VI

It was no sort of work this for a man; I was not satisfied. Nothing but

walk, walk up and down the river, clearing a few logs here and there,

and then on again. And after each trip, back to my lodging-house in the

town. All this time I had but one man to talk to--the boots or porter

at the hotel where the engineer was staying. He was a burly fellow, with

huge fists, and eyes like a child's. He had fallen down and hurt his

head as a youngster, he said, and never got on in life beyond hauling

things and carrying heavy loads. I had a talk with him now and again,

but found no one else to talk to in the town.

That little town!

When the river is high, a mighty roar of sound goes rushing through the

place, dividing it in two. Folk live in their little wooden houses north

or south of the roar, and manage, no doubt, to make ends meet from day

to day. Of all the many children crossing the bridge and running errands

to the shops, there are none that go naked, probably few that suffer

want, and all are decent looking enough. And here are big, tall,

half-grown girls, the quaintest of all, with their awkward movements,

and their laughter, and their earnest occupation with their own little

affairs. Now and again they stop on the bridge to watch the lumbermen

at work among the logs below, and join in the song of the men as they

haul--“_Hoi-aho!_”--and then they giggle and nudge one another and go

on.

But there are no birds here.

Strange, that there should be no birds! On quiet evenings, at

sunset-time, the great enclosed pool lies there with its deep waters

unmoved; moths and midges hover above it, the trees on the banks are

reflected there, but there are no birds in the trees. Perhaps it is

because of the roar of the water, that drowns all other sound; birds

cannot thrive there, where none can hear another's song. And so it comes

about that the only winged creatures here are flies and moths. But God

alone knows why even the crows and common birds shun us and our town.

Every small town has its daily event that every one turns out for--and,

as for that, the big towns too, with their promenades. Out Vestland way

it is the postpacket. Living in Vestland, it's hard to keep away from

the quay when the little vessel comes in. Here, in this inland town,

with a dozen miles or more to the sea, and nothing but rocks and hills

all about, here we have the river. Has the water risen or fallen in the

night? Will they be clearing logs from the booms today? Oh, we are all

so interested! True, we have a little railway as well, but that doesn't

count for much. The line ends here; it runs as far as it can go, and

then stops, like a cork in a bottle. And there's something cosy and

pleasant about the tiny carriages on the trains; but folk seem ashamed

of them, they are so ridiculously old and worse for wear, and there's

not even room to sit upright with a hat on!

Not but what we've other things besides--a market, and a church, and

schools, and post office, and all. And then there's the sawmills and

works by the riverside. But as for grocery shops and stores, there's

more than you'd believe.

We've so many things altogether. I am a stranger here myself--as indeed

I am everywhere--yet I could reckon up a host of things we have besides

the river. Was the town a big place once upon a time? No, it has been a

little town for two hundred and fifty years. But there was once a

great man over all the smaller folk--one who rode lordly fashion with

a servant behind him--a great landowner. Now we are all equal; saving,

perhaps, with Engineer Lassen, this something-and-twenty-year-old

Inspector of rafting sections, who can afford two rooms at his hotel.

I have nothing to do, and find myself pondering over the following

matter:

Here is a big house, somewhere about a couple of hundred years old, the

house of the wealthy Ole Olsen Ture. It is of enormous size, a house of

two stories, the length of a whole block; it is used as a depot now.

In the days when that house was built there was no lack of giant timber

hereabouts; three beams together make the height of a man, and the wood

is hard as iron; nothing can bite on it. And inside the building are

halls and cells as in a castle. Here Ture the Great ruled like a prince

in his day.

But times changed. Houses were made not only big, not only to live in

for shelter from cold and rain, but also to look on with pleasure to the

eye. On the opposite side of the river stands an old archaic building

with carefully balanced verandah in the Empire style, pillars, fronton,

and all. It is not faultless, but handsome all the same; it stands out

like a white temple on the green hillside. One other house I have seen

and stopped to look at; one near the market-place. Its double street

door has old handles and carved rococo mirrors, but the frames

cannelated in the style of Louis XVI. The cartouche above the doorway

bears the date 1795 in Arabic numerals--that was our transition period

here! So there were folk here at that time who kept in touch with the

times, without the aid of steam and telegraph.

