[2] A Russian national drink, very popular among the lower classes,
made of syrup, thin beer, and water.
[3] A Finnish proverb.
THE PLAGUE AT BERGAMO
BY JENS PETER JACOBSEN
[Illustration]
_Jacobsen is now considered to be the supreme Danish exponent
of the artistic creed of the great critic Brandes, and next to
Brandes the most potent influence among his country’s writers
of fiction. He was born in 1847 and died in 1885. In his youth
he followed the methods and style of Hans Andersen. In later
years he studied natural science with conspicuous success and
became absorbed in the theories of Darwin. Later still he found
his permanent way into literature with that wonderful story
“Mogens,” said to be the first specimen of realistic fiction in
Denmark. Jacobsen’s great aim seems to be the reconciliation
of man’s psychological sensations with his psychological
surroundings. He is a true scientist and a true poet._
[Illustration]
THE PLAGUE AT BERGAMO
BY JENS PETER JACOBSEN
Old Bergamo lay up there at the top of a squatty mountain encircled by
walls and towers. New Bergamo lay below at the foot of the mountain,
exposed to every wind that blows.
In the new town the plague broke out and wrought havoc indescribable.
Many died, and the rest fled across the plains to every point of the
compass. The men of Old Bergamo set fire to the deserted town, to
disinfect the air. In vain. Men began to die on the mountain, also; at
first one a day, then five, then ten, then a dozen.
There were many who sought to escape, but they could not flee as
those in the new town had done; they lived like hunted beasts, hiding
in tombs, under bridges, behind hedges, and in the tall grass of
the green fields. For the peasants stoned all strangers from their
hearths, or beat them as they would mad dogs, cruelly, pitilessly--in
self-protection, as they thought, for the first fugitives had brought
with them the pestilence into their houses.
So the people of Old Bergamo were as prisoners in their own town. Day
by day the sun blazed hotter, and day by day the terrible infection
carried off more victims.
In the very beginning, when the plague came among them, they bound
themselves together in unity and peace, and had taken care to decently
bury the dead, and had kindled great fires in the markets and open
places, so that the purging fumes might be blown through the streets.
Juniper and vinegar had been given to the poor. Above all they had gone
to church, early and late, singly and in processions; each day they
lifted their voices in prayer. As the sun sank behind the mountains the
church bells tolled their dirge from a hundred hanging mouths. Days
were set aside for fasting, and the relics were placed upon the altars.
At last, in their extremity, amid the blare of trumpets and tubas, they
proclaimed the Holy Virgin forevermore Podesta of the city.
All this was of no help. And when the people saw that nothing could aid
them, that Heaven either would not or could not send them relief, they
did not fold their hands together and say, “God’s will be done.” It was
as if sin, growing by a secret, stealthy sickness, had flared into an
evil, open, raging pestilence, stalking hand in hand with the body’s
disease, the one to kill their souls, even as the other defiled their
flesh--so incredible were their deeds, so monstrous their cruelty.
“Let us eat to-day, for to-morrow we die!” It was as if this theme, set
to music, were played in an endless, devilish symphony on instruments
without number. The most unnatural vices flourished among them. Even
such rare arts as necromancy, sorcery, and devil worship became
familiar to them; for there were many who sought from the powers of
hell that protection which Providence had not been willing to accord
them. Everything that suggested charity and sympathy had vanished; each
thought only of himself. If a beggar, faint with the first delirium
of the plague, fell in the street, he was driven from door to door
with sharp weapons and with stones. From the dead that lay rotting in
the houses, and from the bodies hastily buried in the earth, arose a
sickening stench that mingled with the heavy air of the streets, and
drew ravens and crows hither in swarms and in clouds, so that the walls
and housetops were black with them. And about the town walls great
strange birds perched here and there--birds that came from afar, with
rapacious beaks and talons expectantly curved; and they sat and stared
with their quiet, hungry eyes as if awaiting the moment when the doomed
town would be reduced to a heap of carrion.
Eleven weeks had passed since the plague had first broken out. Then the
tower watchman and others who chanced to be on high ground perceived a
singular procession winding from the plains into the narrow streets of
the new town, between the smoke-blackened stone walls and the charred
frames of houses. A great throng! Assuredly six hundred and more, men
and women, young and old. Some among them bore large, black crosses,
and some held above their heads broad banners, red as blood and fire.
They sang as they marched, and strange, despairingly plaintive melodies
rose in the still, oppressively hot air.
Brown, gray, black, were the colors these people wore. Yet all had a
red sign on their breasts. As they came nearer and nearer this was seen
to be the sign of the cross. They crowded up the steep, stone-girt
space that led to the old town. Their faces were as waves of white sea;
they bore scourges in their hands; a rain of fire was painted on their
banners. And in the surging mass the black crosses swung from side to
side. Face after face plunged into the gloom of the tower gate and
emerged into the light on the other side with blinking eyes.
