As Tomasine hung about in the outer room or in the passage, listening to the hoarse screams, for he had no voice left--not allowed to see him, or go to his help--she remembered more than once, with shame, what she had thought and determined before he was born. The boy cried inside, the mother outside, and no one could get her away. And this, his first great fight in the world, to keep possession of his mother's breast, had no happy influence upon him, for from that time he tried, more than ever, to get everything by screaming.
Tomasine was a strong, long-suffering woman, but she became thin and nervous. She hoped that things would improve as he grew bigger, and waited till he should be a year old; but still had to wait, for the stronger he grew the more persistently he screamed. Some new method must be adopted. The specialists did not touch on this, or else she had not understood them. She consulted experienced people, and was advised to keep him continually amused. That answered for a while. He was quiet when he saw anything new, but he would not look at the same thing more than twice at the outside. If she forgot this, he became so furious that the very newest thing in the world would not pacify him. Some one else advised her to let the child scream as much as he liked. Eternal Powers, how he yelled! If he had been chosen as the representative of all the sorrow and trouble in the town he could not have done better.
"No," thought Tomasine, "that will torture the life out of both him and me." So she turned to the exactly opposite course, and tried to guess his thoughts before he had formed them, and indulged him in everything.
This helped, but if she guessed wrong, there was no use in guessing right afterwards.
At last his maternal retainer and slave, like many before her, was brought to such a state of distress and despair, that she determined to revolt. The little despot must be dethroned. The revolution broke out with six slaps on his little person. All the horrors of a civil war at once showed themselves. But six, seven, eight to twelve slaps followed. To give up one's power before one's life, is hard even for a not-two-years-old tyrant, so the battle lasted several hours until--he gave in? No, that he would not do, but he fell asleep.
Tomasine was so worn out by months of worry, anxiety, and sleepless nights, and finally by the fight itself, that she was trembling and bathed in perspiration. She stood over him as he slept, as David is said to have stood over Saul. She grieved for his fallen greatness. She heard him sob as he lay there in his helplessness. She saw the last tear dry on his cheek, the convulsive movements of his chubby hands, and the twitching of the thin skin of his head. Who should be good to him if not she? How she longed for his waking, that she might let him see her face with its gentlest expression, and caress him, and practise all those small arts which are the delight of every mother! More than all, she longed to make him screw up his mouth for a kiss. When he did that, he was irresistible.
At last he began to move and to rub his hand over his nose. In her impatience she put her hands under him, and laid her face down to his head, to breathe the warm fragrance from it.
He screwed up his mouth for a grimace; despair rose darker and darker in his eyes, and at last he gave a shriek, a frightful and frightening shriek, while he thrust himself away from her, with hands, head, and body.
She was obliged hastily to let go of him, and call her sister. To her, the little arms were raised at once, and he pressed himself closely to her, so as to be thoroughly safe.
The forsaken mother stood and looked on. She felt as though she had been driven round the whole compass, and was now at the same point from which she had started some months before. Her first feeling was one of miserable helplessness, then came a strong sense of shame, and suddenly she snatched the boy away from her sister, and dressed him herself, whether he would or no.
He screamed the whole time, and when he was dressed, and would not take food from her, a perfect hail of slaps and rain of scolding ensued, nor did she leave off till he really struggled to be quiet; checking the sound so suddenly that he gasped for breath as though he were choking.
By degrees the rebellion was reduced to subdued sounds strongly restrained; whenever they broke out again they were forced back. At last he showed that he was entirely subdued by screwing up his mouth for a kiss, to prove to her that it really was against his will if a cry every now and then escaped him. It was comically touching. He was finally forced to eat, and, now completely mastered, he sobbed himself to sleep.
Tomasine went out for a walk, and on her return sat once more, anxiously waiting for his awakening. He had hardly opened his eyes, and seen her, before there were threatenings of a prolonged howl, but he restrained it from fear; nay, he even held out his hands to her as she stood smiling over him. There have been many more fortunate conquerors, both before and since the time, when Fru Tomasine Rendalen deposed her son, and seated herself on his throne. Besides which, the pleasure was diminished by the knowledge that she should have done this at first, long, long ago; but all the same she was just as delighted with her tardy victory, as any general could have been with a more timely one, and as she lay down that night, she was as weary and as confident as the conqueror of a city. At that time Tomas was a year and nine months old. She thoroughly understood that this struggle would not be the last, but with that knowledge came the conviction that in the uncertain voyaging through which his whims had led him, he had discovered his mother. From that time forward she would be his mainland. She soon obtained a proof of this. Whether it were in the intoxication of victory that she began to wear a cap, or whether it were a long-nourished plan for concealing the hair which had always annoyed her, and putting something visible in its place, the fact remains that the cap first appeared at this time. The boy must and would have it off. For his sake she had temporarily offered up her spectacles, against which he had also waged war. But she would not sacrifice her cap. Now many people are content to lose the realities of power, but cannot bear to be deprived of its symbols; and to be able to lord it over his mother's hair and head was a great, a strong proof of power, which he would not give up.