But later on, again, houses were built to keep off rain and snow and

nothing else. They were neither big nor beautiful to look at. The idea

was to put up some sort of a dwelling, Swiss fashion--a place to keep a

wife and children in, and that was all. And we learned from a miserable

little people up in the Alps, a people that throughout its history has

never been or done anything worth speaking of--we learned to pay no

heed to what a homestead really looked like, as long as it met with the

approval of loafing tourist. Is there something of the calm and beauty

of a temple about that white building on the hillside? And pray, what's

the use of it if there is? And the great big house that dates from the

time of Ole Olsen Ture, why hasn't it been pulled down long ago? There

would be room for a score of cheap dwellings on the site.

Things have gone downhill, gone to the depths. And now the little

cobbler-soul can rejoice--not because we're all grown equally great, but

because we're all equally small. 'Tis our affair!

The long bridge is pleasant to walk on because it is paved with planks,

and even as a floor; all the young ladies can walk gracefully here. And

the bridge is light and open at the sides, making an excellent lookout

place for us inquisitive folk.

Down on the raft of tangled logs the men are shouting, as they strain

to free the timber that has caught and stuck fast among the rocks and

boulders in the river-bed. Stick after stick comes floating down and

joins the mass already gathered; the jam grows and grows; at times there

may be a couple of hundred dozen balks hung up at one spot. But if all

goes well, the gang can clear the jam in time. And if fate will have it

ill, some unlucky lumberman may be carried down as well, down the rapids

to his death.

There are ten men with boat-hooks on the jam, all more or less wet from

falling in. The foreman points out the log next to be freed, but we,

watching from the bridge, can see now and again that all the gang are

not agreed. There is no hearing what is said, but we can see some of

them are inclined to get another log out first; one of the old hands

protests. Knowing his speech as I do, I fancy I can hear him say

stubbornly and calmly: “I doubt we'd better see and get _that_ one clear

first.” Ten pairs of eyes are turned towards the stick he has chosen,

tracing the lie of it in among its tangled fellows; if the men agree,

ten boat-hooks are thrust into it. Then for a moment the poles stand out

from the log like the strings of a harp; a mighty “_Ho!_” from the

gang, a short, tense haul, and it moves a trifle forward. A fresh grip,

another shout, and forward again. It is like watching half a score of

ants about a twig. And at last the freed log slides out and away down

the foss.

But there are logs that are almost immovable, and often it is just one

of the worst that has to be cleared before anything else can be done.

Then the men spread out and surround it, fixing their hooks wherever

they can get a sight of it in the tangle, some hauling, others thrusting

outward; if it is dry, they splash water over it to make it slippery.

And here the poles are nowise regularly set like harp-strings, but lie

crosswise at all angles like a cobweb.

Sometimes the shouting of the gang can be heard all day long from the

river, silenced only for meals; ay, it may happen that it goes on for

days together. Then suddenly a new sound falls on the ear: the stroke

of the ax; some devil of a log has fixed itself so cunningly there is

no hauling it free, and it has to be cut through. It does not take many

strokes to do it, for the pressure on it already is enormous; soon it

breaks, the great confused mass yields, and begins to move. All the men

are on their guard now, holding back to see what is coming next; if the

part they are standing on shows signs of breaking loose, they must leap

with catlike swiftness to a safer spot. Their calling is one of daily

and hourly peril; they carry their lives in their hands.

* * * * *

But the little town is a living death.

It is pitiful to see such a dead place, trying to pretend it is alive.

It is the same with Bruges, the great city of the past, and with many

cities in Holland, in South Germany, the north of France, the Orient.

Standing in the marketplace of such a town one cannot but think: “Once,

once upon a time this was a living place; there are still human beings

walking in the streets!”

Strange, this town of ours is hidden away, shut in by the hills--and

yet for all that it has no doubt its local feminine beauty and its local

masculine ambition just as all other towns. Only it is such a queer,

outlandish life that is lived here, with little crooked fingers, with

eyes as of a mouse, and ears filled day and night with the eternal

rushing of the waters. A beetle on its way in the heather, a stub of

yellow grass sticks up here and there--huge trees they seem to the

beetle's eye! Two local merchants walk across the bridge. Going to the

post, no doubt. They have this very day decided to go halves in a whole

sheet of stamps, buying them all at once for the sake of the rebate on a

quantity!

