DOWNIE

I

I think I can see them as they drive away. Quite distinctly I can see

his stiff, silk hat with its broad, curving brim, such as they had in

the forties, his light waistcoat and his stock. I also see his

handsome, clean-shaven face with its small, small whiskers, his high

stiff collar, and the graceful dignity of his slightest movement. He is

sitting on the right in the chaise and is just taking up the reins, and

beside him is sitting that little woman. God bless her! I see her even

more distinctly. Like a picture I have before me that narrow, little

face, and the hat that frames it, tied under the chin, the dark-brown,

smoothly combed hair, and the big shawl with the embroidered silk

flowers. The chaise in which they are driving has a seat with a green,

fluted back, and of course the innkeeper’s horse which is to take them

the first six miles is a little fat sorrel.

I lost my heart to her from the very first moment. There is no sense in

it, for she is the most insignificant little person; but I was won by

seeing all the eyes that followed her when she drove away. In the first

place, I see how her father and mother look after her from where they

stand in the doorway of the baker’s shop. Her father even has tears in

his eyes, but her mother has no time to weep yet. She must use her eyes

to look at her daughter as long as the latter can wave and nod to her.

And then of course there are merry greetings from the children in the

little street and roguish glances from all the pretty, little factory

girls from behind windows and doors, and dreamy looks from some of the

young salesmen and apprentices. But all nod good-will and god-speed to

her. And then there are anxious glances from some poor, old women, who

come out and curtsey and take off their spectacles to be able to see

her as she drives by in state. But I cannot see a single unfriendly

look following her; no, not in the whole length of the street.

When she is out of sight, her father wipes the tears from his eyes with

his sleeve.

“Don’t be sad now, mother!” he says. “You will see that she will come

out all right. Downie will manage, mother, even if she is so little.”

“Father,” says the mother with great emphasis, “you speak in a strange

way. Why should Anne-Marie not be able to manage it? She is as good as

anybody.”

“Of course she is, mother; but still, mother, still—I would not be in

her shoes, nor go where she is going. No, that I would not!”

“Well, and what good would that do, you ugly old baker!” says mother,

who sees that he is so uneasy about the girl that he needs to be

cheered with a little joke. And father laughs, for he does that as

easily as he cries. And then the old people go back into their shop.

In the meantime Downie, the little silken flower, is in very good

spirits as she drives along the road. A little afraid of her betrothed,

perhaps; but in her heart Downie is a little afraid of everybody, and

that is a great help to her, for on account of it every one tries to

show her that they are not dangerous.

Never has she had such respect for Maurits as to-day. Now that they

have left the back street, and all her friends are behind them, it

seems to her that Maurits really grows to something big. His hat and

collar and whiskers stiffen, and the bow of his necktie swells. His

voice grows thick in his throat, and he speaks with difficulty. She

feels a little depressed by it, but it is splendid to see Maurits so

impressive.

Maurits is so clever; he has so much advice to give!—it is hard to

believe—but Maurits talks only sense the whole way. But that is just

like Maurits. He asks her if she understands clearly what this journey

means to him. Does she think it is only a pleasure trip along the

country road? Thirty miles in a good chaise with her betrothed by her

side did seem quite like a pleasure trip, and a beautiful place to

drive to, a rich uncle to visit—perhaps she has thought that it was

only for amusement?

Fancy if he knew that she had prepared herself for this journey by a

long conference with her mother before they went to bed; and by a long

succession of anxious dreams through the night, and with prayers, and

with tears! But she pretends to be stupid, in order to get more

enjoyment out of Maurits’s wisdom. He likes to show it, and she is glad

to let him.

“The real trouble is that you are so sweet,” says Maurits; for that was

how he had come to care for her, and it was really very stupid of him.

His father was not at all in favor of it. And his mother! He hardly

dared to think of what a fuss she had made when Maurits had informed

her that he had engaged himself to a poor girl from a back street—a

girl who had no education, no accomplishments, and who was not even

pretty; only sweet.

In Maurits’s eyes, of course, the daughter of a baker was just as good

as the son of a burgomaster, but every one did not have such liberal

views as he. If Maurits had not had his rich uncle, it could never have

come to anything; for he was only a student, and had nothing to marry

on. But if they now could win his uncle over their way was clear.

