Chapter III (2)

Christian was inconsolable, and it seemed downright madness to pay Jegor so much good money. It was just like throwing it into the sea. But at last he was obliged to make up his mind to it, and went to Jegor’s shop at an hour when he was sure of finding him alone, paid his debt, and received his note and other papers. Jegor was incautious enough to let some offensive words escape his lips, and nothing more was required to bring Christian’s repressed fury to utterance. If the former had never known before what a drubbing means, he understood it when his neighbor left the shop. From that day there was the bitterest enmity between the two men.

Christian was free; but though he bragged of it in Jegor’s hearing, his heart bled. What did he care for liberty without Jalo? True, he had escaped an impending danger, but in exchange had sacrificed all the happiness of his life. Existence had lost all charm for him; he had no more debts to trouble him, but also no Jalo to love. The occasional notices of the animal which he read in the newspapers were like salt in an open wound. “The famous trotter Jalo, that won the first prize at Wiborg, has again covered himself with glory,” or “the well-known trotter Jalo has again carried off a prize at the races at Savastehus.” On such days Christian was like a madman. Either he sat sullen and silent like a chaffinch in the rain, or he was angry and irritable, blazing out at the least provocation like Juniper in the flames.

Gradually the resolution to get possession of Jalo again at any cost became fixed in his mind. What was the use of saving and gathering to spend his life in joyless longing? His daughter and son-in-law were waiting impatiently for his death, that they might inherit his property. He had no grandchildren, so, as matters stood, the best thing he could do would be to try to get possession of Jalo once more.

After much difficulty, he found bondsmen, and pledged his land. Now he need only secure the money, and then set off to bargain for the horse. Even in the worst case, it could not be “dearer than gold.”[3] His present owner in Wiborg had many horses, and would surely be willing to give up Jalo for a satisfactory price. The day of his departure was already fixed when one beautiful morning in July, just as Christian was in the act of removing a few stubbly gray hairs from his chin, he heard a familiar neigh. There was no mistake; it must be Jalo, that was just the way he always called his master when he went into his stable late in the morning. Christian threw down the razor and rushed out. There behind the corner of his own stable, to which Jegor’s pasture extended, stood Jalo with dilated nostrils, tossing his head up and down. In a second he flew over the fence, and stood upon the ground of his former owner. Christian felt as though he was paralyzed in every limb. He could only utter a gasp of astonishment. A joyful smile flitted over his face like sunshine over the moorland, while all the tales of witchcraft he had overheard flashed through his excited brain. While he still stood there, rubbing his eyes, to convince himself that he was not dreaming, Jegor, his enemy, entered the yard, bridle and whip in hand. “The horse belongs to me,” he said; “beware of luring him here.”

Jegor seized Jalo by the lock of hair on his forehead, put on the bridle, and, swearing violently, protested that he would cure him of leaping the fence. Poor Jalo was roughly dragged away to his own barn, and after a time Christian heard the horse snorting and stamping under the blows of Jegor’s whip. To beat Jalo, to abuse such an animal--who ever heard of such a thing?

From that day Christian’s life was a hell. To be compelled to do without the horse was torture enough, but to know that it was in the hands of his worst enemy, that he could never own it again, to see it daily without being able to go near it, was far worse. Everything that Jegor could think of to do to the horse in Christian’s presence to torment him he conscientiously did. Every blow he had himself received he returned to Jalo. And when, as sometimes happened, the horse came dashing at a gallop to his old master, as if seeking protection, Christian could be certain that thick wales on Jalo’s sides would show how Jegor Timofitsch rewarded faithful friendship.

Several weeks passed in this way. It was a hot August day when the baked clods of earth cracked with the heat, and the air quivered and shimmered under the burning sunshine. Even the village dogs had stopped barking and fled to the shade under steps and outbuildings. The cows stood knee-deep in the water beneath the shelter of the dark alders. Only the gnats enjoyed the fierce heat of the sun; the dragon-flies flew through the air in shimmering circles. Christian lay stretched on the wooden bench in his house watching Jalo with burning eyes as he stood opposite to him in Jegor’s meadow in the shade of a gnarled old elm. Christian was dreaming of the happy days when Jalo still belonged to him. How insignificant appeared the troubles of those times, and how great their joys. He was just falling into a light slumber when he was roused by three huntsmen from Wiborg inquiring eagerly for the landlord. They had been in pursuit of hares when they unexpectedly encountered a lynx engaged in the same chase. For two days they had followed the trail of the wild beast, which became greatly exhausted, when unluckily their dog hurt its paw and had to be left behind. The hunters now asked where they could borrow one to continue the chase. Christian owned such a dog. His Sipi could be used to track sea-fowl, hares, and bears. The gentlemen, accompanied by Christian and Sipi, hurried back to the moor where they had last seen the trail of the lynx. Within fifteen minutes Sipi found it and, amid joyous barking and waving of his bushy tail, ran toward the woods. Soon furious baying announced that the lynx was either caught or had climbed a tree. When the hunters reached the spot, Sipi was executing a wild war-dance around a pine tree, of whose boughs lay the wild beast, gnashing its teeth at its enemy. With ears laid back smoothly against its head, and eyes glittering with rage, it seemed on the point of leaping down on its shaggy foe. But before determining to commence the fray, it fell under the bullet of the first of the approaching hunters. Its paws were bound together, a pole thrust through them, and it was carried in triumph back to Christian’s farm. There the weary men ate a country luncheon, and celebrated their luck thoroughly by consuming plenty of brandy and rum. The heating drinks went to their heads, and by twilight Christian and his guests had become very excited and garrulous.

“Listen to me, Christian,” said his wife, who was made somewhat anxious by the noisy company, “I won’t have any loaded guns in the house: go and fire the bullets out of those barrels.”

Christian rose slowly, remarking that women were always great cowards; took the guns from the bench, and went out. Daylight was failing, but darkness had not yet closed in; the perfume of new-mown clover drifted in on the breeze. From the distance echoed the notes of the cowherds’ horns, and the crickets were chirping loudly in the courtyard.

Christian staggered down the steps. Suddenly he stopped. There by the corner of the stable again stood the dream of his nights and the longings of his days. Jalo raised his delicately formed head, shook his floating mane, and uttered a low, mysterious neigh, as if calling his former master.

Christian went to him and patted his neck. The animal put his velvety muzzle over the low fence into Christian’s pocket. The latter, deeply moved, threw his arm over the horse’s neck. It was so long since he had caressed Jalo, stroked his soft skin, and spoken to him. While thus passing his hand along the beautiful creature’s back, he suddenly felt the wales of Jegor’s lashes. The blood surged hotly in his veins. “Miserable brute,” he muttered, shaking his fist savagely at Jegor’s house. “My poor friend, I’ll free you forever from his whip, his cruelty, and tyranny.” Almost before he himself was aware what he was doing, he had snatched the gun from his shoulder--one shot, and the noble creature fell moaning; one sorrowful glance from the glazing eyes, and Jalo lay lifeless behind the fence which separated him from his former owner. Christian fled into the forest like a murderer. Half an hour later he returned to his home perfectly sober. The hunters had gone to look for their dog. He was alone with his wife. Deeply agitated, he told her what he had done.

“Well, what do you mean to do?” asked Christian’s wife when her husband returned late in the evening from Laurikamen’s. “There are no witnesses.”

“No, there are no witnesses; but whatever they may do to me, I will tell them at any rate the whole story of Jalo.”

FOOTNOTES:

[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

_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._

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

_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._

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

_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.”_

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?”