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THE HARVARD CLASSICS SHELF OF FICTION [From Vol. 20]
SELECTED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LL D
SKIPPER WORSE
BY ALEXANDER L. KIELLAND
EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS
BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON PH D
P F COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
Published under special arrangement with The Macmillan Company
Copyright, 1886
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1917
By P. F. COLLIER & SON
CONTENTS
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS:
I. BY H. H. BOYESEN
II. BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER
SKIPPER WORSE
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Alexander Kielland was born in Stavanger, Norway, on February 18,
1849, of a wealthy family of shipowners. After studying law at the
University of Christiania he bought a brick and tile factory at Malk,
near his native town, and for some years it appeared as if he were to
follow the family tradition and become merely a substantial citizen
of provincial importance. But about 1878 he began to publish some
short stories in the Christiania "Dagblad," and in 1879 and 1880
there appeared two volumes of "Novelettes." These were marked by a
light satirical touch and a sympathy with liberal ideas, and were
written in a style which may well have owed some of its clarity to
the study of French models, made during the author's visits to Paris.
His first regular novel was "Garman and Worse," a picture of the same
small-town society which we find in the novel here printed. "Laboring
People" followed in 1881, when Kielland sold out his business and
became purely a man of letters. "Skipper Worse" was his third novel,
and among the more important of his other works are "Poison,"
"Fortuna," "Snow," "St. John's Eve," "Jacob," and a number of dramas
and comedies. He died at Bergen, on April 6, 1906.
Kielland's method is realistic, and a number of his works are written
with a fairly distinct "purpose." As this purpose often involves
sharp criticism of conventions and beliefs dear to the comfortable
classes, Kielland roused no small amount of opposition and
disapproval. But as it grows more possible to see his work in
perspective, it becomes more evident that his clear-sightedness and
honesty of purpose as well as his mastery of style will give him an
honored place among Norwegian writers.
"Skipper Worse" is not only thoroughly typical of Kielland's work,
but, so far as there can be said to be general agreement, it is
regarded as his masterpiece. Like so many of his books, it gives a
picture of the well-to-do merchants, shippers, and fisher-folk of the
west coast of Norway, the special subject being the workings of the
Haugian pietistic movement. Although this particular movement was
specifically Norwegian, it is sufficiently typical of a kind of
revival familiar in many countries to make this study of it
interesting to foreign readers. Kielland's handling of the Haugians
is remarkable for its fairness and restraint. The sincerity of the
best representatives of the sect is abundantly exhibited, as well as
the limitations of the weaker brethren; but this balanced treatment
does not prevent the author from showing with great force and
poignancy the deplorable crushing of the innocent human affections by
unintelligent fanaticism.
The portraiture of individuals is as successful as that of the
society in which they move. Worse himself is rendered with a rare
mingling of humor and pathos; Hans Nilsen is a striking example of
the religious enthusiast, drawn with feeling and subtlety; and Madame
Torvestad, though belonging to a familiar type, is well
individualized.
It requires a high degree of art to take a provincial group, in
special local circumstances, and to present these in such a way as
not only to interest the outsider, but to convince him of the truth
of the presentation by showing the characters as acting from motives
valid for human nature in general. This is what Kielland does,
displaying in the doing of it, an uncommon delicacy of perception and
accuracy of perspective. He is one of the writers who have done most
to make Scandinavia count in the modern world.
W. A. N.
CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS
I
BY H. H. BOYESEN
Kielland's third novel, "Skipper Worse," marked a distinct step in
his development. It was less of a social satire and more of a social
study. It was not merely a series of brilliant, exquisitely finished
scenes, loosely strung together on a slender thread of narrative, but
was a concise and well-constructed story, full of admirable
portraits. The theme is akin to that of Daudet's "L'Evangeliste"; but
Kielland, as it appears to me, has in this instance outdone his
French confrere, as regards insight into the peculiar character and
poetry of the pietistic movement. He has dealt with it as a
psychological and not primarily as a pathological phenomenon. A
comparison with Daudet suggests itself constantly in reading
Kielland. Their methods of workmanship and their attitude toward life
have many points in common. The charm of style, the delicacy of
touch, and felicity of phrase, are in both cases preeminent. Daudet
has, however, the advantage (or, as he himself asserts, the
disadvantage) of working in a flexible and highly finished language,
which bears the impress of the labors of a hundred masters; while
Kielland has to produce his effects of style in a poorer and less
pliable language, which often pants and groans in its efforts to
render a subtle thought. To have polished this tongue and sharpened
its capacity for refined and incisive utterance, is one--and not the
least--of his merits.
