Short story classics (Foreign), Vol. 2, Italian and Scandinavian

by Unknown

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.

Björn did not answer. He muttered something about spring, and sheets and linen, etc., and then went for a sail in his new boat. She was a flyer and no mistake, he could prove that to the scoffers on shore any day!

Then spring came at last, and now “this nonsense should have an end.” He had a good new boat; all he wanted was a wife, so Björn swore to himself.

Thus the marriage came about.

The ceremony, naturally, was to be held in the little country church. A relative of Stine—Stine was the bride—had suggested that as Stine’s parents were both dead, and he himself was an innkeeper in Copenhagen, he should give the wedding feast in his house. Björn protested vigorously against this. He and his brother were to sail to the city, and lay up the boat at Kroyer’s Wharf. Niels would take care of the boat, and he himself would “play monkey just long enough for the splice”; then back to the city, and on board the boat to take his wife home.

Stine and her party protested against this arrangement with equal energy, if not with equal warmth of expression. A wedding without a feast was an impossibility, and there would always be time enough for the sail, thought Stine to herself. So she clung to her decision, supported by her cousin of the Gilded Tarpot, and for the first time in his life, even before the “splice,” Björn learned what unlooked-for obstacles can be put in our way by the so-called weaker sex. At least, so the old poets call it.

Björn grumbled, but was clever enough to hold his peace. In all secrecy he laid a counter-mine, telling his brother to take the “Flying Fish” out as far as the custom-house and lay her up in the ferry harbor, with all ropes clear for sailing, and when that was done to come himself to the Gilded Tarpot, which was a favorite place of refreshment for country people, soldiers, and petty officials.

In this way each party felt sure of the eventual victory, and the marriage could come off. The minister tied the knot in his little country church and gave them a glass of sherry and a silver soup-ladle in the rectory. Björn put both “inside his vest,” and then the innkeeper drove them into town. The village people gave them a hurrah, and finally the merry company sat down in the Gilded Tarpot’s basement rooms to a board laden with roasts of lamb and pork, ham and vegetables, and all manner of other good things. Sweet cordials were there for the ladies, and French wines, while for the men there was brandy and punch.

Through the basement window one could see a high brick wall, gleaming in the strong sunlight, and if one laid one’s self over the table, with one’s head in the neighbor’s lap, ’way high up one could see a tiny piece of blue sky as large as a handkerchief perhaps, with feathery clouds driving over it.

Some of Stine’s female relatives were there, and the innkeeper’s family and best friends. Among the family was a ship’s-joiner, who proved his sympathetic comprehension of the importance of the occasion by getting drunk at once and making pathetic speeches. And among the good friends was a “former officer of justice,” as he called himself, a man with a decoration in his buttonhole; also a drunken-looking jailer, who wore a stiff collar and his service medal to remind the world that he had once been a non-commissioned officer. He looked as if he had his serious doubts about the company, and expected the one or the other of them to make away with the spoons. Probably because of this doubt therefore he kept a distance between himself and the rest of the company, and poured out an endless series of small whiskies for himself, “on the top of the glass,” as he expressed it, without any appreciable effect. He laughed a sudden and ferocious-sounding laugh, drank half his glass, cleared his throat, poked his elbows in the host’s ribs, and said: “Old comrade, here’s to the good old times.” This for him was the height of sociability.

He called Björn “Captain,” but after a few repetitions of the word the bridegroom laid down his fork, with a large slice of beet on it, and remarked:

“Port your helm, friend, and let up on that 'Captain,’ if you don’t want to make me angry.”

After this admonition he compromised on “Boatsman.”

Björn was decidedly out of sorts. He had the impression of being left out in the cold, which was probably due to his deafness. He certainly filled his place in the literal sense, but Niels did not come, and Stine, the bride—well, Stine sat there at his side in a black merino gown, with wreath and veil, her red hands in her lap, as straight up and down in her chair as if she had swallowed a yardstick.

That was probably the correct thing to do, for a northern bride should not be too vivacious. But there seemed to be in her nature a certain dignity, which would be a good thing in a home no doubt, but which seemed out of place here between roast and cordial.

“One certainly could not call her too affectionate,” Björn said afterward, when describing the occasion.

He sat alone and she sat alone. She ate very little; he ate enough for two. The ship’s-joiner made one speech after another, the sun shone down on the brick wall, and Björn leaned over on Stine and looked up out of the window.