Oh, those local tradesmen!

Each day they hang out their stocks of ready-made clothes, and dress

their windows with their stuffs and goods, but rarely do I see a

customer go in. I thought to myself at first: But there must surely be

some one now and then--a peasant from somewhere up the valley, coming

into town. And I was right; I saw that peasant today, and it was strange

and pleasant to see him.

He was dressed like the pictures in our folk-tales--a little short

jacket with silver buttons, and grey breeches with a black leather seat.

He was driving a tiny little haycart with a tiny little horse, and up

in the cart was a little red-flanked cow--on its way to the butcher's,

I suppose. All three--man, horse, and cow--were undersized; palaeolithic

figures; dwarf creatures from the underworld on a visit to the haunts of

men. I almost looked to see them vanish before my eyes. All of a sudden

the cow in its Lilliputian cart utters a throaty roar--and even that

unromantic sound was like a voice from another world.

A couple of hours later I come upon the man again, minus horse and cow:

he is wandering round among the shops on his errands. I follow him to

the saddler's--saddler and harness-maker Vogt is also a glazier, and

deals in leather as well. This merchant of many parts offers to serve me

first, but I explain that I must look at a saddle, and some glass, and

a trifle of leather first, I am in no hurry. So he turns to the elfin

countryman.

The two are old acquaintances.

“So here's you come to town?”

“Ay, that's the way of it.”

And so on through the whole rigmarole; wind and weather, and the state

of the roads; wife and children getting on as usual; season and crops;

river's fallen so much the last week; butchers' prices; hard times

nowadays, etc. Then they begin trying the leather, pinching and feeling

and bending it about and talking it over. And when at last a strip is

cut off and weighed, the mannikin finds it a marvel, sure, that ever it

could weigh so much! Reckon it at a round figure, those little bits of

weights aren't worth counting! And the two of them argue and split over

this for a good solid while, as is right and proper. When at last it

comes to paying for the goods, a fantastic leather purse is brought to

light, a thing out of a fairy tale. Slowly and cautiously the heavy fist

draws forth the coins, one _skilling_ after another; both parties count

the money over again and again, then the mannikin closes his purse with

an anxious movement; that is all he has!

“Why, you've coin and paper too; I saw a note in there.”

“Nay, I'll not break the note.”

More reckoning and arguing--a long business this; each gives way a

little, they split the difference--and the deal is over.

“And a terrible heap to pay for a bit of leather,” says the purchaser.

And the dealer answers:

“Nay, you've got it at a bargain. But don't forget me next time you're

in town.”

Towards evening I meet the mannikin once more, driving home again

after his venture into the world. The cow has been left behind at the

butcher's. There are parcels and sacks in the cart, but the little man

himself jogs along behind, the leather seat of his breeches stretching

to a triangle at every step. And whether for thoughtlessness, or an

overweight of thought after all these doings and dealings, he wears a

rolled-up strip of sole leather like a ring about one arm.

So money has flowed into the town once more; a peasant has come in and

sold his cow, and spent the price of it again in goods. The event is

noticed everywhere at once: the town's three lawyers notice it, the

three little local papers notice it; money is circulating more freely of

late. Unproductive--but it helps the town to live.

Every week the little local papers advertise town properties for sale;

every week a list is issued by the authorities of houses to be sold

in liquidation of the unpaid tax. What then? Ah, but mark how many

properties come on the market that way! The barren, rocky valley with

its great river cannot feed this moribund town; a cow now and again

is not enough. And so it is that the properties are given up, the

Swiss-pattern houses, the dwellings and shelters. Out Vestland way, if

ever a house in one of the little towns should chance to come up for

sale, it is a great event; the inhabitants flock together on the quay to

talk it over. Here, in our little town beyond all hope, it occasions

no remark when another wearied hand leaves hold of what it had. My turn

now--'twill be another's before long. And none finds it worth while

sorrowing much for that.

* * * * *

Engineer Lassen came to my lodging and said:

“Put on your cap and come with me to the station to fetch a trunk.”

