They remained at the parsonage several days, for when it was announced
that Magnhild was going with Roennaug to America the good people were so
startled that it was thought best to grant them time to become
accustomed to the idea. Magnhild wished for her own sake, too, to pass a
little time with them.
One day the ladies were all taking a walk along the road. Roennaug and
Miss Roland had little Harry between them, so they made but slow
progress. From sheer solicitude for the child they all went quite out of
the way of a large carriage which was overtaking them.
"Magnhild!" was called from the carriage, at the moment those walking
had fully turned their faces toward it.
Magnhild looked up; a lady in black was smiling at her. Magnhild sprang
directly toward her; the coachman stopped his horses. It was Fru Bang.
The lady drew Magnhild up to her and kissed her. A stout military man by
the lady's side bowed.
The lady was thin. She wore a mourning suit of the latest style. Jet
beads, strewed all over the costume, sparkled with every movement; from
the jaunty hat, with waving plume, flowed a black veil which was wound
about the neck. As from out the depths of night she gazed, with her
glowing eyes, which acquired, in this setting, an especially fascinating
radiance. Melancholy resignation seemed to command, as it were, the
countenance, to hold sway over every nerve, to control the smile about
the mouth, to languish in these eyes.
"Yes, I am changed," said she, languidly.
Magnhild turned from the lady to the stout officer. The lady's eyes
followed.
"Do you not recognize Bang? Or did you not see him?"
His size had increased tenfold, the flesh resembling heavy layers of
padding; he occupied at least two thirds of the carriage, crowding his
wife, for one shoulder and arm covered hers. He looked good-natured and
quite contented. But when one looked from his plump, heavy face and body
back to the lady, she appeared spiritualized--aye, to the very
finger-tips of the hand from which she was now drawing the glove.
Steadfastly following Magnhild's eyes, she stroked back from Magnhild's
brow a lock of hair which had crept forward, and then let her hand pass
slowly, softly over her cheek.
"You are in mourning?" asked Magnhild.
"The whole land should be in mourning, my child!" And after a pause,
came a whispered, "He is dead!"
"You must remember that there is no time to lose if we would reach the
steamer," said Bang.
The lady did not look up at her husband's words; she was busy with the
lock she had just stroked back. Bang gave the coachman a sign, the
carriage was set in motion.
"I am going to America," whispered Magnhild, as she descended from the
carriage step.
The lady gazed after her a moment, then she seemed to grasp in its full
extent what it implied that Skarlie's wife was going far, far away--what
suppositions might be therewith connected and what consequences. For her
face resumed somewhat of its old brightness, her frame regained its
elasticity: at once she was on her feet, had turned completely round,
and was waving her handkerchief. With what charming grace she did it!
Her husband would not permit the carriage to halt again. He contented
himself with following his wife's example by waving one hand. The
movement must have been accompanied by an admonition to sit down, for
the lady disappeared forthwith.
The plume in her hat waved over his shoulder. More could not be seen;
she must have let herself glide back into her place.
DUST.
CHAPTER I.
The drive from the town to Skogstad, the large gard belonging to the
Atlung family, with its manufacturing establishment on the margin of
the woodland stream, at the usual steady pace, might possibly occupy
two hours; but in the fine sleighing we had been having it could
scarcely take an hour and a half. The road was a chaussee running
along the fjord. All the way from town I had the fjord on the
right-hand side, and on the left broad fields, gently sloping down
from the heights and dotted with villas and gards, surrounded by
hedges of trees and having avenues leading to them.
Farther on, the heights became mountains, and rose more abruptly from
the shore; here, too, they became more and more rugged, and at last had
no other growth than the pine forest, from the uppermost ridge all the
way down to the fjord, forest, forest, far as the eye could reach. This
belonged to Skogstad; the factory on the Skogstad River prepared the raw
material.
The Atlungs were of French descent, having settled here in the times of
the Huguenots, and were people of plain origin who had bettered their
condition by marrying into the once wealthy and influential Atlung
family, taking its name, which sounded not unlike their own.
I thoroughly enjoyed the drive. It had recently been snowing, and the
snow still lay on the trees; not a breath of wind had left its traces in
the wood. On the other hand, it had been thawing a little, which the
deciduous trees that here began to press forward farther down toward the
road could not tolerate; the sole covering they wore was the new-fallen
snow of the morning.
Between both the white landscape and the snow-laden air, the fjord
appeared black. It was not far to the opposite side, and there still
loftier mountains loomed up, now also white, but of that subdued tint
imparted by the atmosphere.
Where I was driving the sea lay close up to the edge of the snow, only a
few sea-weeds, some pebbles, and in some places not so much as these,
separated the two forms and hues of the same element--reality and
poetry, where the poetry is just as real as the reality, simply not so
enduring.
As soon as I had advanced as far as the forest, this attracted my
undivided attention. The fir-trees held great armfuls of snow; in some
places it had been showered around; nevertheless there was still so much
uncovered that a shimmer of dark green overspread the whiteness of the
entire forest. On a nearer view it could be seen that the single
uncovered branches were thrust forth, as it were, defiantly, and that
the red-tinted lower boughs had pierced the snow-drifts.
Higher up mighty trunks were visible, most of them dark, although some
of the younger ones were brighter: taken all together an assemblage of
well-laden giants, and this gave an air of solemnity to the thicket. The
foremost trees, which were low enough not to impede the view, and which
while growing had been disfigured either by man or beast, perhaps too by
the storms (for they had borne the brunt of these), had not the regular
shapes of the others; they were more gnarled, affording the snow an
opportunity to commit what ravages it chose among them. Their lowest
branches were in some places quite bowed to the ground, often making the
tree appear like an unbroken mass of white; others were fantastically
transformed into clumsy dwarfs, with only upper parts to their bodies,
or into sundry human forms, each with a white sack drawn over the head,
or a shirt that was not put on right.
Alongside of these awkward figures I noticed small clusters of deciduous
trees, over which but the faintest suspicion of snow was spread; a
single one, which stood apart from the rest, looked as though its
outmost white branches, as they grew finer and finer, gradually flowed
into the air; then there were young spruce trees which formed pyramid
upon pyramid of regular layers of snow. Close down by the sea, where
there were more stones, might now and then be seen a bramble bush. The
snow had spread itself on every thorn, so that the bush looked as if it
were strewed over with white berries.
I rounded a naze with a crag upon it, and here is where Skogstad proper
begins. The ridge recedes and is broken by the river. Again we see
gently sloping fields, and here lies the gard. The river flows farther
away; the red roof and a row of buildings alongside become visible. On
either side of the gard lie the housemen's places with their surrounding
grounds, but they are separated from the gard by fields on the one side
and by a wood or park on the other.
At the sight of the park I forgot all that had gone before. Originally
it was intended to slope down to the sea; but the stony ground had
evidently rendered this impossible, and so the trees on the lower square
had been felled; but in the course of years, instead of pine woods a
vigorous growth of deciduous trees had shot up. These, being of the same
year's growth, were of an equal height, and extended all the way up to
the venerable pine trees in the park. The effect of the delicate
encircling the ponderous, the light opposed to the heavy, the low and
perpetually level at the foot of the upward-soaring and powerful, was
very fine.
The eye reveled in this, searching for forms; I would combine a hundred
branches in one survey, because they ran parallel in the same curve, at
about the same height; or I would single out one solitary bough from the
rest and follow it from its first ramification through the branches of
its branches to the most delicate twig,--a distended, transparent white
wing, or a monstrous fern leaf strewed all over with white down. Then I
was compelled once more to cease following the forms and turn to the
colors; the unequal coating presented an infinite variety.
I turned my back on my traveling companion, the fjord, and wound my way
up to the gard. Where the park ended, the garden began, and the road
followed this in a gradual ascent. Once there had been a wood here also,
and the road had passed through it; but of the wood there was left but a
few yards, on either side, thus forming the avenue. Large, old trees
were about being replaced by young ones, whose growth was so dense that
in some places I could not see the gard I was driving toward. But the
snow-romance followed, decking the sinking giants with white flags,
powdering the young and fresh ones, and playing Christmas masquerade
with the deformed ones.
CHAPTER II.
The impressions of nature play their part in our anticipations of what
we are about to meet. What was there so white and refined in the
experience that awaited me here?
She was not clad in white, to be sure, the last time I saw her, the
bright attractive being whom I was now to meet again. On her wedding
journey, and in Dresden, some nine years previous to this time, we had
last been together. True, she was dressed in gala attire every day--a
whim of the young bridegroom, in his blissful intoxication; but most
frequently she wore blue, not once did she appear in white; nor would it
have been becoming to her.
I remember them especially as they sang at the piano, he sitting,
because he was playing the accompaniment, she standing and usually with
her hand on his shoulder; but what they sang was indeed white, at least
it was always of the character of a more or less jubilant anthem. She
was the daughter of a sectarian priest, and they had just come from the
parsonage and from the wedding feast. Since then I had heard of them
from time to time at the parsonage, and from that source I had received
repeatedly renewed urgent entreaties to visit them the next time I was
in their vicinity. I was now on my way to them.
