Part 13

Then one Saturday evening the priest brought tidings that the railroad was to run through the parish after all, and across the old churchyard! It struck like lightning into every home. The unanimous opposition of the parish board had been in vain, Lars Högstad’s influence had been stronger. This was the meaning of his journeys, this was his work! Involuntary admiration of the man and his stubborn persistence tended to suppress the dissatisfaction of the people at their own defeat, and the more they discussed the matter the more reconciled they became; for a fact accomplished always contains within itself reasons why it is so, which gradually force themselves upon us after there is no longer possibility of change. The people assembled about the church the next day, and they could not help laughing as they met one another. And just as the whole congregation, young and old, men and women, ay, even children, were all talking about Lars Högstad, his ability, his rigorous will, his immense influence, he himself with his whole household came driving up in four conveyances, one after the other. It was two years since his last visit there! He alighted and passed through the crowd, while all, as by one impulse, unhesitatingly greeted him, but he did not deign to bestow a glance on either side, nor to return a single salutation. His little wife, pale as death, followed him. Inside of the church the astonishment grew to such a pitch that as one after another caught sight of him they stopped singing and only stared at him. Knud Aakre, who sat in his pew in front of Lars, noticed that there was something the matter, and as he saw nothing remarkable in front of him, he turned round. He saw Lars bowed over his hymn-book, searching for the place.

He had not seen him since that evening at the meeting, and such a complete change he had not believed possible. For this was no victor! The thin, soft hair was thinner than ever, the face was haggard and emaciated, the eyes hollow and bloodshot, the giant neck had dwindled into wrinkles and cords. Knud comprehended at a glance what this man had gone through; he was seized with a feeling of strong sympathy, indeed, he felt something of the old love stirring within his breast. He prayed for Lars to his God, and made a resolute vow that he would seek him after service; but Lars had started on ahead. Knud resolved to call on him that evening. His wife, however, held him back.

“Lars is one of those,” said she, “who can scarcely bear a debt of gratitude: keep away from him until he has an opportunity to do you some favor, and then perhaps he will come to you!”

But he did not come. He appeared now and then at church, but nowhere else, and he associated with no one. On the other hand, he now devoted himself to his gard and other business with the passionate zeal of one who had determined to make amends in one year for the neglect of many; and, indeed, there were those who said that this was imperative.

Railroad operations in the valley began very soon. As the line was to go directly past Lars’s gard, he tore down the portion of his house that faced the road, in order to build a large and handsome balcony, for he was determined that his gard should attract attention. This work was just being done when the temporary rails for the conveyance of gravel and timber to the road were laid and a small locomotive was sent to the spot. It was a beautiful autumn evening that the first gravel car was to pass over the road. Lars stood on his front steps, to hear the first signal and to see the first column of smoke; all the people of the gard were gathered about him. He gazed over the parish, illumined by the setting sun, and he felt that he would be remembered as long as a train should come roaring through this fertile valley. A sense of forgiveness glided into his soul. He looked toward the churchyard, a part of which still remained, with crosses bowed down to the ground, but a part of it was now the railroad. He was just endeavoring to define his own feeling when the first signal whistled, and presently the train came slowly working its way along, attended by a cloud of smoke, mingled with sparks, for the locomotive was fed with pine wood. The wind blew toward the house so that those standing without were soon enveloped in a dense smoke, but as this cleared away Lars saw the train working its way down through the valley like a strong will.

He was content, and entered his house like one who has come from a long day’s work. The image of his grandfather stood before him at this moment. This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to prosperity; true, a portion of his honor as a citizen was consumed in the act, but he had advanced nevertheless! His faults were the prevailing ones of his time: they were based on the uncertain boundary lines of the moral conceptions of his day. Every age has its uncertain moral distinctions and its victims.

Honor be to him in his grave, for he had suffered and toiled! Peace be with him! It must be good to rest in the end. But he was not allowed to rest because of his grandson’s vast ambition; his ashes were thrown up with the stones and the gravel. Nonsense! he would only smile at his grandson’s work.

