had to be done. There were strange boats coming in now almost every
day, and a nice idea they would gain of the relations between Trader
Mack and his people when it was found that they robbed and stole his
money. Like the open-handed merchant prince he was, Mack fixed the
reward at four hundred _Daler_. Then all could see he was not afraid of
putting up a round sum.
The story came to the ears of the new priest, and, on Trinity Sunday,
when the sermon was to be about Nicodemus who came to Jesus in the
night, he made use of the opportunity to deliver an attack upon the
culprit. “Here they come to us by night,” he said, “and break open our
doors and steal away our means of life. Nicodemus did no wrong; he was
a timorous man, and chose the night for his going, but he went on his
soul’s errand. But what did men do now? Alas, the world had grown in
evil-doing, the night was used for plundering and stealing. Let the
guilty be punished; bring him forth!”
The new priest was found to be a fighting cock. This was the third
time he had preached, and already he had persuaded many of the sinners
in the parish to mend their ways. When he stood up in the pulpit, he
was so pale and strange that he looked like a madman. Some of the
congregation found the first Sunday quite enough, and did not venture
to come again. Even Jomfru van Loos was shaken, and that was no little
thing. Rough and hard as a rasp was Jomfru van Loos, and had been all
her days till now. The two maids under her noted the change with much
content.
There was a considerable gathering in the place now. And there were
some who were not displeased at the discomfiture of Trader Mack. Mack
was getting too mighty a man altogether, with his two trading stations,
his seines, his factory, and his numerous vessels; the fisherfolk from
other stations held by their own traders, who were condescending and
easy to get on with, and who did not affect white collars or deerskin
gloves as did Mack. The burglary was no more than he deserved for his
high-and-mightiness. And as for offering rewards of so-and-so many
hundred _Daler_ for this, that, and the other--Mack would be better
advised to keep his ready cash for buying herring, if the herring came.
After all, his money was not beyond counting; not like the stars in the
sky. Who could say but that the whole thing might have been cleverly
contrived by himself, or his son Frederik: a sham burglary, to make it
appear that he could afford to lose money like grass, while all the
time he was in sore need of cash? So the gossip ran among the boats and
on shore.
Mack realised that he must make a good impression. Here were folk from
five different parishes who would carry back word of what sort of man
he was to traders and relatives in other parts. Again and again it must
be seen what manner of man was Trader Mack of Rosengaard.
Next time he had occasion to go up to the factory Mack hired a steamer
for the journey. It was four miles from the stopping-place, and it cost
a deal of money, but Mack took no heed of that. There was a great to-do
about the place when the steamer came bustling in with Mack and his
daughter Elise on board. He was lord of the vessel, so to speak, and
stood there on board with his red sash round his waist, for all it was
a summer’s day. As soon as father and daughter had landed, the steamer
put about and went off at once; all could see that it had come for
their sake only. And in face of this, some even of the stranger folk
bowed to the power of Mack.
But Mack did more. He could not forget the disgrace of that burglary
affair. He put up a new placard, promising that the reward of four
hundred _Daler_ would be paid even to the thief himself if he
came forward. Surely this was unequalled as a piece of chivalrous
generosity? All must admit after this that it was not the money, a few
miserable _Daler_, that troubled him. But the gossip was not stilled
even now. There were still whisperings: “If the thief’s the man I
think, you’ll see he’ll not own up to it now any more than before. But
never a word that I said so!”
Mack the all-powerful was in an intolerable position. His reputation
was being undermined. For twenty years past he had been the great man
of the place, and all had made way for him respectfully; now there
seemed to be less of respect in their greetings. And this despite
the fact that he had been decorated with a Royal Order. A great man
indeed he had been. He was the spokesman of the village, the fishermen
worshipped him, the little traders of the outlying stations imitated
his ways. Mack had stomach trouble, brought on, no doubt, by his royal
table and splendid living, and he wore a broad red sash round his waist
as soon as it began to be at all cold. Soon the little traders of the
outlying stations began to wear red sashes too, for all they were but
insignificant folk--upstarts whom Mack graciously allowed to live. They
too would have it appear that they were great men living in luxury,
with stomach troubles due to extravagant over-feeding. Mack went to
church in shoes that creaked, and walked up the aisle with supercilious
noises; but even his creaky shoes were copied by others after him.
