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DRY FISH AND WET
_Translated from the Norwegian
by W. WORSTER, M.A._
DRY FISH AND
WET
Tales from a Norwegian Seaport
BY
ELIAS KRAEMMER
GYLDENDAL
11 HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1
COPENHAGEN . CHRISTIANIA
1922
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Town 1
II. Knut G. Holm 4
III. Bramsen 25
IV. Hermansen of the Bank 36
V. Mrs. Rantzau's Story 56
VI. "Rebecca and the Camels" 73
VII. Holm & Son 86
VIII. Malla Trap 101
IX. Clapham Junction 115
X. The Ship comes Home 131
XI. The Concert 136
XII. Old Nick 141
XIII. Cilia 160
XIV. A Royal Visit 189
XV. Peter Oiland 200
XVI. Emilie Rantzau 213
XVII. The _Eva Maria_ 239
XVIII. The _Henrik Ibsen_ 250
XIX. Nils Petter's Legacy 265
XX. The Admiral 277
XXI. Dirrik 311
DRY FISH AND WET
I
THE TOWN
The last census showed a population of 19,991 inhabitants, but if
anyone asked "Holm at the Corner" how big the place was, he would say
"between twenty and thirty thousand"--a figure he considered
reasonable enough, counting the annual increment in the families he
knew.
The town had its own traditions. Natives could speak with pride of
the days, now long passed, when the firms of C. B. Taline and Veuve
Erik Strom had great cargoes of coffee coming direct from Rio, while
Danish vessels by the dozen lay alongside the warehouses discharging
corn, and unwieldy Dutchmen took in baulks large enough to cut up
into arm-chair sections--ay, there was proper timber in those days,
not like the thin weedy sticks that come down the river now!
And the place had other memories, apart from trade and commerce.
There was a whole gallery of clerics whose brilliant names cast a
glow of distinction long after they themselves were dead and gone;
old men remembered them, and the town could feel itself, as it were,
related to episcopal sees all over the country. Great trading houses
of old standing came to ruin, fortunes were shattered, and crisis
after crisis came and went, but every such period merely added a
fresh chapter to the history of the town, making new stories for
fathers to tell their sons. In course of time, a whole collection of
such stories had grown up about these merchant princes, for trade
was, after all, the chief interest of the place and so remained. When
the old men got together, talk would invariably turn upon such
matters as Nils Berg's grand speculations in the Crimean War, or the
disastrous failure of Balle & Co.; while the younger ones, who were
in the swim, enlisted further shareholders in their factories and
ship-owning concerns. It was a town with plenty of grit in it, no
lack of young stock to carry on the work.
True, there were times when it seemed to languish, to be dwindling
away, when periods of crisis had swept away what appeared to be its
chief support; but a breathing space was all that was needed, and
soon the old spirit was awake once more, and life went on as bravely
as before.
And so it went on for generation after generation, while the river
flowed, broad and smooth as ever, down the valley, pouring its
ice-water into the fjord each spring. Up the hillsides on either hand
the roads turned up and curved among thicket and bush, and the higher
one climbed the clearer showed the town below with its rows of houses
and its churches.
Those who were born in the town and had spent their youth there, but
whom fate had later moved to other parts of the country, made it a
practice, when they came home, to climb the hillside and look out
over the town, as it lay there rich in memories. And the longer one
had been away, the stronger they seemed to grow; for there is a
strange power in such memories of a little, old town.
II
KNUT G. HOLM
Knut G. Holm had had his ups and downs; no one knew exactly how he
stood. Failure and crisis had raged about him, and many a time public
opinion had given him but a short while to keep above water himself,
but he always managed to get through somehow, though there were times
when he had not credit for five shillings, when the commercial
travellers gave his corner premises the stealthy go-by, in the
confident belief that he would put his shutters up next day. But he
never did. And at last it grew to a proverb, that Knut G. Holm was
like a cat; you might throw him out of a top-floor window, but he
would always land on his feet in the end!
In the little office behind the shop there was always a little
gathering before dinner-time, between one and two, to hear Holm
holding forth; for he was a man with an unusual gift of speech, and
whatever might happen in the place, he was always the first to get
hold of it.
Dealer Vagle was a fool to pay L1600 for that dairy farm--Knut Holm
had no hesitation in saying as much; nor was he afraid to make public
his opinion that Jorgensen the hatter was not such a fool as he
looked in selling the property referred to. Everyone knew Holm's
"gossip-shop," as the office was generally called, but no one took
offence at his extravagant talk, for all knew he meant no harm, but
was really one of the kindliest of men.
He was always terribly busy, for he had a hand in everything, from
the Silicate Products Company, of which he was a director, to the
machine shops, of which he was chairman, and which paid a steady 20
per cent. per annum.
Knut Holm was no longer a youth, he was nearing fifty-seven; but to
judge from his fair-haired, rotund figure as one met him in the
street, always with his coat unbuttoned and his silk hat at a rakish
angle, one would have set him down as ten years younger.
There was a peculiar briskness in his gait as he walked up the street
in business hours, stopping to speak with every soul he met, and yet
with such haste that the person last addressed would generally be
left staring open-mouthed, without having had the chance of uttering
a syllable.
