Part 6

Magna, Magna, I admire you. Of course, I am heart and soul for the enterprise. In this manner my money will become a breathing, living entity, doing its own work, and reaping its own reward. Don’t talk about being cautious. I am running no risks. I know what I am about. Your lawyer’s letter informs me in business language that the undertaking is “sound,” besides I am not giving the whole or even half the capital.

I need no assurances that you will carry the thing through. But read before you begin a little book by Flaubert. I don’t mind betting you have never heard of it. It is called, “Bouvard et Pécuchet.” A prospective agriculturist can learn a good deal from it. It’s splendid that Jarl is so keen on farming. But you won’t surely let him put his hand to the plough, and work in the fields from the start, will you? The boy is only seventeen, and I hope, too, that his mother isn’t going to begin at once digging turnips and milking cows. I should not care to set foot in a cow-shed—it’s a thing I have never done. But all the same I shall enjoy having letters yards long about all your first experiments and blunders.

You mustn’t take it too much to heart that Agnete is cool towards you. The poor child has a dash of prudishness in her, inherited from her mother! When she has children of her own she will be different.

Your account of the scandal was rich! Especially do I like that remark of a friend, “She might at least have had the tact to say that it was an adopted child.” I read between the lines that you have not passed through this humiliation without it’s having left scars behind. But, Magna, nothing is in vain. You can afford to pay the cost of your happiness. I am reminded of a little story about you which used to be told in our “set.” It related to the way in which you conquered Professor Wellmann’s heart. You were at a party, and had been so bored you had spoken to no one. There was something to drink in big, tall glasses. Suddenly in an ebullition of superfluous strength you bit the glass with your teeth and bit a piece out of it. Professor Wellmann sat with distended eyes and open mouth, and watched you.

And on his way out of the house he remarked to a not very discreet friend, “She, the girl who bit the glass, shall be my wife!”

The story may or may not be true, but it is characteristic of you all the same.

I can see you in hobnail boots, and a smock, tramping over the fields, superintending the plough and the breeding of cattle.

I have very little to tell about myself. Since I linked my fate to Kelly’s I live in a new world. Every day that goes by I come nearer to myself, but I cannot write about it. It is too sacred a subject. Troubles which were unknown to me before have taken up their continued abode within me, but joys which were equally strange keep watch over me with drawn swords. Magna, I ask you, can the woman who has brought her own child into the world experience greater bliss and greater torment than I, to whom my boy was given by chance?

With a thousand loving remembrances,

Your

ELSIE LINDTNER.

THE WHITE VILLA.

DEAR JEANNE,

As you will see from this heading, we are now at home again.

_We_, and at _home_ again!

My home is where Kelly is, and Denmark was never his home. But for his sake, I have uprooted once more. I did not think such a big, big town was good for him. The island here is certainly small enough.

Oh, if you could see how it looks now! I was determined to be the first with Kelly to enter the house, since you and I left it together, how many years ago?

The carpets were in tatters. The window panes were beaten in, either by the wind or vagabonds. Dead leaves and dead flies lay about the floors. My beautiful pieces of furniture were mildewed from damp ... one or two of the chairs had collapsed; the chintz coverings were moth-eaten. My bedroom—my ridiculous bedroom—was the most deplorable of all. It must have been struck by lightning, otherwise I don’t understand how the mirrors got smashed, and the rain and snow lay congealed on my bed.

Kelly laughed, and rushed from room to room, and in the end I laughed, too. Then Kelly got hold of the mad idea that instead of putting up at the inn, we should turn in here the first night. I half think he contemplated a sort of burglarious attempt on the deserted house. I yielded, of course. Never in my life have I seen any one more industrious and handy than this boy when he likes. He ran about pumping water and sweeping floors, and made all straight, God knows how. Tea was prepared! ante-diluvian sugar and a canister of Albert biscuits. He ushered me into the large parlour where my piano, my poor, wretched, beautiful piano, had been standing all these years, the prey of wind and rain, till it hasn’t a sound left in its body from hoarseness—and then he brought in the tea. I won’t go so far as to say that it tasted clean or nice, and the biscuits were musty, but Kelly’s hand had prepared it.