There were some, indeed, who set their shoes in water and dried them
hard for Sundays, to creak emphatically among the congregation. Mack
had been the great example in every way.
[Illustration]
IV
Rolandsen sits in his laboratory, hard at work. Looking out from the
window he marks how a certain branch of a certain tree in the wood
moves up and down. Somebody must be shaking it, but the leaves are too
thick for him to see more. Rolandsen goes back to his work.
But somehow the work seemed to clog to-day. He took his guitar and
tried singing one of his joyful laments, but even that failed to please
him. The spring was come, and Rolandsen was troubled.
Elise Mack was come; he had met her the evening before. Proud and
haughty she was, and carried herself like a lady; it seemed as if she
would have tried to please him a little with a touch of kindliness here
and there, but he would have none of it.
“I saw the telegraph people at Rosengaard before I left,” she said.
But Rolandsen had no wish to claim friendship with the telegraph
people; he was no colleague of theirs. She was trying to emphasise the
distance between herself and him once more--ho-ho! He would pay her out
for that!
“You must teach me the guitar some day,” she said.
Now this was a thing to start at and to accept with thanks. But
Rolandsen would have none of it. On the contrary, he would pay her out
on the spot. He said:
“Very pleased, I’m sure. Whenever you like. You can have my guitar.”
Yes, that was the way he treated her. As if she were any but Elise
Mack, a lady worth ten thousand guitars.
“No, thank you,” she said. “But we might use it to practise on.”
“I’ll make you a present of it.”
But at that she tossed her head, and said:
“Thank you; I’d rather be excused.”
The wily Rolandsen had touched her there. And then all at once he
forgot every thought of paying her out, and murmured:
“I only meant to give you the only thing I had.”
And with that he raised his hat and bowed deeply, and walked away.
He walked away to the parish clerk’s in search of Olga. The spring was
come, and Rolandsen must have a lady-love; ’twas no light thing to rule
such a big heart. But apart from that he was paying attention to Olga
with a purpose. There was some talk about Frederik Mack, how he had
an eye to Olga himself. And Rolandsen meant to cut him out, no less.
Frederik was brother to Elise herself, and it would do the family good
if one of them were jilted. But anyhow, Olga was attractive enough in
herself. Rolandsen had seen her grow up from a slip of a child; there
was little money to spare in the home, and she had to wear her clothes
as far as they would go before getting new things; but she was a
bright, pretty girl, and her shyness was charming.
Rolandsen had met her two days in succession. The only way to manage
it was by going straight up to the house and lending her father a book
every day. He had to force these books on the old man, who had never
asked for them and could not understand them. Rolandsen had to speak up
for his books and plead their cause. They were the most useful books in
the world, he said, and he, Rolandsen, was bent on making them known,
on spreading them abroad. _Værsaagod_![3]
[3] Literally, “Be so good” (as to accept ...), used when offering
anything.
He asked the old man if he could cut hair. But the parish clerk had
never cut hair in his life; Olga did all the hair-cutting in the
house. Whereupon Rolandsen addressed himself to Olga, with prayers and
eloquent entreaties, to cut his hair. Olga blushed and hid herself.
“I couldn’t,” she said. But Rolandsen routed her out again, and
overwhelmed her with irresistible words until she agreed.
“How do you like it done?” she asked.
“Just as you like,” he answered. “As if I could think of having it
otherwise.”
Then, turning to her father, he tangled him up in a maze of intricate
questions, until the old man could stand no more, and at last withdrew
to the kitchen.
Rolandsen, elated, grew more extravagant than ever. He turned to Olga
and said:
“When you go out in the dark on a winter evening and come into a
lighted room, then all the light comes hurrying from everywhere to
gather in your eyes.”
Olga did not understand a word of all this, but said, “Yes.”
“Yes,” said Rolandsen, “and it’s the same with me when I come in and
see you.”
“Is it short enough here now?” asked Olga.
“No, not nearly. Just keep on. Do it just the way you like. Ah, you
thought you could slip away and hide--didn’t you?--but you couldn’t. It
was like the lightning putting out a spark.”
Of all the mad talk....
“I could manage better if you’d keep your head still,” said she.
“Then I can’t look at you. Say, Olga, have you a sweetheart?”
Olga was all unprepared for this. She was not so old and experienced as
yet but that some things could put her out of countenance.
“Me? No,” was all she said. “Now I think it’ll have to do as it is.
