Читать книгу Ragna - Anna Miller Costantini - Страница 10

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The days that followed were occupied with filling in the gap of the past two years. All had much to ask, and Ragna was kept busy answering their questions. Fru Andersen and Fru Boyesen were most interested in the life at the convent, and the latter especially examined Ragna thoroughly as to the studies pursued and the accomplishments acquired.

The sisters, Lotte and Ingeborg, wished to hear about the Prince—a Prince being to them almost as mythical a being as the old gods they had read of in their mythology; they imagined him robed in ermine, his manly brow decorated by a coronet. They never tired of returning to the subject, but were much disappointed by Ragna's matter of fact story, and the Prince lost much of his prestige in their eyes when they learned that he dressed and spoke like an ordinary mortal.

"And you talked to him just as if he were one of us?" asked Lotte in an awe-struck voice. "You really did and you were not a bit scared, not one bit?"

"Of course not, you silly little goose!" laughed Ragna, as if conversation with princes were an everyday occurrence to her. She was not above airing her recently acquired graces before these country mice.

"What did you say to him? What did he talk to you about?" chimed in Ingeborg.

"Oh, about the weather and the gulls and the moon—anything."

"I don't call that very much," said Lotte, much disappointed. "I should have thought you would talk about wars and court-balls, and things like that."

"Oh, dear, no—one doesn't talk about those things, it would seem affected and silly."

"And didn't he make love to you? They always do in stories," queried Lotte, then seeing her sister blush. "I believe he did—and you're too mean to tell. What did you talk about anyway, that makes you blush like that?" she added with a child's terrible perspicacity.

"I'm blushing at your curiosity, that's what I'm blushing at," returned Ragna, angry at having betrayed herself. "And if you went to the Sisters they'd tell you it was ill-bred to ask so many questions and pry into what isn't your business!" Afraid of betraying herself further she got up and left them.

The three girls had been sitting on a rock, not far from the house, where they had long been accustomed to take their work on summer afternoons. The younger girls stared at each other thunderstruck, as Ragna walked away.

"Well," said Lotte, "it's rude to ask a civil question, and it's all right to get up and go off in a temper. What is the matter with her anyway? I'm sure I wish the old Prince had never spoken to her at all, it has turned her head, being taken notice of, that's what it is!"

Ingeborg said nothing; she merely bit off her thread reflectively as she followed Ragna's retreating figure with her eyes. Less impulsive than Lotte, and endowed with a finer intuition, she felt that if Ragna were keeping something from them it would be useless to try and drag it out of her, and not only that, she realized as Lotte did not, that each of us has his or her own little "Secret Garden," of memory and fancy, of which no hand, however intimate, may open the gate. But vaguely conscious of this, herself, she felt how useless it would be to explain it to Lotte, whose frank curiosity knew no such restraint.

Lotte stitched on viciously, indignant at the snub she had received, and giving vent to her feelings in intermittent monologue.

"She thinks us ninnies or children, that's what she does, but she's not so awfully grown up, after all! She's not nineteen yet, and I'm sixteen, and you're nearly fifteen. Oh, yes, we're not good enough for her Ladyship to talk to; she's used to Princes and Kings and Popes, she is! And she thinks she has come back to teach us her fine French manners!"

Ragna walked on, away from her sisters and away from the house. Her path lay some way through the woods, then across two or three pastures and out to a rocky point overlooking the fjord. She marched on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, consumed with vexation for having been so easily led on to retort. Of course Lotte had been annoying, but she had always been a bundle of curiosity. And how sharp the child was! "I must be a transparent fool," thought poor Ragna, "if any child can see through me like that!"

As she crossed the third pasture someone hailed her; she looked up, and saw, sitting on a rock under a tree, her Aunt Gitta, knitting industriously, a sheaf of flowers lying on the ground beside her. Ragna went to her, and she indicated a place on the boulder beside her.

"Sit down, Ragna," she said, "I have been wishing for a chance to talk to you alone."

Ragna obediently seated herself, and drawing the flowers to her, began sorting them and making them up into bouquets. Fru Boyesen coughed once or twice, as though in doubt how to begin. She looked at her niece in a tentative way, but the girl was seemingly intent on her flowers, and gave no assistance.