Amid thoughts like these Lars had undressed and gone to bed. Once more his grandfather’s image glided before him. It was sterner now than the first time. Weariness enfeebles us, and Lars began to reproach himself. But he defended himself also. What did his grandfather want? Surely he ought to be satisfied now, for the family honor was proclaimed in loud tones above his grave. Who else had such a monument? And yet what is this? These two monstrous eyes of fire and this hissing, roaring sound belong no longer to the locomotive, for they turn away from the railroad track. And from the churchyard straight toward the house comes an immense procession. The eyes of fire are his grandfather’s, and the long line of followers are all the dead. The train advances steadily toward the gard, roaring, crackling, flashing. The windows blaze in the reflection of the dead men’s eyes. Lars made a mighty effort to control himself, for this was a dream, unquestionably.

There, now I am awake. Come on, poor ghosts!

And lo! they really did come from the churchyard, overthrowing road, rails, locomotive, and train, so that these fell with a mighty crash to the ground, and the green sod appeared in their stead, dotted with graves and crosses as before. Like mighty champions they advanced, and the hymn, “Let the dead repose in peace!” preceded them. Lars knew it; for through all these years it had been sighing within his soul, and now it had become his requiem; for this was death and death’s visions. The cold sweat started out over his whole body, for nearer and nearer--and behold, on the window pane! there they are now, and he heard some one speak his name. Overpowered with dread he struggled to scream; for he was being strangled, a cold hand was clenching his throat, and he regained his voice in an agonized “Help me!” and awoke. The window had been broken in from the outside; the pieces flew all about his head. He sprang up. A man stood at the window, surrounded by smoke and flames.

“The gard is on fire, Lars! We will help you out!”

It was Knud Aakre.

When Lars regained his consciousness, he was lying outside in a bleak wind, which chilled his limbs. There was not a soul with him; he saw the flaming gard to the left; around him his cattle were grazing and making their voices heard; the sheep were huddled together in a frightened flock; the household goods were scattered about, and when he looked again he saw some one sitting on a knoll close by, weeping. It was his wife. He called her by name. She started.

“The Lord Jesus be praised that you are alive!” cried she, coming forward and seating herself, or rather throwing herself down in front of him. “O God! O God! We surely have had enough of this railroad now!”

“The railroad?” asked he, but ere the words had escaped his lips a clear comprehension of the case passed like a shudder over him; for, of course, sparks from the locomotive that had fallen among the shavings of the new side wall had been the cause of the fire. Lars sat there brooding in silence; his wife, not daring to utter another word, began to search for his clothes. He accepted her attentions in silence, but as she knelt before him to cover his feet, he laid his hand on her head. Falling forward she buried her face in his lap and wept aloud. Many eyed her curiously. But Lars understood her and said: “You are the only friend I have.”

Even though it had cost the gard to hear these words, it mattered not to her; she felt so happy that she gained courage, and rising up and looking humbly into her husband’s face, she said:

“Because there is no one else who understands you.”

Then a hard heart melted, and tears rolled down the man’s cheeks as he clung to his wife’s hand.

Now he talked to her as to his own soul. Now too she opened her mind to him. They also talked about how all this had happened, or rather he listened while she told about it. Knud Aakre had been the first to see the fire, had roused his people, sent the girls out over his parish, while he had hastened himself with men and horses to the scene of the conflagration, where all were sleeping. He had engineered the extinguishing of the flames and the rescuing of the household goods, and had himself dragged Lars from the burning room, and carried him to the left side of the house from whence the wind was blowing and had laid him out here in the churchyard.

And while they were talking of this, some one came driving rapidly up the road and turned into the churchyard, where he alighted. It was Knud, who had been home after his church-cart--the one in which they had so many times ridden together to and from the meetings of the parish board. Now he requested Lars to get in and ride home with him. They grasped each other by the hand, the one sitting, the other standing.

