A storm can be endured, however severe it be, if one is safe on the
land.
But when it rages week after week, day after day, and night after
night, so that no one can declare when one storm ends and the next
begins, there are few who are exempt from an oppressive nervous
feeling of anxiety, especially if, under such circumstances, they
happen to live in a small town built of wood, close down by the open
fjord, with the sea in front of them.
Then the heavens lower, so that the clouds course along the earth,
and rain and spray drift far inland. Rifts in the leaden sky show
fiery storm-streaks during the day, and the night is dark as death.
But the worst is when one lies helpless in bed, and the tempest rages
in the small crooked streets, shaking the eaves and tearing off the
tiles.
When one has not slept well, too, for many nights, and the day has
been spent looking from the barometer up at the grey sky, or out on
the deserted streets; when here and there a red spot on the mud marks
a broken tile; when one hears tales of misfortune in the town and in
the harbour, or of how narrow an escape from fire there was last
night--fire in such a storm--then it is that one doubts whether the
world is not out of course, whether everything will not fall asunder
or be upheaved, and the sea pour in over the low reefs, sweeping
churches, houses, and all out into the fjord like chips.
"The wrath of God is upon the land," said the Haugians, as they held
on their hats on the way to the meeting.
In the entrance passage, the wind lifted the ends of the women's
shawls over their heads, so that they entered the low, half-lit
meeting-hall in a somewhat dishevelled state. Here they sat, packed
close together, while the reader had either to raise his voice or to
cease for a time altogether, when the wind shook the doors and
windows, and wrestled with the ash trees outside.
In the pause which followed, he began to read again, but without life
or freedom. Uneasiness prevailed as they looked one at another, the
women crept together as each blast struck the house, and the men had
much to think about.
Many ships owned by the Haugians were on their way home from the
Baltic and St. Ubes. People waited and waited, but nothing arrived;
whilst the tempest grew worse and worse with ever-increasing gales,
between south-west and north-west. If they have not found a harbour
of refuge in time, God have mercy both on them and us.
Even Sivert Jespersen was without a smile on his countenance, sitting
still, and pushing his hands up his coat sleeves until they reached
the elbows; he seemed as if clutching at and grasping something.
Madame Torvestad, with an austere and imperious aspect, sat in her
place; many gazed at her, but she maintained her composure. He,
however, whom all wished to see among them, was absent.
Eight days before, Fennefos had quietly taken leave of the Brethren,
and had embarked for England in a Dutch ship, which had been lying in
the harbour. It was his intention to proceed from England to India.
He had not, however, left the country; for the Dutchman had been
compelled to take shelter from the storm, and Fennefos lay
weather-bound at Smorvigen, a few miles from the town. He had even
visited it two days since on some business.
The tempest had been somewhat moderated during the forenoon, but in
the evening the wind went to north-west, and blew harder than ever.
Heavy seas came into the bay, causing the vessels and lighters to
roll, and breaking on the open stone foundations under the wooden
storehouses, here and there even washing up through the floors above,
on account of the unusually high tide.
The wind whistled terribly through the rigging of the great ships,
and the moorings and fenders creaked and grated.
Along the gallery of Jacob Worse's warehouse, a slender white form
groped its way down the steps, and stood on the ground floor, which
seemed to rock every time the sea rolled in underneath.
Mustering all her strength, she contrived to draw aside so much of
the hanging door of the warehouse that she could squeeze herself
through the opening.
Supporting herself with one hand, as she leant over the dark water,
she repeated once more her oath before she let go:
"I promise and swear to love you faithfully in life and death, and
never to marry any other person, Lauritz--my own Lauritz."
Saying this, she loosed her hold, a heavy sea swept her under a
lighter, and she sank.
Later in the evening, some seafaring folk, who had been on board a
vessel to look after its moorings, saw something white, which surged
up and down by the stone steps at the market quay.
From the quay the news spread over the whole town, even more quickly
than such news generally travels; for all were in such a state of
consternation and excitement, owing to the long-continued tempest,
that the report of a corpse seemed to chime in with the general
feeling, and the tidings swept over the town as if borne upon the
wings of the tempest.
