Katharine Frensham: A Novel

"Kjaere, one would think you were an anarchist instead of a harmless botanist. One would think you spent your days with dynamite instead of with innocent flowers and mosses, which don't explode."

Gerda, also a botanist, and just as clever and distinguished as her husband, wished specially to go up to Tromsö, to find some particular kind of saxifrage, growing nowhere in Europe except on the Tromsdalstind.

But Tante struck.

"No," she said. "You don't get me to go up there within the Arctic circle. I've had quite enough of icebergs this spring with my two poor icebergs in England. Poor darlings! I suppose they have reached America by now. I ought to be hearing soon."

"I cannot imagine why you made them go so far," Gerda said.

"When people are in trouble they must always go a long way," said Tante. "Even if they come back the next moment."

"You might have sent them to Tromsö," Gerda remarked, with a grim smile. "That is almost as far. And then we could all have gone and found the saxifrage. You would have been willing enough to go if you had had your Englishman with you."

"Perhaps; who knows?" replied Tante. "The human heart is a wayward thing. I think you have never heard me say otherwise. But why not go to Tromsö by yourself, dear one? You won't feel at all lonely if you have the companionship of the saxifrage. You won't miss Ejnar and me in the least. You won't want to come back the next moment after you have left us. Oh, no! You won't miss us."

"No," answered Gerda, giving her a hug. "But you would miss me. And Ejnar would be wretched if he hadn't me to quarrel with."

"Yes, you must have your quarrels," said Tante gravely. "All well-conducted botanists would go to perdition without two or three quarrels a-week. You must stay, Gerda, if only for the sake of science. Only, give in without a mortal battle this time, and let us go peacefully to the Gudbrandsdal. Ejnar has the dynamite-look on his face. He has set his heart on that shrub. Heaven and St Olaf help us! We must get it! – even if we have to scale mountains. Imagine me scaling mountains, dear one. Have pity on me, and come and help!"

Gerda gave way; a mortal battle was avoided, the dynamite-look disappeared from Ejnar's gentle face, and all three started off for Norway in good spirits and admirable tempers. Ejnar was a tall man, thin, and dark for a Dane. He looked rather 'comatose,' as Tante called him, except when his botanical emotions were aroused. Then he sprang into life and became an inspired being, with all the sublime beauty of intelligence on his face. He only cared for botany, Gerda, and Tante Knudsgaard. He did not positively dislike music, and did not always go out of the room when Gerda sang. He was a silent fellow, and scarcely ever laughed, except over his work, and then sometimes he would give forth peals of hearty laughter most refreshing to hear and quite boyish. That was when he had done some satisfactory bit of difficult classification. Gerda, being musical as well as botanical, was rather more human. She was of middle height, slight, and wonderfully fair, with an abundance of fair hair, and a pair of glacier-blue eyes. She sang gloriously in a wild, untrained manner which thrilled through every one except Ejnar. He had, however, the greatest and most generous admiration of her knowledge as a botanist, and was most particular that every paper with which she had helped him, should bear her name as well as his. In fact, in his way he loved her dearly. Their quarrels were entirely scientific, never human. In their simple way they led an almost ideal life, for they were free to work in an untrammelled fashion at the subjects they loved, Ejnar holding no official position in connection with his work, but being sleeping partner in his brother's glove-factory in Christianhavn. They were very happy together, and although Gerda had a restless theory that it was ridiculous to be always together, she had been utterly miserable on the one occasion when she had gone off alone, and had returned the next day. Tante, remembering this, teased her continually, of course; and when the good ship brought them to Christiania, she said to her:

"Are you quite sure you are not wanting to go off to Tromsö alone? You could come back the next minute, you know, quite easily."

"Nå," answered Gerda gaily. "I prefer to stay and be teased!"

