Mrs. Rantzau's Story

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Title:     Mrs. Rantzau's Story
Author: Anthon B. E. Nilsen [More Titles by Nilsen]

She was a teacher of singing, and had only recently settled in the town. Holm had never seen her, but now that her daughter was working in his office, and Marie had begun taking lessons with Mrs. Rantzau herself, he felt it his duty to call.

Moreover, he had some secret hope that it might be possible here to find an ally in his plan for combating Marie's artistic craze. In addition to which, she was Betty's mother....

The place was four storeys up, and Holm, tired after his climb, sat down at the top of the stairs for a moment before ringing the bell.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la--he could hear a woman's voice singing scales inside, the same thing over and over again. A little after came another voice, which he took to be Mrs. Rantzau's.

"Mouth wide open, please; that's it--now breathe!"

Holm rang the bell and Mrs. Rantzau opened the door.

He stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at her.

"Heavens alive--it can't be--Bianca, is it really you?"

She turned pale, came close to him and whispered:

"For Heaven's sake, not a word." Then, taking him by the arm, she thrust him gently into a room adjoining.

He heard the young lady take her departure, and a moment later Mrs. Rantzau stood before him.

She was still a magnificently handsome woman. The dark eyes were deep and clear as ever, the black hair waved freely over the forehead, albeit with a thread of silver here and there. Her figure was slender and well-poised, her whole appearance eloquent of energy and life.

"If you knew how I have dreaded this moment, Mr. Holm," she began, then suddenly stopped.

"H'm--yes. It's a good many years now since last we met, Bianca--beg pardon, Mrs. Rantzau, I mean."

"Fifteen--yes, it's fifteen years ago. And much has happened since then. I didn't know really whether to go and call on you myself, and ask you not to say anything about the way we met, and how I was living then. But then again, I thought you must have forgotten me ages ago."

"Forgotten! Not if I live to be a hundred."

"And then, too, I thought it might be awkward for Betty if I tried to renew our old acquaintance; you might be offended, and not care to keep her on at the office...."

"But--my dear lady--however could you imagine such a thing?"

"Oh, I know how good and kind you were when I knew you before--but people change sometimes. And you can understand, I'm sure, Mr. Holm, that my position here, my connection with my pupils, would be ruined if the past were known. Not that I've anything to be ashamed of, thank God, but you know yourself, in a little town like this, how people would look at a woman--or even a man, for that matter--whose life has been so--so unusual as mine."

"Dear lady, I understand, of course, but I should never have thought of mentioning a word of our relations in the past."

"Thanks, thanks! Oh, I can see now you have not changed. Kind and thoughtful as ever; you were good to me, Mr. Holm--not like the others." Her voice trembled a little, and she grasped his hand.

Holm flushed slightly, murmured a few polite words, and thought--of Betty.

Mrs. Rantzau continued: "I should like you to understand, to realise yourself the position I was placed in then. Will you let me tell you the whole story--if you've time?"

"Indeed I've time--you took up quite a considerable amount of my time before, you know," he added kindly.

"Ah, I see you're the same as ever, Mr. Holm, always bright and cheerful over things."

"Why, yes, I'm glad to say. It would be a pity not to."

"Well, let me begin. My life hasn't been a path of roses--far from it; it's been mostly thorns. If only I could write, I might make quite an exciting story of it all. I'm forty-two now, started life as a parson's daughter up in the north, was married to a poet, and lived with him in Paris; my child was born, and I was left a widow then. I had to keep myself and Betty by the work of my hands; sang at concerts, and accompanied in Hamburg, lived as a countess in Westphalia----"

"What--a countess?"

"Well, very nearly. But I'll tell you about that later. I taught French in Copenhagen, and painting in Gothenburg, was housekeeper to a lawyer in a little Norwegian town, nearly married him but not quite, and ended up here teaching singing. So you see I've been a good many things in my time."

"But tell me--tell me all about it," exclaimed Holm eagerly.