Though he has by nature no more sympathy with the pietistic movement
than Daudet, Kielland yet manages to get psychologically closer to
his problem. His pietists are more humanly interesting than those of
Daudet, and the little drama which they set in motion is more
genuinely pathetic. Two superb figures--the lay preacher Hans Nilsen
and Skipper Worse--surpass all that the author had hitherto produced
in depth of conception and brilliancy of execution. The marriage of
that delightful, profane old sea-dog, Jacob Worse, with the pious
Sara Torvestad, and the attempts of his mother-in-law to convert him,
are described not with the merely superficial drollery to which the
subject invites, but with a sweet and delicate humor which trembles
on the verge of pathos.--From "Essays on Scandinavian Literature"
(1895).
II
BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER
Alexander Kielland is the least Norwegian of all the Norwegian
writers, not only among his contemporaries, like Bjornson and Jonas
Lie, but among the newer men of the subsequent generation, like
Gabriel Finne, Knut Hamsun, and Vilhelm Krag, whose names we
Americans have hardly yet learned to know. I mean this, however, less
in regard to his matter than to his manner. Although several of his
short stories are French in their setting and others are Danish, the
greater part of his work and all of the important novels and plays
act and have their being in Norway. Kielland's attitude towards his
material, on the other hand, is new to Norwegian literature. For the
first time in his pages, among both his forbears and his
contemporaries, we meet with the point of view of a man of the world.
Bjornson and Jonas Lie have always a sort of homely provincialism,
inherent and characteristic, that is part and parcel of their
literary personality, whose absence would be felt under the
circumstances as a lack of necessary vigour. Kielland, on the
contrary, as inherently, has throughout unmistakably an air of
_savoir vivre_, in the long run much surer in its appeal to us
outside of Norway because of its more general intelligibility.
Bjornson and Jonas Lie in this way have secured places in literature
in no small part because of their characteristic Norwegianism;
Kielland to some little extent has secured his place because of the
want of it. Ibsen is here left out of the discussion. He is quite
_sui generis_, and apart from the mere choice of environment, for his
work could belong anywhere....
Kielland's novels are one and all novels of tendency. With his first
short stories as a criterion, and a knowledge of his own personal
antecedents and the almost necessary predilections that he might be
supposed to possess, his career as a novelist could not have been
foreseen. His early stories betray no great seriousness of purpose,
and his personal environment removed him as far as possible from
liberalism in ethics and religion, from socialistic proclivities even
remotely democratic, and a ready susceptibility to the whole spirit
of the age. Yet these are just the characteristics of his later
books. They are strong, liberal, and modern; so much so that many of
them have evoked a loud spirit of protest in Norway, where leaven of
this sort is still striven against in many quarters.--From "Alexander
Kielland," in "The Bookman" (1896).
SKIPPER WORSE
CHAPTER I
"Here, Lauritz, you young scamp, go aloft and clear the dogvane."
Skipper Worse was standing on his quarter-deck, a fresh north wind
was blowing in the fjord, and the old brig was gliding along quietly
under easy sail.
A chopping sea, caused by the ebbing tide, was breaking outside the
cape which marked the entrance to Sandsgaard Bay.
As the _Hope of the Family_ rounded the point, she seemed to feel
that she was safe at home. Captain Worse winked at the helmsman, and
declared that the old thing knew well enough where she was now that
they were round.
The _Hope of the Family_ was not quite like other ships. It might be
that some looked smarter and lighter; indeed, it was not entirely
beyond the range of possibility--though, as for Jacob Worse, he had
never yet seen such a one--that, amongst the new-fangled English
craft, one or two might be found that could sail just the least
trifle better.
