Late in the autumn, when the sun set in lurid clouds full of storm
and rain, the little town was shrouded in a darkness which was only
relieved by a small lantern, which glimmered on the wall at the door
of the town hall.
Otherwise it was dark, pitch dark, in the narrow, crooked streets,
and down by the wharves, where one might fall headlong into the sea
if tipsy, or a stranger.
In the small shops train-oil lamps or tallow candles were burning, in
the larger ones suspended "moderator" lamps were beginning to be
used.
A faint light was thus thrown upon the puddles, and those who were
well acquainted with the street could pick their way dryshod.
Most people, however, wore long boots, and came tramping along, so
that they could be heard splashing through the mud.
Here and there a small lantern might be observed swinging along, at
one moment lowered carefully in order to seek a path in the worst
places, at others casting its inquisitive light in the faces of the
passers-by, or against the sides of the low wooden buildings.
Ladies with cap baskets, from which knitting needles were sticking
out, might be seen going to evening parties; or servant maids
carrying lanterns, and followed by little girls with thin white legs
and big goloshes on their feet, on their way to the dancing-school.
After seven o'clock there was scarcely any light in the shops, and
the streets seemed deserted. Now and then a ray of light was cast
upon the mud and puddles when the door of a tavern, where sailors and
topers quarrelled and rioted, was thrown open.
About this time the night watch would sally out of the town hall, in
order to take up its beat. It was composed generally of old seamen or
ship carpenters, who were past their work, men with hoarse, thick
voices, bent with age and hard of hearing.
They crept along very slowly, clad in long, thick, frieze coats,
bearing lanterns in their left hands, and thumping along the pavement
with their ponderous staves.
At certain appointed corners they cried out the hour and the state of
the weather, each in his own peculiar fashion, so that he could be
understood in his own beat, but nowhere else in the whole world.
When those who had been at parties came home at the usual respectable
hour of about ten o'clock, the lanterns reappeared in the streets.
When they fell in with a watchman, they wished him good night, the
young people asking the hour in order to tease him, the older ones
inquiring seriously about the direction of the wind.
After that the town became dark and silent. A drunken man would reel
from one side to the other until he fell down a cellar trap-door,
into the gutter, or into the sea. If by chance he stumbled upon the
watch, he soon found himself in the lock-up.
But it was not so easy to stumble upon the watch; for they had their
secret sleeping-corners, from which they only issued in case of
emergency, when they thought the time was come for crying out
something, or when the shuffling sound of leather boots was heard
approaching.
This was the watch which went the rounds, the fire watch of the town
consisting of four or five ancient watchmen, who had no voices left.
They wore their coat collars turned up, and their fur caps drawn
down, so that they could hardly notice a fire until it singed their
very beards. Nevertheless the town reposed in perfect security.
Perchance, however, some one would wake up and begin to think of the
quantity of rye which lay in the warehouses, or there came a series
of visions, clear and definite, such as appear to us in the darkness
of the night; first, an ember somewhere smouldering, spreading, and
then setting fire to the walls, seizing and enveloping the house, and
consuming the rye, salt, barrels, the store, and everything.
Then a shuffling noise of stiff leather boots and staves along the
pavement, all coming nearer every moment, and then passing out of
hearing.
Ah! the fire-watch going the rounds. All right, one can sleep now in
peace and comfort.
Or perhaps a child would wake up in a troubled dream, and would lay
and listen, terrified by hideous imaginations of thieves and robbers
climbing in at the kitchen window to kill father and mother with long
knives. But outside the watchman cries: "Two o'clock, and a still
night."
Ah! the watch; yes, of course, that was the watch; so no thieves or
robbers can come in at the kitchen window. All bad people must stay
at home, or the watch will take them to the lock-up. Yes, it was not
bad people, only good and kind folks and watchmen.
So it sleeps on again in peace and dreams no more.
But when they _did_ come, those three terrible cannon shots which
announced a fire, shaking and even bursting in the windows, unbounded
terror prevailed. High above the dark streets the hazy sky was
glowing like a sea of fire.
The drummer, Long Jorgen, beat furiously with the thicker ends of his
drumsticks; men with hoarse voices, and boys with shrill notes like
those of sea-gulls, rushed through the streets shouting: "Fire!
fire!"