I had heard the dwelling-house spoken of as one of the largest frame
buildings in Norway. It was gray and immensely long. No Atlung had ever
been satisfied with what his predecessor had built, and so the house
had had an addition made to it by every generation and a partial
remodeling of the old portions, so far as it was necessary to make these
correspond with the new. I had heard that many and long passages
(concerning which at festal gatherings rhymes without end were said to
have been made) endeavor to unite the interior in the same successful or
unsuccessful manner as the out-buildings, sloping roof, balconies, and
verandas attempt to keep up the style of the exterior. I have heard how
many rooms there are in the house, but I have forgotten it.
The last addition was made by the present owner, and is in a sort of
modernized gothic style.
Behind the dwelling the other buildings of the gard form a crescent,
which, however, protrudes in rather an unsightly manner on one side.
Between these and the dwelling I now drove in order to alight, according
to the post-boy's advice, at a porch in the gothic wing. I did not see a
living being about the gard, not even a dog. I waited a little but in
vain, then walked through the porch into a passage, where I took off my
wraps, and then passed on into a large bright front room to the right.
Neither did I see any one here; but I heard either two children's
voices and a woman's voice, or two female voices and one child's voice,
and I recognized the song, for it was one that was just then floating
about the country, the lament of a little girl that she was everywhere
in the way except in heaven with God, who was so glad to have unhappy
children with Him. It sounded rather strange to hear such a lament in
this bright, lively room, filled with guns and other sporting
implements, reindeer horns, fox skins, lynx skins, and similar
substantial objects, arranged with the most exquisite taste.
I knocked at the door and entered one of the most charming sitting-rooms
I have seen in this country, so bright its outlook on the fjord, so
large it was, so elegant. The brightly polished wooden panels of the
wall were relieved by carved wooden brackets, each bearing a bust or a
small statue; the stylish furniture was in every direction gracefully
distributed about on the Brussels carpet. Moody and Sankey's dreamy
melody flowed out over this like a white or yellow sheet. This hymn
belongs to a collection of Christian songs which are among the most
beautiful that I know; but it made the same impression here as if
beneath this modern room there was a crypt from the Middle Ages where
immured nuns were taking part in ceremonies for the dead, amidst smoking
lamps, and whence incense and low chanting, inseparably blended, stole
up into the bright conceptions and cheerful art of the nineteenth
century.
The singing proceeded from one woman and two boys, the elder of the
latter seven years old or a little more, and the younger about six. The
woman turned her face toward the door, and paused quite astonished at my
entrance; the boys were gazing out of the window, and did not look at
her; they were wholly absorbed in their singing, and therefore they
continued a while after she had ceased.
Of these two boys the one resembled the father's family, the other the
mother's; only the mother's eyes had been bestowed on them both. The
elder of the boys had a long face, with high brow and sandy hair, and he
was freckled like his father. The younger one had his mother's figure,
and stooped slightly because the head was set forward on the shoulders.
But in consequence of this his head was usually thrown somewhat backward
in order to recover its equilibrium. The result of this again was that
the lips were habitually parted, and then the large, questioning eyes
and the bright curly hair encircling the fine arched brow were exactly
like the mother's. The elder one was tall and thin, and had his father's
lounging gait and small, outward turned feet. I observed all this at a
glance, while the boys walked across the room to the table by the sofa,
as their companion left them. She had advanced, after a moment's
hesitation, to meet me; she was evidently not sure whether she knew me
or not. On hearing my name, she discovered with a smile that it was only
my portrait she had seen, the portrait in the album, a souvenir of the
wedding journey of the heads of the house. She informed me that Atlung
was at the factories, and would be home to dinner, that is to say in
about an hour, and that the mistress of the house was at one of the
housemen's places I had seen from the road; it seemed that there was an
old man lying at the point of death there.
She made this announcement in a melodious, although rather feeble voice,
and with a pair of searching eyes fastened on me. She had heard
something about me. I had never thought that I should see one of Carlo
Dolci's madonnas step down from a frame to stand in a modern
sitting-room and talk with me, and therefore my eyes were certainly not
less searching than hers. The way the head was poised on the shoulders,
its inclination to one side, the profile of the face, and beyond all
else the eyes and the eyebrows, indeed, the bluish green head kerchief,
which was drawn far forward, imparting to the pale face something of its
own hue--altogether a genuine Carlo Dolci!
She walked noiselessly away, and left me alone with the boys, whom I at
once attacked. The elder one was named Anton, and he could walk on his
hands, at least, almost; and the younger one informed me that his name
was Storm, and told me a great deal more about his brother, whom he
regarded with unqualified admiration. The elder, on the other hand,
assured me that his brother Storm was a very bad boy sometimes; he had
recently been caught at some of his naughty tricks, and so papa had
given him a flogging that same day; Stina had told papa about it. Stina
was the name of her who had just left us.
After this not very diplomatic introduction to an acquaintance, they
stood one on each side of me and prattled away about what at present was
working in their minds, with most extraordinary force. They both now
told me, the elder one taking the lead and the younger following with
supplementary details, that yonder at one of the houseman's places, past
which I had driven, lived Hans, little Hans; that is he _had_ lived
there, for the real, true little Hans was with God. He had come to the
gard to play with the boys almost every day; though sometimes they too
had been over at the housemen's places, which I soon perceived were to
the boys the promised land of this earth. Then one evening, about a
fortnight since, Hans had started to go home at dusk; it was before the
snow came, and in the park, through which he had to pass, the fish pond
lay spread before him so smooth and black. Hans thought he would like to
slide on it and he climbed up from the path on to the pond, for the path
ran right along it. But that same day there had been a hole cut in the
ice for the people to fish, and they had forgotten to put a signal
there, and so little Hans slid right into the hole. A child's cry of
distress had reached the gard; the milkmaid had heard it, but only once,
and she had not thought very much about it, for all the boys were in the
habit of playing in the park. So little Hans had disappeared and no one
could say where he was. Then the ice was cut away from the pond and they
found him; but the boys were not allowed to see him. They had, however,
been permitted to be present at the funeral with all the little boys and
girls of the factory school. But Hans was not buried in the chapel
where grandfather and grandmother lie; he was buried in the churchyard.
Oh, what beautiful singing they had had! The school-master had sung bass
with them, and the old brown horse had drawn Hans, who was in a white
painted coffin that papa had bought in town, and there were garlands of
flowers on it. Mamma and Stina had arranged them. All the children got
cakes before they started and currant wine. And the song was the one the
boys had just been singing; Stina had taught it to them. Hans had been
very poor; but now he had all he wanted; he was with God; it was only
the coffin that was put in the ground. What was in the coffin? Why, it
was not the real Hans that was there, for Hans was quite new now. Angels
had come down to the pond with everything that the new Hans was to wear,
so that he did not feel cold in the pond; he was not there. All children
who died went to God, and that together with a hundred thousand million
very small angels. The angels were all round about us here too; but we
could not see them because they were invisible, and Hans was now with
them. The angels could see us, and they were so kind to us, especially
to children, and they always wanted to have very unhappy little
children with them; that was the reason why they took them. It is ever
and ever and ever so much nicer to be with the angels than to be here.
Yes, indeed, it is, for Stina said so. Stina too would rather be with
the angels than here; it was only for mamma's sake that Stina did not go
to them, for mamma would be so lonely without her. All angels had wings,
and now Hans's father was lying ill, and he would soon be with Hans. He
also would have wings and be a little angel and fly about here and
wherever he himself chose--right up to the stars. For the stars were not
only stars, they were as large, as large, when we got up to them, as
large as the whole earth, and that was enormously large, larger than the
largest mountain. And there were people on the stars, and there were
many things that were not here. And that same afternoon Hans's father
was to go right to God, for God was up in heaven. They would like so
much to see Hans's father get his wings; but mamma would not let them go
with her. And Hans's father had already become so beautiful, as he lay
in his bed, that he almost looked like an angel. Mamma had said so; but
they were not allowed to see him.
Stina made her appearance as they came to the last words; she bade them
come with her and they obeyed.
A door stood open to the left; I could see book-shelves in the room to
which it led, so that I presumed the library must be there. I felt a
desire to know what the father of these boys was reading just
then--provided that he read at all. The first thing I found open on the
desk, by the side of letters, account-books, and factory samples, was
Bain. And Bain's English friends were the first books my eyes beheld on
the nearest shelves. I took out one, and saw that it had been much read.
This accorded with what I had heard of Atlung.
Just then bells were heard outside. I thought it must be the mistress of
the house returning, and put back the books in the same order I had
found them. In so doing I disarranged some behind them (for the books
stood in two rows), and I felt a desire to examine also these that were
hidden from view, which took time. I did not leave the library until
just as the lady was entering the front door.
CHAPTER III.
Fru[4] Atlung was evidently glad to see me. She had a singular walk; it
seemed as though she never fully bent her knees; but with this peculiar
gait she advanced hastily toward me, grasped my hands with both of hers,
and looked long into my eyes, until her own filled with tears. It was,
of course, the wedding journey this look concerned, the most beautiful
days of her life;--but the tears?
Nay, unhappy she could not be. She was so thoroughly the same as she was
formerly, that had she not been somewhat plumper, I could not--at all
events, not at once--have detected the slightest change. The expression
of her countenance was exactly the same innocent, questioning one, not
the slightest suggestion of a sterner line or a change of coloring; even
the hair fell in the same ringlets about the backward thrown head, and
the half parted lips had the same gentle expression, were just as
untouched by will, the eyes wore the same look of mild happiness, even
the slightly-veiled tone of the voice had the same childlike ring as of
yore.
