This union of the leaders among the girls, this real desire for knowledge and independent thought, even if it had to endure criticism and even a little derision, was still an incontrovertible proof that the school was now on the high road to success. Even if there were derision expressed in the town, there could be no doubt that every one was struck by the decided, and above all intelligent, comprehension which the superiority of the apparatus, experiments, and method aroused in the scholars on subjects which every one understood, and which belonged to the most special needs of life.
At home the girls overflowed with narrations and desire for information, and constantly asked permission to buy materials for experiments in chemistry and physics, microscopes, and historical pictures which illustrated beliefs and habits of life through all ages.
There was no longer any comparison between girls and boys when energy and information were in question.
This made the lesson hours happy; the great gatherings for "breakfast" at twelve o'clock were feasts, and the pupils ran down the slope in the afternoon without books, unburdened by lessons--free, free, free!
But the happiest of them all remained behind, Fru Rendalen and Karl Vangen.
How Fru Rendalen hurried about with her spectacles awry, a habit she had acquired in later years; it was like meeting a load of hay at hay-harvest, it smells so sweet from such a distance, and one so gladly stands aside to let the mighty, useful, close-packed object pass. Karl Vangen was one constant smile; he had no time to leave off. He beamed with delight if any one so much as looked towards the school, and would tell, over and over again, all the little incidents which occurred there: they were every one either remarkable or amusing.
It was only Tomas who was not quite in accord with them, but there never was much "comfort" about him, if by that one understands confidential intercourse, and even good temper. He either wanted tall Vangen to "give him a back" out in the garden walks, or even sometimes in the sitting-room, while he jumped over him as one boy jumps over another; or he walked up and down, up and down, generally whistling, with his hands in his pockets, till it made one giddy to look at him; or else he would play the piano by the hour together. Sometimes he worked for, and in, the school without intermission; or read a new book regardless of any interruption; or he took endless walks or read aloud, and amused himself with the girls as though they were all comrades; or else he could not bear them, or the school, or anything which belonged to it.
At such times his mother had to take the literature lesson for him, Miss Hall the chemistry and physics, Nora the singing; he would not, he could not.
Then he would come back again, brighter and happier than ever, and do the work of two. His mother put this down as the result of all the years he had lived without regular employment. If they had company he did not appear at all, or else came and carried everything before him, or came and sat silent. If he spoke to any one, it was "Yes, just so," "Quite right." And then he would leave the room and not return. Looked at in a certain way, this showed genius: there was something of a genius about Tomas Rendalen.
Before he went to America he had "discovered" a history teacher: he was very great at "discoveries." She was called Karen Lote, and taught needlework, writing, and drawing. Rendalen had noticed her acquirements in the different kinds of drawing, and found out that the girl possessed a by no means insignificant knowledge of history. "Extend that into the history of civilisation," he said. He was never tired of giving this advice. "Here at home the history of civilisation is worse than meagre, and it is the only one which is worth anything in a school."
He had then begun to make the large collection of historical pictures which the school now possessed, and through these he captivated her interest; he kept it, while he was abroad, by sending a number of these pictures to her, as well as books and advice; and he was hardly home again before he undertook the history lessons of the whole school to explain to her what his ideas were; he sought to show development and connection by a clear historical summary accompanied by maps and pictures; he made it slight for the younger, and more elaborate for the elder ones; only using details as characteristics. He made it one-sided, but there was power and colour in its historical representations. Karen Lote was captivated; the novelty of his appearance, his opinions, his wonderful talent for teaching, his inimitable way of making one believe there was nothing in the world for him beyond what was before him at the moment; his exquisite taste in dress, his well-ordered person, even the slight odour of delicate scent which always followed him, all gave the girl a deep interest in him. Nothing in the six-and-twenty years of her life had ever in the slightest degree approached it. To think of being helped in her work by him every day! The misunderstandings and persecutions which he went through, and his sufferings under them, brought her feelings to a pitch of enthusiasm. But she did not trouble any one with it. Then came the time when he became the principal of the school. He would come and listen to her teaching whenever he had a spare moment, share eagerly in it, or go away without saying a word; remain away for a long time, then come again every day, and take the whole lesson out of her hands; or else walk up and down, up and down, and then remain away again.
Just before Christmas Karen Lote went to Fru Rendalen, and told her that she could not stay a day longer in the school. If she merely heard Rendalen's step in the passage she trembled; when he was near she could not relate the simplest occurrence or give an explanation. "But why?" He treated her with the greatest contempt; she burst into tears. "Contempt?" Yes! either he continually interrupted her, took the whole lesson away from her, or else he did not consider her worth correcting, turned his back on her, did not bow, did not come at all. There was no end to her complaints.
Fru Rendalen assembled the teachers and laid Fröken Lote's complaint before them, convinced that it must be the most extraordinary misunderstanding. But the teacher who had succeeded Fröken Lote as drawing mistress assured her that if she had not had a mother to support, she would have left long ago; she would not have borne his continual corrections in the children's hearing; he was an unbearable tyrant.
Everything must be done in one particular way, without the least variation. He had made her so nervous that she trembled if she even heard him in the passage. And she cried too.
The startled Fru Rendalen turned quickly to the others. "What could this mean? The teachers of languages, her pupils from their childhood, her friends, who through her help had improved themselves abroad, they must speak." They felt sure that Rendalen had not the least idea that he "set people right," and as little that he offended people by interfering, so that the children noticed his immense air of superiority, but all the same it was often very annoying. He was so uncertain both with teachers and children, he never took things twice in the same way, it was always according to his temper. The conclusion which they all came to was that he was most unfit to direct a school. Miss Hall herself, who otherwise had no complaint to make, agreed with this.
