Lars moved about in the large rooms at Högstad without speaking a word.
His wife, who loved him, but always in fear and trembling, dared not
come into his presence. The management of the gard and of the house
might be carried on as best it could, while on the other hand there
kept growing a multitude of letters, which passed back and forth
between Högstad and the parish, and Högstad and the post-office; for
Lars had claims against the parish board, and these not being satisfied
he prosecuted; against the savings-bank, which were also unsatisfied,
and so resulted in another suit. He took offense at expressions in the
letters he received and went to law again, now against the chairman of
the parish board, now against the president of the savings-bank. At
the same time there were dreadful articles in the newspapers, which
report attributed to him, and which were the cause of great dissension
in the parish, inciting neighbor against neighbor. Sometimes he was
absent whole weeks, no one knew where, and when he returned he lived
as secluded as before. At church he had not been seen after the great
scene at the representatives’ meeting.
Then one Saturday evening the priest brought tidings that the railroad
was to run through the parish after all, and across the old churchyard!
It struck like lightning into every home. The unanimous opposition of
the parish board had been in vain, Lars Högstad’s influence had been
stronger. This was the meaning of his journeys, this was his work!
Involuntary admiration of the man and his stubborn persistence tended
to suppress the dissatisfaction of the people at their own defeat, and
the more they discussed the matter the more reconciled they became;
for a fact accomplished always contains within itself reasons why it
is so, which gradually force themselves upon us after there is no
longer possibility of change. The people assembled about the church the
next day, and they could not help laughing as they met one another.
And just as the whole congregation, young and old, men and women,
ay, even children, were all talking about Lars Högstad, his ability,
his rigorous will, his immense influence, he himself with his whole
household came driving up in four conveyances, one after the other.
It was two years since his last visit there! He alighted and passed
through the crowd, while all, as by one impulse, unhesitatingly greeted
him, but he did not deign to bestow a glance on either side, nor to
return a single salutation. His little wife, pale as death, followed
him. Inside of the church the astonishment grew to such a pitch that
as one after another caught sight of him they stopped singing and only
stared at him. Knud Aakre, who sat in his pew in front of Lars, noticed
that there was something the matter, and as he saw nothing remarkable
in front of him, he turned round. He saw Lars bowed over his hymn-book,
searching for the place.
He had not seen him since that evening at the meeting, and such a
complete change he had not believed possible. For this was no victor!
The thin, soft hair was thinner than ever, the face was haggard and
emaciated, the eyes hollow and bloodshot, the giant neck had dwindled
into wrinkles and cords. Knud comprehended at a glance what this man
had gone through; he was seized with a feeling of strong sympathy,
indeed, he felt something of the old love stirring within his breast.
He prayed for Lars to his God, and made a resolute vow that he would
seek him after service; but Lars had started on ahead. Knud resolved to
call on him that evening. His wife, however, held him back.
“Lars is one of those,” said she, “who can scarcely bear a debt of
gratitude: keep away from him until he has an opportunity to do you
some favor, and then perhaps he will come to you!”
But he did not come. He appeared now and then at church, but nowhere
else, and he associated with no one. On the other hand, he now devoted
himself to his gard and other business with the passionate zeal of one
who had determined to make amends in one year for the neglect of many;
and, indeed, there were those who said that this was imperative.
Railroad operations in the valley began very soon. As the line was to
go directly past Lars’s gard, he tore down the portion of his house
that faced the road, in order to build a large and handsome balcony,
for he was determined that his gard should attract attention. This
work was just being done when the temporary rails for the conveyance
of gravel and timber to the road were laid and a small locomotive was
sent to the spot. It was a beautiful autumn evening that the first
gravel car was to pass over the road. Lars stood on his front steps,
to hear the first signal and to see the first column of smoke; all the
people of the gard were gathered about him. He gazed over the parish,
illumined by the setting sun, and he felt that he would be remembered
as long as a train should come roaring through this fertile valley.
