"Oh, let's see; the parson, Governor Hansen, Watchmaker Rordam and
Dr. Knap--oh yes, and Prois, of course, as Warden."
"What, old Prois?"
"Yes, and he was quite cut up about it too. Said he was too old for
such tomfoolery."
It was a busy time all round for the loyal citizens of Strandvik; and
the worst of it was, they had only three days to make all
arrangements. The royal party would arrive on Thursday at four
o'clock and dine in the town. And to-day was Monday.
The committee held meetings morning and afternoon. A band was asked
for by telegram from the naval station at Horten, and a special cook
from Drammen; both, fortunately, promised to come.
A triumphal arch was set up at the Custom House, and Nachmann, the
German wine merchant, sent up four cart-loads of bottles to the Town
Hall, where the banquet was to be held. Nachmann was in high feather,
and declared loyally that a Royal House was an excellent institution
and an encouragement to trade and commerce.
But what was the King to drive in? Consul Jansen had a very
respectable pair-horse carriage of his own, lined with grey silk, and
suitable for most "special occasions," but unfortunately one of the
horses was lame, and the other a confirmed runaway. What was to be
done?
Lt. Heidt had just got a new mount, but so miserably emaciated a
beast that one could almost see daylight through its ribs. There was
no possibility of using such a bag of bones for such a purpose.
Finally, the choice fell upon Baker Ottosen's black mare, a famous
beauty. But one mare's not a pair; there was nothing for it but to
take Governor Hansen's old "Swift," so called from the fact of its
never on any occasion exceeding the easiest amble. It was hoped that
the close proximity of the mare would liven it up a little.
For three whole days Aslaksen of the livery stables practised the
pair up and down through the streets, to the great edification of the
urchins, who ran after the carriage shouting and cheering.
Tar barrels and rockets were set ready in place out in the fjord, and
all the candles in the stores were bought up for the purpose of
illumination.
From early morning the committee wa abroad, in full evening-dress,
and desperately busy.
Old Justice Heidt stood in his shirt-sleeves and new gold-braided
breeches making his most deferential bow to an old American clock:
"May it please Your Majesty, in the person of the town's ..." he had
to look up the paper and read through his speech once again.
Excitement increased as the day wore on. Stout peasant girls with red
roses in their hats, and lanky youths with blue and green ties, and a
bottle of spirits in their hinder pockets, began pouring into the
town.
The committee was working feverishly. Everything was now practically
ready, flags and bunting everywhere, and as many green wreaths as
seven old women had been able to prepare in three days. All that
remained was the great centre-piece, with the arms of the town, to be
hung above the royal seat in the banqueting hall.
Watchmaker Rordam, who, in addition to having charge of all the
time-pieces in the town, further acted as instrument maker, turner
and decorator, had undertaken to paint the aforesaid piece. But at
one o'clock he suddenly retired in dudgeon, and the arms of the town
were nowhere. The cause of this disaster was Old Nick, who had come
up during the morning to the hall to see how the decorations were
getting on. Rordam was there just putting the finishing touches to
his masterpiece.
"Ah, Rordam, painting a picture, are you? Tell me, what it's supposed
to be, exactly?"
"Eh?" said Rordam, with a frown. "Can't you see? Why, the town arms,
of course--a bear holding a pine tree on a blue ground, and a goddess
with the scales of justice in red in the other corner."
"No, really?" said Old Nick. "Devil take me, if I didn't think it was
Adam and Eve stealing apples in the Garden of Eden."
Rordam was furious, and swore he would not put up with such
impertinence, he had not come there to be insulted. He had undertaken
the work as a loyal citizen's contribution to the general good,
without fee or remuneration of any sort, and if Lawyer Nickelsen
thought he could paint a better coat-of-arms, why, let him take over
the business, and welcome. And, tearing down his painting, the
indignant watchmaker took himself off.
Old Nick likewise found it advisable to disappear, after a vain
attempt to bring the injured painter to reason, assuring him that it
was only a joke, no harm intended, etc. etc.
The committee was summoned in haste, and stood staring blankly at the
empty space where the bear and the goddess of justice should have
appeared.
Their anger was very naturally turned upon Old Nick.
"Really, I think he might have kept his remarks to himself," said Dr.
Knap. "Old muddler that he is."
"He never can keep a still tongue in his head," agreed Justice Heidt.
