She could not talk much, indeed she felt no inclination to do so; but, when she did speak, she showed that she did not for a moment mistake her state--as consumptive people generally do. One day she made a sign to Kallem to bend down closer to her. "Kristen Larssen," she whispered, "there in that corner." She smiled and added: "I am not afraid of him any more now." Another time she sent for Kallem only to say. "You must not feel anger toward anyone--for my sake." She mentioned no name. Kallem pressed her hand; her eyes flashed on him in rapturous joy. Sometimes she tried to smile, a thing no longer in her power. If she remarked his tears, she would beckon to him, and put her fingers through his hair. Once while so doing he thanked her for everything, from their first meeting till this moment--she tried to pull his hair; he was not to say those kind of things.
Since then they scarcely spoke. They used the language of the eyes, with pressure of the hands. They were one in their grief, and had no thought left unuttered. The gratitude they felt toward each other, the horror of an approaching separation, could not be expressed in words. The hour was at hand.
One evening they heard Sissel ring, and ring and ring. Sigrid rushed up, after her Kallem and Karl; the latter remained outside! He could hear that it was a fit of coughing, a terrible one again. He could not conceive that she still had so much strength; each separate cough seemed to stab his breast; it cut right through him and crushed him; the cold sweat broke out on him when he heard her groans of pain; he could not bear to listen, yet he dared not go away. Probably this was her last hour. He heard how Sigrid was weeping, and heard her say: "Oh mistress! mistress!"--and soon after: "She is dying!" He opened the door. The first thing he saw was blood, and he sank to the ground fainting.
When he came to himself, he was lying on his bed; Sigrid was sitting beside him crying. This was the first thing he remarked; then suddenly he remembered everything and asked: "Is she dead?"
"The doctor thinks it will soon be over."
Later on they were both allowed to go in. There she lay in her bed as if asleep, white as the sheets she lay on. Kallem was holding her hand; as they entered they could not see his face, only the heaving of his shoulders, and hear his groans. Sissel stood at the other side. How wonderful it was to see the different degrees of grief. Although her strong, open features were full of sympathy, still they belonged to an outsider; she seemed removed miles from Kallem's silent despair.
"Is she dead?" whispered Sigrid. Sissel shook her head. And Ragni heard the question; she looked up. She exerted her last strength to please them; she tried--one can't say to smile, for that was beyond her power now; no, she wished to send them some last message. It lighted on Sigrid and Karl; but she at once transferred it to Kallem. A moment after she was dead.
The others left the room; Kallem still sat on. When he went down, he found no one. Karl had gone to his room, Sissel and Sigrid were sitting together in the latter's room. The kitchen was empty; rooms empty, office empty. He had promised to read something she had written, yes, there it lay under Karl's letter, and on it was written: "By and by." But he could not read it now, scarcely, indeed, as long as she still lay in the house. He went up to her book-shelf and gazed at it--the image of her own self. How often had he done this before and smiled at the titles of the books. His eyes now fell on "Vildanden" by Henrik Ibsen. He was so tall, that, looking at it from above, it seemed to him there was a gap between the last leaves, so he took out the book. Just fancy, she had cut out the leaves where Hedvig's sad story is about to close, where she shoots herself, and all that follows after that. Cut it right out; it ought never to have happened.
Nothing could have affected him more. He threw himself down on the sofa, and his sobs were like those of an ill-used child. Of course she was too refined and too timid; the world we have to battle in is still too rough; it must improve before such as she can live in it. She tried to take from it all she did not like; but it was she who was taken.
XI.
Some days before the Sunday on which the struggle between Ole and Josephine about little Edward's education had taken place, he had had a cough. That evening he was not quite well, so was kept indoors.
In a few days he was out again and seemed very bright; but one evening he was feverish and cross, with a dry cough, and so was kept in on the following days. Accustomed as he was to be in the open air, he grew fretful and lost his appetite; Josephine had many a fight with him and at last had to be severe. Then he began whimpering and wanted to go to his grandmother; that was not allowed. But when his grandmother came to see him, he was cross and peevish and went off to his father. But he came back again crying; he had not been allowed to pull out the books from the lower shelves to build a house with.
So he was put to bed feverish and cross; complained that when he coughed it hurt him again in the right side of his chest; during the night he was in a high fever, raving about Kristen Larssen; that he was chasing all the boys and was going to carry them off to hell in a big bag.
Josephine doctored him with compresses of turpentine, etc.; but in the morning, when his father came up to see him, she begged that the doctor might be sent for.
Kent was their family doctor; he was not able to come before the evening, and found that the boy had pleurisy in the right side. All that Josephine had done was quite correct; he himself gave some orders respecting the necessary diet, and prescribed a mixture to be taken every other hour, also that if the fever increased so that his temperature rose higher than 39 degrees Centigrade, he was to be sent for.
The next few days the boy seemed better, had a little appetite, coughed less; his temperature in the evening was never higher than 38 degrees. God be praised!
Though the danger had only been very slight, both Tuft and Josephine felt it like a gentle pressure on the shoulder by an invisible hand! In this way they were forced to draw nearer to each other, and they sought opportunities of talking together--certainly it was only about the child's state; but something both in voice and manner seemed pleading for pardon.
His cough and the pain in the side decreased, and by degrees the boy grew visibly better; but his appetite was not good; he still had a little fever every day, and he did not gain strength. They bought him some new toys which he was delighted with the first day; but the next day he was tired of them; he listened to the fairy tales which his father and mother told him by turns, without asking a single question; he took no notice of his grandmother's visits. Sometimes he would grow quite hot, and directly after felt quite cold. Kent was specially anxious because the child's temperature rose every evening; he began to give him quinine, then tried a blister! Josephine would not leave his bedside and could not bear to hear of anyone taking her place; neither did the child like anyone else to come near him.