"Mr. Holm, you know the darkest part of all my life; it is only fair that you should know the rest. I've nothing to be ashamed of, for after all I have managed to earn a livelihood for myself and Betty. I was seventeen when I left home, and they said I was quite good-looking----"

"You're equal to anything on the market now, as we say in business----"

"Well, I came straight from the wilds of the Nordland to Christiania, and they called me 'the Nordland sun.' I was the most sought after at all the dances, and perhaps one of the most brilliant, for I came to the gay life of the capital with the freshness of a novice. It was not long before I became engaged to a young writer--a poet, he was----"

"The devil you did! Beg pardon, I'm sure, but to tell the truth I've no faith in that sort of people, as Banker Hermansen would say."

"We were both of us young and inexperienced; he dreamed of gaining world-wide fame by his pen, and I used to weep over his passionate love poems. I was eighteen and he twenty-two, and I promised to follow him to the end of the world, for better or worse.

"Then one fine day we landed in Paris, without caring a jot for our people, our friends, or our own country. We were married there at the Swedish Church, and there I was, a poet's wife, with my people at home trying to forget the black sheep of the family.

"A few years passed. But every day saw the breaking of one of the golden threads in our web of illusion, and when Betty was born we were in desperate straits.

"Poor old Thor, he used to sit up late at night writing stuff for the papers at home, all about magnificent functions he'd never been to at all, and warming his frozen fingers over a few bits of coal in the stove."

"And he might have made quite a decent living in an office," put in Holm sympathetically.

"Unfortunately, he imagined he was a genius, and gradually, as things got worse and worse, the struggle for a bare existence made him bitter, till he hated the world, and looked upon himself as a martyr condemned to suffering.

"Then he took to staying out late of an evening, and wrote less and less. By the time we had been there a year, the poet's wife was washing lace to keep the home together. In the autumn of the second year, he went down with pneumonia, and a week after the 'Nordland sun' was a widow. I couldn't go home, for I'd cut myself adrift from them completely when I married. There was nothing for it but to struggle along as best I could by myself, unknown and friendless in the great city. But, thank Heaven, I've always had my health and a cheerful temper, and little Betty was such a darling."

"Yes, she's a wonderful girl."

"She and I have fought our way together, Mr. Holm, and a hard fight it has been at times, believe me.

"Well, we got along somehow in Paris, for a few years, doing needlework, or giving music lessons at fifty centimes an hour. It was a cheerless existence mostly, as you can imagine, and if it hadn't been for the child I should have broken down long before.

"Then at last I got the offer of a place as accompanist at a concert hall in Hamburg, with a salary of a hundred marks a month for three hours' work every evening and two rehearsals a week. This was splendid, and I was in the highest spirits when I left Paris. Besides, it was a little nearer home, and I used to be desperately home-sick at times, though I knew it was hopeless to think of going back.

"Imagine my feelings, then, when I got to the place and found it was a common music hall; though very decent, really, for a place of that sort."

"It was a beautiful place--at least, I thought so, when I saw you there."

"Well, there I sat, night after night, accompanying all sorts of more or less third-rate artistes. It used to make me wild, I remember, when they sang false, or were awkward in their gestures; I used to look at them in a way they would remember. And really, I managed to make them respect me after a time, though I was only twenty-five myself.

"Then, besides my evenings there, I gradually worked up a little connection giving music and singing lessons outside, till I was making enough to live fairly comfortably.

"But one day the whole staff went on strike, and left at a moment's notice, and there we were. The manager--you remember him, I dare say, Sonnenthal; man with a black waxed moustache and a big diamond pin--he came running in to me and said I must sing myself; it would never do to close down altogether in the height of the season. He thought he would get at least a couple of other turns, and if I would help it would get us over the difficulty.

"I told him I couldn't think of it--said I had no talent for that sort of thing; but he insisted, and offered me fifty marks a night if I would.

"Fifty marks was a fabulous sum to me for one night, then, after living on a franc and a half a day in Paris, and it meant so much for Betty. I began to think it over.

"And really I felt sure myself that I could do better than these half-civilised cabaret singers, from Lord knows where, that I'd been playing to for so long. But the parson's daughter found it hard to come down to performing like that.

"Then Sonnenthal offered me sixty marks. He thought, of course, it was only a question of money. It was too good to refuse, and I agreed.

"He got out new posters, with big lettering:

'SIGNORA BIANCA
The World-renowned Singer from Milan now Appearing.'