They saw the sights of Christiania, spending most of the time in the Botanical Department of the University; and then took the train up to the Gudbrandsdal, the largest and most fertile valley in Norway. They had engaged rooms for themselves at a large Gaard (farmhouse) owned by rich peasants of noble lineage, who in the summer months took a few guests into their spacious dwelling-place. The Gaard had a splendid situation, lying on the mountain-side, about two thousand feet above sea-level, and commanding a far-stretching view of the great valley, which was spread out generously below, dotted with hundreds of farms, and with two shining rivers flowing on separately, meeting each other, and then passing on together. Looking down on all those homesteads, one was reminded all the time of the words of the Norwegian poet, who sings of Norway, the land of a thousand homes. Red Gaards, being new buildings added to the original family-home of many generations: bright red, standing out boldly and picturesquely against the grain fields and the green of the firs and birches. Dark-brown, almost black Gaards, burnt to their deep dye by the ever-working hand of Time. Fine old Gaards, not built of puny slices of wood with which builders content themselves in these mean-spirited days; but fashioned of entire tree-trunks, grand old fellows of the giant forests of the past. Dense masses of firs and birches: down in the valley and advancing boldly up the mountain-sides, and lining the deep gorges of the side-valleys as well, and pressing on to a quite unreasonable height, from a conventional point of view, firs and birches contending all the time as to which should climb the higher. Waterfalls here and there, catching the sunlight and sending forth iridescent jewels of rarest worth. Hundreds of grass-grown roofs, some with flowers and some even with a fir or two amidst the grass. White bell-towers to every storehouse, with the bell to summon all the labourers to food and rest. Countless fields of grain of every kind: some of it cut and fixed on sticks at regular intervals, so that a regiment would seem to be waiting the word of command: ready and immovable: a peaceful region of warfare. And a warfare in reality, too, a hard nature being the enemy.

Then those wonderful rivers: one of them coming straight from a glacier and therefore unmistakable, even though the changing clouds might give to it varying shades of colour. Grey and glacier, blue and glacier, rose and glacier, black and glacier, white and glacier, golden and glacier. And the other river, not less beautiful because less complex. And the two together winding through the valley: now hidden from sight, now coming into view again, now glistening in the far distance, and now disappearing finally – no – one more glimpse if one strains the eye – one more greeting, and then, farewell – they have gone their way!

And the snow mountains – not very near, and not very snowy just now; but, for all that, the glory of the country, the very desire of one's heart, the shrine of one's secret and mysterious longings.

CHAPTER II

Both the botanists and Tante were delighted with the place. Tante, who adored limitless space, had not quite liked the idea of coming to a valley.

"You know I have always hated restraints of any kind, dear ones," she said. "And even at the age of seventy, I desire to continue in the straight path of blessed uncontrol. Valleys make me shudder a little – like conventions! Bah!"

But even she was content when she saw the immense proportions of her prison.

"Well," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "there is space and freedom enough for me, for a little while. All is well with me, dear ones. Go and find your shrubs and be happy. It is true that you have brought your poor stout relation to a place on the mountain-side where she can neither go up nor down. Nothing could have been more cruel. But no matter. She will look at the view and try to feel chastened by patience and all the other dull virtues. And she will go on knitting socks for the dear English soldiers. They will never get them, of course. Still, she will do her best for them, hoping that King Red Tape will allow them to be delivered. Yes, dear ones, hasten to your shrubs and have some stimulating quarrels over them. Tante is content for a minute or two."

And she really was happy, and deeply interested in the owners of the Gaard, rich landowners, Bönder, aristocrats of Norway, direct descendants of kings and chieftains – Vikinger, in fact; proud and reserved: proud of their noble lineage, and reserved of feeling and in manner, and yet, when tactfully approached, capable of the greatest kindness and appreciative understanding: dignified in behaviour, and refined in form and feature, bearing on them, indeed, the royal seal of good birth and good breeding. The Solli family was one of the oldest and noblest in the valley, and had the most important and most highly decorated and carved pew in the old brown church. There were three girls: stately Ragnhild, lovely Ingeborg, and gentle little Helga, the pet of the family. And there were two sons, Karl and Jens. Karl, being the elder, would in time inherit the Gaard, paying his brothers and sisters a share, and giving to his father and mother mysterious dues called Föderaad. But as Solli and his wife were strong and active, and Karl was not even betrothed, there was no occasion for the older people to retire; and meanwhile an older couple still, the grandparents, were eking out their lives in the comfortable old black dower-house in the court of the Gaard. Grandmother (Bedstemor) had never wanted to retire, and bore on her face a settled look of disappointment which had been accentuated by the coming and going of twenty years. Grandfather (Bedstefar) had been ailing for many years. He lay in the big bedroom of the black house, and waited for the caressing hand of Death.