Outside the engine-house, people carrying lanterns were assembling,
swearing, and shouting for the keys.
They hang behind the fire inspector's bed.
Off, then, to the fire inspector's.
In the pitchy darkness, the messenger encounters him, and running
full tilt against him, knocks the bunch of keys into the mud. Whilst
search is made for them with three lanterns, some sailors break open
the doors, and the engine is run out with a dismal rumbling sound.
Old women in their nightcaps run into the streets, with a washhand
basin or a flatiron. In the houses all flock to the parents'
bed-chamber. The smaller children sit up in bed and cry, whilst the
elder girls, half dressed, their hair hanging down their backs, and
white and trembling with fear, strive to comfort them.
But the mother sets to work to make coffee--hot coffee is good for
everything, and under all circumstances.
From time to time the father returns home to report how things are
going on.
Long since the boys have dressed themselves and disappeared. It is a
holiday to them, a festival of terror. The red sky overhead, the
darkness of the night the flames which now and then pierce the canopy
of smoke, the men rushing about and shouting--all this fills them
with an excitement equal to ten romances.
Determined to attempt something prodigious, to distinguish themselves
by something manly beyond conception, they rush into houses where
there is neither fire nor danger, and fasten upon the most immovable
and impossible objects.
The fire inspector stands by the engines and takes command; two rows
of men and lads pass the water forwards, and return the empty
buckets. At the seaside, or down by some well, the younger sailors
take it in turn to fill the buckets, until they are wet through and
their arms benumbed.
Officers of the Citizen Corps, in their blue tail coats with white
facings, run here and there, and with their long swords are in the
way both of themselves and of every one else.
But the sailors plunge into the very fire itself; entering the
houses, they strive to rescue the contents until the roofs fall in.
They climb up on the neighbouring houses with wet sails, and pull
down sheds and boardings.
Thomas Randulf and Jacob Worse were known from their boyhood as the
most daring on such occasions.
They were always the first on the spot, carrying out the aged and the
invalids, and afterwards taking the hottest and most dangerous posts.
In fact, they were the real commanders, although the fire inspector
had yellow and crimson feathers in his three-cornered hat.
At such time the merchants were in greater anxiety than the rest of
the population. Insurance was not usual; indeed, some of the
sectaries looked upon it as sinful. Others said that their insurance
was in the hands of the Almighty.
But when the wind set in their direction, and the wooden houses
blazed up, one after the other, the wisest and the best of them lost
their heads, and ran about throwing sacks of corn and flour into the
sea, labouring to destroy, whilst they forgot to save the cash in the
office close at hand.
Through the flame and smoke, through the uproar and the shouting, is
heard the booming of the great cathedral bell. Two or three slow
peals, then a long pause, and then more quickly intermittent single
peals, a dismal, hope-dispelling sound.
It is not an alarm bell rousing people to come to the rescue, it is
rather the church's prayer for mercy, a despairing appeal to God to
stop the raging flames.
But the winter nights could also show a different life in the dark
little town. It might be Christmas time, or just after New Year's
Day, when the north-west wind was bringing snow-storms every half
hour, the stars shining brightly between whiles.
Suddenly a boat would appear in the inner fjord, another and yet
another, then a small smack, followed again by a couple more boats,
each steering for its own destination in the harbour, and groping its
way to the ring-bolts under the warehouses and along the quays.
A man would jump on shore and run at full speed up into the town, his
huge sea-boots leaving marks as of elephants' feet on the newly
fallen snow. The watchman would hold up his lantern and survey the
wayfarer, whose boots, trousers, and even his sou-wester, shine with
countless starlike, silvery specks.
The watchman smiles, and, as he is a knowing old fellow, cries out,
when he reaches the corner by Skipper Worse's house, "Wind
north-west! The herring is on the coast!"
More boats and smacks arrive; the rattling of anchors and chain
cables is heard in all directions. Men knock at the walls of the
warehouses, and people sally forth with lanterns, doors are thrown
open, and the light falls on the men yonder in a boat, and on the
heaps of fat, glittering spring herrings.