"You look as though you had not had a single new experience since last
we met," was the first remark I could not help making to her.
She looked up smiling into my face, and not a shadow contradicted my
words. We took our seats, each in a chair that stood out on the carpet,
near the library door; our backs were turned to the windows, and thus we
faced a wall where between the busts and statues that rested on the
carved wooden brackets, there hung an occasional painting on the
polished panels.
I gave an account of my trip, received thanks for coming at last. I
delivered greetings from her parents, of whom we talked a little. She
said she had been thinking of her father to-day, she would have been so
glad to have had him with her; for she had just come from a dying man,
whose death-bed was the most beautiful she had ever witnessed.
Meanwhile, she had assumed her favorite position, that is to say, she
sat slightly bowed forward, with her head thrown back, and her eyes
fixed on the upper part of the wall, or on the ceiling. As she sat thus,
she pressed one finger against her open under lip, not once, but with a
constant repetition of the same movement. Now and then the upper portion
of her body swayed to and fro Her eyes seemed to be fixed; they did not
seek my face, either when she asked a question or when she received an
answer, unless something special had attracted her from her position.
Even then she would promptly resume it.
"Do you believe in immortality?" she asked, as though this were the most
natural question in the world, and without looking at me.
But as I was surprised, and consequently compelled to look at her, I
perceived that a tear was trickling down her cheek, and that those open
eyes of hers were full of tears.
I felt at once that this question was a pretext; it was her husband's
belief she was thinking of. Therefore I thought I would spare her
further pretexts.
"What is your husband's opinion of immortality?"
"He does not believe in the immortality of the individual," replied she;
"we perpetuate ourselves in our intercourse with those about us, in our
deeds, and above all in our children: but this immortality, he thinks,
is sufficient."
Her eyes were fixed as before, and they were still full of tears; but
her voice was mild and calm; not a trace of discontent or reproach in
the simple statement, which doubtless was correct.
No, she is not one of the so-called childlike women, I thought; and if
she has the same innocent, questioning expression she had nine years
ago, it is not because she has been without thought or research.
"You talk, then, with Atlung about these subjects, I suppose?"
"Not now."
"In Dresden you seemed to be thoroughly united about these things; you
sang together"--
"He was under father's influence then. Besides, I think he was not quite
clear in his own mind at that time. The change came gradually."
"I saw some books, that are now placed behind the others."
"Yes, Albert has changed."
She sat motionless, as she gave this answer, except that her finger
continued its play on the under lip.
"But who, then, attends to the education of the children?" asked I.
Now she turned half toward me. I thought for a while that she did not
intend to answer but after a long time she did speak.
"No one," said she.
"No one?"
"Albert prefers to have it so for the present."
"But, my dear lady, if no one teaches them, at least one thing or
another is told to them?"
"Yes, there is no objection to that; and it is usually Stina who talks
with them."
"And so it is left entirely to chance?"
She had turned from me, and sat in her former attitude.
"Entirely to chance," she replied, in a tone that was almost one of
indifference.
I briefly related to her what Stina had told the boys about the life
beyond the grave, about angels, etc., and I inquired if she approved of
this.
She turned her face toward me. "Yes; why not?" said she. Her great eyes
viewed me so innocently; but as I did not answer immediately the blood
slowly coursed up into her face.
"If anything of the kind is to be told to them," said she, "it must be
something that will take hold of their childish imaginations."
"It confuses the reality for them, my dear lady, and _that_ is the same
thing as to disturb the development of their faculties."
"Make them stupid, do you mean?"
"Well, if not exactly stupid, it would at least hinder them from using
their faculties rightly."
"I do not understand you."
"When you teach children that life here below is nothing to the life
above, that to be visible is nothing in comparison to being invisible,
that to be a human being is far inferior to being an angel, that to live
is not by any means equal to being dead, _is that_ the way to teach them
to view life properly, or to love life, to gain courage for life, vigor
for work, and patriotism?"
"Ah, in that way! Why, _that_ is our duty to them later."
"Later, my dear lady? After all this dust has settled upon their souls?"
She turned away from me, assumed her old position, stared fixedly at the
ceiling, and became absorbed in thought.
"Why do you use the word dust?" she began presently.
"By the word dust I mean chiefly that which has been, but which now
having become disintegrated, floats about and settles in vacant places."
She remained silent a little while.
"I have read of dust which carries the poison from putrified matter. You
do not mean that, I suppose?"
There was neither irony nor anger in the tone, so I failed to
understand at what she was aiming.
"That depends on where the dust falls, my dear lady; in healthy human
beings it only creates a cloud of mist, prejudices which prevent them
from seeing clearly; if there be stagnation this dust will oftentimes
collect an inch thick, until the machinery is thoroughly clogged."
She turned toward me with more vivacity than she had yet shown, and
leaning on the arm of her chair brought her face nearer to mine.
"How did you happen upon this idea?" asked she. "Is it because you have
seen how much dust there is in this house?"
I admitted that I had seen this.
"And yet the chambermaid and Stina do nothing else but clean away the
dust, and I did nothing else either at first. I cannot understand it. At
home at my mother's, there was nothing I heard so much about as dust.
She was always busied about father with a damp cloth; he was constantly
annoyed because she would disturb his books and papers. But she insisted
that he gathered more dust than any one else. He never left his study
that she was not after him with a clothes-brush. And later it came to be
my turn. I was like my father, she said I accumulated dust, and I never
could dust well enough to satisfy her. I was so weary of dust that when
I married a Paradise seemed in prospect because I thought I should
escape this annoyance and have some one to dust for me. But therein I
was greatly in error. And now I have given it up. It is of no use. I
evidently have no talent for getting rid of dust."
"And so it is very singular," she continued, as she sank back in her
chair, "that you too should come with this talk about dust."
"I hope I have not hurt your feelings?"
"How can you think--?" and then, in the calmest, most innocent voice in
the world, she added: "It would not be easy to hurt the feelings of any
one who had lived nine years with Albert."
I became greatly embarrassed. What possible good could it do for me to
become entangled in the affairs of this household? I did not say another
word. She too sat, or rather reclined in her seat, for a long time in
silence, drumming with her fingers on the arms of her chair. Finally I
heard, as from far away, the words: "Butterfly dust is very beautiful,
though." And then some time afterward there glided forth from the midst
of a long chain of thought which she did not reveal, the query,
"refracted rays--the various prismatic colors--?" She paused, listened,
rose to her feet; she had heard Atlung's step in the front room.
I also rose.
[4] Fru corresponds to the German Frau, and means Mrs.--Translator.
CHAPTER IV.
The door was thrown wide open, and Atlung came lounging in. This tall,
slender man, in these capacious clothes that showed many a trace of the
factories he had been visiting, bore in his face, his movements, his
bearing, the unconcerned ease of several generations.
The gray eyes, beneath the invisible eyebrows, blinked a little when he
saw me, and then the long face broadened into a smile. His superb teeth
glittered between the full, short lips, as he exclaimed: "Is that you!"
He took both my hands between his hard, freckled ones, then dropping one
of them threw his arm around his wife's waist. "Was not _that_
delightful, Amalie? What? Those days in Dresden, my dear?"
When he had relaxed his hold, he made eager inquiries about myself and
my journey,--he knew I was to make a short trip abroad. Then he began
to tell me what occupied _him_ the most, and meanwhile he strolled up
and down the room, took up one article between his fingers, handled it,
then took up another. He did not hold any little thing as others do with
the extreme tips of his fingers; he firmly grasped it in his hand so
that his fingers closed over it. In conversation, too, it was just the
same: there was a certain fullness in the way he took up each subject
and flung it away again at once for something else.
His wife had left the room, but returned very soon and invited us to
dinner. Just at that moment Atlung was sauntering past the piano, on
which was open a new musical composition, whose character he described
in a few words. Then he began to play and sing verse after verse of a
long song. When he was through, his wife again reminded him of the meal.
This probably first called his attention to her presence in the room.
"See here, Amalie, let us try this duet!" he cried, and struck up the
accompaniment.
Looking at me with a smile, she took her place at his side and joined in
the song. Her somewhat veiled, sweet soprano blended with his rich
baritone, just as I had heard it nine years before. The voices of both
had acquired that deeper, fuller meaning which life gives when it has
meaning itself; their skill, on the other hand, was about the same as of
old.
Any one who but a moment before might perhaps have found it difficult to
understand how these two had come together, only needed to be near them
while they sang. A lyric abandonment of feeling was common to both, and
where there was any difference of sentiment they were perfectly content
to waive it. They floated onward like two children in a boat, leaving
the dinner behind them to grow cold, the servants to become impatient,
the guest to think what he pleased, and the order of the house and their
own plans for the day to be upset.
In their singing there was no energy, no school, no delicate finish of
style of this simple number, which, moreover, they were doubtless
singing for the first time; but there was a smooth, lazy, happy gliding
over the melody. The light coloring of the voices blended together like
a caress; and there was a charm in the way it was done.
They sang verse after verse, and the longer they continued the better
they sang together, and the more joyously. When finally they were
through and the wife, with her somewhat labored step, walked into the
dining-room on my arm, and Atlung sauntered on before to give Stina the
key to the wine-cellar, there was no longer any question in Fru Atlung's
eyes, only joy, mild, beautiful joy, and her husband warbled like a
canary bird.