Fru Rendalen implored them, for God's sake, to reconsider it; surely they did not wish to ruin the school; she was much agitated, and said that provisionally she would resume the direction. But they must not let this be known. She broke down with all the violence which was natural to her. The others were frightened, there was a touching scene; they praised her son, one against the other; nay, any one who had not heard what had gone before, would have believed that they were all glowing with enthusiasm for him. After all, to form a wonderful plan for a school, according to all the best examples of modern times, and himself to be an exceptional teacher, was something quite different, and a great deal more than to be an able principal. They and his mother soon agreed over this, and consoled themselves with it as well as they could.
But this school had been the object of Rendalen's life; if he were to lose this there would be nothing left for him. From the time that Augusta died, and he learned that it would be better that he should not found a family, the idea of taking his mother's school, and making it all that she had dreamed of, but had not accomplished, had been betrothal, marriage, and the foundation of a family to him. He was proud of it. This gave the intense energy to his early youth, to his work, to his sense of right. It was the object of Karl Vangen's unfailing admiration, the secret text for Fru Rendalen's conversations and letters.
Notwithstanding this, temptations came, and his unruly nature did not always emerge victorious from them, but each time he was seized with a feeling of shame for his ideal, which amounted to dread--that awful dread which his mother had felt while she bore him under her bosom. She had often described this in vivid colours, but it was nothing compared to what he had gone through; it had been terrible. This drove him back to his mother's confidence, and made him hold that confidence fast. There was sober earnest between these two, they had a common aim in life. It might have been that he would have cast her, his aim of life, and this dread to the winds, if his passions had concentrated themselves on, or been seized by, any one person, for there was a wild energy in him which would have made him cling closely to another; but the hereditary restlessness in his nature mingled one impression with another, his dread had time to come between them with ever stronger force, and it became at last the most powerful of all. The aim of life was saved. From the time that he had conquered, a dissatisfied feeling developed itself; it had always been there; it reminded one of his father's power of imagination, his love of perfection.
His studies were forced. Never one thing at a time, but one clashing with the other. If the examination subjects had not in such a special degree been necessary for him, he would never have passed one at all; he was ready long before the time with some things, and was as much behind with others. He was always in advance with the subject he was full of at the moment, it was a link in a visible or ideal entirety. To Karl Vangen, who knew his method of study, it was amazing what he accomplished. It was the same thing with his intercourse with his fellow-creatures; he often seemed to be inattentive, and yet he received original impressions, but they were all on the same lines. He saw images and demonstrations in any thing he was engaged in; not people, but phenomena; not facts, but ideas. As long as Karen Lote was learning his historical method she interested him deeply, but afterwards not in the least; it was much the same with the other teachers, excepting Miss Hall; her teaching was new, and he was eager to see the result of it--first intellectually, then morally.
But his own work? When the long restless rush about the world after appliances and methods was over, after the plans for the school, conceived years ago, and since then endlessly arranged and drafted, were at last set going; especially after the rude resistance from without was overcome, what was it that gradually came over him? Could he not? Would he not? Was it no longer enough for him?
Everyone round him rejoiced in the school, his mother's delight in especial was touching. "This is the school that I have dreamed of, my son, my dear Tomas!" He heard it nearly every day, he thanked her and kissed her for it, he needed it; but all the same.... As for teaching, his principal talent, he could interest himself in making a thing absolutely clear, and in having the main points properly remembered, the most difficult ones understood; it could delight him to give a new view of something to the elder pupils, or to direct their attention to a question of the day. Whenever a problem presented itself, he would take it up with patient ingenuity; beyond that there was nothing--no, nothing! He realised his failings thoroughly, self-occupied though he was; they harassed him more and more. There were times when he could not endure the school. Then he felt himself without spirit, without aspiration, without--he could almost have said without affection--if his mother had not been there, and Karl as well; he was deeply attached to Karl.
This was no longing for a wife and family, at all events in no special degree; indeed, he felt no particular attraction to anything.
Was this the cause of his unhappiness--that he could not attach himself firmly to any conditions? He had been able to do so as a child.
A man who has deliberated in this way from one day to another, and at last, one evening, receives his mother's tears and lamentations because the teachers can no longer endure him as principal, does not start up as at something unexpected. Tomas remained at the piano, where he had been seated when she came in; he touched it with one finger now and then during her long and interrupted narration; he saw her despair and concealed his own. He felt as though now he had nothing more to do here.
He observed quietly that perhaps she had better resume the direction of the school for a time; he went on strumming as he said this, as though it had no further significance. She answered that she had already promised them to-do so. He grew as white as a sheet. She hastened to add, that of course only he could superintend his own plan; she begged him to speak to the teachers at once; he never would speak to any one, they entirely misunderstood him; he offended them by showing no confidence in them, and he was not always considerate. Did he not like them?
This was too much for Tomas; he flung himself down on the piano and cried, got up hastily, put on his hat and coat and went out, heedless of his mother's prayers to him to stay and talk it over with her, as they used to do in old days. He could not do it; for there was something in his mother's behaviour towards him which wounded him. When he had come home she had received him with the greatest admiration, everything he said and did was right; but after the lecture she began to doubt. This had gradually increased, until now she put a note of interrogation to everything he said. At the first complaint from the teachers she had taken the school from him; and she could reconcile this with her pride in his way of ordering it, and a crooning quiet delight over its success.