“Come with me now,” said Knud.

Without a word of reply, Lars rose. Side by side they walked to the cart. Lars was helped in; Knud sat down beside him. What they talked about as they drove along, or afterward in the little chamber at Aakre, where they remained until late in the morning, has never been known. But from that day they were inseparable as before.

As soon as misfortune overtakes a man, every one learns what he is worth. And so the parish undertook to rebuild Lars Högstad’s houses, and to make them larger and handsomer than any others in the valley. He was reelected chairman, but with Knud Aakre at his side; he never again failed to take counsel of Knud’s intelligence and heart--and from that day forth nothing went to ruin.

BJÖRN SIVERTSEN’S WEDDING TRIP BY HOLGER DRACHMANN

_By general consent Drachmann fills a niche in the temple of fame as introducer of the modern “short story” into Denmark. He was born at Copenhagen in 1846, and is a man of extraordinary versatility both in accomplishment and temperament. Besides being a marine painter of some note, and, before he joined with the conservative party of thinkers in 1880, the most conspicuous of the new realistic school of writers in Denmark, he has been at various times royalist, socialist, realist, romanticist, radical, orthodox, national, cosmopolitan._

_With his volume of poems, published in 1872, followed by skilful, realistic tales of fisherman life, the revolutionary march in Danish literature began, with Brandes as drum-major._

_Drachmann’s stories are marked by sudden outbursts of real inspiration--by impulses rather than by principles--curiously combined with a strong feeling for form._

BJÖRN SIVERTSEN’S WEDDING TRIP BY HOLGER DRACHMANN

Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

The “strong Björn” was about to be married. The usual signs of such an occurrence had come to pass, even to the most important of them all; he had become engaged.

Exactly how this happened, however, history does not state. After the death of the head fisher-master he had inherited the house, and had paid off his brother Niels for his share with a good sum of money, so that the latter could build his own home farther off in the village. There sat Björn then with his house and his sail-maker’s outfit, very lonely in all his new glory.

He got into the habit of sauntering more frequently than usual down to the inn, to get his short pipe filled, to drink a glass and spin a yarn. The jolly innkeeper had been married about a year, and was as busy as could be, running in at the door of the inner room every few minutes “to look after something.”

“What is the matter there?” asked Björn. “Can’t you let the women attend to the child?”

The innkeeper explained it was the “teeth” that he was so interested in.

“Teeth?”

“Yes, Björn. When the teeth come the crying stops.”

“Is that so? Say, tell me, could I see the child?”

The father escorted him proudly into the nursery where the young wife sat at a window with the child on her lap. She was bending over it, and was also looking for “the teeth.”

Björn saluted and came slowly nearer.

“Come and look at him,” she said, smiling.

The giant bent his head, but the child became frightened at the heavy hair and beard and screamed. Björn drew back in alarm, but during his retreat he turned several times and looked back at the window.

When he and the innkeeper were alone in the latter’s private room Björn stood a while in thought, scratching with his thick finger in his mane.

“Say, innkeeper, what a wonderful thing such a little fellow is! He had real nails on his fingers, and he looked at me.”

The young father grew knock-kneed with pleasure, and, rubbing his hands, answered: “You ought to have just such a one yourself. You have a house and money.”

“Yes. But it is not so easy to find a wife, friend.”

Björn sat down, lost in thought, and when the innkeeper touched his glass with his own, he looked up absently. “Do you know what I am thinking of, innkeeper?”

“No. Let us hear it.”

“I was wondering if at any time I could really have been as small as that.”

“I hope, for your mother’s sake,” said the innkeeper, laughing, “that when you were born you were a good deal smaller than my baby now is.”

Then there was no more talk on that subject.

Several days later Björn set out in his good old boat with a load of potatoes for the nearest town.

The boat was known as “The Pail.”

