others. There was a boat from the outlying parts made a good haul
yesterday; I bought it up on the spot. I’m going to load every vessel
I’ve got with herring.”
“It’s a big business this of yours,” said the priest.
Mack admitted that it was getting on that way. It was an
old-established business when he came into it, he said, but he had
worked it up, and extended its operations. For the sake of the
children, he felt he must.
“But, heavens, how many factories and stores and things have you
altogether?” asked Fruen enthusiastically.
Mack laughed, and said, “Really, _Frue_, I couldn’t say offhand,
without counting.”
But Mack forgot his troubles and annoyances for a little as he sat
talking; he was by no means displeased at being asked about his
numerous factories and stores.
“You’ve a bakery at Rosengaard,” said Fruen, thinking all at once of
her housekeeping. “I wish we lived nearer. We can’t make nice bread,
somehow, at home here.”
“There’s a baker at the _Lensmandsgaard_.”
“Yes, but he’s never any bread.”
“He drinks a great deal, I’m sorry to say,” put in the priest. “I’ve
written him a letter, but for all that....”
Mack was silent a moment. “I’ll set up a bakery here, then,” he said.
“Seeing there’s a branch of the store already.”
Mack was almighty; he could do whatever he willed. But a word from him,
and lo, a bakery on the spot!
“Only think of it!” cried Fruen, and looked at him with wondering eyes.
“You shall have your bread all right, _Frue_. I’ll telegraph at once
for the men to come down. It’ll take a little time, perhaps--a few
weeks, no more.”
But the priest said nothing. What if his housekeeper and all the maids
baked the bread that was needed? Bread would be dearer now.
“I have to thank you for kindly allowing me credit at the store,” said
the priest.
“Yes,” put in his wife, and was thoughtful once more.
“Not at all,” said Mack. “Most natural thing in the world. Anything you
want--it’s at your service.”
“It must be wonderful to have such power,” says Fruen.
“I’ve not as much power as I could wish,” says Mack. “There’s that
burglary, for instance. I can’t find out who did it.”
“It was really too bad, that business,” broke in the priest. “I see you
have offered a heavy reward, even to the thief himself, and still he
won’t confess.”
Mack shook his head.
“Oh, but it’s the blackest ingratitude to steal from you,” says Fruen.
Mack took up the cue. “Since you mention it, _Frue_, I will say I had
not expected it. No, indeed, I had not. I have not treated my people so
badly as to deserve it.”
Here the priest put in, “A thief will steal where there is most to
steal. And in this case he knew where to go.”
The priest, in all innocence, had found the very word. Mack felt easier
at once. Putting it like that made the whole thing less of a disgrace
to himself.
“But people are talking,” he said. “Saying all sorts of things. It
hurts my feelings, and might even do serious harm. There are a number
of strangers here just now, and they are none too careful of their
words. And my daughter Elise feels it very deeply. Well,” he said,
rising to his feet, “it will pass off in time, no doubt. And, as I was
saying, if you come across any deserving case in the village, remember
I shall be most pleased to help.”
Mack took his leave. He had formed an excellent impression of the
priest and his wife, and would put in a good word for them wherever
he could. It would do them no harm. Though perhaps.... Who could
say to what lengths the gossip about himself had reached already?
Only yesterday his son Frederik had come home and told how a drunken
seaman had called to him from a boat, “Hey, when are you going to give
yourself up and get the reward?”
[Illustration]
VI
The days were getting warmer now; the catches of herring had to be left
in the nets for fear of spoiling, and could only be turned out in the
cool of the night, or when it rained. And there was no fishing now to
speak of anyway, being already too late in the season; one or two of
the stranger boats had left. And there was field-work to be done, and
need of all hands at home.
The nights too were brilliant and full of sun. It was weather for
dreams; for little fluttering quests of the heart. Young folk walked
the roads by night, singing and waving branches of willow. And from
every rocky islet came the calling of birds--of loon and gull and
eider-duck. And the seal thrust up its dripping head from the water,
looked round, and dived again down to its own world below. Ove
Rolandsen too felt the spell; now and again he could be heard singing
or strumming in his room of nights, and that was more than need be
looked for from a man who was no longer a youth. And, indeed, it was
not for any meaningless delight he twanged and trolled his songs, but
rather by way of diversion, by way of relief from his weighty thoughts.