Holm had long been thinking of getting in a lady clerk, a reliable
person who could look after the office and keep the books up to date.
Peder Clasen and Garner had both been with him for many years, but
both felt more at home outside in the shop, and never troubled about
bookkeeping more than strictly necessary, and hardly that, with the
result that the books were generally half a year behind. Nothing had
come of the lady-clerk idea, however, until one day Dr. Blok looked
in and asked if Holm could find any use for a young lady he knew, and
could safely recommend, a Miss Betty Rantzau. Her mother taught
singing; had come to the town some six months before; and the
daughter was a willing and well-educated girl; it would be a good
action to find her something to do. Clasen and Garner, not to speak
of Holm himself, awaited her arrival with considerable interest. She
was tall and slender, with a wealth of fair hair, and pretty teeth
that showed when she smiled. She offered her hand with frank
kindliness to Clasen as she came in. "So we are to work together,"
she said. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," stammered Clasen in
confusion. "Mr. Holm is in the office; will you please to go in?"
Soon after, she was duly installed on the high stool in the office,
with Holm himself sitting opposite, at the other side of the desk.
She managed the old daybook with surprising ease; Holm glanced at her
from time to time as she worked. He found it difficult to open
conversation; it was queer to have a woman about the place like this,
and at such close quarters. He felt himself obliged to be a little
careful of his words,--a thing he was altogether unaccustomed to in
the office.
Next day, the usual meeting in the "gossip-shop" was of unusually
brief duration, for as Vindt, the stockbroker, declared when he came
out, "Damme, but it's spoiled the whole thing, having a blessed woman
in there listening to every word you say." Whereto Holm replied that
it was "sort of comfortable to have a pleasant young face to look at,
instead of a wrinkled old pumpkin like yours, Vindt!" Vindt growled,
and took his departure hastily.
And it was not many days before Holm was chatting away easily to
Betty, as she worked at her books, pretending to listen attentively
the while to all his stories.
"I'm not disturbing you, I hope?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Holm. It's very nice of you, I'm sure, to talk to
me." She slipped down from her chair, and stroked the back of the big
ledger with her slender white hands.
"I've walked a deuce of a way to-day"--he sat down on the sofa and
wiped his forehead--"went right out to the cemetery, to lay a wreath
on C. H. Pettersen and Company's grave. You've heard of C. Henrik
Pettersen, I dare say? Grocery and provision stores over the square
there; had it for years and years. First-rate man he was; my best
friend."
"Good friends are very precious, Mr. Holm."
"Why, yes, they are, mostly. And C. H. Pettersen and Co. was an
uncommon firm, I must say, both for quality and weight. I know there
were some mischief-making folk used to say he sold margarine as dairy
butter, but that was just pure malice, for the quality was so good
I'll swear they couldn't tell the difference. And when they're both
alike, what does it matter what you call them?"
"Has he been dead long?"
"Eleven years it is to-day since he handed in his final
balance-sheet; I go out every year to lay a wreath on his grave, out
of sheer gratitude and affection for his memory."
"You don't often meet with friendship like that."
"You're right there. Ah, one needs to have friends; when you haven't,
it's only too easy to get low-spirited--especially now, since I've
had this bilious trouble."
"Oh, that must be horrid."
"Horrid, yes, it's the very devil. Only fancy, a man like me, that
used to eat and drink whatever I pleased--as far as I could get it,
that is--and now that I can get whatever I've a fancy to, I have to
live on brown bread and weak tea. You'd think Providence might have
managed things better than that, now, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, but I'm sure, if you're careful, you'll soon be all right again.
And as long as you're properly looked after----"
"Ah, that's just the trouble, I must say. I've been used to something
very different. I dare say you know I've been married twice----"
"Twice? Oh yes, I fancy I did hear about it."
"So you can understand it's a great deal to miss."
"Yes, indeed. Let me see; wasn't your first wife English?"
"Maggie--yes; oh, a charming creature, Miss Rantzau; I wish you could
have seen her. The loveliest brown eyes, and hair as black as a
raven's wing, and a complexion of milk and roses. And the sweetest
disposition; good inside and out she was. Too good, I suppose, for
this world as well as for me."
"Your first wife did not live very long?"
"We were only married a year: hardly enough to count, really. It's
just a beautiful memory----"
"And how did you come to meet her, Mr. Holm?"
"It was in Birmingham--I was over there on business. I dare say
you've noticed I put in an English word now and again in talking;
it's all from the time of my first marriage."
"Yes, I have noticed you use foreign words now and again."
"It's all from those days with Maggie. Oh, you should have heard her
say: 'I love you, darling.' Lord save us, what a lovely creature she
was! I declare I love England myself now, all for Maggie's sake."
"And your son, the engineer, she was his mother?"
"Yes, to be sure. Poor Maggie, it cost her life, that little bit of
business."
"And your second wife?"
"She was a Widow Gronlund from Arendal. Ah, that was a queer story.
There I was, you see, with little William, Maggie's boy, sorrowful
and downcast as a wet umbrella. Of course you'd understand I'd no
wish really to go and get married again all at once; I wrote to
Skipper Gronlund of Arendal--he was a cousin of mine--and asked if he
and his wife would take the boy and look after him. They were willing
enough, the more by reason they'd only one child of their own Little
Marie, a girl of the same age."
