The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dry Fish and Wet, by Anthon Bernhard Elias Nilsen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Dry Fish and Wet Tales from a Norwegian Seaport Author: Anthon Bernhard Elias Nilsen Translator: W. Worster Release Date: April 22, 2011 [EBook #35918] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRY FISH AND WET *** Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's note Obvious typographer's errors have been corrected, but the author's spelling has otherwise been retained. A list of word corrections can be found after the book. DRY FISH AND WET Translated from the Norwegian by W. WORSTER, M.A. DRY FISH AND WET Tales from a Norwegian Seaport BY ELIAS KRÆMMER GYLDENDAL 11 HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1 COPENHAGEN · CHRISTIANIA 1922 CONTENTS I. The Town II. Knut G. Holm III. Bramsen IV. Hermansen of the Bank V. Mrs. Rantzau's Story VI. "Rebecca and the Camels" VII. Holm & Son VIII. Malla Trap IX. Clapham Junction X. The Ship comes Home XI. The Concert XII. Old Nick XIII. Cilia XIV. A Royal Visit XV. Peter Oiland XVI. Emilie Rantzau XVII. The EVA MARIA XVIII. The HENRIK IBSEN XIX. Nils Petter's Legacy XX. The Admiral XXI. Dirrik I THE TOWN The last census showed a population of 19,991 inhabitants, but if anyone asked "Holm at the Corner" how big the place was, he would say "between twenty and thirty thousand"—a figure he considered reasonable enough, counting the annual increment in the families he knew. The town had its own traditions. Natives could speak with pride of the days, now long passed, when the firms of C. B. Taline and Veuve Erik Strom had great cargoes of coffee coming direct from Rio, while Danish vessels by the dozen lay alongside the warehouses discharging corn, and unwieldy Dutchmen took in baulks large enough to cut up into arm- chair sections—ay, there was proper timber in those days, not like the thin weedy sticks that come down the river now! And the place had other memories, apart from trade and commerce. There was a whole gallery of clerics whose brilliant names cast a glow of distinction long after they themselves were dead and gone; old men remembered them, and the town could feel itself, as it were, related to episcopal sees all over the country. Great trading houses of old standing came to ruin, fortunes were shattered, and crisis after crisis came and went, but every such period merely added a fresh chapter to the history of the town, making new stories for fathers to tell their sons. In course of time, a whole collection of such stories had grown up about these merchant princes, for trade was, after all, the chief interest of the place and so remained. When the old men got together, talk would invariably turn upon such matters as Nils Berg's grand speculations in the Crimean War, or the disastrous failure of Balle & Co.; while the younger ones, who were in the swim, enlisted further shareholders in their factories and ship-owning concerns. It was a town with plenty of grit in it, no lack of young stock to carry on the work. True, there were times when it seemed to languish, to be dwindling away, when periods of crisis had swept away what appeared to be its chief support; but a breathing space was all that was needed, and soon the old spirit was awake once more, and life went on as bravely as before. And so it went on for generation after generation, while the river flowed, broad and smooth as ever, down the valley, pouring its ice-water into the fjord each spring. Up the hillsides on either hand the roads turned up and curved among thicket and bush, and the higher one climbed the clearer showed the town below with its rows of houses and its churches. Those who were born in the town and had spent their youth there, but whom fate had later moved to other parts of the PAGE 1 4 25 36 56 73 86 101 115 131 136 141 160 189 200 213 239 250 265 277 311 [Pg 1] [Pg 2] [Pg 3] country, made it a practice, when they came home, to climb the hillside and look out over the town, as it lay there rich in memories. And the longer one had been away, the stronger they seemed to grow; for there is a strange power in such memories of a little, old town. II KNUT G. HOLM Knut G. Holm had had his ups and downs; no one knew exactly how he stood. Failure and crisis had raged about him, and many a time public opinion had given him but a short while to keep above water himself, but he always managed to get through somehow, though there were times when he had not credit for five shillings, when the commercial travellers gave his corner premises the stealthy go-by, in the confident belief that he would put his shutters up next day. But he never did. And at last it grew to a proverb, that Knut G. Holm was like a cat; you might throw him out of a top-floor window, but he would always land on his feet in the end! In the little office behind the shop there was always a little gathering before dinner-time, between one and two, to hear Holm holding forth; for he was a man with an unusual gift of speech, and whatever might happen in the place, he was always the first to get hold of it. Dealer Vagle was a fool to pay £1600 for that dairy farm—Knut Holm had no hesitation in saying as much; nor was he afraid to make public his opinion that Jorgensen the hatter was not such a fool as he looked in selling the property referred to. Everyone knew Holm's "gossip-shop," as the office was generally called, but no one took offence at his extravagant talk, for all knew he meant no harm, but was really one of the kindliest of men. He was always terribly busy, for he had a hand in everything, from the Silicate Products Company, of which he was a director, to the machine shops, of which he was chairman, and which paid a steady 20 per cent. per annum. Knut Holm was no longer a youth, he was nearing fifty-seven; but to judge from his fair-haired, rotund figure as one met him in the street, always with his coat unbuttoned and his silk hat at a rakish angle, one would have set him down as ten years younger. There was a peculiar briskness in his