It was now past one o'clock: the King was to arrive at four, and
there was no painting a new design in three hours. Hang up a big
Norwegian flag? That, of course, could be done; but it would seem a
very poor sort of decoration without the arms of the town. Then
Governor Hansen had a bright idea: "Let's get up an impromptu lunch
at once, and ask Rordam along, as if nothing was the matter."
"Do you think he'll come?" asked Justice Heidt.
"Sure enough--if we just let him know it's a special lunch for a
small select party. Send the message in your own name, Justice, and
I'll wager a bottle of Montebello he'll come."
Half an hour after, Rordam arrived, and was received by Justice
Heidt, who clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him heartily for
his splendid decoration of the hall.
"And I must say we are fortunate in having in so small a town an
artist of taste like yourself. I am sure His Majesty will wish to
thank you personally. By the way, that coat of arms, it will be ready
in time, I hope? Dr. Knap was just saying it was a magnificent piece
of work."
"Why--er--that is--I wasn't altogether pleased with it myself, so I
took it down."
"Oh, nonsense, my dear fellow! I am sure it's excellent. Hang it up
again and don't worry about that."
The shield was set in place again accordingly, and the committee
unanimously expressed their admiration. The figure of the bear in
particular was highly praised. "As lifelike as anything you'd see in
a menagerie," said Warden Prois cautiously. "And the young lady too,
I'm sure," said Dr. Knap, with a sly nudge to Heidt. Rordam was
pacified, completely won over, and so gratified at the amiable
condescension of the notables at lunch that he felt he could afford
to despise a mere lawyer like that fellow Nickelsen.
At half-past three precisely the committee members of Council and
other leading personages went down to the quay where the Royal party
was to land. The appearance of Warden Prois, with his gold-laced
cap, ditto tunic, belt and dirk (all newly ordered for the occasion)
was the signal for cheering from the assembled urchins. The
demonstration, however, so annoyed the old man that he angrily
ordered them to "keep quiet, you little devils," at which undignified
utterance on the part of a person in authority, Justice Heidt frowned
severely.
The four town constables were likewise dressed for the occasion with
new trousers and white cotton gloves, and made a brave show.
"Boom--boom--boom!" came the salute from the fire-station, and
Ottosen's black mare reared so violently that Aslaksen's
silver-braided silk hat fell off. Worse was to come, however. As the
band from Horten struck up, "Swift" became troublesome. At last the
Warden himself had to spring to the heads of the frantic pair and
hold them, or the whole equipage would have gone over the side into
the water. His Majesty, no doubt from previous experience of
provincial turn-outs, preferred to walk, and the party moved off,
accompanied by a burst of cheering, towards the Town Hall; Aslaksen,
with his carriage and ill assorted pair, following shamefacedly in
the rear.
At the upper end of the Royal table sat the Justice and other
notables; the King's suite were distributed between the members of
the committee. For the convenience of the latter, Heidt had had cards
set round at each place, with the names of the guest seated next.
Warden Prois, who had been introduced to his particular charge, but
had not managed to catch the name, slipped away stealthily outside,
put on his spectacles and endeavoured to read his card. "His
Excellency ... M.--M.--Megesen--no, Pegestik--devil take me if I can
make head or tail of it." At last he decided for "Negesuk" as the
Excellency's name--Swedish names were always queer.
It was a very festive affair, and full justice was done to the
fourteen courses and Nachmann's good wine. The official speeches were
all delivered with laudable precision, excepting Governor Hansen's.
That worthy came to a standstill, and had to fumble in his waistcoat
pocket for the written copy, consisting of two lines scrawled on a
bit of paper, the crumpled appearance of which suggested that it had
been liberally consulted already.
The talk flowed easily and without embarrassing restraint. Old
Klementsen quietly pocketed a copy of the menu, to take home to his
wife; it was only fair that she should have her share of the feast.
"Mr. Chamberlain Negesuk, may I have the honour?" Prois raised his
glass courteously towards his neighbour, who drank with him and bowed
in return, albeit with some stiffness of manner. This, however, the
Warden attributed to their proximity to the Royal person.
"Ah--my name is Von Vegesak," said the courtier, with a bow.
"The deuce it is," said Prois; "it doesn't look like it on the card."
And he put on his glasses and turned the card about.
