, and was soon standing in the midst of open
trunks and a wardrobe scattered through two rooms.
The lady began a search in one of the trunks, from which she rose with a
white lace neckerchief in her hand, saying: "This will suit you better
than the one you have on, for that is not at all becoming," and taking
off the one Magnhild wore, she tied on the other in a graceful bow, and
Magnhild felt herself that it harmonized well with her red dress.
"But how have you your hair? You have an oval face and your hair done up
in that way? No"--and before Magnhild could offer any resistance she was
pressed down into a chair. "Now I shall"--and the lady commenced undoing
the hair. Magnhild started up, fiery red and frightened, and said
something which was met with a firm: "Certainly not!"
It seemed as though a strong will emanated from the lady's words, arms,
fingers. Magnhild's hair was unfastened, spread out, brushed, then drawn
loosely over the head and done up in a low knot.
"Now see!" and the mirror was held up before Magnhild.
All this increased the young woman's embarrassment to such a degree that
she scarcely realized whose was the image in the glass. The elegant lady
standing in front of her, the delicate perfume, the child at her knee
who with its earnest eyes fixed on her said, "Now you are pretty!"--and
the guest at the opposite window who at this moment looked down and
smiled. Magnhild started up, and was about to make her escape, but the
lady only threw her arms around her and drew her farther into the room.
"Pray, do not be so bashful! We are going to have such a nice time
together;" and once more her attention was full of that sweetness the
like of which Magnhild had never known. "Run over now after your hat and
we will start!"
Magnhild did as she was bid. But no sooner was she alone than a sense of
oppression, a troubled anxiety, wrung her heart, and the lady seemed
detestable, officious; even her kindness was distorted into a lack of
moderation; Magnhild failed to find the exact word to express what
distressed her.
"Well? Are you not coming?"
These words were uttered by the lady, who in a jaunty hat, with waving
plume, beamed in through the window. She tossed back her curls, and
drew on her gloves. "That hat becomes you very well indeed," said she.
"Come now!"
And Magnhild obeyed.
The little girl attached herself to Magnhild.
"I am going with you," said she.
Magnhild failed to notice this, because she had just heard steps on the
stairs. Tande, the composer, was coming to join them.
"How your hand trembles!" cried the little one.
A hasty glance from the lady sent the hot blood coursing up to
Magnhild's neck, cheeks, temples--yet another from Tande, who stood on
the door-steps, not wholly free from embarrassment, and who now bowed.
"Are we going up in the wood?" asked the little girl, clinging tightly
to Magnhild's hand.
"Yes," replied the lady; "is there not a path across the fields behind
the house?"
"Yes, there is."
"Then let us go that way."
They went into the house again, and passed out of the back door, through
the garden, across the fields. The wood lay to the left of the church,
and entirely covered the plain and the tower mountain slopes. Magnhild
and the child walked on in advance; the lady and Tande followed.
"What is your name?" asked the little girl.
"Magnhild."
"How funny, for my name is Magda, and that is almost the same."
Presently she said: "Have you ever seen papa in uniform?"
No, Magnhild never had.
"He is coming here soon, papa is, and I will ask him to put it on."
The little girl continued to prattle about her papa, whom she evidently
loved beyond all else upon earth. Sometimes Magnhild heard what she was
saying, sometimes she did not hear. The pair walking behind spoke so low
that Magnhild could not distinguish a single word they were saying
although they were quite near. Once she gave a hasty glance back and
observed that the lady's expression was troubled, Tande's grave.
They reached the wood.
"Just see! here at the very edge of the wood is the most charming spot
in the world!" exclaimed the lady, and now she was radiant again, as
though she had never known other than the most jubilant mood. "Let us
sit down here!" and as she spoke she threw herself down with a little
burst of delight and a laugh. Tande seated himself slowly and at a
little distance, Magnhild and the child took their seats opposite the
pair.
The little one sprang directly to her feet again, for her mother wanted
flowers, grass, ferns, and moss, and began to bind them at once into
nosegays when they were brought to her. It was evidently not the first
time Magda had made collections of the kind for her mother, for the
child knew every plant by name, and came running up to the group with
exclamations of delight whenever she found anything her mother had not
yet noticed but which she knew to be a favorite of hers.
Various topics were brought forward, some of which, although not all,
were dwelt upon by Tande, who had stretched himself out on the grass and
seemed inclined to rest; but from the moment an affair of recent
occurrence was mentioned, concerning a wife who had forsaken her
husband, and had eventually been cast off by her lover, he took zealous
part, severely censuring the lover, for whom Fru Bang made many excuses.
It was absurd, she said, to feign an affection which no longer existed.
But at least it was possible to act from a sense of duty, Tande
insisted. Ah, to duty they had bid farewell, the lady remarked softly,
as she busied herself in decking Magda's hat with flowers.
Further conversation incidentally revealed that Fru Bang had been in the
habit of mingling in the first circles of the land; that she had
traveled extensively, and evidently had means to live where and how she
pleased. And yet here she sat, full of thoughtful care for Magnhild, for
Tande, for the child. She had a kindly word for everything that was
mentioned; her fancy invested the most trifling remark with worth, just
as she made the blades of grass she was putting into her nosegay appear
to advantage, and managed so that not one of them was lost.
Tande's long pale face, with its marvelously beautiful smile, and the
soft hair falling caressingly, as it were, about it, had gradually
become animated.
The glowing, richly-tinted woman at his side was part of the world in
which he lived and composed.
The spot on which they sat was surrounded by birch and aspen. The fir
was not yet able to gain the mastery over these, although its scions had
already put in an appearance. While such were the case grass and flowers
would flourish--but no longer.