gait as he walked up the street in business hours, stopping to speak with every soul he met, and yet with such haste that the person last addressed would generally be left staring open-mouthed, without having had the chance of uttering a syllable. Holm had long been thinking of getting in a lady clerk, a reliable person who could look after the office and keep the books up to date. Peder Clasen and Garner had both been with him for many years, but both felt more at home outside in the shop, and never troubled about bookkeeping more than strictly necessary, and hardly that, with the result that the books were generally half a year behind. Nothing had come of the lady-clerk idea, however, until one day Dr. Blok looked in and asked if Holm could find any use for a young lady he knew, and could safely recommend, a Miss Betty Rantzau. Her mother taught singing; had come to the town some six months before; and the daughter was a willing and well-educated girl; it would be a good action to find her something to do. Clasen and Garner, not to speak of Holm himself, awaited her arrival with considerable interest. She was tall and slender, with a wealth of fair hair, and pretty teeth that showed when she smiled. She offered her hand with frank kindliness to Clasen as she came in. "So we are to work together," she said. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," stammered Clasen in confusion. "Mr. Holm is in the office; will you please to go in?" Soon after, she was duly installed on the high stool in the office, with Holm himself sitting opposite, at the other side of the desk. She managed the old daybook with surprising ease; Holm glanced at her from time to time as she worked. He found it difficult to open conversation; it was queer to have a woman about the place like this, and at such close quarters. He felt himself obliged to be a little careful of his words,—a thing he was altogether unaccustomed to in the office. Next day, the usual meeting in the "gossip-shop" was of unusually brief duration, for as Vindt, the stockbroker, declared when he came out, "Damme, but it's spoiled the whole thing, having a blessed woman in there listening to every word you say." Whereto Holm replied that it was "sort of comfortable to have a pleasant young face to look at, instead of a wrinkled old pumpkin like yours, Vindt!" Vindt growled, and took his departure hastily. And it was not many days before Holm was chatting away easily to Betty, as she worked at her books, pretending to listen attentively the while to all his stories. "I'm not disturbing you, I hope?" "No, indeed, Mr. Holm. It's very nice of you, I'm sure, to talk to me." She slipped down from her chair, and stroked the back of the big ledger with her slender white hands. [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] [Pg 6] [Pg 7] "I've walked a deuce of a way to-day"—he sat down on the sofa and wiped his forehead—"went right out to the cemetery, to lay a wreath on C. H. Pettersen and Company's grave. You've heard of C. Henrik Pettersen, I dare say? Grocery and provision stores over the square there; had it for years and years. First-rate man he was; my best friend." "Good friends are very precious, Mr. Holm." "Why, yes, they are, mostly. And C. H. Pettersen and Co. was an uncommon firm, I must say, both for quality and weight. I know there were some mischief-making folk used to say he sold margarine as dairy butter, but that was just pure malice, for the quality was so good I'll swear they couldn't tell the difference. And when they're both alike, what does it matter what you call them?" "Has he been dead long?" "Eleven years it is to-day since he handed in his final balance-sheet; I go out every year to lay a wreath on his grave, out of sheer gratitude and affection for his memory." "You don't often meet with friendship like that." "You're right there. Ah, one needs to have friends; when you haven't, it's only too easy to get low-spirited—especially now, since I've had this bilious trouble." "Oh, that must be horrid." "Horrid, yes, it's the very devil. Only fancy, a man like me, that used to eat and drink whatever I pleased—as far as I could get it, that is—and now that I can get whatever I've a fancy to, I have to live on brown bread and weak tea. You'd think Providence might have managed things better than that, now, wouldn't you?" "Oh, but I'm sure, if you're careful, you'll soon be all right again. And as long as you're properly looked after——" "Ah, that's just the trouble, I must say. I've been used to something very different. I dare say you know I've been married twice——" "Twice? Oh yes, I fancy I did hear about it." "So you can understand it's a great deal to miss." "Yes, indeed. Let me see; wasn't your first wife English?" "Maggie—yes; oh, a charming creature, Miss Rantzau; I wish you could have seen her. The loveliest brown eyes, and hair as black as a raven's wing, and a complexion of milk and roses. And the sweetest disposition; good inside and out she was. Too good, I suppose, for this world as well as for me." "Your first wife did not live very long?" "We were only married a year: hardly enough to count, really. It's just a beautiful memory——" "And how did you come to meet her, Mr. Holm?" "It was in Birmingham—I was over there on business. I dare say you've noticed I put in an English word now and again in talking; it's all from the time of my first marriage." "Yes, I have noticed you use foreign words now and again." "It's all from those days with Maggie. Oh, you should have heard her say: 'I love you, darling.' Lord save us, what a lovely creature she was! I declare I love England myself now, all for Maggie's sake." "And your son, the engineer, she was his mother?" "Yes, to be sure. Poor Maggie, it cost her life, that little bit of business." "And your second wife?" "She was a Widow Gronlund from Arendal. Ah, that was a queer story. There I was, you see, with little William, Maggie's boy, sorrowful and downcast as a wet umbrella. Of course you'd understand I'd no wish really to go and get married again all at once; I wrote