Solli's wife, whose Christian name was Inga, and who in accordance with custom was called Mor (mother) Inga, was, in her stately way, greatly attracted to the old Danish lady, and told her many interesting details about the Gaard. Tante had such perfect tact, and was such a comfortable easy creature to be with, that she found herself soon en rapport with the family. A glass of gooseberry-wine, followed on the next day by some corn-brandy, seemed to indicate that a delightful acquaintanceship was ripening; and when Mor Inga took her to the Stabur (the storehouse), that most sacred precinct of every self-respecting Norwegian Gaard, and showed her the treasures and mysteries of Norwegian housekeeping, every one felt that Fröken Knudsgaard "had arrived." Even the disagreeable old magistrate (Sorenskriver)4 from S – , one of the eight or ten guests, admitted that.

"She has seen the Stabur," he said, with a grim smile, and he actually forgot to help himself first to cheese, but passed her a few delicate shavings; a sure sign from him of even passing respect.

After an introduction to the Stabur, any other honour on earth was easy of attainment; and no one was surprised to learn that Ragnhild was going to put up her loom and teach the Danish lady to weave. And Mor Inga fetched great-grandmother's old painted spinning-wheel from the top room of the Stabur and put it in the little balcony which overlooked the courtyard; and she brought some fresh wool from the wool-room – another sacred spot – and sent for old Kari, who was especially clever at carding the wool. And Tante sat and knitted, whilst old Kari carded the wool and Mor Inga span. This was Tante's first introduction to old Kari, eighty years old, and full of fairy lore.

"Ah," whispered Mor Inga to Tante, "Kari can tell thee many stories of the Gudbrandsdal if she likes. But it must be in secret, when there is no young person near to laugh and disbelieve. One day thou shalt give her a little coffee in a packet – all for herself – and then thou wilt hear all sorts of things."

But to-day Kari only carded the wool, smiling amusedly at being in the company of the big Danish lady, who spoke to her so kindly and treated her as though she were a lady herself and not an old parish-woman who had no home of her own. Ja, ja, that was very nice, and Kari scratched her head, and smiled more and more, until even the furrows on her grim old face were filled up with smiles, and her eyes seemed almost young and very bright.

"Ah," said Tante, with a friendly nod, "I know some one who has been very pretty. Oh, I have eyes – sharp, sharp eyes. I can see!"

And Mor Inga laughed and said:

"Kari was beautiful, and she could dance too. They say that in the old days no one could dance the spring-dance like Kari."

"Nei, nei!" said Kari, smiling more and more still. And her thoughts wandered back to her Ole – dead these twenty years and more. He had always said that no one could dance like Kari.

All this kept Fröken Knudsgaard busy; and indeed her distractions increased as the days went on. Sometimes she sat in the balcony which looked over the splendid view, and, seized by a sudden enthusiasm for nature, watched the ever-changing colours of the rivers, and the shadows on the hillsides, and listened to the music of the waterfall down below in the Vinstra gorge. But she did not pretend to be able to live on Nature's great wonders alone. She was delightfully candid about it.

"No, my dear ones," she said to Ejnar and Gerda, "I am the wicked product of a beautifully wicked world. I need my fellow-sinners. It would never have contented me to lie flat on my stomach looking for flowers and grasses, and so forth. Nor would it have been desirable for me. I should never have got up!"

Nevertheless, when her botanists came back from their wanderings, with their green tin wallets full of mystic treasures unguessed at by the uninitiated, she was eagerness itself to know whether they had had "good hunting." And when Gerda said:

"Wicked old Tante, you know you are interested in these things," she answered gaily:

"No, no; but I have accepted my fate. Since my best beloved ones are all scientific sillies, I have to appear to be interested in what they do."

She felt it to be her duty to secure, on behalf of science, a big study for her botanists, and Mor Inga let her have a vast room in one of the out-buildings.

"They must have plenty of room to quarrel in," she explained to Mor Inga. "Everything goes so much more easily if there is generous space."

"And," she added to herself, "it is my experience that scientific people are safer caged up in their laboratories and studies. You know they are all right then. When they are wandering about, they might get lost; but when they are shut up, they are comparatively safe, barring brain fever and explosions, of course."

