The next morning Roennaug dreamed of singing; she still heard it when she
awoke, and ere long she had so far collected herself as to consider
whether it could really be Magnhild who was singing. This thought caused
her to become wide awake and to leave her bed.
She scarcely waited to don her morning-gown before she opened a window.
From the sitting-room, which was at the other end of the house, there
came the sound of singing and a low piano accompaniment. The voice was
pure and high; it must be Magnhild's.
Roennaug made haste to complete her toilet and go down-stairs. She
carried her boots out into the passage and put them on there lest she
should awaken Miss Roland and the child. There was some one coming up
the stairs. Roennaug quickly put down her boots and stepped forward; for
the head which was now displayed to her view was Grong's. What, Grong
here?
He greeted Roennaug with a keen, hasty glance, and, without a word, went
into an apartment near hers.
Roennaug sat listening to the singing while she put on her boots. It
flowed so equally and calmly; unquestionably there was joy in it, but
the joy was subdued--it might be called pure.
She remained still until Magnhild ended, and even then paused a little
while. She finally went down-stairs. The door of the sitting-room was
half open, which accounted for her having heard so distinctly. Magnhild
had turned round with the piano-stool and sat talking with the two
friends of her childhood, who had seats one on each side of her. She had
been singing for them, it would seem.
They all rose as Roennaug entered. Magnhild called her friend's attention
to the clock. Verily, the hour hand pointed to ten. Magnhild had been up
a long time--and singing.
The girls withdrew to carry coffee, eggs, etc., into the dining-room. As
soon as Magnhild saw that she and Roennaug were alone, she hastened to
ask if Roennaug knew that Grong was at the parsonage. Roennaug told about
having just met him.
"Yes," whispered Magnhild, "he is traveling in search of his son. Only
think, the young man has eloped with the girl to whom he is betrothed!
He is twenty years old, she about sixteen."
"So, then, the verses--?"
"Were of course by Grong's son. Grong is furious. He wanted to make a
poet of his son, though!"
They both laughed.
The young man was really extraordinarily gifted, Magnhild further
narrated, and for his sake his father had read extensively, besides
taking long journeys with his son in Germany, France, Italy, and
England. Plans had been made to give the young man an opportunity of
gaining an impression of the scenery of his fatherland and of country
life, but--pop!--the bird had flown.
Grong was now heard on the stairs, so nothing more was said. He gave the
ladies a sharp glance as he entered, then began to pace the floor, as
completely hidden by his beard as though it were a forest, and veiled by
his spectacles as an image is veiled in a fountain.
They sat down to the late breakfast, and the priest's wife received
them, one by one, with diffident friendliness. The priest had gone down
to the school-house to attend a meeting.
After the meal was over, Grong, who had not opened his mouth for any
other purpose than to eat and to drink, walked through the sitting-room
and passage directly out to the door-steps. Roennaug bravely followed;
she wished to talk with him. He discovered this and made an effort to
escape, but was overtaken and obliged to walk up the road with Roennaug.
When he heard what she wanted, he exclaimed:--
"I have been so confoundedly bored with this tall woman and her tiresome
vocation, that you will find it impossible to get one word out of me.
Besides, I am expecting my 'skyds.'"
He was about to turn away; but Roennaug held fast to him, laughing, and
brought him back to the theme. Before she had succeeded, however, in
laying before him the necessary facts, he interrupted with,--
"The fact is she has no vocation whatever; that is the whole secret of
the matter. Her singing? Tande so often wrote to me about her singing.
Well, I have been listening to her singing this morning, and do you know
what I think about it? Technical correctness, good method, pure tone, in
abundance; but no fancy, no inspiration, no expression; how the deuce
could there be! Had she had fancy, she would have had energy, and with
her voice, her natural technical ability, she would have become a
singer, whether there was a Tande or not, whether she had married a
Skarlie or a Farlie."
Notwithstanding the harsh, blunt form in which this idea was framed,
there might be sufficient truth in it to make it worth while to place
Magnhild's history before Grong in its true light. Grong could not
resist the fascination of a soul's experiences. He became all ear,
forgetting both his ire and his "skyds."
He heard now about the Magnhild who would scarcely take pains to dress
herself, and who let Skarlie do and say what he pleased, but who the
moment Skarlie mentions Tande's name and hers together, in other words,
invades her inner sanctuary, flees forthwith from him to America. Was
there no energy in that?
He heard about the Magnhild who, checked in her highest aspirations,
became wholly indifferent. The relations with Tande were fully
explained. Grong, indeed, had been partially acquainted with them by
Tande himself. Roennaug also thought it right to inform Grong of the
purport of Tande's letter; she could recall it perfectly, for it had
made a deep impression on her.
What an impression did it not make on Grong!
