When she left her chamber after ten o'clock, the first object she beheld
was Roennaug, who was coming up from the coast town, and was on her way
to call on Magnhild--no, not on Magnhild, but on the priest, the young
curate, who lived at Magnhild's house, in the former saddler workshop.
Roennaug at the priest's? At eleven o'clock she was still with him. And
when she came out, accompanied by the curate, a shy young man, she
merely put her head in Magnhild's door, greeted her, and disappeared
again with the curate.
Magnhild found still greater cause for wonder, for later in the day she
saw Roennaug in company with Grong. This wounded her, she could scarcely
tell why. The following day Roennaug called in as she passed by; various
people were discussed whom it had entertained Roennaug to meet, but not a
word was said about the journey. Several days went by, and it was still
not mentioned. Perhaps it had been given up!
But finally Magnhild began to hear about this journey from others: first
from the sailor's wife who did the work of her house, then from the
woman of whom she bought fish, finally from every one. What should she
do? For upon no account would she consent to go.
Roennaug told her that she was reading Norse with Grong, and also with
the curate, in order that neither might have too much torment with her
at any one time; she wrote exercises, too, she said, and laughed. In the
same abrupt manner she touched upon sundry individuals and
circumstances, mentioned them in the most characteristic way, and
hurried on to something else. Magnhild was not invited to the hotel.
Roennaug often went by pushing her child in a little wagon she had
bought; she would stop and show the child to every one she met, but she
never brought it in to see Magnhild.
Roennaug made the most extraordinary sensation in the town. It was no
unusual thing at a sea-port town to see remarkable changes of fortune.
Judging from the presents Roennaug made, indeed from her whole
appearance, she must be immensely wealthy, yet she was the most
unassuming and sociable of all. Magnhild frequently heard her praises
sounded; the young curate alone occasionally observed that she
decidedly evinced that impatience which was characteristic of such a
child of fortune.
But what then did Roennaug hear about Magnhild? For it might be assumed
beyond all doubt that if she did not question Magnhild herself she at
least asked others about her. This was true, but she proceeded very
cautiously. There were, indeed, but two people to whom she put direct
questions,--the young curate and Grong.
The curate said that during the whole time he had been at the Point, and
that was now nearly a year, he had neither heard nor seen anything but
good concerning Magnhild. Skarlie was a person who was less transparent;
according to universal testimony he had settled in this town merely to
study the prevailing conditions and utilize them for his own
benefit--"without competition and without control." He was sarcastic and
cynical; but the curate could not deny that it was sometimes amusing to
talk with him. The curate had never heard that Skarlie was otherwise
than considerate to his wife--or rather his adopted daughter; for other
relations scarcely existed between them. And the shy young curate seemed
quite embarrassed at being obliged to give this information.
Grong, on the contrary, called Magnhild a lazy, selfish, pretentious
hussy. She would not even take the trouble to tie up her stockings; he
had noticed this himself. The hand-work she had started here had long
since been left to a hunchback girl named Marie and a tall girl by the
name of Louise. Magnhild occasionally taught them something new, yet
even that was due not to herself but to her husband, who picked up such
things on his travels and spurred her on to introduce them. Upon the
whole, Skarlie was a capable, industrious fellow, who had breathed life
into this sleepy, ignorant parish, and even if he had victimized the
people somewhat, it could scarcely be expected that so much knowledge
should be gained for nothing.
Magnhild's vocation? Bah! He had long since given up the idea of there
being such a thing as a special destiny. In Nordland, many years before,
he had seen an old man who in his childhood had been the only person
saved out of a whole parish; the rest had been swept away by an
avalanche. This man was a great dunce; he had lived to be sixty-six
years of age without earning a farthing except by rowing, and had died a
year before, a pauper. What sort of a destiny was that? Indeed, there
were precious few who had any destiny at all.