to Skipper Gronlund of Arendal—he was a cousin of mine—and asked if he and his wife would take the boy and look after him. They were willing enough, the more by reason they'd only one child of their own Little Marie, a girl of the same age." "So they took the boy?" "Yes. He was there for four years, and then I began to feel the want of him and went up to Arendal to see him. But what do you think happened then? Just as I got to Arendal there came a wire saying Gronlund's ship had gone to the bottom, and that was the end of Gronlund!" "And then you married her?" [Pg 8] [Pg 9] "Exactly. What else could I do? Amalie, Mrs. Gronlund that is, wouldn't give up the boy, and I couldn't tear him away by force, could I? Very well, I said, what must be must, man is but dust, and so we got married." "Mrs. Gronlund was not altogether young, I suppose?" "Nothing much to look at, more's the pity, but an excellent housekeeper and a good-hearted soul." "And so it turned out happily after all?" "Ay, that it did, but it didn't last long, worse luck. Amalie still kept longing for her Gronlund, and she got kidney disease and went off to join him—and there I was left once again all on my own, and this time with Maggie's boy and Amalie's girl." "But you were glad to have the children, surely?" "Well, yes, at times. But I can't help calling to mind the words of the prophet, Children are a blessing of the Lord, but a trial and a tribulation to man. It's true, it's true.... Well, William was going in for engineering, you see, and he was away in Germany at his studies—studying how to spend money, as far as I could see, with a crowd of mighty intelligent artist people he'd got in with. And what do you suppose he's doing now?" Betty was working at her books again, writing away with all her might in the big ledger, while Holm went on with his story. "He wants to be a painter—an artist, you'd say, and daubs away great slabs of picture stuff as big as this floor—but Lord save and help us, I wouldn't have the messy things hung up here. I told him he'd much better go into the shop and get an honest living in a decent fashion like his father before him—but no! Too common, if you please, too materialistic. And that's bad enough, but there's worse to it yet. Would you believe it, Miss Betty, he and those artist friends of his have turned Marie's head the same wry fashion, and make her believe she's cut out for an artistic career herself—a born opera singer, they say; and now she carols away up there till people think there's a dentist in the house. Oh, it's the deuce of a mess, I do assure you!" Betty looked up from her book. "You must have the gift of good humour, Mr. Holm." "Well, I hope so, I'm sure. Shouldn't like to be one of your doleful sort." "A kind and hard-working man you've always been, I'm sure. A perfect model of a man." "Perfect model—me? Lord preserve us, I wouldn't be that for worlds. Can't imagine anything more uninteresting than the perfect model type. No—I've just tried all along to be an ordinary decent man, that finds life one of the best things going. And when things happened to turn particularly nasty—no money, no credit, and that sort of thing—why, I'd just say to myself, 'Come along, my lad, only get to grips with it, and you'll pull through all right.' And then I could always console myself with the thought that when things were looking black, they couldn't get much blacker, so they'd have to brighten up before long." "Yes, it takes sorrows as well as joys to make a life." "That's true. But we make them both for ourselves mostly. If you only knew what fun I've got out of life at times; have to hammer out a bit of something lively now and then, you know! Look at us now, for instance, just sitting here talking. Isn't that heaps better than sitting solemnly like two mummies on their blessed pyramids?" And he swung round on his high stool till the screw creaked again. "Yes, indeed, it's very nice, I'm sure." Betty began putting her books away, Holm walking up and down meanwhile with short, rapid steps. Upstairs, someone was singing to the piano. "Nice sort of evening we're going to have, by the look of things. House full of blessed amateurs with fiddles and tambourines. Serve them right if they were packed off to a reformatory, the whole——" "Oh, but surely, Mr. Holm, you needn't be so hard on them. Young people must have a little entertainment now and then—especially when they've a father who can afford it," she added a little wistfully. "Afford it—h'm. As to that ... if they keep on the way they're going now, I'm not sure I shan't have to give them a bit of a lesson...." He crossed over to the desk, and, spreading out his elbows, looked quizzically at Betty. "What do you think now—is Knut G. Holm too old to marry again?" "Really, I'm sure I couldn't say," answered the girl, with a merry laugh. And, slipping past him, she took her jacket and hat. "Good-night, Mr. Holm." "Good-night, Miss Betty. I hope I haven't kept you too long with all my talk, but it's such a comfort to feel that there's one place in the house where there's somebody sensible to talk to." He stood for some time looking after her. [Pg 10] [Pg 11] [Pg 12] "Not bad—not bad at all. Nice figure—trifle over slender in the upper works, perhaps; looks a bit worried at times; finds it hard to make ends meet, perhaps, poor thing. H'm. But she's a good worker, and that's a fact. Yes, I think this arrangement was a good idea." Garner came in with the cash-box. "We've shut up outside, Mr. Holm. Was there anything more you wanted this evening?" "No—no thanks. H'm, I say, that row and goings on upstairs, can you hear it out in the shop?" "About the same as in here. But it's really beautiful music, Mr. Holm. I slipped out into the passage upstairs a little while back, and they were singing a quartette, but Miss Marie was taking the bass, and going so hard I'm sure they could hear her right up at the fire station." "I've no doubt they could, Garner. But I'll give them music of another sort, and then—we'll see!" He flung the cash-box into the safe with a clang, and