Not that her doubt was greater than a practical understanding like hers had perhaps a right to; he did not blame her for it, but he could not bear it.
This affair with the teachers was dreadful. He really considered them most excellent, none more so than Karen Lote, otherwise he would never have troubled himself about her.
There must be something at the very root of his behaviour towards people, which was terribly astray when he could be thus utterly misunderstood. Perhaps his own feeling of emptiness and distaste arose from the same cause.
These ladies had raved about him. They and the senior class, and.... Was that, too, nothing but a delusion, or was it past and gone?
"Raved about him." What is that? He drove it from him with contempt, yet once it pleased and deluded him. He had believed it would always continue.
No, he who would have the affection of others must show affection to them. And he could not do it--in the way that others could.
After all that was not strange. His race had perhaps exhausted its power of winning human affection.
Was not that the natural result when generation after generation broke down mankind's precepts of fidelity, and flung aside man's good opinion? The race itself had been ruined, as each one weakened himself and his offspring--ay, and others and their offspring as well.
He walked into the country to the left--the same walk that he had taken that spring evening after he had given his lecture. He recalled to his mind how happy had been his return from America, how he had dreamed of giving his countrymen an example which, if they would follow it, would shine throughout the world. What was nobler for a small country than to centre its greatest powers on the teaching of its children, to expend its surplus there; let the great nations waste theirs on armies!
He remembered how it then delighted him to think that in this way the sins of his forefathers might be expiated.
Everything on earth had been thus developed.
Awakening had come to the strongest races. Instinctively they had felt their failings, and had sought to combat them by an admixture of fresh blood. Everything, therefore, that is strong and good has some family for its progenitor, whose sufferings have been the foundation of its needs, its needs the foundation of its work; its work, its self-command, the foundation of its discoveries--all gathering round the original discovery. When the school should be alive with a hundred young creatures; when sparkling eyes gazed upon the aim which he had set up; when the elder ones among them, influenced by him, and in their turn influenced others--hoisted their colours--it would be remembered that they had lived in the house of one particular family, from that family they would have received their instruction. It was he who had made the school.
But there lay an inherent weakness in its inmost recesses. The germs of destruction lay in him who had built it up. He could not advance it further. He did not possess the necessary long-suffering gentleness. Plenty of foresight, energy, ambition, but--talents for war, perhaps, but not for peace.
As he had walked along that evening after the lecture, sick at heart, anxious--ah! how anxious! because the certainty of years had been baffled, Karl Vangen had trudged silently by his side like a great long-legged dog with honest eyes. He went the same way now, only it was winter, and he was alone; he was ashamed to have any one with him. The suspicion of insecurity which had shaken him the first time was now a certainty. He could not go on--O God! he could not: he was a blight in the school.
The snow in the fields had melted, but farther away it lay in patches, looking ghostly in the moonlight. It still lay thick under the fir-woods; and here and there on the road, which had frozen hard with deep ruts in it, and small sharp stones and solid horse-dung. Where it was bare, or partly bare, it was difficult to walk. He came back so weary in body and mind that he never remembered to have felt more tired. By the new churchyard, where his father and grandfather lay, and where the sea washed up to the other side of the roadway, rolling and black, he felt that a little might bring him into the one or beyond the other--or perhaps to both--they were not incompatible.
It was past twelve, as on the night of the lecture; he would not go home before he felt certain that his mother had given up waiting for him. Under ordinary circumstances she went to bed between nine and ten. But as he struggled up the avenue, he saw that there was a light in the sitting-room; and as he got a little further, that there was one in Karl's room as well. If he had not been so utterly weary he would have turned back, but now things must go as they could.
His mother met him in the hall with a light in her hand. "Oh, Tomas, how you have frightened me!" she whispered.
What did she mean by that? He looked at her; poor thing, she appeared at least ten years older, with such red eyes--so upset, so miserably overdone.
She began, "Tomas, just let us----"
"No, mother," he waved her away with his hand; "I am so fearfully, oh, so fearfully tired." He went slowly across her room to the inner passage without a good-night, without looking round.
She heard his step in the passage, heard him open the door of his room, shut it, and turn the key on the inside! It always awakened memories, that dreadful sound!
Why did he do it? It seemed as though he were shutting her away from him.
As he was lighting his candle he heard Karl at the door between their rooms. Tomas set down the candle, came out from behind the curtain, and saw Karl's pale, anxious face looking in from the doorway.
Why had he and his mother sat up, each in their own room? Evidently so that the mother should be able to talk to her son alone when he came in.
Tomas flung himself on Karl's neck and sobbed violently. All that he had held back, when he saw his mother, now found vent. Karl's firm confidence in him was his chief support. That confidence was there now, he could see it through all his distress precisely as he saw the light streaming behind Karl's head and body in the doorway. It was dark between them. "No, dear Karl, not to-night, I am so tired." Slowly, noiselessly, Karl drew his long legs back again and shut the door behind him. The door-handle was turned, oh, so gently.
Tomas went straight to bed, and slept at once and without interruption through the night. When he woke, raised himself and looked at the clock, it was past eight. The sorrows of yesterday, which had at once rushed upon him, yielded before this proof of a long sound sleep. "There cannot possibly be so much the matter as I believed, if I am not worse than this." He jumped up. "There must be some other work in life reserved for me, if this is not to be the one." He dressed himself quickly, and while doing so determined to go away for several days. He wished to consider, and to be calm while he did so.