Then the chant was taken up anew--a _miserere_. They grasped their
scourges and marched even more sturdily than if their chant had been
a battle song. Their aspect was that of a people who had come from a
starving town. Their cheeks were sunken; their cheek-bones protruded;
their lips were bloodless, and dark rings encircled their eyes. All the
scourges were stained with blood.
With astonishment and uneasiness all Bergamo flocked together to gaze
upon them. Red, bloated faces stood out against those that were pale;
heavy, lust-weary eyes were lowered before the keen, flashing glances
of the pilgrims; grinning, blasphemous mouths were struck dumb by these
chants. The townspeople were spellbound.
But it was not long before the pall was shaken off. Some recognized
among the cross-bearers a half-crazed cobbler of Brescia, and in a
moment the procession became a butt of ridicule. Moreover, this was
something new, a diversion from the monotony of every-day life, and as
the strangers marched on to the cathedral, they were followed as a band
of jugglers might be or as a tame bear is followed.
But soon anger seized the jostling crowd. It was clear that these
cobblers and tailors had come to convert them, to pray, and to speak
words that none wished to hear. Two gaunt, grizzled philosophers who
had formulated blasphemy into a system incited the populace out of
sheer wickedness of heart, so that the mob grew more threatening as the
procession marched to the church, and more fiercely enraged. Bergamo
was about to lay hands on these singular, scourge-bearing tailors.
Not a hundred paces from the portal of the church a tavern opened its
doors and a whole band of roisterers poured out, one on the shoulders
of another. And they took their places at the head of the procession,
singing and howling, assuming a mock-religious mien--all save one, who
jerked his thumbs contemptuously toward the grass-grown steps of the
church. Rough laughter then arose, and pilgrims and blasphemers entered
the sanctuary in peace.
It was strange to be in that place again, to roam through the great
cool nave, in air heavy with the stale fumes of snuffed wax tapers,
over sunken flagstones so familiar to the foot, and over stones with
their worn ornaments and polished inscriptions, in contemplation of
which the mind had often grown so weary. And while the eye, half
curiously, half involuntarily rested in the dim half-light of the
vaults or strayed over the mellow gaudiness of dusty gold and grimy
colors, or began to lose itself in the grotesque shadows of the apse, a
kind of longing arose, not to be suppressed.
Meanwhile the tavern roisterers played their pranks on the main altar
itself. A tall, strong young butcher removed his white apron and wound
it about his neck so that it hung at his back like a cloak. Thus
arrayed, he celebrated mass, with the wildest and most shocking words
of sacrilege. A small, elderly, round-bellied fellow, lively and agile
in spite of his fat, with the face of a peeled pumpkin, played sexton
and responded with ribald songs; he made his genuflexions and turned
his back upon the altar, and rang his bell like a clown; and the other
tipplers, as they made their genuflexions, threw themselves flat on the
ground and roared with laughter, hiccuping drunkenly.
All within the church laughed, hooted, and jeered at the strangers, and
bade them notice how God was esteemed in Old Bergamo. Yet they wished
not so much to mock God as to rack the souls of these penitents with
their impiety.
In the centre of the nave the pilgrims halted and groaned, such was
their anguish. Their blood boiled with hate, and they thirsted for
vengeance. They prayed to God, with hands and eyes uplifted, that He
might smite His blasphemers for the mockery offered Him in His house.
Gladly would they perish with the presumptuous infidels, if He would
but show His might; blissfully would they be crushed beneath His feet,
if He would but triumph, and if these godless throats might be made to
shriek in agony and despair.
They lifted up their voices in a _miserere_, each note of which rang
like a prayer for that rain of fire that once swept over Sodom, for
the strength that was Samson’s when he grasped the pillars of the
Philistine temple. They prayed with words and with song; they bared
their shoulders and prayed with their scourges. Kneeling, row on row,
stripped to the waist they whirled stinging, knotted cords over their
backs.
Frantically they scourged, until the blood spurted under their hissing
lashes. Each stroke was an offering to God. Stroke on stroke came down,
until arms sank or were cramped into knots. Thus they lay, row on row,
with frenzied look and foaming mouth, blood dripping from their bodies.
And those that saw this of a sudden felt their hearts beat, felt the
blood mount to their temples, their breathing grow hard. Their knees
shook. To be the slave of a powerful, stern divinity, to fling one’s
self at the feet of the Lord, to be His own, not in mute devotion,
not in the mild inefficacy of prayer, but in a fury of passion, in
the intoxication of self-humiliation, in blood and lamentation, and
smitten with the moist, glistening tongues of scourges--this they
could understand. Even the butcher held his peace; and the toothless
philosophers bowed their grizzled heads.
Silence reigned in the church; only a gentle breathing passed through
the multitude.
Then one of the strangers, a young friar, rose and spoke. His was the
pallor of bloodless flesh; his black eyes glowed; and the sad lines of
his mouth were as if cut with a knife in wood, and not mere furrows in
a human face.
He lifted up his thin, suffering hands in prayer to Heaven, and the
black sleeves of his gown slipped back from his lean arms.