No further admission, however, would he make. Anything stronger, more
seaworthy, or more complete than the _Hope_ did not, and never would,
float upon the sea. The sun shone brightly upon the buildings at
Sandsgaard, on the garden and the wharf, and over all the pleasant
bay, where the summer ripples chased each other to the land, hurrying
on with the news that Jacob Worse had entered the fjord.
Zacharias, the man at the wharf, had, however, already announced the
fact.
"Are you so sure about it?" asked Consul Garman sharply.
"We've made her out with the telescope, Herr Consul, and I'm as sure
it's the _Hope_ as that I am a living sinner. She is steering right
in for Sandsgaard Bay."
Morten W. Garman rose up from his armchair. He was a tall, ponderous
man, with crisp white hair and a heavy underlip.
As he took his hat and stick, his hand trembled a little, for the
_Hope_ had been away a very long time at sea. In the outer office the
book-keeper was standing by the little outlook window; taking the
telescope from his hand, the Consul spied out over the fjord, and
then closing the glass, said: "All right; Jacob Worse is a man one
can depend upon."
It was the first time that a ship from those parts had sailed to Rio
de Janeiro, and the perilous voyage had been due entirely to Jacob
Worse's enterprise.
He had, however, been away so long that the Consul had given up the
_Hope_, as he had given up so many other ships of late years.
Although he was now relieved of all anxiety on account of the ship
and his trusty Captain Worse, his footstep was heavy, and resounded
sadly as he left the office and strode through the entrance hall,
whence a broad staircase led up to the next story.
Much more, indeed, than merely a profitable voyage would be required
in order to console the embarrassed merchant, for his home at
Sandsgaard was empty and desolate. Youth and social pleasures had
fled, and little remained but bygone memories of gay friends and
brilliant ladies; a faint odour of the past lingering in
out-of-the-way corners, and causing his heart to beat again.
Ever since the death of his wife in the past summer, all the
reception-rooms had been closed. Both his sons were abroad, Christian
Frederik in London, and Richard in Stockholm; and Consul Garman, who
had always been accustomed to gay company, found that living alone
with the sisters of his deceased wife--two elderly spinsters who
quarrelled over the management of his domestic affairs--was not very
exhilarating.
As Jacob Worse, standing on the deck of his good ship, gazed at the
stir along the wharves and round about the bay, his heart swelled
with pride.
All the boats in the place came rowing out towards the brig. The
relatives of his men, the mothers and the sweethearts, waved
handkerchiefs and wept for joy. Many of them had, indeed, long since
given up the _Hope_ as lost.
No relations came out to welcome Skipper Worse. He was a widower, and
his only son was away at a commercial school in Lubeck. What he
looked forward to was talking about Rio with the other captains at
his club, but the chief pleasure in store for him was the yarns he
would spin with Skipper Randulf.
What would Randulf's much-boasted voyage to Taganrog be, compared
with Rio? Would not he--Worse--just lay it on thickly?
In his younger days Jacob Worse had been a little wild, and was now a
jovial middle-aged man, about fifty years of age.
His body was thickset and short, his face that of a seaman--square,
ruddy, frank, and pleasant. If any one could have counted the hairs
upon his head, the result would have been surprising, for they were
as close as on an otter's skin, and growing in a peculiar manner.
They looked as if a whirlwind had first attacked the crown of his
head from behind, twisting up a spiral tuft in the centre, and laying
the remainder flat, pointing forwards, along the sides. It seemed as
if his hair had remained fixed and unmoved ever since. About his ears
there were rows of small curls, like the ripple-marks on sand after a
breeze of wind.
When Jacob Worse saw the "ladies' boat"[1] waiting, ready manned,
alongside the quay, he rubbed his hands with delight, for this
preparation betokened a singular distinction; and when he saw the
Consul step into this boat, he skipped round the deck in boyish glee.
It was, in fact, unusual for the Consul to come on board to welcome
the arrival of a ship. Generally some one was sent from the office,
if neither of the sons was at home: for both Christian Frederik, and
especially Richard, liked to board the ships far out of the fjord,
that they might have a sail homewards and drink marsala in the cabin.
[Footnote 1: In the larger mercantile houses of Norway, at the
seaports, a "Fruens Baad," or ladies' boat, is kept for the especial
use of the lady of the house.]