Heaven knows where it got the name; probably from some nickname given in mockery--people are so wicked. But, as it often happens, the nickname had become a pet name, and the boat was always called “The Pail.” Red Anders, a relative, went along with him, and after having sold their potatoes--and sold them well at that--they were now lying alongside the wharf waiting for a little more wind. Then it happened that an old skipper of the town, who had retired, but could not altogether keep away from the water, came sauntering down to the dock, his hands in his pockets and his little twinkling eyes on the lookout for something of interest. He stopped on the dock, blinking still more, and seemed to be taking the measure of “The Pail.”

“Heh, boys, where are you from?”

Björn looked up, surprised at this question about anything so well known.

“From Fiskebäk, of course.”

“Are you the owner?”

Björn looked up at the skipper, with his hand behind his ear.

“I am a little deaf; but if you are speaking of the boat, it is ‘The Pail,’ and I am the owner.”

“Why do you call her ‘The Pail’?”

“That is her name.”

“Has she any faults?”

“We all have faults ourselves, and so do boats.”

“She is not very new?”

Björn began to get somewhat impatient.

“See here, my man, how old are you yourself?”

The skipper laughed and took his hands from his pockets.

“Will you sell your boat?”

Björn looked at Red Anders, and Red Anders looked at Björn. Then they both looked up at the questioner, and at last they looked around at the boat.

“What do you say, Anders?” asked Björn.

Björn was in good humor. The potato transaction had gone off famously, and the buyer had, over and above, treated them well. Finally he slapped his leg and said, with a broad grin:

“My soul. Why shouldn’t I sell her?”

“Yes, why not? Then you can buy a new one.”

“That’s so,” said Björn, and nodded to the skipper.

“How much do you want for her?” asked the latter.

“Two hundred dollars as she swims now.”

“One hundred and eighty,” was bidden.

Björn did not answer, but prepared to let go the mooring.

“Who made her sails?” was asked.

“The man with the rudder,” answered Björn, and cut the after-ropes loose.

“All right. Tie up again and let me come aboard.”

Then came a turning upside down and a ransacking of everything inside “The Pail.” The bulkheads, the flooring, the combing, the seats, nails, cleats, and painting, masts and oars were examined, and about an hour later Björn and Anders stood outside the tavern, where the bargain had been sealed with a drink. The summer sun shone down on their burning faces and beaming eyes, but when Björn looked toward the harbor and saw “The Pail” being taken away from its place his expression changed, and, turning to Anders, he asked: “What do you think they will say when we come home without ‘The Pail’?”

Anders put on a thoughtful mien. “I don’t know. But, anyway, it was your boat, and the skipper promised to be good to her, and keep her scraped and tarred and painted when she needs it.”

“You are right,” said Björn. “But are we to walk home?”

It was very hot and the sun burned. It was a good twelve miles to the fishing village, and the road was for the most part flat, sandy, and open.

“Do you want to ride?” asked Anders. “I am afraid the most of the wagons have gone home, unless you want to hire one.”

Björn stood a moment without answering. It was perhaps not such a bad idea to postpone the home-coming and the explanations for a little.

“I propose we go to the capital.”

“Do you treat?” asked Anders, cautiously.

“Certainly,” answered Björn, and slapped his pocket where the money lay. They went through the town to the railway station, where a train was just about to start. The two were like two big children. They had been to the capital already, but neither of them had ever ridden on the railroad.

Someone showed them the way to the ticket office. Björn planted himself in front of the opening, with his pocketbook in his hands.

“Can I get a cabin for two men to the capital?” he asked, in a tone which he took for a whisper, but which could be heard throughout the hall. “Return?” was asked.

“What’s that he says?” asked Björn of his comrade.

“Second or third?” came again from the office, in rather an angry tone.

“Take what you can get,” whispered Anders, who, as his expenses were paid for him, saw no reason for being economical.

“All right, give me the whole thing,” said Björn, and pushed a bill in at the impatient voice.

