“First answer me,” he said, barring the way to her mother; “are you honest?”
And when she was silent and hung her head, he led her forth, an outcast without her mother’s kiss. The Old Town never saw her again.
Happily the ordinary tenor of life there ran on a different plane. Neighborly kindness ruled; on the basis of the square deal, however: to every one his own. Stick up for your rights; these secure, go any length to oblige a neighbor. It is a characteristic of the Danish people, who are essentially honest, intolerant of pretence, stubbornly democratic, and withal good-natured to a degree. Hence their apparent passion for argument, which is all-pervading, but utterly harmless, excepting as it delays action. Business is held up; trains appear sometimes to stop for argument between the station-master and conductor. When the whistle blows, they part with a nod and a cordial “Paa Gjensyn”—au revoir. When I was last there, I was a listener to a conversation between two men, strangers to one another, who were waiting for a train. The one had overheard the other tell his name and that of the town he hailed from. He turned upon him straightway:
“Are you Christian Sörensen?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“So you are that? And you are from Hvillingebäk.”
“Yes, I am that,” patiently.
“So—I thought there was only one Christian Sörensen in Hvillingebäk, and him I know,” with strong emphasis on the “I.”
“Yes! Well, my name is Jens Christian Sörensen.”
Two minutes after I saw them taking a stein of beer together at the depot bar, on the friendliest of terms.