So she caged her botanists, and felt herself free to amuse herself with human nature whilst they were immersed in the study of nature.

"Well, then, good-bye for the moment," she said, when she shut them up for the first time. "I will now go and have a few disagreeable words with that horrid Sorenskriver, who dislikes my belovèd English. I will go and sit quite near him, and knit my stockings for the dear English soldiers. That annoys him beyond everything. What a delight to see his irritation! Poor Sorenskriver! He suffers, and I enjoy. That is the way in life, and very amusing too. My poor dear ones, what a pity you cannot have a little fun too. Well, I suppose you do get it through your microscopes."

But they had a great deal of fun in a quiet way. No one could be long with Tante without catching a little of her gaiety; and even Ejnar was heard to laugh sometimes over matters which had nothing to do with his work. And Gerda left her cage and went singing in the birchwoods above the Gaard, and along the mountain paths. She was content, too, and had forgotten about the saxifrage. And Tante attempted short little strolls along the easiest road, and always stopped by the black hay-barn near the group of mountain-ashes, which rejoiced her eyes. Here she sat down and took out her opera-glasses, really to observe the clouds, though she pretended always to be looking at the numberless Gaards and barns which covered the hillsides and mountain-slopes. But once she forgot her rôle of indifference to nature, and cried enthusiastically to Gerda:

"By St Olaf! I never saw such soft clouds in my life, nor such colours! And just look at the reflection in the rivers, Gerda. Sapristi, how beautiful!"

"What is this I hear?" cried Gerda. "Tante admiring nature!"

"Oh, that's a big Gaard – that yonder," said Tante, correcting herself with a twinkle in her eye. "I wonder what the name is, and how many cotters they have, and how many children, how many cows up at the Saeter, how many goats, how many cheeses they make, how many sheep they have; whether Bedstefar and Bedstemor are alive, and whether they have as comfortable quarters as our Bedstefar and Bedstemor. Ah, and that reminds me that I am drinking coffee with Bedstemor this afternoon. Help me up, Gerda, and don't stand staring at that cloud as though you had never seen one in your life before."

So Tante drank coffee with picturesque old Bedstemor in the old dower-house of the Gaard.

The principal dwelling-place of the Gaard had been considerably added to in modern times. The old part was in the middle, and new wings had been built on either side, a whole new storey with a slate roof added, and a new balcony and porch. So that the Gaard proper, in which Mor Inga reigned, was a curious mixture of the old and the new: the new part being painted pink, and the old part keeping its ancient glory intact. But Bedstemor's house was untouched by modern hands; in fact, all the houses which formed part of the settlement were just as they had been for two or three hundred years. Bedstemor's house was the largest of them all. There were about eight or nine others, all black or dark brown, all with their roofs covered with long grass, amongst which grew poppies, corn-flowers, and forget-me-nots. They were grouped together round the courtyard, as quaint and picturesque a sight as one might see anywhere. The Stabur stood somewhat apart from the other buildings, and was raised above the ground by tree-trunks which looked like elephants' legs. The Stabur had a conceited, self-contained look after the manner of all true Staburs. It seemed to be saying all the time, "Behold me, I am the Stabur!" The possession of a white bell-tower on its grass-grown roof, and of an old carved door, encouraged its self-importance, and gave it an air of distinction not enjoyed by the other houses. Still, they had their tall white chimneys; and it is obvious that one cannot have everything in life. And some of them also had a more picturesque situation than the Stabur: creeping up the hill, indeed, as though they were thinking of climbing up into the woods, but had stopped to rest by a mountain-ash, or by a graceful birch; whilst others, mounting higher, came to a standstill at last and were used for storing wood. Then there were hay-barns of various sizes and shapes, the most characteristic being those with sloping bridges leading up to the top floor. And last, not least, there was the great cowhouse, forsaken now except for five or six cows which had not gone up to the Saeter. And Ingaros, the most beautiful cow of all, christened after Mor Inga, was sulking partly because she had not gone up to the Saeter, but chiefly because she, the belle of the Gaard and the authorised leader of the herd, had been deprived of her noble collar and bell. Some wretched upstart of a creature was wearing it, so that she might be sure to come home to her calves.