This was all the information which his mother received when she came in as he sat at breakfast. He sent a message to Karl, and left at ten o'clock. This was not altogether disagreeable to Fru Rendalen. "He has such sudden changes," she thought. "He will very likely return home a different man." His great failing, of talking and acting according to the temper of the moment, made her take this view, made her question all he said. He was conscious of this now. He hated it.
This time, however, she was mistaken; he returned exactly the same as he had gone away, only she noticed the first time that she talked to him that he was a little bitter against the teachers: "ungrateful asses," he called them. He had taught them more than it was in the power of any human being to do who had not travelled as he had done, and had his experience and reading; he would have nothing to do with them. He annoyed them by his elegant courtliness. This amused him; he was really dreadful with them. He resumed his teaching, with the exception of the singing, which was given over to Nora, who was now both pupil and teacher. He declared that she possessed the gift of teaching in the highest degree.
"Perhaps he could interest himself in the school again," thought Karl, "if there were a new staff of teachers." He spoke of this to Fru Rendalen. She would try to find out, and began by talking to Tomas about the observatory which they had arranged in a small way in the tower. They had been obliged to stop for want of money. By next summer she hoped to have the means to set it going.
"God knows where I shall be then," he answered, and hurried away. "If I were to speak plainly to the teachers," thought his indefatigable mother, "if I could induce them to beg his pardon." She assembled them one day just before Christmas, and told them, betraying emotion as she did so, that her son had repeatedly let fall remarks which showed that he intended to go away. There was a movement of dismay.
Fröken Lote, on whom all eyes were fixed, at last broke the silence. She had not meant it in that way, she had only meant--she had really not meant anything--but she was so dreadfully nervous. She thought he was not pleased with her. The drawing and needle-work mistress, a clear-headed, tall, fair woman, coloured furiously. The Spenser method of drawing which Rendalen had introduced was not clear to begin with, she said, but he was always beyond her; but for all that she ought not to have said anything, indeed she ought not. She began to cry.
The teachers all protested that they felt the greatest gratitude; he had, of course, seen and heard so much on every subject, but it was most embarrassing that he treated them like dirt beneath his feet.
Fru Rendalen took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; pulled them off again, rubbed them, and put them on.
Well then, Miss Hall would say what was the matter. It was that he treated everything and everybody so unevenly. This made the teachers uncertain, and destroyed the children's sense of justice, and that was almost the greatest loss that a child could sustain. She would so gladly have spoken to Rendalen, said the little American, but he made himself so unapproachable. To-day, too, she felt nervous.
This destroyed Fru Rendalen's plan; she did not know what to answer. All further negotiations were meanwhile broken off.
A loud chorus of joyous girls' voices sounded from the steps, and they all hurried to the window. It was Nora and her pupils. These last few days before Christmas, the pupils had but few lessons to do, and therefore had employed themselves in practising some part songs, the practice always concluding out on the steps--one of Nora's many fancies.
This gave such immense pleasure, that not only all the little ones, who did not join in the singing, waited up there till the great moment, but people would collect in the avenue. As soon as the girls came racing round the corner in walking dress and mounted the steps, the crowd in the avenue increased and drew nearer; Fru Rendalen and the teachers had put on their things, and were now standing at the open windows. The girls had arranged themselves from top to bottom of the steps; the little ones, who did not sing, occupied the sides. Right at the bottom stood Nora, with her fair hair turned back under the hood which was always on the back of her neck.
She had adopted Rendalen's method of conducting--the only thing that restless being did quietly; he merely moved his right wrist, and gave the sign with his left hand. Nora carefully held her right hand in the same place as he did, before her breast. She heard about it often enough.
The song sounded grandly from the steps, the notes were powerfully given. It might be, too, that the view before them heightened the effect by its beauty; perhaps, too, "An Old Manuscript,"[2] which had just been printed in a Christmas number, and which every third person in the town, from twelve years old knew, at first, second, or third hand, may also have enhanced it, for perhaps those dark voices from the past were heard at the same time, and by the power of contrast made the girls' song brighter, and the moment fairer.
Below them lay the town, with the harbour between the two points of land; now that winter was here, full of ships from side to side. At the head of the bay, along the clay banks, were all the workshops and the great timber-yards. To the left, the mountain, with the crowd of houses at the top, the boat harbour below, and out beyond the mountain and the town, the islands and the open sea. Weather on the coast is uncertain; generally, as they looked out, taking in the view as they sang, there were either driving clouds or gleams of sunlight over the landscape, or if it were peaceful and bright inland, it was threatening out to sea. Perhaps this may explain why the girls generally chose melancholy songs.
For the teachers as well as for the pupils, the singing on the steps, from its first beginning, had been the glory of the school. If the work from every class during every week in the year could have woven itself into a thousand delicate threads, and fallen on them as crowns; if all the fruitful incentives, small determinations, uncertain beginnings, could have joined in harmony in those voices, the singing could not have made them happier. As far as the teachers were concerned, perhaps for the very reason that, at the same time, something had occurred to pain them.
The elder girls, especially the members of the Society, looked upon this time as one for exchange of thought. All those higher ideas which one has in common with others, come to the front when there is singing; all strivings after the ideal, have a natural relationship to harmonised notes.
But he who felt it the most was one who had hidden himself behind a closed window, because he would on no account be seen.
He saw Nora beating time, standing there in her light cloak, her hood flung back on her neck.
The song, which sounded out over the town, the one which had first been heard by Fru Engel's grave, contained, as it sounded from these girlish voices, all that he wished for on earth.
How miserable it made him now! He tried, as a counterpoise, to remember all that he had conquered before in many a hard struggle. It was something to remember.