We sat down to table while he was still out, we waited an interminable
time for him; either he had not found Stina or she had not understood
him: he had gone himself to the cellar and had returned so covered with
dust and dirt that we could not help laughing. His wife, however, paused
in the midst of her laughter, and sat silent while he changed his
clothes and washed.
He swallowed spoonful after spoonful of the soup in greedy haste,
regained his spirits when his first hunger was satisfied, and began to
talk in one unbroken stream, until suddenly, while carving the roast, he
inquired for the boys. They had had their dinner; they could not wait so
long.
"Have you seen the boys?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, and I spoke of their extreme artlessness, and what a
strong likeness I thought one bore to his and the other to his wife's
family.
"But," he interposed, "it is unfortunate that both families have
comparatively too much imagination; there is an element of weakness in
it, and the boys have inherited their share from both families. A very
sorrowful occurrence took place here about a fortnight since. A little
playfellow was drowned in the fish-pond. What the boys have made out of
this--of course, with Stina's aid--is positively incredible. I was
thinking about it to-day. I have not said anything, for after all it was
extremely amusing, and I did not want to spoil their intercourse with
Stina. But, indeed, it is most absurd. See here, Amalie, it would almost
be better to send them away to school than to let them run wild in this
way and get into all kinds of nonsense."
His wife made no reply.
I wanted to divert his attention, and inquired if he had read Spencer's
"Essay on Education."
Then he became animated! He had just settled himself to eat, but now he
forgot to do so; he took a few bites and forgot again. Indeed, I should
judge we sat over this one course a whole hour, while he expatiated on
Spencer. That I who had asked if he had read the book in all probability
had read it myself, did not trouble him in the least. He gave me a
synopsis of the book, often point after point, with his own comments.
One of these was that even if as Spencer desires, pedagogics was
introduced into every school, as one of its most important
branches--most people would nevertheless lack the ability to bring up
their own children; for teaching is a talent which but few possess. He
for his part proposed to send the boys, as soon as they were old enough,
to a lady whom he knew to possess this talent and who also had the
indispensable knowledge. She was an enthusiastic disciple of Spencer.
He spoke as though this were a matter long since decided upon; his wife
listened as though it were an old decision. I was much surprised that
she had not told me of it when we were talking about the children a
little while before.
I do not now remember what theme we were drifting into when Atlung
suddenly looked at his watch.
"I had entirely forgotten Hartmann! I should have been in town! Yes,
yes--it is not yet too late! Excuse me!"
He threw down his napkin, drank one more glass of wine, rose and left
the room. His wife explained apologetically that Hartmann was his
attorney; that unfortunately there was no telegraphic communication
between the gard and the town, and that unquestionably there was some
business that must be settled within an hour or thereabout.
It would take an hour at least to drive to town, if for nothing else
than to spare the horse; at least an hour there; and then an hour and a
half back, for no one would drive such a long distance equally fast back
and forth with the same horse. I sat calculating this while I finished
eating, and became aware at the same time that my coming was most
inopportune. Therefore I resolved that after coffee I too would take my
leave.
We had both finished and now rose from the table. My hostess excused
herself and went out into the kitchen, and I who was thus left alone
thought I would look round the gard.
When I got out on the steps in front of the porch, I was met by a burst
of loud laughter from the boys, immediately followed by a word which I
should not have thought they would take in their mouths, to say nothing
of shouting it out with all their might, and this in the open yard. The
elder boy called it out first, the younger repeated it after him.
They were standing up on the barn bridge, and the word was addressed to
a girl who stood in the frame shed opposite them, bending over a
sledge. The boys shouted out yet another word, and still another and
another, without cessation. Between each word came peals of merriment.
It was clear that they were being prompted by some one inside of the
barn door. The girl made no reply; but once in a while she looked up
from her work and glanced over her shoulder--not at the boys but at some
one behind the barn where the carriage-shed was situated.
Then I heard the sound of bells from that direction. Atlung came forth,
dressed for his trip and leading his horse. Great was the alarm of the
boys when they saw their father! For they suddenly realized, though
perhaps not distinctly, what they had been shouting,--at least they felt
they had been making mischief for some one.
"Wait until I get home, boys," the father shrieked, "and you shall
surely both have a whipping."
He took his seat in his sledge and applied the lash to his horse. As he
drove past me, he looked at me and shook his head.
The boys stood for a moment as though turned into stone. Then the elder
one took to his heels with all his strength. The younger followed,
crying, "Wait for me! Say, Anton, do not run away from me!" He burst
into tears. They disappeared behind the carriage-shed; but for a long
time I heard the sobbing of the younger one.
CHAPTER V.
I felt quite out of spirits, and determined to leave at once; but as I
entered the sitting-room my hostess was seated on the large gothic
settee or sofa, near the dining-room door, and no sooner did she
perceive me than she leaned forward across the table in front of her and
asked,--
"What do _you_ think of Spencer's theory of education? Do you believe we
can put it into practice?"
I did not wish to be drawn into an argument, and so merely answered,--
"Your husband's practice, at all events, does not accord with Spencer's
teachings."
"My husband's practice? Why, he has none."
Here she smiled.
"You mean he takes no interest in the children?"
"Oh, he is like most other men, I suppose," she replied; "they amuse
themselves with their children, now and then, and whip them
occasionally, too, when anything occurs to annoy them."
"You believe that husband and wife should have equal responsibilities in
such matters?"
"Yes, to be sure I do. But even in this respect men have made what
division they chose."
I expressed a desire to take my leave. She appeared much astonished, and
asked if I would not first drink coffee; "but, it is true," she added,
"you have no one to talk with."
She is not the first married woman, I thought, who makes covert attacks
on her husband.
"Fru Atlung!" I said, "you have no reason to speak so to me."
"No, I have not. You must excuse me."
It was growing dusk; but unless I was greatly in error, she was almost
ready to weep.
So I took my seat on the other side of the table. "I have a feeling,
dear Fru Atlung, that you desire to talk to some one; but I am surely
not the right person."
"And why not?" she asked.
She sat with both elbows on the table, looking into my face.
"Well, if for no other reason, at least because such a conversation
needs to be entered into more than once, because there are so many
things to consider, and I am going away again to-day."
"But cannot you come again?"
"Do you wish it?"
She was silent a moment, then she said slowly: "As a rule, I have but
one great wish at a time. And it was fully in keeping with the one I now
have that _you_ should come here."
"What is it, my dear lady?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you, unless you will promise me to come again."
"Well, then, I will promise you to do so."
She extended her hand across the table with the words: "Thank you."
I turned on my chair toward her, and took her hand.
"What is it, my dear lady?"
"No, not now," she replied; "but when you come again. You must help
me--if you believe it to be right to do so."
"Of course."
"Because you, I know, think in many particulars as Atlung does. He will
listen to _you_."
"Do you think so?"
"He will not listen to me, at all events."
"Did you ever make an effort to be heard?"
"No, that would be the worst thing I could do. With Atlung everything
must come as by chance."
"But, dear me! I noticed that on the whole you seemed to hold most
blessed relations with each other."
"Yes, to be sure we do! We often amuse ourselves exceedingly well
together."
I had a feeling that she did not wish me to look at her, and I had
turned away, so that I sat with my side to the table as before. The
twilight deepened about us.
"You remember us, I dare say, as we were in Dresden?"
"Yes."
"We were two young people who were playing with life; it had been very
amusing to be engaged, but to be married must be still more diverting,
and then to come home and keep house, oh! so immensely entertaining; but
not equal to having children. Well, here I am now with a house which I
am utterly powerless to manage, and two children which neither of us can
educate; at least Atlung thinks so."
"But do not you try to take hold?"
"Of the house, do you mean?"
"Well, yes, of the house."
"Dear me! of what use would that be? I usually get a scolding when I
try."
"But you have plenty of help, I suppose?"
"Yes, that is just the misfortune."
I was about to ask what she meant by this when the dining-room door was
noiselessly opened; Stina entered with the lamps. She passed in and out
two or three times; but the large room was far from being lighted by the
lamps she brought in. Meanwhile, conversation ceased.
When Stina was about to leave, Fru Atlung asked for the children. Stina
informed her they were being searched for; they were not on the gard.
The mother paid no further attention to this, and Stina left the room.
"Who is Stina?" I asked, as the door closed behind her.
"Oh, she is a very unhappy person. She had a drunken father who beat
her, and afterwards she had a husband, a bank cashier, who also became a
hard drinker and beat her. Now he is dead."
"Has she been here long?"
"Since before my first child was born."
"But this is sad company for you, my dear lady."
"Yes, she is not _very_ enlivening."
"Then most surely she should be sent away."
"That would be contrary to the traditions of this house. An older person
must always take charge of the children, and this older person must live
and die in the family. Stina is a very worthy woman."
Again the subject of our conversation came noiselessly into the room;
this time with the coffee. There was upon the whole something ghost-like
about this blue-green Carlo Dolci portrait flitting thus over the rugs
in the large room, where she was searching for a shade for the lamp on
the coffee table, as though it were not dark enough here before. The
shade was, moreover, a perforated picture of St. Peter's at Rome.
Stina departed, and the lady of the house poured out the coffee.
"And so you men are going to take from us the hope in immortality, with
all the rest?" she abruptly asked.