Grong at this time was wretchedly out of humor: he had believed his
gifted son to be destined for something; he lived for his sake
alone--and the young man had accomplished nothing except falling in
love. Roennaug, who knew nothing of Grong's own experience, was shocked
at his harsh verdict. Nor could she induce him to discuss the subject
with her, for he declared point blank that Magnhild bored him.
So she once more sought Magnhild herself, but found her so apathetic
that it was impossible to approach her.
If she would persevere in her design, there was nothing left for her but
to resort to strategy.
In the most indifferent tone in the world she therefore one day
announced to Magnhild that in a couple of days she proposed starting;
Magnhild would not need to take much luggage with her, for when they
stopped anywhere they could purchase whatever they required. That was
the way she always managed.
This was about nine o'clock in the morning, and until twelve o'clock
Magnhild was toiling over a telegram to her husband who had just
announced to her his arrival at Bergen. The telegram was at last
completed as follows:--
"Roennaug, married to the rich American, Charles Randon, New York, is
here; wants me to go with her on a long journey.--Magnhild."
She felt it to be treason when, on the stroke of twelve, she dispatched
this telegram. Treason? Toward whom? She owed reckoning to no one.
Meanwhile, in the afternoon, she went out in order that no one might
find her. When she returned home in the evening a telegram was awaiting
her.
"Home by the steamer to-morrow.--Skarlie."
Roennaug sought Magnhild at eight o'clock the next morning: she wanted to
surprise her with a traveling suit that was ready for her at the hotel.
But it was all locked up at Magnhild's. Roennaug went round the house and
peeped in at the bed-room window whose curtain was drawn aside. Magnhild
was out! Magnhild, who seldom rose before nine o'clock!
Well, Roennaug went again at nine. Fastened up! At ten o'clock. The same
result. After this she went to the house every quarter of an hour, but
always found it fastened up. Then she became suspicious. At eleven
o'clock she paid two boys handsomely to stand guard over the house and
bring her word as soon as Magnhild returned.
Roennaug herself stayed at the hotel and waited. It came to be one, two,
three o'clock--no messenger. She inspected her guards; all was right.
The clock struck four, then five. Another inspection. Just as the clock
struck six a boy came running along the street, and Roennaug, hat in
hand, flew down the steps to meet him.
She found Magnhild in the kitchen. Magnhild was so busy that Roennaug
could find no opportunity to speak a single word with her. She was
passing incessantly to and fro between kitchen, yard, and inner rooms.
She went also into the cellar and remained there for a long time.
Roennaug waited; but as Magnhild never paused, she finally sought her in
the pantry. There she asked her if she would not go with her to the
hotel for a moment. Magnhild said she had no time. She was engaged in
putting butter on a plate.
"For whom are you making preparations?"
"Oh!"--
The hand which held the spoon trembled; this Roennaug observed.
"Are you expecting Skarlie by the steamer--now?"
Magnhild could not well say "No," for this would speedily have proved
itself false, and so she said "Yes."
"Then you sent for him?"
Magnhild laid aside the spoon and went into the next room; Roennaug
followed her.
It now came to light how much good vigorous Norse Roennaug had learned in
the short time she had been studying, even if it were not wholly
faultless. She first asked if this signified that Skarlie would prevent
the journey. When Magnhild, instead of making any reply, fled into the
bed-chamber, Roennaug again followed her; she said that _to-day_ Magnhild
must listen to her.
This "to-day" told Magnhild that Roennaug had long been wanting to talk
with her. Had the window Magnhild now stood beside been a little larger,
she would certainly have jumped out of it.
But before Roennaug managed to begin in earnest, something happened.
Noise and laughter were heard in the street, and ringing through them an
infuriated man's voice. "And _you_ will prevent me from taking the
sacrament, you hypocritical villain?" After this a dead silence, and
then peals of laughter. Most likely the man had been seized and carried
off; the shouting and laughing of boys and old women resounded through
the street, and gradually sounded farther and farther away.