And we slept together in the same bed, in your bed, Jeanne, in yours! It was the only one in which the blankets were dry. I wanted to lie on a sofa with a rug, but Kelly would cuddle up beside me.

Jeanne, I—really I, your fond, old travelling companion, am now once more “at home,” and I lay awake the whole night thinking over my happiness.

Kelly slept in my arm, and my arm, of course, went to sleep, but no other part of me slept ... and Kelly woke with my arm round him.

Then we went to “The Jug,” and put up there for a fortnight till the whole place was made habitable. I have no Jeanne—I do my own hair, and make myself beautiful for my boy. Alack! it is hard work to inspire him with any desire to make himself presentable.

I am thinking of finding a tutor for him. He ought not to be allowed to run wild and devour sensational American novelettes—of which there are none in Denmark—and remain ignorant of all other subjects.

Forgive me, Jeanne, but I have only one thought, and that is Kelly. He fills my life at all points, so that everything else now has to give way to him.

He has a craze for collecting snails and slugs, which he brings into the house and lets crawl about on the white window-sills. I must own it makes a horrible mess, but Kelly may do anything. Only I draw the line at helping him to collect his snails, for, much as I should like to oblige him, it is too disgusting.

Now in exchange for these confidences, tell me all your news. It was indeed a piece of good fortune that Malthe’s design took the prize. And in Paris, too! You will, I suppose, stay there the two years. Or are you still the incorrigible nomads who prefer to travel about with your houses on your backs, with your trunks and perambulator—to settling down quietly in a refined, comfortable home. Don’t work yourself to shreds, Jeanne. Remember that life is long, and that you mustn’t grow old and ugly. I concluded that you are doing everything in your power fairly to spoil your excellent husband. You go to market. You pack the boxes, take the tickets, and accompany your husband to the museums where you make drawings for him, and you look after the children. Jeanne! Jeanne! take thought for your hair, and be careful of your hands.

And don’t forget your happy _home_-flown friend,

ELSIE LINDTNER.

* * * * *

DEAR GOOD MAGNA,

That this notion should have occurred to you, and that you should have the courage to carry it out—. But ought I to offer up this sacrifice to you, and can I relinquish Kelly? The last few nights have been long and sleepless; only when dawn begins to glimmer can I bring my confused thoughts into any order, and then it seems as if I had found a solution which is the right one. I fall asleep, and when I wake up again, everything is as unsettled as ever.

I don’t know my way in or out. Magna, it’s not selfishness which makes me dread letting Kelly out of my hands—the day does not seem far off when I shall be forced to live under another roof from that which shelters him, and that is why I don’t want to die.

My every thought is dedicated to him for whom and with whom I now live, and so I will continue to live without complaint so long as life is granted me. I have looked it all in the face, and have recoiled, shuddering, at the petrifying horror of impossibilities, but I have made my resolve. So long as I inhabit the earth Kelly has a human being who stands in the place of mother to him.

I am not afraid to make any sacrifices. I shrink only from the thought of shirking the responsibility. From the day Kelly came into my life I have made myself answerable for his actions and conduct. Would it not be cowardice and treachery if I now said, “The yoke has become too burdensome, now I will shunt it on to the shoulders of another”?

And yet, Magna, your plan seems to me the one possibility of salvation.

Before I express my hearty thanks, and confide my boy to your care, I must tell you something which I have been compelled to keep to myself till now. Kelly has before been taken care of by others. By force of circumstances. He tried—remember he was only nine years old—to burn me. Of course no one suspected him, otherwise the police would not have been asked to investigate the affair, but then it was brought to light, and he was taken away from me. I could have murdered them for taking him.... It is hard, even now, years after, to talk about it. My one idea was to find a means of getting him back. In America everything possible is done to save children whose feet are set on the downward path to crime. And it is done with a tenderness and love which is marvellous, but I didn’t know it. I thought of what I had read in the papers at home about reformatories for children, about floggings and starvation, and lockings-up in dark cellars. I was ready to help Kelly to escape till the first time that they gave me permission to visit him.