A sense of forgiveness glided into his soul. He looked toward the
churchyard, a part of which still remained, with crosses bowed down
to the ground, but a part of it was now the railroad. He was just
endeavoring to define his own feeling when the first signal whistled,
and presently the train came slowly working its way along, attended
by a cloud of smoke, mingled with sparks, for the locomotive was fed
with pine wood. The wind blew toward the house so that those standing
without were soon enveloped in a dense smoke, but as this cleared away
Lars saw the train working its way down through the valley like a
strong will.
He was content, and entered his house like one who has come from a
long day’s work. The image of his grandfather stood before him at
this moment. This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to
prosperity; true, a portion of his honor as a citizen was consumed
in the act, but he had advanced nevertheless! His faults were the
prevailing ones of his time: they were based on the uncertain boundary
lines of the moral conceptions of his day. Every age has its uncertain
moral distinctions and its victims.
Honor be to him in his grave, for he had suffered and toiled! Peace be
with him! It must be good to rest in the end. But he was not allowed to
rest because of his grandson’s vast ambition; his ashes were thrown up
with the stones and the gravel. Nonsense! he would only smile at his
grandson’s work.
Amid thoughts like these Lars had undressed and gone to bed. Once more
his grandfather’s image glided before him. It was sterner now than the
first time. Weariness enfeebles us, and Lars began to reproach himself.
But he defended himself also. What did his grandfather want? Surely
he ought to be satisfied now, for the family honor was proclaimed in
loud tones above his grave. Who else had such a monument? And yet what
is this? These two monstrous eyes of fire and this hissing, roaring
sound belong no longer to the locomotive, for they turn away from the
railroad track. And from the churchyard straight toward the house comes
an immense procession. The eyes of fire are his grandfather’s, and the
long line of followers are all the dead. The train advances steadily
toward the gard, roaring, crackling, flashing. The windows blaze in the
reflection of the dead men’s eyes. Lars made a mighty effort to control
himself, for this was a dream, unquestionably.
There, now I am awake. Come on, poor ghosts!
And lo! they really did come from the churchyard, overthrowing road,
rails, locomotive, and train, so that these fell with a mighty crash
to the ground, and the green sod appeared in their stead, dotted with
graves and crosses as before. Like mighty champions they advanced, and
the hymn, “Let the dead repose in peace!” preceded them. Lars knew
it; for through all these years it had been sighing within his soul,
and now it had become his requiem; for this was death and death’s
visions. The cold sweat started out over his whole body, for nearer
and nearer--and behold, on the window pane! there they are now, and
he heard some one speak his name. Overpowered with dread he struggled
to scream; for he was being strangled, a cold hand was clenching his
throat, and he regained his voice in an agonized “Help me!” and awoke.
The window had been broken in from the outside; the pieces flew all
about his head. He sprang up. A man stood at the window, surrounded by
smoke and flames.
“The gard is on fire, Lars! We will help you out!”
It was Knud Aakre.
When Lars regained his consciousness, he was lying outside in a bleak
wind, which chilled his limbs. There was not a soul with him; he saw
the flaming gard to the left; around him his cattle were grazing
and making their voices heard; the sheep were huddled together in a
frightened flock; the household goods were scattered about, and when he
looked again he saw some one sitting on a knoll close by, weeping. It
was his wife. He called her by name. She started.
“The Lord Jesus be praised that you are alive!” cried she, coming
forward and seating herself, or rather throwing herself down in front
of him. “O God! O God! We surely have had enough of this railroad now!”
“The railroad?” asked he, but ere the words had escaped his lips a
clear comprehension of the case passed like a shudder over him; for, of
course, sparks from the locomotive that had fallen among the shavings
of the new side wall had been the cause of the fire. Lars sat there
brooding in silence; his wife, not daring to utter another word, began
to search for his clothes. He accepted her attentions in silence, but
as she knelt before him to cover his feet, he laid his hand on her
head. Falling forward she buried her face in his lap and wept aloud.
Many eyed her curiously. But Lars understood her and said: “You are the
only friend I have.”
Even though it had cost the gard to hear these words, it mattered not
to her; she felt so happy that she gained courage, and rising up and
looking humbly into her husband’s face, she said:
“Because there is no one else who understands you.”
Then a hard heart melted, and tears rolled down the man’s cheeks as he
clung to his wife’s hand.