Stine pulled her veil aside, smoothed her dress, and asked: “What are you looking at?”

“Fine opportunity that,” said Björn. Her eyes followed his.

“You mean that fourth story to let up there? Yes, I would rather like to live there. Then one would not have to be on the water so much.”

“A fine opportunity to sail home, I mean,” explained Björn. “The wind is strong from the south.”

Stine glanced at him uneasily, and then at the innkeeper.

“A stiff south breeze,” continued Björn. “It has been a north wind for some time, and will be to-night again. We don’t have a chance like this every day.”

At a glance from Stine the innkeeper proposed a “good, old-time Danish cheer” for Björn, in the attempt to change the train of his thoughts, and the ship’s-joiner made his fifth speech.

Then mine host proposed a song, in which all joined, even the jailer, who held second voice and tooted like a clarinet.

After that, in spite of some objection, the ship’s-joiner rose, and, supporting himself by his neighbors’ shoulders, began, with tears in his eyes:

“Good friends and hearers, we are all that, I think—”

“Yes, yes,” they answered.

“We will now—something must be said to them before they leave father and mother—I mean before they leave the circle of these kind friends—”

“They don’t go until to-morrow,” said mine host.

“No,” said Björn, banging the table with his fist.

“He’s right,” said Niels, coming in just then. “The wind is fresh from the south, Björn.”

“I know,” said Björn, getting up.

“Hush!” whispered the innkeeper. “Let the joiner finish his speech.”

“Listen, dear friends,” continued the joiner, reeling from side to side. “We are all mortal, and we all love our native country. I do not say fatherland; I say native country. We do not know where our fathers came from, but we know where we were born ourselves—”

“What nonsense is this?” whispered Niels, who grasped the situation and was ready to fight.

“Who is that man?” asked the joiner, trying to fix his bleary gaze on Niels and holding fast to his neighbor’s shoulder. “Is that a man who will not drink to his native country? If he is, then I say: 'Fie, for shame,’ say I.”

Niels looked meaningly at Björn.

“Shall we clear the place and take Stine with us?”

Björn motioned to him. But one of the guests who supported the joiner heard what Niels said. He drew away his shoulder, the joiner fell to the floor, and in a minute the place was in an uproar. Every one spoke or screamed at once. Niels had already collared the jailer. Then, at this highly critical moment, the sense of duty of the women of the old days awoke in Stine. She placed herself by the side of her chosen lord and master and announced that “she would sail to Jutland with him rather than have a fight on her wedding day.” That settled the matter. The joiner was carried into the next room and put to bed, the guests shook hands cordially and drank one another’s health. Niels and Björn became most amiable at once, and Niels ordered more punch. The innkeeper made the best of a bad business, and peace settled down on the spirits of the company.

Then the party broke up.

In his delight at his victory Björn invited the entire party, even to the jailer, to take a sail on the “Flying Fish.” He would put them ashore at the limekilns when they had had enough, he said.

The invitation was accepted, probably in the desire not to disturb the nearly sealed peace. But when they all came up out of the Gilded Tarpot, the fresh air and the sunshine, or the joy of his own victory, or the feelings of a bridegroom, or all of them at once, so overcame Björn that he took Stine round the waist and swore he would dance a waltz with her then and there. Which he did, in spite of her obstinate protest, to the great delight of the passers-by. Then he dropped Stine, and, seizing the jailer, danced a polka with him. He next insisted upon carrying off a sentry-box to try the sentry’s gun on the Amalienplads. But this last was too much for the military feelings of the jailer. He declared it “scandalous” and walked away as red in the face as a lobster, and took the innkeeper with him. At the next corner was a flaring menagerie poster, with pictures of elephants, monkeys, and bears. These last caught Björn’s attention; he declared that he must go and see his cousins perform, and the wedding guests had difficulty in getting him away safely. By this time quite a crowd had collected, which listened with interest to the lively remarks made by the big fisherman, and when at last, to the immense delight of the crowd, he gave a plastic imitation of a dancing bear, the rest of the invited guests fled, and an assemblage of those not invited followed Björn, Niels, and Stine down to the harbor.

“Come, now, Björn, keep quiet,” said Niels, soothingly, as a policeman appeared interested in their movements.

“Shouldn’t I be merry on my wedding day?” queried Björn, looking around beamingly.