Then he spoke--of hell, of its eternity, of the eternity of Heaven, of
the solitary world of pain which each of the damned must suffer and
must fill with his cries of agony. In that world were seas of sulphur,
meadows of wasps, flames to be wrapped about them like a cloak, and
hard flames that would pierce them like a probe twisting in a wound.
Breathlessly all listened to his words; for he spoke as if he had seen
these things with his own eyes. And they asked themselves: “Is this man
not one of the damned, sent to us from the mouth of hell, to testify?”
Then he preached long of the commandments and their rigor, of the need
of obeying them to the very letter, and of the dire punishment that
awaited him who sinned against them. “‘But Christ died for our sins,’
ye say. ‘We are no longer bound by the Word.’ But I say that hell will
not be cheated of one of you, and not one of the iron teeth of hell’s
wheel will your flesh escape. Ye build upon Calvary’s cross? Come! Come
and see it! I will lead you to its foot. It was on a Friday, as ye
know, when they cast Him from their gates and laid the heavier end of
a cross upon His shoulders and suffered Him to bear it to a barren and
naked hill without the city; and they walked beside Him and stirred up
the dust with their feet, so that it rested over them like a red cloud.
And they tore His garments from Him, even as the lords of justice strip
a criminal before all eyes, that all might see His body. And they threw
Him down upon His cross, and stretched Him upon it, and drove an iron
nail through each of His unresistant hands and a nail through His
crossed feet. And they raised the cross in a hole dug in the earth; but
it would stand neither firm nor upright. So they shook it and drove
wedges and blocks around it. And those that did this turned down the
brims of their hats so that the blood of His hands might not drip into
their eyes.
“And He from on high looked down upon the soldiers casting dice for His
seamless coat, and down upon all the howling mob for whose salvation He
suffered. Not one tearful eye was there in all the multitude. And those
who were below looked up at Him, hanging from the cross, suffering, and
faint. They read the inscription above His head: ‘King of the Jews,’
and they mocked Him and called up to Him: ‘Thou that destroyest the
temple, and buildest it in three days, save Thyself. If Thou be the Son
of God, come down from the cross.’
“Then God’s noble Son waxed wroth and saw that these were unworthy of
salvation, this mob that swarmed over the earth; and He wrenched His
feet from the nail, and He clenched His fingers and tore His hands
away, so that the arms of the cross bent as a bow. And He leaped to
the earth and caught up His garment, so that the dice rolled over the
precipice of Golgotha, and threw it about His person with the righteous
wrath of a king, and ascended into heaven. And the cross stood bare;
and the great work of atonement remained unfulfilled. No mediator
stands between us and God. No Jesus died for us on the cross! No Jesus
died for us on the cross!”
He ceased.
As he uttered the last words he bent toward the multitude and with his
lips and hands flung his words, as it were, upon their heads. A groan
of fear ran through the church. Sobs could be heard.
Then the butcher with uplifted, threatening hands, pallid as a corpse,
stepped forward and commanded:
“Monk, nail Him to the cross again, nail Him--!”
And from all lips, pleadingly, threateningly, a storm of voices rolled
to the vault above: “Crucify Him!”
But the monk looked down upon these fluttering, uplifted hands, upon
these distorted faces with the dark openings of their screaming mouths,
from which the teeth flashed like those of tormented beasts of prey;
and in the ecstasy of the moment he extended his arms toward Heaven,
and laughed. Then he descended; and his people raised the banners of
the fiery rain and their plain, black crosses and pushed out of the
church. Once more they marched, singing, across the marketplace, and
once more they passed through the mouth of the tower gate.
And the people of Old Bergamo stared after them, as they proceeded down
the mountain. The steep, wall-girt road was obscured in the uncertain
light of the setting sun, and the procession could be only half seen in
the glare. Their huge crosses, swaying in the crowd from side to side,
cast sharp, black shadows on the glowing walls of the town.
In the distance a chant could be heard. A banner or two gleamed red
from the charred site of the new town, and the pilgrims vanished into
the bright plain.
KAREN
BY ALEXANDER LANGE KIELLAND
[Illustration]
_Kielland, son of a rich and aristocratic merchant, was born
at Stavanger, Norway, in 1849. He studied law in Christiania,
but preferred the management of a brick and tile kiln. His
appointment as burgomaster of Stavanger in 1891 cut short
a brilliant poetical career, and he turned to prose. The
autobiographical “Garman and Worse” soon gave the public such a
series of Norwegian peasant pictures that he was acclaimed one
of the four great Norwegians, with Ibsen, Björnson, and Lie._
_Kielland’s “novelettes,” or short stories, pictures of prince
and peasant, are universally acknowledged to be his best work.
They are modeled after the French realists, especially Daudet,
as may be seen in “Karen.” He is always protesting against the
conventional religion and smug optimism of the conservative
class. His style, though frequently lacking in force, is
graceful in form and full of biting satire and fresh humor, and
his subjects are always well chosen and artistically worked
out._
[Illustration]
KAREN
BY ALEXANDER KIELLAND
Translated by Leonora Teller. Copyright, 1898, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company.