However there was an improvement, and the minister said one evening, when they were sitting together after having tried the child's temperature: "We shall escape with a good fright, Josephine." She looked up at him; he put out his hand; she placed hers in it, but seemed half ashamed and took it away again.
Dr. Kent had told them that Fru Kallem was very ill; she could no longer leave her bedroom. Later on they heard from others that she suffered from decline; they each separately asked Dr. Kent, who told them that it was galloping consumption.
The minister did not mention it to Josephine; but he said to Kent that this would doubtless be a blessing for his brother-in-law; possibly he would now be less burdened and able to work his way higher up.
Josephine took it in quite a different way; he could see it by her increased reserve; only very rarely would she say a word or two to him.
Some time afterwards, as she was lying on her bed one afternoon and wondering how it would affect her brother if Ragni were to die--suddenly she saw him. At first she thought nothing of it; but it grew so excessively distinct. She saw him stretched at full length on a sofa in his office; she could see the whole room, curtains, bookshelves, books, desk, two tables, a large armchair, several half-opened books, and sheets of paper covered with writing lying side by side.... She saw each sheet, each little detail, and he himself in a brown suit of clothes which she did not know. But she had never been in the office since it was furnished, and had never seen that furniture, nor the curtains and carpet; but she had no doubt whatever that it was exactly as she saw it. At any other time this would have produced a strange impression; but now it was all swallowed up in the fact of her seeing him; for he was so worn and wasted by grief! The closer she looked at him, the worse it became. In such despair did he seem to be, that never before in her life, not even when their father died, had anything so moved her. She saw him tossing about sobbing bitterly; she saw him holding his hands clasped before him. At last she saw nothing but him, the agony of his eyes from under the busy brows and spectacles, and all around him a great waste.
She awoke bathed in cold perspiration and so exhausted that she could hardly lift a finger. From that time she seemed weighed down by a vague fear: it deprived her of sleep. Had this to do with her brother, or her boy? Little Edward lay there beside her, with laboured breathing and a cough that seemed to come from a distance. His high forehead seemed empty, his eye restless; his hands were no longer a small boy's rough little fists, they were ethereal. At times she would hasten up to him, just to be sure he was there. Ah me! it had come to that; but merciful heavens--surely she was not going to lose him? She seemed to recognize her brother's suffering in this of her own, and each time felt as though they were drawn together in it. Her boy's fate grew to be one with Ragni's. In wakeful nights and during anxious days, both these destinies became so entangled and interwoven that to her mind they seemed to depend on one decision.
Until now her religion had chiefly been a desire for freedom and an unflinching love of truth. In her great anxiety this became fatalism, unbending, mystical fate. Everything startled her; she was always seeing signs and warnings. It seemed as though the boy could only lie on the side that was affected, otherwise it pained him so that he cried out ... and each time she helped him, she could not make this out at all. She propped him up with air-cushions; he replied by heartrending entreaties to be left in peace. She no longer knew what was right or wrong. He would not even let her come near his legs; he always wanted to have his knees bent and the one knee in a certain position over the other, ... and she had to yield to these inexplicable fancies and let herself be set aside as superfluous and troublesome. Was this to show her that she must accustom herself to the idea that she was always in the way?
In the end this would quite wear her out. Her fright from the last time she had moved him till the next time she would have to do it, would have been more than enough. But all the fancies and ideas she took into her head nearly drove her mad; she spoke to no one about it. This new phase with the legs seemed to her so hopelessly mystical in its unreasonableness, that it made her afraid of the boy; he was no longer her boy. Just by chance later on she discovered a good deal of swelling round the ankles. She had always heard that this was the beginning of the end; she could scarcely drag herself down the stairs to the study, where the minister sat in a cloud of smoke. He saw her enter pale and terrified in her white night-dress.
"My dear, what is the matter?" He listened to her, went up with her, and looked at the swelling, fell on his knees by the bedside, burying his face in his hands; he was praying. Across his father's head she heard the short hurried breathing of the little fellow, saw the shining yet indifferent look he turned on him. She, too, would have prayed; but at that moment the boy pushed his father away with his hand; he could not bear the smell of tobacco. In that way he pushed her away from a possible prayer.
Dr. Kent's kind smile, his quiet, comforting assurance that the illness was the same as when he first had discovered the inflammation, that no worse symptom had set in, and that the swelling probably came from the strained position of the knees, relieved them so that Josephine cried for joy. He examined various matters, thereby confirming what he had already said.
That night Josephine slept better than she had done for long, but still she felt weaker than ever before.
Some time passed; one evening the minister and Dr. Kent came up-stairs; there was a certain solemnity about them. Josephine lay dressed on the bed, raised herself so as to get up, but both Kent and the minister begged her to lie down again. Dr. Kent told her that Fru Kallem had died the day before. Both the men looked at Josephine; she closed her eyes. For a while there was complete silence. But seeing repeated twitchings in her face, Tuft hastened to say:
"Under these circumstances, Josephine, it can only be for Edward's good. Of course he will feel it deeply now, but he will get over it. It will but benefit him." Josephine turned away her head. Her eyes remained closed; then the tears gushed forth.
He felt at that moment that he had said something studied; indeed, that he had been guilty of brutality. He had changed much during their boy's illness and that time of mutual anxiety. These words from former days--coming as they did just then in her smarting grief; uttered by the bed of their own sick child--became his silent companions, full of independent life: "they were messages from God."