Stine was ready to cry, but held out heroically. She had chosen her lot in life, and was ready to take whatever came.

“It will be better later,” was her consoling thought.

They got down to the harbor somehow and into the boat.

“You’ll have to reef,” said the ferry-keeper.

“Full sail!” called Björn. “This is my wedding trip.”

“All right,” said the ferryman. But he whispered aside to Niels: “Can he sail a boat?”

“Well, rather,” laughed Niels.

“All ready, Niels?” asked Björn.

“Yes.”

“Stine stowed away safely?”

“Yes.”

“All off then; let go!”

“Hurrah!” called the ferrymen, but shook their heads nevertheless.

“That will be a wet wedding trip if he doesn’t take in some of that sail,” they commented.

And it certainly was wet.

Stine will never forget it, and Björn tells the story himself in this wise:

“We just skipped through the water. I must say the 'Flying Fish’ did fly that day. As we went past the ferry-boats and the pilot-boats they called out to us, but I waved my hat and asked if they could see the color of her bottom.

“'I hope she will stand it,’ said Niels.

“'She’ll have to,’ I answered.

“Stine lay in the bottom of the boat and gave up all the good dinner they served us in the inn. It was a good thing she had not eaten more.

“I tried to cheer her up, but I don’t think she heard me.

“Niels and I were dripping wet, the sails were dripping wet, and so was Stine. I haven’t sailed like that before or since.

“I didn’t dare sail all the way home with her like that, so put up at the dock of the town.

“The old skipper who bought 'The Pail’ came down to the water. 'What sort of weather is that for full sail?’ he asked. 'Have you a cargo?’

“'A wedding cargo,’ I answered, 'but it’s more dead than alive, I guess. Come, help us get the old woman ashore, or she will give up the ghost right here.’ We handed Stine up. She couldn’t stand on her legs at all, and we had to leave her at the house of a good friend in the town. She stayed there three days and nights, and I had to go round with dry mouth, couldn’t get even so much as a kiss.

“It was all right afterward, but she was angry at me for some time because I had 'made a fool of her in that way.’ What can one expect from such land lubbers, who have never seen more water than a pool in a village street in all their lives?

“Whenever I speak of that day Stine gets cross, but I rub my nose with the back of my hand and say: 'Well, anyway, that was the most wonderful wedding trip I ever heard of.’

“And that is why I haven’t made any more like it.”

JALO THE TROTTER

BY JOHANN JACOB AHRENBERG

Among Scandinavians it seems to be a common thing for the artistic impulse to drive in many directions at once. The Swedish-Finnish novelist Ahrenberg is architect as well as writer. He was born in 1847 at Wiborg, and studied in Helsingfors and at the Art Academy in Stockholm. He is now chief Government architect for his state. The first novels and tales that brought him into literary prominence were published in 1880, followed since then by many other East Finland pictures. Among these, “Jalo the Trotter,” the story of a superb horse and his two masters, is characteristic not only of the author’s style, but of his country as well.

JALO THE TROTTER
A FINNISH TALE

BY JACOB AHRENBERG

Translated by Mary J. Safford. Copyright, 1902, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

It was late in the afternoon of an August day, but the sun was still pouring its hot slanting rays into Christian’s sitting-room. The flies were buzzing merrily around the head of the landlord, who sat by the window, apparently watching the two balsams blooming in broken china pots on the sill. Christian had been there a long time, staring between the leaves and flowers of the plants at the little gate of the fence, as if he was expecting some one.

He had already reached middle life, but looked considerably older. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and wrinkles seamed his face. His wife, who was working busily at the loom, did not seem to have her mind wholly on her task; for, whenever Christian made the slightest movement, she glanced anxiously toward the door as if she, too, was expecting somebody.

Suddenly Laurikamen, the assessor of the district court, entered, greeted the couple, and shook hands ceremoniously with them. This guest, whose visit seemed to afford neither pleasure nor surprise, sat down at the table, and, after a short silence, lighted his pipe, and finally remarked that it really was far too hot for five o’clock in the afternoon, to which undeniably truthful remark Christian replied that the heat would at least do the oats good. Gradually the conversation grew more fluent; they discussed the questions of the day, the fall of stocks, the price of grain at home and in Russia, and the sessions of the court. Then the assessor had reached the point at which he was aiming. Rising deliberately, he went to the hearth, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and remarked, as if casually:

“By the way, you are summoned there.”