There was once upon a time in Kraruper Inn a maiden named Karen.
She attended to the serving of the guests herself, for the landlady
lived among her pots and pans in the kitchen. And many people came
to Kraruper Inn--neighbors who collected there when the autumn
evenings began to darken and sat in the warm room, and drank unlimited
quantities of coffee punch. Travelers and wanderers, too, who came in
blue with cold, stamping their feet and calling for something hot, that
would enable them to reach the next station.
Karen went about silently, without haste, serving each in his turn.
She was small and delicate, only a child, earnest and reserved, and
the young fellows did not notice her. But she was very dear to the
older customers, to whom a visit to the Inn was an event of importance.
She prepared their coffee quickly, and served it seven times hot.
When she moved about among the guests with her waiter the burly,
coarsely dressed men stood aside and made place for her, and every
one looked admiringly after her. Karen had great, gray eyes that took
in everything, and seemed to look far, far away, and her eyebrows
were arched in surprise and wonder. Strangers thought she did not
understand their orders; but Karen heard it all, and made never a
mistake. She had a way all her own, whether she gazed off into the
distance, or listened, or waited, or dreamed. The west wind blew
strong; it threw up long, heavy waves from the west sea. Salt and
damp, with froth and foam it threw them on the sands. But when the
wind reached Kraruper Inn it had only strength enough left to tear
open the stable door, and then that which connected the kitchen with
the stable. It burst in, filled the space, swung the lantern that hung
from the roof back and forth; tore off the hostler’s cap and rolled it
out into the darkness; threw the horses’ blankets over their heads,
and finally blew a white hen from her perch into the water trough. The
hen squawked frightfully, the hostler swore, the chickens cackled. The
kitchen was full of smoke; the horses grew restless and beat sparks
of fire from the stones with their hoofs. Even the ducks which were
gathered quacking together near the manger to be at hand when the oats
were scattered, began to chatter, and through it all the wind roared
fearfully. At last two men came out of the inn parlor and, putting
their broad backs against the door, pushed it shut, while a shower of
sparks rained from their pipes over their dark beards. Having done all
the mischief possible the wind fled back over the plain, crossed the
great pond, and shook the mail coach that rolled majestically along
about half a mile from the inn.
“What terrible haste he always makes to reach Kraruper Inn,” muttered
the postilion, Anders, cracking his whip over the smoking horses. For
the twentieth time the conductor had let down the window to call to
him. At first it had been a friendly invitation to take a coffee punch
with him, then little by little the good-nature disappeared. Finally
the window went down with a bang, and remarks far from conciliating
were showered on driver and horses.
The wind swept low on the ground, and long, mysterious sighs murmured
through the heather bushes. The moon was full, but thick clouds
obscured its light. Behind Kraruper Inn lay the gloomy moor, covered
by black heaps of peat and deep, treacherous holes. And between the
heather bushes wound a strip of grass that looked like a path, but
it was no path, for it came to a sudden end at the brink of a hole
deeper than the others, and filled with water. In the grass a sleek
fox crouched and waited, and a hare hopped softly over the plain. The
fox could reckon with certainty that the hare would not make a long
circuit so late in the evening. He stretched out a cautious nose, and,
as he sniffed in the direction of the wind and sought a secure post of
observation, he thought how wise foxes always were and how stupid the
hares.
Yonder in the inn there was an unusual commotion. A couple of traveling
men had ordered roast hare. The landlord had gone to an auction at
Thisted, and his wife was used only to the responsibilities of her
kitchen. Now it happened unfortunately that the Advocate would speak
with the host on business, and because he was not at home the good
woman must listen to a long speech and take charge of an important
letter, a proceeding that sadly disturbed her composure. A stranger,
who was waiting for a bottle of soda water, stood by the stove in
greasy sailor clothes. Two fish pedlers had three times ordered brandy
for their coffee. The stable boy stood with an empty lantern and waited
for a candle, and a tall, rough farmer followed Karen with longing
eyes--she owed him change for a crown he had just given her. Karen came
and went without haste, without error. One would hardly imagine she
could attend to so many things at once. The great eyes and the high
arched brows were full of wonder and expectation. The fine little head
was held straight and still. If she would make no mistakes she must
keep her thoughts collected. Her blue woolen dress was too small for
her. The tight neckband wrinkled her flesh just under the hair. “The
maiden from Agger has a white skin,” said one fish pedler to the other.
They were young people and spoke of Karen as connoisseurs.
Some one stood near the window, and looking at the clock said: “The
post is early to-night.” It rattled over the pavement, the doors
were thrown open, and the wind blew the smoke from the stove. Karen
entered from the kitchen just as the conductor stepped into the door
and greeted the company with a hearty “Good evening!” He was a tall,
handsome man, with dark eyes, a crisp brown beard framed his face,
and curly brown hair covered his small head. His long heavy mantle of
beautiful red royal Danish cloth was trimmed with black fur, and hung
from his shoulders. The entire light of the two dim paraffin lamps
that were suspended from the wall over the table centred itself on this
spot of glorious crimson, as if it loved it, and left all the black and
gray of the room to grow still grayer and blacker. And the tall figure
with the fine, dark curly head, the long folds of the crimson cloak
shone like a very marvel of splendor and color.