Until he let fall those words, Josephine had always prayed silently whenever her husband prayed; since then she could do it no longer. She felt as she did in the beginning of their married life, when he had always expected her to join in all his overweening wishes and desires. In those days he had noticed nothing, but now he felt it at once. But just on that account, he felt he must have support, must have it chiefly in prayers for his sick child. So he turned to his friends at the meeting-house; he was sure of them. The painful events of those days; his fear for his boy's life; his joyless, wounded love, all collected into one violent outburst: he begged them to pray with him, he besought God's mercy. Could he but be found worthy of higher communion with God, then the trial would not be too hard.
He was radiant with the strength of his faith, as he went home and told about it. There were few like him when he was thus powerfully moved; but it happened so seldom.
Josephine's state of health became alarming. The want of fresh air and regular sleep week after week, the loss of appetite and the constant anxiety, all began to tell upon this strong and healthy nature. Tuft spoke to Kent about it secretly; but there was nothing to be done as long as she would do nothing herself.
Whilst he was carefully watching her every movement, he was obliged one day, against his will, to tell her that Ragni was not to be buried there, but at the nearest country church. Thereupon his brother-in-law made known his indignation and loathing in the strongest possible way. Undoubtedly it was aimed at the community at large, but mostly at them.
Tuft never knew what Josephine felt about it; it hurt him deeply. Once only she showed how impatient she had become. He had bent down over the boy, but came rather too near; Edward began to whimper and push him away with his hand.
"Why can't you give up smoking?" she said, bitterly.
He turned to her and answered, meekly: "I will give it up." When he got up afterwards he added, sorrowfully: "He is not well to-day."
"No," she answered, quietly; his way of taking it made her feel ashamed.
The doctor was sent for; he was used to these sudden messages, so he took it quietly, and possessed that most excellent faculty of communicating his calm to others. The parents thought at first that the child ate with a better appetite, and took more notice of his grandmother. She came four times a day, and the way in which she was received was always their barometer.
The old grandmother had been up to the hospital and had seen Kallem and Karl Meek drive away from there with Ragni's body. The coffin was white, and was on a sledge draped with black; Sigrid sat in front, beside the coachman; Kallem and Karl Meek followed after in a sledge with a seat for two. That was the whole procession.
This account of Ragni's last journey came unawares on them. And that Karl Meek was there, and alone! Did that mean that Kallem did not suspect him? Or, which was more likely, that he had forgiven him? Wishing perhaps to gloss it over and thus do her a last service? Ah, if one could be as good as that!
The following night Josephine went down-stairs to her husband who was asleep. Her hair was let down; she looked like one bewitched, or walking in her sleep, with her great hollow-eyed face surrounded by the long black hair, with eyes staring fixedly over the lamp she held in her hand. He sat up and would have got out of bed. She stayed him with her hand, and said, in a monotonous voice:
"I wish to speak to you, Ole; I cannot sleep. My brother's wife wants to take away our boy."
He felt all the blood rush to his heart.
"What do you say?" he whispered.
"We have been too hard, we two. Now we shall have to pay for it; and she will not be satisfied with less."
"Dear Josephine, you are not yourself. Let us fetch help!" He started up.
"Yes, I am going to get help. All who can pray must come now! Do you hear, Ole?"
"But, dearest"
"Or do you not think that you all are stronger than she is; do you not think so? The other day you came home so happy from the prayer-meeting--oh, you know them, make them come, do make them come, Ole, do you hear?" She began sobbing and crying: "It is but a Christian's duty to bring help here. They cannot look on and see her take him from us!"
Her voice died away in a long wailing sound. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and had put on his under-garments, but stopped now with his trousers in his hand.
"My dear, my dear, only believe that it is God who has the power and none other. Josephine, you are ill!"
He was much distressed, and hastened to get on his clothes.
"Will you really go and fetch them?" she asked, much pleased, and put down the lamp. "Thank you, I knew you would. I assure you solemnly, Ole, that it is urgent!"
He did make haste, but said:
"You know, Josephine, we must be careful when we pray for non-spiritual things."
This made her uneasy; she stretched out her hands to him. Everything she had on was loose and open, the sleeves slipped from her shoulders--she had grown so fearfully thin--a great fear came over him. Her wild countenance, delirious words, emaciated form....
"God bless you, Josephine, do not exert yourself too much in prayer, you might break down completely, you have grown so weak!"
"Do you not believe, then, Ole?" flashed from her like lightning.
"Yes, yes! But suppose God's will be not our will, dear child?" There arose in him the painful recollection of Andersen's death-bed scene. "You would pray for a miracle!"
"Yes, yes! of course! Certainly! What else should we pray for?"
"We pray to be granted communion with God, Josephine; at all events that is what I do. For then all is well, my soul is strengthened, and often I am in such sore need of it."
"It is written, 'Soften the heart of the Lord.' Is that not right? Soften the heart of God? Speak, Ole. Soften the heart of God? Answer me!"
He was kneeling down in front of the stove with a piece of firewood in one hand and a knife in the other, he would have lighted the fire; she was so thinly clad; but he stopped now and looked up at her sorrowfully. "I dare not pray for a miracle, Josephine; I am not worth." As he was saying this his agitation increased, and he was so overcome that he had to put down what he had in his hands and cover his face. But when he looked up again he started to his feet; if she had had her arms full of the most costly china and had let it fall so that it was shivered to a thousand pieces ... she could not possibly have looked different, more paralysed, more horror-struck. Her hands were outstretched as though over what she had let fall, her eyes were fastened on him, her senses gone; it seemed as though the next instant she must fall. Not so however; for when he seized hold of her, she woke up, collected her thoughts and without further warning said quickly:
"Then we must send for my brother! He only can make her leave our boy alone." The words proceeding from that strange train of thought were like a suggestion to him. A thousand times he had thought the same, Colonel Baier's case had called forth the desire, and many had advised him to it; but until now he had been ashamed.
