Part 4

"By an unfortunate accident."

"A very fortunate accident, if you ask me, that it didn't come down where we stood, or it might have done for a whole crowd of innocent folk that were simple enough to come out and look."

"I don't know, I'm sure, what you want to drag up that old story again for."

"Because I want you to keep to earth in future. Stay at home--on the mat, if you like it that way."

"Will you help us to go to Paris, or will you not?"

"Honestly, then, I should call it throwing money away to do anything of the sort."

"But if you knew that people who really know something about art considered it absolutely necessary for our future, for the development of our talents as artists, then would you let us go?"

"Competent judges to decide, you mean?"

"If you will, we've both of us faith enough in our calling, and in our future as artists."

"Well, that sounds reasonable enough, I admit."

"You will not accept Mrs. Rantzau's decision alone? She is well known, not only as a teacher of singing herself, but her husband had a great reputation as an author and art critic, so she's heard and seen a great deal. And she said the other day that the little seascape of mine up in the Art Society's place was excellent; the sky in particular was finely drawn, she said."

"I've no doubt she's a very clever woman. I haven't the honour of her acquaintance myself, but I must say I think a great deal of her daughter, in the office here."

"Oh, Betty's just the opposite of her mother--she's no idea of art whatever."

"No, poor child, I dare say she's had quite enough both of poverty and humbug."

"Really, father, I don't think you're justified in saying things like that."

"That may be, my son. But if you two young people are set on making artists of yourselves, why, do. And if you can give me a reasonable guarantee that it's any good trying, why, I won't stand in your way."

"I think we can, then."

And William went up to tell Marie what had passed. Holm sat for a while occupied with his own thoughts, and came at last to the conclusion that the children were "artist-mad," and got it badly. He must manage to get hold of this Mrs. Rantzau, and see if she could not be persuaded to use her influence to get these ideas out of their heads--especially now, since her daughter was in the office.

There was a gentle tap at the door. It was little Hans, who stood timidly looking up at him.

"Well, Hans, lad, and how's the music getting on? I hope you've made friends with your teacher?"

He drew the boy over to a seat beside him on the sofa. Hans carefully placed his cap over one knee, for his trousers were torn, and he did not want it to be seen.

"Have you been for your lesson every day?"

"Yes, till the day before yesterday, but then I hurt my hand chopping wood for mother, so I've got to wait a few days till it's well." And he held out one thin little hand, showing two fingers badly bruised and raw.

"Poor little man! I must tell Bramsen to lend you a hand with the chopping."

"And, please, I was to bring you this letter from Mr. Bess; he asked me to take it up to you myself. It's the bill for my lessons, I think," he added quickly, "and he wants the money because of the rent." Hans was well acquainted with such things from his own home life, and having heard the organist and his wife talking about the rent falling due, he at once took it for granted that the case was as urgent then as when his own mother lay awake at nights wondering how to meet a similar payment.

Holm took the letter and read:

"In accordance with your request, I have been giving lessons for some time to little Hans Martinsen, whose gift for music is really surprising. Though I do not consider myself fully qualified to judge the precise value of his talent, I would say, as my personal opinion, that the child shows quite unusual promise. And I am convinced that with skilful and attentive tuition, he could in time become a player of mark.

"I am an old man now, and am not otherwise competent to train such talent as it should be trained, but as a lover of music myself, I beg you to assist the child; you will find your reward, I'm sure. If I could afford it, I would gladly contribute as far as I was able, but as you know I am not in a position to do so. I will not, however, accept any payment for the lessons given, but should be glad to feel that I have made some little offering myself towards his future."

Holm read the letter through once more.

"Little man, we must send you to Christiania to study there. I'll arrange it all, and you shall have the best teacher that's to be had."

Hans sat twirling his cap, and made no answer.

"Well, Hans, aren't you glad? Wouldn't you like to go on with your music?"

"Yes, but I can't. I can't go away and leave mother; there'll be nobody to help her then."