“I? To the court? By whom?”

“By Jegor Timofitsch Ivanov, your neighbor.”

“H’m! What is he after? Is it about the beating I gave him last spring?”

“Not at all; he must put up with that. It’s the affair of Jalo, his trotter, you know.”

“Well, what’s that to me?”

“I don’t know. Come to-morrow, and you’ll find out.”

The assessor uttered a sigh of relief, rose, took his leave, and went away.

Christian scratched himself behind the ear, and went out thoughtfully. Sighing heavily, he wandered restlessly over the pastures and meadows until late in the evening.

As it was still too warm in the room, he sat down on the steps to enjoy the cool evening air. It was a damp, hot night; the stars shone dimly through the air, which lay like a thin veil on the horizon. The full moon was rising in majesty above the moor, looming in a large, reddish gold disk through the firwood, which grew sparse and stunted upon the moss-covered hill. The last birds were twittering sleepily, and the night-jar flew clumsily, as if drunk, first to the right, and then to the left, sometimes vanishing in the gloom. Country folk hate the night-jar, and this aversion probably made Christian’s whole surroundings suddenly seem unspeakably desolate. His mood was transmitted to the scene about him. He could not possibly drive that business of Jalo the trotter out of his head. All the memories of his life were associated with the name. Everything he had dreamed and hoped, everything which had disturbed and alarmed him, had revolved wholly around Jalo. How well he recollected the day Jegor Timofitsch Ivanov opened his shop in the village of Tervola. Everything that previously was brought from the city could now be bought at Jegor Timofitsch’s. How humble and cringing the fellow had been then; how well he understood how to ingratiate himself with everybody.

At that time Jalo was nearly three years old.

Jegor had been everybody’s most humble servant. Doubling up like a pocket-knife in his obsequiousness, he had treated his customers to tobacco and sbitin,[2] promised them unlimited credit, and thereby won all hearts. “You haven’t any money? Oh, that makes no difference—we’ll charge it; you can pay another time.” It was all so easy and simple, but when a year had gone by, Jegor’s account book was full, and all the insignificant entries were found to amount to an enormous sum.

If anybody needed a loan, who but Jegor had the money? True, he asked twelve per cent, but then there was no bothering with lawyers, judges, assessors, and such people. And who did not need money in these times? Everybody wanted it, and Christian, perhaps, most of all.

But when four years had passed, Jegor Timofitsch from being everybody’s servant had become everybody’s master. Now he carried his back as stiff as a ramrod; now he used a very different tone: “Lout, do you mean to sow rye? No, you must sow oats; I can’t sell rye in these times. You want money to buy a cow? You have scarcely enough feed for the one you own. No, that won’t do.”

He sold the peasant’s grain from the fields before it was mowed. He felled their woods for fuel and lumber, without any further ceremony than to notify them of his intention. And yet, how the terrible debt grew! It was as insatiable as the Moloch of the Philistines. Everything disappeared in its mighty jaws. It was never settled, in spite of all the sacrifices and payments in the shape of tar, wood, tallow, sheep, crabs, game-birds, and oats.

If any one had cause to suffer from this neighbor it was Christian. Their farms adjoined, and he knew better than all the rest what it means to be a debtor. It seemed as though the flesh was being gnawed from his body and the marrow sucked out of his bones. He often felt utterly defenseless against the cruel foe, and thought seriously of going out to beg his way from door to door, if only he could be a free man once more.

But in the hour of his sorest need help came. And his deliverer was Jalo, who had reached his sixth year at Michaelmas.

Oh, what an animal this Jalo was! His black coat shone like silk. Looking at his side, darker and lighter circles appeared on his back and thighs. What a tail, and what a mane he had, both so thick and long! His hoofs were like steel, his broad breast inhaled the air like bellows. His eyes were those of a sea-eagle. He not only saw at a distance, but in the mist, in the whirling snow, and in the dark. But of even greater worth than his strength and his beauty was his noble nature. He was proud. A blow from a whip was an insult that drove him nearly frantic. He was docile with all his strength, loving with all his spirit. And what a grateful heart he had! How he would rub his velvety muzzle on Christian’s arm when he offered him salt and bread, oats, or a bit of sugar. This animal was better than many a human being, certainly better than his disobedient daughter and his ungrateful son-in-law. Had anybody ever seen Jalo shy? Never—he would not fear Satan himself. Had he ever stumbled? Never, no matter how steep might be the descent of the hill. Everybody was obliged to admit that Jalo was the finest animal in all Finland. His equal could scarcely be found in Russia. When Christian’s debts weighed heavily upon him, when Moloch opened his jaws and demanded fresh sacrifices, Christian went to the stable, curried his Jalo, blackened his hoofs, braided his mane, and patted his back. And he always felt lighter-hearted.