Karen came in quickly from the kitchen with her waiter. She bent her
head so no one could see her face, as she hastened from one guest to
the other. She set the roast hare before the fish pedlers, and brought
the commercial traveler, who sat in an adjacent room, the bottle of
soda water. She gave the anxious farmer a tallow candle, and, slipping
to the stranger by the stove, she thrust the change from the crown in
his hand.
The hostess was in the deepest despair. Everything had gone wrong
in her kitchen. She had lost the advocate’s letter, and boundless
confusion filled the inn. The traveler pounded the table with the bell
loudly; the fish pedlers laughed until they were half dead over the
hares spread before them; the bewildered farmer tapped the landlady on
the shoulder with the candle and puffed himself out like a turkey cock.
And amid all this maddening confusion Karen had disappeared. The
postilion Anders sat on the driver’s seat; the stable boy stood ready
to open the door; the travelers in the mail coach were impatient and so
were the horses, although they had nothing pleasant to look forward to,
and the wind still rattled and whistled through the stable. At last
the conductor, whom they all awaited, came. He carried his mantle over
his arm as he stepped into the coach and excused his delay with a few
curt words. He laughed to himself as he drew his cloak about him and
took his seat. The door was closed; the mail coach rolled on. Anders
let the horses trot gently, now there was no more need of haste. From
time to time he glanced slyly at the conductor, who still laughed to
himself, while the wind ruffled his hair. The postilion laughed, too.
He suspected something. The wind followed the coach to a turn in the
road, then threw itself again over the plain and sighed mysteriously
through the heather bushes.
The fox lay at his post. All was ready now, the hare must soon come.
Yonder at the inn harmony was restored, the anxious farmer was relieved
of his candle, and received his change, and the travelers consumed
their hare. The hostess complained a little, but she did not blame
Karen. No one in all the world had ever scolded Karen. Quietly,
unconsciously she hastened from one to the other, and the serene
satisfaction that always followed her footsteps spread through the cozy
half-dark inn parlor.
The two fish peddlers that had ordered a second cup of cognac and
coffee, to follow the first, were specially pleased with her. A soft
pink flush rested on her pale cheek, the glimmer of a smile on her
lip, and once when she raised her eyes their light was dazzling. When
she felt the men’s eyes followed her she went into the next room where
the travelers sat, pretending that she wanted some teaspoons from the
cupboard. “Did you notice the conductor?” asked one of them.
“No; not till he went out. He left very quickly,” answered the other
with his mouth full of roast hare.
“A devilish handsome fellow. I attended his wedding.”
“So, is he married?”
“Yes, indeed; his wife is the daughter of the landlord at Ulstrup, and
I got there the night of the wedding. That was a jolly time, I assure
you. They have two children, I believe.”
Karen dropped the teaspoons and went out. She heard nothing that
was called after her from the inn. She went across the court to her
room and began mechanically to make her bed. Her eyes stared into
the darkness. She pressed her hands to her head, to her breast;
she groaned. She could comprehend nothing--nothing! She heard the
landlady’s complaining voice: “Karen, dear Karen!” it called. She ran
out across the court, behind the inn, across the moor.
The winding strip of grass glimmered in the half-light as if it were
a path, but it was no path. No one dared to follow it, for it led
abruptly to the brink of the great pond. The hare quickened his steps.
He heard a rustling. He gave long jumps as if he were mad to escape;
not knowing what he feared, he fled over the plain. The fox stretched
out his sharp nose and stared in surprise at the hare. He had heard
nothing. According to the instincts of his kind he had crouched there
in the hollow--he was conscious of no error. He could not understand
the action of the hare. He stood long with outstretched head and
slinking body. His bushy tail was hid by the heather bushes, and he
began to wonder if foxes were getting duller or hares wiser. But when
the west wind had run its long course it turned into a north wind, and
then into an east wind, and then into the south wind, and at last came
back over the sea as the west wind again, threw itself upon the dunes,
and long, mysterious sighs moaned through the heather bushes.
But there were wanting in Kraruper Inn two wondering gray eyes, a
little blue woolen gown that had grown too small, and the hostess
complained more than ever. She could not understand it at all. No one
could understand it, save the postilion Anders, and one other!