I’ll just round it off a little.” She spoke gently, having some idea he
must be drunk.
But Rolandsen was not drunk at all; he was sober. He had been working
hard of late; the gathering of strangers in the place had kept the
telegraph busy.
“No, don’t stop yet,” he urged. “Cut it round once more--once or twice
more--yes, do.”
Olga laughed.
“Oh, there’s no sense in that!”
“Oh, but your eyes are like twin stars,” he said. “And when you smile,
it’s sunlight all round and all over me.”
She took away the cloth, and brushed him down, and swept up the hair
from the floor. Rolandsen bent down to help her, and their hands met.
She was a maid, he felt the breath of her lips close to, and it
thrilled him warmly. He took her hand. Her dress, he saw, was fastened
at the throat with just an ordinary pin. It looked wretchedly poor.
“Oh--what did you do that for?” she stammered.
“Nothing. I mean, thank you for doing my hair. If it wasn’t for being
firmly and everlastingly promised to another, I’d be in love with you
this minute.”
She stood up with the clippings of hair in her hands, and he leaned
back.
“Now your clothes’ll be all in a mess,” she said, and left the room.
When her father came in, Rolandsen had to be jovial once more; he
stretched out his shorn head, and drew his hat down over his ears to
show it was too big for him now. Then suddenly he looked at the time,
said he must get back to the station, and went off.
Rolandsen went to the store. He asked to look at some brooches and
pins--the most expensive sort. He picked out an imitation cameo, and
said he would pay for it later, if that would do. But that would not
do; Rolandsen owed too much already. Consequently, he was reduced to
taking a cheap little glass thing, coloured to look like agate--this
being all his few small coins would run to. And Rolandsen went off with
his treasure.
That was the evening before....
And now, here sits Rolandsen in his room, and cannot get on with his
work. He puts on his hat and goes out to see who it might be waving
branches in the wood. And walks straight into the lion’s jaws. Jomfru
van Loos it was had made that sign, and she stands there waiting for
him. Better have curbed his curiosity.
“_Goddag!_” says Jomfru van Loos. “What on earth have you been doing
with your hair?”
“I always have it cut in the spring,” said he.
“I cut it for you last year. I wasn’t good enough this, it seems.”
“I’m not going to have any quarrels with you,” says he.
“Oh, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. And you’ve no call to stand here pulling up all the
forest by the roots for everyone to see.”
“You’ve no call to stand there being funny,” says she.
“Why don’t you stand out down on the road and wave an olive branch?”
says Rolandsen.
“Did you cut your hair yourself?”
“Olga cut my hair, if you want to know.”
Yes, Olga, who might one day be the wife of Frederik Mack; she had cut
his hair. Rolandsen was not inclined to hide the fact; on the contrary,
it was a thing to be blazoned abroad.
“Olga, did you say?”
“Well, and why not? Her father couldn’t.”
“I’m tired of your goings-on,” said Jomfru van Loos. “Don’t you be
surprised if you find it’s all over between us one fine day.”
Rolandsen stood thinking for a moment.
“Why, perhaps that would be best,” he said.
“What!” cried Jomfru van Loos. “What’s that you say?”
“I say you’re clean out of your senses in the spring. Look at me now;
did you ever see the least little restlessness about me in the spring?”
“Oh, you’re a man,” she answered carelessly. “But, anyhow, I won’t put
up with this nonsense about Olga.”
“This new priest--is he rich?” asked Rolandsen.
Jomfru van Loos wiped her eyes and turned sharp and sensible all at
once.
“Rich? As far as I can see he’s as poor as can be.”
Rolandsen’s hope was shattered.
“You should see his clothes,” she went on. “And her’s. Why, some of her
petticoats.... But he’s a wonderful preacher. Have you heard him?”
“No.”
“One of the wonderfullest preachers I’ve ever heard,” says Jomfru van
Loos in her Bergen dialect.
“And you’re quite sure he’s not rich?”
“I know this much; he’s been up to the store, and asked them to let
him have things on credit from there.”
For a moment Rolandsen’s world was darkened, and he turned to go.
“Are you going?” asked Jomfru van Loos.
“Why, yes. What did you want with me, anyway?”
So that was the way he took it! Well, now ... Jomfru van Loos was
already some way converted by the new priest, and strove to be meek and
mild, but her nature would break out now and again.
