It had rained for a fortnight--not all the time heavily, but a fog
had sullenly hung about the mountain tops, clinging to the
atmosphere and rendering the whole of existence a dull gray colour.
Every little while it would discharge a fine drizzle of rain or a
heavy shower down upon the hay and everything else on earth, so that
only the stones would occasionally be dry--but the grass never.
We were tired of the store--indeed, I should like to know who would
have enjoyed it. It dated back to the beginning of the last century,
a tarred, coal-black, ramshackle hut. The windows were low and
small, the windowpanes diminutive. The ceiling was low. Everything
was arranged in such a way as to exclude the possibility of lofty
flights of thought or vision.
Just now, not a living soul looked in--not even those thriftless
fellows who lived by chance jobs in the village and met in daily
conclave at the store. We had often cursed their lengthy visits, but
now that they had hired themselves out during the haymaking, we
suddenly realized that they had often been entertaining. They had
made many amusing remarks and brought us news of the neighbourhood.
And now we cursed them for their absence.
We sat there and smoked, staring vacantly at the half-empty shelves,
and all but shivering in the damp room. There was no heater in the
store at any season, and the one in the office, if used, emitted
spurts of smoke through every aperture except the chimney. It had
not been cleaned since sometime during winter, and we were not
ambitious enough for such an undertaking in the middle of the
summer.
We tried to transfer our thoughts from the store to the world
outside. We made clever comments to the effect that the farmers were
now getting plenty of moisture for the hay-fields, and that it would
be a pity if rain should set in now, right at the beginning of the
haying season. We had nothing further to say on the subject, but
this we repeated from day to day. In short, we were depressed and at
odds with things in general. Until the dry spell.
One morning, about nine o'clock, the bank of fog began to move.
First, there appeared an opening about the size of your hand, and
through it the eastern sky showed a bright blue. Then another
opening, and through it shone the sun.
We knew what this was called, and we said to each other: Merely a
'morning promise'--implying, nothing reliable. But it was more. The
fog began to show thinner and move faster along the mountain ridge
opposite. Then it gathered in a deep pass and lay there heaped up
like newly carded, snowy wool. On either side, the mountains loomed
a lovely blue, and in their triumph ignored the fog almost
completely. When we ventured a look through the doorway of the
store, there was nothing to be seen overhead save the clear, blue
sky and the sunshine.
On the opposite shore of the fjord, the people looked to us like the
cairns out on the moorlands, only these tiny cairns moved in single
file about the hay-fields. I seemed to smell the sweet hay in the
homefields, but of course this was only my imagination. I also
fancied I could hear the maids laughing, especially one of them. I
would willingly have sacrificed a good deal to be over there helping
her dry the hay. But of this subject no more; I did not intend to
write a love story--at least, not in the ordinary sense of the word.
The dry spell lasted. We, the clerks, took turns at staying out of
doors as much as possible, and 'drinking deeply of the golden fount
of sunshine'.
In the afternoon of the third day, I dropped in at the doctor's. I
felt somewhat weary with walking--and idleness--and looked forward
to the doctor's couch and conversation.
A cigar? asked the doctor.
Yes, a cigar, I answered. I have smoked only six today.
Beer or whisky and water? queried the doctor.
A small whisky, I replied.
I lit my cigar, inhaling deeply of its fragrance--then exhaling
through mouth and nostrils. I sighed with contentment; the cigar was
excellent.
Then we began to drink the whisky and water at our leisure. I
reclined against the head of the couch, stretched out my feet, was
conscious of a luxurious sensation--and sent my thoughts for a
moment across the fjord, where they preferred to remain.
The doctor was in high spirits. He talked about the Japanese and
Russians, the most recently discovered rays, and the latest
disclosures on how is felt to die.
My favourite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem
able to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but I am
almost inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to an art.
I can remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and once in a
while offer brief comment, not to set forth an opinion or display
any knowledge--for I have none to spare--but merely to suggest new
channels to the speaker and introduce variety, that he may not tire
of hearing himself speak.
I felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I thought it particularly
entertaining to hear the doctor tell how it felt to die. There is
always something pleasantly exciting about death--when it is
reasonably far away from you. It seemed so beautifully far away from
the perfume of the tobacco-smoke, the flavour of whisky, and the
restfulness of the couch, and when my mind wandered to her across
the fjord--as wander it would in spite of my studied attention--then
death seemed so far off shore that I could scarcely follow the
description of how it felt to others to die.
In the midst of this dreamy contentment and deluge of information
from the doctor, the door was somewhat hastily thrown open. I was
looking the other way and thought it must be one of the doctor's
children.
But it was old man Thordur from the Bend.
I knew him well. He was over fifty, tall and large-limbed, with a
hoary shock of hair and a snub nose. I knew he had a host of
children--I had been at his door once, and they had run, pattered,
waddled, crept, and rolled through the doorway to gape at me. It had
seemed as hopeless to try to count them as a large flock of sheep. I
knew there was no income except what the old man and woman--and
possibly the elder children--managed to earn from day to day. My
employer in Copenhagen had strictly forbidden us to give credit to
such--and of course he now owed us more than he would ever be able
to pay.
He does not even knock--the old ruffian, I said to myself.
From his appearance, something was wrong. His face was unnaturally
purplish, his eyes strangely shiny--yet dull withal. It even seemed
to me that his legs shook under him.
Can it be that the old devil is tipsy--at the height of the haying
season--and dry weather at that? I mentally queried.
The doctor evidently could not recall who he was.
Good-day to you, my man, he said, and what matter have you in hand?