LOVE AND BREAD
BY JEAN AUGUST STRINDBERG
[Illustration]
_Strindberg, renovator of the literary language of Sweden, one
of the most conspicuous, prolific, and versatile of the newer
realists of that country, was born in 1849, at Stockholm. In
spite of early struggles he obtained an education at Upsala,
and eventually the post of Orientalist at the Royal Library._
_It was his “Red Room,” written in 1879, that is supposed to
have introduced naturalism into Swedish literature; at any
rate, it helped the author to his first literary honors. It is
a picture of Stockholm bohemianism, a satire on all artistic
hypocrisy, as his later book, “The New Kingdom,” was a satire
on social hypocrisy that raised a scandal which drove him
abroad for a while._
_Strindberg has formulated no philosophy, but he is thought
to be an atheist, a misogynist, and has more than once proved
himself an enemy to all tyranny of the majority. His books
breathe violence, sarcasm, melancholy. And as such Strindberg
appears in “Love and Bread.”_
[Illustration]
LOVE AND BREAD
BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
When young Gustaf Falk, the assistant councilor, made his ceremonial
proposal for Louise’s hand to her father, the old gentleman’s first
question was: “How much are you earning?”
“Not more than a hundred kroner[4] a month. But Louise--”
“Never mind the rest,” interrupted Falk’s prospective father-in-law;
“you don’t earn enough.”
“Oh, but Louise and I love each other so dearly! We are so sure of one
another.”
“Very likely. However, let me ask you: is twelve hundred a year the sum
total of your resources?”
“We first became acquainted at Lidingö.”
“Do you make anything beside your government salary?” persisted
Louise’s parent.
“Well, yes, I think we shall have sufficient. And then, you see, our
mutual affection--”
“Yes, exactly; but let’s have a few figures.”
“Oh,” said the enthusiastic suitor, “I can get enough by doing extra
work!”
“What sort of work? And how much?”
“I can give lessons in French, and also translate. And then I can get
some proofreading.”
“How much translation?” queried the elder, pencil in hand.
“I can’t say exactly, but at present I am translating a French book at
the rate of ten kroner per folio.”
“How many folios are there altogether?”
“About a couple of dozen, I should say.”
“Very well. Put this at two hundred and fifty kroner. Now, how much
else?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a little uncertain.”
“What, you are not certain, and you intend to marry? You seem to have
queer notions of marriage, young man! Do you realize that there will
be children, and that you will have to feed and clothe them, and bring
them up?”
“But,” objected Falk, “the children may not come so very soon. And we
love each other so dearly, that--”
“That the arrival of children may be prophesied quite safely.” Then,
relenting, Louise’s father went on:
“I suppose you are both set on marrying, and I don’t doubt but what you
are really fond of each other. So it seems as though I should have to
give my consent after all. Only make good use of the time that you are
engaged to Louise by trying to increase your income.”
Young Falk flushed with joy at this sanction, and demonstratively
kissed the old man’s hand. Heavens, how happy he was--and his Louise,
too! How proud they felt the first time they went out walking together
arm in arm, and how everybody noticed the radiant happiness of the
engaged couple!
In the evenings he came to see her, bringing with him the proof-sheets
he had undertaken to correct. This made a good impression on papa, and
earned the industrious young man a kiss from his betrothed. But one
evening they went to the theatre for a change, and drove home in a cab,
the cost of that evening’s entertainment amounting to ten kroner. Then,
on a few other evenings, instead of giving the lessons, he called at
the young lady’s house to take her for a little walk.
As the day set for the wedding drew near, they had to think about
making the necessary purchases to furnish their flat. They bought two
handsome beds of real walnut, with substantial spring mattresses and
soft eiderdown quilts. Louise must have a blue quilt, as her hair was
blond. They, of course, also paid a visit to the house-furnishers’,
where they selected a lamp with a red shade, a pretty porcelain
statuette of Venus, a complete table service with knives, forks, and
fine glassware. In picking out the kitchen utensils they were benefited
by mama’s advice and aid. It was a busy time for the assistant
councilor--rushing about to find a house, looking after the workmen,
seeing that all the furniture was got together, writing out checks, and
what not.
Meanwhile it was perfectly natural that Gustaf could earn nothing
extra. But when they were once married he would easily make it up. They
intended to be most economical--only a couple of rooms to start with.
Anyhow, you could furnish a small apartment better than a large one. So
they took a first-floor apartment at six hundred kroner, consisting of
two rooms, kitchen, and larder. At first Louise said she would prefer
three rooms on the top landing. But what did it matter, after all, so
long as they sincerely loved each other?
At last the rooms were furnished. The sleeping chamber was like a
small sanctuary, the beds standing side by side like chariots taking
their course along life’s journey. The blue quilts, the snowy sheets,
and the pillow-spreads embroidered with the young people’s initials
amorously intertwined, all had a bright and cheerful appearance. There
was a tall, elegant screen for the use of Louise, whose piano--costing
twelve hundred kroner--stood in the other chamber, which served as
sitting-room, dining-room, and study, in one. Here, too, stood a large
walnut writing-desk and dining-table, with chairs to match; a large
gilt-framed mirror, a sofa, and a bookcase added to the general air of
comfort and coziness.
The marriage ceremony took place on a Saturday night, and late on
Sunday morning the happy young couple was still asleep. Gustaf rose
first. Although the bright light of day was peering in through the
shutters, he did not open them, but lit the red-shaded lamp, which
threw a mysterious rosy glow over the porcelain Venus. The pretty
young wife lay there languid and content; she had slept well, and had
not been awakened--as it was Sunday--by the rumbling of early market
wagons. Now the church bells were ringing joyfully, as if to celebrate
the creation of man and woman.
