Ragna. Anna Miller Costantini
his mysterious doom was to sail on and on till the Judgment Day, longing for peace and home, family and joy, but never to find them; seeing his comrades grow old and grey, and die—but himself, always young, always stretching longing arms toward the happiness and rest he might never attain to—and so on and on for ever, till the end of the world.
Ragna, as you may see, was impulsive and visionary, and while her sisters both became capable little housewives, she took but little interest in homely duties. Eagerly she read whatever fell in her way, but especially she loved the old Sagas, with their great fierce women, and strong, terribly human men. She heard the call of the Valkyries in the wind, saw their shapes in the battling clouds; the Aurora Borealis to her, lighted the feasting of heroes in Valhalla. Naturally, she wrote verses herself, but in secret, hiding her copy-book deep in her clothes press. There her sister Lotte found it one fateful day, and produced it, in a fit of childish mischief, after supper in the family circle. Poor Ragna, all confusion and blushes, fearing the inevitable reprimand for foolish waste of time, tried to snatch her darling, but the father held up his hand.
"Give that book to me, Lotte," he said, and when she had complied, he locked it up in his desk, and nothing further was said.
A week passed, and still Ragna trembled for the fate of her treasure, but dared not inquire. She stood in awe of her father, and would as soon have bearded a lion in his den, as question him. When he finally summoned her to his study, and bade her close the door behind her, she entered timidly, not daring to look him in the face. If he was secretly amused by her air of conscious guilt, he gave no sign.
"My daughter," he said, in calm judicial tones, "your mother and I have read the writings in the little book, the good grandmother also has seen them. It is all nonsense, of course—what could a child like you write but nonsense? But it is not such bad nonsense, after all," he added kindly. Then he bade her sit by him, and she fetched a low stool, and sat by his knee—up to now she had been standing as a dutiful child should.
He laid his hand on her shining plaits of hair, and bent her head back so that he might look into her eyes.
"True eyes," he said dreamily, half to himself, "Andersen eyes, and you have the Andersen face, child. Lotte is of your mother's race, but Ingeborg and you are Andersens through and through—and you look like your Uncle Olaf." He paused awhile, apparently immersed in thought. Ragna burned with excitement and curiosity, what could it mean? What could he be going to say? Her head moved under his hand, and recalled to him the fact of her presence.
"Ragna, your mother and I have decided that you must go away; you must go to a school where you can learn more than is possible here. Fru Bjork, a relative of your mother's, is taking her daughter to a convent in Paris, and I have written to her asking her to take you also, and to place you in the convent with Astrid. You are sixteen—two years in Paris will do more for you than a lifetime here. The mother and I shall miss you—but an Andersen must have the best, and I believe I can trust you to make the most of this opportunity. Now, my child, I have said what I had in my mind, there is nothing more, only this: remember always that an Andersen must have the best and be worthy of it!"
Ragna had listened to him, her colour coming and going, her eyes shining. Two years in Paris! It was too wonderful almost to be believed. She rose from her stool, and made motion to kiss her father's hand, as was her custom, but he took her into his arms, and kissed her forehead.
"You are too old now to kiss my hand," he said smiling. She flung her arms about his neck and clung to him, sobbing with excitement and joy, till her father loosed her arms and putting her copy-book into her hand, led to the door saying:
"There, there! Control yourself my dear, recollect that you are almost a woman now!" And he closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER II
The next few weeks passed as in a dream, and at length the day of departure came. Ragna set off with her father in the stulkjarre, her modest box well corded and tied on behind. Grandmother, mother and sisters, even the old nurse, waving a tearful farewell, disappeared behind the clustering trees.
Travel in those days was not the easy affair it is now, and three days posting lay between the travellers and Molde. They were to meet Fru Bjork at Bergen. When, in due time they arrived, Ragna found her chaperone to be a matronly woman, arrayed in brown silk with a heavy gold chain round her neck; her crab's eyes looked good-naturedly out on the world, and her ample curves bore witness to her naturally placid temperament—relieved, however, by a surface fussiness. She at once took Ragna to her arms and heart with such pattings and caressings as made the girl feel quite uncomfortable, unused as she was to such a demonstrative show of affection.
Astrid, the daughter, fair and pretty, sprightly and capricious of character, also welcomed the newcomer with enthusiasm.
"How delightful it will be!" she carolled. "We shall be just like sisters, and tell one another all our secrets—shan't we, dear?" She linked her arm in Ragna's, and gazed soulfully into her face. Ragna could not help wondering what secrets she might ever find it possible to confide to such a little linnet. At first awkward and constrained, she soon thawed, however, in the friendly atmosphere, and in a few minutes was chattering away with a gaiety and freedom, quite surprising to her father, who had always known her timidly reserved. This was not to be wondered at, as he had never encouraged any other attitude in his children.
As this is not to be a chronicle of a young lady's school-days, little need be told concerning the journey to Paris, and the years at the Sacré Cœur, suffice it to say that Ragna, under the care of the good Sisters, improved both in mind and body. As her skin lost its coating of sunburn and tan, and her body its abrupt and boyish movements, so her mind, trained in the study of the French classics, took on polish, and she acquired a nice discrimination of taste, and a distinction of manner rarely met with in so young a girl. So much for externals, at heart she was the same old Ragna, impulsive, dreamy, and of a childlike credulity, splendidly loyal to those she loved. One instance of this will suffice.
Astrid, in whom vanity and the indulgence of her mother had developed a thirst for admiration and romance, soon found the monotonous round of convent life unbearably dull. She confided the yearnings of her lonely heart to her bosom friend Ragna, and for a time these confidences, the daily bulletins as to the state of her soul scribbled in pencil on scraps of paper, and passed from one to the other as the girls met going to and from chapel, or in recreation hours, sufficed.
Shortly after their arrival, they had been sent to separate dormitories and tables, and kept apart during recreation, the Convent discipline not permitting of too close an intimacy between two young girls, and there being the added reason of the more rapid progress made in acquiring the language when neither had the occasion to use her mother tongue.
Astrid considered it suitable to the arid state of her heart that she should pine away, and to that end consumed bits of chalk from the class-room blackboard, scrapings of slate pencils, and all the vinegar within reach at meals. As may be imagined, she soon displayed an interesting pallor, and was accordingly dosed with iron pills and quince wine. Her heavy sighs and melancholy demeanour so impressed her fellow pupils, that it was generally rumoured she was dying of a broken heart. The broken heart soon mended, however, when early in the second year at the convent, her discerning eye perceived the burning glances of a most romantic looking youth. "Long hair, my dear, velveteen clothes, and the most beautiful soulful eyes you ever saw," she told Ragna.
The girls were on their way, with a group of selected pupils under the guardianship of an assistant mistress, to see a picture gallery. The young man turned in behind the procession and followed. The next time it was the same, and Astrid's romantic little soul thrilled at the thought of so devoted an admirer. It was easy for the man to slip a folded note into the girl's hand one day, as the little group straggled up the stairway of the Louvre, and during the rest of the afternoon Astrid's hand strayed constantly to her pocket to assure herself of the safety of the precious paper. With eyelids lowered over shining eyes, she listened to the droning