Now he talked to her as to his own soul. Now too she opened her mind
to him. They also talked about how all this had happened, or rather
he listened while she told about it. Knud Aakre had been the first
to see the fire, had roused his people, sent the girls out over his
parish, while he had hastened himself with men and horses to the scene
of the conflagration, where all were sleeping. He had engineered the
extinguishing of the flames and the rescuing of the household goods,
and had himself dragged Lars from the burning room, and carried him to
the left side of the house from whence the wind was blowing and had
laid him out here in the churchyard.
And while they were talking of this, some one came driving rapidly
up the road and turned into the churchyard, where he alighted. It
was Knud, who had been home after his church-cart--the one in which
they had so many times ridden together to and from the meetings of
the parish board. Now he requested Lars to get in and ride home with
him. They grasped each other by the hand, the one sitting, the other
standing.
“Come with me now,” said Knud.
Without a word of reply, Lars rose. Side by side they walked to the
cart. Lars was helped in; Knud sat down beside him. What they talked
about as they drove along, or afterward in the little chamber at Aakre,
where they remained until late in the morning, has never been known.
But from that day they were inseparable as before.
As soon as misfortune overtakes a man, every one learns what he is
worth. And so the parish undertook to rebuild Lars Högstad’s houses,
and to make them larger and handsomer than any others in the valley. He
was reelected chairman, but with Knud Aakre at his side; he never again
failed to take counsel of Knud’s intelligence and heart--and from that
day forth nothing went to ruin.
BJÖRN SIVERTSEN’S WEDDING TRIP
BY HOLGER DRACHMANN
[Illustration]
_By general consent Drachmann fills a niche in the temple of
fame as introducer of the modern “short story” into Denmark. He
was born at Copenhagen in 1846, and is a man of extraordinary
versatility both in accomplishment and temperament. Besides
being a marine painter of some note, and, before he joined
with the conservative party of thinkers in 1880, the most
conspicuous of the new realistic school of writers in Denmark,
he has been at various times royalist, socialist, realist,
romanticist, radical, orthodox, national, cosmopolitan._
_With his volume of poems, published in 1872, followed by
skilful, realistic tales of fisherman life, the revolutionary
march in Danish literature began, with Brandes as drum-major._
_Drachmann’s stories are marked by sudden outbursts of real
inspiration--by impulses rather than by principles--curiously
combined with a strong feeling for form._
[Illustration]
BJÖRN SIVERTSEN’S WEDDING TRIP
BY HOLGER DRACHMANN
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron. Copyright, 1907, by P. F.
Collier & Son.
The “strong Björn” was about to be married. The usual signs of such an
occurrence had come to pass, even to the most important of them all; he
had become engaged.
Exactly how this happened, however, history does not state. After the
death of the head fisher-master he had inherited the house, and had
paid off his brother Niels for his share with a good sum of money, so
that the latter could build his own home farther off in the village.
There sat Björn then with his house and his sail-maker’s outfit, very
lonely in all his new glory.
He got into the habit of sauntering more frequently than usual down
to the inn, to get his short pipe filled, to drink a glass and spin a
yarn. The jolly innkeeper had been married about a year, and was as
busy as could be, running in at the door of the inner room every few
minutes “to look after something.”
“What is the matter there?” asked Björn. “Can’t you let the women
attend to the child?”
The innkeeper explained it was the “teeth” that he was so interested in.
“Teeth?”
“Yes, Björn. When the teeth come the crying stops.”
“Is that so? Say, tell me, could I see the child?”
The father escorted him proudly into the nursery where the young wife
sat at a window with the child on her lap. She was bending over it, and
was also looking for “the teeth.”
Björn saluted and came slowly nearer.
“Come and look at him,” she said, smiling.
The giant bent his head, but the child became frightened at the heavy
hair and beard and screamed. Björn drew back in alarm, but during his
retreat he turned several times and looked back at the window.
When he and the innkeeper were alone in the latter’s private room Björn
stood a while in thought, scratching with his thick finger in his mane.
“Say, innkeeper, what a wonderful thing such a little fellow is! He had
real nails on his fingers, and he looked at me.”
The young father grew knock-kneed with pleasure, and, rubbing his
hands, answered: “You ought to have just such a one yourself. You have
a house and money.”