A few minutes later, he was on his way to Dr. Kent; who must be consulted first.
It was a sharp, clear night. By day the roads were in a state of thaw, but frozen again at night, so he had to be careful; it was not easy, pursued as he was by his thoughts. What became of the Bible's dogmas of the creation, the deluge, and all the rest--what was it all worth, when death was at the door? What then was number one, what number twenty?
None would wake up at Kent's house; he rang and rang without hearing any sound himself; the bell must have been removed. Then he began to knock, it sounded hollow and hard, and to him it seemed as though death were knocking; it was so, too. At last a servant appeared rather grumbling, but as it was the minister she went to rouse the doctor. Patient Dr. Kent came down, brought him into his room and listened to him. He would with pleasure go to Kallem; had he thought they would have allowed it, he would have done it long since.
When Tuft got back Josephine was up-stairs with the child; she misunderstood him, she thought her brother was coming at once, and as he had not appeared by seven o'clock, by eight, by nine, she was afraid he would not come and became much agitated; her husband was obliged to go again to fetch her brother and the doctor. Kent was not to be found at once; but sent to say that Kallem and he would come at eleven o'clock precisely. They came, too, at that hour; but the minister had been called away, so there was no one to receive them, Kallem had not put his foot inside their door since the day he had arrived in the town. Since the preceding night Josephine had not had her brother out of her thoughts, which is always the case when one longs for anyone; but when at last Kent and he came up the thickly-carpeted stairs she was not thinking of him; she stood bending over the boy giving him a drink; when their knock came at the door she started up and could not utter a sound. The door opened nevertheless. Kent let Kallem go in first.
He was met by a slight scream. She nearly dropped what she was holding; for what did he look like! It was death himself who came, bony and mowing all around with sharp scythe. It was not to help her, but to take the boy from her; she felt it directly.
Shortly and mercilessly he looked at her, without a spark of compassion, although she too was worn with grief. As he advanced further in he looked at the boy, and from that moment she ceased to exist for him, she slipped on one side. Kent went up and greeted her kindly, then went back to Kallem. And now the usual thing happened--the same that had happened to Kallem himself when he was together with Dr. Meek--namely, Dr. Kent accepted all Kallem's impressions, the child's appearance seemed new to him and frightened him considerably. All that he had formerly put away from him, showed itself of its own accord--"Empyème?" he whispered in French to Kallem who did not answer, but drew nearer, felt the boy's faint, weak pulse, tapped him lightly here and there, listened to the quick short breathing, looked at the temperature list and at what he had last coughed up. Then followed a short consultation between the doctors; Josephine heard every scrap of it, although she stood a little way from them, on the other side of the bed--the child's bed now stood where his father's used to stand; but she did not understand the technical terms, therefore could not seize the meaning. She felt that some evil was hanging over her; her hands were pressed together on her bosom while her eyes wandered from one to the other. At last Kent approached a few steps; he wished to ask if they might be allowed to insert the point of a syringe, fine as a needle, in the cavity of the chest.
"Is it an operation?" she whispered as she sought support.
"We shall be able to tell then," he answered, equally softly. She sank down on a chair. Her brother did not wait for her answer, but pulled out his instrument case and took out of it something shiny, long and thin, bending down with it over the boy. She saw nothing more; nor could she think of anything either--she only tried not to give way; she heard the boy whimper and call repeatedly "Mother" in a frightened voice; she had not the strength to rise up, dared not move. She heard Kent say: "Now it is over, my boy;" but could not see what was over.
Little Edward whimpered and cried, and insisted on having his mother up to his bed. So she tried once or twice, but it was quite impossible; her brother acted like a weight on her, although he never even looked her way.
The door opened and shut; he had gone, and she breathed more freely. Kent went up to her at once, kind and sympathetic.
"There must be an operation," he whispered.
"What for?" She knew it would be of no use; she had seen it written in her brother's face.
"Because everything must be tried," answered Kent.
With the most miserable little voice, the boy begged his mother to come to him.
"I am coming." She knelt down beside him and began to cry.
"They hurt me," the boy said, complaining.
Ah, if she could have answered: "It was to make you well that you may get out again." But even Kent dared not say that. She struggled to find courage to forbid the operation, but she dared not, she was afraid of her brother. Kent stood there waiting; she became conscious of that at last, and looked despairingly at him. He stooped down to her.
"Your brother generally sends some of the hospital people to disinfect and arrange everything," he said, gently.
"Is it to be to-day?" whispered she, weeping bitterly.
"No; but the cleaning and airing must be begun today. The adjoining rooms must be used, too." She had laid her head down again beside the boy, she made no answer; then she heard him go.
When the minister came home he rushed up at once to the sick room and was not a little surprised to find his mother there and--Sissel Aune! The latter was keeping watch, the boy was cross, and did not want anyone near him but his mother; not even his father, for he could still smell tobacco about him, although he had given up smoking. Tuft found Josephine lying on his sofa in the study, overcome with despair, and talking quite incoherently; "Doomed to death!" she would answer to nearly all his questions.
One of the deaconesses came over in the afternoon and assumed the management of affairs; she brought strange servants with her; their home seemed broken up, and the scouring and cleaning sounded like the planing of a coffin. Their own servants all sorrowful, poor old grandmother in tears; and when they heard the noise caused by moving the boy's bed into another room, they sat trembling hand in hand.
