Part 14

Fru Egholm did more than that for her little boy; she got Hedvig to take him out every afternoon into the meadow near by. He came home with a chain of dandelion stalks round his neck, and one day he even had a dead butterfly in his clammy little fist. That day, he could hardly speak for the wonders he had seen.

Spring came to Egholm, too. He had got his boat--the very green one he had prayed for. Vang had procured it for him, by some means unknown.

“My dear fellow, my old and trusted friend, let me make you a present of it. Here you are, the boat is yours, presented by a circle of friends.”

And the pair overflowed in a transport of mutual affection.

The boiler was already in its place, and the funnel towered proudly above, painted a fine bold red. The screw stuck out behind, and could revolve when turned by hand. All looked well, so far.

But the turbine itself, the beating heart that was to make the thing alive, was not yet finished.

Krogh, the old blacksmith, worked away at it till his yellow drooping jaws shook. His tools were mediæval. What a machine drill could have managed in an afternoon, he took a week to do. Egholm turned up his eyes to heaven, when he saw how little had been done in twenty-four hours, but he said nothing. The fact was, that Krogh had one quality which rendered him more valuable than all other blacksmiths together: he was willing to work without seeing the money first. Moreover, his work was good when it _was_ done, and in spite of his sour looks, he took a real interest in the project.

Egholm was so kindly and easy to get on with all that spring that his wife was quite uneasy about him at times. All the hours he could spare from his studio--and they, alas, were not a few--he spent down on the beach, scraping and patching and painting his wonderful creation.

At home, he would sit dreaming in the arm-chair, so far removed from all reality that Emanuel might sing and prattle as much as he pleased without being stopped by a peremptory order from his father.

He was sitting thus one evening towards the end of May; both Emanuel and Hedvig were asleep. The day had been hot, and the heat still hung in the low-ceiled rooms. The children were tossing restlessly in their beds. If only one dared to open a window--but no; the night air was a thing to be careful about, while there were children in the place, thought Fru Egholm to herself. It was late, very late, but what did that matter, as long as there was oil enough in the lamp?

“Whatever are you sitting there thinking about?” she asked, when the silence had lasted an eternity. There was not the slightest danger now in such a piece of familiarity on her part. Not as he had been lately.

“Nothing,” said Egholm, drawing in his breath as if he had just emerged from the depths of the sea. “What’s that you’re fussing about now?”

“Wassermann’s wig. Look at it--it’s simply falling to pieces. But as for a new one--well, you should have seen his wife’s face when I spoke of it. And if it hadn’t been that there’s a chance they might take Hedvig as maid there, I’d never....”

“What d’you get for a bit of work like that?”

“Well, it ought to be a _krone_, but seventy-five _øre_ I will have, and that’s the least. Though I don’t suppose she’ll offer me more than fifty, the stingy old wretch.”

Egholm sat silent a while, then involuntarily he lied a little. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “what I was thinking about. You know that verse from ‘_Adam Homo_’:

“‘What trouble’s worst? We’ve trials enough, Lord knows If I should ask, a score of voices swift Would tell me where _they_ found the “little rift” Each as experience led him to suppose. One says ’tis boredom, one, ’tis married life; Another finds it worse _without_ a wife. One thinks remorsefully of sins committed, Another with regret of those omitted. One, of all pains we’ve suffered since the Fall, Will reckon _Money Troubles_ worst of all.’

Yes, money troubles--that’s the worst. Paludan Müller, he knew. And he’s my favourite poet. He knew everything!”

And Egholm fell to talking pitifully of poverty, the nightmare that had its teeth in his throat, and could not be torn away.

“But there’s more comes after,” said Anna, when he paused. “Don’t you remember the next verse?”

“I know the whole thing off by heart. Anywhere you like to choose.”

“Well, then, you know that money troubles aren’t the worst in the world. It’s no good losing courage like that. And we’re getting on nicely now, really. Etatsraaden said about the rhubarb, we might....”

She put forth all her womanly arts to comfort him, but in vain. Still she kept on--and her voice was much the same as when she was soothing Emanuel.