There was no wall round the institution, not even a railing. The main building abutted on the high road, and from there you could see the heaps of smaller red houses resembling a town of villas.

As I came up to the inspector’s dwelling, I was almost run down by a crowd of boys headed by a small negro, who were having a race.

Just as I entered the door, I heard an outcry which made my heart stand still. I thought it was one of the boys being punished. But the inspector showed me from the window what the noise meant. The boys were playing at fire, and at that moment they were letting the hose play on the inspector’s house. My little Kelly—in oilskins and a helmet on his head—held the hose.

And I was told that of the six hundred boys who are in the reformatory many of them on account of gross misconduct, for which but for their tender years, they would have been sentenced to a long period of imprisonment, not a single one had been guilty of doing anything wrong during his detention here. Punishments such as thrashing and being put on bread and water and under arrest, simply do not exist. The boys live in their little villas, twelve in a batch, under the supervision of a pair of foster-parents. The only punishment is that a boy who has been disobedient or lazy gets no cake at five o’clock tea, and is not given permission to sit with the others at the large flower-decked table, but has to sit alone at a small table. And he mayn’t lie before the fire at dusk and listen to fairy-tales.

No mother could have had more delightful letters from her child than I had from Kelly during that year. If I had only been as wise then as I am now, I should have let him stay there as long as the inspector would have kept him.

All the small “prisoners” were taught in succession various industries which they might choose themselves. I saw them baking, ironing, washing, carving, carpentering, binding books, making clothes, and toys, and I saw them planting trees, ploughing, and, Magna, I saw them milking cows. But I was a foolish mother. I didn’t want my boy brought up to a trade; I imagined it was my duty to develop his great gifts in a different direction.

So after a year he was sent back to me. But the inspector warned me that there would be a lapse. In two months it came. Kelly disappeared. I tore about like a maniac hunting for him everywhere. I don’t believe there was a beer-cellar, a common lodging-house, or a thieves’ kitchen that I didn’t search. He was traced through the scar on his forehead, and I recovered him. But how?

The Kelly who for twelve months had been living a model life among six hundred little abandoned chaps, had plotted with a group of homeless playmates to commit a crime so diabolical and remorseless that at first I refused to believe his brain could have hatched it. By the train between Philadelphia and New York travels every day a crowd of millionaires who come to do their business on the Stock Exchange. The other boys were, through all sorts of tricks, to distract the attention of the signalman while Kelly was to switch on the signals so that another train would come into collision with the train from Philadelphia. After the collision they meant to plunder the dead bodies!

It’s true, Magna; now say, no! you dare not take Kelly under your roof to associate with Oluf. I can’t help it, it was my duty to tell you all. My friend, Judge Rander, in Children’s Court, helped me in every way. He procured for me leave to travel with Kelly out of the country on a verbal and written oath that I would never bring him back. That is why I lived two years, summer and winter, in my White Villa with Kelly and a tutor. I was afraid to let him come near the town, and yet the child needed companions. So at last I ventured to migrate to a town, with the result that Kelly in two years was expelled from three schools. Can you still have the courage, Magna, to let the innocent child, offspring of your heart, become Kelly’s playfellow? And if you are so courageous, how shall I be able to exonerate myself if you come to me one day and say, “Kelly has corrupted my boy”?

I put the words into your mouth, Magna.

Say no, while there is still time. You are strong, stronger than any other woman I know, since you have found yourself again through strenuous exertion and labour. But there are powers that the strongest cannot conquer.

Behind my fears about your saying yes, lies the burning wish that you will, but how shall I ever find words to thank you?

