FOOTNOTES:
Now comes the maiden with dress of green.
Oh, heigh, dear! Oh, ho!
VII
IN PECKELL’S HAYLOFT
Every once in a while, a traveling photographer comes to our town. They take rather spotty pictures in one or another courtyard under the open sky, seldom pay for the room where they have lodged, and are suddenly gone. Such traveling photographers look almost alike, usually having black curly hair with pomade in it, and pale faces; they parade around in the street, walking quickly as if they were awfully busy.
But one summer a photographer came who was altogether different. In the first place, his name was Cavallius, and he was a little bit of a man; that is, his legs were very short. The upper part of his body was big enough, and his face was large, with a long golden, curly beard that reached down over his chest; and the whole time he was in town, he had big patches of court-plaster behind his ears. He never looked as if he were busy. He spoke slowly and never walked fast; and there was a kind of dignity about him, from the court-plaster patches to his long golden beard and even to his short legs, that was quite amazing.
That dignified appearance was a real achievement for little Cavallius; for truly it can’t be very easy to appear dignified with almost no legs and with plasters behind the ears.
The first time I saw Cavallius on the street I naturally had no idea who he was, so of course I followed him till I saw that he went into Stiansen’s bakery. Fortunately I had two öre[3] in my pocket, so I could make an errand in the shop. I had an overwhelming desire, you see, to find out something about this queer person. Baker Stiansen was in the shop himself. “Two öre worth of brown barley sugar, please.”
Stiansen’s barley sugar is never very good,—it is too soft,—but of course I had to buy something, since I had gone in.
“Who was that who came in here just now, Stiansen, a little man with a yellow beard?” I asked.
“Oh, he is one who takes pictures of people,” Stiansen answered carelessly.
“What is his name?”
“His name is nothing less than Cavallius.”
That is the way I found out who Cavallius was. I didn’t like to ask any more questions, although there was still much I wanted to know. After this, however, I had a tremendous desire to peep into Stiansen’s courtyard to see how the little photographer arranged things there; but I didn’t dare venture through the gate, because Stiansen is so cross and disagreeable if you even stick your nose in his courtyard.
But one day it suddenly occurred to me that any one in the loft up in Peckells’ barn would have the most perfect view over Cavallius in the courtyard. I went immediately to Massa Peckell.
“Oh, Massa!” I said, “let’s go up into your hayloft. Through that round window there we can look right down on the little photographer taking pictures in Stiansen’s courtyard.”
Yes, indeed, Massa would go.
Stiansen’s courtyard is a narrow oblong, and the sun beats down upon it bright and hot. We had come at a fortunate moment, it seemed, for Cavallius was just about to photograph fat Barbara who works for Madam Pirk.
Barbara sat stiffly upright on a chair. Her dress was so tight that it looked ready to burst open any minute. Her big, red hands were crossed as if they were tied together at the wrists. Cavallius was arranging the screw she should have at the back of her neck to hold her head still.
“Sh, sh!” I whispered. “Keep perfectly quiet so that he will not notice us.” Massa and I scarcely stirred, up there at the loft window.
“Will you sit for a full face or for a profile?” Cavallius asked. He talked in a slow formal way that corresponded well with his dignified bearing.
“What’s that?” asked Barbara turning herself hastily towards him.
“There, there,” said Cavallius, soothingly. “Will you sit sideways or straight?”
“Straight,” said Barbara. “Talk decent, you, when you talk to decent folk!”
Cavallius was humming a little to himself and took hold of her face to place it in the right position.
He had scarcely put one of his small stumpy fingers against Barbara’s fat cheek before she pushed her big working-woman’s fist with such force against Cavallius’ chest that he tumbled backward. It was an awfully comical sight. Both Massa and I forgot ourselves and shrieked with laughter. Cavallius threw an astonished glance up at the loft window where we stood, but he said nothing. Moreover, he did not lose his air of dignity.
“Are you out of your mind, woman?” asked Cavallius.
“Just you try that again,” said Barbara, looking furious.