"So they took the boy?"
"Yes. He was there for four years, and then I began to feel the want
of him and went up to Arendal to see him. But what do you think
happened then? Just as I got to Arendal there came a wire saying
Gronlund's ship had gone to the bottom, and that was the end of
Gronlund!"
"And then you married her?"
"Exactly. What else could I do? Amalie, Mrs. Gronlund that is,
wouldn't give up the boy, and I couldn't tear him away by force,
could I? Very well, I said, what must be must, man is but dust, and
so we got married."
"Mrs. Gronlund was not altogether young, I suppose?"
"Nothing much to look at, more's the pity, but an excellent
housekeeper and a good-hearted soul."
"And so it turned out happily after all?"
"Ay, that it did, but it didn't last long, worse luck. Amalie still
kept longing for her Gronlund, and she got kidney disease and went
off to join him--and there I was left once again all on my own, and
this time with Maggie's boy and Amalie's girl."
"But you were glad to have the children, surely?"
"Well, yes, at times. But I can't help calling to mind the words of
the prophet, Children are a blessing of the Lord, but a trial and a
tribulation to man. It's true, it's true.... Well, William was going
in for engineering, you see, and he was away in Germany at his
studies--studying how to spend money, as far as I could see, with a
crowd of mighty intelligent artist people he'd got in with. And what
do you suppose he's doing now?"
Betty was working at her books again, writing away with all her might
in the big ledger, while Holm went on with his story.
"He wants to be a painter--an artist, you'd say, and daubs away great
slabs of picture stuff as big as this floor--but Lord save and help
us, I wouldn't have the messy things hung up here. I told him he'd
much better go into the shop and get an honest living in a decent
fashion like his father before him--but no! Too common, if you
please, too materialistic. And that's bad enough, but there's worse
to it yet. Would you believe it, Miss Betty, he and those artist
friends of his have turned Marie's head the same wry fashion, and
make her believe she's cut out for an artistic career herself--a born
opera singer, they say; and now she carols away up there till people
think there's a dentist in the house. Oh, it's the deuce of a mess, I
do assure you!"
Betty looked up from her book. "You must have the gift of good
humour, Mr. Holm."
"Well, I hope so, I'm sure. Shouldn't like to be one of your doleful
sort."
"A kind and hard-working man you've always been, I'm sure. A perfect
model of a man."
"Perfect model--me? Lord preserve us, I wouldn't be that for worlds.
Can't imagine anything more uninteresting than the perfect model
type. No--I've just tried all along to be an ordinary decent man,
that finds life one of the best things going. And when things
happened to turn particularly nasty--no money, no credit, and that
sort of thing--why, I'd just say to myself, 'Come along, my lad, only
get to grips with it, and you'll pull through all right.' And then I
could always console myself with the thought that when things were
looking black, they couldn't get much blacker, so they'd have to
brighten up before long."
"Yes, it takes sorrows as well as joys to make a life."
"That's true. But we make them both for ourselves mostly. If you only
knew what fun I've got out of life at times; have to hammer out a bit
of something lively now and then, you know! Look at us now, for
instance, just sitting here talking. Isn't that heaps better than
sitting solemnly like two mummies on their blessed pyramids?" And he
swung round on his high stool till the screw creaked again.
"Yes, indeed, it's very nice, I'm sure." Betty began putting her
books away, Holm walking up and down meanwhile with short, rapid
steps. Upstairs, someone was singing to the piano.
"Nice sort of evening we're going to have, by the look of things.
House full of blessed amateurs with fiddles and tambourines. Serve
them right if they were packed off to a reformatory, the whole----"
"Oh, but surely, Mr. Holm, you needn't be so hard on them. Young
people must have a little entertainment now and then--especially when
they've a father who can afford it," she added a little wistfully.
"Afford it--h'm. As to that ... if they keep on the way they're going
now, I'm not sure I shan't have to give them a bit of a lesson...."
He crossed over to the desk, and, spreading out his elbows, looked
quizzically at Betty.
"What do you think now--is Knut G. Holm too old to marry again?"
"Really, I'm sure I couldn't say," answered the girl, with a merry
laugh. And, slipping past him, she took her jacket and hat.
"Good-night, Mr. Holm."
"Good-night, Miss Betty. I hope I haven't kept you too long with all
my talk, but it's such a comfort to feel that there's one place in
the house where there's somebody sensible to talk to."
He stood for some time looking after her.
"Not bad--not bad at all. Nice figure--trifle over slender in the
upper works, perhaps; looks a bit worried at times; finds it hard to
make ends meet, perhaps, poor thing. H'm. But she's a good worker,
and that's a fact. Yes, I think this arrangement was a good idea."
Garner came in with the cash-box. "We've shut up outside, Mr. Holm.
Was there anything more you wanted this evening?"
"No--no thanks. H'm, I say, that row and goings on upstairs, can you
hear it out in the shop?"
"About the same as in here. But it's really beautiful music, Mr.
Holm. I slipped out into the passage upstairs a little while back,
and they were singing a quartette, but Miss Marie was taking the
bass, and going so hard I'm sure they could hear her right up at the
fire station."