And so a fight ensued, but he yielded before things had reached a climax. His little hands were pushed back time after time, and always with more force, notwithstanding his screams, till suddenly he flung himself on her neck, and the little war ended charmingly.
She was a happy mother as she looked forward to his second birthday. An English friend, with whom she exchanged letters from time to time, since she no longer visited in the town, had sent her, for this great day, Charles Dickens' "David Copperfield," at that time the most popular novel in England. The book came a day too soon. She read a great deal of it at once, and all the life-like forms gathered themselves round little Tomas for his own day, when he was to be dressed in new clothes from top to toe. She dreamt of little Em'ly and little Tomas. She woke on his birthday morning a little earlier than he. He was lying quite still. He had not disturbed her the whole night, a thing which did not happen once in two months. Proud and happy, she gave him his birthday greeting. The first hours passed in unbroken delight. At nine o'clock he was sitting on the floor of the parlour, dressed in his new clothes and surrounded by all the toys which she and her family had given him. She herself sat by the window, dressed in her best, reading "David Copperfield." She had tried having the window open, to enjoy the fresh air, but the spring day was rather cold.
After a time she was called into the kitchen. He never liked her to leave him, but he was so occupied at that moment, that she thought she might venture, though she took the precaution of going through the bedroom and across the hall into the kitchen. She left the kitchen-door open, for fear he should think her too long gone, and begin to call for her.
In the parlour all remained quiet, suspiciously quiet. He had in fact closely observed the book that his mother was reading, for, according to the English fashion, it had a bright-coloured binding, with a picture on it.
He noticed that she put it down on the table, and felt that he too should like to read a little of it, if he could do so without interruption. He dropped his toys as soon as ever he was alone, got up, and toddled off, pushed a stool forward, when he found he could not reach up, pulled the book on to the floor, and sat himself down beside it.
Some time elapsed before he again learnt, as he had done previously, but had forgotten, that it is not easy to read a number of pages at once, but, on the contrary, one should take them one or two at a time; that did very well. Then he tore them out of the book, they were so much easier to read in that way.
After the first one or two, he took them out several at a time, twenty in all, before his mother returned. They soon had a difference of opinion over this style of reading. She lost her temper, and took the book hastily from him, telling him sharply, that he knew quite well that he ought not to touch her books. He was frightened at first, but after a while he stretched out both his hands and said, "Me book, mama, me book."
She naturally took no notice of him, so he came up to her and repeated very coaxingly, "Me book, mama, me book." "No," she answered sharply, for unluckily the book had been shamefully treated, just at the place where she was reading. He waited a little, but began again, "Me book, mama, me book." She remembered that it was his birthday, and answered him more gently, showing him what harm he had done. He listened and answered, "Me book, mama, me book."
Some sweets were lying there; she gave him some, which he ate up, saying, as he did so, "Me book, mama, me book." She laid the book aside, took him up, and danced round with him, then set him down among his toys, and went back to smooth out the crumpled leaves. He was soon by her side again, reaching up to the table with one hand, while he steadied himself with the other: "Me book, mama, me book." Once more she left her occupation, and fetched his outdoor things in order to go out with him.
This he would not have on any terms. He made himself as stiff as a poker, but she was determined that out he should go. They remained in the garden for an hour, and he amused himself while he was there.
While she was taking off his things again in the parlour, he stretched his disengaged hand towards the table: "Me book, mama, me book," saying it with the most coaxing tone and look of which he was capable. She thought it the best way to appear deaf to it, and gave herself up to cutting bits of paper, in order to gum them over the torn leaves. It was slow work, and all the time he stood, and begged, and prayed, giving little stamps, and stretching himself up: "Me book, mama, me book."
"He will stop some time," she thought, but he was still persevering when she had accomplished her task.
She was very anxious to leave his society for that of the characters in the book, who were certainly much more amusing, but she did not wish to be cross, and so began to play the flute--that is to say, she moved her fingers as though she were playing a piccolo, whistling at the same time; a performance in which she had a good deal of practice.
He pulled and dragged at her dress, and she replied with her flute. She became quite merry over it, and her merriment increased when he became angry, and called out "No, no," to her playing, and cried, and hit her.
The flute playing became much quicker; he would not leave off, nor would she; the spirits of the Kurts were in every chink and corner.
Then the child threw himself down on his back on the floor, drumming with his heels and screaming in good earnest. She played on, but more softly, for she felt that it was actually he who had won, while she was teasing him.