To what this "all the rest" referred, I was allowed to form my own
conjectures. She handed me a cup of coffee and continued,--
"When I was driving this morning to the other side of the park to visit
the dying man, it occurred to me that the snow on the barren trees is,
upon the whole, the most exquisite symbol that could be imagined of the
hope of immortality spread over the earth; is it not so? So purely from
above, and so merciful!"
"Do you believe it falls from the skies, my dear lady?"
"It certainly falls down on the earth."
"That is true, but it comes also from the earth."
She appeared not to want to hear this, but continued,--
"You spoke a little while ago of dust. But this white, pure dust on the
frozen boughs and on the gray earth is truly like the poetry of
eternity; so it seems to me," and she placed a singing emphasis on the
"me."
"Who is the author of this poetry, my dear lady?"
She turned on me her large eyes, now larger than ever, but this time not
questioningly; no, there was certainly in her look.
"If there is no revelation from without, there is one from within; every
human being who feels thus possesses it."
She had never been more beautiful. At this moment steps were heard in
the front room. She turned her head in a listening attitude.
"It is Atlung back again!" said she, as she rose and rang for another
cup.
She was right; it was Atlung, who as soon as he had removed his out-door
wraps opened wide the door and came in. His attorney, Hartmann, had
grown anxious and had come to meet him. Atlung had attended to the
entire business with him on the highway.
His wife's questioning eyes followed him as he sauntered across the
floor. Either she did not like his having interrupted us, or she noticed
that he was out of humor. As he took the coffee cup from her hand, he
recounted to her his recent experience with the boys. He did not mention
any of the words the little fellows had shouted out with such jubilant
merriment; but he added enough to lead her to surmise what they were.
And while he was drinking his coffee, he repeated to her that he had
promised them a whipping; "but," said he, "something more than the rod
is needed in this case."
As she stood when she handed him the cup, so she remained standing after
he had finished his coffee and gone. Terror was depicted in both face
and attitude. Her eyes followed him as he walked about the room; she was
waiting to hear this something else which was more than the rod.
"Now I will tell you what it is, Amalie," came from across the room,
"the boys must leave to-morrow at latest."
She sank slowly down on the sofa, so slowly that I do not think she was
aware that she was seating herself. She watched him intently. A more
helpless, unhappy object I had never seen.
"You surely think enough of the boys, Amalie, to submit? You see now the
result of my humoring you the last time."
But if he goes on thus he will kill her! Why does he not look at her?
Whether she noticed my sympathy or not, she suddenly turned her eyes,
her hands, toward me, while her husband walked from us across the floor;
there was a despairing entreaty in this glance, in this little movement.
I comprehended at once what was her sole wish: this was the matter in
which I was to help her.
She had sunk down on her hands, and she remained lying thus without
stirring. I did not hear sounds of weeping; probably she was praying. He
strode up and down the room; he saw her; but his step kept continually
growing firmer. The articles he picked up and crushed in his hand, he
flung each time farther and farther away from him, and with increased
vehemence.
The dining-room door slowly opened. Stina appeared again, but this time
she remained standing on the threshold, paler than usual. Atlung, who
had just turned toward us, stood still and cried: "What is it, Stina?"
She did not reply at once; she looked at the mistress of the house, who
had raised her head and was staring at her, and who at last burst out:
"What is it, Stina?"
"The boys," said Stina, and paused.
"The boys?" repeated both parents, Atlung standing motionless, his wife
springing up.
"They are neither on the gard, nor at the housemen's places; we have
searched everywhere, even through the manufactory."
"Where did you see them last?" asked Atlung, breathless.
"The milkmaid says she saw them running toward the park crying, when you
promised to give them a whipping."
"The fish-pond!" escaped my lips before I had time to reflect, and the
effect upon myself, and upon all the others, was the same as if
something had been dashed to pieces in our midst.
"Stina!" shouted Atlung,--it was not a reproach, no, it was a cry of
pain, the bitterest I have ever heard,--and out he rushed. His wife ran
after him, calling him by name.
"Send for lanterns!" I cried to the people I saw behind Stina in the
dining-room. I went out and found my things, and returning again, met
Stina, who was moving round in a circle with clasped hands.
"Come now," said I, "and show me the way!"
Without reply, perhaps without being conscious of what she was doing,
she changed her march from round in a circle to forward, with hands
still clasped, and praying aloud: "Father in heaven, for Christ's sake!
Father in heaven, for Christ's sake!" in touching, vigorous tones; and
thus she continued through the yard, past the houses, through the
garden, and into the park.
It was not very cold; it was snowing. As one in a dream, I walked
through the snow-mist, following this tall, dark spectre in front of me,
with its trail of prayer, in and out among the lofty, snow-covered
trees. I said to myself that two small boys might of course go to the
fish-pond in the hope of finding God and the angels and new clothes; but
to spring into a hole if there was one, when there were two of them
together--impossible, unnatural, absurd! How in all the world had I come
to think of or suggest such a thing? But all the sensible things one
can say to one's self at such a moment are of no avail; the worst and
most improbable suppositions keep gaining force in spite of them; and
this "Father in heaven, for Christ's sake! Father in heaven, for
Christ's sake!" which soughed about me, in tones of the utmost anguish,
kept continually increasing my own anxiety.
Even if the boys had not gone to the fish-pond, or if they had been
there and had not dared jump into the water, they might have tumbled
into some other place. The father of little Hans was to receive wings
that afternoon; might not they, with their troubled hearts, be sitting
under a tree somewhere waiting for wings to be given them? If such were
the case, they would freeze to death. And I could see these two little
frozen mortals, who dared not go home, the younger one crying, the elder
one finally crying too. I positively seemed to hear them--"Hush!"
"What is that?" said Stina, and turned in sudden hope. "Do you hear
them?"
We both stood still; but there was nothing to hear except my own panting
when I could no longer hold my breath. Nor was there anything resembling
two little human beings huddled together.
I told her what I had just been thinking about, and drawing near me she
clasped her hands, and, in tones of suppressed anguish, whispered: "Pray
with me! Oh, pray with me!"
"What shall I pray for? That the boys may die, and go to heaven and
become angels?"
She stared at me in alarm, then turned and walked on as before, but now
without a word.
We followed a foot-path through the wood: it led to the fish-pond, as I
remembered from the story about little Hans; but we had to go more than
half the length of the park in order to reach the latter. Through a
ravine flowed a brook, and here a dam had been made. It was large so
that the fish-pond had a considerable circumference. We had to step up
from the foot-path in order to reach the edge of the pond. Stina
continued to walk in front of me, and when she had climbed the bank and
could see the pond and the two parents standing on it, she kneeled down,
praying and sobbing. Now I was sorry for her.
When I also stood upon the bank and saw the parents, I was deeply
affected. At the same time I heard voices in the wood behind me. They
came from the people with the lanterns. The flickering light of the four
lanterns that, subdued by the falling snow, was shed over human beings,
the snow itself, the lower trunks of the trees, and the shadows into
which some individuals in the party and some of the trees and certain
portions of the landscape occasionally fell, all became fixed forever in
my memory with the words I at that moment heard from the pond: "There is
no hole in the ice!"
It was Atlung's voice, quivering with emotion. I turned and saw his wife
on his neck. Stina had sprung up with an exclamation which ended in a
long but hushed: "God be praised and thanked!"
But the two on the ice still clung together, with some difficulty I
climbed down from the bank and crossed to where they stood; the wife
still hung on Atlung's neck and he was bowed over her. I paused
reverently at a little distance; they were whispering together. The
light shed by the lanterns on the pond was the first thing that roused
them.
"But what next? Where shall we seek now?" asked Atlung.
I drew nearer. I now repeated to the parents, although more cautiously,
what I had already said to Stina, that perhaps the children were sitting
somewhere under a tree, waiting in their distress of mind for
compassionate angels, and in that case there would be danger of their
being already so cold that they would be ill. Before I had finished
speaking, Atlung had called up to those on the bank: "Had the boys their
out-door things on when they were last seen?"
"No," replied two of the by-standers.
He inquired if they had their caps on; and here opinions differed. I
insisted that they did have them on; some one else said No. Atlung
himself could not remember. Finally some one declared that the elder boy
had his cap on, but not the younger one.
"Ah, my poor little Storm!" wailed the mother.
Among the people on the edge of the pond there were some who wept so
loud that they were heard below. I think there were about twenty people,
side by side, about the lanterns.
Atlung shouted up to them: "We must search the whole park through; we
will begin with the housemen's places." And he came toward the bank,
climbed up and helped his wife up after him.
They were met by Stina. "My dear, dear lady!" she whispered,
beseechingly; but neither of the parents paid any attention to her.
I stared into the ravine below us. To look down on snow-laden trees from
above is like gazing on a petrified forest.
"Dear Atlung! will not you call?" begged the wife.
He took a position far in advance of the rest; all became still. And
then he called aloud through the wood, slowly and distinctly: "Anton and
little Storm! Come home to papa and mamma! Papa is no longer angry!"