Cavallius stooped under the black velvet cloth such as all photographers have over their cameras.
“Look a little pleasant, now,” he said in a coaxing voice as if to a child.
“Look pleasant? At you? Humph! I’d like to catch myself!” Her face was like a thunder-cloud.
“Oh! Oh! I shall split my sides laughing,” said Massa. “Oh! Oh!”
“May I ask the ladies up there to indulge us with their absence?” said Cavallius.
Oh! how we laughed! No, it was altogether too amusing for us to be willing to leave. “No, Cavallius, we’re not going; do not imagine that we are.” Of course we did not dare to say that aloud.
Repeated exhortations to Barbara from Cavallius to look pleasant. Barbara looked, if possible, still more angry, and assured him most positively that if there was anything in the world she would not do, it was to look pleasant “at such a one as you.”
Massa and I laughed till we were worn out with it.
“That’s right, Barbara,” shouted Massa, “look more fierce. Don’t give in, Barbara.”
“Go away,” said Cavallius, shaking his little stumpy hand threateningly towards us. “Go away, ladies; I will not endure this, on my honor I will not. Go!”
Just think, he called us “ladies”! We ducked down behind the window in silent laughter, then we peeped out again. Cavallius kept on threatening us.
“Go, I say!” We ducked down but popped up again the next instant. Cavallius grew more and more angry. We kept popping down and up and laughing continually, but go away we would not, you may be sure.
At last Barbara’s picture was ready.
“Well, my girl,” said Cavallius, “it isn’t my fault that you look like a lion-tamer in your picture.”
“What is it I look like?” asked Barbara. “It’s your fault if it’s a horrid picture.”
“That’s right, Barbara,” called Massa. “Scowl at him. Of course it is his fault.”
“Go away!” roared Cavallius up at us.
Barbara drew backward towards the door and bumped into old Mrs. Huus who was just coming in to be photographed. Mrs. Huus wore a brown silk dress, gold brooch, gold chain, gold bracelets, and some quivering golden ornaments in her hair. People in the town said that Mrs. Huus stuffed cotton into her cheeks to fill them out so as to look younger. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but Mrs. Huus certainly does speak as if her mouth were full.
Cavallius conducted her most respectfully to a chair, but as he went, he shook his fist threateningly again up towards us in the barn window. Mrs. Huus did not see us, but I noticed that she cast a frightened glance at Cavallius as he shook his fist in the air.
He got down on one knee and arranged the brown silk dress in careful folds. While he knelt there, he turned and again made the threatening gesture towards us. Mrs. Huus sent an anxious look heavenward; evidently she thought he was crazy.
Massa and I tumbled over each other below the window in fits of laughter, although we choked back the noise. Then we heard Cavallius talking, and I put my head up cautiously. Cavallius saw me and threatened again with both fists, but still Mrs. Huus had not seen a sign of us, so to her his angry gestures were unaccountable.
“No, no, no,” she said hastily, getting up. “I don’t think I am very well. I don’t think I care to be photographed to-day.” With that she darted, swift as an arrow, out of the gate without even saying good-bye.
I heard later that she had been mortally afraid the few minutes she was in Cavallius’ studio, because of his shaking his fists towards heaven, and she thought herself fortunate to have come away unharmed.
When Mrs. Huus was gone, Cavallius, with hands at his side, looked up at us.
“There now, ladies, whose fault was that? Whose fault was it, I ask, that that fine lady would not let herself be photographed to-day? It was your fault. I saw that she looked up at you again and again. As true as my name is Isaiah Cavallius, I won’t stand this any longer. If you ladies don’t make yourselves scarce this instant,”—again he shook his fist at us,—“I have something that will make you go, I warn you.”
Massa and I disappeared from the window quick as lightning.
“We mustn’t tease him any more,” said Massa. “He’s too angry.”
“Oh, but it is such fun; so awfully comical.”
“Well, I’m scared; suppose he should shoot up here at us.”
“Nonsense, Massa. Let’s peep out once more.”
