Chapter III (1)

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

_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._

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

_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._

JALO THE TROTTER
A FINNISH TALE

BY JACOB AHRENBERG

Translated by Mary J. Safford. Copyright, 1902, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company.

It was late in the afternoon of an August day, but the sun was still pouring its hot slanting rays into Christian’s sitting-room. The flies were buzzing merrily around the head of the landlord, who sat by the window, apparently watching the two balsams blooming in broken china pots on the sill. Christian had been there a long time, staring between the leaves and flowers of the plants at the little gate of the fence, as if he was expecting some one.

He had already reached middle life, but looked considerably older. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and wrinkles seamed his face. His wife, who was working busily at the loom, did not seem to have her mind wholly on her task; for, whenever Christian made the slightest movement, she glanced anxiously toward the door as if she, too, was expecting somebody.

Suddenly Laurikamen, the assessor of the district court, entered, greeted the couple, and shook hands ceremoniously with them. This guest, whose visit seemed to afford neither pleasure nor surprise, sat down at the table, and, after a short silence, lighted his pipe, and finally remarked that it really was far too hot for five o’clock in the afternoon, to which undeniably truthful remark Christian replied that the heat would at least do the oats good. Gradually the conversation grew more fluent; they discussed the questions of the day, the fall of stocks, the price of grain at home and in Russia, and the sessions of the court. Then the assessor had reached the point at which he was aiming. Rising deliberately, he went to the hearth, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and remarked, as if casually:

“By the way, you are summoned there.”

“I? To the court? By whom?”

“By Jegor Timofitsch Ivanov, your neighbor.”

“H’m! What is he after? Is it about the beating I gave him last spring?”

“Not at all; he must put up with that. It’s the affair of Jalo, his trotter, you know.”

“Well, what’s that to me?”

“I don’t know. Come to-morrow, and you’ll find out.”

The assessor uttered a sigh of relief, rose, took his leave, and went away.

Christian scratched himself behind the ear, and went out thoughtfully. Sighing heavily, he wandered restlessly over the pastures and meadows until late in the evening.

As it was still too warm in the room, he sat down on the steps to enjoy the cool evening air. It was a damp, hot night; the stars shone dimly through the air, which lay like a thin veil on the horizon. The full moon was rising in majesty above the moor, looming in a large, reddish gold disk through the firwood, which grew sparse and stunted upon the moss-covered hill. The last birds were twittering sleepily, and the night-jar flew clumsily, as if drunk, first to the right, and then to the left, sometimes vanishing in the gloom. Country folk hate the night-jar, and this aversion probably made Christian’s whole surroundings suddenly seem unspeakably desolate. His mood was transmitted to the scene about him. He could not possibly drive that business of Jalo the trotter out of his head. All the memories of his life were associated with the name. Everything he had dreamed and hoped, everything which had disturbed and alarmed him, had revolved wholly around Jalo. How well he recollected the day Jegor Timofitsch Ivanov opened his shop in the village of Tervola. Everything that previously was brought from the city could now be bought at Jegor Timofitsch’s. How humble and cringing the fellow had been then; how well he understood how to ingratiate himself with everybody.

At that time Jalo was nearly three years old.

Jegor had been everybody’s most humble servant. Doubling up like a pocket-knife in his obsequiousness, he had treated his customers to tobacco and sbitin,[2] promised them unlimited credit, and thereby won all hearts. “You haven’t any money? Oh, that makes no difference--we’ll charge it; you can pay another time.” It was all so easy and simple, but when a year had gone by, Jegor’s account book was full, and all the insignificant entries were found to amount to an enormous sum.

If anybody needed a loan, who but Jegor had the money? True, he asked twelve per cent, but then there was no bothering with lawyers, judges, assessors, and such people. And who did not need money in these times? Everybody wanted it, and Christian, perhaps, most of all.

But when four years had passed, Jegor Timofitsch from being everybody’s servant had become everybody’s master. Now he carried his back as stiff as a ramrod; now he used a very different tone: “Lout, do you mean to sow rye? No, you must sow oats; I can’t sell rye in these times. You want money to buy a cow? You have scarcely enough feed for the one you own. No, that won’t do.”

He sold the peasant’s grain from the fields before it was mowed. He felled their woods for fuel and lumber, without any further ceremony than to notify them of his intention. And yet, how the terrible debt grew! It was as insatiable as the Moloch of the Philistines. Everything disappeared in its mighty jaws. It was never settled, in spite of all the sacrifices and payments in the shape of tar, wood, tallow, sheep, crabs, game-birds, and oats.

If any one had cause to suffer from this neighbor it was Christian. Their farms adjoined, and he knew better than all the rest what it means to be a debtor. It seemed as though the flesh was being gnawed from his body and the marrow sucked out of his bones. He often felt utterly defenseless against the cruel foe, and thought seriously of going out to beg his way from door to door, if only he could be a free man once more.

But in the hour of his sorest need help came. And his deliverer was Jalo, who had reached his sixth year at Michaelmas.