“You mark my words,” she said. “You’re going too far.”
“All right!” said Rolandsen.
“You’re doing me a cruel wrong.”
“Maybe,” said Rolandsen coolly as ever.
“I can’t bear it any longer; I’ll have to give you up.”
Rolandsen thought this over once more. And then he said:
“I thought it would come to this. But seeing I’m not God, I can’t help
it. Do as you please.”
“Right, then,” said she furiously.
“That first evening up here in the wood--you weren’t in such a temper
then. I kissed you, and never a sound you made then but the loveliest
little squeak.”
“I _didn’t_ squeak,” said Jomfru van Loos indignantly.
“And I loved you for ever and ever, and thought you were going to be a
fine particular joy. Ho, indeed!”
“Never you mind about me,” she said bitterly. “But what’s it to come to
with you now?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t care now, anyway.”
“For you needn’t imagine it’ll ever come to anything with you and Olga.
She’s to have Frederik Mack.”
Was she? thought Rolandsen. So it was common talk already. He walked
away thoughtfully, and Jomfru van Loos went with him. They came down on
to the road and walked on.
“You look nice with your hair short,” she said. “But it’s badly cut,
wretchedly badly cut.”
“Can you lend me three hundred _Daler_?” he asked.
“Three hundred _Daler_?”
“For six months.”
“I wouldn’t lend you the money anyway. It’s all over between us now.”
Rolandsen nodded, and said, “Right, then, that’s agreed.”
But when they reached the Vicarage gate, where Rolandsen had to turn
off, she said, “I haven’t the money. I wish I had.” She gave him her
hand, and said, “I can’t stand here any longer now; good-bye for the
present.” And when she had gone a few steps, she turned round and said,
“Isn’t there anything else you’d like me to say?”
“No; what should there be?” said Rolandsen. “I’ve nothing that I know
of.”
She went. And Rolandsen felt a sense of relief, and hoped in his heart
it might be for the last time.
There was a bill stuck up on the fence, and he stopped to read it; it
was Trader Mack’s latest announcement about the burglary: Four hundred
_Speciedaler_ for information. The reward would be paid even to the
thief himself if he came forward and confessed.
Four hundred _Speciedaler_! thought Rolandsen to himself.
[Illustration]
V
No, the new priest was not a rich man, far from it. It was only his
poor little wife who was full of thoughtless, luxurious fancies she had
been brought up with, and wanted a host of servants and such. There
was nothing for her to do herself in the house; they had no children,
and she had never learned housekeeping, and that was why she was for
ever hatching childish ideas out of her little head. A sweet and lovely
torment in the house she was.
Heavens alive, how the good priest had fought his comical battles with
his wife again and again, trying to teach her a scrap of sense and
thought and order! For four years he had striven with her in vain. He
picked up threads and bits of paper from the floor, put odds and ends
of things in their proper places, closed the door after her, tended the
stoves, and screwed the ventilators as was needed. When his wife went
out, he would make a tour of the rooms and see the state she had left
them in: hairpins here, there, and everywhere; combs full of combings;
handkerchiefs lying about; chairs piled up with garments. And he
shuddered and put things straight again. In his bachelor days, when he
lived by himself in an attic, he had felt less homeless than he did now.
He had scolded and entreated at first, with some effect; his wife
admitted he was right, and promised to improve. And then she would get
up early the next morning and set about putting things in order high
and low, like a child in a sudden fit of earnestness, playing “grown-up
peoples,” and overdoing it. But the fit never lasted; a few days after
all was as before. It never occurred to her to wonder at the disorder
when it appeared once more; on the contrary, she could not understand
why her husband should begin again with his constant discontent. “I
knocked over that dish and it smashed,” she would say. “It was only a
cheap thing, so it doesn’t matter.”--“But the pieces have been lying
about ever since this morning,” he answered.
One day she came in and told him that Oline the maid would have to go.
Oline the maid had been rude enough to complain about her mistress’s
way of taking things out of the kitchen and leaving them about all over
the place.