Children who were going to bed heard the servant girls in the kitchen
wringing their hands, and crying "God preserve us!" but when they
inquired of their mothers what it was all about, they were told that
it was something with which small children could have no concern,
and, believing that it must be something very terrible, they crept
trembling under the blankets.
Many versions of the story were circulated. Some said that she had
left her bed in a fit of madness--she was ill of a nervous
fever--whilst Madame Torvestad was at the meeting and the servant
girl away.
Some only muttered and shook their heads, and these latter gradually
formed the majority.
Others thought that it was another instance of what went on among the
Haugians.
Henrietta Torvestad had committed suicide; of this no doubts were
entertained. Perhaps her mother had tried to force her to marry Erik
Pontoppidan. Yes, the overbearing Madame Torvestad was blamed, she
and the Haugians, the gloomy, deceitful Haugians who grudged any joy,
either to themselves or others. It was they who had caused the death
of the poor girl; it was they who were the evil genius of the town,
which seemed as if a curse rested upon it.
Corpses floated in the bay, and tempest followed tempest incessantly,
as if the day of judgment were at hand.
In spite of the weather, many people were abroad in the streets, in
order to procure further information, and they found a group with a
couple of lanterns down by the market-place.
The Haugians heard the news just as they came home from the meeting.
Sivert Jespersen put on his great coat again, turned up the collar,
and hurried off through the dark streets to Madame Torvestad.
Many others besides him had ventured out. Men and women of the
Haugians were afraid to stay at home alone with this terrible news,
which, in some measure, caused them to feel conscience-stricken.
They went out in order to ascertain the truth, and to learn how the
elders received it. They met many persons in the streets near the
market-place, and a number of people bearing lanterns, who had
collected near Madame Torvestad's house.
Whenever any of the Haugians approached, they threw a light on their
faces, calling out their names with scornful and opprobrious words.
In order to enter, the Haugians were obliged to take a circuitous
route, and when they reached the door, a couple of the Brethren
opened it when the voice was recognized, shutting it quickly again.
Indoors they felt more secure, for Worse's premises were built in a
square, with a court-yard in the centre, like a fortress. But here,
too, there was distraction and terror. Madame Torvestad was said to
have gone out of her senses. She sat upright by the side of the bed,
watching the water as it dripped from the corpse, and would not allow
any one to touch it.
The old dyer was the only person she would suffer to be with her.
In the chief part of the house Jacob Worse lay, and fought his last
fight with the devil. He was in a room looking upon the court-yard,
for in the rooms towards the market-place they did not dare show
lights, in order not to excite the crowd, which was increasing, and
from which menacing utterances broke forth at times.
In a short time the principal men and women of the Haugian community
assembled. They went about with pale faces, in anxiety and
bewilderment, and no one was capable of taking the lead. In the
meantime the storm raged on, and the house shook to its foundations.
Jacob Worse lay on his death-bed, his features pale and drawn. For
many days he had suffered great pain, which was now gradually leaving
him, and both the doctor and the nurse declared that it was his last
night.
But the struggle was not yet over; one could see this by the anxious
way in which his eyes were turned from one to the other, when Sarah
was out of the room.
Sometimes he seemed to lapse into deep terror, throwing himself from
one side to the other, muttering something which they could not
understand, and rubbing his hands together.
"He is possessed by Satan," said one of the women.
This was the general opinion, and some searched in the Bible or in
one of the many little books for texts or hymns applicable to persons
possessed by the evil one.
But the majority were occupied with the terrible fate of Henrietta,
or were watching the tumultuous crowd outside.
Sarah moved among them with a distracted air; she seemed, indeed, as
if petrified with grief. It was not grief, however, that distracted
her. The separation from Fennefos, and Henrietta's death conjoined,
inflicted a stunning blow, which both chilled and hardened her.
Her dying husband yonder in his bed, the frightened men and women,
the uproar in the street, were matters of indifference to her, and
she could almost have smiled at them.