"I've no doubt they could, Garner. But I'll give them music of
another sort, and then--we'll see!" He flung the cash-box into the
safe with a clang, and Garner judged it best to disappear without
delay.
Outside in the shop he confided to Clasen that the old man was in a
roaring paddy about the music upstairs; and the pair of them fell to
speculating as to what would happen when he came up.
"Oh, nothing," said Clasen. "Those youngsters they always manage to
get round him in the end."
"Might get sick of the whole business and give up the shop--or make
it over to us, what?" added Garner, "as his successors," and he waxed
enthusiastic over the idea as they strolled along to Syversen's Hotel
for a little extra in the way of supper.
Holm was walking up and down by himself in the office, while the
music upstairs went on, until the globe on the safe rattled with the
sound. He was in a thoroughly bad temper for once. "There! Just as
everything was going nicely--and a balance-sheet worth framing!
Ha-ha! and only the other day that miserable worm of a bank manager,
Hermansen, wouldn't take my paper for L400. Lord, but I'd like to
show that fellow one day; make him understand he was a trifle out in
his reckoning with the firm of Knut G. Holm. Do a neat little deal to
the tune of a few thousand, cash down--something to make him scratch
his silly pate. I can just imagine him saying to himself: 'Remarkable
man that Knut Holm. Never really had much faith in him before, but
now....' Yes, that's what he said a few years back, I remember;
hadn't much faith in the business. Well, I must say, things _were_
looking pretty bad at that time. But I'd always reckoned on William's
coming into the business; new style, Holm and Son. And now there's an
end of all that. No, it doesn't pay to go building castles in the
air; it's just card houses that come tumbling down with a crash. Here
have I been toiling and moiling all these years, morning till night,
building up the business step by step to what it is now. Had to
knuckle to that swine of a Hermansen ugh--ugrh--isch! Lying awake at
night trying to work out some way of getting over to-morrow, with the
bills falling due--and now there's that pack of wastrels sitting up
there. 'Poor old man'--that's their style--'quite a decent old chap
in many ways, no doubt, but no idea of culture, no sense of lofty
ideals; spent his life standing behind a counter and that's about all
he's fit for.' Oh, I know the tune when they get on that topic! I've
marked it often enough when I'm with them and their precious friends.
They'll eat and drink at my expense, and then slap me on the
shoulder in their superior way, thinking all the time I'm just an old
drudge of a cab horse, and lucky to have the chance of encouraging
real Art! Oh, I'll talk to them! It'll be a real treat to give them a
proper lesson for once. They shall have it this evening. So on, old
boy!"
When Holm walked into the big drawing-room upstairs he was greeted
with acclamation. "Hurrah for Maecenas! hurrah for the patron of Art!
Hurrah!"
"Here, Frantz, you're a poet; get up and make a speech in honour of
my noble sire."
Frantz Pettersen, a podgy little man with a big fair moustache,
lifted his glass.
"Friends and brothers in Art, in the eternal realm of beauty! the
halls wherein we live and move are bright and lofty, it is true, and
our outlook is wide, unbounded. But let us not therefore forget the
simple home of our youthful days, though it be never as poor and
dry."
"Dry--what do you mean? It's not dry here, I hope?"
"My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my
friend, this noble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us
like a vision from another world--a visitor from the lower regions,
so to speak (Hear!)--him we acclaim, by all the gods of ancient myth,
by the deities of the upper and the nether world--steady, boys--not
to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is
to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with
me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat
high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you
so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me
see). 'My father was a----' something or other. Anyhow, never mind.
To come to the point, we, er--raise our glasses now in honour of this
revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic
world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. _Skaal!_"
The speech was received with general acclamation.
Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could
hardly open the campaign at such a moment with a sermon; mechanically
he took the glass offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his
lips than he asked in astonishment:
"When--where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look
at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't
gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping
for my jubilee in the business--all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I
must say!"
He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.
"These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and
patron----" began Frantz sententiously.
"Oh, stop that nonsense, do," growled Holm. And, snatching up a
bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining-room and hid it
behind the sofa.
"Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are
you?" whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck.
"I'm not bad-tempered--I'm angry."
"Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?"
Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought
perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to
stay up with them?
"Shall I sing to you, papa?"
"Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not."
"But what's the matter? What's it all about?"
"What's the matter--good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that
enough?"
"Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use.
You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur
of the moment; it was simply lovely."
She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the
others were still in the drawing-room.
"Lovely, was it, little one?" said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice.
"Yes, papa--oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this
evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer--there, you can
see, the tall thin man in glasses--he said I had a beautiful
voice--beautiful!"
"Don't you believe it, my child."
"What--when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy--and
now you come and...." She stood up and put her handkerchief to her
eyes. Just then William came in.
"Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?"
"Papa--papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said--that I'd
a beautiful voice. Ugh--it's always like that at home--it's
_miserable_." She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her
face in her hands.
"Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go
out into the world with." And William stalked off in dudgeon.
Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh,
these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on
him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now.
And Marie--he was always helpless where she was concerned. He was
sorry now he had not brought her up differently. But he had never
said an unkind word to her--how could he, to a sweet little thing
like that? Only last year she had nursed him herself for three weeks,
when he was at death's door with inflammation of the lungs; that
girl, that girl! He went over to the sofa and put his arms round her.