"Oh, but that's not my birth certificate, you know," answered Von
Vegesak, with a smile.
"Well, anyhow, here's to you, Mr.--Mr.--Vegesak."
At one end of the Royal table sat Governor Hansen and Captain
Palander, deep in conversation about--horses! Horses were the one
theme in which Hansen was really interested, devoting especial
attention to trotters, and once he got on to his favourite subject
there was no stopping him.
"Curious thing," he observed, "I had a trotting horse a few years ago
called Palander--ha, ha, ha! Yes, that was really its name. But I
could never get any pace out of it on ordinary going; ice underfoot
was the only thing to make it go."
"Very good claret this," murmured the King to Justice Heidt.
"Yes, Your Majesty; we have it from our worthy dealer here, Mr.
Nachmann, a citizen of the town."
"Quite right, Your Majesty; a genuine brand and _premier one_."
Nachmann rose to his feet and turned his moonlike countenance towards
the King.
"Thanks for good wine, then, Nachmann," said His Majesty, raising his
glass.
"Proudest moment in my life, Your Majesty. I'll take the liberty of
laying down a few bottles in memory of the occasion--until Your
Majesty honours us again. Most humble servant, Your Majesty."
And Nachmann bowed deeply, but with evident pride. How they would
envy him now, P. A. Larsen, Lundgren, Carl Fleischer, and all the
rest of them, who fancied nobody sold good wine but themselves! He
would get the editor of the _Strandvik Gazette_ to quote the Royal
compliment to the firm of Nachmann & Co.--it was a credit to the town
to have such a business in its midst.
When Nachmann rose, there was a sudden silence; one could have heard
a pin drop. But since His Majesty took the occurrence in such good
part, the others could do so too. Nevertheless, Justice Heidt
considered Nachmann's behaviour unjustifiable and a breach of
etiquette. He cast a glance of stern reproof at the wine merchant,
but the latter was so elated that he misunderstood its meaning, and,
raising his glass, nodded pleasantly in return: "Your health,
Justice!"
Old Klementsen, the parish clerk, who had hardly eaten at all for two
days in order to get full value out of the banquet for his twelve
shillings, had been shovelling away as hard as he could stuff, and
drinking in proportion. He was now in high feather as a result, and
his one idea now was to get up and make a speech in honour of Carl
Johan, whom he had seen in 1840.
His neighbours with difficulty restrained him, tearing the tails of
his coat in their efforts to keep him in his seat. Finally, they got
him down into the police cells on the ground floor, when he delivered
his loyal oration to the warder.
Up in the gallery sat the ladies of the town, perspiring in their
Sunday best; it was almost hot enough up there to boil a lobster. All
were thirsty too, and matters were not improved by the sight of their
respective husbands and fathers in the hall below eating and
drinking _ad libitum_ of the best, while they themselves had neither
bite nor sup.
Miss Svane, headmistress of the girls' school, could not restrain her
emotions, and declared warmly that "it was easy enough to be a loyal
subject of His Majesty if that was how they did it!"
Cilia Braaten had never seen a King at meals before; she was
gratified with the new experience, and had no thought for anything
else until Miss Svane delivered her envious dictum. Then, however,
she resolutely sent off a boy for six bottles of lemonade, in which
the ladies drank to His Majesty's health--and, literally speaking,
drank it warmly.
At last the time came for the Royal party to leave, and the departure
took place amid an endless thunder of cheering. Rockets whizzed, the
gun at the fire-station boomed in salute. But in the banqueting-hall
the fun grew fast and furious.
Bowls of punch were brought in, and Schoolmaster Iversen made
thirteen speeches, to which nobody listened at all. Skipper
Abrahamsen jumped up on the table and made another for the Norwegian
play, in the course of which he managed to empty his glass of punch
over Warden Prois's new uniform, at which that worthy, very naturally
incensed, cursed the patriot emphatically for behaving like a monkey
on a tightrope.
Even aged Klementsen had come to life again, and found his way
upstairs from the cells, somewhat pale but resolute still. His
appearance was greeted with a burst of cheering, and a party of
enthusiasts chaired him round the hall, singing patriotic songs the
while. The singing and shouting continued well on towards morning,
and a street sweeper declared he had heard them howling out "God
save our gracious King" at half-past six--but his watch, no doubt,
must have been fast!