Neither of the two women in the chamber had stirred from her place. They
had both peered out through the door toward the sitting-room window, but
they had also both turned away again, Magnhild toward the garden. But
Roennaug had been reminded by this interruption of Machine Martha, who in
her day had been the terror and sport of the coast town. Scarcely,
therefore, had the noise died away, before she asked,--
"Do you remember Machine Martha? Do you remember something that I told
you about your husband and her? I have been making inquiries concerning
it and I now know more than I did before. Let me tell you it is unworthy
of you to live under the same roof with such a man as Skarlie."
Very pale, Magnhild turned proudly round with:--
"That is no business of mine!"
"That is no business of yours? Why you live in his house, eat his food,
wear his clothes, and bear his name,--and his conduct is no business of
yours?"
But Magnhild swept past her and went into the sitting-room without
vouchsafing a reply. She took her stand by one of the windows opening on
the street.
"Aye, if you do not feel this to be a disgrace, Magnhild, you have sunk
lower than I thought."
Magnhild had just leaned her head, against the window frame. She now
drew it up sufficiently to look at Roennaug and smile, then she bowed
forward again. But this smile had sent the blood coursing up to
Roennaug's cheeks, for she had felt their joint youth compared in it.
"I know what you are thinking of,"--here Roennaug's voice trembled,--"and
I could not have believed you to be so unkind, although at our very
first meeting I plainly saw that I had made a mistake in feeling such a
foolish longing for you."
But in a moment she felt herself that these words were too strong, and
she paused. It was, moreover, not her design to quarrel with Magnhild;
quite the contrary! And so she was indignant with Magnhild for having
led her so far to forget herself. But had it not been thus from the
beginning? With what eager warmth had she not come, and how coldly had
she not been received. And from this train of thought her words now
proceeded.
"I could think of nothing more delightful in the world than to show you
my child. There was, indeed, no one else to whom I could show it. And
you did not even care to see it; you did not so much as want to take the
trouble to dress yourself."
She strove at first to speak calmly, but before she finished what she
was saying, her voice quivered, and she burst into tears.
Suddenly Magnhild darted away from the window toward the kitchen
door--but that was just where Roennaug was; then toward the bed-room
door, but remembering that it would be useless to take refuge there,
turned again, met Roennaug, knew not where to go, and fled back to her
old place.
But this was all lost on Roennaug; for now she too was in a state of
extreme agitation.
"You have no heart, Magnhild! It is dreadful to be obliged to say so!
You have permitted yourself to be trailed in the mire until you have
lost all feeling, indeed you have. When I insisted upon your seeing my
child, you did not even kiss it! You did not so much as stoop to look at
it; you never said a word, no, not a single word, and you have no idea
how pretty it is!"
A burst of tears again checked her flow of words.
"But that is natural," she continued, "you have never had a child of
your own. And I chanced to remember this, otherwise I should have
started right off again--at once! I was so disappointed. Ah! well, I
wrote Charles all about it!" In another, more vigorous tone she
interrupted herself with: "I do not know what you can be thinking of. Or
everything must be dead within you. You might have full freedom--and you
prefer Skarlie. Write for Skarlie!" She paced the floor excitedly.
Presently she said: "Alas! alas! So this is Magnhild, who was once so
pure and so refined that she saved me!" She paused and looked at
Magnhild. "But I shall never forget it, and you _shall_ go with me,
Magnhild!" Then, with sudden emotion: "Have you not one word for me? Can
you not understand how fond I am of you? Have you quite forgotten,
Magnhild, how fond I have always been of you? Is it nothing to you that
I came here all the way from America after you."
She failed to notice that she had thus avowed her whole errand; she
stood and waited to see Magnhild rouse and turn. She was not standing
near enough to see that tears were now falling on the window-sill. She
only saw that Magnhild neither stirred nor betrayed the slightest
emotion. This wounded her, and, hasty as she was in her resolves when
her heart was full, she left. Magnhild saw her hurry, weeping, up the
street, without looking in.
And Roennaug did not cease weeping, not even when she had thrown herself
down over her child and was kissing it. She clasped it again and again
to her bosom, as though she wanted to make sure of her life's great
gain.