Out of doors things grew worse. A couple of boys began to batter the
wall; others, approaching the windows, climbed up and pressed their
faces against the panes.
The Haugians crept away into corners, and Sivert Jespersen lay almost
under the table.
"Some one must go out and speak to the crowd," said one of the older
women.
Sivert Jespersen was the man to do it, as he was the oldest of them,
but he would not venture forth; he knew only too well that his
presence would only make bad worse.
The old dyer was with Madame Torvestad; it would be better to ask him
to make the attempt.
It never occurred to any of them to apply to the police, for no one
in the town, and least of all the Haugians, was accustomed to seek
help in that quarter.
There must also have been some of the better class in the crowd that
filled the street and the greater part of the market-place, in front
of Skipper Worse's street door; for some of the lanterns were of the
expensive hexagonal sort, and of polished brass.
While they were debating whether they should fetch the old dyer, the
people outside ceased their uproar, and nothing was heard but the
hasty footsteps of people leaving the street and hurrying to the
market-place, where they crowded round somebody; and the lanterns
being directed on the central spot, it was comparatively light.
Here, taller than all the rest, the Haugians recognized their own
Hans Nilsen Fennefos.
He was speaking to the people. The tempest drowned his words, but
they knew his power over the wills of men; and whilst they all, both
men and women, pressed to the windows, they thanked God for this
succour, and congratulated one another, as if their lives had hung on
a thread.
Sarah remained alone in the sick room. She was absorbed with the idea
that she would see Fennefos again. She was terrified; she almost
trembled, and thought she would be unable to bear it.
Worse gazed at her, but finding no consolation in her distracted
looks, he shut his eyes, and seemed as if dozing.
Fennefos, entering by the street door, was received in the unlighted
passage by many friendly hands and affectionate greetings.
The first thing he said was: "Why do you sit here in the dark; are
you afraid of the light?"
After the whispering which had hitherto prevailed, it sounded as if
he spoke in a loud voice.
Two women went for lights, and the blinds were drawn down.
"You have come just at the right moment, Hans Nilsen," said Sivert
Jespersen, clapping him on the shoulder.
"How pleasant are the feet of those who bring glad tidings!" said
Nicolai Egelend.
"I come rather with evil tidings," said Hans Nilsen, looking gravely
from one to the other; "although I see that there is grief enough
already in this house. We heard yesterday at Smorvig that your ship
_Ebenezer_ is cast away to the South of Bratvold. Not a man was
saved. I, therefore, came here that you might make provision for the
widows and the fatherless."
"The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, praised be His Name,"
said Nicolai Egeland.
Sivert Jespersen turned away, and went out into another room. He
seemed to be occupied with some calculation.
In the street the people had begun to disperse. Fennefos was known
and, in a measure, respected.
That one whom all knew to have departed as a missionary to India had
now suddenly reappeared, produced also a certain effect; there was,
moreover, something about the man which enthralled all his hearers.
He spoke a few impressive words as to how ill it became them to add
to the burden when the Lord's hand fell heavily on a brother's house.
The better sort of lanterns disappeared, and the ordinary ones soon
followed; indeed, there was no temptation to remain in the
market-place on such a night.
Gradually the crowd broke up, some of them venting their feelings by
hammering at the wall as they passed Madame Torvestad's corner.
Fennefos had seated himself among the Haugians in the sick chamber,
and addressed them again.
Henrietta's death had moved him deeply, and every word he uttered
thrilled with emotion and pity, finding its way to all the sorrowing
hearts.
All listened. Some wept in silence. Sarah alone sat with half-averted
face and unmoved features. Sometimes she turned towards him; but he
looked at her as he looked at the others, frankly and openly.
Her deep-set eyes penetrated him, as if with a wail of the deepest
despair. Now that she was about to be free, all was lost. Would he
not help her?
He would not; not as she wished.
He spoke to them as if he were already far away, and it seemed to
them as if they heard the much-loved preacher speaking words of peace
from distant lands. After this, he rose, and bid them "Good night"
and "Farewell."
