Part 8

A week passed and still Kallem had not seen her, although he had tried what he could to bring it about. But he was out at a dance one night--the son of the house was a fellow-student of his--the latter came up to him whilst a "tour d'inclination" was going on, bringing two ladies with him, and asked Kallem whether he would choose the "kernel of a nut" or a "dog-rose?" This was not particularly clever, but he chose the "dog-rose." This "dog-rose" had a musical forehead and prettily arched eyebrows; otherwise she was silent and insignificant. Rather tall, with sloping shoulders, pretty arms, not actually fat but well-shaped; the same might be said of her whole person. She danced well, but seemed as if she wished to get away from him as quickly as possible; he brought her back to her place without her having so much as looked at him. He was much surprised therefore when she came and fetched him out in the next "tour." Probably she only knew very few people and those few were very likely engaged. She looked about her shyly and then came forward with timid steps and curtsied; still she did not look up, she seemed positively afraid, and so it struck him he would be kind and sit down beside her. But whatever he said to her she never answered anything but "yes," "no," "indeed," "perhaps," which soon proved too much of a good thing for so-much-sought-after a cavalier as he; so he left her. Again he was offered his choice between the "nut-kernel" which he had despised and a "bon-bon," and this time he chose the "nut-kernel." He liked her much better; she was a lively, round, little thing, and spoke with a mixture of Norland and Bergen accent. He soon learned that her father was a native of Bergen, but was now a clergyman in the Norland district. She was staying here in town with her sister, and very often went to balls; for they had so many relations--her voice rose and fell in true Norland fashion; but unfortunately she would soon have to be going home again; they were nervous about her up there in the north; nor did the old parents like to be left alone. Of course Kallem did the polite and pretended to be highly amused; they became such good friends that-- She told him with a great flow of words how she had come to town so as to help her sister to get settled; her sister was not at all practical, which _she_ was; she could do nothing but play the piano, that sister of hers; she had been accustomed to it since her childhood, and had studied two years in Berlin. Then Kallem became all attention, and it turned out that her sister was the partner he had danced with first and had thought so tiresome; his landlady, Fru Ragni Kule! The "nut-kernel," it must be observed, was not her real sister; they were children of different marriages. And the "nut-kernel" was not the eldest, as he had imagined; on the contrary, her sister was nearly nineteen, and she was a little more than seventeen.

Immediately he went and danced with Fru Kule, and remarked with much surprise that she was his landlady. Was she aware of that? Was that why she had chosen him to dance with before? She felt as if she were taken in the act of committing a crime, but could think of no excuse to make. "But why did you not tell me who you were?" continued he, insisting.

She felt still more overwhelmed by this fresh sin of having kept silence, and could not possibly get out a word. Then he said, rather rudely and impatiently:

"Perhaps you have some difficulty in speaking?"

She turned very pale; there was something unspeakably unhappy in her startled look. His rudeness was the natural consequence of his contempt for anyone who could lower themselves by such a marriage as hers was. But his sympathy was so thoroughly aroused by her pallor and helplessness that he hastened to say: "To be sure, I know that you possess the gift of a language which is easier for you than for most people--" and so he talked on in an easy, natural way about her music, made her sit down, told her that he had heard her play, and that Rendalen was such a competent judge; he turned the conversation upon all the world-renowned artists he had ever heard, and succeeded in making her join in; of course she had heard so many of them. By degrees she gained so much confidence that she even ventured to ask after Rendalen; she had not seen him at all since he had moved. He was all right, and then he described all Rendalen's peculiarities till she was obliged to laugh. She did not look "stupid" when she laughed, far from it. For a moment, too, there was a gleam in the eyes as of "many rays."

"Why did Rendalen move?" asked she, and there was something of the singing Norland accent in her voice too, but less that in her sister's. It was rather a weak voice, but at the same time so very sweet. He answered her with a question. But no, she knew nothing; and then she looked full at him; those were eyes! "Was it about the room?"

"About the room?" repeated he.

"Yes, I mean when he heard that my aunt wanted to live here--my husband's aunt," she added, correcting herself, and suddenly she became shy again.

"Had they given him notice to leave?"

"No, certainly not."

"Then he could not possibly be offended."

She quite agreed to that too. But Rendalen had never even been to say good-by. She never quite got rid of her shyness; it suited her though, as sometimes a veil can suit a face.

"Did you see much of his mother?"

"Yes," said she, and smiled.

"Why do you smile?"