"There, there, little one, it's not so bad as all that."
"Hu--hu--hu--I didn't know--I didn't know about the old Madeira. It
was me--hu--hu--that brought it up."
"Well, well, never mind about the Madeira, child. We can get some
more; only don't cry now."
She turned towards him.
"Then you're not angry with me any more, papa?" "No, no, child.
There--now go in and enjoy yourself again."
"Oh, but it's so horrid, papa--I'm sure the others must have noticed
us."
Just then William came in and reported that the scene had made a
painful impression on the guests; Strom, the composer, and Berg, the
sculptor, were for going off at once, and were only with difficulty
persuaded to stay.
Holm did not know what to say to this; the transition from accuser to
accused was too sudden.
"Couldn't you make us some punch, father; it would sort of set things
right again if you were to come marching in yourself with a big bowl
of punch."
"Punch? H'm--well--I could, of course, but then..."
"Oh yes, that lovely punch, papa, you know, with champagne and hock
and curacao in--and all the rest of it."
"Well, I suppose I must. Now that I have once got into all this--this
artist business, why..." And off he went for the key of the cellar.
No sooner was he out of the room than William burst out laughing.
"Oh, Marie, you are the most irresistible little devil that ever
lived." And he waltzed her round and round.
"Well, it wanted some doing to-day, William, I can tell you. I was
half afraid I shouldn't manage it after all. As it was, I had to cry
before he'd come round."
"First-rate. Woman's tears are the finest weapon ever invented--and
punch on top of all--bravo! Come along, we must go and prepare the
rest of the band for what's coming."
Out in the kitchen, Holm was busy over a punch bowl, solemnly
stirring the brew and dropping in slices of lemon one by one.
"I am an old fool, I know, to let them get round me as they do. H'm.
And the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. We shall have to
come to a proper understanding some time; it can't go on like
this...."
"Papa, are you nearly ready?"
"Coming, coming, dear, in a minute. Open the door, there's a good
girl."
The entry of the host with a bowl of punch was the signal for a
general demonstration of delight. Frantz Pettersen promptly sat down
at the piano and started off, the rest of the party accompanying with
anything they could lay hands on. One had a pair of fire tongs, one
beat a brass tray, one rang a couple of glasses against each other,
and so on. The words were something like this:
"Our host he is a lasting joy,
A perfect Pa for girl and boy,
A perfect Pa, hurray, hurrah,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!
He stands with head so meekly bowed,
Withal a man of whom we're proud,
We're proud of you, hurrah, hurroo,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!
All honour to the grocery trade
Whereby his fortune it was made,
And a nice one too, hurrah, hurroo,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!
It must have been a decent pile
For his cellar's stocked in splendid style,
Put it away, hurrah, hurray,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!
Though somebody must have made, we fear, a
Sad mistake with that Madeira,
Maderiah, hurray, hurrah,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!
But now he casts all care away
And gladly joins our circle gay.
Our circle gay, hurrah, hurray,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!
The flowing bowl he brings us here,
So drink his health with a hearty cheer,
Hip, hip, hurrah, hurrip,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurra-a-ay!"
Holm did not know whether to laugh or cry at this exhibition, but
chose the former; after all, it might be worth while to see how far
they would go. He made speech after speech, and the company shouted
in delight. Graarud, the literary critic of the _People's Guardian_,
declared that Knut Holm was a credit to the merchant citizens of his
country, and as fine a specimen of the type as was to be found.
Listad, another literary man, who edited a paper himself, was making
love to Marie, but with little apparent success. He was a
cadaverous-looking personage, but an idealist, and earnest in the
cause of universal peace.
The speeches grew more and more exalted in tone as the evening went
on. Pettersen invited the company to drink to the "coming dawn of Art
in the land--a dawn that would soon appear when once the daughter of
the house raised her melodious voice to ring o'er hill and dale."
This was too much for Holm; he slipped into the hall and, putting on
an overcoat, went out to get some fresh air.
It was a fine, starlight, frosty night, the river flowed broad and
smooth and dark between the piers, the gas lamps on either side
shedding long streaks of light across the silent water.
He swung round the corner, but--heavens, who was that sitting so
quietly on the steps in front of the shop? He went up, and found a
twelve-year-old boy leaning against the wall.
"Why, little man, what's the matter? What are you sitting out here
for in the cold?"
The lad rose hurriedly to his feet and made as if to run away.
"No, here, wait a bit, son; there's nothing to be afraid of." Holm
took the boy's hand, and looked into a pale childish face with deep
dark eyes, and framed in a tangle of fair hair.
"I was only listening," he sobbed.... "The music upstairs there...."
"You're fond of music, then?"
"Yes; I always go out in the evening, when nobody can see, and sit
outside where I know there's somebody that plays. And Holm's up
there, they've got the loveliest piano."
"Would you like to learn to play yourself?"
The boy looked up at him in astonishment.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. If you're so fond of music, wouldn't you like to learn to
play?"
"I've got to help mother at home, because father's dead. And when I'm
big enough I'm going to be a sailor. Please, I must go home now."
"Mother getting anxious about you, eh?"