A great and painful surprise ensued. Was he about to leave them
again? Would he deprive them of that peace of which he had just been
the messenger?
They gathered round him with entreaties and endearments, talked of
the storm and of the dreadful weather, adding: "You will hardly find
the way, Hans Nilsen, this pitch dark night."
But he answered them gently, with his mother's hymn.
"For He who stills the tempest
And calms the rolling sea,
Will lead thy footsteps safely,
And smooth a way for thee."
At the door he turned once more, looking affectionately on them all.
Coming lastly to Sarah, who stood close by him, he reached out his
hand to her for the last farewell. The old innocent friendship of
their youth reappeared in his look--at once so kindly and so frank,
yet full of sorrow and of heartfelt sympathy.
When the others followed him out in the passage, Sarah turned back,
took a light, and went upstairs. Here she broke down, weeping for
poor Henrietta, for herself, and for all the misery around her.
Nothing remained to her but that bright, pure look, in the
remembrance of which her grief lost the hardness which had beset her,
and her thoughts reverted to the old times, when she and Fennefos
were as brother and sister.
In this condition a couple of women found her, by the linen closet,
weeping; and one said to the other: "See how she loved him!"
She started up in a confused manner, but quieted herself again when
she found that they alluded to her husband.
Several women who had small children at home now left, as the streets
were empty; but the majority of the company preferred to remain in
the house all night, in order to watch and pray with poor Skipper
Worse, and to be at hand in case of need.
From time to time one would go across the yard to listen at the door
of Madame Torvestad's apartments, and they were comforted by hearing
the voice of the old dyer, which proved that Madame Torvestad had
come to herself again.
At midnight coffee was brought into the room, and they took it in
turns to go in and drink a cup, in order to keep awake.
In the room of the dying man some sat reading good books, or one of
them would offer up a prayer for the sufferer, that the Lord might
soon release him and mitigate the pangs of death.
Jacob Worse had been lying perfectly still for a couple of hours, and
they could not tell whether he was conscious. Sarah sat by the
bedside, and took his hand in hers. It was the first time she had
shown anything like spontaneous affection; but it was now too late,
he was too far gone to observe it.
As the night drew on, the tempest abated, and the reading and prayers
lessened. All had undergone so much mental fatigue, that weariness
asserted itself, now that the storm was on the wane, and the sick man
was lying calm and still.
One and then another fell into a doze; Sivert Jespersen also closed
his eyes, but not in sleep. He was busied with calculations.
The reading now ceased, and all was perfectly silent. Suddenly they
all sprang up, for yonder, from his death-bed Jacob Worse cried out:
"Lauritz, you young scamp, go aloft and clear the dogvane!"
They hastened to his bedside, bringing lights; pale and terrified,
they gazed on the dying man, thinking it was the devil himself who
spoke through him.
Sarah had cast herself down by the bedside in prayer.
Jacob Worse was completely changed; his glazed eyes were half open,
and the look of pain had departed from his face; he seemed to be the
self-possessed Skipper Worse of old days. The thick white hair was
arranged in seemly order, and his hands lay upon the coverlet as if
he had finished something.
At this, the last moment, the devil had relaxed his hold; and whilst
the malady wrestled for the last time with the strong limbs of the
dying man, and his brain made its last effort, a crowd of ill-defined
recollections and bewildered thoughts whirled past, and a sudden
vision brightened the last moments of the sufferer.
It was the vision of that celebrated return from Rio, the proudest
moment of his life.
He was standing again on the deck of the _Hope_, a fresh north wind
was blowing in the fjord, and the old brig was gliding in under easy
sail.
He opened his eyes, but did not see the wan faces which had gathered
around him. He saw the sun shining over Sandsgaard Bay, where the
summer ripples hastened towards the shore, with the news that Jacob
Worse was in the fjord.
He tried to raise his head, in order to see the better; but, sinking
back upon the pillows, he muttered with a happy and contented smile:
"We come late, Herr Consul, but we come safely." And, so saying, old
Skipper Worse sailed out of the world.
End of Project Gutenberg's Skipper Worse, by Alexander Lange Kielland