Up in the town the merchant's house resounds as the man with the
sea-boots picks up a stone and hammers at the wall. He strikes
boldly, knowing that he brings welcome news.
All arouse themselves, thinking at first that it is a fire; but the
master of the house springing up, throws the window open.
"Ivar Ostebo sends his compliments. He has bought four hundred
barrels on your account."
"Do you know the price?"
"Three marks eighteen shillings. We are lying off the northern
warehouse with eighty barrels; the rest is close behind."
"How is the wind?"
"North-westerly, with snow-storms."
"Run off to Lars up on the hill, and bid him rouse up the women; he
knows what to do."
Upon this the window shuts down again, and the man in the sea-boots
hurries on, knocking against other men also running in the dark.
The merchant begins to put on his working clothes, which are always
at hand. His wife calls to him to put on two of his thickest woollen
coats, which he does; for he well knows what it is like in the
warehouse, with the wind at north-west with snow-storms.
The wind increases in gusts, and the snow is whirled about.
Boats and smacks arrive in such numbers before the north-west wind,
that the harbour is full of noise and shouting, the plashing of the
waves, the sound of furling sail, and the clanking of chain cables as
they rattle through the hawseholes.
In the upper stories of the warehouses lights appear. Oil lamps are
placed in all directions, and people begin to arrive--men, old women,
and girls.
The magazine of salt is opened, the cooper rummages among the
barrels, and the men in the boats grow impatient; they cry out that
they are going to begin, and the first herrings are shot upon the
floor. The whole town to its farthest corner is now on the alert;
lights shine in the small windows, and innumerable coffee-pots are
set by the fires. Bustle and hilarity prevail; the herring has
arrived, the herring that all have been expecting, and from which all
hope to get something.
The girls and women who have to clean the fish put on their working
dresses amidst noise and laughter, although the cold makes their
teeth chatter. Over everything they fold thick handkerchiefs, as a
protection to the head so that only the eyes and nose are visible;
for if the brine of the fish touches the hair, it causes a sore.
When they are ready they hasten in a crowd to the warehouse, where
they have entered into a contract beforehand. At once they join the
party to which they belong, and take their places in the midst of the
herring, which come higher than their wooden shoes, amidst barrels
and bowls of brine.
The unfortunate tallow candles placed on sticks in the heap of fish
are always in danger of being upset, or of being put out by being
snuffed with wet fingers.
They are soon supplied with short, sharp knives, and they proceed to
clean the herrings with great rapidity.
The snow is presently covered with huge footmarks, and the new layer
brought by each passing shower is soon trampled into mud.
Only up in the town and in the wider streets round about the school
is there enough for the boys to carry on their snow-balling, when at
last the morning arrives.
When the pale and sallow youngsters at the top of the school come
toiling along, with their dull burdens of Greek and Latin books,
their thoughts running upon a bygone literature, and their brains
crammed with grammar, half consisting of rules and half of exceptions
to those rules; and when they meet a troop of girls on their way
homewards, after having worked among the herrings half the night, it
may happen that the noisy girls will put their heads together and
laugh at them.
They have drawn down their handkerchiefs, so that their mouths are
now free. Chattering and laughing, they march up the middle of the
street, warm and rosy-cheeked after their labours, besprinkled with
fish scales up to the eyes.
Many of them are about the same age as the learned young gentlemen,
but they feel so much their superiors, that they laugh at the
half-admiring, half-contemptuous looks which they provoke.
The students feel this a little, but they find a solace in quoting
"_Plebs plebis_," or "_Semper mutabile_," or some such other classic
witticism.
They know that the herrings have come during the night, and they see
the harbour swarming with vessels, and the town astir with business.
But what of that? Was it for them to think of vile lucre? Their world
lay far above the common herd; they are on the road to Parnassus and
despise the grovelling souls--the mob--who toil and drudge, stooping
over their work like the beasts that perish, uncheered by a single
ray from the sacred altar of the muses.
This contempt for the masses they cherish until they have to descend
from Parnassus and enter the public service. Then they learn to
discourse eloquently on the benefits of commerce, whilst in reality
they are completely indifferent to it.