Egholm let her go on; yes, they were getting on nicely now, he thought to himself, and smiled bitterly. Oh yes, nicely, magnificently!

The globe of the lamp was stuck together with strips of newspaper. Before the window hung a piece of faded green stuff in two tapes, drooping down to a slack fold in the middle. At the sides were ragged, dusty curtains, into which Anna had stuck some paper flowers.

On the walls were a couple of old engravings, an embroidered newspaper-holder of his wife’s, and a few fretwork brackets and photograph frames, these being Sivert’s work.

The big mirror, too, looked ridiculous, really, at that angle--it had to be slanted forward to an excessive degree, owing to the lowness of the room. Egholm could see himself in it, and the children’s bed as well. Emanuel lay on the settee, but Hedvig’s bed, in the little side room, consisted of three chairs. Her coverlet was his old uniform cloak, and the chairs rocked at every breath she drew.

Poverty in every corner. The very pattern of the wallpaper was formed of holes and patches of damp.

True, there were the two arm-chairs and the chest of drawers, but....

His wife was still talking away of all the good things they had to be thankful for. Of Hedvig, coming home regularly with her good wages, and the chance now of getting a place at ten _kroner_, at Wassermann’s. And then Sivert, still at the glazier’s this ever so long. Surely it was a mercy they could be proud of their children?

And soon Egholm himself would have finished that steamboat thing of his.... Fru Egholm threw out this last by some chance, having exhausted all other items that could reasonably be included.

Her husband started. It was what he had been thinking of all the evening himself. But, anxious not to betray the fact, he said only:

“Yes; if I’m lucky.”

But Anna saw through him all the same. Stupid of her not to have thought before of the one thing that was all the world to him.

“And why shouldn’t you be lucky, I should like to know? You haven’t lost faith in your own invention?”

“It’s a curious thing,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “One moment I believe in it, and the next I don’t. How is it possible that the trained experts with all modern equipment at their backs--and money, most of all--with nothing to worry about but their own calculations and plans--how could they have missed the solution of the problem when it seems to me as plain as the nose on your face?”

“Why, as to that, I don’t know, I’m sure. But that steam cart you made, you know, just before Hedvig was born, that didn’t work.”

“Oh, what’s that got to do with it?” said Egholm irritably.

His wife pointed warningly towards the sleeping children. “Sh!” she said. Then, noticing that the cloak had slipped down from Hedvig’s legs, she hastened to tuck it up again. Egholm calmed down.

“Don’t mix up a steam cart and a turbine,” he said when she re-entered the room. “I didn’t take any particular trouble over that steam cart--at any rate, not enough. After all, it was only construction work, that. But a turbine that can _reverse_--that’s an independent invention. I’d give my heart’s blood to realise it. You know what a friction coupling is, I suppose?”

“Do you mean the thing with the two balls, that swing round and look like an umbrella?”

“Good heavens, no! You’re thinking of a centrifugal regulator valve.”

“Oh well, well, then....”

No, it was no use talking to her; she muddled up the simplest things imaginable. Egholm wrung his hands and was silent.

But a little after, he looked up brightly and suggested they should go and have a look at the machinery now, both together.

Anna shook her head. What an idea!

“Aren’t you a bit interested in my things?”

“Why, that you know I am, Egholm. But you wouldn’t ask me to go running out now in the middle of the night. Look, it’s half-past one!”

“But you say you never can go out in the daytime.”

This was true; Anna never set foot outside the door as long as it was light. Her dress had been ruined altogether this winter, from having to use it for Emanuel’s bedclothes at night. And what was the use of having rooms across a courtyard, when Andreasen’s workmen came running to the window every time they heard the door?

“But the lamp might upset, and the house burn down and the children in it.”

“Turn it out, then, of course. Don’t talk such a lot.”

Fru Egholm writhed; there was no persuading him any way once he had taken a thing into his head.

Hesitatingly she took out a white knitted kerchief from a drawer. She had almost forgotten what it was like to put on one’s things to go out....

It was moonlight outside; the shadow of the tall workshop roof lay coal-black over half the courtyard, leaving the remainder white as if it had been lime-washed.