“No,” said I. “I'm not going to do that.”

“Not going to....”

“No. There's a porter at the hotel for that sort of thing. Let him earn

the money.”

It was quite enough. The engineer was very young; he looked at me and

said nothing. But, being obstinate by nature, he would not give up at

once; he changed his tone.

“I'd rather have you,” he said. “I've a reason for it, and I wish you

would.”

“That's a different matter. Then I will.”

I put on my cap, and I am ready; he walks on ahead, and I follow behind.

Ten minutes waiting at the station, and the train comes in. It consists

of three toy carriages, and a few passengers tumble out. In the rear

carriage is a lady trying to alight; the engineer hurries to assist her.

I paid no great heed to what was happening. The lady was veiled and wore

gloves; a light coat she handed to her escort. She seemed embarrassed

at first, and said only a few words in a low voice, but he was quite the

reverse, talking loudly and freely all the time. And, when he begged her

to take off her veil, she grew bolder, and did as he said.

“Do you know me now?” she said. And suddenly I pricked up my ears; it

was Fru Falkenberg's voice. I turned round and looked her in the face.

It is no easy matter to be old and done with and behave as such. The

moment I realized who it was standing there I could think of nothing but

my age-worn self, and how to stand and bow with ease and respect. Now,

I had among my possessions a blouse, and breeches of brown corduroy such

as labourers wear in the south; an excellent, well-looking suit, and

new. But, alas! I had not put it on today. And the lack of it at that

moment irked me. I was down-hearted at the thought. And, while the two

stood there talking, I fell to wondering why the engineer had wanted

me so particularly to come with him to the station. Could it be for the

matter of a few _skilling_ to the porter? Or was it to show off with a

servant at his heels? Or had he thought that Fruen would be pleased to

have some one she knew in attendance? If the last, then he was greatly

mistaken; Fruen started in evident displeasure at finding me here, where

she had thought, perhaps, to be safely concealed. I heard the engineer

say: “I've got a man here, he'll take your luggage down. Have you the

ticket?” But I made no sign of greeting. I turned away.

And afterwards I triumphed over him in my miserable soul, thinking how

annoyed she would be with him for his want of tact. He brought up with

him a man who had been in her employ when she had a home; but that man

had some delicacy of feeling, he turned away, pretending not to know

her! Lord knows what the woman found to run after in this tight-waisted

youth with the heavy contours behind.

There are fewer people on the platform now; the little toy waggons are

rolled away and shunted about to build another train; at last we are

left with the whole place to ourselves. Fruen and the engineer stand

talking. What has she come for? Heaven knows! Young Lovelace, perhaps,

has had a spasm of longing and wants her again. Or is she come of her

own accord to tell him what has happened, and ask his advice? Like as

not the end of it will be they fix things up and get married some day.

Mr. Hugo Lassen is, of course, a chivalrous gentleman, and she his one

and only love. And then comes the time when she should walk on roses and

live happily ever after!

“No, really, it would never do!” he exclaims, with a laugh. “If you

won't be my aunt, then you'll have to be my cousin.”

“S-sh!” whispers Fruen. “Can't you get rid of that man there?”

Whereupon the engineer comes up to me with the luggage receipt in

his hand, and in his lordliest manner, as an Inspector of Waterways

addressing a gang of lumbermen, he says:

“Bring this along to the hotel.”

“Very good,” I answered, touching my cap.

I carried down the trunk, thinking as I went. He had actually invited

her to pass as his aunt! Visibly older she might be than he; still, here

again he had shown himself wanting in tact. I would not have said such a

thing myself. I would have declared to all and sundry: “Behold, here is

come a bright angel to visit King Hugo; see how young and beautiful she

is; mark the slow, heavy turn of her grey eyes; ay, a weighty glance!

But there is a shimmer of sea-fire in her hair--I love her! Mark her,

too, when she speaks, a mouth good and fine, and with ever and again a

little helpless look and smile. I am King Hugo this day, and she is my

love!”

The trunk was no heavier than many another burden, but there were

bronzed iron bands round, and one of them tore a hole in my blouse at

the back. So I thanked my stars I had not worn my better one.