She could not take up the old fight again at once. In one moment the flute-playing changed to crying--helpless, inconsolable crying. The boy, who in the midst of his anger, had kept a sharp watch on her, was so astonished that he forgot to scream. She had been suddenly seized by her old dread, and neither saw nor heard anything, till she felt something warm against one of her hands. She had let it hang as she flung herself backward in her misery, raising the other to her face.
She lifted her head, and looked into a wondering face, the tear-stained face of her own red-haired boy.
As soon as he saw her look at him, he put up his lips for a kiss, stretching out his hands to her. So the little flat nose was lifted up to the big one, and she murmured, and prattled, and fondled him, all over his face and head, as he held his arms round her neck. She did not take the book again. She kept him instead, and he never once looked towards the table where it lay. That was their last great struggle.
There were a thousand lesser ones, of course, but never one which lasted more than a few minutes.
CHAPTER II
ON THE MOUNTAIN
Tomasine always had her boy under her own care; the lively, clever child needed a watchful eye; but all the same she looked forward to his fourth birthday with good courage, and on that day something chanced, which made her form a determination.
Tomas had had several playfellows; as he was accustomed to be alone he always wanted things his own way, so he had not been very good-natured.
On his fourth birthday he received, among other presents, a book about brothers and sisters, which told how good brothers were to their sisters, so indulgent and helpful; this was illustrated by sketches in which the little brother always led his little sister by the hand.
Tomas derived another idea in the meantime from the book; he asked "Why he had not a sister too? Could he not get one?"
Tomasine Rendalen had certainly often remembered that he had a sister, but not as a matter which concerned herself; it did not seem to her of any further consequence, but he begged so continuously, that she began to think a little more seriously about it. Suppose his sister should be in want? The property had been John Kurt's, and it had prospered greatly, thanks to his own plan, that of extending the gardens further up the hill, thus making them nearly twice as large. John Kurt's child must be properly provided for, there ought to be no doubt about it.
She made inquiries about the child, and learned that her little namesake lived with her grandmother, Marit Stoen, "Mother Stoa," as they called her, the widow of the pilot who had gained a great reputation on that coast. Marit Stoen lived up on the mountain, therefore to the left of "The Estate": Tomasine decided to see the child.
As there was no hurry about it, she determined to do so the first fine Sunday. As it chanced, the weather for a number of Sundays was bad, so it was full summer before one came which tempted her to go. Andreas Berg accompanied her.
The road to the mountain led to the left from the market-place, past the new churchyard, and further out into the country. But after that, when they turned towards the mountain, the way was more of a quagmire than a road.
Till that time the poorer people of the town had been allowed to build as they liked, and live as they could, and a regular road was only just being constructed. Down by the sea, the boats lay side by side, as close together as possible, for the left side of the mountain sheltered them. All round the boats, and in them, were a number of children, mostly little ones, and there was as much noise as if there were a thousand of them.
Tomasine wondered if the one she sought were there as well. She looked into each wild little face to see if she could find anything familiar.
It was not a pleasant occupation. The rough children gathered round her in a swarm, when she inquired for Mark Stoen, and at least twenty pointed up the hill. But she could not distinguish what they said to her all together. Nor did she wish to stay, but, with Andreas Berg, began to climb all the corkscrew turnings of the road.
The shouts from below followed her, but none of the children, so that she concluded that none of them had anything to do with Marit Stoen.
It was a rough road, over the solid rock for the most part, though here and there a step had been made, and now and then it had been slightly hollowed.
It turned from left to right and from right to left; there were not four houses standing on the same level. And how extraordinary many of them were! Some nothing more than a ship's caboose, with a broad penthouse over it. There were several with the stairs leading to the upper story built outside, and, in one or two, they went right across the roof, to an attic room which had been added later. Many were so built that the lower story had its exit to the west, with the road on a level with the door, but the upper story had an exit to the east, for there the road and door were still on the same level.
Almost all the houses had odd outbuildings, mostly boats standing up, with one end cut off, though in some cases boats were used as roofs, by being turned upside down and supported by walls of boards or stone.
Little strips of garden wound in and out everywhere, often in the most unlikely places, where they were so narrow that two turnips could hardly grow side by side. Rank odours of all sorts, sometimes pleasantly modified by the smell of tar, hung over the whole mountain, rising and spreading as a rich offering up into the Sabbath sky--all according to the ordinary customs in that part of the world.
The noise of the children down by the sea came ringing up the hillside like a constant chime, now and then broken by a cry. A cock crowed; a dog on board one of the ships in the harbour barked at a passing boat, and was answered by some shaggy comrade on the mountain. Otherwise all was still; they only heard their own steps crunching on the gravel, and, as they got higher up, something like the frantic screaming of a child.
Tomasine looked out over the islands, and the Sound, away to the open sea--shining and still and clear under the sky. In the streets of the town a few people were walking about, and, in some places, little groups of children. But it was too far off for any sound to mingle with the shouts of those below.