Part 17
And from all lips, pleadingly, threateningly, a storm of voices rolled to the vault above: “Crucify Him!”
But the monk looked down upon these fluttering, uplifted hands, upon these distorted faces with the dark openings of their screaming mouths, from which the teeth flashed like those of tormented beasts of prey; and in the ecstasy of the moment he extended his arms toward Heaven, and laughed. Then he descended; and his people raised the banners of the fiery rain and their plain, black crosses and pushed out of the church. Once more they marched, singing, across the marketplace, and once more they passed through the mouth of the tower gate.
And the people of Old Bergamo stared after them, as they proceeded down the mountain. The steep, wall-girt road was obscured in the uncertain light of the setting sun, and the procession could be only half seen in the glare. Their huge crosses, swaying in the crowd from side to side, cast sharp, black shadows on the glowing walls of the town.
In the distance a chant could be heard. A banner or two gleamed red from the charred site of the new town, and the pilgrims vanished into the bright plain.
KAREN BY ALEXANDER LANGE KIELLAND
[Illustration]
_Kielland, son of a rich and aristocratic merchant, was born at Stavanger, Norway, in 1849. He studied law in Christiania, but preferred the management of a brick and tile kiln. His appointment as burgomaster of Stavanger in 1891 cut short a brilliant poetical career, and he turned to prose. The autobiographical “Garman and Worse” soon gave the public such a series of Norwegian peasant pictures that he was acclaimed one of the four great Norwegians, with Ibsen, Björnson, and Lie._
_Kielland’s “novelettes,” or short stories, pictures of prince and peasant, are universally acknowledged to be his best work. They are modeled after the French realists, especially Daudet, as may be seen in “Karen.” He is always protesting against the conventional religion and smug optimism of the conservative class. His style, though frequently lacking in force, is graceful in form and full of biting satire and fresh humor, and his subjects are always well chosen and artistically worked out._
[Illustration]
KAREN BY ALEXANDER KIELLAND
Translated by Leonora Teller. Copyright, 1898, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
There was once upon a time in Kraruper Inn a maiden named Karen. She attended to the serving of the guests herself, for the landlady lived among her pots and pans in the kitchen. And many people came to Kraruper Inn--neighbors who collected there when the autumn evenings began to darken and sat in the warm room, and drank unlimited quantities of coffee punch. Travelers and wanderers, too, who came in blue with cold, stamping their feet and calling for something hot, that would enable them to reach the next station.
Karen went about silently, without haste, serving each in his turn. She was small and delicate, only a child, earnest and reserved, and the young fellows did not notice her. But she was very dear to the older customers, to whom a visit to the Inn was an event of importance. She prepared their coffee quickly, and served it seven times hot. When she moved about among the guests with her waiter the burly, coarsely dressed men stood aside and made place for her, and every one looked admiringly after her. Karen had great, gray eyes that took in everything, and seemed to look far, far away, and her eyebrows were arched in surprise and wonder. Strangers thought she did not understand their orders; but Karen heard it all, and made never a mistake. She had a way all her own, whether she gazed off into the distance, or listened, or waited, or dreamed. The west wind blew strong; it threw up long, heavy waves from the west sea. Salt and damp, with froth and foam it threw them on the sands. But when the wind reached Kraruper Inn it had only strength enough left to tear open the stable door, and then that which connected the kitchen with the stable. It burst in, filled the space, swung the lantern that hung from the roof back and forth; tore off the hostler’s cap and rolled it out into the darkness; threw the horses’ blankets over their heads, and finally blew a white hen from her perch into the water trough. The hen squawked frightfully, the hostler swore, the chickens cackled. The kitchen was full of smoke; the horses grew restless and beat sparks of fire from the stones with their hoofs. Even the ducks which were gathered quacking together near the manger to be at hand when the oats were scattered, began to chatter, and through it all the wind roared fearfully. At last two men came out of the inn parlor and, putting their broad backs against the door, pushed it shut, while a shower of sparks rained from their pipes over their dark beards. Having done all the mischief possible the wind fled back over the plain, crossed the great pond, and shook the mail coach that rolled majestically along about half a mile from the inn.
“What terrible haste he always makes to reach Kraruper Inn,” muttered the postilion, Anders, cracking his whip over the smoking horses. For the twentieth time the conductor had let down the window to call to him. At first it had been a friendly invitation to take a coffee punch with him, then little by little the good-nature disappeared. Finally the window went down with a bang, and remarks far from conciliating were showered on driver and horses.