And so, after a time, the priest grew hardened to it all, and gave up
his daily protest; he still went on setting in order and putting things
straight, but it was with compressed lips and as few words as might
be. And his wife made no remark; she was used to having someone to
clear up after her. Her husband, indeed, really felt at times that she
was to be pitied. There she was, going about so pleasantly, a trifle
thin, and poorly dressed, yet never uttering a sigh at her poverty,
though she had been brought up to lack for nothing. She would sit and
sew, altering her dresses that had been altered so many times already,
humming over her work as cheerfully as a young girl. Then suddenly her
childishness would break out; the mistress of the house would throw
down her work, leave everything strewed as it fell, and go off for a
walk. And chairs and tables might be left for days strewn with tacked
sleeves and unpicked skirts. Where did she go? It was an old habit of
hers from her youth at home to go fluttering about among the shops; she
delighted in buying things. She could always find some use for remnants
of material, bits of ribbon, combs and perfumes and toilet trifles, odd
little metal things, matchboxes, and the like. Much better buy a big
thing and have done with it, thought her husband; never mind if it were
expensive and brought him into debt. He might try to write a book, a
popular Church history, or something, and pay for it that way.
And so the years passed. There were frequent little quarrels; but the
two were fond of each other none the less, and as long as the priest
did not interfere too much, they managed well enough. But he had a
troublesome way of keeping an eye on some little thing or other even
from a distance, even from his office window; only yesterday he had
noticed a couple of blankets left out in the rain. Should he tell
someone? Then suddenly he saw his wife coming back from her walk,
hurrying in out of the rain. She would notice them herself, no doubt.
But she went straight up to her room. He called out into the kitchen;
there was no one there, and he could hear Jomfru van Loos out in the
dairy. So he went out himself and brought the blankets in.
And so the matter might have passed off, and no more said. But the
priest could not keep his peace, foolish man. In the evening his
wife asked for the blankets. They were brought. “They’re wet,” said
she.--“They would have been wetter if I hadn’t fetched them in out of
the rain,” said her husband. But at that she turned on him. “Was it
you that fetched them in? There was no need for you to do anything of
the sort; I would have told the maids myself to fetch them in.” He
smiled bitterly at that; if he had left it till she told the maids, the
blankets would have been hanging out now.
But his wife was offended. Was there any need to make such a fuss about
a drop of rain or so? “Oh, but you’re unreasonable,” she said; “always
bothering about all sorts of things.”--“I wish I were not obliged to
bother about such things,” said he. “Just look at your washing-basin
now; what’s it doing on the bed?”--“I put it there because there was no
room anywhere else.”--“If you had another wash-stand, it would be all
the same,” said he. “You’d have that loaded up with other things too
in no time.” Then she lost patience, and said, “Oh, how can you be so
unreasonable; really, I think you must be ill. I can’t bear any more of
it, I can’t!” And she sat down, staring before her.
But she bore it all the same. A moment after it was all forgotten, and
her kind heart forgave him the wrong. Careless and happy she was; it
was her nature.
And the priest kept more and more to his study, where the general
disorder of the house rarely penetrated. He was a big, sturdy man, and
worked like a horse. He had inquired of his lay-helpers as to the moral
tone of the village, and what he learned was by no means satisfactory.
Wherefore he wrote letters of reprimand and warning to one and another
of his flock, and where that did not avail, he went in person to visit
the delinquents, till he came to be looked on with respect and awe.
He spared none. He had himself ascertained that one of his helpers,
Levion, had a sister who was far too easy and accommodating towards the
fisher-lads; she too received a letter. He sent for her brother, and
gave him the letter to deliver. “Give her that. And tell her I shall
watch her goings about with an observant eye!”
Trader Mack came to call one day, and was shown into the parlour. It
was a brief but important visit. Mack came to offer his assistance if
any should be needed in helping the poor of the village. The priest
thanked him, glad at heart. If he had not been sure of it before, at
least he knew now, that Mack of Rosengaard was the protector of them
all. An elegant, authoritative old gentleman; even Fruen herself,
town-bred as she was, could not but feel impressed. A great man,
beyond doubt--and those must be real stones in the pin he wore in his
shirt-front.
“The fishery’s doing well,” said Mack. “I’ve made another haul. Nothing
to speak of, only some twenty barrels, but it all helps, you know. And
then it occurred to me that we ought not to forget our duty towards our
neighbours.”
“Just so!” said the priest delightedly. “That’s as it should be. And
twenty barrels, is that what you would call a little haul? I’ve no
knowledge of these matters myself.”
“Well, two or three thousand barrels would be better.”
“Two or three thousand!” said Fruen. “Only fancy!”