I see them so plainly as they drive along the road. She looks a little

unhappy as she listens to his wisdom. But she is content in her

thoughts! How sensible Maurits is! And when he speaks of the sacrifices

he is making for her, it is only his way of saying how much he cares

for her.

And if she had expected that alone together on such a beautiful day he

perhaps might be not quite the same as when they sat at home with her

mother—but that would not have been right of Maurits. She is proud of

him.

He is telling her what kind of a man his uncle is. If he will befriend

them their fortune is made. Uncle Theodore is incredibly rich. He owns

eleven smelting-furnaces, and farms and houses besides, and mines and

stocks. To all these Maurits is the proper heir. But Uncle Theodore is

a little uncertain to have to do with when it concerns any one he does

not like. If he is not pleased with Maurits’s wife, he can will away

everything.

The little face grows paler and smaller, but Maurits only stiffens and

swells. There is not much chance of Anne-Marie’s turning his uncle’s

head as she did his. His uncle is quite a different kind of man. His

taste—well, Maurits does not think much of his taste but he thinks that

it would be something loud-voiced, something flashing and red which

would strike Uncle. Besides, he is a confirmed old bachelor—thinks

women are only a bother. The most important thing is that he shall not

dislike her too much. Maurits will take care of the rest. But she must

not be silly. Is she crying—! Oh, if she does not look better by the

time they arrive, Uncle will send them off inside of a minute. She is

glad for their sakes that Uncle is not as clever as Maurits. She hopes

it is no sin against Maurits to think that it is good that Uncle is

quite a different sort of person. For fancy, if Maurits had been Uncle,

and two poor young people had come driving to him to get aid in life;

then Maurits, who is so sensible, would certainly have begged them to

return whence they came, and wait to get married until they had

something to marry on.

Uncle, however, was decidedly terrifying in his own way. He drank, and

gave great parties, where everybody was very lively, and he did not at

all understand how to manage his affairs. He must know that every one

cheated him, but he was none the less cheerful. And heedless!—the

burgomaster had sent by Maurits some shares in an undertaking that was

not prosperous; but Uncle would buy them of him, Maurits had said.

Uncle did not care where he threw his money away. He had stood in town

in the market-place and tossed silver to the street boys. Playing away

a couple of thousand crowns in a single night, or lighting his pipe

with ten-crown notes, were among the things Uncle did.

Thus they drove on, and thus they talked while they were driving.

They arrived toward evening. Uncle’s “residence,” as he called it, did

not stand by the ironworks. It lay far from all smoke and hammering, on

the slope of the mountain, looking over a wide view of lakes and long

hills. It was a stately building, with wooded lawns and groves of

birches round about it, but few cultivated fields, for the place was a

pleasure palace, not a farm.

The young people drove up an avenue lined with birches and elms. Then

they drove between two low, thick rows of hedges and were about to turn

up to the house.

But just where the road turned, a triumphal arch was raised, and there

stood Uncle with his dependents to greet them. Downie never could have

believed that Maurits would have prepared such a reception for her. Her

heart grew light, and she seized his hand and pressed it in gratitude.

More she could not do then, for they were just under the arch.

And there he stood, the well-known man, the ironmaster, Theodore

Fristeat, big and black-bearded, and beaming with good-will. He waved

his hat and shouted hurrah, and all the people shouted hurrah, and

tears rose in Anne-Marie’s eyes, although she was smiling. And of

course they all had to like her from the very first moment, if only for

her way of looking at Maurits. For she thought that they were all there

for his sake, and she had to turn her eyes away from the whole

spectacle to look at him, as he took off his hat with a sweep and bowed

so beautifully and royally. Oh, such a look as she gave him! Uncle

Theodore almost left off hurrahing and felt like swearing when he saw

it.

No, she wished no harm to any one on earth, but if the estate really

had been Maurits’s, it would have been very suitable. It was most

impressive to see him, as he stood on the steps of the porch and turned

to the people to thank them. The ironmaster was stately too, but what

was his manner compared to Maurits’s. He only helped her down from the

carriage, and took her shawl and hat like a footman, while Maurits

lifted his hat from his white brow and said: “Thank you, my children!”