Garner judged it best to disappear without delay. Outside in the shop he confided to Clasen that the old man was in a roaring paddy about the music upstairs; and the pair of them fell to speculating as to what would happen when he came up. "Oh, nothing," said Clasen. "Those youngsters they always manage to get round him in the end." "Might get sick of the whole business and give up the shop—or make it over to us, what?" added Garner, "as his successors," and he waxed enthusiastic over the idea as they strolled along to Syversen's Hotel for a little extra in the way of supper. Holm was walking up and down by himself in the office, while the music upstairs went on, until the globe on the safe rattled with the sound. He was in a thoroughly bad temper for once. "There! Just as everything was going nicely—and a balance-sheet worth framing! Ha-ha! and only the other day that miserable worm of a bank manager, Hermansen, wouldn't take my paper for £400. Lord, but I'd like to show that fellow one day; make him understand he was a trifle out in his reckoning with the firm of Knut G. Holm. Do a neat little deal to the tune of a few thousand, cash down— something to make him scratch his silly pate. I can just imagine him saying to himself: 'Remarkable man that Knut Holm. Never really had much faith in him before, but now....' Yes, that's what he said a few years back, I remember; hadn't much faith in the business. Well, I must say, things were looking pretty bad at that time. But I'd always reckoned on William's coming into the business; new style, Holm and Son. And now there's an end of all that. No, it doesn't pay to go building castles in the air; it's just card houses that come tumbling down with a crash. Here have I been toiling and moiling all these years, morning till night, building up the business step by step to what it is now. Had to knuckle to that swine of a Hermansen ugh—ugrh—isch! Lying awake at night trying to work out some way of getting over to-morrow, with the bills falling due—and now there's that pack of wastrels sitting up there. 'Poor old man'—that's their style —'quite a decent old chap in many ways, no doubt, but no idea of culture, no sense of lofty ideals; spent his life standing behind a counter and that's about all he's fit for.' Oh, I know the tune when they get on that topic! I've marked it often enough when I'm with them and their precious friends. They'll eat and drink at my expense, and then slap me on the shoulder in their superior way, thinking all the time I'm just an old drudge of a cab horse, and lucky to have the chance of encouraging real Art! Oh, I'll talk to them! It'll be a real treat to give them a proper lesson for once. They shall have it this evening. So on, old boy!" When Holm walked into the big drawing-room upstairs he was greeted with acclamation. "Hurrah for Mæcenas! hurrah for the patron of Art! Hurrah!" "Here, Frantz, you're a poet; get up and make a speech in honour of my noble sire." Frantz Pettersen, a podgy little man with a big fair moustache, lifted his glass. "Friends and brothers in Art, in the eternal realm of beauty! the halls wherein we live and move are bright and lofty, it is true, and our outlook is wide, unbounded. But let us not therefore forget the simple home of our youthful days, though it be never as poor and dry." "Dry—what do you mean? It's not dry here, I hope?" "My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my friend, this noble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us like a vision from another world—a visitor from the lower regions, so to speak (Hear!)—him we acclaim, by all the gods of ancient myth, by the deities of the upper and the nether world—steady, boys—not to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me see). 'My father was a——' something or other. Anyhow, never mind. To come to the point, we, er—raise our glasses now in honour of this revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. Skaal!" The speech was received with general acclamation. Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could hardly open the campaign at such a moment with [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] a sermon; mechanically he took the glass offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his lips than he asked in astonishment: "When—where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping for my jubilee in the business— all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I must say!" He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief. "These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and patron——" began Frantz sententiously. "Oh, stop that nonsense, do," growled Holm. And, snatching up a bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining- room and hid it behind the sofa. "Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are you?" whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck. "I'm not bad-tempered—I'm angry." "Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?" Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to stay up with them? "Shall I sing to you, papa?" "Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not." "But what's the matter? What's it all about?" "What's the matter—good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that enough?" "Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use. You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur of the moment; it was simply lovely." She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the others were still in the drawing-room. "Lovely, was it, little one?" said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice. "Yes, papa—oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer—there, you can see, the tall thin man in glasses—he said I had a beautiful voice—beautiful!" "Don't you believe it, my child." "What—when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy—and now you come and...." She stood up and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Just then William came in. "Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?" "Papa—papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said—that I'd a beautiful voice. Ugh—it's always like that at home—it's miserable." She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her face in her hands. "Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go out into the world with." And William stalked off in dudgeon. Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh, these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now. And Marie—he was always helpless where she was concerned. He was sorry now he had not brought her up differently. But he had never said an unkind word to her—how could he, to a sweet little thing like that? Only last year she had nursed him herself for three weeks, when he was at death's door with inflammation of the lungs; that girl, that girl! He went over to the sofa and put his arms round her. "There, there, little one, it's not so bad as all that." "Hu—hu—hu—I didn't know—I didn't know about the old Madeira. It was me—hu—hu—that brought it up." "Well, well, never mind about the Madeira, child. We can get some more; only don't cry now." She turned towards him. "Then you're not angry with me any more, papa?" "No, no, child. There—now go in and enjoy yourself again." "Oh, but it's so horrid, papa—I'm sure the others must have noticed us." Just then William came in and reported that the scene had made a painful impression on the guests; Strom, the composer, and Berg, the sculptor, were for going off at once, and were only with difficulty persuaded to stay. [Pg 17] [Pg 18] [Pg 19] Holm did not know what to say to this; the transition from accuser to accused was too sudden. "Couldn't you make us some punch, father; it would sort of set things right again if you were to come marching in yourself with a big bowl of punch." "Punch? H'm—well—I could, of course, but then ..." "Oh yes, that lovely punch, papa, you know, with champagne and hock and curaçao in—and all the rest of it." "Well, I suppose I must. Now that I have once got into all this—this artist business, why ..." And off he went for the key of the cellar. No sooner was he out of the room than William burst out laughing. "Oh, Marie, you are the most irresistible little devil that ever lived." And he waltzed her round and round. "Well, it wanted some doing to-day, William, I can tell you. I was half afraid I shouldn't manage it after all. As it was, I had to cry before he'd come round." "First-rate. Woman's tears are the finest weapon ever invented—and punch on top of all—bravo! Come along, we must go and prepare the rest of the band for what's coming." Out in the kitchen, Holm was busy over a punch bowl, solemnly stirring the brew and dropping in slices of lemon one by one. "I am an old fool, I know, to let them get round me as they do. H'm. And the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. We shall have to come to a proper understanding some time; it can't go on like this...." "Papa, are you nearly ready?" "Coming, coming, dear, in a minute. Open the door, there's a good girl." The entry of the host with a bowl of punch was the signal for a general demonstration of delight. Frantz Pettersen promptly sat down at the piano and started off, the rest of the party accompanying with anything they could lay hands on. One had a pair of fire tongs, one beat a brass tray, one rang a couple of glasses against each other, and so on. The words were something like this: "Our host he is a lasting joy, A perfect Pa for girl and boy, A perfect Pa, hurray, hurrah, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo! He stands with head so meekly bowed, Withal a man of whom we're proud, We're proud of you, hurrah, hurroo, Hurrah, hurrip, hurray! All honour to the grocery trade Whereby his fortune it was made, And a nice one too, hurrah, hurroo, Hurrah, hurrip, hurray! It must have been a decent pile For his cellar's stocked in splendid style, Put it away, hurrah, hurray, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo! Though somebody must have made, we fear, a Sad mistake with that Madeira, Maderiah, hurray, hurrah, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo! But now he casts all care away And gladly joins our circle gay. Our circle gay, hurrah, hurray, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo! The flowing bowl he brings us here, So drink his health with a hearty cheer, Hip, hip, hurrah, hurrip, Hurrah, hurrip, hurra-a-ay!" [Pg 20] [Pg 21] Holm did not know whether to laugh or cry at this exhibition, but chose the former; after all, it might be worth while to see how far they would go. He made speech after speech, and the company shouted in delight. Graarud, the literary critic of the People's Guardian, declared that Knut Holm was a credit to the merchant citizens of his country, and as fine a specimen of the type as was to be found. Listad, another literary man, who edited a paper himself, was making love to Marie, but with little apparent success. He was a cadaverous-looking personage, but an idealist, and earnest in the cause of universal peace. The speeches grew more and more exalted in tone as the evening went on. Pettersen invited the company to drink to the "coming dawn of Art in the land—a dawn that would soon appear when once the daughter of the house raised her melodious voice to ring o'er hill and dale." This was too much for Holm; he slipped into the hall and, putting on an overcoat, went out to get some fresh air. It was a fine, starlight, frosty night, the river flowed broad and smooth and dark between the piers, the gas lamps on either side shedding long streaks of light across the silent water. He swung round the corner, but—heavens, who was that sitting so quietly on the steps in front of the shop? He went up, and found a twelve-year-old boy leaning against the wall. "Why, little man, what's the matter? What are you sitting out here for in the cold?" The lad rose hurriedly to his feet and made as if to run away. "No, here, wait a bit, son; there's nothing to be afraid of." Holm took the boy's hand, and looked into a pale childish face with deep dark