Part 15

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

[Illustration]

_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._

[Illustration]

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.