“Yes. But it is not so easy to find a wife, friend.”
Björn sat down, lost in thought, and when the innkeeper touched his
glass with his own, he looked up absently. “Do you know what I am
thinking of, innkeeper?”
“No. Let us hear it.”
“I was wondering if at any time I could really have been as small as
that.”
“I hope, for your mother’s sake,” said the innkeeper, laughing, “that
when you were born you were a good deal smaller than my baby now is.”
Then there was no more talk on that subject.
Several days later Björn set out in his good old boat with a load of
potatoes for the nearest town.
The boat was known as “The Pail.”
Heaven knows where it got the name; probably from some nickname given
in mockery--people are so wicked. But, as it often happens, the
nickname had become a pet name, and the boat was always called “The
Pail.” Red Anders, a relative, went along with him, and after having
sold their potatoes--and sold them well at that--they were now lying
alongside the wharf waiting for a little more wind. Then it happened
that an old skipper of the town, who had retired, but could not
altogether keep away from the water, came sauntering down to the dock,
his hands in his pockets and his little twinkling eyes on the lookout
for something of interest. He stopped on the dock, blinking still more,
and seemed to be taking the measure of “The Pail.”
“Heh, boys, where are you from?”
Björn looked up, surprised at this question about anything so well
known.
“From Fiskebäk, of course.”
“Are you the owner?”
Björn looked up at the skipper, with his hand behind his ear.
“I am a little deaf; but if you are speaking of the boat, it is ‘The
Pail,’ and I am the owner.”
“Why do you call her ‘The Pail’?”
“That is her name.”
“Has she any faults?”
“We all have faults ourselves, and so do boats.”
“She is not very new?”
Björn began to get somewhat impatient.
“See here, my man, how old are you yourself?”
The skipper laughed and took his hands from his pockets.
“Will you sell your boat?”
Björn looked at Red Anders, and Red Anders looked at Björn. Then they
both looked up at the questioner, and at last they looked around at the
boat.
“What do you say, Anders?” asked Björn.
Björn was in good humor. The potato transaction had gone off famously,
and the buyer had, over and above, treated them well. Finally he
slapped his leg and said, with a broad grin:
“My soul. Why shouldn’t I sell her?”
“Yes, why not? Then you can buy a new one.”
“That’s so,” said Björn, and nodded to the skipper.
“How much do you want for her?” asked the latter.
“Two hundred dollars as she swims now.”
“One hundred and eighty,” was bidden.
Björn did not answer, but prepared to let go the mooring.
“Who made her sails?” was asked.
“The man with the rudder,” answered Björn, and cut the after-ropes
loose.
“All right. Tie up again and let me come aboard.”
Then came a turning upside down and a ransacking of everything inside
“The Pail.” The bulkheads, the flooring, the combing, the seats, nails,
cleats, and painting, masts and oars were examined, and about an hour
later Björn and Anders stood outside the tavern, where the bargain had
been sealed with a drink. The summer sun shone down on their burning
faces and beaming eyes, but when Björn looked toward the harbor and saw
“The Pail” being taken away from its place his expression changed, and,
turning to Anders, he asked: “What do you think they will say when we
come home without ‘The Pail’?”
Anders put on a thoughtful mien. “I don’t know. But, anyway, it was
your boat, and the skipper promised to be good to her, and keep her
scraped and tarred and painted when she needs it.”
“You are right,” said Björn. “But are we to walk home?”
It was very hot and the sun burned. It was a good twelve miles to the
fishing village, and the road was for the most part flat, sandy, and
open.
“Do you want to ride?” asked Anders. “I am afraid the most of the
wagons have gone home, unless you want to hire one.”
Björn stood a moment without answering. It was perhaps not such a bad
idea to postpone the home-coming and the explanations for a little.
“I propose we go to the capital.”
“Do you treat?” asked Anders, cautiously.
“Certainly,” answered Björn, and slapped his pocket where the money
lay. They went through the town to the railway station, where a train
was just about to start. The two were like two big children. They had
been to the capital already, but neither of them had ever ridden on the
railroad.