"No, she knows where I go of an evening; she doesn't mind."
"Well, what's your name, anyhow?"
"Hans Martinsen."
"Here you are, then, Hans, here's two shillings for you."
"Oh, er--that for me! I could go to heaps of concerts.... Thank you
ever so much."
He clasped the outstretched hand in both his little fists, and looked
up with beaming eyes.
"And now look here, little Hans. At eleven o'clock to-morrow morning
you come round and ask for me. Here in the shop."
"But, are you--are you Mr. Holm, then?" He loosed the hand.
"Well, and what then? That's nothing to be afraid of, is it, little
Hans? But now, listen to me. I want you to come round here to-morrow
morning, as I said. And perhaps then we'll have some real nice music
for you. And you can bring your mother too if you like."
"Music--to-morrow--oh, that will be lovely. And won't mother be
pleased!"
"And now run along home, like a good boy, and get warm. You've been
sitting here in the cold too long already. Good-night."
"Good-night, good-night!"
Holm watched the little figure hurrying with swift little legs across
the bridge, till it disappeared into the dark on the farther side.
He stood for some time deep in thought. The dawn of Art--what was it
Pettersen had said? What if he, Holm, the despised materialist, were
to be the first to discover the dawn here! It was a strange
coincidence, anyway. "And such strange, deep eyes the little fellow
had; it went to my heart when his little hands took hold of mine....
Ay, little lad, you're one of God's flowers, I can see. And you
shan't be left to perish of cold in this world as long as my name's
Knut Holm."
III
BRAMSEN
On the morning after the party, Holm sent down for Paal Abrahamsen or
"Bramsen" as he was generally called. Holm and Bramsen had known each
other from childhood; they had gone to the same poor school, and had
grown up together. After their confirmation, Bramsen had gone to sea,
while Holm had got a place in a shop, and commenced his mercantile
career. But he never forgot his old friend, and when in course of
time he had established a business of his own, he made Bramsen his
warehouseman and clerk on the quay, where he now held a position of
trust as Holm's right-hand man. He was a short, bandy-legged man,
with a humorous face set in a frame of shaggy whiskers, and a
remarkably mobile play of feature. Agile as a cat, he could walk on
his hands as easily as others on their feet, and, despite his
fifty-five years, he turned out regularly on Contrition Day to
compete with the boys for prizes in the park; and he was a hard man
to beat!
"Paal he can never be serious," complained Andrine, his wife, who was
something of a melancholy character herself, and constantly
endeavouring to drag him along to various meetings and assemblies
which Paal as regularly evaded on some pretext or other.
Holm's relations with his old comrade and subordinate were of a
curious character. Down at the quay, when they were alone, they
addressed each other in familiar terms, as equals; but in public,
Bramsen was always the respectful employee, observing all formalities
towards his master.
When the message came down from the office that Mr. Holm would be
coming down to the waterside at 7.30 in the morning to see him,
Bramsen turned thoughtful.
They had held a similar conference once, some years before, when the
firm of Knut G. Holm looked like going to ruin--Heaven send it was
not something of the same sort now!
Holm looked irritable and out of sorts. "Bramsen," he said, "I'm sick
and tired of the whole blessed business."
Bramsen scratched his chin meditatively, and laid his head on one
side. "H'm," he observed after a pause. "More trouble with that there
guinea-pig up at the bank, fussing about bills and that sort?"
"No, no, nothing to do with that. We're all right as far as money
goes."
"All right, eh? But you're put out about something, that's plain to
see. Liver out of order, perhaps?"
"Oh no!"
"Why, then, there's nothing else that I can see."
"It's those wretched youngsters of mine."
"Ho, is that all?"
"All! As if it wasn't enough! I tell you they're going stark mad, the
pair of them."
"Seems to me they've been that way a long time now."
"Oh, it's all very well to talk like that. But really, it's getting
beyond all bearing. William's taken it into his head to go and be a
painter."
"Well, and not a bad thing, either, as long as he does the work
decently, with plenty of driers and not too much oil in the mixing.
Look at Erlandsen up the river, he's made a good thing out of it."
"Oh, not that sort of painting. It's an artist, I mean. Painting
pictures and things."
"Pictures!" Bramsen looked dumbfounded. "Painting pictures? Well,
blister me if I ever heard the like. Wait a bit, though--there was
Olsen, the verger; he'd a boy, I remember, a slip of a fellow with
gold spectacles and consumption, he used to mess about with that sort
of thing. But he never made a living out of it--didn't live long,
anyway."
"But that's not the worst of it, Bramsen. There's Marie--she wants to
be a singer."
Bramsen almost fell off the sugar-box on which he was seated.
"Singer--what! Singing for money, d'you mean? Going round with a
hat?"
"Something very much like it, anyway--only it'll be my money that
goes into the hat. What are we to do about it, eh?"
"H'm ... Couldn't you pack the boy off to sea? And the young
lady--send her to a school to do needlework and such like?"
"Oh, what's the good of talking like that? No, my dear man, young
people nowadays don't let themselves be sent anywhere that way.
There's the pair of them, they simply laugh at us."
Holm walked back to the office deep in thought. On his return, he
found Hans Martinsen, and Berg, the organist, awaiting him.