The wind swept low on the ground, and long, mysterious sighs murmured through the heather bushes. The moon was full, but thick clouds obscured its light. Behind Kraruper Inn lay the gloomy moor, covered by black heaps of peat and deep, treacherous holes. And between the heather bushes wound a strip of grass that looked like a path, but it was no path, for it came to a sudden end at the brink of a hole deeper than the others, and filled with water. In the grass a sleek fox crouched and waited, and a hare hopped softly over the plain. The fox could reckon with certainty that the hare would not make a long circuit so late in the evening. He stretched out a cautious nose, and, as he sniffed in the direction of the wind and sought a secure post of observation, he thought how wise foxes always were and how stupid the hares.
Yonder in the inn there was an unusual commotion. A couple of traveling men had ordered roast hare. The landlord had gone to an auction at Thisted, and his wife was used only to the responsibilities of her kitchen. Now it happened unfortunately that the Advocate would speak with the host on business, and because he was not at home the good woman must listen to a long speech and take charge of an important letter, a proceeding that sadly disturbed her composure. A stranger, who was waiting for a bottle of soda water, stood by the stove in greasy sailor clothes. Two fish pedlers had three times ordered brandy for their coffee. The stable boy stood with an empty lantern and waited for a candle, and a tall, rough farmer followed Karen with longing eyes--she owed him change for a crown he had just given her. Karen came and went without haste, without error. One would hardly imagine she could attend to so many things at once. The great eyes and the high arched brows were full of wonder and expectation. The fine little head was held straight and still. If she would make no mistakes she must keep her thoughts collected. Her blue woolen dress was too small for her. The tight neckband wrinkled her flesh just under the hair. “The maiden from Agger has a white skin,” said one fish pedler to the other. They were young people and spoke of Karen as connoisseurs.
Some one stood near the window, and looking at the clock said: “The post is early to-night.” It rattled over the pavement, the doors were thrown open, and the wind blew the smoke from the stove. Karen entered from the kitchen just as the conductor stepped into the door and greeted the company with a hearty “Good evening!” He was a tall, handsome man, with dark eyes, a crisp brown beard framed his face, and curly brown hair covered his small head. His long heavy mantle of beautiful red royal Danish cloth was trimmed with black fur, and hung from his shoulders. The entire light of the two dim paraffin lamps that were suspended from the wall over the table centred itself on this spot of glorious crimson, as if it loved it, and left all the black and gray of the room to grow still grayer and blacker. And the tall figure with the fine, dark curly head, the long folds of the crimson cloak shone like a very marvel of splendor and color.
Karen came in quickly from the kitchen with her waiter. She bent her head so no one could see her face, as she hastened from one guest to the other. She set the roast hare before the fish pedlers, and brought the commercial traveler, who sat in an adjacent room, the bottle of soda water. She gave the anxious farmer a tallow candle, and, slipping to the stranger by the stove, she thrust the change from the crown in his hand.
The hostess was in the deepest despair. Everything had gone wrong in her kitchen. She had lost the advocate’s letter, and boundless confusion filled the inn. The traveler pounded the table with the bell loudly; the fish pedlers laughed until they were half dead over the hares spread before them; the bewildered farmer tapped the landlady on the shoulder with the candle and puffed himself out like a turkey cock.
And amid all this maddening confusion Karen had disappeared. The postilion Anders sat on the driver’s seat; the stable boy stood ready to open the door; the travelers in the mail coach were impatient and so were the horses, although they had nothing pleasant to look forward to, and the wind still rattled and whistled through the stable. At last the conductor, whom they all awaited, came. He carried his mantle over his arm as he stepped into the coach and excused his delay with a few curt words. He laughed to himself as he drew his cloak about him and took his seat. The door was closed; the mail coach rolled on. Anders let the horses trot gently, now there was no more need of haste. From time to time he glanced slyly at the conductor, who still laughed to himself, while the wind ruffled his hair. The postilion laughed, too. He suspected something. The wind followed the coach to a turn in the road, then threw itself again over the plain and sighed mysteriously through the heather bushes.
The fox lay at his post. All was ready now, the hare must soon come. Yonder at the inn harmony was restored, the anxious farmer was relieved of his candle, and received his change, and the travelers consumed their hare. The hostess complained a little, but she did not blame Karen. No one in all the world had ever scolded Karen. Quietly, unconsciously she hastened from one to the other, and the serene satisfaction that always followed her footsteps spread through the cozy half-dark inn parlor.
The two fish peddlers that had ordered a second cup of cognac and coffee, to follow the first, were specially pleased with her. A soft pink flush rested on her pale cheek, the glimmer of a smile on her lip, and once when she raised her eyes their light was dazzling. When she felt the men’s eyes followed her she went into the next room where the travelers sat, pretending that she wanted some teaspoons from the cupboard. “Did you notice the conductor?” asked one of them.
“No; not till he went out. He left very quickly,” answered the other with his mouth full of roast hare.