How much it must have cost this man in his time to renounce what he had
originally believed to be his vocation. And now to have to give up his
hopes for his son? How could she and Magnhild have laughed at this--as
they had done that same morning.
"Consolation in the idea that our calling is greater and more manifold
than we ourselves are aware? Yes, for those who can blindly and without
exercise of their own wills place themselves under subjection to the
unknown guidance! I cannot do so!" He raised his clinched hand, but let
it fall again. "Is it a crime to steer toward a definite goal, and
concentrate one's will, one's responsibility upon its attainment? Look
at yonder insect! It goes straight forward; it has a fixed aim. Now I
crush it to death. See--thus!
"You should have seen my wife," he continued, presently. "She sped
onward through life, with fluttering veil; her eyes, her thoughts
sparkled. What was her goal? Just as she was beginning, with my aid, to
comprehend her faculties, she expired. A meteor!
"I had a friend. What talents, and what aspirations! How handsome he
was! When he was but little over twenty years of age, he fell during the
siege of a Danish fortress, scarcely mentioned, scarcely remembered. A
meteor!
"But what solicitude for existences which neither can nor will be of any
use in the world. That fisherman in Nordland was the only person who was
saved from destruction out of a whole parish. And he lived more than
sixty years as stupid as the codfish he drew out of the sea.
"For the sake of others? For the advancement of one's fellow-creatures?
For the good of posterity? Aye, aye, find consolation in all this, if
you can! Before I shall be able to do so I must see the benefit of it
for myself. The mole's life in the dark, with chance alone for its
guide, is not a life that I could lead, even though I might have a
certificate guarantying that light should dawn on me one day, that is to
say, on the other side of the grave. I admire those who can be content
with such a lot."
"In other words, you despise them!" interposed Roennaug.
Grong looked at her, but made no reply.
Roennaug was anxious to know how it was best to advise Magnhild. Grong
promptly answered,--
"Advise her to go to work."
"Without definite object? Merely for the sake of work?"
He hesitated a moment, and then said,--
"I will tell you one thing, my good lady: Magnhild's misfortune has been
that throughout her whole life she has had every want supplied, every
meal, every garment. Had she been obliged to labor hard, or to bring up
children, she would not have indulged so freely in dreams."
"So, then, work without definite aim?" repeated Roennaug.
"There are so many kinds of aims," said Grong, peevishly,--and then he
was silent. It was evident that he had been all round the circle and had
returned to his wrath over what had befallen himself.
They had turned and were retracing their steps in the friendly birch
avenue leading to the parsonage. The tones of a human voice were heard;
they drew nearer, paused, and listened attentively. The windows were
open, and every note rang out, clear and equal.
"Yes, there is purity in the voice," said Grong; "that is true. But
purity is a mere passive quality."
They went on.
"Not technical skill alone, then?" queried Roennaug.
To this Grong made no reply. He had fallen into a new train of thought.
When they had reached the house, he roused himself.
"She and I are, both of us, I dare say, bearers of a half-completed
family history. Nevertheless, her family dies out with her; and mine?
Oh, all this is enough to drive one mad! Where is my 'skyds?'"
With these words he strode past the main building to the court-yard
behind. Roennaug slowly followed. The "skyds" had not yet arrived.
Grumbling considerably, Grong sauntered up to the coach-house, whose
doors stood open, and in which he saw Roennaug's carriage. She joined
him, and they discussed the carriage together. It was too light for a
traveling carriage, Grong thought. One fore-wheel must already have been
damaged, for it had been taken off. So, then, it depended upon the
blacksmith how long the ladies would remain at the parsonage? But he
would start without further delay; for there--at last--came the "skyds."
He bade her a light farewell, as though he were merely going to the next
corner, and then went into the house for his luggage. Roennaug, however,
determined to wait until he came out again.
She had a kindly feeling for him. She earnestly hoped that the son's
case was not so bad as the father now thought. There was so much unrest
in Grong. Was not this caused by his having a great variety of
"talents," but no one special talent? She had once heard Grong half
jestingly make a similar assertion about another person. All these
endowments, however, might be combined in one main tendency, of this
Roennaug felt sure. It might be the same in the case of Magnhild; but
perhaps there was not sufficient talent there. Technical ability? Aye,
if that were her chief endowment she could doubtless render it available
in singing.
Roennaug had failed to find the light she needed. This was truly
discouraging; for counsel must be given, a resolution formed. She prayed
God for her friend, and for this gloomy man now coming out of the house,
accompanied by the priest's wife, who seemed to be the only person to
whom he had said farewell.
"Present my greetings to my old teacher," he called down from the
cariole, as he grasped the hand of the mistress of the house. "Tell
him--tell him nothing!" and with this he whipped up his horse so
suddenly that the "skyds" boy came near being left behind.