Someone showed them the way to the ticket office. Björn planted
himself in front of the opening, with his pocketbook in his hands.
“Can I get a cabin for two men to the capital?” he asked, in a tone
which he took for a whisper, but which could be heard throughout the
hall. “Return?” was asked.
“What’s that he says?” asked Björn of his comrade.
“Second or third?” came again from the office, in rather an angry tone.
“Take what you can get,” whispered Anders, who, as his expenses were
paid for him, saw no reason for being economical.
“All right, give me the whole thing,” said Björn, and pushed a bill in
at the impatient voice.
“Two excursions, second. You can come back on the evening train, do you
hear?” said the voice.
Björn received a number of silver coins for his bill. He took it all
but one piece. “We can afford to tip to-day,” he said to his cousin, in
the same loud voice.
The ticket seller put his head out of the opening. “Take your money!”
he called angrily.
“All right,” said Björn, crestfallen. He put the coin in his pocket,
and as they walked through the waiting rooms to the platform he
muttered: “That villain of an innkeeper at home told me that if you
want to ride comfortably on the railroad you must tip the conductors.
But it doesn’t seem to go here.”
They entered the compartment, where sat a stout man, with close cropped
hair, white neckband, and long black coat. His face was red and
good-natured.
“Whew, it’s warm here,” said Björn, and opened a window. The stout man
coughed. The engine whistled, and the train began to move.
“There she goes, d---- me,” said Anders.
“Some speed in her,” answered Björn with a similar oath as the car
began to lurch.
“Open the other porthole,” cried Björn, after a while. “I’ll suffocate
in this box. This is a new sort of sailing on dry land.” The stout man
coughed still more.
“Does it trouble you, sir?” asked Björn, politely.
“Yes.”
Björn gave orders for Anders to close the porthole. The stout gentleman
eyed him sharply.
They came to a sharp curve in the road, the car swung round, and Björn
nearly fell off his seat.
“Well, I’ll be blasted eternally,” he cried, half surprised and half
in sly cunning. “Do you think they’ll send us to hell in this hurry,
Anders?”
“Do you always swear like this, my man?” asked the stout gentleman.
Björn looked at him with a wink.
“That’s as it happens, my good sir, but I generally do when on shore.
Meat goes with bread, as the baker’s dog said when he stole the steak.”
“I do not think it is quite necessary,” said the stout gentleman. “I
know, for I am a clergyman.”
“A clergyman?” repeated Björn, looking at him. “Beg pardon, but will
you swear to that?”
The stout gentleman looked severely at him at first. But the big child
was in such a good humor that day that he was quite irresistible, with
his half-simple, half-roguish smile, and his good-nature, from which
all severity ran off like water from a duck’s back.
In five minutes they were the best of friends. Björn told, in his own
style, his story of “The Pail,” and the jolly priest laughed until his
asthma nearly choked him, and before they reached the capital he had
Björn’s promise to visit him next day in his little village rectory
near the city.
Anders went home that night on his excursion ticket, and Björn set out
alone next day for the country. Then it happened that after that day
Björn undertook several excursions to Copenhagen with corresponding
journeyings to the rectory, until, according to his own version, he was
“caught by a petticoat.”
But this was all he would say about it. He went around wearing a broad,
shining gold ring, which pinched his fat finger. How the ring was ever
squeezed on that finger in the beginning was a mystery, but there it
sat, and there sat Björn.
All winter long he pondered over his thoughts of marriage. The
innkeeper and his wife teased him, at which he grew angry in jest
and then in earnest. And then, when his anger had passed, he showed
them first the photograph of a girl with a very dark face and two
bright pink hat ribbons. The picture appeared to need much polishing
of Björn’s coat sleeve, to give it, as he said, “the proper point of
view.” He did not at all like any sport being made of this picture, but
was honest enough to acknowledge that it looked more like “the portrait
of a nigger than of a respectable country girl.”