Rolandsen is thinking deeply these days; he is in a quandary, and
must find a way out. Jomfru van Loos, of course, had turned up again;
she was not given to extravagant wastefulness in matters of love, and
she held now by their betrothal as before. On the other hand, Ove
Rolandsen, as he had said, was not God; he could not keep that heart of
his within bounds in spring. It was hard on a man to have a betrothed
who would not understand when matters were clearly broken off between
them.
Rolandsen had been down to visit the parish clerk again, and there was
Olga sitting outside the door. But there was a deal of money about just
now, with herring at six _Ort_ the barrel, and Olga seemed inclined to
put on airs. Or what else could it be? Was he, Rolandsen, the sort of
man a girl could afford to pass by? She merely glanced up at him, and
went on with her knitting as before.
Said Rolandsen, “There! You looked up. Your eyes are like arrows; they
wound a man.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Olga.
“Oh! And do you suppose I understand myself? Not in the least. I’ve
lost my senses. Here I am now, for instance, paving the way for you to
plague me through the night that’s to come.”
“Then why don’t you go away?” said Olga.
“I was listening to a voice last night--a voice within me. All
unspeakable things it said. In a word, I resolved to take a great
decision, if you think you can advise me to do it.”
“How can I? I’ve nothing to do with it.”
“Ho!” said Rolandsen. “You’re full of bitter words to-day. Sitting
there lashing out all the time. Talking of something else, you’ll have
that hair of yours falling off before long. There’s too much of it.”
Olga was silent.
“Do you know Børre the organ-blower? There’s a girl of his I could have
if I cared.”
Olga burst out laughing at that, and stared at him.
“For Heaven’s sake don’t sit there smiling like that. It only makes me
wilder than ever in love.”
“Oh, you’re quite mad,” says Olga softly, flushing red.
“Sometimes I think to myself: perhaps she laughs up at me that way just
to make me lose my senses all the more. That’s how they kill ducks and
geese, you know, jab them a little in the head with a knife, and then
they swell, and it makes them all the finer.”
Olga answered offendedly, “I don’t do anything of the sort; you need
not think so.” And she rose, and made as if to go indoors.
“If you go now,” said Rolandsen, “I shall only come in after you, and
ask your father if he’s read the books.”
“Father’s not at home.”
“Well, I didn’t come to see him, anyway. But you, Olga, you’re bitter
and unapproachable this day. There’s no wringing a drop of kindness out
of you. You never heed me, you pass me by.”
Olga laughed again.
“But there’s that girl of Børre’s,” said Rolandsen. “Her name’s
Pernille. I’ve heard them call her so myself. And her father blows the
organ at church.”
“Must you have a sweetheart dangling at every finger?” asked Olga
seriously.
“Marie van Loos is my betrothed,” he answered. “But it’s all over
between us now. Ask her yourself. I expect she’ll be going away soon.”
“Yes, mother, I’m coming,” called Olga in through the window.
“Your mother wasn’t calling you at all; she only looked at you.”
“Yes, but I know what she meant.”
“Oh, very well then! I’ll go. But look you, Olga, you know what I mean
too, only you don’t answer me the same way, and say, Yes, I’m coming.”
She opened the door. Rolandsen felt he had abased himself; she would
not think of him now as the lordly man he was. He must raise himself
once more in her esteem. It would never do to show himself so utterly
defeated. So he began talking of death, and was highly humorous about
it; now he would have to die, and he didn’t care much if he did. But he
had his own ideas about the funeral. He would make a bell himself to
ring his knell, and the clapper should be fashioned from the thighbone
of an ox, because he had been such a fool in life. And the funeral
oration was to be the shortest ever known; the priest to set his foot
upon the grave and simply say, “I hereby declare you mortified, null,
and void!”
But Olga was getting weary of all this, and had lost her shyness now.
Moreover, she had a red ribbon at her throat, like any lady, and the
pin was altogether hidden.
“I must make her look up to me properly,” thought Rolandsen. And
he said, “Now I did think something would come of this. My former
sweetheart, Marie van Loos, she’s broidered and worked me all over with
initials till I’m a wonder to see; there’s Olga Rolandsen, or what’s
all but the same, on every stitch of my things. And I took it as a sign
from Heaven. But I must be going. My best respects....”
And Rolandsen waved his hat and walked off, ending on a lordly note.
Surely, after that, it would be strange if she did not think and wonder
over him a little now.
What was it that had happened? Even the parish clerk’s daughter had
refused him. Well and good! But was there not much to indicate that it
was all a sham? Why had she been sitting outside the door at all if it
were not that she had seen him coming? And why had she decked herself
out with red ribbons like a lady?