Louise turned over, while Gustaf retired behind the screen to put
on a few things. He went out into the kitchen to order lunch. How
dazzlingly the new copper and tin utensils gleamed and glistened!
And all was his own--his and hers. He told the cook to go to the
neighboring restaurant, and request that the lunch be sent in. The
proprietor knew about it; he had received full instructions the day
before. All he needed now was a reminder that the moment had come.
The bridegroom thereupon returns to the bedchamber and taps softly:
“May I come in?”
A little scream is heard. Then: “No, dearest; just wait a minute!”
Gustaf lays the table himself. By the time the lunch arrives from the
restaurant, the new plates and cutlery and glasses are set out on the
fresh, white linen cloth. The bridal bouquet lies beside Louise’s
place. As she enters the room in her embroidered morning wrapper, she
is greeted by the sunbeams. She still feels a little tired, so he makes
her take an armchair, and wheels it to the table. A drop or two of
liqueur enlivens her; a mouthful of caviar stimulates her appetite.
Fancy what mama would say if she saw her daughter drinking spirits!
But that’s the advantage of being married, you know; then you can do
whatever you please.
The young husband waits most attentively upon his fair bride. What
a pleasure, too! Of course he has had good luncheons before, in his
bachelor days; but what comfort or satisfaction had he ever derived
from them? None. Thus he reflects while consuming a plate of oysters
and a glass of beer. What numbskulls they are, those bachelors, not to
marry! And how selfish! Why, there ought to be a tax on them, as on
dogs. Louise is not quite so severe, urging gently and sweetly that
perhaps the poor fellows who elect the single state are subjects of
pity. No doubt if they could afford to marry, they would--she thinks.
Gustaf feels a slight pang at his heart. Surely happiness is not to be
measured by money. No, no; but, but--Well, never mind, there will soon
be lots of work, and then everything will run smoothly. For the present
there is this delicious roast partridge with cranberry sauce to be
considered, and the Burgundy. These luxuries, together with some fine
artichokes, cause the young wife a moment’s alarm, and she timidly asks
Gustaf if they can afford living on such a scale. But Gustaf pours more
wine into the glass of his little Louise, reassuring her and softening
those groundless fears. “One day is not every day,” he says; “and
people ought to enjoy life when they can. Ah, how beautiful life is!”
At six o’clock an elegant carriage, with two horses, pulls up before
the door, and the bridal pair take a drive. Louise is charmed as they
roll along through the park, reclining there so comfortably, while they
meet acquaintances on foot, who bow to them in obvious astonishment and
envy. The assistant councilor has made a good match, they must think;
he has chosen a girl with money. And they, poor souls, have to walk.
How much pleasanter to ride, without effort, leaning against these soft
cushions! It is symbolical of agreeable married life.
The first month was one of unceasing enjoyment--balls, parties,
dinners, suppers, theatres. Still, the time they spent at home was
really the best of all! It was a delightful sensation to carry Louise
off home, from her parents, at night, when they would do as they
pleased under their own roof. Arriving at the flat, they would make
a little supper, and then they would sit comfortably, chatting until
a late hour. Gustaf was all for economy--the theory of it, that is
to say. One day the young bride and housekeeper tried smoked salmon
with boiled potatoes. How she relished it, too! But Gustaf demurred,
and when smoked salmon day came round again he invested in a brace of
partridges. These he bought at the market for a krone, exulting over
the splendid bargain, of which Louise did not approve. She had once
bought a pair for less money. Besides, to eat game was extravagant.
However, it would not do to disagree with her husband about such a
trifling matter.
After a couple of months more Louise Falk became strangely indisposed.
Had she caught cold? Or had she perchance been poisoned by the metal
kitchen utensils? The doctor who was called in merely laughed, and said
it was all right--a queer diagnosis, to be sure, when the young lady
was seriously ailing. Perhaps there was arsenic in the wall-paper.
Falk took some to a chemist, bidding him make a careful analysis.
The chemist’s report stated the wall-paper to be quite free from any
harmful substance.
His wife’s sickness not abating, Gustaf began to investigate on his own
account, his studies in a medical book resulting in a certainty as to
her ailment. She took warm foot-baths, and in a month’s time her state
was declared entirely promising. This was sudden--sooner than they had
expected; yet how lovely to be papa and mama! Of course the child would
be a boy--no doubt of that; and one must think of a name to give him.
Meanwhile, though, Louise took her husband aside, and reminded him that
since their marriage he had earned nothing to supplement his salary,
which had proved far from sufficient. Well, it was true they had lived
rather high, but now a change should be made, and everything would be
satisfactory!
Next day the assistant councilor went to see his good friend the
barrister, with a request that he indorse a promissory note. This would
allow him to borrow the money that would be needed to meet certain
unavoidable forthcoming expenses--as Falk made clear to his friend.