"Well, perhaps it is hardly right of me, but she was so like a man." She was ashamed after she had said this, and would gladly have taken back her words; she had only meant that she was such a clever woman. But Kallem began joking her about it; she was forced to laugh again, and, as before said it was sweet to see and hear her laugh. "You see you _can_ talk!" She glanced up at him; was he making fun of her? Suddenly he remembered that Rendalen had told her she ought to wear her hair off her forehead, and it was off this evening! Oh-ho!

She was really very pretty! To think of his not having found it out at once! And to think that others had not seen it and spoken about it. It was true that her face was undeveloped and child-like, and the slender figure rather too thin. Her forehead was lovely; the eyebrows were delicately arched, but they were fair and not strongly marked. There was a difficulty in getting a look at the eyes; but now he knew that they were so confiding in all their gray-blue shyness, and they spoke volumes. Cheeks, chin, and mouth were soft and undecided; the latter always slightly open; it was short, too, which made it so "sweet." The nose was nothing much, but it was slightly crooked. Her hair was not very thick, but it had a pretty reddish shade in it. But her complexion! It was so dazzingly white one could not take one's eyes from it once one had found it out; but the thing was, one did not notice it unless the colour of the dress helped one or the light was dim; she wore no ornaments, not even a bracelet. The wrists were such as would belong to long, narrow hands, which he would have liked to see. "So you love music more than anything else?"

"Yes," answered she, "it is all that I can do." She looked down. He wondered what there was he might question her on that would not make her feel ashamed. But he had better have a care--there he sat falling in love as fast as he could. Unfortunately he was obliged to leave her to go and dance with, and talk to, others. As soon as he left her it was as though he would never find her again; she seemed to become invisible. He came back to her as soon as he could for propriety's sake. She evidently did not object; she was a little more confiding, even looked at him once or twice and smiled right up into his eyes. Fancy that! It was more than Rendalen could have aspired to. His falling in love began through her being so shy, and increased as she became more confiding. He asked if he might be allowed to see the ladies home. Surely he had a better right to it than anyone else as she was his landlady. She accepted his offer at once; she never hesitated. It was true, she said, that her nephew, the young man who had first offered Kallem the choice between a "nut-kernel" and a "dog-rose" was going with them too, but that they could both come.

"Yes, of course we can!" said he gaily, thinking secretly that the nephew should take charge of the "nut-kernel."

It was a thick, dark evening, the snow falling slightly. The star-like snow-flakes floated slowly and singly down as though each one had its own place and was bent on a special errand; not a breath of wind came to disturb them. Both ladies were well wrapped up and had Laplander shoes on. The music and dancing were still in full swing when they met, and there was much merry laughter among all the young people on the stairs and in the corridors; outside was the noise of bells from the sledges come to fetch the guests. The "nephew," being the host of the evening, could not leave so early; but he found someone to take his place; this other young man gave his arm to his lady, and they set off down hill at a run; but when Kallem would have done the same his young landlady was frightened and clung to him, as she was forced along running, and begged and implored him not to do it. It was just as though she did not see properly. He stopped and asked if that were the case. No; but she was so terribly afraid of falling.

"You seem to be nervous and timid altogether."

"Yes, I know I am," said she, truthfully. She was sweet enough, but in reality a bit of a prude. Then they walked on for a while in silence; they could see nothing of the other two. Bah! thought he, there is no use being offended, I suppose she can't help it. "It is not one o'clock yet," said he.

"No, but the youngest child is not very well; the servant is sitting up with her, but she has to get up early to-morrow morning." The North-country sing-song in her voice seemed to carry him far away out to sea.

"I miss the open sea so much now in the winter," said he; "here everything is ice-bound. I suppose it is always so in the West."

She told him that when she was at Berlin, and particularly after she had been playing, she could almost hear the sea at times. "But is it not a delightful thing that the sea always freshens one up when one is near it, and makes one melancholy when one thinks of it?" Just then something came driving past them at great speed; they had to get out of the way and she pulled him with her to the extreme edge of the road, as three sledges, one after the other, dashed past them at a terrific rate.

They continued their walk, listening to the sleigh bells as they died away in the distance; again there was that complete silence necessary to attract attention to the falling snow-flakes.

"One ought really never to talk whilst snow is falling," said she.

Then the other two waited for them and the conversation was kept up for a time by the "nut-kernel" and the two gentlemen, till they came to a hill which the first couple took at full speed. By and by they saw them again through the veil of snow, but could hear nothing of them. But as the street became more inhabited, and the traffic greater, the couples kept closer together, and there was an end to all that had been amusing in their walk.