But, a few evenings later, Rolandsen’s conceit was shattered. From
his window he saw Olga go down to Mack’s store. She stayed there till
quite late, and when she went home, Frederik Mack and his sister Elise
walked up with her. And here, of course, the lordly Rolandsen should
have kept calm, and merely hummed a little tune, or drummed with his
fingers carelessly, and kept his thoughts on his work. Instead of
which, he snatched up his hat and made off at once towards the woods.
He hurried round in a wide curve, and came out on the road far ahead of
the three. Then he stopped to get his breath, and walked down to meet
them.
But the three took an unreasonable time; Rolandsen could neither hear
nor see them. He whistled and trolled a bit of a song, as if they might
sit somewhere in the woods and watch him. At last he saw them coming,
walking slowly, dawdling unpardonably, seeing it was late at night,
and they should have been hurrying towards their respective homes.
Rolandsen, great man, walks towards them, with a long stalk of grass in
his mouth and a sprig of willow in his buttonhole; the two men raised
their hats as they came up, and the ladies nodded.
“You look warm,” said Frederik. “Where have you been?”
Rolandsen answered over his shoulder, “It’s spring-time; I’m walking in
the spring.”
No nonsense this time, but clean firmness and confidence. Ho! but he
had walked past them with an air--slowly, carelessly, all unperturbed;
he had even found strength to measure Elise Mack with a downward
glance. But no sooner had they passed out of sight than he slipped
aside into the wood, no longer great at all, but abject. Olga was a
creature of no importance now; and at the thought of it, he took the
agate pin from his pocket, broke it up thoroughly, and threw it away.
But now there was Elise, Mack’s daughter Elise, tall and brown, and
showing her white teeth a little when she smiled. Elise it was whom
God had led across his path. She had not said a word, and to-morrow,
perhaps, she would be going away again. All hope gone.
Well and good....
But on coming back to the telegraph station, there was Jomfru van
Loos waiting for him. Once before he had reminded her that past was
past, and what was done was over; she had much better go away and live
somewhere else. And Jomfru van Loos had answered that he should not
have to ask her twice--good-bye! But now here she was again, waiting
for him.
“Here’s that tobacco pouch I promised you,” she said. “Here it is, if
you’re not too proud.”
He did not take it, but answered, “A tobacco pouch? I never use that
sort of thing.”
“Oh, is that so?” said she, and drew back her hand.
And he forced himself to soften her again. “It can’t be me you promised
it. Think again; perhaps it was the priest. And he’s a married man.”
She did not understand that the slight jest had cost him some effort,
and she could not refrain from answering in turn, “I saw the ladies
up along the road; I suppose that’s where you’ve been, trailing after
them?”
“And what’s that to do with you?”
“Ove!”
“Why don’t you go away somewhere else? You can see for yourself it’s no
good going on like this.”
“It would be all right as ever, if only you weren’t such a jewel to go
flaunting about with all the womenfolk.”
“Do you want to drive me out of my wits?” he cried. “Good-night!”
Jomfru van Loos called after him, “Ho, yes, you are a nice one, indeed!
There’s this and that I’ve heard about you!”
Now was there any sense at all in being so desperately particular? And
couldn’t a poor soul have a little genuine heartache to bear with into
the bargain? The end of it was, that Rolandsen went into the office,
straight to the instrument, called up the station at Rosengaard, and
asked his colleague there to send him half a keg of cognac with the
next consignment coming down. There was no sense in going on like this
for ever.
[Illustration]
VII
Elise Mack stays some little while at the factory this time. She has
left the big house at Rosengaard and come out here wholly and solely to
make things a little comfortable for her father during his stay. She
would hardly set her foot in the village at all if she could avoid it.
Elise Mack was growing more and more of a fine lady; she wore red and
white and yellow gowns, and people were beginning to call her _Frøken_,
though her father was neither priest nor doctor. A sun and a star she
was above all others.
She came to the station with some telegrams to be sent; Rolandsen
received her. He said nothing beyond the few words needed, and did not
make the mistake of nodding as to an acquaintance and asking how she
was. Not a single mistake did he make.
“It says ‘ostrich feathers’ twice in this. I don’t know if it’s meant
to be that way.”
“Twice?” said she. “Let me look. Oh no, of course not; you’re quite
right. Lend me a pen, would you mind?”