eyes, and framed in a tangle of fair hair. "I was only listening," he sobbed.... "The music upstairs there...." "You're fond of music, then?" "Yes; I always go out in the evening, when nobody can see, and sit outside where I know there's somebody that plays. And Holm's up there, they've got the loveliest piano." "Would you like to learn to play yourself?" The boy looked up at him in astonishment. "Me?" "Yes, you. If you're so fond of music, wouldn't you like to learn to play?" "I've got to help mother at home, because father's dead. And when I'm big enough I'm going to be a sailor. Please, I must go home now." "Mother getting anxious about you, eh?" "No, she knows where I go of an evening; she doesn't mind." "Well, what's your name, anyhow?" "Hans Martinsen." "Here you are, then, Hans, here's two shillings for you." "Oh, er—that for me! I could go to heaps of concerts.... Thank you ever so much." He clasped the outstretched hand in both his little fists, and looked up with beaming eyes. "And now look here, little Hans. At eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you come round and ask for me. Here in the shop." "But, are you—are you Mr. Holm, then?" He loosed the hand. "Well, and what then? That's nothing to be afraid of, is it, little Hans? But now, listen to me. I want you to come round here to-morrow morning, as I said. And perhaps then we'll have some real nice music for you. And you can bring your mother too if you like." "Music—to-morrow—oh, that will be lovely. And won't mother be pleased!" "And now run along home, like a good boy, and get warm. You've been sitting here in the cold too long already. Good- night." "Good-night, good-night!" Holm watched the little figure hurrying with swift little legs across the bridge, till it disappeared into the dark on the farther side. [Pg 22] [Pg 23] He stood for some time deep in thought. The dawn of Art—what was it Pettersen had said? What if he, Holm, the despised materialist, were to be the first to discover the dawn here! It was a strange coincidence, anyway. "And such strange, deep eyes the little fellow had; it went to my heart when his little hands took hold of mine.... Ay, little lad, you're one of God's flowers, I can see. And you shan't be left to perish of cold in this world as long as my name's Knut Holm." III BRAMSEN On the morning after the party, Holm sent down for Paal Abrahamsen or "Bramsen" as he was generally called. Holm and Bramsen had known each other from childhood; they had gone to the same poor school, and had grown up together. After their confirmation, Bramsen had gone to sea, while Holm had got a place in a shop, and commenced his mercantile career. But he never forgot his old friend, and when in course of time he had established a business of his own, he made Bramsen his warehouseman and clerk on the quay, where he now held a position of trust as Holm's right-hand man. He was a short, bandy-legged man, with a humorous face set in a frame of shaggy whiskers, and a remarkably mobile play of feature. Agile as a cat, he could walk on his hands as easily as others on their feet, and, despite his fifty-five years, he turned out regularly on Contrition Day to compete with the boys for prizes in the park; and he was a hard man to beat! "Paal he can never be serious," complained Andrine, his wife, who was something of a melancholy character herself, and constantly endeavouring to drag him along to various meetings and assemblies which Paal as regularly evaded on some pretext or other. Holm's relations with his old comrade and subordinate were of a curious character. Down at the quay, when they were alone, they addressed each other in familiar terms, as equals; but in public, Bramsen was always the respectful employee, observing all formalities towards his master. When the message came down from the office that Mr. Holm would be coming down to the waterside at 7.30 in the morning to see him, Bramsen turned thoughtful. They had held a similar conference once, some years before, when the firm of Knut G. Holm looked like going to ruin —Heaven send it was not something of the same sort now! Holm looked irritable and out of sorts. "Bramsen," he said, "I'm sick and tired of the whole blessed business." Bramsen scratched his chin meditatively, and laid his head on one side. "H'm," he observed after a pause. "More trouble with that there guinea-pig up at the bank, fussing about bills and that sort?" "No, no, nothing to do with that. We're all right as far as money goes." "All right, eh? But you're put out about something, that's plain to see. Liver out of order, perhaps?" "Oh no!" "Why, then, there's nothing else that I can see." "It's those wretched youngsters of mine." "Ho, is that all?" "All! As if it wasn't enough! I tell you they're going stark mad, the pair of them." "Seems to me they've been that way a long time now." "Oh, it's all very well to talk like that. But really, it's getting beyond all bearing. William's taken it into his head to go and be a painter." "Well, and not a bad thing, either, as long as he does the work decently, with plenty of driers and not too much oil in the mixing. Look at Erlandsen up the river, he's made a good thing out of it." "Oh, not that sort of painting. It's an artist, I mean. Painting pictures and things." "Pictures!" Bramsen looked dumbfounded. "Painting pictures? Well, blister me if I ever heard the like. Wait a bit, though—there was Olsen, the verger; he'd a boy, I remember, a slip of a fellow with gold spectacles and consumption, he used to mess about with that sort of thing. But he never made a living out of it—didn't live long, anyway." "But that's not the worst of it, Bramsen. There's Marie—she wants to be a singer." Bramsen almost fell off the sugar-box on which he was seated. [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] "Singer—what! Singing for money, d'you mean? Going round with a hat?" "Something very much like it, anyway—only it'll be my money that goes into the hat. What are we to do about it, eh?" "H'm ... Couldn't you pack the boy off to sea? And the young lady—send