When the brig came to anchor, the ladies' boat was still a little way
off; Skipper Worse, however, could no longer restrain himself. Laying
hold of a shroud, he swung himself on the top rail and waving his
hat, cried out, in a voice that rang out all over Sandsgaard, "We
come late, Herr Consul, but we come safely."
Consul Garman smiled as he returned the salute, at the same time
quietly removing the rings from the fingers of his right hand; for he
dreaded the grip of Jacob Worse on his return from a voyage.
The delighted captain stood on deck, hat in hand, in a respectful
attitude, whilst the Consul, with stiff and cautious steps, ascended
the accommodation ladder.
"Welcome, Jacob Worse."
"Many thanks, Herr Consul."
The Consul surrendered his hand to be duly squeezed.
The crew stood round in a respectful circle to receive the friendly
salute of the owner; they were already cleaned up and in their
shore-going clothes, for so many friends and relations had boarded
the brig as she was standing in, that there was no necessity for them
to lend a hand in mooring the brig.
The manly, sunburnt faces bore a somewhat strange aspect here in the
cool early summer time, and one or two wore a red shirt, or a blue
Scotch bonnet brought from that wonderful Rio.
Their beaming faces showed what heroes they considered themselves,
and they longed to get on shore to recount their adventures.
"Here's a young scamp," said Captain Worse, "who went out a cabin
boy, but now we have given him the rating of an apprentice. The
Consul must know that we had two deaths at Rio--the devil's own
climate.--Come, Lauritz, step forward and show yourself."
A lad of about seventeen was at last shoved forward, awkward and
blushing; much soaping had made his chubby red face shine like an
apple.
"What is his name?" said the Consul.
"Lauritz Seehus," answered the lad.
"Lauritz Boldemand Seehus," added the captain, giving the name in
full.
The men tittered at this, for they were in the habit of calling him
"Bollemand," or "The Baker."
"We always give special attention to Captain Worse's recommendations,
and if the young man will but follow the example of such a worthy
officer"--here the Consul made a low bow to the captain--"the firm
will advance him according to his merits. Moreover, when we come to
pay off, the crew will receive a bonus, in consideration of the long
and perilous voyage. The firm offers its best thanks to all for good
and faithful service."
The Consul bowed to them all, and went below with the captain.
The men were much pleased, both on account of the bonus, and because
it was unusual for shipowners thus to come on board and speak to
common folk. It was not the habit of Consul Garman to trouble himself
much about the persons in his employ. Not that he was a hard
master--on the contrary, he always returned a salute with courtesy,
and had a word or two for everybody; but his manner was so extremely
distant and lofty, that the least demonstration of friendliness on
his part was a condescension accepted with gratitude and wonder.
Half an hour later, when he entered his boat again to go on shore,
the men cheered him. Standing up, he raised his hat to them; he was,
in fact, much moved, and was anxious to get home, and to be alone in
his office.
The Consul took the ship's papers and a bag of gold on shore with
him, for the venture had been a prosperous one. The firm "C. F.
Garman" had not done so good a business for a long time. So far it
was satisfactory, but it was not enough; for in spite of all Morten
Garman's efforts during the years that had elapsed since his father's
death, he had never succeeded in bringing life and vigour to the
large and widely extended business.
The firm had suffered so much during the period of war, and from a
reduction in the currency, that it was paralyzed for many years, and
at one time indeed seemed past recovery.
The fact was that from the first its means were locked up in landed
property to an extent which was out of all proportion to its
diminished available capital. Besides this, there were debts which
pressed heavily upon it.
Time brought no improvement; Morten W. Garman, who was an
exceptionally able man of business, was compelled to put forth all
his energy and diligence to maintain the ancient reputation of his
firm.
So long as he remained young, the concern struggled on; but now that
he was advanced in years, his wife dead, and his home desolate, it
pained him to think that he might leave the business which had been
his joy and pride, and which he had hoped to make so great and so
enduring, bereft of its vitality and in a feeble and disorganized
condition.
The household expenditure at Sandsgaard had always been considerable,
for his attractive and vivacious wife had been fond of parties,
masquerades, and entertainments, and her tastes had been fully shared
by her husband.