Fancy, now, if anyone were to say: "It is a good thing for the parents, that their boy is dying. Of course they can't think so now, but they will come to see it in that light;" fancy if anyone were brutal enough to say such a thing to them? Tuft felt bound to speak to Josephine about it, and confessed that these words would have wounded him deeply. She pressed his hand in silence.
When the evening came and all was quiet, they were both up-stairs with the boy and they fancied he already bore the mark of death! He fell asleep holding his mother's hand, and then Tuft gently led her away. She consented to be led now; an extra bed had been put up in the spare room, it was part of all the moving and arranging that had gone on.
The next day from early morning the parents were in with the little boy. As soon as they left, he was to be moved back to his old room where all was ready for the operation.
At ten o'clock the doctors came. Josephine was lying on the sofa in the study. She stopped her ears as soon as she heard them; the carpets were taken up so that the slightest creak of a boot was heard. She would not be comforted, nor let herself be reasoned with, and fell into that half-unconscious state she had before been in; she wanted to go up to the boy, he might die on their hands.
The minister was anxious to speak to the doctors; but she hung round him, she would go, too; so he could not leave. If anyone just moved a foot upstairs, she knew who it was, and if the doctors moved at the same time, there must be something going on, she doubled herself up and sat crouching there with her hands to her ears. She would not let herself be taken to another room, she would stay there and be tortured; at times she went up to Tuft seeking a haven, she had worn herself out, was tired to death. "Help me!" she whispered, assuring him that her reason and her life were at stake, and that she had always known that the time would come when she would be thus miserable.
Tuft persuaded her to lie down with wet bandages on her forehead, he prayed aloud, and his love for her was so powerful that it quieted her. "Thank you, Ole, thank you!" she grew calmer.
All at once. "He is screaming!" she exclaimed; and, raising herself, would have got up. The minister assured her he heard nothing; but at the same instant they both heard it. "Yes, yes," she said, and tried to go. Tuft put both his arms round her, praying for her and blessing her. Again she calmed down. And now all was silent.
Upstairs all was going on rapidly. Kallem took the responsibility of chloroforming the boy, and the screams the parents had heard were on account of the flannel bag which Kent held over his face; the boy pushed it away; he was suffocating. "Mother, mother!" he cried; but he soon became unconscious. The old grandmother in a clean cotton gown sat by the pillow on the other side and held his hand; the old woman was trembling; but there she sat and intended to sit until all was over. No one had asked her to do it; she had herself asked God. But as soon as the boy was unconscious, Kallem said to her quite politely that now she would have to go. Slowly and silently she left the room.
Then he began. An incision, eight centimetres in length, was made between the ribs in the right side. He inserted blunt instruments into the aperture, got hold of the end of the rib-bone and sawed off a small piece; the matter streamed out of the wound.
Here they were all startled by a wild shriek behind them. Quick as lightning Josephine had opened the door and seen these white operating coats, and Kallem, his hands covered with blood, rummaging in her child's chest--down she fell onto the floor.
"Was the door not locked?" asked Kallem. Sissel came running from the inner room, the minister from outside, they carried her out between them.
"Mind the temperature," was whispered over to the deaconess; "And lock the door!"
"But Sissel----?"
"She must stay away!"
Presently they heard her at the door, but took no notice. A tube was inserted in the cavity of the chest which was well syringed, and a tow bandage carefully put on the side. The tube was to be left there for several days and the temperature of the room day and night was to be kept at 15°. Kallem soon retired to the next room with his instruments and was out of the house before anyone, except those present at the operation, knew that he had finished.
The old grandmother, poor thing, had just come up again to listen at the door, when Sissel, who was back in the room, came out, carrying something under her apron. In passing she told her that it was all over. So the old woman ventured in; but on seeing the child lying there pale and quiet, she lost all command over herself, went out again directly, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she managed to reach her own house.
In ordinary life it was impossible to make any sort of impression on this specimen of fossilization from the border of the sea, crushed flat by her pietistical views and walled at the north side of the house. The only one she seemed to take any interest in was the boy. Her whole house was his playroom; he was allowed to drag in there almost anything he had a fancy to, she put it away again and liked nothing better than tidying up after he had been there. Now, one would think that he would have been devoted to her on that account, but strange to say, from the moment he fell ill, he would hardly look at his grandmother. In spite of all its severity, his mother's blunt manner had taken his fancy; he had been greatly worried by his grandmother's devotion, interspersed as it was with scoldings and threats, full of prayers which he had to learn by heart, and of Bible stories which he never understood. Now that he was so ill and weak, she was not allowed to talk to him. But it was hard on the old grandmother. Her son neglected her too, now that Josephine was more accessible. Had it not been for the coming of the deaconess, the operation might have taken place without the old woman's having heard anything of it.
A few hours later, she crept upstairs again, listened outside, could hear nothing, thought all was over and ventured to look in. Sissel sat there nodding; but looked up at once.
"Is he alive?" asked the old woman.
"Yes," answered Sissel in a voice barely audible, but her hope of him was not much greater either. The old grandmother could not bear more, she turned away. A couple of hours after she came again, and he was still alive. This time she had brought her spectacles with her and an old much-loved book; she meant to sit there till the end. Sissel could have a sleep. So she was told what there was to do, and Sissel lay down on Josephine's bed.
It was six o'clock in the evening before the minister put his head into the room--it was only now that he dared leave Josephine for a moment. He saw his mother sitting there with her spectacles and her old book of sermons, he drew nearer searching her face like a book; in it he read: "he lives!" She nodded as Sissel had done before and conveying the same meaning. He shuddered as he looked at the boy's deathly pale, worn-out face, and went away.