Oh, what an animal this Jalo was! His black coat shone like silk. Looking at his side, darker and lighter circles appeared on his back and thighs. What a tail, and what a mane he had, both so thick and long! His hoofs were like steel, his broad breast inhaled the air like bellows. His eyes were those of a sea-eagle. He not only saw at a distance, but in the mist, in the whirling snow, and in the dark. But of even greater worth than his strength and his beauty was his noble nature. He was proud. A blow from a whip was an insult that drove him nearly frantic. He was docile with all his strength, loving with all his spirit. And what a grateful heart he had! How he would rub his velvety muzzle on Christian’s arm when he offered him salt and bread, oats, or a bit of sugar. This animal was better than many a human being, certainly better than his disobedient daughter and his ungrateful son-in-law. Had anybody ever seen Jalo shy? Never--he would not fear Satan himself. Had he ever stumbled? Never, no matter how steep might be the descent of the hill. Everybody was obliged to admit that Jalo was the finest animal in all Finland. His equal could scarcely be found in Russia. When Christian’s debts weighed heavily upon him, when Moloch opened his jaws and demanded fresh sacrifices, Christian went to the stable, curried his Jalo, blackened his hoofs, braided his mane, and patted his back. And he always felt lighter-hearted.

When Jegor Timofitsch’s demands had gone far beyond Christian’s powers to meet, and he saw no way of shaking off this vampire, he harnessed Jalo into a light sleigh and set off for Wiborg, to consult a distinguished lawyer. He could not believe that Jegor had written things down correctly. His poor little purchases, some tobacco and grain, coffee and sugar, could never amount to so large a sum. Something was surely wrong, and there was Jegor’s usurious interest into the bargain!

How vividly he remembered that journey. It was a clear, cold day in January. The snow lay on the fields and meadows as smooth and level as the surface of the lake. The shadows of the fences, hayricks, and rollers lay like blue spots upon the white surface. The snow-birds hopped across the road, and the magpies chattered joyously as they ran up and down the fences. Sipi, the bear-dog, with pointed ears and woolly tail, dashed at full gallop before Jalo, who with a dainty movement of his hoofs, as if it were mere play, rushed forward at lightning speed. It was all so cheering that Christian’s depression began to pass away. He had almost reached the Papula quarter, when suddenly he heard some one calling and shouting. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he leaned out of the sleigh and looked behind him. A man in a little racing sleigh was following at full gallop, waving his hand in its fur-edged gauntlet glove. Christian stopped, and the traveler, a short, stout man dressed in furs, driving a mouse-colored horse, soon reached him.

“Good morning, Landlord. That _is_ a trotter you have!” he said eagerly, biting his frozen mustache. “To tell the truth, I’ve been driving behind you at least a quarter of an hour without being able to overtake you. Where did you get the animal? What is his pedigree? How old is he? Just look at that chest and those thighs!”

The stranger left his sleigh as he spoke to examine Jalo more closely. Christian was pleased and proud, answered to the best of his ability, and praised the horse to the newcomer, who seemed to be perfectly delighted with him.

“Well, of course, you’ll come to the trotting races day after to-morrow. As the owner of an animal like yours, it’s your duty to do it. I am Captain T., one of the judges. Remember the first prize is a thousand marks.”

Christian had already heard of the races and even thought of them; but in the country people usually learn facts only after they have occurred. But now--why not, since he was already in the city?

Christian promised to come, and the men clasped hands on the agreement. Jalo, who was already impatient to go on, vanished from the Captain’s admiring gaze beyond the next hill like a streak of lightning.

Christian entered his horse for the races. What glorious days, what a season of triumph and honor for Jalo and his master! There was not a newspaper in the whole country which did not mention Jalo and his owner. Telegrams announcing the horse’s wonderful deeds flew from city to city. His victory was extraordinary; he carried off the first prize, outstripping famous old trotters. Even now, as Christian sat depressed and sorrowful in his entry, a bright smile flitted over his face as he recalled that glorious time. How distinctly everything rose before his mind: the golden sunlight, the blue sky, the light snow-flakes carried by the winter wind, the music and the cheering, the heating drinks, and Jalo, the hero of the day. It had undoubtedly been the brightest and happiest of his life. But as the highest surges sink the lowest, and the tallest pine trees cast the longest shadows, it also happened that the day when Jalo and his master reached the giddy heights of joy was followed by very sad consequences.

Nothing favorable was obtained from the lawyer. Instead of encouraging counsel he informed Christian that Jegor had already obtained the final judgment from the Governor. Christian’s debt must be paid, principal and interest. There was no resource except to sell Jalo, and even that would not completely cover the amount. Christian drank till he was completely dazed, wept, sobered up again, and, during all these varying moods, constantly tried to raise the price. At last the bargain had to be closed. Jalo was sold to a Russian merchant, and Christian returned home, deeply saddened and frantic with rage, driving a mare which he detested from the first moment. It was small consolation that his pocketbook was stuffed with hundred-mark notes, the farewell gift Jalo’s victory had brought to his master.