The freer mode of life which came in with the century, as well as his
position as the eldest son of a large mercantile family, had
encouraged somewhat extravagant views of life, and in the town his
ostentation had given rise to not a little derision and offence. Of
this, however, nothing reached his ears.
Owing to his foreign education, and to his frequent journeys abroad,
he brought back a peculiar atmosphere which pervaded his whole life,
his views, and his opinions--which latter were, indeed, very
different from those prevailing in the frugal little town, which at
this period found itself in a state of fermentation, owing on the one
hand to commercial progress, and on the other to a strong religious
movement.
As yet, however, the old-fashioned mode of entertainment prevailed at
Sandsgaard, where the civil and military personages of the grander
sort kept up their ancient traditions at festivals where they ate
well and drank deeply. Freedom and courtesy were so well balanced in
this society, that little restraint was put upon conversation. A
_risque_ word, the stray touch of a too daring hand or foot, or a
whisper behind a fan, which was in truth a furtive kiss, with a
hundred other trifling liberties, were permitted. Frivolity enveloped
the company as with a silken veil, and yet everything moved as
politely and as sedately as a minuet.
In this sort of life Consul Garman carried himself as easily and as
adroitly as a fish in its native element.
When he sat in his office on the mornings of his great dinner
parties, his pen flew over the paper, and on such occasions he
indited his ablest letters.
His thoughts were so clear, and his mind so prompt and unembarrassed,
that everything was arranged and ordered with the utmost precision.
In the same despatch in which he bespoke a cargo of coffee, he would
not forget twelve packets of sealing-wax and two hampers of Dutch
tobacco pipes for his store. He would descend without difficulty from
instructions to a captain who had lost his ship, to the most minute
details respecting certain stove pipes which he had seen in London,
and which he wished to introduce into the town hospital.
But when the post had been despatched, and the hour of three--the
usual hour for dinner parties--approached, and when the Consul had
shaved himself carefully, and had applied himself to sundry pots and
flasks of pomades and essences, he stepped up the broad staircase,
dressed in a long-skirted blue coat with bright buttons, a closely
fitting waistcoat, and a frilled shirt with a diamond breast-pin, his
comely iron-grey hair slightly powdered and curled. Perhaps, too, he
would be humming some French ditty of questionable propriety,
thinking of the gallantries of his youth; and as he stepped daintily
forward with his shapely legs, he would sometimes indulge in a hope
that knee breeches would again come into fashion.
In spite of his gallantries, however, Consul Garman had been an
exemplary husband, according to the standard of the times; and when
his wife died he really grieved for her, placing sundry tablets with
affectionate inscriptions in those parts of the garden which were her
special favourites.
After her death he gave up society, so that this item of expenditure
diminished perceptibly. Two other items, however, showed a tendency
to increase--the expenses connected with his sons, especially
Richard.
His affections were now bestowed upon these sons. Richard was at once
his pride and his weakness; a handsome exterior and easy temperament
were a reflection of his own youth; and when Richard took his best
horse and saddle, as well as his riding whip, which no one else was
allowed to touch, he stole from window to window, as long as his son
was in sight, pleased to observe his bearing and his seat on
horseback.
With his eldest son, Christian Frederik, the Consul was, however,
more strict.
He would write to Richard somewhat after the following fashion, when
his extravagance became serious:
"I can well understand that the _carriere_ which you, with the
sanction of your parents, have adopted, involves you in sundry
expenses, which, although apparently unnecessary, may on a closer
scrutiny be found, to a certain extent, warranted by circumstances.
On the other hand, however, I would have you to consider whether you
could not, at a perceptibly less cost, attain the same results as
regards your future in the diplomatic profession.
"Especially would I exhort you to keep regular accounts. Not so much
that I desire to limit your expenditure, as that, according to my own
experience, such accounts are an aid to self-control."
But accounts, and especially regular ones, were not to Richard's
liking. Sometimes, indeed, he pretended to render them; but the
letter soon drifted into jests and amusing stories, which diverted
his father, and made him forget all about the money.