It was not an ordinary victory which he had achieved: was it to end in sorrow? Would the singing soon cease, or sound again after he was gone? He thought of his mother. It was he in reality who was "on the steps." Was it to be in or out?
The whole troop tore away in merry groups down the avenue. The Staff last of all, for Tora had something either to tell or propose; they walked slowly, often pausing. Yes, that was what it all depended upon; to be able to share one's joys and sorrows with others.
Child or woman, which is she?
Hard to answer that will be.
Wouldst thou then a woman snare?
See a child in captive there!
And when thou bidd'st the child to stay,
A woman from thee flies away.
Spring had come betimes, and great rejoicing thereat rose, from all the pupils, to the soft skies.
The spring was in their blood, bringing a restless feeling, a power of invention, glorious plans, subdued noise, effervescing spirits in its train; these were days when the whole school routine threatened to be destroyed, and when orders seemed a mere joke. Much commotion, with scoldings, smacks, increased attention, and many arts were required before this small sphere could be guided through the dangerous region of spring without too severe collisions and shocks.
Even the Society itself was shaken. It was not possible, when the trees in the garden were bursting into leaf, to go off to the back premises and pretend that there was something in a friend's composition on ladies' modern dress. If the meeting had been held in the wood, they might have allowed modern dress to roll about in the heather till it was torn to pieces, or they could have hung it up in a tree. They could have let the birds sing songs over it. Now they gave modern dress to the deuce, it could all be learned from a fashion book; they simply held no meetings.
Nora employed all her powers of persuasion, all her inventive genius, in vain. A great event, however, occurred, also perhaps born of the spring and spring impulses, and the Society recovered itself.
Miss Hall had energetically sought to lay some foundation, in the senior class, for the lectures which she delivered to them on her special subject. Both she and the eldest girls in the class had really all been obliged to exert themselves. But a further result was, that during this hard work they had gained confidence in the little lady; everything belonging to women's constitution and health, and to the tending of children, was spoken of with perfect openness. The mothers kept up as long as possible an appearance of shamefacedness on behalf of their children, who would not be shamefaced themselves. The fathers helped their better halves in this; they were bashful to a degree. But as the shameless maidens continued to acquire knowledge, this answered no purpose.
As concerned the Society, this information, and especially this confidence with Miss Hall, had the result that, by degrees, the woman question began to be looked at in its physical aspect, and its real foundations were sought there.
A book in our literature was again brought forward, which asserts that the freedom which man allows himself before marriage, and sometimes afterwards, destroys his character and woman's position, carrying faithlessness and tyranny from generation to generation.
Karen Lote had, in her studies in the history of civilisation, especially noted the history of the development of races. She knew now that the compromise which was often proposed, of giving woman the same freedom that man took for himself, would be a step in the wrong direction, an unheard-of breach of development. She advocated strongly that inviolable monogamy should be as sacred for men as for women. Miss Hall took up the subject at the next meeting, from its physical side. Can it be physically proved that man has stronger temptation than woman, and therefore has a greater excuse? She declared, on the contrary, that woman's temptation might be very much greater. Notwithstanding which, the rule was that woman respected marriage in a chaste life, while for man's part the rule might still be said to be the contrary.
This aroused violent feeling.
Man had therefore here as well, used the right of the strongest for his own advantage, but in reality with the result of rendering himself and the community depraved. Woman, on the contrary, has in civilised society, through hundreds of generations, only belonged to one man, therefore she has an inherited power of remaining faithful. It follows, of course, that man could gain this power as well.
During the conversation which followed the lecture, the excitement increased; and in the course of the week so many thoughts had gathered around this subject, that they had to fix an earlier date for the next meeting.
For the first time since the institution of the Society, Tinka Hansen spoke. The woman who married a man who had led an immoral life joined herself in his guilt; she condoned the ill-treatment of her sex, and was herself punished for it.
Did any woman persuade herself that a man who had accustomed himself to such a life would give it up? At all events, they could not so deceive themselves, who had during the last few years heard a series of lectures which made it plain that habit is a nerve-question; not more than one in a hundred can conquer a habit of his own free will; there must, as a rule, be some hard necessity as well.
Tinka had, as usual, discussed the subject with Frederik; it was therefore not surprising that, as she stood there, she had the authority of two.
Rarely had such noise and commotion been heard since the institution of the Society. From all sides came exclamations which clearly showed what they felt, such as, "Fancy being kissed by a man who----! Fancy being married to a man who----!"
Nora gave voice to these whispered expressions of disgust as she went up to the tribune, and said that they must not separate that evening without promising each other that they, at least, would do what they could here to give woman responsibility and self-respect.
She had not finished speaking before they all stood up to express their acquiescence.
Some days later they had another meeting: something had occurred to divide their opinions.
It will be remembered that Tora was fond of telling fantastic fairy tales, and romances scarcely less so; her favourite was "A Strange Story," by Bulwer. Her little Augustus head--which was crammed with ideas of rich stuffs, of sweeping garments, of foreign speech, and home gossip, and every earthly vanity--delighted in the mysterious.
From a certain day none of her friends were allowed to hear a word more on these subjects; only one, one single one, should henceforth see this obscure side of her varied nature.
Was it because she wished to share this with but one alone, as girls so often do; or was there a little sense of mystery here as well, that he was the only one for whom this was suited?