her to a school to do needlework and such like?" "Oh, what's the good of talking like that? No, my dear man, young people nowadays don't let themselves be sent anywhere that way. There's the pair of them, they simply laugh at us." Holm walked back to the office deep in thought. On his return, he found Hans Martinsen, and Berg, the organist, awaiting him. Bramsen remained seated on his sugar-box and murmured to himself: "Well, it's a nice apple-pie for Knut Holm, that it is. Lord, but they children can be the very devil." A little later, Garner came down to the quay, and found Bramsen still meditating on his box. "What's wrong with the old man to-day, Bramsen? He looks as if he was going in for the deaf-and-dumb school; there's no getting a word out of him." Bramsen sat for quite a while without answering. Then at last he said solemnly: "It's my humble opinion, and that's none so humble after all, that there's a deal of what you might call contrapasts in this here world." "Meaning to say?" "It's plain enough. Folk that's got a retipation, they does all they can to lose it, and they that hasn't, why—there's no understanding them till they've got one." Garner was still in the dark as to whither all this wisdom tended, and began absently slitting up a coffee-sack. "Look you, Garner," Bramsen went on. "It's this way with the women: they've each their station here in life, as by the Lord appointed. Some gets married, and some goes school-teaching, or out in service, and such-like—and all that sort, they stick to their retipation; but the woman that goes about singing for money in a hat, her retipation's like a broken window—it's out and gone to bits and done with." Garner laughed and looked inquiringly at the other. "Now, do you understand, Garner, what's the trouble with Holm?" "Oh, so that's what you're getting at, is it? Miss Holm wants to go on the stage." "Singing, my boy; singing for money, and if so be that was to happen to any daughter of mine, I'd give her a dose of something to make her lose her voice—ay, if it was rat poison, I would." It was a regular thing for Garner and Bramsen to have a comfortable chat down at the waterside, when the old sailor would generally relate some of his experiences at sea. These yarns especially delighted Garner, who came of a peasant stock himself, and knew nothing of the sea or foreign parts until he came to the town. He tried now to open up the subject again. "Ever been in the Arctic, Bramsen?" "Have I? Why, I should think so. I was up that way in '76, on a whaling trip with Svend Foya." It was a habit of Bramsen's at the beginning of a story to make some attempt at a literary style, but he invariably dropped it as he went on. "Dangerous business, isn't it?" "Why, that's as you take it or as you make it. If one of the brutes gets your boat with a flick of his tail, there's an end of you, of course. I remember once we were after a big fellow; had a shot at him and got in just aft of the spout-holes. And then, take my word for it, he led us a dance. Off he went, full-speed ahead, and us full speed astern, but blister me if he didn't win the tug-of-war and sail off with us at nineteen knots, till we were cutting along like a torpedo boat. He wasn't winded, ye see, for his blowpipe was intact, and his gear below-decks sound and ship-shape. But at last we got him fairly run down, and settled him with a straight one through the heart." "A whale's heart must be pretty big?" "Why, yes, he's what you might call a large-hearted beast. About the size of a middling chest o' drawers or a chiffonier." "Rough on a whale, then, if he got heart disease," laughed Garner. "Why, as to that, I suppose it would be in proportion, as you might say. But he's built pretty well to scale in the other parts as well, with his main arteries about as big round as a chimney." [Pg 28] [Pg 29] [Pg 30] "I wonder you didn't go up with Nansen to the Pole." "And what for, I'd like to know? Messing about among a lot of nasty Eskimos; no, thankye, I'd a better use for my time." And Bramsen went on again with his whaling yarns for a spell, until Garner found it was time to get back to the shop. Outside the store shed sat a row of urchins fishing from the edge of the quay. Bramsen was a popular character among the waterside boys; he would chat and fish with them at off-times, or help them in the manufacture of a patent "knock- out" bait, from a recipe of his own, the chief ingredients being flour and spirits. There was always a shout of delight when the small fish appeared at the surface, belly upwards. But to-day the knock-out drops appeared to fail of their effect, whether because the fish had grown used to French brandy, or for some other reason. Bramsen soon left the boys to their own devices, and went back into the shed. Here, to his astonishment, he found Amanda, his daughter and only child, weeping in a corner. Amanda was about fifteen, a lanky slip of a girl, with her hair in a thick plait down her back, twinkling dark brown eyes, and a bright, pleasant face. "Saints and sea-serpents—you here, child? What's amiss now?" "Mother—mother wants us to go to meeting this evening, and you promised we should go to the theatre and see Monkey Tricks, and they say it's the funniest piece." Bramsen grew suddenly thoughtful. What if the child were to go getting ideas into her head, like Miss Holm, and want to go about singing with a hat—h'm, perhaps after all it might be as well to take her to the meeting with Andrine. But the mere suggestion sent Amanda off into a fresh burst of tears. "There, there, child, I'll take you to the theatre, then, but on one condition." Amanda looked up expectantly. "Yes?" "You're never to think of singing for money yourself, or going on the stage, or anything like that. You understand?" The girl had no idea of what was in his mind, and answered mechanically, "No, father—and you'll take me to see Monkey Tricks after all?" "All right! but don't let your mother know, that's all." Amanda was out of the door like an arrow, and hurried home at full speed. That evening she and her father