She took off her glove, and went on speaking as she wrote. “And that’s
to a merchant in town; he’d have laughed at me ever so. There, it’s all
right now, isn’t it?”
“Quite right now.”
“And so you’re still here?” she said, keeping her seat. “Year after
year and I find you here.”
Rolandsen had his reasons, no doubt, for staying on at this little
station instead of applying for a better post. There must be something
that held him to the place, year after year.
“Must be somewhere,” he answered.
“You might come to Rosengaard. That’s better than here, surely?”
The faintest little blush spread over her cheeks as she spoke; perhaps
she would rather have left that unsaid.
“They wouldn’t give me a big station like that.”
“Well, now, I suppose you are rather too young.”
“It is kind of you, anyhow, to think it’s because of that.”
“If you came over to us, now, there’s more society. The Doctor’s next
door, and the cashier, and all the assistants from the store. And there
are always some queer people coming in--sea-captains, you know, and
that sort.”
“Captain Henriksen of the coasting steamer,” thought Rolandsen to
himself.
But what was the meaning of all this graciousness coming so suddenly?
Was Rolandsen another man to-day than yesterday? He knew well enough
that he was utterly and entirely hopeless in this foolish love of his;
there was no more to be said. She gave him her hand as she rose to go,
and that without first putting on her glove. There was a rustle of silk
as she swept down the steps.
Rolandsen drew up to the table, a threadbare, stooping figure, and sent
off the wires. His breast was a whirl of strange feelings. All things
considered, he was not so desperately off after all; the invention
might bring in a heavy sum if only he could first get hold of three
hundred _Daler_. He was a bankrupt millionaire. But surely he must be
able to find some way....
The _Præstefruen_ came in, with a telegram to her people. Rolandsen had
gathered courage from the previous visit. He no longer felt himself as
an insignificant next-to-nothing, but the equal of other great men; he
talked to Fruen a little, just a word or so in the ordinary way. And
Fruen, on her part, stayed somewhat longer than was strictly necessary,
and asked him to look in at the Vicarage any time.
That evening he met her again, Fruen herself, on the road just below
the station. And she did not hurry away, but stayed talking a little
while. It could hardly be displeasing to her, since she stayed so.
“You play the guitar, I think,” she said.
“Yes. If you like to wait a little, I’ll show you how well I can play.”
And he went inside to fetch his guitar.
Fruen waited. It could not be altogether displeasing to her, since she
waited so.
And Rolandsen sang for her, of his true love and his heart’s delight;
and the songs were nothing wonderful, but his voice was fine and full.
Rolandsen had a purpose of his own in thus keeping her there in the
middle of the road; there was every chance that someone might come
walking by about that time. Such things had happened before. And if
Fruen had been pressed for time, it would have been awkward for her
now; they fell to talking again, and stayed talking some time. This
Rolandsen spoke in a way of his own, altogether different from her
husband’s manner, as if it were from some other part of the world. And
when he rolled out his most magnificent phrases, her eyes rounded wide
as those of a listening child.
“Well, God be with you”[4] she said at last, turning to go.
[4] _Gud vare med Dem._ The expression is often used, with no more
special significance than our own abbreviation of the same words in
“Good-bye.” But Rolandsen here chooses to take it literally.
“So He is, I’m sure,” answered Rolandsen.
She started. “Are you sure of that? How?”
“Well, He’s every reason to be. He’s Lord of all creation, I know, but
I shouldn’t think there’s anything much in being just a God of beasts
and mountains. After all, it’s us human beings that make Him what He
is. So why shouldn’t He be with us?”
And, having delivered himself of this striking speech, Rolandsen looked
extremely pleased with himself. Fruen wondered at him greatly as she
walked away. Ho-ho! ’Twas not for nothing that the knob of a head he
bore on his shoulders had devised a great invention.
But now the cognac had come. Rolandsen had carried the keg up from the
wharf himself; he went no back-ways round with his burden, but carried
it openly under his powerful arm in broad daylight. So unafraid was
he at heart. And then came a time when Rolandsen found comfort for all
distress. And there were nights when he turned out and made himself
regent and master of all roads and ways; he cleared them bare, and made
them impassable for stranger men from the boats, coming ashore on their
lawful errands, in search of petticoats.
One Sunday a boat’s crew appeared at church, all reasonably drunk.
After the service they sauntered up and down the road, instead of
going on board; they had a supply of _Brændevin_ with them, and drank
themselves ever more boisterous, to the annoyance of those passing by.