“A devilish handsome fellow. I attended his wedding.”
“So, is he married?”
“Yes, indeed; his wife is the daughter of the landlord at Ulstrup, and I got there the night of the wedding. That was a jolly time, I assure you. They have two children, I believe.”
Karen dropped the teaspoons and went out. She heard nothing that was called after her from the inn. She went across the court to her room and began mechanically to make her bed. Her eyes stared into the darkness. She pressed her hands to her head, to her breast; she groaned. She could comprehend nothing--nothing! She heard the landlady’s complaining voice: “Karen, dear Karen!” it called. She ran out across the court, behind the inn, across the moor.
The winding strip of grass glimmered in the half-light as if it were a path, but it was no path. No one dared to follow it, for it led abruptly to the brink of the great pond. The hare quickened his steps. He heard a rustling. He gave long jumps as if he were mad to escape; not knowing what he feared, he fled over the plain. The fox stretched out his sharp nose and stared in surprise at the hare. He had heard nothing. According to the instincts of his kind he had crouched there in the hollow--he was conscious of no error. He could not understand the action of the hare. He stood long with outstretched head and slinking body. His bushy tail was hid by the heather bushes, and he began to wonder if foxes were getting duller or hares wiser. But when the west wind had run its long course it turned into a north wind, and then into an east wind, and then into the south wind, and at last came back over the sea as the west wind again, threw itself upon the dunes, and long, mysterious sighs moaned through the heather bushes.
But there were wanting in Kraruper Inn two wondering gray eyes, a little blue woolen gown that had grown too small, and the hostess complained more than ever. She could not understand it at all. No one could understand it, save the postilion Anders, and one other!
LOVE AND BREAD BY JEAN AUGUST STRINDBERG
[Illustration]
_Strindberg, renovator of the literary language of Sweden, one of the most conspicuous, prolific, and versatile of the newer realists of that country, was born in 1849, at Stockholm. In spite of early struggles he obtained an education at Upsala, and eventually the post of Orientalist at the Royal Library._
_It was his “Red Room,” written in 1879, that is supposed to have introduced naturalism into Swedish literature; at any rate, it helped the author to his first literary honors. It is a picture of Stockholm bohemianism, a satire on all artistic hypocrisy, as his later book, “The New Kingdom,” was a satire on social hypocrisy that raised a scandal which drove him abroad for a while._
_Strindberg has formulated no philosophy, but he is thought to be an atheist, a misogynist, and has more than once proved himself an enemy to all tyranny of the majority. His books breathe violence, sarcasm, melancholy. And as such Strindberg appears in “Love and Bread.”_
[Illustration]
LOVE AND BREAD BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
When young Gustaf Falk, the assistant councilor, made his ceremonial proposal for Louise’s hand to her father, the old gentleman’s first question was: “How much are you earning?”
“Not more than a hundred kroner[4] a month. But Louise--”
“Never mind the rest,” interrupted Falk’s prospective father-in-law; “you don’t earn enough.”
“Oh, but Louise and I love each other so dearly! We are so sure of one another.”
“Very likely. However, let me ask you: is twelve hundred a year the sum total of your resources?”
“We first became acquainted at Lidingö.”
“Do you make anything beside your government salary?” persisted Louise’s parent.
“Well, yes, I think we shall have sufficient. And then, you see, our mutual affection--”
“Yes, exactly; but let’s have a few figures.”
“Oh,” said the enthusiastic suitor, “I can get enough by doing extra work!”
“What sort of work? And how much?”
“I can give lessons in French, and also translate. And then I can get some proofreading.”
“How much translation?” queried the elder, pencil in hand.
“I can’t say exactly, but at present I am translating a French book at the rate of ten kroner per folio.”
“How many folios are there altogether?”
“About a couple of dozen, I should say.”
“Very well. Put this at two hundred and fifty kroner. Now, how much else?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a little uncertain.”
“What, you are not certain, and you intend to marry? You seem to have queer notions of marriage, young man! Do you realize that there will be children, and that you will have to feed and clothe them, and bring them up?”
“But,” objected Falk, “the children may not come so very soon. And we love each other so dearly, that--”
“That the arrival of children may be prophesied quite safely.” Then, relenting, Louise’s father went on:
“I suppose you are both set on marrying, and I don’t doubt but what you are really fond of each other. So it seems as though I should have to give my consent after all. Only make good use of the time that you are engaged to Louise by trying to increase your income.”
Young Falk flushed with joy at this sanction, and demonstratively kissed the old man’s hand. Heavens, how happy he was--and his Louise, too! How proud they felt the first time they went out walking together arm in arm, and how everybody noticed the radiant happiness of the engaged couple!
