One morning in the early summer of 1868, some thirty-five years after
the events just related, the fjord valley under the glacier was
startled by three shrill shrieks from the passing steamer, the usual
signal that a boat was wanted to land some stray passenger. A couple
of boats were pushed out from the beach, and half a dozen men, with
red-peaked caps and a certain picturesque nonchalance in their attire,
scrambled into them and soon surrounded the gangway of the steamer.
First some large trunks and boxes were lowered, showing that the
passenger, whoever he might be, was a person of distinction,--an
impression which was still further confirmed by the appearance of a
tall, dark-skinned man, followed by a woolly-headed creature of a
truly Satanic complexion, who created a profound sensation among the
boatmen. Then the steamer shrieked once more, the echoes began a
prolonged game of hide-and-seek among the snow-hooded peaks, and the
boats slowly ploughed their way over the luminous mirror of fjord.
"Is there any farm here, where my servant and myself can find lodgings
for the summer?" said the traveller, turning to a young peasant lad.
"I should prefer to be as near to the glacier as possible."
He spoke Norwegian, with a strong foreign accent, but nevertheless
with a correct and distinct enunciation.
"My father, Tharald Ormgrass, lives close up to the ice-field,"
answered the lad. "I shouldn't wonder if he would take you, if you
will put up with our way of living."
"Will you accompany me to your father's house?"
"Yes, I guess I can do that." (_Ja, jeg kan nok det_.)
The lad, without waiting for further summons, trotted ahead, and the
traveller with his black servant followed.
Maurice Fern (for that was the stranger's name) was, as already
hinted, a tall, dark-complexioned man, as yet slightly on the sunny
side of thirty, with a straight nose, firm, shapely mouth, which was
neither sensual nor over-sensitive, and a pair of clear dark-brown
eyes, in which there was a gleam of fervor, showing that he was not
altogether incapable of enthusiasm. But for all that, the total
impression of his personality was one of clear-headed decision and
calm energy. He was a man of an absorbing presence, one whom you would
have instinctively noticed even in a crowd. He bore himself with that
unconscious grace which people are apt to call aristocratic, being
apparently never encumbered by any superfluity of arms and legs. His
features, whatever their ethnological value might be, were, at all
events, decidedly handsome; but if they were typical of anything, they
told unmistakably that their possessor was a man of culture. They
showed none of that barbaric frankness which, like a manufacturer's
label, flaunts in the face of all humanity the history of one's
origin, race, and nationality. Culture is hostile to type; it
humanizes the ferocious jaw-bones of the Celt, blanches the ruddy
lustre of the Anglo-Saxon complexion, contracts the abdominal volume
of the Teuton, and subdues the extravagant angularities of Brother
Jonathan's stature and character. Although respecting this
physiognomic reticence on the part of Mr. Fern, we dare not leave the
reader in ignorance regarding the circumstances of which he was the
unconscious result.
After his flight from Norway, Arne Ormgrass had roamed about for
several months as "a wanderer and a vagabond upon the earth," until,
finally, he settled down in New Orleans, where he entered into
partnership with a thrifty young Swede, and established a hotel, known
as the "Sailors' Valhalla." Fortune favored him: his reckless daring,
his ready tongue, and, above all, his extraordinary beauty soon gained
him an enviable reputation. Money became abundant, the hotel was torn
down and rebuilt with the usual barbaric display of mirrors and
upholstery, and the landlords began to aspire for guests of a higher
degree. Then, one fine day, a young lady, with a long French name and
aristocratic antecedents, fell in love with Arne, not coolly and
prudently, as northern damsels do, but with wildly tragic
gesticulations and a declamatory ardor that were superb to behold. To
the Norseman, however, a passion of this degree of intensity was too
novel to be altogether pleasing; he felt awed and bewildered,--standing,
as he did, for the first time in his life in the presence of a
veritable mystery. By some chance their clandestine meetings were
discovered. The lady's brother shot at Arne, who returned the shot with
better effect; then followed elopement--marriage--return to the
bosom of the family, and a final grand tableau with parental blessing
and reconciliation.
From that time forth, Arne Fern, as he was called (his Norse name
having simply been translated into English), was a man of distinction.
After the death of his father-in-law, in 1859, he sold his Louisiana
property and emigrated with his wife and three children to San
Francisco, where by successful real-estate investments he greatly
increased his wealth. His eldest son, Maurice, was, at his own
request, sent to the Eastern States, where educational advantages were
greater; he entered, in due time, one of the best and oldest
universities, and, to the great disappointment of his father,
contracted a violent enthusiasm for natural science. Being convinced,
however, that remonstrance was vain, the old gentleman gradually
learned to look with a certain vague respect upon his son's
enigmatical pursuits, and at last surprised the latter by "coming down
quite handsomely" when funds were required for a geological excursion
to Norway.