"Don't worry about that, my boy; your mother shall go with you. No more washing; all she'll need to do will be just to look after you."

"But--how? Mother couldn't go away like that!"

"We'll manage that all right. It's very simple. I'll lend your mother the money, do you see, and then, when you've learnt enough and can play properly yourself, you can pay it back--if you want to, that is."

"Oh--oh, how good you are! May I run home and tell mother, now?"

"Yes, run along and tell her as quickly as you like. Only understand, not a word to anyone else about it. I'll come round this evening, anyway, and fix it all up."

Hans, in his delight, forgot all about hiding the hole in his trousers; he grasped his friend's hands and looked at him with glistening eyes.

"Is it really true--that I'm to go to Christiania?"

"True as ever could be, little lad, and now off you go--I'll come along soon."

Holm took the organist's letter and read it through once again.

"Noble old fellow--so you'd sacrifice your hard-earned money and give your trouble for nothing? Not if I know it; you shan't be a loser there. And as for Hans, I'll see to his education myself. He shall go to Paris instead of those madcap youngsters with their parties. My '52 Madeira too! But we'll soon put a stop to that."

V

MRS. RANTZAU'S STORY

She was a teacher of singing, and had only recently settled in the town. Holm had never seen her, but now that her daughter was working in his office, and Marie had begun taking lessons with Mrs. Rantzau herself, he felt it his duty to call.

Moreover, he had some secret hope that it might be possible here to find an ally in his plan for combating Marie's artistic craze. In addition to which, she was Betty's mother....

The place was four storeys up, and Holm, tired after his climb, sat down at the top of the stairs for a moment before ringing the bell.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la--he could hear a woman's voice singing scales inside, the same thing over and over again. A little after came another voice, which he took to be Mrs. Rantzau's.

"Mouth wide open, please; that's it--now breathe!"

Holm rang the bell and Mrs. Rantzau opened the door.

He stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at her.

"Heavens alive--it can't be--Bianca, is it really you?"

She turned pale, came close to him and whispered:

"For Heaven's sake, not a word." Then, taking him by the arm, she thrust him gently into a room adjoining.

He heard the young lady take her departure, and a moment later Mrs. Rantzau stood before him.

She was still a magnificently handsome woman. The dark eyes were deep and clear as ever, the black hair waved freely over the forehead, albeit with a thread of silver here and there. Her figure was slender and well-poised, her whole appearance eloquent of energy and life.

"If you knew how I have dreaded this moment, Mr. Holm," she began, then suddenly stopped.

"H'm--yes. It's a good many years now since last we met, Bianca--beg pardon, Mrs. Rantzau, I mean."

"Fifteen--yes, it's fifteen years ago. And much has happened since then. I didn't know really whether to go and call on you myself, and ask you not to say anything about the way we met, and how I was living then. But then again, I thought you must have forgotten me ages ago."

"Forgotten! Not if I live to be a hundred."

"And then, too, I thought it might be awkward for Betty if I tried to renew our old acquaintance; you might be offended, and not care to keep her on at the office...."

"But--my dear lady--however could you imagine such a thing?"

"Oh, I know how good and kind you were when I knew you before--but people change sometimes. And you can understand, I'm sure, Mr. Holm, that my position here, my connection with my pupils, would be ruined if the past were known. Not that I've anything to be ashamed of, thank God, but you know yourself, in a little town like this, how people would look at a woman--or even a man, for that matter--whose life has been so--so unusual as mine."

"Dear lady, I understand, of course, but I should never have thought of mentioning a word of our relations in the past."

"Thanks, thanks! Oh, I can see now you have not changed. Kind and thoughtful as ever; you were good to me, Mr. Holm--not like the others." Her voice trembled a little, and she grasped his hand.

Holm flushed slightly, murmured a few polite words, and thought--of Betty.

Mrs. Rantzau continued: "I should like you to understand, to realise yourself the position I was placed in then. Will you let me tell you the whole story--if you've time?"

"Indeed I've time--you took up quite a considerable amount of my time before, you know," he added kindly.