Was it the air thus set in motion, or did the last flake of snow needed
to break an overladen branch fall just then, or had some one come into
contact with such a branch; suffice it to say, Atlung received for an
answer the snow-fall from a large bough, partly at one side, partly in
front of us. It gave a hollow crash, rousing the echoes of the wood, the
bough swayed to and fro, and rose to its place, and snow was showered
over us. But this swaying motion finally caused all the heavy branches
to loose their burdens; crash followed crash, and snow enveloped us;
before we knew what was coming the nearest tree had cast the burden from
all its branches at once. The atmospheric pressure now became so great
that two more, then five, six, ten, twenty trees freed themselves, with
violent din, from their heavy loads, sending an echo through the wood
and a mist as from mighty snow-drifts. This was followed by cluster
after cluster of trees, some at our sides, some at a long distance off,
some right in front of us; the movement first passed through two great
arms, which gradually spread into manifold divisions; ere long the whole
forest trembled. The thunder rolled far away from us, close by us, now
at intervals, now all at once, and seemed interminable. Before us
everything was surrounded by a white mist; this loud rumbling of thunder
through the wood had at first appalled us; gradually as it passed
farther on and grew in proportion it became so majestic that we forgot
all else.
The trees stood once more proudly erect, fresh and green; we ourselves
looked like snow-men. All the lanterns were extinguished, we lighted
them again, and we shook the snow from us. Then we heard in a moaning
tone: "What if the little boys are lying under a snow-drift!"
It was the mother who spoke. Several hastened to say that it could not
in any way harm them, that the worst possible result would be that they
might be thrown down, perhaps stifled for a little while; but they would
surely be able to work their way out again. There was one who said that
unquestionably the children would scream as soon as they were free from
the snow, and Atlung called out: "Hark!" We stood for more than a minute
listening; but we heard nothing except a far-off echo from some solitary
cluster of trees that had just been drawn into the vortex with the rest.
But if the boys were in one of the remote recesses of the wood, their
voices could scarcely reach us; on either side of us the edges of the
ravine were higher than the banks of the pond where we stood.
"Yes, let us go search for them," said Atlung, deeply moved; as he
spoke, he went close to the brink of the pond, turned toward the rest of
us who were beginning to step down, and bade us pause. Then he cried:
"Anton and little Storm! Come home again to papa and mamma! Papa is no
longer angry!" It was heart-rending to hear him. No answer came. We
waited a long time. No answer.
Despondently he returned, and came down on the path with the rest of us;
his wife took his arm.
CHAPTER VI.
We reached the edge of the wood, and then our party divided, keeping at
such a distance apart that we could see one another and everything
between us; we walked the whole length of the wood up and then took the
next section down, but slowly; for all the snow from the trees was now
spread over the old snow on the ground; in some places it was packed
down so hard that it bore our weight, but in other places we sank in to
our knees. When we assembled the next time, in order to disperse anew, I
inquired if after all it were likely that two small boys would have the
courage to remain in the wood after it had grown dark. But this
suggestion met with opposition from all. The boys were accustomed to be
busied in the wood the whole day long and in the evenings too; they had
other boys who constructed snow-men for them, forts and snow-houses, in
which they often sat with lights, after it was dark.
This naturally drew our thoughts to all these buildings, and the
possibility of the boys having taken refuge in one or other of them. But
no one knew where they were situated this year, as the snow had come so
recently. Moreover, they were in the habit of building now in one
place, now in another, and so nothing remained but to continue as
before.
It so happened that Stina walked next to me this time, and as we two
were in the ravine, and this was winding in some places, we were brought
close together, and had no locality to search. She was evidently in a
changed frame of mind. I asked her why this was.
"Oh," said she, "God has so plainly spoken to me. We are going to find
the boys! Now I know why all this has happened! Oh, I know so plainly!"
Her Madonna eyes glowed with a dreamy happiness; her pale, delicate face
wore an expression of ecstasy.
"What is it, Stina?"
"You were so hard toward me before. But I forgive you. Dear Lord, did
not I sin myself? Did not I doubt God? Did not I murmur against the
decrees of God? Oh, His ways are marvelous! I see it so plainly--so
plainly!"
"But what do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Fru Atlung has for the last half year prayed God for
only one single thing. Yes, it is her way to do so. She learned it of
her father. Just for one single thing she has prayed, and we have
helped her. It is that the boys may not be separated from her; Atlung
has threatened to send them away. Had it not been for what has happened
this evening he would surely have kept his word; but God has heard her
prayer! Perhaps I too have been an instrument in his hands; I almost
dare believe that I have. And the death of little Hans, yes, most
certainly the death of little Hans! If those two sweet little souls are
sitting and freezing somewhere, waiting for the angels, oh, the dear,
dear boys, they surely have these with them! Do you doubt this? Ah, do
not doubt! If the boys are made ill--and they most surely will be
ill--it will be most fortunate for them! For when the father and mother
sit together beside the sick-bed, oh, then the boys will never be sent
away. Never, no never! Then Atlung will see that it would be the death
of his wife. Oh, he sees it this evening. Yes, he unquestionably sees
it. He has already made her a solemn promise; for the last time we met,
she gave me a look of such heartfelt kindness, and that she did not do a
little while ago. It was as though she had something to say to me--and
what else could it possibly be in the midst of her anxiety than this?
She has discerned God's ways, she too God's marvelous ways. She thanks
and praises Him, as I do; yes, blessed be the name of God, for Jesus
Christ's sake, through all eternity!"
She spoke in a whisper, but decidedly, aye, vehemently; the last, or
words of thanksgiving, on the contrary, with bowed head, clasped hands,
and softly, as to her own soul.
We drifted apart, although now and then we drew near together again,
when the ravine obliged us to do so, and all attempt at searching on our
part ceased.
"There is one thing I need to have explained," I whispered to her. "If
everything from the time of the sorrowful death of little Hans has
happened in order that Atlung's boys may remain with their mother; then
this great fall of snow we have recently seen and heard must be part of
the whole plan. But I cannot see how?"
"That? Why that was simply a natural occurrence; a pure accident."
"Is there such a thing?"
"Yes," replied she; "and it often has its influence on the rest. To be
sure, in this instance I cannot see how. It is a great mercy though,
that I can see what I do. Why should I ask more?"
We peered about us; but we felt convinced that the boys were not in the
ravine. What I had last said seemed to absorb Stina.
"What did _you_ think about the snow-fall?" asked she, softly, the next
time we were thrown together.
"I will tell you. Shortly before we came out into the park, Fru Atlung
had been saying to me that the hope of immortality descended from heaven
on our lives, just as hushed, white, and soft as the snow on the naked
earth"--
"Oh, how beautiful!" interposed Stina.
"And so I thought when the shock came, and the whole forest trembled,
and the snow fell from the trees with the sound of thunder,--now do not
be angry,--that in the same way the hope of immortality had fallen from
the mother of the boys, and you and all of us, in our great anxiety for
the lives of the little fellows. We rushed about in sorrow and
lamentation, and some of us in ill-concealed frenzy, lest the boys had
received a call from the other life, or lest some occurrence here had
led them to the brink of eternity."
"O my God, yes!"
"Now we have had this hope of immortality hanging over us for many
thousand years, for it is older, much older than Christianity; and we
have progressed no farther than this."
"Oh, you are right! Yes, you are a thousand times right! Think of it!"
she exclaimed, and walked on in silent brooding.
"You said before that I was hard toward you, and then I had done nothing
but remind you of the belief in immortality you had taught the boys."
"Oh, that is true; forgive me! Oh, yes indeed!"
"For you know that you had taught them that it was far, far better to be
with God than to be here; and that to have wings and be an angel was the
highest glory a little child could attain; indeed, that the angels
themselves came and carried away unhappy little children."
"Oh, I beg of you, no more!" she moaned, placing both hands on her ears.
"Oh, how thoughtless I have been!" she added.
"Do not you believe all this yourself, then?"
"Yes, to be sure I believe it! There have been times in my life when
such thoughts were my sole consolation. But you really confuse me
altogether."
And then she told me in a most touching way that her head was no longer
very strong; she had wept and suffered so much; but the hope of a better
life after this had often been her one consolation.
Atlung's mournful call, with always the same words, was heard ever and
anon, and just at this moment fell on our ears. With a start we were
back again in the dreadful reality that the boys were not yet found, and
that the longer the time that elapsed before they were found, the
greater the certainty that they must pay the penalty of a dangerous
illness. It continued to snow so that notwithstanding the moonlight we
walked in a mist.
Then a cry rang through forest and snow from another voice than Atlung's
and one of quite a different character. I could not distinguish what was
said; but it was followed by a fresh call from another, then again from
a third, and this last time could be distinctly heard the words: "I hear
them crying!" It was a woman's voice. I hastened forward, the rest ran
in front of and behind me, all in the direction whence came the call. We
had become weary of wading in the heavy snow; but now we sped onward as
easily as though there were firm ground beneath our feet. The light from
the lanterns skipping about among us and over our heads, shone in our
eyes and dazzled us; no one spoke, our breathing alone was heard.