In the evenings he came to see her, bringing with him the proof-sheets he had undertaken to correct. This made a good impression on papa, and earned the industrious young man a kiss from his betrothed. But one evening they went to the theatre for a change, and drove home in a cab, the cost of that evening’s entertainment amounting to ten kroner. Then, on a few other evenings, instead of giving the lessons, he called at the young lady’s house to take her for a little walk.
As the day set for the wedding drew near, they had to think about making the necessary purchases to furnish their flat. They bought two handsome beds of real walnut, with substantial spring mattresses and soft eiderdown quilts. Louise must have a blue quilt, as her hair was blond. They, of course, also paid a visit to the house-furnishers’, where they selected a lamp with a red shade, a pretty porcelain statuette of Venus, a complete table service with knives, forks, and fine glassware. In picking out the kitchen utensils they were benefited by mama’s advice and aid. It was a busy time for the assistant councilor--rushing about to find a house, looking after the workmen, seeing that all the furniture was got together, writing out checks, and what not.
Meanwhile it was perfectly natural that Gustaf could earn nothing extra. But when they were once married he would easily make it up. They intended to be most economical--only a couple of rooms to start with. Anyhow, you could furnish a small apartment better than a large one. So they took a first-floor apartment at six hundred kroner, consisting of two rooms, kitchen, and larder. At first Louise said she would prefer three rooms on the top landing. But what did it matter, after all, so long as they sincerely loved each other?
At last the rooms were furnished. The sleeping chamber was like a small sanctuary, the beds standing side by side like chariots taking their course along life’s journey. The blue quilts, the snowy sheets, and the pillow-spreads embroidered with the young people’s initials amorously intertwined, all had a bright and cheerful appearance. There was a tall, elegant screen for the use of Louise, whose piano--costing twelve hundred kroner--stood in the other chamber, which served as sitting-room, dining-room, and study, in one. Here, too, stood a large walnut writing-desk and dining-table, with chairs to match; a large gilt-framed mirror, a sofa, and a bookcase added to the general air of comfort and coziness.
The marriage ceremony took place on a Saturday night, and late on Sunday morning the happy young couple was still asleep. Gustaf rose first. Although the bright light of day was peering in through the shutters, he did not open them, but lit the red-shaded lamp, which threw a mysterious rosy glow over the porcelain Venus. The pretty young wife lay there languid and content; she had slept well, and had not been awakened--as it was Sunday--by the rumbling of early market wagons. Now the church bells were ringing joyfully, as if to celebrate the creation of man and woman.
Louise turned over, while Gustaf retired behind the screen to put on a few things. He went out into the kitchen to order lunch. How dazzlingly the new copper and tin utensils gleamed and glistened! And all was his own--his and hers. He told the cook to go to the neighboring restaurant, and request that the lunch be sent in. The proprietor knew about it; he had received full instructions the day before. All he needed now was a reminder that the moment had come.
The bridegroom thereupon returns to the bedchamber and taps softly: “May I come in?”
A little scream is heard. Then: “No, dearest; just wait a minute!”
Gustaf lays the table himself. By the time the lunch arrives from the restaurant, the new plates and cutlery and glasses are set out on the fresh, white linen cloth. The bridal bouquet lies beside Louise’s place. As she enters the room in her embroidered morning wrapper, she is greeted by the sunbeams. She still feels a little tired, so he makes her take an armchair, and wheels it to the table. A drop or two of liqueur enlivens her; a mouthful of caviar stimulates her appetite. Fancy what mama would say if she saw her daughter drinking spirits! But that’s the advantage of being married, you know; then you can do whatever you please.
The young husband waits most attentively upon his fair bride. What a pleasure, too! Of course he has had good luncheons before, in his bachelor days; but what comfort or satisfaction had he ever derived from them? None. Thus he reflects while consuming a plate of oysters and a glass of beer. What numbskulls they are, those bachelors, not to marry! And how selfish! Why, there ought to be a tax on them, as on dogs. Louise is not quite so severe, urging gently and sweetly that perhaps the poor fellows who elect the single state are subjects of pity. No doubt if they could afford to marry, they would--she thinks. Gustaf feels a slight pang at his heart. Surely happiness is not to be measured by money. No, no; but, but--Well, never mind, there will soon be lots of work, and then everything will run smoothly. For the present there is this delicious roast partridge with cranberry sauce to be considered, and the Burgundy. These luxuries, together with some fine artichokes, cause the young wife a moment’s alarm, and she timidly asks Gustaf if they can afford living on such a scale. But Gustaf pours more wine into the glass of his little Louise, reassuring her and softening those groundless fears. “One day is not every day,” he says; “and people ought to enjoy life when they can. Ah, how beautiful life is!”