Finally in a rather embarrassed manner, she began by asking Ragna what she thought of doing.

"Doing, Aunt Gitta?" asked Ragna, lifting her head in surprise, "I had not thought of doing anything!"

"Then your father has not told you?"

"He has told me nothing—what is there to tell?"

"You have been away for two years, and I suppose no one wished to worry you, but the fact is," Aunt Gitta lowered her voice as if about to reveal some terrible secret—and really, to her practical mind anything connected with money-loss was terrible—"the fact is that your father has lost money in several ways and the estate is mortgaged!"

Ragna gazed at her with wide eyes; this explained then, her father's anxious look, the small changes in the way of living, the thread-bareness, slight as yet, of things in general. She had put it down to the Grandmother's illness—but again that had not explained the fewer horses in the stables and the simpler fare.

"Oh, poor father!" exclaimed Ragna.

"Oh, yes," said Fru Boyesen, "but it is partly his own fault; he would not take my advice, he made some imprudent investments, and of course he has had bad luck with the horses, this year of all years. Three good foals lost, and Green Hunter broke his leg and had to be shot. But that is not the point; it is this, when your Grandmother dies, and she cannot live long, poor woman, her income goes with her, and what your father and mother will do then, I do not know. Of course your father can't afford to send Ingeborg and Lotte away to school as he has sent you—and it is better for them that he can't, they can help at home and your mother need keep fewer servants. Now as to you, you are of no earthly use in the house, you know nothing about cheese and butter-making, nor of practical housekeeping. Your fine embroidery and piano playing and French and Italian won't help you here, and I know you don't want to be a burden." She paused to wipe her glasses before turning the heel in her stocking.

Ragna had listened to her, leaning her head on her hand and her elbow on her knee, the flowers quite forgotten. Being so young she was rather exhilarated than depressed by the implied suggestion that she must fend for herself.

"Don't you think, Aunt Gitta, that I might teach?"

"Teach whom? Where? One, two, three, four, um-um—Who wants to learn—five, six and seven—French here? There now, I've lost count, I must begin all over again! Don't interrupt me for five minutes."

Fru Boyesen said this intentionally in order to give Ragna time to take the situation in. The girl knew that her Aunt was quite correct: who indeed, out in the country would wish to learn anything she could teach? When she was sure the five minutes were up, she spoke again, timidly.

"I meant in a town, Aunt Gitta, or I could be a governess."

"Teach in a town! Where are your certificates, my dear?"

It was true, of certificates Ragna had none but those of elementary study. The convent gave no certificates. Her face fell.

"And as for governessing—my niece a governess? An Andersen a governess? Never."

"Well, then, Aunt Gitta, what can I do? You say yourself I can't live on here and be a burden." She had reached the point her Aunt had meant her to reach from the start.

"Listen, Ragna," she said kindly, "you know you have always been my favourite niece, you are the one who takes most after our side of the family. Now, my child, this is my proposition,"—she took Ragna's hand and held it, with a fine disregard of her knitting. "My idea is this: I have no children and I am often lonely in my house—it is too large for one woman. Now I think the best thing would be for you to come and live with me. I should look after you and give you an allowance as if you were my own daughter, and I should consider you as such.—No, don't speak yet, let me finish. I have spoken of this plan to your parents; of course they would rather keep you with them, but I pointed out to them how foolish it would be to throw away such a chance for a purely sentimental scruple. I said to them: 'The girl is grown, she is of no use to you here, and she should marry—but who? With her new ideas she won't take up with any man from these parts, she is not the kind of a girl who can marry a farmer and be happy! With me she will have the advantages of city life, and I shall keep my eye on her and her chances.' So they said they would leave it to you; if you wish to go with me, well and good—if not, you may stay with them and weigh them down!" She stopped, searching the girl's face, but Ragna did not answer at once, nor jump at the proposition as the good lady had expected.