Whenever, after this, she met Karl Vangen, whether they were alone, or if twenty were present, she always contrived that they should converse in whispers. Her friends were greatly astonished. What on earth had she to whisper about with the parson? He had recently lent her a book about John Wesley, which she devoured, as she did all books, and they had many conversations about his sudden conversions. People who came under the spell of his looks, his words, his presence, yielded to them at once, and were his from that moment. John Wesley came of a long race of clergymen, both on his father's and mother's side; naturally this had in a high degree strengthened his faith and power of preaching. It was like an electric shock, certain natures could not stand against it.
How this was made to lead up to the Kurts, who interested Tora immensely at that time, is her secret; but honest Karl began at once to speak with animation of Tomas's struggle to free himself from the Kurt inheritance. There had been an infusion of new blood into the family before, and a struggle against its sins; but Tomas Rendalen's bringing up and the struggle he had gone through, were worthy of his energetic character.
Vangen asked her confidentially if she had not noticed Tomas's neatness, his careful toilette? If she had perceived the slight, hardly perceptible, odour of a delicate and very expensive scent? It always followed him. He was always washing and bathing, added the young clergyman, blushing; most people believed that this arose from vanity, and vain he certainly was; but could she not guess what it meant? Tomas Rendalen had gained in the course of his struggle the same need for, the same sacred feeling about, cleanliness with which girls are born. For him all cares for the body; dress, scent, were a species of service for the temple; just as it is to young women, when they have the means and time to perform it.
Some remarks of Tomas had made him understand this; he was certain that such was the fact. But it was curious that it should take that particular form, was it not? Perhaps it was because he had been brought up among girls. What did she think about it? Karl Vangen hazarded this conjecture with great bashfulness. For some reason or other, it was of great importance that she should understand at once that a man might be an excellent member of society, without being exactly a dandy, and using scent.
From that moment Tora Holm had one more person to rave about, added to her rich collection!
Now she persuaded herself that she understood Rendalen's theory of life and work among them. She did not understand, or rather did not think about, the reasons for his restless moods, his want of steadfastness; her image of this "energetic" nature was not disturbed by them. She loved him. There was no other word for it. There was nothing that she would not do for him if she could, and it was thus that she expressed herself, first to her dearest friends, then to her next dearest, then to those next to them. With unflagging energy the same story, to the same tune, was repeated for the twentieth time to the last of her chain of friends before the next day was past. Such enthusiasm was infectious; those who had not raved about Tomas Rendalen before, raved about him now. Notwithstanding the red hair, the freckled skin, the broad nose, and pale screwed-up eyes, the absence of eyebrows, the restless expression--he was an ideal man! He damped their ardour a little when he came into the classrooms and strode past the forms, without looking at a single one of them; or when he hastily pitched upon something which interfered with the lesson, with such violence as to make them jump! for he was not to be trifled with! He nevertheless became their ideal again as soon as he was gone, or, better still, if he were in the humour for teaching, and stayed and took part in it, in his clear energetic style. He had not his equal then.
But just because there was one Tomas Rendalen, it naturally happened that some of the weaker natures began to reflect: "Good heavens, he is only one, and there are so many of us." Yes, there was the question. We will not say who they were, or how many there were, who began to feel this doubt. The question is the smallest part of the affair; it is the answer which is the serious matter. The answer! For we may as well confess, soon as late, that some of the girls had gone a little beyond themselves that evening, when they all said "yes" to Tinka Hansen's high-minded views and Nora's proposition. These ones acknowledged afterwards that when one came to think quietly about the one whom one almost loves, or at least would willingly be loved by, and even if one knows that he has already ... Yes, the old Kurt town was a terrible place for scandals.
One at last begins to doubt the sincerity of these expressions. Might not the young man in question, no matter what he had done, be depended upon, when he had promised her anything? And when she had made him a promise in return, of course he might! He would be a good boy, that he would, if only she got hold of him. One cannot live upon grand theories.
There were some, however, who considered that this was treachery; they were very angry and a new meeting was called. Those who had dared to change their opinions since the last meeting were called upon to explain themselves. For a long time no one would do so, but at last a courageous dark-haired girl declared openly that it seemed to her that they had gone too far the last time. "If all men were--as one could wish them to be--well, then. But they are not so by any means. So what is to be done? That is just how we stand."
"And so we will stand," was the answer. This heroic response elicited another in its turn, so that two parties were formed, with a third set of moderates; no one felt certain about these last, as is often the case with a third party. Tinka Hansen (and Frederik) and all who agreed with her and him ("The Frederikers," as they were called), were for absolute equality between the sexes. Infidelity ought from henceforth to be condemned equally severely--no matter whether man or woman were guilty of it. Miss Hall was the only one among the teachers who took part in this debate, and she was a very enthusiastic Frederiker. According as our knowledge becomes more acute, she declared, the punishment of unchasteness should be the same for the two sexes. Neither ought this sin to be any longer held up as a special accusation against women. Those who made the distinction that woman's offence injured the home, while man's injured another home, another's wife or daughter, must for very shame hold their tongues.
Miss Hall brought this forward at least twice, for there was no answer made to it. The opposite party entirely put that on one side. They repeated over and over again that a man might be excessively worthy even if, things standing as they did at present, he had offended in this particular. Only notorious immorality made a marriage impossible. The Frederikers were scandalised at this "light-minded" talk. That was to open the door to the extension of immorality. They made use of such strong expressions, that the others became angry. There was a perfect hubbub; every one talked, no one would listen.