She had expected Magnhild to follow her. The clock struck eight, no
Magnhild appeared; nine--still no Magnhild. Roennaug threw a shawl over
her head and stole past the saddler's house. Skarlie must have come home
some time since. All was still within; there was no one at the windows.
Roennaug went back to the hotel and as she got ready for bed she kept
pondering on what was now to be done, and whether she should really
start on her journey without Magnhild. The last thought she promptly
dismissed. No, she would remain and call for assistance. She was ready
to risk a battle, and that with Mr. Skarlie himself, supported by the
curate, Grong, and other worthy people. She probably viewed the matter
somewhat from an American standpoint; but she was determined.
She fell asleep and dreamed that Mr. Skarlie and she were fighting. With
his large hairy hands he seized her by the head, the shoulders, the
hands; his repulsive face, with its toothless mouth, looked with a laugh
into her eyes. She could not ward him off: once more he had her by the
head; then Magnhild repeatedly called her name aloud and she awoke.
Magnhild was standing at the side of her bed.
"Roennaug! Roennaug!"
"Yes, yes!"
"It is I--Magnhild!"
Roennaug started up in bed, half intoxicated with sleep. "Yes, I
see--you--It is you? No, really you, Magnhild! Are you going with me?"
"Yes!"
And Magnhild flung herself on Roennaug's bosom and burst into tears. What
tears! They were like those of a child, who after long fright finds its
mother again.
"Good Heavens! What has happened?"
"I cannot tell you." Another burst of passionate weeping. Then quietly
freeing herself from Roennaug's arms, she drew back.
"But you will really come with me?"
There was heard a whispered "yes," and then renewed weeping. And Roennaug
stretched out her arms; but as Magnhild did not fly into them, she
sprang out of bed and took her joy in a practical way by beginning to
dress in great haste. There was joy, aye, triumph in her soul.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, drawing on her clothes, she took a
closer survey of Magnhild; the summer night was quite clear and light,
and Magnhild had raised a curtain, opened a window, and was now standing
by the latter. It was about three o'clock. Magnhild had on a petticoat
with a cloak thrown over it; a bundle lay on the chair, it perhaps
contained her dress. What could have happened? Roennaug went to her
parlor to finish dressing, and when Magnhild followed her, the new
traveling suit was lying spread out and was shown to her. She uttered no
word of thanks, she scarcely looked at the suit; but she sat down beside
it and her tears flowed anew. Roennaug was obliged to put the clothes on
her. As she was thus engaged, she whispered:--
"Did he try to use force?"
"That he has never done," said Magnhild; "no, there are other
things"--and now she became so convulsed with weeping that Roennaug said
no more, but finished dressing both Magnhild and herself as quickly as
possible. She hastened into the bed-chamber to awaken her American
friend, then down-stairs to rouse the people of the hotel: she wanted to
start within an hour.
She found Magnhild where she had left her.
"No, this will not do," said she. "Pray control yourself. Within an hour
we must be away from here."
But Magnhild sat still; it was as though all her energy had been
exhausted by the struggle and the resolve she had just come from.
Roennaug let her alone; she had as much as she could do to get ready.
Everything was packed, and last of all the child was wrapped in its
traveling blanket without being roused. Within an hour they and all
their belongings were actually stowed away in the carriage.
The world around them slept. They drove onward in the bright, dawning
morning, past the church. The sun was not visible; but the skies, above
the mountains to the east, were flushed with roseate hues. The landscape
lay in dark shadows, the upper slope of the mountains in the deepest of
deep black-blue; the stream, not a streak of light over its struggle,
cut its way along, like a procession of wild, angry mountaineers,
recklessly dashing downward at this moment of the world's awakening,
without consideration, without pausing for rest, and with shrill
laughter at this mad resolve and the success which attended it.