“Two excursions, second. You can come back on the evening train, do you hear?” said the voice.

Björn received a number of silver coins for his bill. He took it all but one piece. “We can afford to tip to-day,” he said to his cousin, in the same loud voice.

The ticket seller put his head out of the opening. “Take your money!” he called angrily.

“All right,” said Björn, crestfallen. He put the coin in his pocket, and as they walked through the waiting rooms to the platform he muttered: “That villain of an innkeeper at home told me that if you want to ride comfortably on the railroad you must tip the conductors. But it doesn’t seem to go here.”

They entered the compartment, where sat a stout man, with close cropped hair, white neckband, and long black coat. His face was red and good-natured.

“Whew, it’s warm here,” said Björn, and opened a window. The stout man coughed. The engine whistled, and the train began to move.

“There she goes, d---- me,” said Anders.

“Some speed in her,” answered Björn with a similar oath as the car began to lurch.

“Open the other porthole,” cried Björn, after a while. “I’ll suffocate in this box. This is a new sort of sailing on dry land.” The stout man coughed still more.

“Does it trouble you, sir?” asked Björn, politely.

“Yes.”

Björn gave orders for Anders to close the porthole. The stout gentleman eyed him sharply.

They came to a sharp curve in the road, the car swung round, and Björn nearly fell off his seat.

“Well, I’ll be blasted eternally,” he cried, half surprised and half in sly cunning. “Do you think they’ll send us to hell in this hurry, Anders?”

“Do you always swear like this, my man?” asked the stout gentleman. Björn looked at him with a wink.

“That’s as it happens, my good sir, but I generally do when on shore. Meat goes with bread, as the baker’s dog said when he stole the steak.”

“I do not think it is quite necessary,” said the stout gentleman. “I know, for I am a clergyman.”

“A clergyman?” repeated Björn, looking at him. “Beg pardon, but will you swear to that?”

The stout gentleman looked severely at him at first. But the big child was in such a good humor that day that he was quite irresistible, with his half-simple, half-roguish smile, and his good-nature, from which all severity ran off like water from a duck’s back.

In five minutes they were the best of friends. Björn told, in his own style, his story of “The Pail,” and the jolly priest laughed until his asthma nearly choked him, and before they reached the capital he had Björn’s promise to visit him next day in his little village rectory near the city.

Anders went home that night on his excursion ticket, and Björn set out alone next day for the country. Then it happened that after that day Björn undertook several excursions to Copenhagen with corresponding journeyings to the rectory, until, according to his own version, he was “caught by a petticoat.”

But this was all he would say about it. He went around wearing a broad, shining gold ring, which pinched his fat finger. How the ring was ever squeezed on that finger in the beginning was a mystery, but there it sat, and there sat Björn.

All winter long he pondered over his thoughts of marriage. The innkeeper and his wife teased him, at which he grew angry in jest and then in earnest. And then, when his anger had passed, he showed them first the photograph of a girl with a very dark face and two bright pink hat ribbons. The picture appeared to need much polishing of Björn’s coat sleeve, to give it, as he said, “the proper point of view.” He did not at all like any sport being made of this picture, but was honest enough to acknowledge that it looked more like “the portrait of a nigger than of a respectable country girl.”

During the winter he bought himself a new boat. With all necessary ceremonies this boat was christened the “Flying Fish”. But during the christening feast there was considerable of a row. The otherwise so good-natured Björn fired up about some chance teasing words, some mocking nickname given the boat. Without knowing just why the matter excited him so, he became first sarcastic, and then rude and threatening. Next day, however, he was much dissatisfied with himself, and went to consult with his friend the innkeeper, accusing himself of having forgotten his duties as host. But the innkeeper comforted him, and told him that was all the fault of his approaching marriage. A man in that condition can’t keep the right balance, and is liable to slop over either way on the slightest provocation. That was always so. The thing to do was to close the matter as soon as possible.