Bramsen remained seated on his sugar-box and murmured to himself:
"Well, it's a nice apple-pie for Knut Holm, that it is. Lord, but
they children can be the very devil."
A little later, Garner came down to the quay, and found Bramsen still
meditating on his box.
"What's wrong with the old man to-day, Bramsen? He looks as if he was
going in for the deaf-and-dumb school; there's no getting a word out
of him."
Bramsen sat for quite a while without answering. Then at last he said
solemnly:
"It's my humble opinion, and that's none so humble after all, that
there's a deal of what you might call contrapasts in this here
world."
"Meaning to say?"
"It's plain enough. Folk that's got a retipation, they does all they
can to lose it, and they that hasn't, why--there's no understanding
them till they've got one."
Garner was still in the dark as to whither all this wisdom tended,
and began absently slitting up a coffee-sack.
"Look you, Garner," Bramsen went on. "It's this way with the women:
they've each their station here in life, as by the Lord appointed.
Some gets married, and some goes school-teaching, or out in service,
and such-like--and all that sort, they stick to their retipation; but
the woman that goes about singing for money in a hat, her
retipation's like a broken window--it's out and gone to bits and done
with."
Garner laughed and looked inquiringly at the other.
"_Now_, do you understand, Garner, what's the trouble with Holm?"
"Oh, so that's what you're getting at, is it? Miss Holm wants to go
on the stage."
"Singing, my boy; singing for money, and if so be that was to happen
to any daughter of mine, I'd give her a dose of something to make her
lose her voice--ay, if it was rat poison, I would."
It was a regular thing for Garner and Bramsen to have a comfortable
chat down at the waterside, when the old sailor would generally
relate some of his experiences at sea. These yarns especially
delighted Garner, who came of a peasant stock himself, and knew
nothing of the sea or foreign parts until he came to the town. He
tried now to open up the subject again.
"Ever been in the Arctic, Bramsen?"
"Have I? Why, I should think so. I was up that way in '76, on a
whaling trip with Svend Foya."
It was a habit of Bramsen's at the beginning of a story to make some
attempt at a literary style, but he invariably dropped it as he went
on.
"Dangerous business, isn't it?"
"Why, that's as you take it or as you make it. If one of the brutes
gets your boat with a flick of his tail, there's an end of you, of
course. I remember once we were after a big fellow; had a shot at him
and got in just aft of the spout-holes. And then, take my word for
it, he led us a dance. Off he went, full-speed ahead, and us full
speed astern, but blister me if he didn't win the tug-of-war and sail
off with us at nineteen knots, till we were cutting along like a
torpedo boat. He wasn't winded, ye see, for his blowpipe was intact,
and his gear below-decks sound and ship-shape. But at last we got him
fairly run down, and settled him with a straight one through the
heart."
"A whale's heart must be pretty big?"
"Why, yes, he's what you might call a large-hearted beast. About the
size of a middling chest o' drawers or a chiffonier."
"Rough on a whale, then, if he got heart disease," laughed Garner.
"Why, as to that, I suppose it would be in proportion, as you might
say. But he's built pretty well to scale in the other parts as well,
with his main arteries about as big round as a chimney."
"I wonder you didn't go up with Nansen to the Pole."
"And what for, I'd like to know? Messing about among a lot of nasty
Eskimos; no, thankye, I'd a better use for my time." And Bramsen went
on again with his whaling yarns for a spell, until Garner found it
was time to get back to the shop.
Outside the store shed sat a row of urchins fishing from the edge of
the quay. Bramsen was a popular character among the waterside boys;
he would chat and fish with them at off-times, or help them in the
manufacture of a patent "knock-out" bait, from a recipe of his own,
the chief ingredients being flour and spirits. There was always a
shout of delight when the small fish appeared at the surface, belly
upwards. But to-day the knock-out drops appeared to fail of their
effect, whether because the fish had grown used to French brandy, or
for some other reason. Bramsen soon left the boys to their own
devices, and went back into the shed. Here, to his astonishment, he
found Amanda, his daughter and only child, weeping in a corner.
Amanda was about fifteen, a lanky slip of a girl, with her hair in a
thick plait down her back, twinkling dark brown eyes, and a bright,
pleasant face.
"Saints and sea-serpents--you here, child? What's amiss now?"
"Mother--mother wants us to go to meeting this evening, and you
promised we should go to the theatre and see _Monkey Tricks_, and
they say it's the funniest piece."
Bramsen grew suddenly thoughtful. What if the child were to go
getting ideas into her head, like Miss Holm, and want to go about
singing with a hat--h'm, perhaps after all it might be as well to
take her to the meeting with Andrine.
But the mere suggestion sent Amanda off into a fresh burst of tears.
"There, there, child, I'll take you to the theatre, then, but on one
condition."
Amanda looked up expectantly. "Yes?"
"You're never to think of singing for money yourself, or going on the
stage, or anything like that. You understand?"
The girl had no idea of what was in his mind, and answered
mechanically, "No, father--and you'll take me to see _Monkey Tricks_
after all?"
"All right! but don't let your mother know, that's all."