When Jegor Timofitsch’s demands had gone far beyond Christian’s powers to meet, and he saw no way of shaking off this vampire, he harnessed Jalo into a light sleigh and set off for Wiborg, to consult a distinguished lawyer. He could not believe that Jegor had written things down correctly. His poor little purchases, some tobacco and grain, coffee and sugar, could never amount to so large a sum. Something was surely wrong, and there was Jegor’s usurious interest into the bargain!

How vividly he remembered that journey. It was a clear, cold day in January. The snow lay on the fields and meadows as smooth and level as the surface of the lake. The shadows of the fences, hayricks, and rollers lay like blue spots upon the white surface. The snow-birds hopped across the road, and the magpies chattered joyously as they ran up and down the fences. Sipi, the bear-dog, with pointed ears and woolly tail, dashed at full gallop before Jalo, who with a dainty movement of his hoofs, as if it were mere play, rushed forward at lightning speed. It was all so cheering that Christian’s depression began to pass away. He had almost reached the Papula quarter, when suddenly he heard some one calling and shouting. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he leaned out of the sleigh and looked behind him. A man in a little racing sleigh was following at full gallop, waving his hand in its fur-edged gauntlet glove. Christian stopped, and the traveler, a short, stout man dressed in furs, driving a mouse-colored horse, soon reached him.

“Good morning, Landlord. That is a trotter you have!” he said eagerly, biting his frozen mustache. “To tell the truth, I’ve been driving behind you at least a quarter of an hour without being able to overtake you. Where did you get the animal? What is his pedigree? How old is he? Just look at that chest and those thighs!”

The stranger left his sleigh as he spoke to examine Jalo more closely. Christian was pleased and proud, answered to the best of his ability, and praised the horse to the newcomer, who seemed to be perfectly delighted with him.

“Well, of course, you’ll come to the trotting races day after to-morrow. As the owner of an animal like yours, it’s your duty to do it. I am Captain T., one of the judges. Remember the first prize is a thousand marks.”

Christian had already heard of the races and even thought of them; but in the country people usually learn facts only after they have occurred. But now—why not, since he was already in the city?

Christian promised to come, and the men clasped hands on the agreement. Jalo, who was already impatient to go on, vanished from the Captain’s admiring gaze beyond the next hill like a streak of lightning.

Christian entered his horse for the races. What glorious days, what a season of triumph and honor for Jalo and his master! There was not a newspaper in the whole country which did not mention Jalo and his owner. Telegrams announcing the horse’s wonderful deeds flew from city to city. His victory was extraordinary; he carried off the first prize, outstripping famous old trotters. Even now, as Christian sat depressed and sorrowful in his entry, a bright smile flitted over his face as he recalled that glorious time. How distinctly everything rose before his mind: the golden sunlight, the blue sky, the light snow-flakes carried by the winter wind, the music and the cheering, the heating drinks, and Jalo, the hero of the day. It had undoubtedly been the brightest and happiest of his life. But as the highest surges sink the lowest, and the tallest pine trees cast the longest shadows, it also happened that the day when Jalo and his master reached the giddy heights of joy was followed by very sad consequences.

Nothing favorable was obtained from the lawyer. Instead of encouraging counsel he informed Christian that Jegor had already obtained the final judgment from the Governor. Christian’s debt must be paid, principal and interest. There was no resource except to sell Jalo, and even that would not completely cover the amount. Christian drank till he was completely dazed, wept, sobered up again, and, during all these varying moods, constantly tried to raise the price. At last the bargain had to be closed. Jalo was sold to a Russian merchant, and Christian returned home, deeply saddened and frantic with rage, driving a mare which he detested from the first moment. It was small consolation that his pocketbook was stuffed with hundred-mark notes, the farewell gift Jalo’s victory had brought to his master.

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.