This was on a Thursday. The following evening, "The Staff" was assembled in Milla's room. They had begun on the same subject, but by degrees had wandered back to Rendalen, who was still of more unfailing interest than the other. Tinka was imitating Rendalen's handwriting on a large sheet of paper. The others watched her efforts with attention, his large handwriting was just the opposite to his careful toilette; it was all run together without any division, each letter and each word absolutely joined on to the others. Tinka's caricatured attempts were like so many embroidery patterns. She wrote: "I can bear it no longer; meet me in the market-place at nine o'clock." She wrote it as a commentary on what they had been talking about--namely, how delightful it would be to receive such a letter. She wrote this closely across a whole sheet of letter-paper. She decorated one sheet after another in this fashion.
Who was it who first proposed what now followed? They never could agree upon this afterwards. One thing is certain, that Milla alone raised any objection, but it was so feebly and laughingly made, that it might well be taken for the opposite of what it purported to be. Each one of them took charge of a note on Saturday morning; one was put into Karen Lote's cloak, one into the pocket of the drawing mistress's long faded blue wrap, the third and fourth were slipped down, one into Miss Hall's mantle, and the other into that of one of the teachers of languages.
The letters were not signed, the envelopes open and bearing no address; the request was written in so extravagant a style that the whole might pass for a joke, but that was just where the temptation lay. For, on the other side, it could not be denied that the hasty writing could very easily be mistaken for Rendalen's style when he was worried and in a hurry to finish.
At nine o'clock on Saturday evening the last of the worthy townsfolk came home from their romantic evening walks on both sides of the town, looking so peaceful and inoffensive that not even a cat could have suspected treachery. Most of them went soberly across the market-place into the town. At this time, too, the boarders who had been out in search of amusement in the town were returning disappointed up the avenue. It had been calculated that if the Staff could join one of these parties, they would be free from suspicion while they watched their snares. Of course they were all four there; they met several ill-humoured friends from among the boarders a little way down, and joined company with them.
They arranged it so that they should not cross the market-place till just at the time named. And truly, gracious powers! At the top of the marketplace, just a little to the right of the avenue, at that moment appeared Karen Lote; no one could mistake her erect figure, her grey cloak, and the feather in her hat. The four had so little expected to meet her, that if the boarders had not been so sulky and tired, they would have noticed their embarrassment. Could it really be Karen Lote!
She turned back to the left; it was patent to all the world that she had come here to wait for some one.
They looked from her to each other; they did not laugh, they did not make a sign--they were frightened.
But there was a revulsion of feeling when they saw the tall drawing mistress come swinging across, and turn into the avenue. She came quickly towards them; she had been given an appointment there at the same time.
Milla crept behind Tora; Tora would gladly have got behind some one; they had to find some excuse to account for their laughter. As the drawing mistress passed them, hurried and excited, they had just contrived to push Tinka into a ditch, which fortunately was dry.
And now they were eager to spy on the two other traps. They went up into the boarders' rooms, whence they could see out over the courtyard; they had given Miss Hall a rendezvous behind the gymnasium, but, unless she were standing absolutely still behind it, she had not come. It did not fare much better with their flight across the garden towards the right, where they had given the language teacher rendezvous; they met her, certainly, coming down the path, but it was with several others; running quickly up from the wood, she never so much as looked round. If she had read the letter, she had taken it as a joke. The four girls slipped through the garden-gate and along the same way; they did not want to meet Karen Lote again.
Something, however, had happened a few hours before, which if it had not been stopped would have brought the whole affair to light, in which case not one of the four would ever have set foot in the school again.
On her return from her walk at about six, Miss Hall, very nervous but very determined, had asked to be allowed to speak to Herr Rendalen. She gave him the letter directly he came in. He took it, read it, held it a little way from him, and began to laugh; and when she took it seriously, he laughed still more, quite uncontrollably at last. Ten minutes later he received a note from Miss Hall, in which she informed him that she should leave by the next steamer. On this he rushed off for his mother, whom he found at last in the cow-house. He explained the whole matter contemptuously to her, declaring that Miss Hall must be mad. Fru Rendalen at once went to her. Miss Hall was greatly exasperated; she cried, and gave confused, hasty explanations, while Fru Rendalen pulled off her spectacles, and rubbed and rubbed them; she could not comprehend it in the least. Perhaps, if we were to talk English, she thought; but it all remained as obscure as ever. Plainly and shortly, what was she angry about? Why did she wish to go? What had happened? What redress did she demand?
She demanded that the culprits should be punished.
Nothing more than that! They both set off to the boarders' room, which was now empty; they began to search through the exercise books, portfolios, bookshelves; they wished to find out who it was who was so abominable as to copy Rendalen's handwriting. From thence they went into the class-rooms. That of the senior class stood just as it had been left; for the cleaning day for this room was Thursday, and the evening sweeping had not yet been done. There they carefully collected all the bits of paper which had been thrown away, straightened them out, and examined them; they peeped into exercise books, lesson books, and desks. They must find out who the unhappy person was who imitated Rendalen's handwriting.
They all did it!
As soon as the fact became clear that every senior girl in the school had been occupied with Rendalen and Rendalen, and again Rendalen, Miss Hall gave in; at last they both left the schoolroom--neither of them said a word to the other.
Miss Hall never said anything more about it. But Fru Rendalen talked it over with Karl Vangen. His discourse on Monday had for its subject how wrong it was to do to others, what they would not like others to do to them. This was often the case with young people, "who found great pleasure in discovering the weakness and tender points of others, and playing upon them."
The four dare not look up, but they gave side-glances at the drawing mistress, who chanced that day to be sitting near the laboratory table, facing the others. She rested her long arms on it. Her hands toyed with something standing there, which she looked at intently; but tear after tear rolled down her cheeks, without her making an attempt to dry them. She was quite absent.