Of course, I realise what it will mean if Kelly from now onwards takes up his abode with you, and directly after his confirmation leaves off school. It’s not what Kelly is to be, but _how_ he becomes what he is, that is going to be for me the main question. I fold my hands in my lap, and I confess my powerlessness.

Make Kelly a man. Make Kelly a good man.

You will understand, Magna, that I could not say all this if we stood face to face. While I have been writing Kelly has been several times to the door. He wants to know what I am doing. Every time I feel tempted to lay down my pen to enjoy his society. He asked me the other day, “Mother, do you believe that people’s fate is pre-ordained?” What could he have meant by it? I dared not ask him. He went on his knees, buried his head in my lap, and cried bitterly.

Magna, don’t keep me long in uncertainty. At least promise me that.

Your

ELSIE LINDTNER.

* * * * *

I have begun to darn Kelly’s stockings. Why did I never think of it before?

He was whitewashing the attic with Magna, and I saw that one of his stockings was without a heel. I actually blushed, I felt so ashamed. The boy, of course, doesn’t trouble about such trifles, and Magna, splendid creature, has enough to do. I don’t believe she would mind a bit going about with holes in her own stockings.

In the country it doesn’t matter so much, but still—

She simply laughed at me when I asked to be allowed to look after his clothes, and I didn’t quite know how to explain why I wanted to do it. But Magna is so clever, and when I was seated comfortably she brought me out a whole bundle. She has done the same for her own children. I am convinced that she would not let any one else darn Oluf’s stockings.

I don’t find it easy. I have quite forgotten the proper way of doing it, which I learnt at school. And I haven’t thought anything about darning stockings since.

But I take no end of trouble, and it is a wonderful feeling to sit out here on the balcony with a whole pile of big, big stockings in front of me—Kelly has positively a gigantic foot. My dear little balcony. It’s to me what an airship is for young, impatient folks. I sit so serenely in my charming, soft seat, between sweet-peas and nasturtiums, and beneath me streams by the current of life with its men and beasts.

* * * * *

It amuses me to see how skilfully Richard’s eldest can drive an automobile. If only he can avoid accidents.

Richard himself is aging, but his little wife sits so upright in the car. She wears well.

Since Richard caught sight of me one day by chance he always looks up and bows, and then we all bow, ... I overhear the lanky youth say, “Papa, we are passing your old wife,” and then they laugh.

Yes, I should like to see the home in the old Market Place once more. Probably I should hardly recognise it, or perhaps Richard, from long habit, has kept things much the same.

The eldest son is to succeed to the business, of course, but the second looks to me so dandified. I know this for certain that none of Richard’s sons will ever work out in the fields in clogs and woollen shirts. And their mother will never have the joy of darning stockings with holes in them as big as goose’s eggs. While I sit with a pair of these coarse, huge, manly socks in which my hand is absolutely drowned, I feel to the full extent a mother’s glorious rights. I only wish the holes were double the size, so that the time they take to mend lasted longer.

I have been and bought the pan for cooking oxeyes in, and I have promised Kelly and Oluf that every time they come they shall have oxeyes baked in butter. Magna requires nothing but her horrid nut-suet which has no flavour. She alone can eat it. Dear, dear boys.

* * * * *

DEAR AGNETE,

It was well that you wrote to me this time, and not to your mother. You are not to trouble her with your unhappy affairs, do you understand? Every time that she gets a letter from you she shuts herself up and cries. Lately I have read quite a number of your letters, and I must confess that I was not pleased with them.

At one time you presumed to sit in judgment on your mother’s life, and now you blame her because yours is a failure. You have no right to do it.

You cannot justly lay your married wretchedness at either your mother’s or your husband’s door. Its origin is to be sought in a train of circumstances. You must know, though you seem to have forgotten it, that it was not your mother who gave in to your desire to go to the French Convent School. It was my doing that you went. I sent you for her peace of mind’s sake.