The house was quite quiet. In the kitchen which lay some way off, they all spoke softly, the doors were well oiled and the carpets laid down in the passages. The minister came in on tiptoe every hour and received always the same answer; there was still life. Everybody came and went noiselessly as though spirits were moving about. In the spare room where Josephine lay, signs took the place of words.
The night was if possible more silent; grandmother had gone away, but Sissel was there; fire was burning in the kitchen and a watch was kept in case there should be anything to fetch; the minister was up and awake and went about backwards and forwards. But toward three o'clock both he and the watch fell asleep. When grandmother came in at four o'clock, Sissel was asleep too; she sat down in her seat; there was not a sound of any kind till near seven o'clock. Grandmother looked after the stove and attended to the medicine--surely little Edward breathed more easily, or was she deceiving herself?
A little before seven the door was opened slowly. She expected to see her son; but it was Josephine who came. Her large face under the disordered hair, and her wild eyes looked worse than ever in the dim light, she alarmed the old woman, who for long had been afraid for her mind. But Josephine stood still by the door, she heard Sissel's steady breathing but not the boy's; she dared not go further in. The old grandmother saw this and nodded encouragingly. A few steps forward and the mother saw her boy--fearfully pale and without a sign of life. But grandmother nodded again, so she ventured further forward. The curtains were still drawn, so she did not see well; but then she thought he breathed. She knelt down ... was he breathing easier, or ...? She was so sure in her belief that he was doomed to death, that she could not hear what she really did hear. She listened in the greatest anxiety, wondering, considering, holding her own breath the while, and only when she was quite sure that his breathing was easier, did she herself unconsciously breathe strongly and rapidly full in the boy's face. The warm whiff awoke him, he opened his eyes and looked at his mother, trying to collect his thoughts. Yes, it was mother who had come back again. His eyes grew more lively, and brighter than she had seen them for weeks past, they gazed at her until her own filled with tears. Not a word did he say, nor moved a limb from fear of the old pain; and to her it seemed as though his spirit would fly away if he moved or if she touched him or uttered a sound. Indeed she thought her breathing was too loud, so she smothered it, and neither moved her hands nor turned her head; in this immovable stillness it was as though they were under the shadow of gathering wings. The hour was like the one in which she had given birth to him, when she heard the first gurgling sound of his living voice. And now life was beginning a second time with trembling breath. His eyes were as light in the snow. She could never weary of their fresh brightness, they floated together, his and hers, she wished it would never end.
But the boy was overcome by the power of her eyes and gave himself up to the safe feeling of her presence, so he shut his eyes again, opened them once or twice just to try ... yes, she was there, and so fell asleep.
Soon after she was down in the study. Outside was bright day; in it should come! She drew up the blinds, the daylight filled the high room with the life of life, filled her own soul to its innermost recesses--she pushed open the door to the spare room and placed herself in the doorway.
Tuft lay there broad and strong with outstretched arms, a bushy head of hair, his high forehead still shining with yesterday's perspiration, and a smile about his mouth. The light half wakened him. "Ole!" she said, he opened his eyes wide, but shut them again; he strove to settle in his memory what he had just had a glimpse of, and at the same instant from out of all this light came the words of Josephine's voice: "He lives!"
Thus, on Sunday, a man spoke from the church pulpit, taking his text from his own experiences.
He spoke of what is highest and greatest for us all.
One man forgets it in the midst of his hard struggles, a second because of his zeal, a third on account of stubbornness, a fourth in his own wisdom, a fifth from sheer force of habit, and we have all more or less been wrongly taught on the subject. "For were I now to ask those who are listening to me, just because I ask in this place, from this pulpit, you would all unthinkingly answer: 'Faith is greatest!' Nay, but in truth it is not. Watch by thy child lying gasping for breath and on the brink of death; or see thy wife slipping gradually after the child away to that outermost edge, worn out by fear and many night-watches, then love will teach thee this, that life is first. And from this day, never again will I first seek God or God's will in any form of speech, in any sacrament, or in any book or at any place, as though He were there present; no, rather let me seek His presence in life--in life won back from the depths of the fear of death, in the victory of light, in the beauty of devotion, in the community of the living. God's most important words to us are those of life; our truest worship of him is love for all living things. However much it be a matter of course, this doctrine was what I needed more than anyone. That it is which I have put from me in different ways and from various reasons--and oftenest just latterly. But never again shall either words or signs be for me the most important; but, contrariwise, the everlasting revelation of life. Never again will I let myself be immured in any doctrine; but will let my will be set free by the warmth of life. Never again will I judge mankind by the codes of an old-world justice, if the justice of our day cannot use the language of love. Before God, never! And this because I believe in Him, the God of life, and His incessant revelation in life."
XII.
That afternoon Tuft received a most unusual visit. There was a gentle knock at the door, and at the first "Come in" no one appeared. The second time the door was opened cautiously by Sören Pedersen, and after him by slow degrees came Aase, very shy.
Their business was nothing less than to thank the minister for his sermon that day! "For nobody can live without God! at all events not ignorant people; it doesn't do; no, it doesn't do at all. And so we come like the prodigal son--Aase I suppose must be the prodigal daughter ... (come forward do--well, just as you please!) and we wish that you will pray for God's mercy for us both." And their request was granted with all the earnest fervour that Tuft could put into a prayer. Sören said they were going direct to Dr. Kallem. "He is certainly the best man in the world, at any rate in the town. But he is mistaken in these matters. For there exists both God and spirits, and we will go and tell him so."