"Ah, I see you're the same as ever, Mr. Holm, always bright and cheerful over things."

"Why, yes, I'm glad to say. It would be a pity not to."

"Well, let me begin. My life hasn't been a path of roses--far from it; it's been mostly thorns. If only I could write, I might make quite an exciting story of it all. I'm forty-two now, started life as a parson's daughter up in the north, was married to a poet, and lived with him in Paris; my child was born, and I was left a widow then. I had to keep myself and Betty by the work of my hands; sang at concerts, and accompanied in Hamburg, lived as a countess in Westphalia----"

"What--a countess?"

"Well, very nearly. But I'll tell you about that later. I taught French in Copenhagen, and painting in Gothenburg, was housekeeper to a lawyer in a little Norwegian town, nearly married him but not quite, and ended up here teaching singing. So you see I've been a good many things in my time."

"But tell me--tell me all about it," exclaimed Holm eagerly.

"Mr. Holm, you know the darkest part of all my life; it is only fair that you should know the rest. I've nothing to be ashamed of, for after all I have managed to earn a livelihood for myself and Betty. I was seventeen when I left home, and they said I was quite good-looking----"

"You're equal to anything on the market now, as we say in business----"

"Well, I came straight from the wilds of the Nordland to Christiania, and they called me 'the Nordland sun.' I was the most sought after at all the dances, and perhaps one of the most brilliant, for I came to the gay life of the capital with the freshness of a novice. It was not long before I became engaged to a young writer--a poet, he was----"

"The devil you did! Beg pardon, I'm sure, but to tell the truth I've no faith in that sort of people, as Banker Hermansen would say."

"We were both of us young and inexperienced; he dreamed of gaining world-wide fame by his pen, and I used to weep over his passionate love poems. I was eighteen and he twenty-two, and I promised to follow him to the end of the world, for better or worse.

"Then one fine day we landed in Paris, without caring a jot for our people, our friends, or our own country. We were married there at the Swedish Church, and there I was, a poet's wife, with my people at home trying to forget the black sheep of the family.

"A few years passed. But every day saw the breaking of one of the golden threads in our web of illusion, and when Betty was born we were in desperate straits.

"Poor old Thor, he used to sit up late at night writing stuff for the papers at home, all about magnificent functions he'd never been to at all, and warming his frozen fingers over a few bits of coal in the stove."

"And he might have made quite a decent living in an office," put in Holm sympathetically.

"Unfortunately, he imagined he was a genius, and gradually, as things got worse and worse, the struggle for a bare existence made him bitter, till he hated the world, and looked upon himself as a martyr condemned to suffering.

"Then he took to staying out late of an evening, and wrote less and less. By the time we had been there a year, the poet's wife was washing lace to keep the home together. In the autumn of the second year, he went down with pneumonia, and a week after the 'Nordland sun' was a widow. I couldn't go home, for I'd cut myself adrift from them completely when I married. There was nothing for it but to struggle along as best I could by myself, unknown and friendless in the great city. But, thank Heaven, I've always had my health and a cheerful temper, and little Betty was such a darling."

"Yes, she's a wonderful girl."

"She and I have fought our way together, Mr. Holm, and a hard fight it has been at times, believe me.

"Well, we got along somehow in Paris, for a few years, doing needlework, or giving music lessons at fifty centimes an hour. It was a cheerless existence mostly, as you can imagine, and if it hadn't been for the child I should have broken down long before.

"Then at last I got the offer of a place as accompanist at a concert hall in Hamburg, with a salary of a hundred marks a month for three hours' work every evening and two rehearsals a week. This was splendid, and I was in the highest spirits when I left Paris. Besides, it was a little nearer home, and I used to be desperately home-sick at times, though I knew it was hopeless to think of going back.

"Imagine my feelings, then, when I got to the place and found it was a common music hall; though very decent, really, for a place of that sort."

"It was a beautiful place--at least, I thought so, when I saw you there."