Ingaros had Tante's profound sympathy. She visited her in the cowhouse at milking-time, and exchanged a few understanding greetings with her. Old Kari was milking her and singing a soothing little song, something about a saeter-girl who lost all her cows, and she danced and they all came back again, and then she sang and sang till they ran away again! Tante stood and listened delightedly to the clear, sweet voice of the old woman.

"Ja, ja, Kari," she said, "I believe I have some coffee-berries in my pocket. Such a song deserves a good cup of coffee."

"Stakkar!"5 said Kari, smiling with delight. "Thou art a kind one, although thou art not Norwegian. Thou shalt hear all the tunes I know."

CHAPTER III

It was a hot afternoon. Ejnar and Gerda had had a quarrel over "Salix." Ejnar's face wore the dynamite expression, and Gerda was white with anger. Her glacier eyes looked like the eyes of a polar bear, and she was moving her head to and fro in a manner which always meant rebellion. On these occasions she longed for a divorce.

"Give me a divorce at once!" she cried tragically both to Ejnar and Tante.

"My dear one," remarked Tante soothingly, "I don't keep divorces ready in my pocket; and you know Ejnar never has even a handkerchief in his pocket. You should have a divorce at once if we had one handy. Be reasonable. Have I ever denied you anything in this world? Of course you should have one instantly."

Ejnar was silent; but his expression was quite enough to blow up all the royal palaces and personages in the universe. Tante herself did not feel too amiable that afternoon. She had had an angry discussion with the Sorenskriver and another man, a Norwegian fur-merchant, about England; and she was shocked to hear them say things against the English which she knew to be not only untrue, but venomously unjust.

"Why," she said, flourishing her knitting-needles, "even the greatest criminal has some redeeming features. And as with criminals, so with countries. But you leave England no virtues: not one."

The men shrugged their shoulders. It was so obvious to them that England had no virtues. It was so obvious to them that they, who had never been to that detestable country, knew far more about the character of the people than this ridiculous old Danish woman who had spent about twenty years amongst the barbarians. Tante was ruffled. And Ejnar, being in a disagreeable mood, had chimed in too against this much-abused nation.

"Ja," he said in his quiet way, "it is a barbarous country, this England. I know nothing about politics, thank heaven, nothing about wars and so forth. But this I can tell you: that England is the only country which refused to exchange botanical specimens with our Botanical Museum. The barbarian director wrote a rude letter."

"I've told you a dozen times, Ejnar, that it was all probably owing to Red Tape," replied Tante angrily. She could have shaken Ejnar.

"And pray what is this Red Tape?" asked the Sorenskriver contemptuously.

"It is an invisible thread which no one has been able to cut, so far," said Tante. "Every one knows it is there and deplores its presence. If it could once be cut, it would shrivel away, and one of England's dangers would be gone."

"Then you admit she has dangers?" asked the fur-merchant, triumphantly rubbing his hands.

"Ja, ja," said Tante Knudsgaard; "but the greatest of them is Red Tape. She suffers from it in everything – both in war and in peace. But she will overcome all her difficulties and emerge."

"Never, never!" said the Sorenskriver and fur-merchant joyfully together. "Her day is gone."

"Then her twilight and her night will be like the glorious midnight sunlight of your north," said Tante, turning to the fur-merchant who came from the north.

"Pyt!" said the fur-merchant scornfully, and went away.

"Sniksnak!" said the Sorenskriver impatiently.

Tante made no reply, but went on knitting; and in a few minutes finished a sock, which she spread on her knee, and then added it to a great pile beside her on the seat of the courtyard verandah, where every one was awaiting the arrival of the letters.

"That makes twelve pairs for those brave English soldiers," she said, half to herself. And the Sorenskriver moved nearer to the horrid spectacle, attracted to the spot against his own wishes. Tante laughed silently; but, all the same, she was ruffled. Every one was more or less cross.

Solli was worried about the crops, for there had been no rain for a long time, and both corn and potatoes threatened to fail. Also, there was a shortage of water, and that made him anxious about fire. Also, Bedstefar was more ailing than usual, and the doctor had been sent for. Bedstemor came over from her house, sat near Tante, and grumbled a little because Bedstefar was so obstinate about the doctor. But she cheered up when a Swedish lady, an artist, one of the guests, praised her quaint, old-fashioned head-gear, and wanted to take a photograph of her pretty old face.