There were voices in the courtyard again. I put one eye to the window and saw, if you’ll believe it, Herman Nibb, the storekeeper, who had come to be photographed. Oh, what fun! That queer Nibb! No, we couldn’t go now; it was impossible, with such a prospect of amusement ahead. Cavallius couldn’t get hold of us up here, and if he tried, we could run like the wind.
Nibb came into the courtyard, bowing and bowing. He always walks with a dancing step in the street, as if he were on springs. He is surely very vain, for in one day I have seen him wear as many as seven different hats. That is absolutely true. Nibb always has something to do with bankruptcy; either he has just gone bankrupt or is just about to do so. There is never anything in his shop-window but a bunch of shoe-lasts, and he sells only kerosene. Often I should like to go into his shop because he is so queer, but since one can scarcely ask for a sample of shoe-lasts or kerosene, I can’t make any errand in there.
“Be so kind as to take a seat,” said Cavallius. “Vignette or the whole figure?”
“Is it any dearer with legs than without legs?” asked Nibb.
“The price is the same for the whole figure,” was the satisfactory answer.
Nibb placed himself in position. He looked as blank as if he didn’t know enough to count four, as he stood there.
“That is a fine expression you have now,” said Cavallius. “Don’t lose that expression and you will have a beautiful picture; don’t lose it. Pshaw! You let it go, after all.”
Nibb strove in vain to re-capture the beautiful expression.
“How was it I looked?” he asked.
I can’t tell you how Massa and I laughed. “We must go, Massa, or I shall die of laughing.” Nevertheless, we did not go.
“Are you there again?” shouted Cavallius. “On my honor, I will not stand this any longer.” With that he went into the house, leaving Nibb alone.
Nibb made an elegant bow to us, whom he saw in the loft window.
“Beautiful weather, little girls,” he observed politely.
“Oh, yes.” We felt as if we were in an oven, it was so hot, and Nibb wiped his forehead every minute.
“Perhaps it is rather temperate,” he continued, bowing to us again.
“It wouldn’t matter if it were a little more temperate,” I said.
Nibb made no reply to this, but remarked, “A queer man, that one,” pointing over his shoulder after Cavallius.
Yes, Massa and Nibb and I could all agree as to that.
But what in the world had become of Cavallius? Could he be looking for us?
“O dear! Suppose he is standing inside behind a curtain and shoots us with a gun!” said Massa. “He said he had something that would make us go away, you know.”
The situation began to be rather uncomfortable; perhaps we had better go away, notwithstanding the fun. At that instant, we heard a strange, short, labored breathing from the loft stairway. We both turned,—the stairs were just outside the door,—a yellow beard showed in the dim light. True as gospel, it was Cavallius! If I live to be as old as Methusaleh, I shall never forget how terribly Massa shrieked. She shrieked as if beside herself, or as if some one had stuck a knife into her.
I did not scream, but I must own that I wasn’t at all comfortable. However, this was no time for any long meditation.
Cavallius’ little legs straddled over the high doorsill, and now his whole body was in the loft. There was only one door, the door by which he had entered; our “peep-hole” was the only window.
Not a word was exchanged between Massa and me, but with a common impulse, we sprang over to the trap-door in the corner through which the hay was thrown down into the stable below.
Plump! Massa was down. Plump! I was down. Both of us landed on a big heap of hay that lay just under the trap-door.
I glanced up to see whether Cavallius were coming down the way we did, but I saw nothing of him. We rushed to the stable door, out to the Peckells’ courtyard, out to the street, but not even here dared we stop. The safest place at that moment seemed to us to be the dean’s garden, so in there we dashed, fastening the high garden gate after us. There! Out of danger! Massa was chalk-white with terror.
Looking through the picket fence a moment after, we saw Cavallius with more than usual dignity come out of Peckells’ yard and disappear through Stiansen’s gate.
But how in the world Cavallius, a perfect stranger in the town, found the way all by himself up to Peckells’ hayloft that day, will always remain a mystery to me.