Tuft had himself fixed to go to Kallem that same afternoon. He was grateful to him, and he longed to acknowledge that had it not been for their cruel wronging of Ragni, not even the events of the past days would have sufficed to show him the treasures of life. He wished particularly to justify Josephine by taking her faults on his shoulders. Busy with his heavy load of dogmas, like a post-horse laden with bags full of letters, she had always been obliged to keep him company, whether she would or no; and this injustice had made her hard and suspicious.
As he set out on his way an hour or so later, all their childhood was vivid before him. He wanted then to be a missionary; perhaps now he might be one in earnest! To propound a doctrine of evolution or progress in religion was worthy of a mission, and he thought of undertaking it. The God of dogmas and his priests of olden days, must be vanquished and overcome like the idols and miracle-makers of the heathens. What though he had dreamed of becoming a bishop, strong in his theological powers, well, there was a dangerous bishopric--vacant for easily explained reasons--here in Norway.
Sigrid was standing on the steps of the upper entrance as Pastor Tuft came across the yard with long strides. She was dressed in black with a black silk kerchief over her fair hair.
"The doctor is not at home," she said in her quiet way. He turned round and went toward the hospital with the same decision. There stood Andersen's widow, also dressed in black and in a cap with black ribbons.
"Arc you still in mourning for your husband?"
"No, this time it is for Fru Kallem."
"Is Kallem here?"
"No, he went home a little while ago."
That's a mistake on your part, thought Tuft, and turned his steps in the direction of the woods; he liked having a good long walk.
There were many people out walking; they all greeted him with joyful sympathy; it was not to be mistaken. Widow Andersen's stern face had cast a shadow over him; but it vanished before the kind looks of everyone else. Again the same impetuous courage came over him as it had recently done--the courage peculiar to all newly-converted people. Just by the hospital he met Sören Pedersen and his wife who were coming away from Kallem; they too were going for a walk this bright Sunday evening so full of messages of spring.
"Was he at home?" asked Tuft. "Yes, your reverence," replied Pedersen, highly delighted.
"Well, what did the doctor say?"
"I was much pleased with what he said, your reverence. There are two kinds of persons, said he; the one kind believe only what they know; the other kind do likewise; but that which they know cannot be proved--at least only to themselves."
"He is right," and Tuft laughed as he hurried away. But the moment he was alone, the sixteenth chapter of St. Mark, sixteenth verse, was upon him; it lay in ambush for him, like a spy from his "orthodox" period. "He that believeth not shall be damned." God has no respect for "two kinds of persons." Tuft began eagerly to defend: "The sixteenth chapter, from the ninth verse upwards, is a later addition which the oldest manuscripts do not recognize. If this passage be not genuine, then no such dreadful passage can be found in any of the other three gospels. The fourth, in which it occurs, has thereby damned itself. No, life is everything, and faith is the wondrous road to the explanation of life, that is to say, to God. By this means we shall attain the highest communion with Him, if not here, then in the next world. Faith is not for judging, but for guidance. To condemn people for their faith's sake might have been thought right in olden times; in our day it shocks us. God reveals Himself in our understanding in a higher light than that." Again he hastened back into the yard.
But again Sigrid came out on the steps. "The doctor is not at home." Her eyes avoided his; but she remained standing there immovable, her face framed in by the kerchief. The house at her back seemed like a secret, select community, full of mutual steadfastness, something he was shut out from.
Now he understood.
The price of entering there was greater than he had thought. He went home humbled, and did not mention it to Josephine.
This repulsion led to further claims on him: it urged him on along the road that would unite brother and sister together, which was the condition laid down for all else. He acknowledged openly that he had been jealous of his brother-in-law. This episode in his private life was the cause of much of the narrow-mindedness of his preaching.
He received help from outside. At first there were wondering questions, a reserved manner, which wounded him, and at times made him doubtful; but soon it came to an open fight with his nearest followers, and that urged him on. His old friend, the former porter, seemed to have longed for an opportunity of freeing himself from a debt of gratitude that weighed on him; he made a great to do and called in auxiliary troops all the way from the capital. Teachers in seminaries, schoolmasters, scientific travellers, and a few clergymen attacked Pastor Tuft at the meeting-house with all sorts of theological weapons. First and foremost he learnt to speak distinctly, for the greater part of what they attacked him for was nothing but a misunderstanding; but he had occasion for capabilities and knowledge which he had not needed before. During this first month Josephine felt merely tired and indifferent--she had grown weaker than she could understand; but after that she began following in the steps of the peasant lad, who in days gone by had captivated her heart by his bright faith; would he come back to her?
An incident which she concealed from her husband had kept her back and prevented her gaining strength, therefore she was so languid. She too had quietly been over to her brother's the first time she was able to go out; she, too, had been met by Sigrid on the steps telling her that he was not at home;--but she had seen him standing on the veranda as she came up. With great difficulty she reached home again.
She had felt the deepest pity for him and was ready to make all manner of allowances; but his inexorableness aroused her opposition. Josephine had not the slightest idea that she herself had been jealous of Ragni, therefore she could not know that it affected her manner. She considered herself to have been at fault in being intolerant toward one who was guilty. As Sissel Aune sat upstairs beside the boy, and told her all about Ragni, how she had been lovable to the very last, she felt how unnatural it was to have overlooked Ragni's goodness of heart and Kallem's love for her. But beyond this intolerance she did not consider herself to blame.
The disappointment was great, and the consequences might have been serious if it had not been that she was so much taken up just then with her husband's struggles. A person of confused ideas, who has chiefly lived a defiant life, can only be freed when some great event happens. And such an event it was, the day that Ole said to her:
"On this, Josephine, we must stake both the living and our fortune."
