nice name, only maybe it’s a little—old fashioned.” She was very
sensitive about being thought a foreigner, and was proud of the fact
that, in town, her father always preached in English; very bookish
English, at that, one might add.
Born in an old Scandinavian colony in Minnesota, Peter Kronborg had been
sent to a small divinity school in Indiana by the women of a Swedish
evangelical mission, who were convinced of his gifts and who skimped and
begged and gave church suppers to get the long, lazy youth through the
seminary. He could still speak enough Swedish to exhort and to bury the
members of his country church out at Copper Hole, and he wielded in his
Moonstone pulpit a somewhat pompous English vocabulary he had learned
out of books at college. He always spoke of “the infant Saviour,” “our
Heavenly Father,” etc. The poor man had no natural, spontaneous human
speech. If he had his sincere moments, they were perforce inarticulate.
Probably a good deal of his pretentiousness was due to the fact that he
habitually expressed himself in a book learned language, wholly remote
from anything personal, native, or homely. Mrs. Kronborg spoke Swedish
to her own sisters and to her sister-in-law Tillie, and colloquial
English to her neighbors. Thea, who had a rather sensitive ear, until
she went to school never spoke at all, except in monosyllables, and her
mother was convinced that she was tongue-tied. She was still inept in
speech for a child so intelligent. Her ideas were usually clear, but she
seldom attempted to explain them, even at school, where she excelled in
“written work” and never did more than mutter a reply.
“Your music professor stopped me on the street to-day and asked me how
you were,” said the doctor, rising. “He’ll be sick himself, trotting
around in this slush with no overcoat or overshoes.”
“He’s poor,” said Thea simply.
The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid he’s worse than that. Is he always all
right when you take your lessons? Never acts as if he’d been drinking?”
Thea looked angry and spoke excitedly. “He knows a lot. More than
anybody. I don’t care if he does drink; he’s old and poor.” Her voice
shook a little.
Mrs. Kronborg spoke up from the next room. “He’s a good teacher, doctor.
It’s good for us he does drink. He’d never be in a little place like
this if he didn’t have some weakness. These women that teach music
around here don’t know nothing. I wouldn’t have my child wasting time
with them. If Professor Wunsch goes away, Thea’ll have nobody to take
from. He’s careful with his scholars; he don’t use bad language. Mrs.
Kohler is always present when Thea takes her lesson. It’s all right.”
Mrs. Kronborg spoke calmly and judicially. One could see that she had
thought the matter out before.
“I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Kronborg. I wish we could get the old man
off his bottle and keep him tidy. Do you suppose if I gave you an old
overcoat you could get him to wear it?” The doctor went to the bedroom
door and Mrs. Kronborg looked up from her darning.
“Why, yes, I guess he’d be glad of it. He’ll take most anything from me.
He won’t buy clothes, but I guess he’d wear ‘em if he had ‘em. I’ve
never had any clothes to give him, having so many to make over for.”