"Hush!" cried a young girl, suddenly halting, and the rest of us also
stood still; for we heard the voices of the two little ones uplifted in
that piteous wail of lamentation common to children who have been
weeping in vain for long, long hours and to whom sympathy has finally
come.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed an elderly man,--he well knew the sound of
such weeping. We perceived that the boys were no longer alone; we walked
onward, but more calmly. We reached and passed the fish-pond, and came
to a place a little beyond the ravine, where the trees were regular in
their growth; for the spot was sheltered and hidden. The weeping, of
course, became more distinct the nearer we approached, and at last we
heard voices blended with it. They were those of the father and mother,
who had been the first to gain the spot. When we had reached an opening
where we could see between the trees into the snow, our gaze was met by
two black objects against something extremely white; it was the father
and mother, on their knees, each clinging to a boy; behind them was a
snow fort, or rather a crushed snow house, in which, sure enough, the
boys had sought refuge. When the lanterns were brought near, we saw how
piteously benumbed with the cold the little fellows were: they were
blue, their fingers stiff, they could not stand well on their feet;
neither of them had on caps; these no doubt lay in the heap of snow, if
the boys had had them with them at all. They replied to none of the
tokens of endearment or questions of their parents; not once did they
utter a word, they only wept and wept. We stood around them, Stina
sobbing aloud. The weeping of the boys, and the lamentations, questions,
and tokens of endearment of the parents, together with the accents of
despair and joy, which alternately blended therewith, were very
affecting.
Atlung rose and took up one child; it was the elder one. His wife rose
also, and gathered up the other in her arms. Several offered to carry
the boy for her; but she made no reply, only walked on with him,
consoling him, moaning over him, without a moment's pause between the
words, until she made a misstep and plunging forward fell prostrate on
the ground over her boy. She would not have help, but scrambled up with
the boy still in her arms, walked on, and fell again.
Then she cast a look up to heaven, as though she would ask how this
could happen, how it could be that this was possible!
Whenever I now recall her in her faith and in her helplessness, I
remember her thus, with the boy in front of her stretched out in the
snow, and she bending over him on her knees, tears streaming from the
eyes which were uplifted with a questioning gaze toward heaven.
Some one picked up the boy, and Stina helped his mother. But when the
little fellow found himself in the arms of another, he began to cry:
"Mamma, mamma!" and stretched forth his benumbed hands toward her. She
wanted to go to him at once and take him again in her arms, but he who
carried the child hastened onward, pretending not to hear her, although
she begged most humbly at last. They had scarcely come down on the
footpath before she hastened forward and stopped the man; then with many
loving words she took her boy again in her arms. Atlung was no longer in
sight.
I allowed them all to go on in advance of me.
But when I saw them a short distance from me, enveloped in snow between
the trees and heard the weeping and the soothing words, I drifted back
into my old thoughts.
These two poor little boys had accepted literally the words of the grown
people--to the utter dismay of the latter! If we were right in our
conjectures (for the boys themselves had not yet told us anything and
would not be likely to tell anything until after the illness they must
unquestionably pass through); but _if_ we were right in our conjectures,
then these two little ones had sought a reality far greater than ours.
They had believed in beings more loving than those about us, in a life
warmer and richer than our own; because of this belief they had braved
the cold, although amid tears and terror, waiting resolutely for the
miracle. When the thunder rolled over them, they had doubtless
tremblingly expected the change--and were only buried.
How many had there been before them with the same experience?
CHAPTER VII.
I left Skogstad at once, and without taking leave of the parents, who
were with their children. I got a horse to the next station, and was
soon slowly driving along the chaussee. The snow which had fallen made
the road heavier than when I had come that way. A few atoms still swept
about through the air but the fall was lightening more and more, so that
the moonlight gradually gained in force. It fell on the snow-clad
forest, which still stood unchanged, with fantastic power; for although
the details were lost the contrasts were striking.
I was weary, and the mood I was in harmonized with my fatigue. In the
still subdued moonlight the forest looked like a bowed-down, conquered
people; its burden was greater than it could bear. Nevertheless, it
stood there patiently, tree after tree, without end, bowed to the
ground. It was like a people from the far-distant past to the present
day, a people buried in dust. Yonder "heaven-fallen, merciful snow"--
And just as all symbols, even those from the times of old, which
mythology dimly reveals to us, became fixed in the imagination, and
gradually worked their way out to independence, so it was now with mine.
I saw the past generations enveloped in a cloud of dust, in which they
could not recognize one another, and that was why they fought against
one another, slaying one another by the millions. Dust was being
continually strewed over them. But I saw that it was the same with all
those who were wounded, or who must die. I saw in the midst of these
poor sufferers many kind, refined souls, who in thus strewing dust were
rendering the highest, most beautiful service they knew, like those
priestly physicians of Egypt, who offered to the sick and dying magic
formulas as the most effectual preventive of death, and placed on the
wounds a medicine, the greater part of which was composed of mystic
symbols.
And I saw _all_ the relations of life, even the soundest, strewed over
with a coating of dust, and the attempt at deliverance to be the world's
most complete revolution, which would wholly shatter these relations
themselves.
And as I grew more and more weary and these fancies left me, but what I
had recently experienced kept rising uppermost in my mind, then I
plainly heard weeping in among the snow-flakes that were no longer
falling; it was the boys I heard. They wept so sorely, they lamented so
bitterly, while we tenderly bore them from dust to more dust.
I passed through the forest and drove along its margin up to the
station. When I had nearly reached this I cast one more look downward
over the tree-tops, which were radiant in the moonlight. The forest was
magnificent in its snowy splendor.
The majesty of the view struck me now, and the symbol presented itself
differently.
A dream hovering over all people, originating infinitely long before all
history, continually assuming new forms, each of which denoted the
downfall of an earlier one, and always in such a manner that the most
recent form lay more lightly over the reality than those just preceding
it, concealing less of it, affording freer breathing-space--until the
last remnants should evaporate in the air. When shall _that_ be?
The infinite will always remain, the incomprehensible with it; but it
will no longer stifle life. It will fill it with reverence; but not with
dust.
I sat down in the sledge once more, and the monotonous jingle of the
bells caused drowsiness to overcome me. And then the weeping of the boys
began to ring in my ears together with the bells. And weary as I was I
could not help thinking about what further must have happened to the two
little fellows, and how it must appear at first in the sick-room at
Skogstad, and in the surroundings of those I had just left.
How different was the scene I imagined from what actually occurred!
I could not but recall it when, two months later, I drove over the same
road with Atlung and he related to me what had taken place. I had then
been abroad and he met me in town.
And when I now repeat this, it is not in his words, for I should be
totally unable to reproduce them; but the substance of his story is what
follows.
The boys were attacked with fever, and this passed into inflammation of
the lungs. From the outset every one saw that the illness must take a
serious turn; but the mother was so sure that all had come to pass
solely in order that she might keep her boys, that she inspired the rest
of the household with her faith.
However serious the illness might be, it would only be the precursor of
happiness and peace. While yet in the wood she had obtained a solemn
promise from her husband that their children should not be sent away;
but that a tutor should be engaged for them who would have them
continually under his charge. And by the sick-bed, when through the long
nights and silent days they met there, Atlung repeated this promise as
often as his wife wished. She had never been more beautiful, he had
never loved her more devotedly; she was in one continual state of
ecstasy. She confided to Atlung that from the first time, about half a
year before, he had declared that the boys must go away, she had prayed
the Lord to prevent it, prayed incessantly, and in all this time had
prayed for nothing else. She knew that a prayer offered in the name of
Jesus must be granted. She had prayed in this way several times before
in regard to circumstances which seemed to herself to be brought into
her life under the guidance of faith, brought into it in the most
natural way. This time she had called her father to her aid and finally
Stina; both of them had promised to pray only for this one thing. It did
not seem to occur to her for a moment that there was another way of
gaining her point, for instance, as far as lay within her power, and as
far as her faith permitted it, to study Atlung's ideas on education, and
to endeavor to persuade him to unite with her in an attempt, that it
might be proved whether they were equal to the task. She started from
the standpoint that she was utterly incompetent; what, indeed, was she
able to do? But God could do what He would. This was his own cause, and
that to a far higher degree than any other matter concerning which he
had granted her prayers, and so she was sure He would hear her. Every
occurrence, every individual who came to the gard, was sent; in one way
or another everything must be a link in the chain of events, which was
to lead Atlung to other thoughts. When she told Atlung this, in her
innocence and her faith, he felt that, at all events, there was no human
power which could resist her. He was so completely borne along in the
current of her fancies that he not only became convinced that the boys
would recover, but he even failed to perceive how ill she was.
The long stay in the park, without any out-door wraps and with wet feet,
the overstrained mental condition and long night vigils, the pursuit of
one fixed idea, without any regard to its effect on herself, being so
wholly absorbed in it that she forgot to eat, indeed, no longer felt the
need of food--wholly robbed her of strength at last. But the first
symptoms of illness were closely united with her restless, ecstatic
condition; neither she herself, nor the rest of the household paid any
heed to them. When finally she was obliged to go to bed, there still
hovered over her such joy, aye, and peace, that the others had no time
for anxiety. Her feverish fancies blended in such a way with her life,
her wishes, her faith, that it was often not well to separate them. They
all understood that she was ill and that she was often delirious, but
not that she was in any danger. The physician was one of those who
rarely express an opinion; but they all thought that had there been
danger he would have spoken. Stina, who had undertaken the supervision
of the sick-room, was absorbed in her own fancies and hope, and
explained away everything when Atlung showed any uneasiness.
Then one noon he came home from the factories, and after warming
himself, went up-stairs to the large chamber where the invalids all lay,
for the mother wanted to be where the boys were. Her bed was so placed
that she could see them both. Atlung softly entered the room. It was
airy and pleasant there, and deep peace reigned. No one besides the
invalids, as far as he could see at first, was in the room; but he
afterwards discovered that the sick-nurse was there asleep in a large
arm-chair, which she had drawn to the corner nearest the stove. He did
not wake her; he stood a little while bending over each of the boys, who
were either sleeping or lying in a stupor, and thence he stepped very
softly to his dear wife's bed, rejoicing in the thought that she too was
now peaceful, perhaps sleeping; for he did not hear her babble which
usually greeted him. A screen had been placed between the bed and the
window, so he could not see distinctly until he came close to her. She
lay with wide-open eyes; but tear after tear trickled down from them.