"Well, there I sat, night after night, accompanying all sorts of more or less third-rate artistes. It used to make me wild, I remember, when they sang false, or were awkward in their gestures; I used to look at them in a way they would remember. And really, I managed to make them respect me after a time, though I was only twenty-five myself.

"Then, besides my evenings there, I gradually worked up a little connection giving music and singing lessons outside, till I was making enough to live fairly comfortably.

"But one day the whole staff went on strike, and left at a moment's notice, and there we were. The manager--you remember him, I dare say, Sonnenthal; man with a black waxed moustache and a big diamond pin--he came running in to me and said I must sing myself; it would never do to close down altogether in the height of the season. He thought he would get at least a couple of other turns, and if I would help it would get us over the difficulty.

"I told him I couldn't think of it--said I had no talent for that sort of thing; but he insisted, and offered me fifty marks a night if I would.

"Fifty marks was a fabulous sum to me for one night, then, after living on a franc and a half a day in Paris, and it meant so much for Betty. I began to think it over.

"And really I felt sure myself that I could do better than these half-civilised cabaret singers, from Lord knows where, that I'd been playing to for so long. But the parson's daughter found it hard to come down to performing like that.

"Then Sonnenthal offered me sixty marks. He thought, of course, it was only a question of money. It was too good to refuse, and I agreed.

"He got out new posters, with big lettering:

'SIGNORA BIANCA The World-renowned Singer from Milan now Appearing.'

"I remember how furious I was when the dresser came in to make me up, and I flung her paints and powders across the room. Sonnenthal came round and wanted me to go on in short skirts, but I told him in so many words that I was going to do it my own way or not at all; and, knowing how he was situated, of course he had to give in.

"I think he was impressed by the way I stood up to him. A little Roumanian girl, a pale, dark-eyed creature, who was simply terrified of Sonnenthal, like all the rest of them, came in to me afterwards and threw her arms round my neck and thanked me for having given him a lesson at last.

"It was with very mixed feelings that I went on that night for my first performance. The audience, of course, was composed of all sorts, and the performers were often interrupted by shouting, not always of applause.

"The house was full--it was packed. Sonnenthal knew how to advertise a thing.

"I gave them 'A Mountain Maid' to start with, a touching little thing, and I put enough feeling into it to move a stone, but not a hand was raised to applaud. Then I tried 'Solveig's Song' from _Peer Gynt_--that too was received with chilling silence.

"When I came off after the first two, I could see the others smiling maliciously: there's plenty of jealousy in that line of business. But it set my blood boiling, and I felt that irresistible impulse to go in and do something desperate, as I always do when anything gets in my way.

"I rushed on again, and gave the word to the orchestra for 'The Hungarian Gipsy,' a thing all trills and yodelling and such-like trick work--a show piece.

"I put all I knew into it this time, and yodelled away till the audience left their beer-glasses untouched on the tables--and that's saying a good deal with a crowd like that.

"When I finished, the hall rang with a thunder of applause--everyone shouting and cheering. I had to come before the curtain again and again. But I wouldn't give them an encore that time. I thought it best to have something in reserve, and not make myself cheap like the others.

"As I came off the last time, I couldn't help saying half aloud what I thought of my respected audience--_clowns_!

"But I'd found out how to handle them now, and I gave them the stuff they wanted, and plenty of it. I knew the sort of thing well enough. For years they'd sat listening to the same type of short-skirted, rouged and powdered womenfolk, with the same more or less risky songs, the same antiquated kick-ups and the same cheap favour in their eyes. I took care myself always to appear as a lady, chose first-rate songs, and, as my salary increased--for I drew Sonnenthal gradually up the scale as I wished--I was able to dress in a style that astonished them.

"Do you remember when I sang 'The Carnival of Venice'?"

"Do I not! Saints alive, but you were a wonder to see. Every evening, all the month I was there, I came just to sit and look at you."

"Listen, you mean?"

"Well, perhaps that's what I ought to say. Anyhow, I know I strewed flowers enough at your feet that winter, though they cost me a mark apiece."