Scarcely any of the official classes, except the clergy, to whom on
such occasions offerings flowed more liberally, rejoiced in a good
fishing season. When the herring was abundant, and money was
plentiful in the country, so that everybody was able to clear off
incumbrances and to lay by something, the lawyers complained of bad
times.
But when, on the other hand, the people were badly off, when the
fishing or the harvest failed, when a tightness of money stopped
supplies, so that bankruptcies, distress warrants, and forced sales
by auction, with heavy law charges were frequent, then it was that
the lawyers throve.
With the exception of the official class, and of the few families
that lived upon pensions or dividends, there was a feeling of joy
over all the town when the herrings arrived. All were interested in a
prosperous fishing, which should bring the fulfilment of
long-cherished hopes, or relief from embarrassments.
First and foremost everything relating to the sea--and this comprised
the whole town--was in a state of activity, from the fishermen
themselves to the dealers in salt and the speculators. All moved in a
sort of delirium so long as the fishing lasted.
Not only skippers, but even young mates, were entrusted with vessels,
and the most daring feats were performed in order to arrive first at
the fishing-ground, and to secure a full cargo.
Men misled one another with false information, occasionally came to
blows, and drank deeply when time and opportunity offered.
In the club, the evenings were noisy; all the rooms were full, and
people even sat on the edge of the billiard-tables, which was
contrary to rules.
Every new-comer was expected to bring tidings of the fishing, of the
prices, and of how many shoals were surrounded by the nets, also, if
there were any news from the north.
These were the only available sources of information, and business
was regulated accordingly. Sometimes they were correct, sometimes
altogether wrong.
Sometimes the fishing was best after it had been declared that the
herrings had spawned and gone out to sea. Sometimes, again, there was
no fishing, even when enormous shoals were reported; and people were
left with dearly purchased salt and empty barrels.
At the club after the dinner hour, and when business was considered
over for the day, there was a good deal of drinking and singing.
There was almost always some young skipper who, stepping forward,
would, in the deepest and gruffest tones at his command, ask
permission to treat the company to a glass. They know that he has
made more than a hundred dollars on one cargo, so he can afford to be
free with his money.
When the punch-bowl is placed before the seniors of the party,
Harbour-master Snell and the master pilot, a song in praise of the
herring is struck up; they empty their glasses after the fashion of
their forefathers, and sing in honour of "Gamle Norge," of the
shipping trade, and of the constitution.
Late into the night the windows rattled again with the chorus, and
the longer they sat the louder they sang, beating time on the table
with the thick tumblers.
But there were others in the town who never drank, nor set their feet
in the club, and yet whose interest and welfare lay in the fishing.
These were the Haugians, the holy ones, as scoffers called them.
Besides Sivert Jespersen and the brothers Egeland, who carried on a
large salting business in addition to their store, many other
Haugians speculated in herrings. Generally they had been peasant
boys, who had come to the town to take service with some of the
elders, and had thus learnt the Haugian frugality, exactness, and
diligence. As soon as they could start some little business on their
own account, they advanced rapidly.
At the fishing, where the life was very wild, they took their part,
although they were much ridiculed, because they sang hymns instead of
drinking and using bad language.
Gradually people began to see that these good folks were not to be
despised. There was nothing whatever against them; they were neither
rioters nor spendthrifts; their boats were always ready, and their
gear in good order, and although they neither swore nor drank, they
would sail a boat with the most daring.
While they bore themselves peaceably and quietly they were ever ready
to assert their rights, and people thought twice before they meddled
with them.
Sivert Jespersen, too, had been a peasant lad who had worked himself
up from nothing. He now owned two large warehouses in the town and
several salting-houses in the north. Moreover, he had several shares
in sundry vessels.
He no longer went to the fishing himself, as he was over sixty, much
bent, and very rheumatic, like most of those who had frequented the
winter fishing in their youth.
But when the herring came in, he strolled up to the warehouse in his
old-fashioned coat and fur cap, and on such occasions he was radiant
with good humour. The whole building is full of people, herrings,
salt, and barrels; noise and shouting, the sound of coopering and of
hoisting and lowering by ropes.
The floors and steps are wet and slippery with brine and with the
blood of herrings dripping down from one floor to another. Fish
scales cover the walls, and everywhere there is a smell as if one
were in the belly of a whale.