"What is it?" he whispered, startled. In her changed mood he saw at once
how worn, how frightfully worn, she was. Why, in all the world, had he
not seen this before. Or had he observed it, yet been so far governed by
her security that he had not paid any attention to it. For a moment it
seemed as if he would swoon away, and only the fear that he might fall
across her bed gave him strength to keep up.
As soon as he could he whispered anew, "What is it, Amalie?"
"I see by your looks that you know it yourself," she whispered slowly,
in reply; her lips quivered, the tears filled her eyes and rolled down
her cheeks: but otherwise she lay quite still. Her hands--oh, how thin
they were; the ring was much too large on her finger, and this he
remembered having noticed before; but why had he not reflected on what
it meant?
Her hands lay stretched out on either side of the body which seemed to
him so slender beneath the coverlet and sheet. The lace about her wrists
was unrumpled, as though she had not stirred since she was dressed for
the morning, and that must now be several hours since.
"Why, Amalie," he burst out, and knelt down at her bedside.
"It was not thus I meant it," replied she, but in so soft a whisper that
under other circumstances he could not have heard it.
"What do you mean by 'thus,' Amalie? Oh, try once more to answer me!
Amalie!"
He saw that she wanted to reply, but either could not, or else had
thought better of it. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her
cheeks, filled her eyes and were shed again, her lips quivered, but as
noiselessly as this occurred, just so still she lay. Finally she raised
her large eyes to his face. He bowed closer to her to catch the words:
"I would not take them from--you," spoken in a whisper as before; the
word "you" was uttered by itself, and in the same low tone as the rest,
encompassed with a tenderness and a mournfulness which nothing on earth
could exceed in strength.
He dared not question further, although he failed to understand his
wife. He only comprehended that something had occurred that same
forenoon which had turned the current of life to that of death. She lay
there paralyzed. Her immobility was that of terror; something
extraordinary had weighed her down to this speechless silence, had
crushed her. But he also comprehended that behind this noiseless
immobility there was an agitation so great that her heart was ready to
burst; he knew that there was danger, that his presence increased the
danger, that there must be help sought; in other words, he comprehended
that if he did not go away himself, his face as it must now look was
enough to kill her. He never knew how he got away. He can remember that
he was on a stairway, for he recollects seeing a picture that his wife
herself must have hung up, it was one representing St. Christopher
carrying the child Jesus over a brook. He found himself lying on the
sofa in the large sitting-room, with something wet on his brow, and a
couple of people at his side, of whom one was Stina. He struggled for a
long time as with a bad dream. At the sight of Stina his terror
returned. "Stina, how is it with Amalie?" The answer was that she was in
a raging fever.
"But what happened this forenoon while I was absent?"
Stina knew nothing. She did not even understand his question. She was
not the one who had attended Fru Atlung in the forenoon; she had watched
in the night, and then the patient's fever fancies were happy ones, as
they had again become. Had the doctor been with her in the forenoon?
No, he was expected now. He had said yesterday that to-day he would not
come until later than usual. This indicated a feeling of security on the
doctor's part.
Had Fru Atlung spoken with any one else? If so it must be the
sick-nurse. "Bring her here!" Stina left the room. Atlung also sent away
the others who had assembled around him, he needed to collect his
thoughts. He sat up, with his head between his hands, and before he knew
it he was weeping aloud. He heard his own sobs resounding through the
large room and he shuddered. He felt sure; oh, he felt but too sure,
that he would sit here alone and hear this wail of misery for weeks. And
in this sense of boundless bereavement, her image stood forth
distinctly: she came from her bed in her white garment and told him word
for word what she had meant. Her prayer to God had been to be allowed to
keep her boys, and now this had been granted in a terrible way for she
was to have them with her in death. It was this which had paralyzed her.
And the beloved one repeated: "I did not mean it thus, I would not take
them from--you."
But how had this idea suddenly occurred to her? _Why_ was her security
transformed into something so terrible?
The sick-nurse knew nothing. Toward morning the dear lady had fallen
into a slumber, and this had gradually become more and more calm. When
she awoke rather late in the morning, she lay still a little while
before she was waited on. She was excessively weak; the housekeeper
helped care for her. Not a word was said to her about her condition, not
a single word. She had not spoken herself, except once; it was after she
had had a little broth, then she said: "Oh, no, never mind!" She lay
back and closed her eyes. Her attendants urged her to take some more;
but she made no reply. They stood a little and waited; then they left
her in peace.
As the evening wore on, the fever increased; by the doctor's advice she
was carried into the next room. She understood this to mean that she was
being borne into Paradise, and while they were moving her, she sang in a
somewhat hoarse voice. She talked, too, now, without cessation; but with
the exception of that hymn about Paradise there was nothing in her words
which indicated that she remembered anything that had occupied her
thoughts in her moments of consciousness. All was now happiness and
laughter once more. Toward morning she slept; but she woke very soon,
and at once the unspeakable pain she had had before came over her, but
at the same time came also the death-struggle. Amid this she became
aware that the beds of the boys were not near hers. She looked at Atlung
and opened her hand, as if she would clasp his. He understood that she
thought the boys had gone on before and wanted to console him. With this
cold little hand in his, and with its gentle pressure through the
struggle with the last message from this receding life, he sat until the
end came.
But then, too, he gave way wholly to his boundless grief. The
responsibility he felt for not having attempted to draw her into his own
vigorous reading and thought; for having left her to live a weak
dream-life; to bear the burden of the housekeeping and the bringing up
of the children, but not in community of spirit and will, partly out of
consideration for her, partly from a careless desire to leave her as she
was when he took her; for having amused himself with her when it struck
his fancy to do so, but not having made an effort to work in the same
direction with her,--this was what tormented his mind and could find no
consolation, no answer, no forgiveness.
Not until the following night when he was wandering about out of doors,
beneath a bright starlit sky, came the first soothing thoughts. Would
she under any circumstances have forsaken the ideas of her childhood to
follow his? Were not they an inheritance, so deeply rooted in her nature
that an attempt to alter them would only have made her unhappy? This he
had always believed, and it was this which ultimately determined him to
live _his_ life while she lived hers. The image of his beautiful darling
hovered about him, and the two boys always accompanied her. Whether it
was because of his own weariness, or whether his self-reproaches had
exhausted themselves and let things speak their own natural
language--his guilt toward her and toward them was shifted slightly and
spread over many other matters, which were painful enough; but not as
these were.
What these matters were, he did not tell me; but he looked ten years
older than before.
The doctor sought an interview with him the next day, and said that he
felt obliged to tell him that if he had not pronounced his wife's
condition dangerous it was because he had felt sure that she would
recover. Her own happy frame of mind would help her, he thought. But
something most have happened that forenoon.
Atlung made no reply. The doctor then added that the boys were past all
danger; the elder one, indeed, had never been in any.
Atlung had not yet for a moment separated mother and boys in his
thoughts. During their illness he felt with her that they must live; for
the last twenty-four hours he had been convinced that they must follow
her in death. He could not think of the mother without them.
And now that he must separate them, the first feeling was--not one of
joy: no, it was dismay that even in this matter the dear one had been
disappointed! It seemed as though she were living and could see that it
was all a mistake, and that this last mistake had needlessly killed her.
The two little boys, clad in mourning, were the first objects we met on
the gard. They looked pale and frightened. They did not come to meet us,
nor did they return their father's caress.
In the passage Stina met us; she too looked worn. I expressed my honest
sympathy for her. She answered calmly that God's ways were inscrutable.
He alone knew what was for our good.
Atlung took me with him to the family burial-place, a little stone
chapel in a grove near the river. On the way there, he told me that
every time he tried to talk confidentially with the boys and endeavor to
be both father and mother to them, his loss rushed over him so
overwhelmingly that he was forced to stop. He would learn with time to
do his duty.
The sepulchral chamber was a friendly little chapel, in which the
coffins stood on the floor. The door, however, was not an ordinary door,
but an iron grating which now stood open; for there was work going on in
the chapel. We removed our hats, and walked forward to her little
coffin. We did not exchange a word. Not until after we had left it and
were looking at the other coffins and their inscriptions, did Atlung
inform me that his wife's coffin was to be placed in one of stone. I
remarked that in this way we would eventually have more of our ancestors
preserved than would be good for us. "But there is reverence in it," he
replied, as we walked out.
There was warmth in the atmosphere. Over the bluish snow, the forest
rose green or dark gray and the fjord was defiantly fresh. Spring was in
the air, although we were still in the midst of winter.
Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Spelling and hyphenation have
been retained as they appear in the original publication except
as follows:
Page 58
a piano in the box," though Magnhild _changed to_
a piano in the box," thought Magnhild
Page 78
and now her embarrasment increased _changed to_
and now her embarrassment increased
Page 166
Ronnaug wished to copy the verses _changed to_
Roennaug wished to copy the verses
Page 249
But she inisted _changed to_
But she insisted
Page 227
chausse running along the fjord _changed to_
chaussee running along the fjord