“Yes,” agreed the man of law, “marrying and raising a family is an
expensive business. I have never been able to afford it.”
Falk felt too much ashamed to press his request, and when he returned
home, empty-handed, was greeted with the news that two strangers had
been to the house, and had asked for him. They must be lieutenants in
the army, thought Gustaf, friends belonging to the garrison of Fort
Vaxholm. No, he was told, they could not have been lieutenants; they
were much older-looking men. Ah, then they were two fellows he used to
know in Upsala; they had probably heard of his marriage, and had come
to look him up. Only the servant said they were not from Upsala, but
were Stockholmers, and carried sticks. Mysterious--very; but no doubt
they would come back.
Then the young husband went marketing again. He bought strawberries--at
a bargain, of course.
“Just fancy,” he triumphantly exclaimed to his housewife, “a pint of
these large strawberries for a krone and a half, at this time of year!”
“Oh, but Gustaf dear, we can’t afford that sort of thing!”
“Never mind, darling; I have arranged for some extra work.”
“But what about our debts?”
“Debts? Why, I’m going to make a big loan, and pay them all off at once
that way.”
“Ah,” objected Louise, “but won’t this simply mean a new debt?”
“No matter if it does. It will be a respite, you know. But why discuss
such unpleasant things? What capital strawberries, eh, dear? And don’t
you think a glass of sherry would go well now after the strawberries?”
Upon which the servant was sent out for a bottle of sherry--the best,
naturally.
When Falk’s wife awoke from her afternoon nap on the sofa that day, she
apologetically reverted to the subject of debt. She hoped he would not
be angry at what she had to say. Angry? No, of course not. What was it?
Did she want some money for the house? Louise explained:
“The grocer has not been paid, the butcher has threatened us, and the
livery-stable man also insists on having his bill settled.”
“Is that all?” replied the assistant councilor. “They shall be paid at
once--to-morrow--every farthing. But let’s think of something else. How
would you like to go out for a little drive to the park? You’d rather
not take a carriage? All right, then, there’s the tramway; that will
take us to the park.”
So they went to the park, and they had dinner in a private room at the
Alhambra Restaurant. It was great fun, too, because the people in the
general dining-room thought they were a frisky young pair of lovers.
This idea amused Gustaf, though Louise seemed a trifle depressed,
especially when she saw the bill. They could have had a good deal at
home for that amount.
The months go by, and now arises the need for actual preparation--a
cradle, infant’s clothing, and so forth.
Falk has no easy time raising the money. The livery-stable man and the
grocer refuse further credit, for they, too, have families to feed.
What shocking materialism!
At length the eventful day arrives. Gustaf must secure a nurse, and
even while holding his new-born daughter in his arms is called out to
pacify his creditors. The fresh responsibilities weigh heavily upon
him; he almost breaks down under the strain. He succeeds, it is true,
in getting some translation to do, but how can he perform the work when
at every touch and turn he is obliged to run errands? In this frame
of mind he appeals to his father-in-law for help. The old gentleman
receives him coldly:
“I will help you this once, but not again. I have little enough myself,
and you are not my only child.”
Delicacies must be provided for the mother, chicken and expensive wine.
And the nurse has to be paid.
Fortunately, Falk’s wife is soon on her feet again. She is like a
girl once more, with a slender figure. Her pallor is quite becoming.
Louise’s father talks seriously to his son-in-law, however:
“Now, no more children, if you please, unless you want to be ruined.”
For a brief space the junior Falk family continued to live on love
and increasing debts. But one day bankruptcy knocked at the door. The
seizure of the household effects was threatened. Then the old man came
and took away Louise and her child, and as they rode off in a cab he
made the bitter reflection that he had lent his girl to a young man,
who had given her back after a year, dishonored. Louise would willingly
have stayed with Gustaf, but there was nothing more to subsist upon.
He remained behind, looking on while the bailiffs--those men with the
sticks--denuded the flat of everything, furniture, bedding, crockery,
cutlery, kitchen utensils, until it was stripped bare.
Now began real life for Gustaf. He managed to get a position as
proofreader on a newspaper which was published in the morning, so
that he had to work at his desk for several hours each night. As he
had not actually been declared a bankrupt, he was allowed to keep
his place in the government service, although he could hope for no
more promotion. His father-in-law made the concession of letting him
see his wife and child on Sundays, but he was never permitted to be
alone with them. When he left, in the evening, to go to the newspaper
office, they would accompany him to the gate, and he would depart in
utter humiliation of soul. It might take him perhaps twenty years to
pay off all his obligations. And then--yes, what then? Could he then
support his wife and child? No, probably not. If, in the mean time,
his father-in-law should die, they would be left without a home. So he
must be thankful even to the hard-hearted old man who had so cruelly
separated them.
Ah, yes, human life itself is indeed hard and cruel! The beasts of the
field find maintenance easily enough, while of all created beings man
alone must toil and spin. It is a shame, yes, it is a crying shame,
that in this life everybody is not provided with gratuitous partridges
and strawberries.