THE steamer which as far back as 1860 passed every week on its northward
way up along the coast of Norway, was of a very sociable turn of mind.
It ran with much shrieking and needless bluster in and out the calm,
winding fjords, paid unceremonious little visits in every out-of-the-way
nook and bay, dropped now and then a black heap of coal into the
shining water, and sent thick volleys of smoke and shrill little echoes
careering aimlessly among the mountains. It seemed, on the whole, from
an aesthetic point of view, an objectionable phenomenon--a blot upon the
perfect summer day. By the inhabitants, however, of these remote regions
(with the exception of a few obstinate individuals, who had at first
looked upon it as the sure herald of dooms-day, and still were vaguely
wondering what the world was coming to,) it was regarded in a very
different light. This choleric little monster was to them a friendly
and welcome visitor, which established their connection with the outside
world, and gave them a proud consciousness of living in the very heart
of civilization. Therefore, on steamboat days they flocked en masse
down on the piers, and, with an ever-fresh sense of novelty, greeted the
approaching boat with lively cheers, with firing of muskets and waving
of handkerchiefs. The men of condition, as the judge, the sheriff, and
the parson, whose dignity forbade them to receive the steamer in person,
contented themselves with watching it through an opera-glass from their
balconies; and if a high official was known to be on board, they perhaps
displayed the national banner from their flag-poles, as a delicate
compliment to their superior.
But the Rev. Mr. Oddson, the parson of whom I have to speak, had this
day yielded to the gentle urgings of his daughters (as, indeed, he
always did), and had with them boarded the steamer to receive his
nephew, Arnfinn Vording, who was returning from the university for
his summer vacation. And now they had him between them in their pretty
white-painted parsonage boat, with the blue line along the gunwale,
beleaguering him with eager questions about friends and relatives in
the capital, chums, university sports, and a medley of other things
interesting to young ladies who have a collegian for a cousin. His uncle
was charitable enough to check his own curiosity about the nephew’s
progress in the arts and sciences, and the result of his recent
examinations, till he should have become fairly settled under his roof;
and Arnfinn, who, in spite of his natural brightness and ready humor,
was anything but a “dig,” was grateful for the respite.
The parsonage lay snugly nestled at the end of the bay, shining
contentedly through the green foliage from a multitude of small
sun-smitten windows. Its pinkish whitewash, which was peeling off from
long exposure to the weather, was in cheerful contrast to the broad
black surface of the roof, with its glazed tiles, and the starlings’
nests under the chimney-tops. The thick-leaved maples and walnut-trees
which grew in random clusters about the walls seemed loftily conscious
of standing there for purposes of protection; for, wherever their
long-fingered branches happened to graze the roof, it was always with a
touch, light, graceful, and airily caressing. The irregularly paved yard
was inclosed on two sides by the main building, and on the third by
a species of log cabin, which, in Norway, is called a brew-house; but
toward the west the view was but slightly obscured by an elevated
pigeon cot and a clump of birches, through whose sparse leaves the
fjord beneath sent its rapid jets and gleams of light, and its strange
suggestions of distance, peace and unaccountable gladness.
Arnfinn Vording’s career had presented that subtle combination of farce
and tragedy which most human lives are apt to be; and if the tragic
element had during his early years been preponderating, he was hardly
himself aware of it; for he had been too young at the death of his
parents to feel that keenness of grief which the same privation would
have given him at a later period of his life. It might have been
humiliating to confess it, but it was nevertheless true that the terror
he had once sustained on being pursued by a furious bull was much more
vivid in his memory than the vague wonder and depression which had
filled his mind at seeing his mother so suddenly stricken with age, as
she lay motionless in her white robes in the front parlor. Since then
his uncle, who was his guardian and nearest relative, had taken him into
his family, had instructed him with his own daughters, and finally sent
him to the University, leaving the little fortune which he had
inherited to accumulate for future use. Arnfinn had a painfully distinct
recollection of his early hardships in trying to acquire that soft
pronunciation of the r which is peculiar to the western fjord districts
of Norway, and which he admired so much in his cousins; for the
merry-eyed Inga, who was less scrupulous by a good deal than her older
sister, Augusta, had from the beginning persisted in interpreting their
relation of cousinship as an unbounded privilege on her part to ridicule
him for his personal peculiarities, and especially for his harsh r and
his broad eastern accent. Her ridicule was always very good-natured, to
be sure, but therefore no less annoying.
But--such is the perverseness of human nature--in spite of a series
of apparent rebuffs, interrupted now and then by fits of violent
attachment, Arnfinn had early selected this dimpled and yellow-haired
young girl, with her piquant little nose, for his favorite cousin.
It was the prospect of seeing her which, above all else, had lent,
in anticipation, an altogether new radiance to the day when he should
present himself in his home with the long-tasseled student cap on
his head, the unnecessary “pinchers” on his nose, and with the other
traditional paraphernalia of the Norwegian student. That great day had
now come; Arnfinn sat at Inga’s side playing with her white fingers,
which lay resting on his knee, and covering the depth of his feeling
with harmless banter about her “amusingly unclassical little nose.”
He had once detected her, when a child, standing before a mirror, and
pinching this unhappy feature in the middle, in the hope of making
it “like Augusta’s;” and since then he had no longer felt so utterly
defenseless whenever his own foibles were attacked.
“But what of your friend, Arnfinn?” exclaimed Inga, as she ran up the
stairs of the pier. “He of whom you have written so much. I have been
busy all the morning making the blue guest-chamber ready for him.”
“Please, cousin,” answered the student, in a tone of mock entreaty,
“only an hour’s respite! If we are to talk about Strand we must make a
day of it, you know. And just now it seems so grand to be at home, and
with you, that I would rather not admit even so genial a subject as
Strand to share my selfish happiness.”
“Ah, yes, you are right. Happiness is too often selfish. But tell me
only why he didn’t come and I’ll release you.”
“He IS coming.”
“Ah! And when?”
“That I don’t know. He preferred to take the journey on foot, and he
may be here at almost any time. But, as I have told you, he is very
uncertain. If he should happen to make the acquaintance of some
interesting snipe, or crane, or plover, he may prefer its company to
ours, and then there is no counting on him any longer. He may be as
likely to turn up at the North Pole as at the Gran Parsonage.”
“How very singular. You don’t know how curious I am to see him.”
And Inga walked on in silence under the sunny birches which grew along
the road, trying vainly to picture to herself this strange phenomenon of
a man.
“I brought his book,” remarked Arnfinn, making a gigantic effort to be
generous, for he felt dim stirrings of jealousy within him. “If you care
to read it, I think it will explain him to you better than anything I
could say.”