No, the ironmaster certainly had no manners; for as he profited by his

rights as an uncle and took her in his arms, he noticed that she

managed to look at Maurits while he was kissing her, and he swore,

really swore quite fiercely. Downie was not accustomed to find any one

disagreeable, but it certainly would be no easy task to please Uncle

Theodore.

“To-morrow,” says uncle, “there will be a big dinner here, and a ball,

but to-day you young people must rest after your journey. Now we will

eat our supper, and then we will go to bed.”

They are escorted into a drawing-room, and there they are left alone.

The ironmaster rushes out like a wind which is afraid of being shut in.

Five minutes later he is rolling down the avenue in his big carriage,

and the coachman is driving so that the horses seem to be lying along

the ground. After another five minutes uncle is there again, and now an

old lady is sitting beside him in the carriage.

And in he comes, with a kind, talkative old lady on his arm. And she

takes Anne-Marie and embraces her, but Maurits she greets more stiffly.

No one can take any liberties with Maurits.

However, Anne-Marie is very glad that this pleasant old lady has come.

She and the ironmaster have such a merry way of joking with one

another.

But when they have said good-night and Anne-Marie has come into her

little room, something too tiresome and provoking happens.

Uncle and Maurits are walking in the garden, and she knows that Maurits

is unfolding his plans for the future. Uncle does not seem to be saying

anything at all; he is only walking and striking the blades of grass

with his stick. But Maurits will persuade him fast enough that the best

thing for him to do is to give Maurits a position as manager of one of

his steel-works, if he does not care to give him the works outright.

Maurits has grown so practical since he has been in love. He often

says: “Is it not best for me, who am to be a great landowner, to make

myself familiar with it all? What is the use of taking my bar

examinations?”

They are walking directly under the window and nothing prevents them

from seeing that she is sitting there; but as they do not mind it, no

one can ask that she shall not hear what they are saying. It is really

just as much her affair as it is Maurits’s.

Then Uncle Theodore suddenly stops and he looks angry. He looks quite

furious, she thinks, and she almost calls to Maurits to take care. But

it is too late, for Uncle Theodore has seized Maurits, crushed his

ruffle, and is shaking him till he twists like an eel. Then he slings

him from him with such force that Maurits staggers backwards and would

have fallen if he had not found support in a tree trunk. And there

Maurits stands and gasps “What?” Yes, what else should he say?

Ah, never has she admired Maurits’s self-control so much! He does not

throw himself upon Uncle Theodore and fight him. He only looks calmly

superior, merely innocently surprised. She understands that he controls

himself so that the journey may not be for nothing. He is thinking of

her, and is controlling himself.

Poor Maurits! it seems that his uncle is angry with him on her account.

He asks if Maurits does not know that his uncle is a bachelor when he

brings his betrothed here without bringing her mother with him. Her

mother! Downie is offended in Maurits’s behalf. It was her mother who

had excused herself and said that she could not leave the bakery.

Maurits answers so too, but his uncle will accept no excuses.—Well, his

mother, then; she could have done her son that service. Yes, if she had

been too haughty they had better have stayed where they were. What

would they have done if his old lady had not been able to come? And how

could a betrothed couple travel alone through the country?—Really,

Maurits was not dangerous. No, that he had never believed, but people’s

tongues are dangerous.—Well, and finally it was that chaise! Had

Maurits ferreted out the most ridiculous vehicle in the whole town? To

let that child shake thirty miles in a chaise, and to let him raise a

triumphal arch for a chaise!—He would like to shake him again! To let

his uncle shout hurrah for a tip-cart! He was getting too unreasonable.

How she admired Maurits for being so calm! She would like to join in

the game and defend Maurits, but she does not believe that he would

like it.

And before she goes to sleep, she lies and thinks out everything she

would have said to defend Maurits. Then she falls asleep and starts up

again, and in her ears rings an old saying:—

“A dog stood on a mountain-top,

He barked aloud and would not stop.

His name was you, His name was I,

His name was all in Earth and Sky.

What was his name?

His name was why.”

The saying had irritated her many a time. Oh, how stupid she had

thought the dog was! But now half asleep, she confuses the dog “What”

with Maurits and she thinks that the dog has his white forehead. Then

she laughs. She laughs as easily as she cries. She has inherited that

from her father.