During the winter he bought himself a new boat. With all necessary
ceremonies this boat was christened the “Flying Fish”. But during
the christening feast there was considerable of a row. The otherwise
so good-natured Björn fired up about some chance teasing words,
some mocking nickname given the boat. Without knowing just why the
matter excited him so, he became first sarcastic, and then rude and
threatening. Next day, however, he was much dissatisfied with himself,
and went to consult with his friend the innkeeper, accusing himself of
having forgotten his duties as host. But the innkeeper comforted him,
and told him that was all the fault of his approaching marriage. A man
in that condition can’t keep the right balance, and is liable to slop
over either way on the slightest provocation. That was always so. The
thing to do was to close the matter as soon as possible.
Björn did not answer. He muttered something about spring, and sheets
and linen, etc., and then went for a sail in his new boat. She was a
flyer and no mistake, he could prove that to the scoffers on shore any
day!
Then spring came at last, and now “this nonsense should have an end.”
He had a good new boat; all he wanted was a wife, so Björn swore to
himself.
Thus the marriage came about.
The ceremony, naturally, was to be held in the little country church.
A relative of Stine--Stine was the bride--had suggested that as
Stine’s parents were both dead, and he himself was an innkeeper in
Copenhagen, he should give the wedding feast in his house. Björn
protested vigorously against this. He and his brother were to sail to
the city, and lay up the boat at Kroyer’s Wharf. Niels would take care
of the boat, and he himself would “play monkey just long enough for the
splice”; then back to the city, and on board the boat to take his wife
home.
Stine and her party protested against this arrangement with equal
energy, if not with equal warmth of expression. A wedding without a
feast was an impossibility, and there would always be time enough for
the sail, thought Stine to herself. So she clung to her decision,
supported by her cousin of the Gilded Tarpot, and for the first time
in his life, even before the “splice,” Björn learned what unlooked-for
obstacles can be put in our way by the so-called weaker sex. At least,
so the old poets call it.
Björn grumbled, but was clever enough to hold his peace. In all secrecy
he laid a counter-mine, telling his brother to take the “Flying Fish”
out as far as the custom-house and lay her up in the ferry harbor, with
all ropes clear for sailing, and when that was done to come himself
to the Gilded Tarpot, which was a favorite place of refreshment for
country people, soldiers, and petty officials.
In this way each party felt sure of the eventual victory, and the
marriage could come off. The minister tied the knot in his little
country church and gave them a glass of sherry and a silver soup-ladle
in the rectory. Björn put both “inside his vest,” and then the
innkeeper drove them into town. The village people gave them a
hurrah, and finally the merry company sat down in the Gilded Tarpot’s
basement rooms to a board laden with roasts of lamb and pork, ham and
vegetables, and all manner of other good things. Sweet cordials were
there for the ladies, and French wines, while for the men there was
brandy and punch.
Through the basement window one could see a high brick wall, gleaming
in the strong sunlight, and if one laid one’s self over the table, with
one’s head in the neighbor’s lap, ’way high up one could see a tiny
piece of blue sky as large as a handkerchief perhaps, with feathery
clouds driving over it.
Some of Stine’s female relatives were there, and the innkeeper’s family
and best friends. Among the family was a ship’s-joiner, who proved his
sympathetic comprehension of the importance of the occasion by getting
drunk at once and making pathetic speeches. And among the good friends
was a “former officer of justice,” as he called himself, a man with a
decoration in his buttonhole; also a drunken-looking jailer, who wore a
stiff collar and his service medal to remind the world that he had once
been a non-commissioned officer. He looked as if he had his serious
doubts about the company, and expected the one or the other of them to
make away with the spoons. Probably because of this doubt therefore
he kept a distance between himself and the rest of the company, and
poured out an endless series of small whiskies for himself, “on the top
of the glass,” as he expressed it, without any appreciable effect. He
laughed a sudden and ferocious-sounding laugh, drank half his glass,
cleared his throat, poked his elbows in the host’s ribs, and said: “Old
comrade, here’s to the good old times.” This for him was the height of
sociability.
He called Björn “Captain,” but after a few repetitions of the word the
bridegroom laid down his fork, with a large slice of beet on it, and
remarked:
“Port your helm, friend, and let up on that ‘Captain,’ if you don’t
want to make me angry.”
After this admonition he compromised on “Boatsman.”