That you have married a Catholic while you yourself are a Protestant is no one’s fault but your own, as you did not ask anybody’s permission. Unfortunately you have inherited from your mother a hysterical temperament, and from your father a certain matter-of-factness which prevents your enjoying life.

I feel compelled to act like a surgeon who undertakes a necessary operation, in spite of the patient’s objection to scars.

The only time your husband was here on a visit I was able to get a certain impression of his character. You are right in saying that he is “dangerous to women through the animal magnetism which radiates from his person, attracting to him adults and children alike.” And you might add, “through his natural amiability and his kindliness.” He makes no disguise of his vanity, but when you plume yourself on being his only chick because you alone resist him, you are adopting a dangerous line. The man who wishes to be worshipped will not be discouraged by superior airs, especially when these are put on, and you merely feign opposition in order to annoy him, and to conceal how much you are in love.

Owing to the position he holds he is the centre of much attention. He is unable, like most men, to diverge from the high road. Every movement of his is noticed, and may cause him unpleasantness. Thus his position forces him to be cautious. Yet you as his loving wife accuse him of giving to every woman what ought to be your position alone.

Your want of trust puts him on the rack. You pluck his nerves to pieces, and dissect his secret thoughts. You hate him for not being unfaithful to you in deed in that you suspect continually that he is unfaithful to you in thought. You hurt him by telling him constantly that your mutual life is animal and savage, that he lacks soul, and does not comprehend what it is to love with the soul as you do. He retorts by calling you hysterical.

Then a young girl comes to stay in your house. She falls in love with your husband, and he is in love with her. You say, “She made a dead set at him.” Instead of deciding to remove her immediately you watch for proofs of the criminal relations which you suspect. I don’t condemn you for getting hold of your husband’s letters by any means honourable or the reverse, because jealous wives are as irresponsible for their actions as patients with a temperature of a hundred and six. You triumph and cause yourself diabolical torments by revelling in the stolen love-letters. You find in them the “psychological” impulse that you have missed in your husband’s love.

What ought you to do now? Either you must go, as you cannot stay with a man who is in love with another; or you must remain and leave him and his feelings in peace. Nonsense! Instead you thrust a dagger into his heart and turn it in the wound. If he moans, you ask, “Do you still love her?”

You think that love can be wrenched out of a man’s life as easily as a tooth is drawn, root and all.

Agony brings your husband to reason and his senses, he belies what he feels and cries, “I love no one but you!” But even then can you leave him alone? Certainly not. You now insist on his telling everything, betraying and deceiving. You know, as a Catholic, he cannot claim a divorce, and yet you ask if he will marry her in the case of your retiring? Not a word of this offer do you intend seriously. You want to humiliate and torment him.

Next you make a scene with the girl, pervert his words about her, misapply your knowledge, and use such expressions as “Impurity, lies, vulgarity.” But she only answers, “I love him, I cannot do anything else.” And you find this exasperating.

Not once has it occurred to you to set your husband free. He belongs to you, he is in your power. You begin all over again. You haven’t an hour’s rest because you must spy on all his actions. You reproach him for being a Catholic. His baseness is trebled because he is Catholic—as if lies had anything to do with articles of faith.

You are leading a pretty life! Then your husband falls ill. For a long time he has complained of a tumour in his chest. “If it grows it’ll have to be removed for it may be cancer.” This is a trifling matter, or you inwardly triumph over it as “a judgment.”

One morning he leaves the house on business. He takes leave of you tenderly and comes back over and over again to kiss you with emotion. You at once suspect deceit, and heap reproaches on him for intending to do something behind your back. He smiles sadly and says, “If that is so you will soon hear what it is.”

At mid-day you have a “vision,” if what you write is true. You see him lying on the operating table. You telephone to the hospital and learn that the operation has taken place. You hurry there and meet the girl.

To you he has not spoken of the serious ordeal in store for him. But he has sent for her.