The priest himself had come up to reprove them, but without effect;
later, the _Lensmand_ himself came up, and he wore a gold-laced cap.
Some of them went on board after that, but three of them--Big Ulrik was
one--refused to budge. They had come ashore, they said, and were going
to let folk know it; as for the girls, they were their girls for now.
Ulrik was with them, and Ulrik was a man well known from Lofoten to
Finmarken. Come on then!
A number of people from the village had gathered about, farther off
along the road, or in among the trees, as their courage permitted. They
glanced with some concern at Big Ulrik swaggering about.
“I must ask you men to go on board again,” said the _Lensmand_. “If you
don’t, I’ll have to talk to you after another fashion.”
“Go along home, you and your cap,” said Ulrik.
The _Lensmand_ was thinking already of getting help, and tying up the
madman out of harm’s way.
“And you’d better be careful how you defy me when I’m in uniform,” says
the _Lensmand_.
Ulrik and his fellows laughed at this till they had to hold their
ribs. A fisher-lad ventured boldly past; one of them struck him a
_Skalle_,[5] and drew blood. “Now for the next,” cried Ulrik.
[5] A blow delivered with the head, hitting downward or sideways at an
opponent’s face.
“A rope,” cried the _Lensmand_, at sight of the blood. “Bring a rope,
some of you, and help me take him.”
“How many are there of you?” asked Ulrik the invincible. And the three
doughty ones laughed and gasped again.
But now came Big Rolandsen up along the road, walking with a soft,
gliding step, and his eyes staring stiffly. He was on his usual round.
He greeted the _Lensmand_, and stopped.
“Here’s Rolandsen,” cried Ulrik. “Ho, boys, look at him!”
“He’s dangerous,” said the _Lensmand_. “He’s drawn blood from one
already. We shall have to rope him.”
“Rope him?”
The _Lensmand_ nodded. “Yes. I won’t stand any more of this.”
“Nonsense,” said Rolandsen. “What do you want with a rope? You leave me
to tackle him.”
Ulrik stepped closer, made pretence to lift his hand in greeting, and
gave Rolandsen a slight blow. He felt, no doubt, that he had struck
something firm and solid, for he drew back, but kept on shouting
defiantly, “_Goddag_, Telegraph-Rolandsen! And there’s your name and
titles for all to hear.”
After that, it seemed as if nothing would happen. Rolandsen was not
inclined to let slip the chance of a fight, and it annoyed him that he
was so miserably slow to anger, and had not returned the first blow.
He had to begin now by answering the other’s taunts, in order to keep
matters going. They fooled about a little, talking drunken-fashion, and
each boasting of what he would do to the other. When one invited the
other to come on, and he would give him a dose of olive oil enough to
last him, etcetera, the other answered, right, he would come on sure
enough as soon as anyone else did, and provide sufficient laying on of
hands by return. And the crowd around them found these interchanges
creditable to both sides. But the _Lensmand_, watching, could see how
wrath was growing and flourishing up in Rolandsen’s mind; Rolandsen was
smiling all the time as he talked.
Then Ulrik flicked him under the nose, and at that Rolandsen was in
the proper mood at once; he shot out one swift hand and gripped the
other’s coat. But the stuff gave way, and there was nothing very grand
in ripping up a duffle jacket. Rolandsen made a spring forward, showing
his teeth in a satisfied grimace. And then things began to happen.
Ulrik tried a _Skalle_, and Rolandsen was thenceforward aware of
his opponent’s speciality. But Rolandsen was past-master in another
effective method--the long, swinging, flat-handed cut delivered
edgeways at the jawbone; the blow should fall just on the side of the
chin. A blow of this sort shakes up a man most adequately; his head
whirls, and down he comes with a crash. It breaks no bones, and draws
no blood save for a tiny trickle from the nose and mouth. The stricken
one is in no hurry to move.
Suddenly Big Ulrik has it, and down he comes, staggering and falling
beyond the edge of the road. His legs tangled crosswise under him and
collapsed as if dead; faintness overpowered him. And Rolandsen was
well enough up in the slang of the brawl. “Now for the next,” he said
at once. He seemed thoroughly pleased with himself, and never heeded
that his shirt was torn open at the throat.
But the next one was two, being Ulrik’s fellow-rascals both; quiet and
wondering they were now, and no longer holding their ribs in an ache of
laughter.
“You! You’re children,” cried Rolandsen to the pair. “But if you want
to be crumpled up....”