Next day the _Strandvik Gazette_ contained a poem entitled "A Royal
Visit," from which the following verses concerning the banquet may be
quoted:
"'Twas plain to see that Strandvik town
Lacked neither meat nor mirth,
The banquet might have brought renown
To any place on earth.
The dishes, numbering fourteen,
Were rich enough to make,
If such his daily fare had been,
The Royal tummy ache.
And healths were drunk and speeches very wittily were said,
And those who had no speech to make, they drank the wine instead.
But yet in spite of speeches gay
And wit and wine, I dare to say
His Majesty was glad to get away!"
XV
PETER OILAND
Peter Oiland, the new master at the girls' school in Strandvik, was a
tall, thin man of about thirty. He had taken a theological degree,
and his solemn, clean face gave him a somewhat clerical air; his
manner, too, appeared calm and reserved.
"Not much fun to be got out of him, by his looks," said Old Nick, the
first time he encountered Peter Oiland's lanky figure and serious
countenance on his way up through the town.
It was not from any predilection of his own, however, that Peter
Oiland had come to study theology, but a result of circumstances
which left him no choice in the matter. His studies had been carried
through at the expense of an old uncle, who was parish clerk at
Sandefjord, and whose dearest wish it was to see the boy in Holy
Orders. Only fancy; to be handing the cassock to a nephew of his own.
Peter, then, had taken his degree accordingly, and endeavoured
conscientiously to suit himself as far as possible to the clerical
role for which he was cast in life; how he succeeded we shall
presently see.
His quiet and sober dignity of manner gained him the entry to the
Sukkestads' house, where he was soon a frequent guest; not that he
found himself particularly attracted by Sukkestad and his wife, or
their severely earnest circle of friends. The attraction, in fact,
was Andrea, the daughter of the house and only child, for whom he
entertained the tenderest feeling. Andrea was a buxom, pink-and-white
beauty of eighteen summers. Her light blue eyes and little stumpy
nose were quite charming in their way, while the plait of long, fair
hair over the shoulders gave her an air of childish innocence.
In a word, Peter Oiland was desperately in love, while Andrea, who
had never before been the object of such attentions, began to lie
awake at nights wondering whether he "really meant it." The solution,
however, came quite naturally.
Andrea played the piano, and sang touching little songs of the
sentimental type, such as "When my eyes are closing," "The Last Rose
of Summer," or "The Deserted Cottage"--which transported Peter Oiland
to the eighth heaven at least. One evening, when she had finished one
of her usual turns, he took her hand and thanked her warmly, pressing
it also quite perceptibly--and Andrea, well, she somehow managed to
press his quite perceptibly in return--by accident, of course. And
then these hand-clasps were repeated, nay, became a regular thing, to
such an extent that the pair would press each other's hands when
seated on the sofa with Mamma Sukkestad between them. That good lady,
however, did not notice, or affected not to notice, these evidences
of tender passion taking place behind her back.
Thanks to his intimacy with Sukkestad, and also to his own reputation
as a sober and earnest man, Peter Oiland was chosen, after only a
couple of months' residence in the place, as one of the two
representatives of the town to attend the mission meeting at
Stavanger. Sukkestad himself was the other.
On the evening before their departure, he was invited to a party at
the Sukkestads', together with the members of the Women's Union.
Peter Oiland had already succeeded in making himself a special
favourite with Mrs. Sukkestad, and was on very confidential terms
with her; relations, indeed, became quite intimate, when Andrea
confided the secret of their mutual feelings to her mother.
After supper, preserved fruit and pastry were handed round, which
Peter Oiland inwardly considered a somewhat insipid form of
entertainment. He had often felt the lack of a glass of grog on his
visits to the house, and this evening he deftly turned the
conversation with Mrs. Sukkestad to the subject of "colds," from
which he declared himself to be suffering considerably just lately.
Mrs. Sukkestad recommended hot turpentine bandages on the chest and
barley water internally. Oiland, however, hinted that the only thing
he had ever known to do him any good was egg punch. Mrs. Sukkestad,
who was one of those stout little homely persons always anxious to
help, and with a fine store of household recipes ever available, set
to work at once to find some means of getting him his favourite
medicine, while Peter coughed distressingly, and screwed up his eyes
behind his glasses.