The priest's wife made some remarks about his surely being very unhappy,
as she stood watching him drive away. While the ladies were still at the
door, a woman came walking up the road toward them. She nodded and
smiled at the mistress of the house as she passed on her way to the
kitchen.
"You made your sale?"
"Yes."
"I thought so from your looks."
Then turning to Roennaug the priest's wife said,--
"This woman, you may well believe, made Magnhild happy this morning."
"How so?"
"Why, she stopped here with her work on her way to the dealer, who makes
purchases for a merchant in town. Just as she stepped inside Magnhild
came down into the kitchen. When the woman caught sight of her, she
eagerly addressed her--she is a great talker--and she began to cry and
to talk, to talk and to cry, telling how poor she had been and how well
off both she and her children now were. Magnhild, you know, for many
years taught an Industrial School up in these mountains, and this woman
was one of her aptest pupils. This hand-work, I can assure you, has
spread rapidly here; there are scarcely any poor people to be found in
our parish now."
"But Magnhild--was she glad?"
"She certainly must have been glad, for soon afterward we heard her
singing. And the last time she was here--about four or five years
ago--we could not persuade her to go near the piano."
Roennaug now greeted Miss Roland, who was coming toward her with the
child. A little later, as she was going through the passage to the
sitting-room, the sounds of music once more floated out toward her. The
priest's daughters were at the piano, singing a duet with feeble voices,
one of which was more quavering than the other. They were drawling
out,--
"All rests in God's paternal hand."
The door stood open. One of the girls sat at the piano, the other stood
at its side. Magnhild sat facing them, leaning against the piano.
Peace radiated from the little hymn, because they who sang it were at
peace. The small, yellow-haired heads above the stiff collars did not
make a single movement, the piano almost whispered. But the sunshine,
playing on the embroidered furniture and the embroidered covers, blended
with the music a harmony from afar.
When they had finished singing, one of the girls told that a lady
traveling that way had taught them the hymn, and the other, that her
part had been arranged by the Froeken. Without uttering a word, without
even changing her position, Magnhild held out her hand, which was
clasped by the young lady nearest her.
At this moment voices were heard out of doors. The priest was
approaching, accompanied by several men. As they stopped at the
door-steps, Roennaug entered the sitting-room. Soon a tramping of many
feet was heard on the steps; the group at the piano rose, Magnhild
crossed the floor to where Roennaug stood. First the dog, then the
priest, entered in solemn procession, and slowly following them came
dropping in, one by one, six or seven of the farmers of the little
mountain parish, heavy, toil-worn men, all of them. Magnhild pressed
close up to Roennaug, who also drew back a little, so that they two stood
in front of the gauze-covered mirror. The priest said good-morning,
first to Mrs. Randon, then to Magnhild, and asked how they were. Then
the men went round the room, one by one, and shook hands with every one
present.
"Call mother," said the priest to one of his daughters, and cleared his
throat.
The mistress of the house soon appeared, and again man after man stepped
forward, shook hands, and returned to his place. The priest wiped his
face, stationed himself in front of the frightened Magnhild, bowed, and
said:--
"Dear Magnhild, there is no cause for alarm! The representatives of our
little parish chanced to assemble to-day in the school-house, and as I
happened to mention that you were making a journey and had stopped at
the parsonage on your way, some one said: 'It is due to her exertions
that the poor-rates of this parish are so small.' Several others
expressed the same sentiments. And then I told them that this should be
said to your face; they all agreed with me. I do not suppose thanks have
ever been offered to you, my dear child, either here or down at the
Point, where the results of your work are even greater than here and
have spread to the parishes on both sides of the fjord.
"Dear child, God's ways are inscrutable. As long as we can discern them
in our own little destinies we are happy, but when we fail to see them
we become very unhappy." (Here Magnhild burst into tears.)
"When you were carried downward by the landslide, with your sled in your
little hand, you were saved in order that you might become a blessing to
many.
"Do not scorn the gratitude of this humble parish: it is a prayer for
you to the Almighty. You know what He has said: 'Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto
me.' May you realize this!"
The priest now turned toward his wife, and in the same solemn tone
said,--
"Have refreshments handed to these men!"
He strode round among the latter with playful remarks, but the whole
house seemed to shake beneath his tread. The more deeply Magnhild seemed
moved the happier the priest was.
Magnhild felt a strong impulse to say something to him; for had she not
found a refuge in his house, none of the results for which she had just
received such unmerited thanks would have been accomplished. But the
priest's impetuosity restrained her.
Refreshments were handed round; then the men once more shook hands with
every one and withdrew, led by the priest, whose voice could be heard
almost all the way to the school-house.