The impressions of nature, and the feelings Magnhild might otherwise
have experienced during this journey away from the griefs of many years,
over the first miles, as it were, of a new career in the sumptuous
traveling carriage of the friend of her childhood,--all were lulled into
a weary, vapid drowsiness. Her daily life had been for years one
monotonous routine, so that the emotions of a single evening had
completely exhausted her strength. She longed now for nothing so much as
for a bed. And Roennaug, bent on fully carrying out the wonders of
contrast, was not content with traveling in her own carriage with two
horses (when the ascent began she would have four), she wanted also to
sleep in one of the guest-beds at the post-station where she had once
served. This wish was gratified, and three hours' sleep was taken by
them all. The hostess recognized Roennaug, but as she was a person
Roennaug had not liked, there was no conversation between them.
After they had slept, eaten, and settled their account, Roennaug felt a
desire to write something with her own hand in the traveler's register.
That was indeed too amusing. She read what was last written there, as
follows: "Two persons, one horse, change for the next station," and on
the margin was added,--
"Birds encountered us two, tweewhitt!
'With _us_ to tarry, think you, tweewhitt?'
"'We plan, we reason, no more, tra-ra!
Each other we adore, tra-ra!'"
"What nonsense was this?" The rest of the party must see: it was
translated into English for Betsy Roland. Now they remembered that as
they drove into the station they had seen a carriage, with a gentleman
and lady in it, driving quickly past them up the road. The gentleman had
turned his face away, as though he did not wish to be seen; the lady was
closely veiled.
They were still talking of this when they sat in the carriage and drove
away, while all the people at the station had assembled to watch them.
The travelers concluded that the verses must have been written by some
happy new-married couple; and Magnhild, by one of those trains of
thought which cannot be accounted for, called to mind the young couple,
the gentleman in morocco slippers, and the lady with her hair so
strangely done up, she had met at the next station, on her own wedding
trip. This led her to recall her own wedding, then to think of what she
had gone through in all these years, and of how aimless her whole life
was,--aimless whether she looked into the past or into the future.
Day had meanwhile dawned in wondrous beauty. The sun had risen above the
lofty mountains. The valley, although narrow, was so situated that it
was thoroughly illumined by the sunshine. The stream now flowed in a
narrower, more rocky bed, was white with foam where struggles arose,
grass-green where they ceased, blue where there were overhanging
shadows, and gray where the water formed eddies over a clay bottom. The
grass here was filled with stubble, farther up it was studded with
yellow cowslips, the largest they had ever seen.
The peaks of the mountains sparkled, the dark pine forest in the bosom
and lap of the chain displayed such a wealth of luxuriance, that whoever
viewed it aright must inevitably be refreshed. Close by the road-side
grew deciduous trees, for here the pines had been cut down, yet ever and
anon they pushed their way triumphantly forth from their vigorous
headquarters in the background. The road was free from dust. On the
outskirts of the forest grew mountain flowers, all glittering with the
last dew-drops of the day.
The travelers had the carriage stop that they might pluck some of the
flowers; and then they sat in the grass and amused the child with them;
they wove garlands and twined them about the little one. A short
distance farther up, where the stream had sunk so far beneath them that
its roar had ceased to sound above all else, they heard the jubilant
song of birds. The thrush, singly and in groups, swung from tree to
tree, and its vigorous chirping had a cheering tone. A startled
wood-grouse, with strong wing-beats, flew shrieking among the branches.
A dog who followed the horses set chase to the red grouse; they
shrieked, flapped their wings, hid in the heather, shrieked, started up
again and sought a circuitous way back. They must have nests here. There
was also a rich growth of birch round about this little heath.
"Ah, how I have longed for this journey! And Charles, who gave it to
me!" The tears stood in Roennaug's eyes, but she brushed them away, after
she had kissed her child. "No, no tears. Why should there be any?"
And she sang:--
"Shed no tear! Oh shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! Oh weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core."[3]
[3] Keats.
"This is our summer trip, Magnhild! The summer travels in Norway. Now
onward!"
But Magnhild bowed down and covered her face with her hands.
"All shall be well with you, Magnhild. Charles is so good! He will do
everything for you."