Indeed, Ragna was by no means sure of her own mind; but a few days since, she had vowed that she would not submit to being buried alive, and yet before this most unexpected chance of escape from the monotony of country life she hesitated. An unaccountable repugnance to leaving home again, seized her—perhaps the mere spirit of contradiction called up by her Aunt's certainty as to her answer. Besides it seemed to her like a sort of treachery, an evidence of moral cowardice, to desert her parents at this juncture. But then, as her Aunt had said, what could she do to help them, at home? Nothing. On the other hand, if she accepted her Aunt's offer, and the arrangement proved impossible, she would be better situated to find employment in a city like Christiania. She knew Fru Boyesen's determined character, her love of ordering the lives of others, and doubted if life with her would be bearable for long. If it were not for that! Then she reproached herself for ingratitude—was this the way to receive such a generous offer?

"Well?" asked Fru Boyesen.

"Aunt Gitta," said Ragna slowly, choosing her words, "it is very, very good of you to want me, and if Father and Mother tell me they do not need me, I shall be glad to accept your offer."

"Well then, that's settled," said her Aunt cheerfully, "only you don't seem as pleased as you might. It's not every girl has such chances come her way, let me tell you!"

The girl leaned forward impulsively and kissed her Aunt who returned the embrace amply, and they sat in silence for a short time, until Fru Boyesen's lively tongue got the better of her. She launched into a lengthy description of her life in Christiania and of the neighbours and friends, but Ragna heard little; her thoughts were busy with the new life opening before her, as she mechanically finished tying up the flowers. As in a dream she heard fragments—details of Fru Hendersen's illness that had puzzled all the doctors, and why the Klaad girls wore blue stockings with all their frocks, and how much Ole Bjornsten had paid for his new carriage—"Most extravagant I call it,"—till her Aunt finally shook out her completed stocking and rose, brushing the moss from her skirts.

"You are a good girl, Ragna," she said commendingly, "and you have learned to talk quite interestingly."

Ragna smiled but made no comment, so they wended their way home, Aunt Gitta looming up large in front, her skirts held high displaying a well-filled pair of worsted stockings—she boasted of always knitting her own—ending in stout elastic-sided boots. Ragna followed her, outwardly meek, but inwardly convulsed with her relative's appearance, and wondering what would happen, should the bull have been in his usual pasture, for the good lady confessed to a taste for bright colours and affected a cathedral-window style of dress, and the combination she had evolved to-day was wonderful to behold. Her dress was of royal purple, over which miniature rising suns made splotches of white, her bonnet was a deep, rich blue, while a small scarlet shawl decorated her portly shoulders.

"I hope to goodness she won't try to dress me in her own style!" thought Ragna.

As they neared the house it was evident that something had happened; there was a confusion of people rushing to and fro and a servant was officiously closing the shutters of the upper rooms.

Ingeborg, standing in the doorway flew to meet them as they reached the gate.

"Oh, Aunt Gitta! Oh, Ragna!" she exclaimed in a loud hoarse whisper, looking at the same time frightened and important. "I've been looking for you everywhere! It happened an hour ago, and where you've ever been—"

Fru Boyesen took the girl by the shoulders and shook her.

"What is it? Can't you speak out? Don't beat about the bush like a fool!"

"Grandmother's dead" said the child, boldly, and burst into tears.

Fru Boyesen pushed her aside and ran into the house and up to her mother's room. It was as Ingeborg had said, the old woman had quietly passed away. Her daughter-in-law, sitting in the room, had not seen when it happened—she only noticed after a time that the place seemed unusually silent, as when a clock in a living-room stops its ticking, and going over to the bed, she saw that the old woman was no longer breathing. She felt for a pulse in vain, and a mirror held to the mouth remained unclouded, so she had drawn the sheet up over the still, white face and called the family.

Ragna and Ingeborg followed their Aunt up the stairs and into the room. Lars Andersen stood by the bed, holding the dead woman's hand; his sister had thrown herself upon her knees beside him; at the foot of the bed stood Lotte and her mother, and by them Ragna took her place. Ingeborg stopped in the doorway, sobbing loudly with hysterical excitement, and also with honest grief, for she sincerely loved her grandmother. Lars Andersen turned in his place and in a low, stern voice reprimanded her.

"Stop that boisterous sobbing, Ingeborg! I am ashamed of you! Go to your room until you can control yourself!"

Ragna quietly slipped out and led the weeping child away—none of the others had even turned a head.

