The dancing lessons were in full swing, and were held three times a week in the hall of the inn, under the two old lamps that hung from the beams. The long, undisturbed dust in the cold room whirled up under their feet. The seven pupils flew about wildly like a flock of magpies, Miss Holm straightening their backs and bending their arms. “One, two, three—battement—one, two, three—battement.” The seven bobbed at “battement” and stepped out energetically.
The dust gathered in Miss Holm’s throat as she called out her orders. Now the pupils were to dance a round dance in couples. They held their partners at arm’s length, stiff-armed and embarrassed, and turned in sleepy circles. Miss Holm swung them around, with encouraging words. “Good—now around—four, five—turn again—good—” She took hold of Jens Larsen’s second, and little Jette, and turned them as one would turn a top.
Jette’s mother had come to look on. The peasant women would drop in for the lessons, their cap-bands tied in stiff bows, and sit motionless as wooden figures against the wall, without speaking a word even to each other. Miss Holm addressed them as “Madame,” and smiled at them as she skipped about.
Now it was the turn of the lanciers. “Ladies to the right—good—now three steps to the left, Jette—good—” The lanciers was more like a general skirmish than a dance.
Miss Holm groaned from her exertions. She leaned against the wall, her temples beating with hammer-strokes. “Good—this way, Jette—” The dust hurt her eyes, as the seven hopped about in the dusk.
When Miss Holm came home after her dancing lessons, she wrapped her head up in a handkerchief. But in spite of this, she suffered from an everlasting cold, and sat, most of her leisure hours, with her head over a bowl of hot water.
Finally, they had music for their lessons—Mr. Broderson’s violin. Two new pupils, a couple of half-grown young people, joined the class. They all hopped about to the tune of tailor Broderson’s fiddle, as the dust flew up in clouds, and the old stove seemed to dance on its rough carved feet.
They had spectators, too, and once the young people from the rectory, the pastor’s daughter and the curate, came to look on. Miss Holm danced out more energetically under the two dim lamps, threw out her chest, and arched her feet. “Throw out your feet like this, children—throw out your feet—” She threw out her feet proudly and raised the hem of her skirt—now she had an audience!
Every week Miss Holm sent a package of knitting to Copenhagen. The teacher took charge of the package. Each time it was clumsily wrapped or addressed wrong, and he had to put it to rights himself. She stood watching him with her girlish nod and the smile of faded sixteen. The newspapers that had come by the mail lay ready for distribution on one of the school-tables. One day Miss Holm asked timidly if she might look at the “Berlinske.” She had gazed longingly at the bundle for a week before she could pluck up courage enough to proffer her request. After that she came every day, in the noon pause. The schoolteacher soon came to recognize her timid knock. “Come in, little lady, the door is open,” he would call.