But here she heard Magnhild sob, and so she said no more.
The sunny day through which they rode onward, the fresh, aromatic
mountain air they inhaled, the sounds of jubilee which burst forth from
the forest, blending with childhood's memories, became too much for
Roennaug. She forgot Magnhild and began to sing again. Then she took the
child and chatted playfully with it and with Miss Roland. She was
surprised by Magnhild's asking:--
"Do you love your husband, Roennaug?"
"Do I love him? Why, when Mr. Charles Randon said to me: 'I will gladly
provide for your education, Roennaug; I hope you will let me have this
pleasure,'--well, I let him have the pleasure. When Mr. Charles said to
me: 'My dear Roennaug, I am much older than you; yet if you could consent
to be my wife, I am certain that I should be happy,'--well--and so I
made him happy. And when Mr. Charles said: 'My dear Roennaug, take good
care of our little Harry, so that I may find you all in Liverpool in
September, and your Norwegian friend with you,'--why, I determined that
he should find us all in Liverpool in September, and little Harry well
and hearty; and my Norwegian friend along, too!"--and she kissed the
child and set it to laughing.
They changed horses at the next post-station. Magnhild and Miss Roland
kept their seats in the carriage. Roennaug got out, partly to re-visit
familiar haunts, partly to make an entry in the register. That was her
duty, she said. Presently she came back, laughing, with the register.
Under the entry: "Two persons for the next station,"--indicating that
these two persons were too much absorbed to even trouble themselves with
the name of the next station,--were the following lines:--
"Love is all the budding flower,
Perfect blossom, fruit mature.
When breaking boughs no more endure,
Then "stop!" is shrieked to Winter's power.
Rather life to stop be driven;
No alternative is given!"
Roennaug translated it for Betsy Roland, and now various conjectures were
expressed by them all, in both Norwegian and English. They agreed in
supposing the writers to be two lovers, on a journey, under peculiar
circumstances; but whether they were a newly-married couple, or merely
lovers; whether theirs was a runaway flight, or whether they were simply
actuated by exuberance of spirits over happily overcome obstacles,
or,--oh! there were manifold possibilities.
Roennaug wished to copy the verses, and Magnhild offered her a leaf from
her pocket-book. As this was produced a letter fell from it. Magnhild
was surprised, but she soon remembered that she had received the letter
by mail the evening before, an hour after her husband's arrival. Wholly
absorbed in her conflict with him, she had placed it for the time in her
pocket-book. She never received letters, so she could not imagine from
whom this could come. The two travelers from America did not notice that
the letter bore a foreign stamp, but Magnhild saw this at once. She tore
open the letter; it was written in a delicate hand, on fine paper, and
was quite long. It was headed "Munich," and the signature was--did she
read aright?--"Hans Tande." She folded the letter again, without knowing
what she was doing, while the hot blushes spread over face and neck. The
two others acted as though they had observed nothing; Roennaug busied
herself with copying the verses.
They drove rapidly on, and left Magnhild to her reflections. But her
embarrassment increased to such a degree that it became positive torture
to her to sit in the carriage with the others. She meekly begged to be
allowed to get out and walk a little distance. Roennaug smiled and
ordered the coachman to stop,--they had just reached a level plain where
the horses could rest a while. When the travelers had alighted, she took
Magnhild by the hand and led her toward a thicket a few steps behind
them.
"Come--go in there now and read your letter!" said she.
When Magnhild found herself alone in the wood she stood still. Her
agitation had compelled her to pause. She peered about her, as though
fearing even in this lonely spot the presence of people. The sun played
here and there on the yellow pine needles that were strewn about, on the
fallen decayed branches, on the dark green moss covering the stones, on
the heather in the glades. Around her all was profoundly still; from the
sunny margin of the wood there floated toward her the twittering of a
solitary bird, the babbling of the child, and Roennaug's laughter, which
rang with the utmost clearness through the trees.