After that evening his impression of her seemed like a part of nature's scenery; she was blended with the starry snow-flakes; never had he met or seen anything so white and so pure. All that she had said about the sea and the falling snow was full of musical imagination; at last her whole person was enveloped in a sort of dim haze. As each of these pearls of first impressions rose up from the depths of his soul, his every sense seemed to be enamoured. He seemed to feel her presence in all the rooms; he started every time a door was opened; and if there came a soft footstep along the passage he thought it was hers; he felt it through his whole being. He was really rather afraid of meeting her again, in case the picture should lose its charm. And that was exactly what happened. Five or six days after, as he was coming out of the university, he met her with her sister and two little children; the street was crowded, so he neither saw nor recognized them till they were quite close. He bowed; the "nut-kernel" smiled and returned his bow, but her sister blushed very red and forgot to bow: at that moment she looked anything but clever. He stopped to thank them for the pleasant evening they had spent together, and began talking to the one sister; the other bent down to the children--two sweet little girls, dressed out like dolls, one about three, the other four years old. He invited them into a confectioner's for refreshments; the offer was accepted after a good deal of hesitation; but the married sister never raised her eyes, and he could hardly induce her to sit down. Out of pure shyness and uneasiness she worried the children so that they became impatient. He offered them cakes and wine; but she could not make up her mind what she would have, and at last allowed her sister to choose. Her face was framed in by a bonnet with silk flaps; the forehead quite disappeared, and her face became round and insignificant; her figure was concealed by clothes which were all much too large for her (he heard later that they had belonged to her late sister). It was only when he began to notice the children--he had a wonderful gift that way, for he was fond of children--that they really made friends again; it happened down on the floor, too, because the youngest child had made a terrible mess of itself with a cake full of whipped cream, which the mother had most injudiciously chosen for it. There they were now, both drying the child with their pocket-handkerchiefs, and the mother thanking him over and over again, with a guilty feeling that it had been her fault. The child, who so blissfully had made itself in such a mess, asked for more cake of the same kind and would not be content with any other; and Kallem (though he knew it was not good for the child to have so much) readily agreed to it; but he took the child on his lap, asked for a napkin, and watched carefully over it until the last bite had disappeared. She stood by humbly taking a lesson. Then the child asked for another cake, to which Kallem also agreed. Then the eldest of the two, who had patiently been watching her sister eat her cakes, now ventured to ask for one; so he took her up on his other knee and fed them both. Everybody enjoyed themselves thoroughly while this important business was going on; even Fru Kule joined in the laugh. And as before said, when she laughed she was very "sweet." The three grown-up ones drank each another glass of wine, and as they walked home Kallem carried the youngest child in his arms. He became fast friends with the little thing; her stepmother was more courageous after she had had her wine, and said: "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" She stretched her hand up to the child, who took it in her thick little glove, and kept tight hold of it as they walked along.

He carried the little one up-stairs, and was careful to show her where his room was, and invited them both to come and pay him a visit the next day, which was Sunday. Directly after his dinner he went out and bought some oranges, apples, figs, and other dried fruits, so as to have something for them when they came.

"Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" This sentence, with a little of her north-country sing-song in it, he set to music and went about humming it every time he thought of her. Her voice, her eyes looking up at the child, and her hand stretched out to it, were all part of the melody! "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" became the refrain of his life; he taught it to Rendalen, too; they greeted each other with it when they met at the gymnasium in the evenings. But Edward Kallem kept to himself the notion he had that she had been so shy because she had met him again--perhaps because it was broad daylight. He mentioned, too, that she looked so funny in the clothes that were so much too large for her; they seemed to have been made for a young, growing girl; but he never said a word about how uneasy she had grown when he looked at her in the confectioner's shop.

The children often came to see him; he gave them oranges and candied fruit, and walked on his hands and jumped over the chairs, and they were all tremendously happy. But the servant spoilt everything; he could distinctly read the following in her smile: "You are a rogue! You are doing all this for their mother's sake."

He was coward enough to tell her that the children were not to come to him for a while. It cut him to the heart as he sat there the following evening and heard how the eldest one opened the door to the passage to run in to him, but was caught and carried back crying. He rang for the servant and told her to give the children the remains of what he had bought for them. She took the things from him but said: "Is it not too much?" and looked at him with a cunning smile; he could have beaten her. But then he thought to himself, "If she suspects me no matter what I do, then the children may just as well come!" And the next evening he fetched them in himself from the kitchen.

One day he met her sister, who was going out. She nodded brightly to him and said: "Thanks for our last treat! Fancy," she added, "in a few days I am going away."