Amanda was out of the door like an arrow, and hurried home at full
speed. That evening she and her father sat up in the gallery,
thoroughly enjoying themselves. Bramsen, it must be confessed, had
taken the title literally, and waited expectantly all through the
piece for the monkey to appear, and was disappointed in consequence,
but seeing Amanda so delighted with the play as it was, he said
nothing about it. Had he been alone he would have demanded his money
back; after all, it was rank swindling to advertise a piece as Monkey
Tricks, when there wasn't a monkey.
Meanwhile, Andrine had gone to the meeting, and waited patiently for
the others to appear--they had promised to come on after. Here,
however, she was disappointed, as usual.
When the backsliders came home, they found her deploring the vanity
of this world, the imperfections of our mortal life, and the weakness
of human clay against the powers of evil.
Bramsen and Amanda let her go on, as they always did, exchanging
glances the while; occasionally, when her back was turned, Bramsen
would make the most ludicrous faces, until Amanda had to go out into
the kitchen and laugh.
Bramsen was fond of his wife; she was indeed so good-hearted and
unselfish that no one could help it; while Amanda, for her part,
respected her mother as the only one who could keep her in order. And
indeed it was needed, "with a father that never so much as thought of
punishing the child."
Bramsen himself had never been thrashed in his life, except by his
comrades as a boy, and had always conscientiously paid back in full.
He had had no experience of the chastening rod, and could not
conceive that anything of the sort was needed for Amanda.
Consequently, the relation between father and daughter was of the
nature of an alliance as between friends, and as the years went on,
the pair of them were constantly combining forces to outwit Andrine.
Bramsen had no idea of the value of money, or its proper use and
application, wherefore Andrine had, in course of time, taken over
charge of the family finances, and kept the savings-bank book,--a
treasure which Bramsen himself was allowed to view on rare occasions,
and then only from the outside, its contents being quite literally a
closed book to him. Amanda and he would often put their heads
together and fall to guessing how much there might be in the book,
"taking it roughly like," but the riddle remained unsolved.
Every month Bramsen brought home his pay and delivered it dutifully
into Andrine's hands; he made no mention, however, of the
ten-shilling rise that had been given him, but spent the money on
little extras and outings for himself and Amanda, whom he found it
hard to refuse at any time.
A month before, it had been her great wish to have an album "to write
poetry in"; all the other girls in her class had one, and she simply
couldn't be the only one without. Bramsen could not understand what
pleasure there was to be got out of such an article; much better to
get a song book with printed words and have done with it. But Amanda
scorned the suggestion, and the album was duly bought. She had got
two entries in it already, one from Verger Klemmeken of Strandvik, an
old friend of her father's, who wrote in big straggling letters:
"Whene'er these humble lines you see,
I pray that you'll remember me."
and one from Miss Tobiesen, an old lady at the infirmary, who had
been engaged seven times, and therefore judged it appropriate to
quote:
"'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."
Amanda then insisted that her father should contribute something, but
Bramsen declared in the first place that the album was much too fine
a thing for his clumsy fist, and furthermore, that he couldn't hit on
anything to write. Amanda, however, gave him no peace till he
consented, and at last, after much effort, the worthy man achieved
the following gem:
"I, Amanda's only father,
Love her very much but rather
Fear she causes lots of bother
To her wise and loving mother."
This elegant composition was unfortunately not appreciated by Amanda,
who, to tell the truth, was highly displeased. Fancy writing such a
thing in her book--why, the whole class would laugh at her. Bramsen
was obliged to scratch it out, but in so doing, scratched a hole in
the paper, leaving no alternative but to take out the page
altogether, much to Amanda's disgust.
Bramsen's highest ambition in life was to be master of a steamboat;
not one of the big vessels that go as far as China, say, or
Copenhagen--that, he realised, was out of the question, in view of
his large contempt for examinations, mate's certificates and
book-learning generally. The goal of his desire, the aim of all his
dearest dreams, was a tugboat, a smart little devil of a craft with a
proper wheel-house amidships and booms and hawsers aft.
A grand life it would be, to go fussing about up and down the fjord,
meeting old acquaintances among the fishermen and pilots--yo, heave
ho, my lads! He had often suggested to Andrine that the contents of
the savings-bank book might be devoted to the purchase of a tug, but
Andrine would cross herself piously, and urge him to combat all
temptation and evil inspirations of the sort. Bramsen could not see
anything desperately evil in the idea himself; he found it more
depressing to think that he should spend the remainder of his days in
the stuffy atmosphere of the warehouse on the quay. Was it
reasonable, now, for a man like himself to be planted, like a
geranium in a flower-pot, among sugar-boxes, flour-sacks, and
store-keeping trash?
"Ay, life's a queer old tangle sometimes," murmured Bramsen to
himself, "and we've got to make the best of it, I suppose." And he
cast a longing glance through the doorway of the shed, at Johnsen, of
the tug _Rap_, steaming down the fjord with his tow.
IV
HERMANSEN OF THE BANK
Hermansen was manager of the local bank. He and Knut Holm had never
been friends, and though outwardly their relations were to all
seeming amicable enough, the attitude of each toward the other was
really one of armed neutrality.
The banker was in all things cold, precise and dignified, with a
military stiffness of bearing, and devoid of all softer sentiment or
feeling.