Björn was decidedly out of sorts. He had the impression of being left
out in the cold, which was probably due to his deafness. He certainly
filled his place in the literal sense, but Niels did not come, and
Stine, the bride--well, Stine sat there at his side in a black merino
gown, with wreath and veil, her red hands in her lap, as straight up
and down in her chair as if she had swallowed a yardstick.
That was probably the correct thing to do, for a northern bride should
not be too vivacious. But there seemed to be in her nature a certain
dignity, which would be a good thing in a home no doubt, but which
seemed out of place here between roast and cordial.
“One certainly could not call her too affectionate,” Björn said
afterward, when describing the occasion.
He sat alone and she sat alone. She ate very little; he ate enough for
two. The ship’s-joiner made one speech after another, the sun shone
down on the brick wall, and Björn leaned over on Stine and looked up
out of the window.
Stine pulled her veil aside, smoothed her dress, and asked: “What are
you looking at?”
“Fine opportunity that,” said Björn. Her eyes followed his.
“You mean that fourth story to let up there? Yes, I would rather like
to live there. Then one would not have to be on the water so much.”
“A fine opportunity to sail home, I mean,” explained Björn. “The wind
is strong from the south.”
Stine glanced at him uneasily, and then at the innkeeper.
“A stiff south breeze,” continued Björn. “It has been a north wind for
some time, and will be to-night again. We don’t have a chance like this
every day.”
At a glance from Stine the innkeeper proposed a “good, old-time Danish
cheer” for Björn, in the attempt to change the train of his thoughts,
and the ship’s-joiner made his fifth speech.
Then mine host proposed a song, in which all joined, even the jailer,
who held second voice and tooted like a clarinet.
After that, in spite of some objection, the ship’s-joiner rose, and,
supporting himself by his neighbors’ shoulders, began, with tears in
his eyes:
“Good friends and hearers, we are all that, I think--”
“Yes, yes,” they answered.
“We will now--something must be said to them before they leave father
and mother--I mean before they leave the circle of these kind friends--”
“They don’t go until to-morrow,” said mine host.
“No,” said Björn, banging the table with his fist.
“He’s right,” said Niels, coming in just then. “The wind is fresh from
the south, Björn.”
“I know,” said Björn, getting up.
“Hush!” whispered the innkeeper. “Let the joiner finish his speech.”
“Listen, dear friends,” continued the joiner, reeling from side to
side. “We are all mortal, and we all love our native country. I do not
say fatherland; I say native country. We do not know where our fathers
came from, but we know where we were born ourselves--”
“What nonsense is this?” whispered Niels, who grasped the situation and
was ready to fight.
“Who is that man?” asked the joiner, trying to fix his bleary gaze on
Niels and holding fast to his neighbor’s shoulder. “Is that a man who
will not drink to his native country? If he is, then I say: ‘Fie, for
shame,’ say I.”
Niels looked meaningly at Björn.
“Shall we clear the place and take Stine with us?”
Björn motioned to him. But one of the guests who supported the joiner
heard what Niels said. He drew away his shoulder, the joiner fell to
the floor, and in a minute the place was in an uproar. Every one spoke
or screamed at once. Niels had already collared the jailer. Then, at
this highly critical moment, the sense of duty of the women of the
old days awoke in Stine. She placed herself by the side of her chosen
lord and master and announced that “she would sail to Jutland with
him rather than have a fight on her wedding day.” That settled the
matter. The joiner was carried into the next room and put to bed, the
guests shook hands cordially and drank one another’s health. Niels and
Björn became most amiable at once, and Niels ordered more punch. The
innkeeper made the best of a bad business, and peace settled down on
the spirits of the company.
Then the party broke up.
In his delight at his victory Björn invited the entire party, even to
the jailer, to take a sail on the “Flying Fish.” He would put them
ashore at the limekilns when they had had enough, he said.
The invitation was accepted, probably in the desire not to disturb
the nearly sealed peace. But when they all came up out of the Gilded
Tarpot, the fresh air and the sunshine, or the joy of his own victory,
or the feelings of a bridegroom, or all of them at once, so overcame
Björn that he took Stine round the waist and swore he would dance a
waltz with her then and there. Which he did, in spite of her obstinate
protest, to the great delight of the passers-by. Then he dropped Stine,
and, seizing the jailer, danced a polka with him. He next insisted upon
carrying off a sentry-box to try the sentry’s gun on the Amalienplads.