"Oh, Ragna," sobbed Ingeborg, as they reached the little room with its dormer window, "isn't it dreadful? Only this morning I was sitting with her and she said the knitting hurt her eyes, and she would finish it to-morrow—and it was for me—and now she is de-e-ad—" her voice rose in a wail.

Ragna took her into her arms, and sitting down, drew her on her knees.

"Oh, Ingeborg," she said, "you mustn't cry so, indeed you mustn't! We ought to be glad she died peacefully like that. Of course it would have been awful if it had happened when you were alone with her this morning."

"It isn't that, it isn't that at all," said Ingeborg, in an awed voice. "It's just dreadful that she should have been alive like you or me only an hour ago—and now she is dead like a light when it is blown out. She was here and now she is gone—she's nowhere!"

"Oh, Ingeborg, you shouldn't talk like that!" cried Ragna, shocked. "Her soul has gone to God in Heaven!"

"Do you really believe that, Ragna?" asked the child. "I don't—I don't care what they say. When Balke, my dog, died, I wanted to bury him and put up a tombstone, but the Pastor wouldn't let me; he said animals have no souls and Christian burial is only for people. Balke knew lots more than ever so many people; he had a great deal more soul than a baby. When do babies get their souls? I know they don't have them when they are born, they're too stupid—and so when do they get them? I said if Balke wouldn't go to Heaven I didn't believe there was one at all, so there!"

She sat up with flushed face and looked at her sister defiantly.

Ragna did not know what to answer; she had never seriously questioned any religious doctrine that had been taught her and Ingeborg's revolt both shocked her and found her unprepared.

"Aren't you ashamed to talk like that, Ingeborg Andersen?" she said indignantly. "Of course there is a Heaven and a Hell, and perhaps good dogs have a Heaven of their own—I don't know! If there is one, I'm sure Balke went there," she ended lamely.

Ingeborg was watching her with curious unchildlike eyes.

"You don't believe in Heaven any more than I do," she asserted. "If you did you'd talk about it differently. People have told you things and you have just gone on believing them to save yourself the trouble of thinking."

She slipped from Ragna's knees and crossed to the window, where she stood looking out; she left her sister thunderstruck. The child had spoken the truth—but how had she known, by what intuition had she understood? Ragna went over to her, and putting an arm about her, stood some minutes in silence before she asked:

"What made you say that, Ingeborg?"

"I don't know, but it is so and you can't deny it. Oh, I often know what people think about when they don't know themselves, and I often know, too, what is going to happen to people. Grandmother told me I was fey; you see I'm the youngest and I'm the seventh daughter and so was mother, and those people always are, Grandmother said so."

"How can you know? What do you do?"

"Oh, nothing, I just look into people's eyes, and sometimes I see things, and sometimes I don't."

"Can you tell me what will happen to me?" asked Ragna in a low voice.

Ingeborg turned and looked long into her sister's eyes. The sun had sunk below the mountains and a cool grey light pervaded the place. She stood motionless a long time, then she passed her hand over her forehead and half turned away.

"I don't want to tell you, Ragna," she said.

But Ragna insisted, she would know, she was not superstitious; she only wanted to see if it would come true.

"It will come true—it always does," said Ingeborg sadly.

"Then tell me, I'm not afraid."

Ingeborg hesitated, then seeing that Ragna was in earnest:

"I will tell some of it, but I do not see very clearly. You are going away, to begin with, I see you with Aunt Gitta and there are many people but their faces are shadows. Then you go away farther still, where the sun is hot—it dazzles you, and there is a man—or is it a greyhound?" Ragna started. "Yes, it is a man, but there is a greyhound and a hare and some stone arches, and you are very sad after that, Ragna. But the man goes away and there is another man with eyes like coals, and he hates you—he puts chains on you, and you can't break them, and you never come home any more—" Her voice died away.

Ragna stood spellbound: a greyhound and a hare—her dream! And the rest, the chains, the man with the burning eyes! She shivered; it was as though the shadow of a dark wing had passed over her, her flesh crept. Neither spoke for some time; it grew darker.

A maidservant entered the room with a light. Ragna shook herself to throw off the incubus. The maid began to speak of the Grandmother, of how good she had been, and the girls looked at one another ashamed—they had quite forgotten it all for the moment.

"Come, Ingeborg," said Ragna, "let us go down again." Hand in hand they descended the stair.