Every step she took seemed new and strange. So softly their steps fell in the thick dust as they crossed the road.

Up in the old churchyard, every tree stood like a temple of perfume in the quiet, soft night. And all the time, she was marvelling that it really _was_ moonlight. She had not noticed it at home--doubtless because the lamp was burning.

The tears came into her eyes--just such a moonlight night it had been the time they....

And here she was walking with him, just as then.

Surely, it was enough to turn one’s head.

Here was Egholm actually taking her arm. Taking her arm!...

Great moths and small glided silently past; one of them vanished into the hedge as if by magic.

Bats showed up here and there against the pale sky, flung about like leaves in the wind. From the meadow came a quivering chorus of a thousand frogs.

“It must be like this in Paradise,” she said faintly.

“Ah, wait till you can see the boat,” said her husband.

The dew on the thick grass down by the beach soaked through her boots and stockings. Moonlight _and_ stockings wet with dew.... Oh, it was not _just like_ that time now; it _was_ that time ... that night at Aalborg, after the dance at the assembly rooms, where she had met the interesting young photographer--the pale one, as they called him--and let herself be tempted to go out for a walk in the woods after. And Thea, her sister, who was with them, had almost pinched her arm black and blue in her excitement. But it had to be; he was irresistible, with his foreign-looking appearance, his silver-mounted stick, and his smartly creaking calfskin boots.

He had not danced himself, by the way, but sat majestically apart drinking his tea.

But how he could talk! Until one hardly knew if it was real or all a dream....

It was light when she pulled off her soaking wet stockings and her sodden dancing shoes.

Yes, it must be some good angel that had put back the clock of time to-night. Here she was, walking in the woods of Aalborg with her lover. There was the fjord, and the moon drawing a silvery path right to her feet. Come, come!

She gazed with dimmed eyes towards the wondrous ball in the heavens, that called up tides in the seas and in hearts; she clung trustingly to her friend’s arm. And, glancing at him sideways, she saw that his eyes were looking out towards it too. Yes, their glances moved together, taking the same road out over the gliding waters of the Belt, in through a gate of clouds, to kneel at the full moon, that is the God of Fools.

A startled bird rose at their feet and flew, the air rushing audibly in its feathers.

“Listen--a lark! And singing now, though it’s night!”

“A lark!” Egholm took this, too, as an omen of good fortune for his turbine.

At the foot of the slope lay the boat, drawn up on land with props against the sides.

He explained it all, the parts that were there and the rest that should be added as soon as Krogh had got the turbine finished. He spoke eagerly and disconnectedly; none but an expert could have understood him. But Anna kept on saying:

“Yes, yes, I can understand that, of course. Ever so much better that way, yes. And how prettily it’s painted, the boiler there. I thought it would be just an old rusty stove. And the boat--why, it’s quite a ship in itself.”

“Beautiful little boat, isn’t it?” said Egholm, in high good humour now. “And I’ve caulked it all over. Take my word for it, the natives’ll stare a bit when the day comes, and they see it racing away. Let’s sit down and look at it a bit. Here, Anna, just here.”

They sat down, but it was wet in the tufty grass.

“We can climb up in the boat and sit there.”

Anna hesitated at first, but soon gave way. After all, everything was topsy-turvy already; she hardly knew if she were awake or dreaming. Egholm turned up an old bucket. “Here!” and he offered his hand like a polite cavalier and helped her up.

The summer night was all about them. The lapping of the waves sounded now near, now far; it was like delicate footsteps. For a little while neither spoke.

“But--you’re not crying, Anna, dear?” He had felt her shoulders quivering.

“We’ve been so far away from each other; strangers like,” she sniffed. And then she broke down completely. “Anna, dear,” he had said. “Far away from each other.... I don’t see how.... Seems to me we’ve been seeing each other all day the same as usual.”

“Oh, but--we haven’t talked together for an hour like we are now, not really, all the time we’ve been here.”

“Well, what should we talk about? You don’t generally take any interest in my things. And, besides, living as we do in a hell of poverty....”

“But that’s just the reason why we ought to have helped each other. It would have made everything easier if we had.”

“Well, I don’t know.... But, anyhow, there’s never been any difficulty on my part, I’m sure.” Egholm spoke throughout with the same slight touch of surprise. Really, she was getting too unreasonable.

There was nothing for it now--she must say it.

“You’ve struck me many a time in the two years we’ve been living here.” She stopped in fright at her own words, then hastened to add: “But I know you don’t mean any harm, of course.”

“Then why do you bother about it?” he said, in the same tone as before. But a moment later, before she could answer, he got up, reached out as if to swing himself out of the boat, then sat down again and shook his head.

“Struck you?” he said plaintively. “Have I really struck you?”

He did not expect an answer, but asked the same question again, all the same. He fumbled for her hand under her apron, and stroked it again and again.

“Have I really struck you?”

Then he drew back his hand again, and shook his head once more.

Anna was deeply moved. The single caress seemed to her like the sunlight and the scent of flowers that came in through the kitchen window in the morning, before the others were awake. Her heart swelled up within her, and her tears poured down as she put her arms round him and begged him to forget what she had said. She lost sight of the starting-point altogether, and behaved like a penitent sinner herself.

“Forgive me, do say you forgive me. Say you’ll forget it. Oh, don’t make me miserable now because it slipped out like that! You’re so good, so good....”

White banks of mist lay over the Belt, and away in the north-east the sun was already preparing to emerge after the brief night. The larks rose and fell, singing; the gulls called cheerily as they came tearing down after food.

Egholm turned round several times to look back at the boat as they walked home.

Quietly they stole into the house. Nothing had gone wrong in their absence.

Hedvig awoke, and stared stiffly at her parents; then she yawned and lay down again. Very soon the chairs were rocking under her again as they should.

Egholm began undressing at once; he looked tired and peaceful. But his wife whispered to say she would be there directly; only a few more stitches to finish the work.

And as she sewed, she looked with a smile at the spots of red paint on her fingers. There, on the left hand, was one that looked just like a ring. That was where he had helped her up into the boat.

Who could sleep after a night like that?

XX

Draper Lund and Barber Trane came walking together from the direction of the town. Reaching Egholm’s beach path, Lund broke off in the middle of a sentence, and said:

“Well, I think I’ll go down this way. Enjoy the view, you know. Good-bye!”

“Why, I was going down that way myself. It’s to-day that thing was to start, you know--the miracle man’s steamboat thing.”

“H’m. If it goes at all.” Lund straightened his glasses and shot an unexpected glance of considerable meaning at the other.

“No, no, of course. But it’s as well to know how it went off, you know, when customers come in and talk about it.”

“I don’t want to deliver any definite judgment,” said Lund delicately, as a very Professor of Drapery, “but there is something about the man that leads me to doubt. He talks so much.”

“Yes, and so mysterious about things. And conceited, too.”

“Which, with his dirty vest and frayed trousers....” added Lund in agreement.

“I suppose he’ll go sailing round with it to show it off?”

“I daresay he’ll take out a patent.”

“Those patent things are never any good,” said Trane energetically. He knew. He had a patent pipe at home, that was always sour.

Lund and Trane stopped in surprise when they came down to the beach and found how many others of the townsfolk had had the same idea of going down that way. Lund made as if to turn back, but realised that it was too late, and laughed with great heartiness. And those on the spot laughed again in perfect comprehension--they had felt exactly the same way themselves. One of them had made a long detour round by Etatsraaden’s garden, and others had done the same as Lund, walking smartly out as if going a long way, and then turning off suddenly, as if by the impulse of the moment, towards the beach.

Well, _Herregud!_ here they were. And, anyhow, it was only reasonable to take what fun there might be going these sad times. There was not much in the way of amusement in the town.

Besides, it was pleasant enough, lying here in the soft dried seaweed and the warm tickling sand. The sun shone over the Belt and the green shores of Jutland beyond. They could, as Lund repeated again and again, enjoy the view.

He and Trane joined a group that had gathered for instruction in steam engines about the person of Lange, the schoolmaster.

“Then there’s a pipe goes here....” The schoolmaster pointed to a certain spot in the air and came to a standstill. He was very nervous without a blackboard and his handbook of physics to help him out. And now here were those two unpleasant characters, Lund and Trane, lounging up in the middle of the lesson.

“A pipe goes there ... and that leads to the cylinder here....” He raised his voice and pointed again.

Trane, anxious to see as much as possible, craned his neck to follow the direction of Lange’s index finger, but perceived, to his surprise, nothing more tangible than the driving clouds.

He shook his head. How could he tell his customers this? He gave it up, and lay down with the others to bask in the September sunshine.

Egholm’s boat lay some twenty yards out; the shallow water prevented it from coming closer in. It was white, with a brilliant red stripe along the side. Behind the red-leaded funnel, which was supported with stays, could be seen curious parts of bright metal. Egholm was on his knees, hat in hand, puffing at the furnace. The fuel, which consisted of half-rotten fragments of board, was not quite dry. Now and again he lifted his head and gave a brief glance towards land.

Astonishing, such a lot of people had turned up. He felt his responsibility towards them like a delicious ache at his heart.

Oh, it would turn out all right.

If only he had had someone to lend a hand. Even Sivert would have been better than nothing. Egholm looked across reproachfully at Krogh, the old blacksmith, who stood on the beach with his jaws drooping as ever. He had just come down with the last bits of the machine, but could not be persuaded to go on board. He dared not mix with the rest, even, for he was an accomplice in the thing, however much he might turn up his nose to show disapproval.

Well, well, he would have to manage alone.

What was that?--who were they lifting their hats to suddenly?

Heavens, if it wasn’t the editor himself! Egholm dropped a nut that slipped away between the bottom boards. Perhaps, after all, Anna had not been altogether lying when she said the editor had called him a genius. But he would not do discredit to the name--no, he would take care of that!

Trembling with emotion, Egholm watched the mighty personage striding through the groups. He always walked as if battling his way forward in the teeth of a gale. Even to-day, when the water was smooth as a mirror, his flowing cloak, his greyish-yellow military beard, even his bushy eyebrows, seemed to stand away from him as if borne on the wings of some private particular wind; possibly one he had brought home with him from the battlefields of ’64.

The onlookers leaped aside, like recruits, to make way for him. His presence brought sudden encouragement to the rest--something would surely come of it, after all. A good thing they had not stayed at home.

The editor stopped at the water’s edge, and hailed across, with a voice rent by the storm:

“Egholm! Can you get done by six, so that I can have a line in the paper?”

Egholm tried to rise, but slipped down again. He was rather cramped for room.

“I think so, yes, I think so!” He drew out his watch and looked at it. A quarter to nine it showed now--as it had done for heaven knows how long past. “I’ll do my best.”

The editor muttered something, balanced against a sudden gust, and marched off.

But there were plenty remaining. The slopes of the beach were alive and noisy as bird-cliffs in the nesting season.

How had all these people ever managed to find their way to the spot? Egholm had not drummed about any announcement as to time and place of his experiment. He had, indeed, grown rather more reticent of late. And old Krogh would hardly say more than he need. How could it have come about?

The explanation was there in the flesh--with a shawl about her head and beautifully varnished clogs on her feet. The explanation was Madam Hermansen, who had the backstairs entry of every house in Knarreby. Whatever was thrown into her as into a sink at one place was gladly used to wash up the coffee cups in at another. She smelt a little of everything, like a sewer, and was as useful and as indispensable.

In addition to this comprehensive occupation for the public weal, she found time to cherish great amorous passions for all the big fat men in the town. She walked about, smiling and confident, from group to group, shaking her hips at every step, and sidling round people like a horse preparing to kick.

“That leg of yours still bad?” asked little Dr. Hoff.

“Yes, much the same.”

“H’m,” said Hoff, a little annoyed. “Mind you keep it clean. That’s the only thing to do.”

“I suppose it’s no use trying an earth cure?”

“Earth cure? What on earth’s that?”