"I remember how furious I was when the dresser came in to make me up, and I flung her paints and powders across the room. Sonnenthal came round and wanted me to go on in short skirts, but I told him in so many words that I was going to do it my own way or not at all; and, knowing how he was situated, of course he had to give in.

"I think he was impressed by the way I stood up to him. A little Roumanian girl, a pale, dark-eyed creature, who was simply terrified of Sonnenthal, like all the rest of them, came in to me afterwards and threw her arms round my neck and thanked me for having given him a lesson at last.

"It was with very mixed feelings that I went on that night for my first performance. The audience, of course, was composed of all sorts, and the performers were often interrupted by shouting, not always of applause.

"The house was full--it was packed. Sonnenthal knew how to advertise a thing.

"I gave them 'A Mountain Maid' to start with, a touching little thing, and I put enough feeling into it to move a stone, but not a hand was raised to applaud. Then I tried 'Solveig's Song' from Peer Gynt--that too was received with chilling silence.

"When I came off after the first two, I could see the others smiling maliciously: there's plenty of jealousy in that line of business. But it set my blood boiling, and I felt that irresistible impulse to go in and do something desperate, as I always do when anything gets in my way.

"I rushed on again, and gave the word to the orchestra for 'The Hungarian Gipsy,' a thing all trills and yodelling and such-like trick work--a show piece.

"I put all I knew into it this time, and yodelled away till the audience left their beer-glasses untouched on the tables--and that's saying a good deal with a crowd like that.

"When I finished, the hall rang with a thunder of applause--everyone shouting and cheering. I had to come before the curtain again and again. But I wouldn't give them an encore that time. I thought it best to have something in reserve, and not make myself cheap like the others.

"As I came off the last time, I couldn't help saying half aloud what I thought of my respected audience--clowns!

"But I'd found out how to handle them now, and I gave them the stuff they wanted, and plenty of it. I knew the sort of thing well enough. For years they'd sat listening to the same type of short-skirted, rouged and powdered womenfolk, with the same more or less risky songs, the same antiquated kick-ups and the same cheap favour in their eyes. I took care myself always to appear as a lady, chose first-rate songs, and, as my salary increased--for I drew Sonnenthal gradually up the scale as I wished--I was able to dress in a style that astonished them.

"Do you remember when I sang 'The Carnival of Venice'?"

"Do I not! Saints alive, but you were a wonder to see. Every evening, all the month I was there, I came just to sit and look at you."

"Listen, you mean?"

"Well, perhaps that's what I ought to say. Anyhow, I know I strewed flowers enough at your feet that winter, though they cost me a mark apiece."

"Yes, you were kind, I know. But do you remember the dress I wore for that carnival thing? The bodice all white roses, and red and yellow for the skirt--it was a success--a sensation! 'Flowers in spring' ah!"

She rose to her feet, and took a step forward, singing as she moved.

"When I came to that part, they all wanted to join in, but I had only to hold out my hand, so, and all was quiet in a moment, you remember?"

"Yes, indeed, you had a wonderful power over the sterner sex; I felt it myself, I know. I swear I've never been more completely head over ears before or since."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holm," she protested, with a hearty laugh, "we're past that sort of thing now, both of us. But you were good to me then, and I shall never forget it. I had enough and to spare in the way of offers and attentions, not to speak of making people furious because I always refused their invitation to champagne suppers behind the scenes."

"That was just what gave you the position and influence you had, I think."

"Yes, I think it was. I know that all the time I was there, yours was the only invitation I ever accepted, because you were a fellow-countryman, and so kind and considerate as well.

"I remember as if it were yesterday that dinner at the 'Pforte.' There was a pheasant, with big tail-feathers large as life, do you remember? And when we got to the coffee, you wanted to hear the story of my life----"

"And you were silent as an Egyptian mummy."

"My parents were still living then, Mr. Holm, and I wished at least to spare them the sorrow of learning that their daughter was performing on the music-hall stage. Well, but I must go on.

"Fortunately, you were the only fellow-countryman I ever came in contact with while I was there; and, of course, I kept my nationality a secret as far as possible.