"I tell you what," whispered Mrs. Sukkestad at last. "Sukkestad is an
abstainer, you know, so we've never anything in the way of spirits in
the house as a rule. But I've half a bottle of brandy out in the
pantry that I got last spring when I was troubled with the toothache;
I was going to use it for cleaning the windows, really, but if you
think it would do your cold any good, I'd be only too pleased."
"Thanks ever so much, it's awfully good of you," said Peter Oiland
hoarsely.
"Well, then, be sure you don't let anyone know what it is. I'll put
it in one of the decanters, and say it's gooseberry wine."
"Yes, yes, of course; I understand."
And, shortly after, Peter Oiland was comfortably seated in a corner
with a lovely big glass of grog, enjoying himself thoroughly, and, to
complete his satisfaction, Andrea sang:
"Thou art my one and only thought,
My one and only love...."
Peter drank deep of the joy of life, and eke of grog, and Andrea
seemed more charming than ever.
Later in the evening he held forth to the ladies--among whom, as
above mentioned, were all the members of the Women's Union--about the
blacks of the South Sea Islands, and gave so lurid a description of
the state of things there prevailing as to make his audience fairly
shudder.
"And would you believe it, on one of the islands in the Pacific, a
place called Kolamukka, belonging to Queen Rabagadale, they eat roast
baby just as we do sucking pig, the only difference being that they
don't serve them up with lemons in their mouths."
Sukkestad thought this was going rather too far, and broke in, "Oh,
come now, Oiland; you're exaggerating, I'm sure. Thank goodness, all
the poor heathens are not cannibals."
"Have to quote the worst examples, to make it properly interesting,"
said Oiland, which dictum was supported by Mrs. Writher, who
declared that one could not paint these things too darkly; it was
hard enough as it was to make people realise the dreadful state of
those benighted creatures.
When the guests had left, Mrs. Sukkestad felt some qualms of
conscience at the thought of having "served intoxicating liquors" in
her house. She lay awake for hours, debating with herself whether she
ought to confess at once to her husband. The excuse about having a
cold was--well, rather poor after all. Suppose Oiland had a weakness,
a leaning towards drink, and she had led him astray! His cough, too,
had vanished so quickly, it was suspicious. However, she decided to
say nothing for the present.
It was a fine, bright, sunny day when Sukkestad and Peter Oiland, as
delegates from Strandvik to the meeting at Stavanger, stepped on
board the coasting steamer, which was already half full of delegates
with white neckerchiefs and broad-brimmed felt hats.
The smoke-room was thick with the fumes of cheap tobacco and a hum of
quiet talk from decent folk in black Sunday coats and well-polished
leg boots. A swarthy little commercial traveller, with a bright red
tie and waxed moustache, sat squeezed up in a corner puffing at a
"special" cigar with a coloured waistband.
Peter Oiland gave a formal greeting to the company assembled as he
entered; those nearest politely made way for him.
"It's a hard life, teaching," observed a stout little man with a
florid, clean-shaven face and glistening black hair brushed forward
over his ears. "Tells on the nerves."
"You find it so?" put in Peter Oiland. "Well, now, it all depends on
how you take it--as the young man said when he took a kiss in the
dark."
There was a somewhat awkward silence; the company seemed rather in
doubt as to the speaker's sympathy with their ideas.
Presently the sea began to make itself felt, and Peter Oiland found
occasion to relate the anecdote of the old lady who had been in to
Christiania for a new set of false teeth, and, being sea-sick on the
way back, dropped them overboard; next day the local papers had an
account of a big cod just caught, with false teeth in its mouth!
A smile--a very faint one--greeted the story, and the passengers
relapsed into their customary seriousness, not without occasional
glances between one and another: what sort of a fellow was this they
had got on board?
"H'm!" thought Peter Oiland. "Have another try; wake them up a bit.
Must be a queer sort of party if I can't."
Just then Sukkestad appeared in the doorway.
"This way, this way, if you please," shouted Peter gaily. "Gentlemen,
my friend and colleague, Bukkestad--beg pardon, Sukkestad; slip of
the tongue, you understand. Come along in, old man! Jolly evening we
had at your place last night--first-rate fun."
Sukkestad did not know whether to laugh or cry, or take himself off
and have done with it. The fellow must be mad!
The commercial, who had been hiding his face behind an old newspaper,
burst out laughing, and hurried out on deck.
Peter Oiland settled his glasses on his nose, and went on: