Chapter 5

The wind came from the west over the low plains. It had rolled long, heavy billows across the Western Sea; [Footnote: German Ocean.] salt and wet with spray and foam, it had dashed in upon the coast. But on the high downs with the tall wrack-grass it had become dry and full of sand and somewhat tired, so that when it came to Krarup Kro it had quite enough to do to open the stable-doors.

But open they flew, and the wind filled the spacious building, and forced its way in at the kitchen-door, which stood ajar. And at last there was such a pressure of air that the doors in the other end of the stable also burst open; and now the west wind rushed triumphantly right through the building, swinging the lantern that hung from the roof, whisking the ostler's cap out into the darkness, blowing the rugs over the horses' heads, and sweeping a white hen off the roost into the watering-trough. And the cock raised a frightful screech, and the ostler swore, and the hens cackled, and in the kitchen they were nearly smothered with smoke, and the horses grew restless, and struck sparks from the stones. Even the ducks, which had huddled themselves together near the mangers, so as to be first at the spilt corn, began quacking; and the wind howled through the stable with a hellish din, until a couple of men came out from the inn parlour, set their broad backs against the doors and pressed them to again, while the sparks from their great tobacco-pipes flew about their beards.

After these achievements the wind plunged down into the heather, ran along the deep ditches, and took a substantial grip of the mail-coach, which it met half a mile from the town.

'He is always in a devil of a hurry to get to Krarup Kro!' growled Anders, the postboy, cracking his whip over the perspiring horses.

For this was certainly the twentieth time that the guard had lowered the window to shout something or other up to Anders. First it was a friendly invitation to a coffee-punch in the inn; but each time the friendliness became scantier, until at last the window was let down with a bang, and out sped some brief but expressive remarks about both driver and horses, which Anders, at all events, could not have cared to hear.

Meanwhile the wind swept low along the ground, and sighed long and strangely in the dry clusters of heather. The moon was full, but so densely beclouded that only a pale hazy shimmer hovered over the night.

Behind Krarup Kro lay a peat moss, dark with black turf-stacks and dangerous deep pits. And among the heathery mounds there wound a strip of grass that looked like a path; but it was no path, for it stopped on the very brink of a turf-pit that was larger than the others, and deeper also.

In this grassy strip the fox lay and lurked, quite flat, and the hare bounded lightly over the heather.

It was easy for the fox to calculate that the hare would not describe a wide circle so late in the evening. It cautiously raised its pointed nose and made an estimate; and as it sneaked back before the wind, to find a good place from which it could see where the hare would finish its circuit and lie down, it self-complacently thought that the foxes were always getting wiser and wiser, and the hares more foolish than ever.

In the inn they were unusually busy, for a couple of commercial travellers had ordered roast hare; besides, the landlord was at an auction in Thisted, and Madame had never been in the habit of seeing to anything but the kitchen. But now it unfortunately chanced that the lawyer wanted to get hold of the landlord, and, as he was not at home, Madame had to receive a lengthy message and an extremely important letter, which utterly bewildered her.

By the stove stood a strange man in oilskins, waiting for a bottle of soda-water; two fish-buyers had three times demanded cognac for their coffee; the stableman stood with an empty lantern waiting for a light, and a tall, hard-featured countryman followed Karen anxiously with his eyes; he had to get sixty-three öre change out of a krone. [Footnote: A krone contains 100 öre, and is equal to 1 S. 1-½ d.]

But Karen went to and fro without hurrying herself, and without getting confused. One could scarcely understand how she kept account of all this. The large eyes and the wondering eyebrows were strained as if in expectation. She held her fine little head erect and steady, as if not to be distracted from all she had to think of. Her simple dress of blue serge had become too tight for her, so that the collar cut slightly into her neck, forming a little fold in the skin below the hair.

'These country girls are very white-skinned,' said one of the fish-buyers to the other. They were young men, and talked about Karen as connoisseurs.

At the window was a man who looked at the clock and said: 'The post comes early to-night.'

There was a rumbling of wheels on the paving-stones without, the stable-door was flung open, and the wind again rattled all the doors and drove smoke out of the stove.

Karen slipped out into the kitchen the moment the door of the parlour was opened. The mail-guard entered, and said 'good-evening' to the company.

He was a tall, handsome man, with dark eyes, black curly hair and beard, and a small, well-shaped head. The long rich cloak of King of Denmark's magnificent red cloth was adorned with a broad collar of curled dogskin that drooped over his shoulders.

All the dim, sickly light from the two paraffin lamps that hung over the table seemed to fall affectionately upon the red colour, which contrasted so strikingly with the sober black and gray tints of all else in the room. And the tall figure with the small curly head, the broad collar, and the long purple folds, became, as he walked through the low-roofed, smoky room, a marvel of beauty and magnificence.

Karen came hurriedly in from the kitchen with her tray. She bent her head, so that one could not see her face, as she hastened from guest to guest.

She placed the roast hare right in front of the two fish-buyers, whereupon she took a bottle of soda-water to the two commercial travellers, who sat in the inner room. Then she gave the anxious countryman a tallow candle, and, as she slipped out again, she put sixty-three öre into the hand of the stranger by the stove.

The innkeeper's wife was in utter despair. She had, indeed, quite unexpectedly found her keys, but lost the lawyer's letter immediately after, and now the whole inn was in the most frightful commotion. None had got what they wanted--all were shouting together. The commercial men kept continuously ringing the table bell; the fish-buyers went into fits of laughter over the roast hare, which lay straddling on the dish before them. But the anxious countryman tapped Madame on the shoulder with his tallow candle; he trembled for his sixty-three öre. And, amid all this hopeless confusion, Karen had disappeared without leaving a trace.

Anders the post-boy sat on the box; the innkeeper's boy stood ready to open the gates; the two passengers inside the coach became impatient, as did also the horses--although they had nothing to look forward to--and the wind rustled and whistled through the stable.

At length came the guard, whom they awaited. He carried his large cloak over his arm, as he walked up to the coach and made a little excuse for having kept the party waiting. The light of the lantern shone upon his face; he looked very warm, and smilingly said as much, as he drew on his cloak and climbed up beside the driver.

The gates were opened, and the coach rumbled away. Anders let the horses go gently, for now there was no hurry. Now and then he stole a glance at the guard by his side; he was still sitting smiling to himself, and letting the wind ruffle his hair.

Anders the post-boy also smiled in his peculiar way. He began to understand.

The wind followed the coach until the road turned; thereupon it again swept over the plain, and whistled and sighed long and strangely among the dry clusters of heather. The fox lay at his post; everything was calculated to a nicety; the hare must soon be there.

In the inn Karen had at last reappeared, and the confusion had gradually subsided. The anxious countryman had got quit of his candle and received his sixty-three öre, and the commercial gentlemen had set to work upon the roast hare.

Madame whined a little, but she never scolded Karen; there was not a person in the world who could scold Karen.

Quietly and without haste Karen again walked to and fro, and the air of peaceful comfort that always followed her once more overspread the snug, half-dark parlour. But the two fish-buyers, who had had both one and two cognacs with their coffee, were quite taken up with her. She had got some colour in her cheeks, and wore a little half-hidden gleam of a smile, and when she once happened to raise her eyes, a thrill shot through their whole frames.

But when she felt their eyes following her, she went into the room where the commercial men sat dining, and began to polish some teaspoons at the sideboard.

'Did you notice the mail-guard?' asked one of the travellers.

'No, not particularly; I only got a glimpse of him. I think he went out again directly,' replied the other, with his mouth full of food.

'He's a devilish fine fellow! Why, I danced at his wedding.'

'Indeed. So he is married?'

'Yes; his wife lives in Lemvig; they have at least two children. She was a daughter of the innkeeper of Ulstrop, and I arrived there on the very evening of the wedding. It was a jolly night, you may be sure.'

Karen dropped the teaspoons and went out. She did not hear them calling to her from the parlour. She walked across the courtyard to her chamber, closed the door, and began half-unconsciously to arrange the bedclothes. Her eyes stood rigid in the darkness; she pressed her hands to her head, to her breast; she moaned; she did not understand--she did not understand--

But when she heard Madame calling so piteously, 'Karen, Karen!' she sprang up, rushed out of the yard, round the back of the house, out--out upon the heath.

In the twilight the little grassy strip wound in and out among the heather, as if it were a path; but it was no path--no one must believe it to be a path--for it led to the very brink of the great turf-pit.

The hare started up; it had heard a splash. It dashed off with long leaps, as if mad; now contracted, with legs under body and back arched, now drawn out to an incredible length, like a flying accordion, it bounded away over the heather.

The fox put up its pointed nose, and stared in amazement after the hare. It had not heard any splash. For, according to all the rules of art, it had come creeping along the bottom of a deep ditch; and, as it was not conscious of having made any mistake, it could not understand the strange conduct of the hare.

Long it stood, with its head up, its hindquarters lowered, and its great bushy tail hidden in the heather; and it began to wonder whether the hares were getting wiser or the foxes getting more foolish.

But when the west wind had travelled a long way it became a north wind, then an east wind, then a south wind, and at last it again came over the sea as a west wind, dashed in upon the downs, and sighed long and strangely among the dry clusters of heather. But then a pair of wondering gray eyes were lacking in Krarup Kro, and a blue serge dress that had grown too tight. And the innkeeper's wife whined and whimpered more than ever. She could not understand it--nobody could understand it--except Anders the post-boy--and one beside.

But when old folks wished to give the young a really serious admonition, they used to begin thus: 'There was once in Krarup Kro a girl named Karen--

MY SISTER'S JOURNEY TO MODUM.

My sister was going to Modum. It was before the opening of the Drammen Railway, and it was a dreadfully long carriole drive from Christiania to Drammen.

But everything depended upon getting off--hyp--getting to Drammen--hyp, hyp--in time to catch the train which left for Modum at two o'clock. Hyp--oh, dear, if the train should be gone--to wait until next day--alone--in Drammen!

My sister stimulated the post-boys with drink-money, and the horses with small pokes of her umbrella; but both horses and post-boys were numerous upon this route, and much time was lost at the stopping-places.

First, the luggage had to be transferred to the new carriole. There were the big trunk and the little one, and the plaids with loosened strap, the umbrella, the _en-tout-cas_, the bouquet, and the book.

Then there was paying, and reckoning, and changing; and the purse was crammed so extraordinarily full that it would shower three-skilling pieces, [Footnote: Skilling, a halfpenny.] or a shining half-dollar would swing itself over the side, make a graceful curve, like a skater, round the floor, and disappear behind the stove. It had to be got out before it could be changed, and that nobody could do.

As soon as the fresh horses appeared in the yard, my sister would spring resolutely out, and swing herself into the carriole.

'Thanks; I am ready now. Let us be off. Good-bye.'

Yes, then they would all come running after her--the umbrella, the _en-tout-cas_, the plaids with loosened strap, the bouquet, and the book, everything would be thrown into her lap, and she would hold on to them until the next station was reached, while the station-master's honest wife stood and feebly waved the young lady's pocket-handkerchief, in a manner which could not possibly attract her attention.

Although she thus lost no time, the drive was, nevertheless, extremely trying, and it was a great relief to my sister when she at length rattled down the hill from Gjelleboek, and saw Drammen extended below her. There were not many minutes left.

At last she was down in the town. 'In Drammen, in Drammen!' muttered my sister, beginning to triumph. Like a fire-engine she dashed along the streets to the station. Everything was paid. She had only to jump out of the carriole; but when she looked up at the station clock, the minute-hand was just passing the number twelve.

Undismayed, my sister collected her knick-knacks and rushed into the waiting-room, which was quite empty. But the young man who had sold the tickets, and who was in the act of drawing down the panel, caught a glimpse of this belated lady, and was good-natured enough to wait.

'A ticket--for Heaven's sake! A ticket for Drammen! What does it cost?'

'Where are you going, miss?' asked the good-natured young man.

'To Drammen--do you hear? But do make haste. I am sure the train will be gone.'

'But, miss,' said the young man, with a modest smile, 'you _are_ in Drammen.'

'Ah! I beg your pardon. Yes, so I am; it is to Modum, to Modum that I want to go.'

She received her ticket, filled her lap with her things, and, purse in mouth, hurried out upon the platform.

She was instantly seized by powerful hands, lifted off the ground, and tenderly deposited in a _coupé_.

'Puff,' said the locomotive impatiently, beginning to strain at the carriages.

My sister leant back on the velvet sofa, happy and triumphant; she had been in time. Before her, upon the other sofa, she had all her dear little things, which seemed to lie and smile at her--the bouquet and the book, the _en-tout-cas_ and the umbrella, and the very plaids, with the strap completely unfastened.

Then, as the train slowly began to glide out of the station, she heard the footstep of a man--rap, rap--of a man running--rap, rap, rap--running on the platform alongside the train; and although, of course, it did not concern her, still she would see what he was running for.

But no sooner did my sister's head become visible than the running man waved his arms and cried:

'There she is, there she is--the young lady who came last! Where shall we send your luggage?'

Then my sister cried in a loud and firm voice:

'To Drammen!'

And with these words she was whirled away.

LETTERS FROM MASTER-PILOT SEEHUS.

KRYDSVIG FARM, January 1, 1889.

MR. EDITOR,

Referring to our talk of last December, when I said I was not unwilling to send you occasional letters, if anything important should happen, I do not know of anything that I could think worthy of being published or made public in your paper except the weather, which always and ever gives cause for alternate praise and blame, when one is living, so to speak, out among the sea's breakers, where there is no quietness to expect on a winter's day, but storms and rough weather as we had in the last Yule-nights, with a violent storm from the east and with such tremendous gusts of wind that the pots and pans flew about like birds. And there is much damage done by the east wind and nothing gained, because it only drives wreckage out to sea. But it was not quite so bad as it was in the great storms in the last days of November, which culminated or reached their highest point on Monday, the 26th November, when it was rougher than old folk can remember it to have ever been, with such a tremendous sea that it seemed as if it would reach the fields that we here at Krydsvig have owned from old times; it almost touched the cowhouses. After that time we had light frosts with changeable weather and a smoother sea, which was not covered, but richly sown, with many sad relics of the storm, mostly deck cargo, which is not so great a loss, as it is always lying, so to speak, upon expectancy or adventure; and when it goes, it is a relief to the ship and a great and especial blessing to these treeless coasts, particularly when it comes ashore well split up and distributed, a few planks at each place, so that the Lensmand [Footnote: Sheriff's officer.] cannot see any greater accumulation at any one place than that he can, with a good conscience, abandon an auction and let the folk keep what they have been lucky enough to find or diligent enough to garner in from the sea in their boats; but this time it did not repay the trouble, because of frost and an easterly land-wind, which kept the wreck from land for some time. But now the most of it has come in that is to come at this time, and it may be long to another time, as we must hope, for the seaman's sake, although I, for my part, have never been able to join with any particular devotion in prayers and supplications that we may be free from storms and foul weather; for our Lord has made the sea thus and not otherwise, so that there must come storms and tumults in the atmosphere of the air, and, as a consequence, towering billows. And it seems to me, further, that we cannot decently turn to the Lord and ask Him to do something over again or in a different way; but we can well wish each other God's help and all good luck in danger, and especially good gear for our own ones, who sail with wit and canniness, while the Englishman is mostly a demon to sail and go with full steam on in fogs and driving rain-storms, of which we can expect enough in Januarius month at the beginning of the new year, which I hope may be a good year for these coasts, with decent weather, as it may fall out, and something respectable in the way of wreckage.

Yours very truly, LAURITZ BOLDEMANN SEEHUS, Late Master-Pilot.

KRYDSVIG, January 22, 1889.

MR. EDITOR,

I take up my pen to-day to inform you that I, the undersigned, address you for the last time, as I will not write more because of my sore eyes, which are not to be wondered at, after all that they have seen in bitter weather and in a long life of trouble and hardship from my youth up, mostly at sea in spray and driving snow-storms at the fishing, which is all over and past, as everything old is past. But things new are coming to the front, and here I sit alone like Job, though he, to be sure, had some friends, but loneliness is a sore thing for old folk, and idleness which they are not used to, so that the Sheriff might as well have given me back my post as master-pilot on my return from America. But he would not do it, because I was not cunning enough to agree with him, when he did not understand anybody, but it is given out officially that I am too old, and thus I sit here without having shaved for a week, because I am angry and my hand trembles, but not owing to old age. And I don't think, either, that anybody is much to be envied for having friends like Job's, and I am not stricken with boils and sitting among potsherds, but am quite hale and strong, if I am rather dried-up and stiff, but I would undertake to dance a reel and a Hamburg schottische if I could only get a girl with a fairly round waist to take hold of, but it seems to me that they are shrinking in and becoming flatter than they were in my young days; but then I think that it is surely the sore eyes that are cheating me, for I have always held this belief, that girls are girls in all times, but old folks should be quiet and mind what they understand, which is nothing that relates to the young. But a man should not get sour _in finem_, for all that, and I have found that it is a dangerous thing to grow old, for this reason, that one becomes so surly before one's time, and that is against my inner construction, and I have now sat here awhile and gazed out on the sea through rain and mist, and then I straightened my old back and spat out my quid, which in all truth smacked more of the brass box than of tobacco, because it had been chewed several times, but I have cut myself a new one with my knife, as I can no longer bite it off, for the reason that there are hardly any teeth, but I have still a few front ones, and I have one good tooth, which is hidden and is no ornament, but it is useful when I eat tough things like dried ham. And I take up the pen again because I want to let you know that I am not so ill but that I may hold out for a while yet; and, if I keep my health, you shall hear from me soon, but I have nothing to say about the weather, because we have not had any weather for a long time, and I am wondering whether this winter will come to anything, or if it will pass over in damp and wet and loose wind.

Yours very truly, LAURITZ BOLDEMANN SEEHUS, Late Master-Pilot.

KRYDSVIG, April 13, 1889.

MR. EDITOR,