All four girls noticed it, and when at the third recreation she was still inconsolable and cried as much as ever. Nora could bear it no longer, but drew her into one of the rooms, and with her arms round her neck whispered, "Pardon, pardon, pardon:" she did not say for what.
They gave each other a confidential hug--regret, sympathy, shamefacedness all mingled together. The poor girl, whom they had befooled out of her most precious secret, was comforted at last by such boundless repentance, such thorough comprehension, such heartfelt devotion.
The same day Tora and Tinka heard what Nora had done; they wanted to do the same, but she forbade them; the poor girl must not on any account know that there was more than one who knew her secret.
Karen Lote was ill; Rendalen had to take her place, and give some of his work to Miss Hall. All three felt that Karen Lote must not be approached by any one.
How could they have thought of anything so disgusting as what they had done! And that, too, in the midst of serious discussions on woman's position, on woman's honour and responsibility.
Milla would not talk to the others; at school she held aloof, and when any one went to see her at home, her door was fastened. They all felt as though a storm were brewing.
That Milla should hold back from them as though they were the guilty ones and not she, Nora would not endure; one day, therefore, they all surrounded her, and asked for an explanation. Milla was offended and tried to get away, but it did no good. She then told them that they had led her into doing what was not right, and she would have nothing more to do with it. The only answer she got was from Nora's great eyes, but she reddened under them. Of course she had taken part in what had been done, she did not deny it; but she did not wish to feel as ashamed of herself again as she had done during the last few days. The others asked if she thought they had been less ashamed than she?
Milla now told them, with a slight air of superiority, that in her first fright at Karl Vangen's discourse, she had asked her father if she might accompany him when he went to the South German Baths. He had consented with great pleasure. She could not draw back now, they were to start in a few days.
At first, all the friends felt Milla's coldness in having proposed to go away without telling them. But Milla now felt this herself, for she altered her demeanour from that moment, and tried to do away with the impression. It was she now who was most amiable about everything. When the drawing mistress appeared in a very pretty cloak and hat, without any one being able to find out who "the kind friend" was from whom she had received them, it was at once clear to the three friends that they came from Milla. She denied it certainly, but that was all the nicer of her. So the short resentment changed on both sides to a closer friendship during the few days that she still had with them. Her father gave a "farewell dinner," the great event at which was the unveiling of a cake, on the top of which four sugar girls held each other with fingerless hands as they danced round a red flag with "Emancipation" on it; round the plinth was written "The Society." But derision was useless. This same Society gave a farewell entertainment to Milla the next day. All good spirits hovered over this, their last meeting, with its many short speeches, its music and songs--over its whole tone.
A girl of a serious turn of mind recalled that all the pleasure that they had had together during their school year had been begun beside Fru Engel's grave; it was closing with Milla's farewell entertainment. Milla was touched, quite overwhelmed; she declared that she was altogether unworthy, she did not deserve the kindness which they showed her; she was not all they thought her.
Tora came up and embraced her, and they all felt that this was genuine. Tora was grateful for the happiest days of her life; she whispered this to Milla, which had a good effect. They ended by seeing Milla home; she took Tora's arm. "Bad times are beginning for me," sobbed Tora.
"But I shall come back again, Tora."
Tinka scolded her for her extravagant way of speaking, it was making the whole thing into a caricature and an absurdity; but this was not the first time that Tora had done so.
When they said good-bye before Milla's door, Tora ran after her up the steps and into the hall; she was never satisfied. When inside she took out a box which Milla knew at once--it contained her one ornament; she had inherited it from her uncle, who had brought it in his youth from California. It was some pieces of rough gold made into a heavy chain, a beautiful piece of work; she pressed it into Milla's hand; she had never worn it herself. But Milla would not think of taking it from her, she did not know how she could justify herself to her father if she were to do so; she refused it decidedly, coldly at last, so that Tora was vexed and ran off. But Milla fetched her in again, held her tightly in her arms, and kissed her. Did she not believe that Milla realised what a great thing it was which she wished to do? But it was a matter of conscience for Milla to say no. They must not part in this way; Tora should stay with her, she should stay the night there. And it was so settled. When girls are really fond of each other, they love to sleep together.
The others, who had remained outside, waited a while. As Tora did not rejoin them, they walked on a little way; they were annoyed with her. They all returned, however, and came quietly through the garden-gate and past the office. A little while afterwards the two friends up in the bedroom heard a subdued chorus of girls' voices under the window, led by Tinka's contralto: they sang "Sleep in peace."
The curtain was half raised; they saw two figures in white; two heads--one dark, one fair-looked, nodding and laughing, out.
The whole school was down at the customhouse the next day; Fru Rendalen, all the teachers, male and female, every one--with the exception of Anna Rogne, who had not been at the meeting the previous day.
There was universal crying, and kissing, and admiration over Milla's travelling dress. The little ones thought they must join in; they could not cry, but they could kiss. First one little mouth was offered, then two, then five. At last they all insisted on being kissed by Milla, and then sprang back tittering.
The stewardess had all the vases in the cabin, and some dishes as well, filled with flowers. She really toiled over them. Tora, her eyes red with crying, had come with Milla and Consul Engel, and had been the object of all the latter's attentions, but she now kept quite in the background. Milla had to look for her to press her hand for the last time, to give her a last kiss. As the steamer swung round and left the quay, the slender black figure waved her handkerchief to her friends, her veil, which had become loosened, waving with it. In a moment the whole quay was white; the little ones in front, the elder ones behind them, all waved their handkerchiefs. From the steamer, it looked like the foam from a waterfall dashing down into the sea.