Magnhild ventured to draw forth the letter once more. She opened it. It
was not folded in the original creases. She spread it out before her,
and looked at it as an aged woman might gaze into the depths of a chest
upon her bridal garments. A solitary sunbeam, breaking through the
branches, played restlessly on the sheet, and was now round, now oblong.
Magnhild saw within its shining ring one word, two words, more
distinctly than the rest. "Great hopes--and failed!" were written there.
"Great hopes--and failed." She read and trembled. Alas! alas! alas! Over
and over again she read the words, and felt rich in expectation, in
dread, in memories of bliss and of conflict; she could not sit still,
she rose to her feet, but only to sit down again to fresh efforts. The
ringing tones of Roennaug's laughter broke upon her solitude, like a
staff, which she grasped for support. She gained courage from Roennaug's
courage, and looked here and there in the letter, not to read, rather to
find out whether she dare read. But she was too agitated to connect the
broken sentences, and was led, almost unawares, to a continuous perusal.
She did not understand all that she read. Still it was a communion; it
was like the warm clasp of a hand. There was music wafted about
her,--_his_ music; she was once more in his presence, with the rare
perfume, the look, the embarrassed silence, amid which she had
experienced earth's highest bliss. The diamond cut its shining circlets
over the piano keys, his white, refined hand played "Flowers on the
Green." Wholly under his influence now, she became absorbed in
re-reading the letter, comprehended it better than before, paused,
exulted without words, read, while the tears trickled down her cheeks.
She paused, without being aware of it, simply because she could not see,
began again, without perceiving it, wept profusely, read on, finished
only to begin anew--three, four, five times from beginning to end. She
could read no more.
What had she not experienced during this perusal of thoughts and
feelings she had had a thousand times before, and thoughts and feelings
she had never dreamed of!
The first complete impression she gathered, in the humid forest shades,
where she sat concealed from view, was like a shaft of quivering
sunbeams. It was the foreboding which stole over her--it was not put
into words, and yet it was breathed from every line (a thousand times
sweeter so!) the foreboding, aye, the certainty, that he, yes, that he
had loved her!--and the second was that he had at the same time been
fully aware of her love, long, long before she had grasped it herself!
and he had not hinted at this by so much as a look. How considerate he
had been! And yet, what must he not have seen in her heart! Was it true?
Could it be true?
Ah! it was all one! And yet amidst her grief the thought of being able
to feel all this to the core as _he_ had felt, was like the sun shining
behind a misty atmosphere and gradually bursting through the layers of
fog with thousands of undreamed-of light effects, above and below. How
freely she could breathe again after the void, privation, brooding of
many years.
Not until later did individual thoughts force themselves forward, then
not fully until Roennaug came to her. There was something labored in this
letter; it read occasionally like a translation from a foreign language.
But now for the _letter itself_:--
I have just returned from the south. I thought myself strong
enough. Alas! The papers have doubtless informed you that I am
ill; but the papers do not know what I now know!
The first thing I do in this new certainty is to write to you,
dear Magnhild.
You will, of course, be painfully surprised at the sight of my
signature. I awakened great hopes--and failed when they should
have been fulfilled.
A thousand times since I have thought how impossible it would be
for you to go to the piano and try over some song we three had
studied together, or some exercise we two had gone through. A
miracle would have been needed to compel you to do so.
A thousand times I have considered whether I should write to
you, and tell you what I must now tell you, that this has been
the deepest sorrow of my life.
You set me free from a once rich, but afterward unworthy
relation, and this was my salvation. The germ of innocence in my
soul was once more released. The entire extent of my
emancipation, however, I did not realize so long as we were
together.
And I repaid you for what you had done for me by desolating your
life, so far as lay within my power. But I have also yearned to
tell you what I now believe: our destiny upon earth is not alone
what we ourselves have recognized it to be, not alone what we
believe to be the main purpose of our existences. When you,
without being yourself conscious of it, gave me a purer, higher
tendency, you were fulfilling a part of your destiny, dear
Magnhild. It was perhaps a small part; but perhaps it was also
only an hundredth part of still more which you had done for many
others without so much as suspecting it yourself.