Amidst all this, Sivert Gesvint moves about with a tallow candle in
his hand, up and down and round about the whole house, humming a
psalm tune as he goes.
There is some disturbance among the fish-girls; they are either
quarrelling or playing some practical joke, but so roughly that two
barrels packed with herrings are upset, and the contents scattered on
the floor and into the salt tubs, making a sad mess.
"Come, come," says Sivert Jespersen, approaching them, his voice mild
and soft as usual; "you must treat the gifts of God with care, so
that they may not be injured or wasted. Is it not so, dear children?"
He looks from one to the other with his cold grey eye and fixed
smile, while the girls silently busy themselves in gathering up and
repacking the fish.
It was always considered much more disagreeable to be called "dear
children" by Sivert Jespersen than to be called "young devils" by any
one else.
Although in their quiet way they throve, and seemed to conduct their
affairs with much prudence and discretion, the business affairs of
these Haugians rested upon anything but a solid foundation. Two years
of failure in the fishing, or a disastrous fire in their uninsured
property, and many apparently large fortunes would melt away almost
to nothing.
They felt this themselves sometimes, when the herring were late in
coming, or when, in the spring time, they found the till empty and
the barrels of herrings unsold, and when everything depended upon the
rise or fall of prices in Russia or Prussia.
At such times their hands trembled when the post, which only came
once a week, arrived. They spent sleepless nights, and it was
especially at such times that they would sing hymns.
When they assembled at daily meetings, they read, they prayed, they
sang; and as they sat and looked at one another, each knowing how
much his neighbour had at stake, knowing, too, how peaceful and
guileless they were, and how God had hitherto protected them, they
were satisfied that He would not now abandon them--"if not for my
sake," some speaker would say, "yet for the sake of others." Then
they felt strengthened in prayer, and smiling affectionately at each
other, would depart to their homes, greatly comforted.
They were not disappointed; for year after year they throve, and
their capital increased. Those who had salted one thousand barrels
one year would take three thousand the next. They were on the
look-out at all points; they pressed forward at all hazards; and
while they seemed so quiet with their psalm-singing and gentle mode
of speech, they were, in truth, energetic, even desperate,
speculators.
This was thoroughly displeasing to Hans Nilsen Fennefos, not that it
was against Hauge's rule that the Brethren should enter into trade,
on the contrary.
But this was not the old style of industry, with its reasonable
desire for moderate profits. The money came too easily, and in too
great abundance. Fennefos observed also that luxury was beginning to
creep in among the Brethren; there were even dinner parties, where
the eating was excessive.
The fact was that these frugal people were so unaccustomed to joints
and puddings, that when they found they could afford them, they took
a half-childish pleasure in ordering dinners like those supplied to
the great houses.
Fennefos reasoned with and rebuked them; but although they listened,
smiled, and thanked him, no change resulted.
Moreover, in the public life of the town, these quiet men, who had
become rich unnoticed, began to assert themselves, and it was found
that, for many reasons, they had to be considered. Their gentle
manners and humble address ceased to provoke ridicule.
By degrees, as the Haugians advanced in worldly affairs, and lost in
spiritual life, a superficial piety, proceeding from them and from
their movement, crept into society, both in town and country--a sort
of perfunctory formalism, which seemed to prosper.
Such was the condition of the place at that time--an old town of new
ideas, narrow, crooked, unenlightened, and yet religious; at the same
time fresh and bright, looking down upon the blue sea with its
gallant ships and hardy seamen.
It should be seen on a summer day, in bright sunshine and a clear
northerly wind, when the gulls fly out over the fjord and backwards
and forwards along the front of the white-painted warehouses of the
harbour, where they are unloading salt, and the wind bears the sound
of the sailors' chorus. "Amalia Maria, from Lisbon we come," as the
salt rustles along the broad wooden trough down into the lighters
alongside, with a never-to-be-forgotten merry sound; the whole town
smelling somewhat of herrings, but chiefly of the sea, the fresh
North Sea.
Those who had been long away from home, and who had travelled the
whole world round, declared that such an air is to be met with
nowhere else.