Then he suggested that it would be quite the correct thing for them to go and have a little farewell feast at the confectioner's. She agreed with him, and they settled that they would all meet the next day, the children too, and have it all over again just like the last time. And so they did. Fru Kule was not quite so shy as the other day, Kallem himself was in the best of spirits, and the children were uproarious. He was full of the wildest, maddest love fancies as they went merrily home he dancing along with Juanita on his head, and teaching the sisters to sing, "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?"

He was at the railway station the day the sister was to leave. Several of their relations and friends were there to say good-bye. Both the sisters were very unhappy; the one to be left behind perhaps the most so; she wept unceasingly, even after the train had gone. For a moment he thought of going away and leaving the relations alone together, but she said: "Oh, no, don't go!" And yet there was no reason for her wishing him to stay; she walked home beside him and the others, crying all the way; and when the others left them and went their own way, and he and she stood before their door, she could find nothing to say, but just went on up-stairs. On the stairs he asked her if she and the children would like to go for a drive; it might cheer her up a little. She only shook her head. "Tomorrow perhaps?" asked he, respectfully, as he opened the door for her. She went in, but came back to say, "Thank you, to-morrow!" gave him her hand and a look from her dear eyes full of tears.

He fancied he could tell from her deep distress that she must feel lonely. Not perhaps in everyday life, because her imagination kept her time occupied; but when anything out of the common happened, rousing her and awakening her from her dreams, then she would look around and see that she was forsaken.

The next day he took her and the children out in a sledge and drove them himself. After the drive he went in to see Kule, who thanked him in his heavy sort of way for being so kind to the children. They showed Kallem all their toys, and Kule asked his wife to play a piece when the children were sent away; he sat himself, smoking a long pipe, which his wife usually had to fill for him; Kallem had done it now in her stead. Kallem saw then, for the first time, a stout kitchen-maid, an elderly, masculine-looking woman, who sang in a northern dialect, like birds shrieking over the sea. She was both cook and Kule's attendant. Apparently the wife was allowed entire liberty in whatever concerned herself, that is to say, the children and her music. At this moment she was playing that same piece by the Russian composer which he had heard from his own room, and perhaps better. Not because he was particularly attentive; he was looking at her. The upper part of the face now flashing down over the keys and music was very different to how he knew it; probably it was like this Rendalen had seen her. How much she would have to go through before the lower part of the face was equally developed? A few days ago he had had a letter from a cousin who lived at Madison, in Wisconsin; he had been made professor at the university there, and his wife, a Norwegian lady, studied under him. Something of the kind would be necessary to bring life and shape into these dull cheeks and weak chin, that vacillating mouth with the cracked lips. But how touching it was to see all this child-like dependence. Close by he saw the husband's huge hands resting on the arm of his chair--he lay back in the chair like a dead river-god in breeches. Whilst she was playing, the door to the right was opened, and in came the third supernatural, north-country being, an old lady with white hair, a large round face, and horn spectacles; this was the aunt, she was taller than Kallem, and stout in proportion to her height. The young wife moved about amongst them like a pleasure-yacht among Atlantic steamers laden to sinking-point. She looked upon Kallem now as an intimate friend, although she had probably not confided in him at all; but their mutual youth sought to conspire against all that was a hindrance and hard to bear. In his love for her he grew impatient, longing to set her free; the thought that he could not do it made the air of the room seem quite oppressive. It distressed him greatly, this incomprehensible connection.

The impressions he received from this visit disturbed him in his studies for his examination, which, until that day, had been very regular.

He formed the wildest of plans, even wrote over to his cousins in America, and asked if they could receive a young lady to live with them. He confided in Rendalen, who at first protested angrily; but at last Kallem convinced him. Her feeling of individual responsibility ought to be aroused, she ought to be shown the dangers of continuing her present life; above all, she ought to be sent away, far away, where she would have freedom of thought and liberty to develop.... Kallem gained more and more assurance, and his love grew stronger from all this self-imposed solicitude. Each time he met her, however short were the meetings, even though he only bowed to her on the street or in the corridor, strengthened him in the conviction that she was his, and his only, and must be set free!

This was before he had said a word to her about it.

Often before had he been in love, and often had pretended without its being the real thing; but now he had a longing to save, and then re-form, all that was so pure yet so undeveloped, so talented and yet so forlorn, it lay in his disposition, this desire, and he gave himself up to it with all his soul. She, for her part, lost somewhat of her shyness each time they met; it seemed as though he really were a comfort to her after her sister left; indeed, unless he were much mistaken, he was even more than that. At all events, there was one unmistakable sign; he had told her that he stayed at home in the evenings on purpose to hear her play, and that he left his door ajar the better to hear; now she played every evening and often for a long time.