"Yes, you were kind, I know. But do you remember the dress I wore for that carnival thing? The bodice all white roses, and red and yellow for the skirt--it was a success--a sensation! 'Flowers in spring' ah!"

She rose to her feet, and took a step forward, singing as she moved.

"When I came to that part, they all wanted to join in, but I had only to hold out my hand, so, and all was quiet in a moment, you remember?"

"Yes, indeed, you had a wonderful power over the sterner sex; I felt it myself, I know. I swear I've never been more completely head over ears before or since."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holm," she protested, with a hearty laugh, "we're past that sort of thing now, both of us. But you were good to me then, and I shall never forget it. I had enough and to spare in the way of offers and attentions, not to speak of making people furious because I always refused their invitation to champagne suppers behind the scenes."

"That was just what gave you the position and influence you had, I think."

"Yes, I think it was. I know that all the time I was there, yours was the only invitation I ever accepted, because you were a fellow-countryman, and so kind and considerate as well.

"I remember as if it were yesterday that dinner at the 'Pforte.' There was a pheasant, with big tail-feathers large as life, do you remember? And when we got to the coffee, you wanted to hear the story of my life----"

"And you were silent as an Egyptian mummy."

"My parents were still living then, Mr. Holm, and I wished at least to spare them the sorrow of learning that their daughter was performing on the music-hall stage. Well, but I must go on.

"Fortunately, you were the only fellow-countryman I ever came in contact with while I was there; and, of course, I kept my nationality a secret as far as possible.

"When the summer came, I was so sick and tired of the life and the half-civilised surroundings, that I threw it up, and went to Copenhagen. I had saved enough by that time to keep me more or less comfortable for a while at least. But there was one little adventure I must tell about, before I left."

"This is getting quite exciting," said Holm, changing his seat and placing himself directly opposite her. "Go on. I'm curious to know."

"Well, I was as near as could be to becoming a Countess."

"Were you, though! How did it happen?"

"It's not altogether exceptional, you know, in the profession. But my little affair there is soon told. One of my most devoted admirers was a tall middle-aged man, well built, handsome, with dark hair and a big moustache. He looked like a military man. He was always most elegantly dressed, in a black frock-coat, with the red ribbon of some Order in his buttonhole.

"One evening, when I'd just finished dressing for the 'Carnival of Venice' thing, a card was brought in, bearing the name of Count--well, never mind his name. It was the Count that did it, I'm afraid.

"I invariably used to return cards brought in that way, and take no notice. But this time I suppose my vanity got the better of me for once, and I let him come in.

"He made me a most respectful bow, and handed me a magnificent bouquet tied with ribbon in the Italian colours. I was supposed to be from Milan, you know. He spoke excellent French, and seemed altogether a gentleman of the first water--or blood, I suppose one would say.

"He told me about his home, his estates and his family affairs in the most simple and natural manner. I could not help liking him a little from the first. He was in Hamburg on business--some lawsuit or other--and dropping into the place one evening to pass the time, he could not help noticing me particularly.

"He was not sparing of his compliments, I must say; he praised me up to the skies, as an artist, of course. My voice had astonished, delighted, enchanted him, he told me so at once. And ended up by advising me to try the opera stage--offered to help me himself in every way possible, which, he said, might mean something, as he had many influential friends in that quarter. I told him, however, quite frankly, that I was perfectly aware myself as to the qualifications needed for operatic work, and had sense enough to realise that I could never succeed in that way. He was evidently surprised at my attitude, but I simply thanked him for his kindness, and got rid of him then for the time being. But he came again regularly every evening, bringing me flowers, and at last he made a formal proposal in the most charming manner, laying his title, estates and all the rest of it at my feet.

"It was tempting, of course, but thank goodness I had always had a pretty fair share of common sense, especially as I got older. I told him I regretted I did not know him sufficiently well to take so serious a step, but promised to think it over."

"That was a plucky thing to do. There are not many who would have taken it like that."