Magnhild, I can say it now without danger of being
misinterpreted, and also without doing harm; for you have become
four years and a half older and I am going hence; indeed, I
believe it will help you to hear it. Well, then, the innocence
in your soul had become, amidst your peculiar circumstances, a
moral atmosphere which in you, more than in any one I ever met,
proclaimed itself to be a power. It was all the more beautiful
because so unconscious in its manifestations. It was breathed
from every manifestation of your bashfulness. It revealed itself
to me not alone in your blushes, Magnhild; no, in the tone of
your voice also, in the immediate relations you held with every
one you had intercourse with, or looked upon, or merely greeted.
If there were those in your presence who were not pure, you made
them appear abhorrent; you taught even the fallen ones what
beauty there is in moral purity.
You have the fullest right to rejoice over what I say. Aye, may
it bring you more than rejoicing! It is not well to brood over
a lost vocation, Magnhild, and the letters I receive from Grong
lead me to suppose that this is what you are now doing. One who
does not attain the first or greatest object of his ambition
ought not to sink into listless inactivity; for do we not thus
check the development of the thousand-leaved destiny of the tree
of life? May not even disappointment be part of this?
* * * * *
(Five days later.)
Magnhild, I do not say this in self-justification. Every time I
think of your singing I realize what I have repressed. It
possessed a purity, untouched by passion, and that was why it
moved with such exalting influence through my soul. The perfume
of tender memories was in it, memories of my childhood, my
mother, my good teacher, my first conceptions of music, my first
yearning for love, or thirst for beauty. It also revived the
first, pure tintings of life, those which had not yet become
glaring, still less tainted.
I think of your singing artistically schooled, radiant with
spirituality--what a revelation! And this I checked in its
growth.
I bought while we were together some of the brooches made by
your father. I showed them to no one. Under the circumstances
it would have caused suspicion and consequent annoyance. But in
those brooches I felt the family calling, Magnhild, the family
work, which your talent should have further continued. In your
father's work there is innocent fancy, patience, in its
imperfections, as it were, a sigh of far more significant,
undeveloped power.
Is all this now checked because your progress is checked, you
who are the last of your family and without children? No, I
cannot justify myself.
* * * * *
(I have been again compelled to lay aside my pen for many days.
Now I must try if I can finish.)
Let not the wrong I did to you, and thereby, alas, to many both
in the present and in the future, be used by you as an excuse
for never making further progress! You can, if you will, give
free scope to whatever power there is within you, if not in one
way, in another. And do this now; do it, also, because I implore
you! You can make the burden of my fault less heavy for my
thoughts, now in the last hours of my life.
Aye, while I write this it grows lighter. The kindness you, in
spite of all, surely cherish toward me (I feel it!) sends me a
greeting.
You will, so far as you can, rescue my life's work, where it
failed to complete its efforts; you will build upon and improve,
Magnhild!
You will, moreover, accept this request as a consolation?
* * * * *
(I could proceed no farther. But to-day I am better.)
If what I have written helps to open the world once more to you,
so that you can enter in and take hold of life's duties; aye, if
all that you have either neglected or only half performed can
come to attain the rank of links in life's problem, and thus
become dear to you,--then it will do me good; remember this!
Farewell!
Ah, yes, farewell! I have other letters to write, and cannot do
much. Farewell! HANS TANDE.
* * * * *
(Eight days later.)
I copy in this letter to you the following lines from a letter
to another:--
"It is not true that love is for every one the portal to life.
Perchance it is not so for even half of those who attain _real
life_.
"There are many whose lives are ruined by the loss of love, or
by sacrificing everything to love. With some of them, perhaps,
it could not have been otherwise (people are so different,
circumstances excuse so much); but those whose existences I have
seen thus blighted could unconditionally have gained the mastery
over self and in the effort acquired a new power. Encouraged,
however, by a class of literature and art whose
short-sightedness proceeds from a maimed will, they neglected
all attempts at gaining strength."