"When the summer came, I was so sick and tired of the life and the half-civilised surroundings, that I threw it up, and went to Copenhagen. I had saved enough by that time to keep me more or less comfortable for a while at least. But there was one little adventure I must tell about, before I left."

"This is getting quite exciting," said Holm, changing his seat and placing himself directly opposite her. "Go on. I'm curious to know."

"Well, I was as near as could be to becoming a Countess."

"Were you, though! How did it happen?"

"It's not altogether exceptional, you know, in the profession. But my little affair there is soon told. One of my most devoted admirers was a tall middle-aged man, well built, handsome, with dark hair and a big moustache. He looked like a military man. He was always most elegantly dressed, in a black frock-coat, with the red ribbon of some Order in his buttonhole.

"One evening, when I'd just finished dressing for the 'Carnival of Venice' thing, a card was brought in, bearing the name of Count--well, never mind his name. It was the Count that did it, I'm afraid.

"I invariably used to return cards brought in that way, and take no notice. But this time I suppose my vanity got the better of me for once, and I let him come in.

"He made me a most respectful bow, and handed me a magnificent bouquet tied with ribbon in the Italian colours. I was supposed to be from Milan, you know. He spoke excellent French, and seemed altogether a gentleman of the first water--or blood, I suppose one would say.

"He told me about his home, his estates and his family affairs in the most simple and natural manner. I could not help liking him a little from the first. He was in Hamburg on business--some lawsuit or other--and dropping into the place one evening to pass the time, he could not help noticing me particularly.

"He was not sparing of his compliments, I must say; he praised me up to the skies, as an artist, of course. My voice had astonished, delighted, enchanted him, he told me so at once. And ended up by advising me to try the opera stage--offered to help me himself in every way possible, which, he said, might mean something, as he had many influential friends in that quarter. I told him, however, quite frankly, that I was perfectly aware myself as to the qualifications needed for operatic work, and had sense enough to realise that I could never succeed in that way. He was evidently surprised at my attitude, but I simply thanked him for his kindness, and got rid of him then for the time being. But he came again regularly every evening, bringing me flowers, and at last he made a formal proposal in the most charming manner, laying his title, estates and all the rest of it at my feet.

"It was tempting, of course, but thank goodness I had always had a pretty fair share of common sense, especially as I got older. I told him I regretted I did not know him sufficiently well to take so serious a step, but promised to think it over."

"That was a plucky thing to do. There are not many who would have taken it like that."

"It was just plain common sense. The Count was a little huffy, though, and hinted that he had expected me to say yes on the spot.

"This happened about a week before my engagement was up, and I had already, as I told you, decided to go to Copenhagen for a bit.

"I must confess that there were moments when I was weak enough to think seriously of accepting the Count, but, fortunately, chance came to my help. There was an old Catholic priest at the house where I was staying, and I told him all about it. He undertook to make inquiries about the Count, and a few days after he had found out everything there was to know. He was a Count right enough----"

"No, really? I hadn't expected that."

"Well, he was--but as poor as a church mouse! He had been an officer in the army, and inherited an ancient title and a castle with heavily encumbered estates from his father, but squandered all there was left in his youth; now he was a sort of travelling inspector for an insurance company, and lived for the rest by his wits."

"And that was the end of the Count?"

"Yes, of course; but, you see, I was very near becoming a Countess."

"And then you went to Copenhagen?"

"Yes, and after that my story's simple enough. I stayed there some years, teaching music and painting, managed to get along comfortably enough. Betty started going to school, and we were as happy as could be."

"But how did you manage to escape further offers all that time in Copenhagen?

"Oh, you seem to imagine I had nothing else to think of but getting married. No, indeed, when one's gone through as much as I have, one thinks twice before venturing a second time. Well, as the years went on, and being in Denmark and more in touch with my own country, I began to long for home again. I thought surely all would be forgotten by now, and I should be able to make a living there. But it was not so easy after all. I got a step nearer when I was offered a post as teacher at a school in Gothenburg; I stayed there five long years. I had already sent Betty to board with a decent family in Norway, that she might not grow up altogether a foreigner, and now I was only waiting for the chance of coming home myself.

"My parents were dead. I had no relatives or friends to come back to, and yet for all that I was longing to be there again.