Christian Frederik, however, had sent regular monthly extracts from
his account book ever since he had been at the Institute in
Christiania, and these extracts were scrutinized by his father with
unfailing rigour.
If there was any error in the address, not to mention any mistake in
the posting up, or if any item appeared which seemed unusual or
excessive, the son received a sharp admonition, warning him that
inaccuracy or extravagance were absolutely unpardonable in a man of
business.
This kept Christian Frederik in constant dread of his father, and
sometimes he felt much hurt; but he would have been consoled had he
known with what satisfaction the Consul examined these well-kept
accounts, and with what care they were filed and laid aside in a
certain drawer.
Christian Frederik, however, was the only person whom the Consul
admitted to his confidence, and in the copious letters which he wrote
to him at least once a month, he kept him informed upon business
matters. Latterly, too, he had sometimes asked him his opinion upon
one thing or another. The Consul was much interested, and to some
degree disturbed, by the development of the town during the last two
years. Moneyed strangers, who bought and cured herrings on their own
account, shipping them off by thousands of barrels in the spring
season, began to appear.
Large fortunes were made by the Haugians and others, who interlarded
their business letters with Scripture phrases, and who had not the
least idea of book-keeping.
The town was alive with stir and business, mixed up with religion, to
the unceasing astonishment of the old merchant. Money, too, was
abundant among these new folks.
At this period the anxieties of the Consul were revived, but he kept
them to himself. On no account should Christian Frederik know what
difficulties he often had to encounter.
The _Hope_ lay safely moored, with her ensign at the peak, and flying
the distinguished flag of the firm. Whilst the crew went on shore, a
constant stream of visitors came on board, both from Sandsgaard and
from the town.
The captain's white gig having been manned, he seated himself in the
stern sheets, a large flag trailing in the water behind him. Lauritz
Seehus, creeping in behind him, took the yoke lines, so that
everything should be done man-of-war fashion. The six men pulled with
a long stroke, their oars dipping along the surface of the sea as
they feathered them.
It was in this style that Captain Worse had always looked forward to
making his appearance on his return, and as he neared the quay he
became highly elated.
It would never have suited him to be landed at Sandsgaard and to go
on foot thence to the town, although it was the shortest and quickest
way. It was one of his fancies to look upon Sandsgaard as an island,
and, however bad the weather, he always went by boat to and from the
town.
He could see that a flag was displayed at his own warehouse by the
market quay--for he owned a straggling old building which occupied
one side of the market, and ended in a large five-storied structure
projecting into the sea. Jacob Worse was, in fact, a rich man, partly
from his own savings during many years as a captain, and partly from
successful speculations of his own.
But when he was at home for the winter season, he busied himself with
the fishery from the moment it began, buying selling, and curing on
his own account. The firm "C. F. Garman" did not trouble itself with
the herring fishery; it traded directly and by commission in salt and
grain, in addition to its banking and discounting business.
Captain Worse had in the course of years become a comparatively
wealthy man, and when, as on this occasion, he had been away for a
long time, he was anxious to learn how the persons in his employ had
conducted themselves in his absence.
But his chief desire was to meet Captain Randulf; and every time he
thought of it he slapped his leg and laughed aloud.
As it was summer, there were but few vessels in the harbour; most of
these, however, hoisted their colours when they saw Jacob Worse's
boat approaching. His acquaintances hailed him from wharf and
warehouse on each side of the bay, and he saluted in return, beaming
with pride and pleasure.
"Where are you going to lodge, Lauritz?" said he, as they approached
the wharf, for Lauritz Seehus's home was away at Flekkefjord.
"I think I shall stay with Madame Torvestad, where I always used to
lodge," said the lad.
"Oh, bother!" said Skipper Worse; "now that you are grown up you
cannot stay with that old bundle of tracts."
Observing, however, a certain expression on the countenances of his
men, he remembered himself, and added, "Ah, you scamp, it is for the
girls' sake that you wish to go to Madame Torvestad's. Mind what you
are about; remember that I command that ship too."
This was his joke, for Madame Torvestad rented a portion of the back
of his house.
When Skipper Worse reached the market quay he met with a sad
disappointment. Captain Randulf was away in the Baltic with a cargo
of herrings.