sat up in the gallery, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Bramsen, it must be confessed, had taken the title literally, and waited expectantly all through the piece for the monkey to appear, and was disappointed in consequence, but seeing Amanda so delighted with the play as it was, he said nothing about it. Had he been alone he would have demanded his money back; after all, it was rank swindling to advertise a piece as Monkey Tricks, when there wasn't a monkey. Meanwhile, Andrine had gone to the meeting, and waited patiently for the others to appear—they had promised to come on after. Here, however, she was disappointed, as usual. When the backsliders came home, they found her deploring the vanity of this world, the imperfections of our mortal life, and the weakness of human clay against the powers of evil. Bramsen and Amanda let her go on, as they always did, exchanging glances the while; occasionally, when her back was turned, Bramsen would make the most ludicrous faces, until Amanda had to go out into the kitchen and laugh. Bramsen was fond of his wife; she was indeed so good-hearted and unselfish that no one could help it; while Amanda, for her part, respected her mother as the only one who could keep her in order. And indeed it was needed, "with a father that never so much as thought of punishing the child." Bramsen himself had never been thrashed in his life, except by his comrades as a boy, and had always conscientiously paid back in full. He had had no experience of the chastening rod, and could not conceive that anything of the sort was needed for Amanda. Consequently, the relation between father and daughter was of the nature of an alliance as between friends, and as the years went on, the pair of them were constantly combining forces to outwit Andrine. Bramsen had no idea of the value of money, or its proper use and application, wherefore Andrine had, in course of time, taken over charge of the family finances, and kept the savings-bank book,—a treasure which Bramsen himself was allowed to view on rare occasions, and then only from the outside, its contents being quite literally a closed book to him. Amanda and he would often put their heads together and fall to guessing how much there might be in the book, "taking it roughly like," but the riddle remained unsolved. Every month Bramsen brought home his pay and delivered it dutifully into Andrine's hands; he made no mention, however, of the ten-shilling rise that had been given him, but spent the money on little extras and outings for himself and Amanda, whom he found it hard to refuse at any time. A month before, it had been her great wish to have an album "to write poetry in"; all the other girls in her class had one, [Pg 31] [Pg 32] [Pg 33] and she simply couldn't be the only one without. Bramsen could not understand what pleasure there was to be got out of such an article; much better to get a song book with printed words and have done with it. But Amanda scorned the suggestion, and the album was duly bought. She had got two entries in it already, one from Verger Klemmeken of Strandvik, an old friend of her father's, who wrote in big straggling letters: "Whene'er these humble lines you see, I pray that you'll remember me." and one from Miss Tobiesen, an old lady at the infirmary, who had been engaged seven times, and therefore judged it appropriate to quote: "'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all." Amanda then insisted that her father should contribute something, but Bramsen declared in the first place that the album was much too fine a thing for his clumsy fist, and furthermore, that he couldn't hit on anything to write. Amanda, however, gave him no peace till he consented, and at last, after much effort, the worthy man achieved the following gem: "I, Amanda's only father, Love her very much but rather Fear she causes lots of bother To her wise and loving mother." This elegant composition was unfortunately not appreciated by Amanda, who, to tell the truth, was highly displeased. Fancy writing such a thing in her book—why, the whole class would laugh at her. Bramsen was obliged to scratch it out, but in so doing, scratched a hole in the paper, leaving no alternative but to take out the page altogether, much to Amanda's disgust. Bramsen's highest ambition in life was to be master of a steamboat; not one of the big vessels that go as far as China, say, or Copenhagen—that, he realised, was out of the question, in view of his large contempt for examinations, mate's certificates and book-learning generally. The goal of his desire, the aim of all his dearest dreams, was a tugboat, a smart little devil of a craft with a proper wheel-house amidships and booms and hawsers aft. A grand life it would be, to go fussing about up and down the fjord, meeting old acquaintances among the fishermen and pilots—yo, heave ho, my lads! He had often suggested to Andrine that the contents of the savings-bank book might be devoted to the purchase of a tug, but Andrine would cross herself piously, and urge him to combat all temptation and evil inspirations of the sort. Bramsen could not see anything desperately evil in the idea himself; he found it more depressing to think that he should spend the remainder of his days in the stuffy atmosphere of the warehouse on the quay. Was it reasonable, now, for a man like himself to be planted, like a geranium in a flower-pot, among sugar-boxes, flour-sacks, and store-keeping trash? "Ay, life's a queer old tangle sometimes," murmured Bramsen to himself, "and we've got to make the best of it, I suppose." And he cast a longing glance through the doorway of the shed, at Johnsen, of the tug Rap, steaming down the fjord with his tow. IV HERMANSEN OF THE BANK Hermansen was manager of the local bank. He and Knut Holm had never been friends, and though outwardly their relations were to all seeming amicable enough, the attitude of each toward the other was really one of armed neutrality. The banker was in all things cold, precise and dignified, with a military stiffness of bearing, and devoid...