"At last the day came; I shall never forget the moment when we sighted the first glimpse of land. It seemed as if all my years of exile had been a dream. I felt myself full of life and strength and happiness, and I vowed to make a new career for myself in my own country.

"I got a place as housekeeper to an old lawyer in a little town on the coast, and lived there very comfortably for a year; but it was too narrow, too confined, so I moved to here--and here I am, doing what I can to make life tolerable. I've my health and strength, plenty of energy, and I'm very happy. And there you have it all, Mr. Holm--the life story of Emilie Rantzau. You can't say it's been an easy one altogether."

"No indeed, and I admire you for the way you have fought through so many handicaps and trials."

"Thank Heaven, I've never lost my strength of will, and now at last things seem to be getting brighter. Betty's so happy here, and delighted with her place at the office."

"Not more than I am to have her, I assure you. It's been like constant sunshine about the place since she came."

"Well, then, Mr. Holm, I hope you will keep my secret as if it were your own. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my past, but all the same I should not like it to be known here as things are now."

"You need have no fear of that, my dear lady, I assure you. I only hope you may be happy here, and feel yourself in every sense at home now you have come back--and I'm sure you deserve it after the long struggle you have had. But I must say it has not left its mark on you, for you're charming enough to turn the head of more than one respectable citizen in this little town."

"It's very kind of you to say so, but I think there's no fear of that. By the way, I'm your daughter's music-mistress, too. She seems very intelligent."

"H'm, as to that ... to tell the truth, I wanted to speak to you about her. I really don't know what to do with the child lately, the way she goes on."

"Really--oh, but surely----"

"I'll tell you all about it, if I may?"

"Yes, do."

"Well, it's like this. My excellent son and heir, you must know, was a decent enough lad to begin with. But then he somehow got in with a whole crowd of muddle-headed youths that call themselves artists, poets and acrobats of that sort. H'm ... you see, I'm a plain man myself, and to my mind the whole thing's nothing better than sheer downright laziness. They simply won't trouble to go in for any steady solid work in life, but go on living on this artistic humbug, as long as they can find anyone to provide for them."

"Like yourself, you mean?"

"Exactly. I've done a good deal in that line--up to now. Well, these young beauties have given the lad the idea that he's the making of a great artist, a budding Rubens at the least, whereas I'm convinced he couldn't even turn out a presentable signboard. And as for the girl, she's the coming Patti of her day, nothing less.

"I've raged about it, been as cross and discouraging as could be, but precious little difference it makes. No, they must be off to Paris, if you please, the pair of them, on their own. And that's where I want you, if you will, to help me stop their little game. Marie, I know, looks up to you like a sort of Providence."

"But really, Mr. Holm, she has talent, you know."

"Talent be hanged. I don't care if she has. What you've got to do is to tell her she's got a voice like a sore-throated sheep--that's what I want. And as for the boy, you can help me to cure him too, if you only will. You've had some experience, you know, in getting round the men; an old hand like you could easily manage him, I'm sure."

"Really, Mr. Holm, that was a pretty compliment, I must say."

"It was honestly meant, anyhow; you needn't be angry. Let's be frank with one another. We're old friends, you know, after all, Bianca."

"Holm, for Heaven's sake, never, never let that name pass your lips again. Promise me!" she said, with a glance of earnest entreaty.

"Forgive me, forgive me. May the devil cut out my sinful tongue if ever I utter it again. It's the most infernal nuisance, that tongue of mine, always getting me into trouble one way or another, like an alarm clock, you know, that goes off the moment you come near it."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Holm, to make your daughter give up her idea of making a career in that way. As a matter of fact, I should have said the same thing even if you had not asked me."

"Thanks, thanks. And the boy--how are we to manage about him?"

"We must think it over, each in our own way, and see what can be done. There must be some way of putting a stop to their running wild like that, especially with two hardened old diplomatists like you and myself working together."

"I'm sure we can; and now I'll say good-bye. For the present, at any rate, all we can do is to wait the course of events, as the grocer said when his wife ran off with the apprentice!"

[The end]
Anthon B. E. Nilsen's short story: Mrs. Rantzau's Story

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