Three months had gone by when she, revived by the fight, thought herself strong enough to take up the case with her brother. She wrote to him and said that whatever they might have done wrong--they would wish to hear it right out; they ought to be worthy to be accused. Their gratitude to him was great, as they repented of their former intolerance, and wished to make every possible amends to that spirit of charity and justice which they had misjudged.
It was an excellent letter; her husband said so too.
But the days went and there came no answer. It was a mercy that just at that time Tuft was fighting some of his hardest battles. At the meeting-house, and afterwards in church, he had made use of the words Josephine had concluded her letter with.
"Justice and charity," without distinction of faith (as in the story of the good Samaritan), is the essence of Christianity. Therefore must everything be meted out with this measure, and first and foremost the doctrine itself, so that the smallest particle weighed and found wanting fell, like the theology of distant and cruel times, before the revelation of justice in our day.
That very same day he was summoned on this account to a debate; three meetings were held in the course of the week, all of them overcrowded. The principal speaker against him was a clergyman and theological publisher from the metropolis. The doctrine of hell was almost the sole subject, and Tuft maintained that what St. Paul said about it was widely different from what was in the Book of Revelations.
According to St. Paul, life here and in the next world was a state of progression, which ended by God becoming "all in all." This doctrine was up to the standard of both justice and charity. And a great impression was made, as his resonant voice, in its rapid west-country tones, shouted out across the tightly packed assembly, asking whether they thought there would ever be an end of wars and persecutions as long as the doctrine of hell, with all its cruel revenge and brutality was taught in all the schools and churches as the justice and charity of God. His opponents were "thoroughly in the style of the doctrine of hell," for they did all they could to condemn and stigmatize him as heretical.
However, there was but one opinion amongst the auditors--that for clearness of language and powers of persuasion Tuft was vastly superior to the others.
Dr. Kallem was present at the last meeting. He saw Josephine sitting there with flaming eyes, and the next day, toward evening, his answer came.
She was walking up and down before the house, watching her boy at play with the garden-hose, when the letter was given her. She recognized the writing directly, but trembled so that she could not open it. She was horrified to see how weak she still was; would she never get back the strength of her youth?
Then she went up to her room and locked herself in. It was a long letter; she turned it over and sat down to consider whether she would let Tuft read it first. But possibly there might be something about him which he was not to see.
She opened the letter.
Not a word from her brother, not a single word to her. The first that she saw was written in a strange hand, the next too, and the following after that, the whole thing, but in two different handwritings. There were some sheets of paper fastened together, some letters, a few loose scraps--not a word from Edward.
What did it signify? Involuntarily Josephine selected the least of all the papers, a little scrap of three lines:
"They destroyed my good name and I knew it not. For I knew not that I had it before it was destroyed."
On another scrap there were these words faintly written:
"Forgive them; they know not what they do!"
This delicate, flowing handwriting was of course Ragni's. Josephine began to tremble without knowing why.
Then there was a letter, written in another hand, the first words of which were in red ink. No signature. But as she read that Kallem was not to see it, she guessed it was a love-letter from Karl Meek, which Kallem must have found afterwards. What had Josephine to do with that?
Hastily she read the first words, but was surprised at his calling her "you," and that he spoke of a sorrow which he would have borne alone, but which now had fallen upon her too, a slander----? Had she been slandered?
All through the most respectful terms. When was it written? There was no date given; but the writer of the letter was abroad; so it was after their life together here. The letter was one long wail of despair, a grief so genuine, never had she read of anything greater.
Josephine's hand shook so that she was obliged to put the letter down on the table.
She read how Karl through all this cruel slander could not think of anyone or anything else; she read how he in that way had come to love Ragni. Josephine saw this love, engendered by sorrow, gratitude, devotion, find vent in pure and touching words.
Ragni innocent? Good God, was she innocent? Then all those harrowing scenes between her and Edward, as Death separated them inch by inch from one another (Sissel Anne had so often described them to her), they must indeed have been hard to bear! Yes, now she understood why he had driven away that day with her body, and had Karl Meek by his side; only she could not understand how he had survived it.
There was a knock at the door; she started in her seat. But it was only the servant girl who came to ask her to go down to supper. She could not answer, again there was a knock. "No, no!" she managed to articulate as she writhed in sorrow and shame. She must go to her brother, she would go to him, if she went there on her knees.
But here were more papers, and she felt as though her brother was standing over her commending her to read them. She trembled and read:
"Now that I am about to copy what I have written down after many trials and failures about my childhood and my first marriage, I feel myself to be so tired--so done up. I had intended to write a few words as beginning, and looked forward to it. Now it is too late for that. Now I can only just tell to you, 'the white pasha' of my life, how it has fared with me. I have told it briefly for it was torture to me; and I have only told it so that you may defend my cause should anyone still think it worth while to speak evil of me after I am gone. Dear friend, I do not murmur. I have lived as purely and nobly as I could live; it has only been too, too short. Know, that I had thrown myself away from sheer horror of something still worse--and then you came and took me out of the deep waters and giving me in keeping of good people I found peace and all good things--till you could come again and bear me away to yourself. To think that I might share all in your home and yourself too without deserving it; for I felt that often; but I was happy all the same.
"I did not suffice for you here, I know it; but now that the end is near, it does not seem to matter. You would have borne with me as long as it lasted, I feel so sure of that."
"My friend, were I now to tell you all I feel of gratitude and admiration for you, you would not understand it; it has seemed so natural to you that all the happiness of your life came from me. And that was what was most beautiful in mine too.
"But you will not read this until the day when I no longer am sitting in this chair, and nothing can imprint my memory so vividly on you and make it live on in you, as one long, everlasting:
"Thanks."