But this last was too much for the military feelings of the jailer.
He declared it “scandalous” and walked away as red in the face as a
lobster, and took the innkeeper with him. At the next corner was a
flaring menagerie poster, with pictures of elephants, monkeys, and
bears. These last caught Björn’s attention; he declared that he must
go and see his cousins perform, and the wedding guests had difficulty
in getting him away safely. By this time quite a crowd had collected,
which listened with interest to the lively remarks made by the big
fisherman, and when at last, to the immense delight of the crowd, he
gave a plastic imitation of a dancing bear, the rest of the invited
guests fled, and an assemblage of those not invited followed Björn,
Niels, and Stine down to the harbor.
“Come, now, Björn, keep quiet,” said Niels, soothingly, as a policeman
appeared interested in their movements.
“Shouldn’t I be merry on my wedding day?” queried Björn, looking around
beamingly.
Stine was ready to cry, but held out heroically. She had chosen her lot
in life, and was ready to take whatever came.
“It will be better later,” was her consoling thought.
They got down to the harbor somehow and into the boat.
“You’ll have to reef,” said the ferry-keeper.
“Full sail!” called Björn. “This is my wedding trip.”
“All right,” said the ferryman. But he whispered aside to Niels: “Can
he sail a boat?”
“Well, rather,” laughed Niels.
“All ready, Niels?” asked Björn.
“Yes.”
“Stine stowed away safely?”
“Yes.”
“All off then; let go!”
“Hurrah!” called the ferrymen, but shook their heads nevertheless.
“That will be a wet wedding trip if he doesn’t take in some of that
sail,” they commented.
And it certainly was wet.
Stine will never forget it, and Björn tells the story himself in this
wise:
“We just skipped through the water. I must say the ‘Flying Fish’ did
fly that day. As we went past the ferry-boats and the pilot-boats they
called out to us, but I waved my hat and asked if they could see the
color of her bottom.
“‘I hope she will stand it,’ said Niels.
“‘She’ll have to,’ I answered.
“Stine lay in the bottom of the boat and gave up all the good dinner
they served us in the inn. It was a good thing she had not eaten more.
“I tried to cheer her up, but I don’t think she heard me.
“Niels and I were dripping wet, the sails were dripping wet, and so was
Stine. I haven’t sailed like that before or since.
“I didn’t dare sail all the way home with her like that, so put up at
the dock of the town.
“The old skipper who bought ‘The Pail’ came down to the water. ‘What
sort of weather is that for full sail?’ he asked. ‘Have you a cargo?’
“‘A wedding cargo,’ I answered, ‘but it’s more dead than alive, I
guess. Come, help us get the old woman ashore, or she will give up the
ghost right here.’ We handed Stine up. She couldn’t stand on her legs
at all, and we had to leave her at the house of a good friend in the
town. She stayed there three days and nights, and I had to go round
with dry mouth, couldn’t get even so much as a kiss.
“It was all right afterward, but she was angry at me for some time
because I had ‘made a fool of her in that way.’ What can one expect
from such land lubbers, who have never seen more water than a pool in a
village street in all their lives?
“Whenever I speak of that day Stine gets cross, but I rub my nose with
the back of my hand and say: ‘Well, anyway, that was the most wonderful
wedding trip I ever heard of.’
“And that is why I haven’t made any more like it.”
JALO THE TROTTER
BY JOHANN JACOB AHRENBERG
[Illustration]
_Among Scandinavians it seems to be a common thing for the
artistic impulse to drive in many directions at once. The
Swedish-Finnish novelist Ahrenberg is architect as well
as writer. He was born in 1847 at Wiborg, and studied in
Helsingfors and at the Art Academy in Stockholm. He is now
chief Government architect for his state. The first novels and
tales that brought him into literary prominence were published
in 1880, followed since then by many other East Finland
pictures. Among these, “Jalo the Trotter,” the story of a
superb horse and his two masters, is characteristic not only of
the author’s style, but of his country as well._
[Illustration]
JALO THE TROTTER
A FINNISH TALE