Norse Tales and Sketches by Alexander Lange Kielland
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6 NORSE TALES AND SKETCHES
by
ALEXANDER L. KIELLAND
Translated by R. L. Cassie
London
1896
INTRODUCTION
Encouraged by the great and growing popularity of Scandinavian
literature in this country, I venture to submit to public judgment this
humble essay towards an English presentment of some of the charming
novelettes of Alexander L. Kielland, a writer who takes rank among the
foremost exponents of modern Norse thought. Although these short stories
do not represent the full fruition of the author's genius, they yet
convey a fairly accurate conception of his literary personality, and of
the bold realistic tendency which is so strikingly developed in his
longer novels.
Kielland's style is polished, lucid, and incisive. He does not waste
words or revel in bombastic diffuseness. Every phrase of his narrative
is a definite contribution towards the vivification of his realistic
effects. His concise, laconic periods are pregnant with deep meaning,
and instinct with that indefinable Norse essence which almost eludes the
translator--that vague something which specially lends itself to the
treatment of weird or pathetic situations.
In his pre-eminence as a satirist, Kielland resembles Thackeray. His
satire, although keen, is always wholesome, genial, and good-humoured.
Kielland's longer novels are masterly delineations of Norwegian
provincial life and character, and his vivid individualization of his
native town of Stavanger finds few parallels in fiction.
In conclusion, the writer hopes that this modest publication may help to
draw the attention of the cultured British public to another of the
great literary figures of the North.
R.L.C.
CONTENTS.
A SIESTA
A MONKEY
A TALE OF THE SEA
A DINNER
TROFAST
KAREN
MY SISTER'S JOURNEY TO MODUM
LETTERS FROM MASTER-PILOT SEEHUS
OLD DANCES
AUTUMN
A SIESTA.
In an elegant suite of chambers in the Rue Castiglione sat a merry party
at dessert.
Senhor Jose Francisco de Silvis was a short-legged, dark-complexioned
Portuguese, one of those who usually come from Brazil with incredible
wealth, live incredible lives in Paris, and, above all, become notorious
by making the most incredible acquaintances.
In that little company scarcely anybody, except those who had come in
pairs, knew his neighbour. And the host himself knew his guests only
through casual meetings at balls, _tables d' hote_, or in the street.
Senhor de Silvis laughed much, and talked loudly of his success in life,
as is the habit of rich foreigners; and as he could not reach up to the
level of the Jockey Club, he gathered the best company he could find.
When he met anyone, he immediately asked for the address, and sent next
day an invitation to a little dinner. He spoke all languages, even
German, and one could see by his face that he was not a little proud
when he called over the table: Mein lieber Herr Doctor! Wie geht's
Ihnen?'
There was actually a live German doctor among this merry party. He had
an overgrown light-red beard, and that Sedan smile which invariably
accompanies the Germans in Paris.
The temperature of the conversation rose with the champagne; the sounds
of fluent and broken French were mingled with those of Spanish and
Portuguese. The ladies lay back in their chairs and laughed. The guests
already knew each other well enough not to be reserved or constrained.
Jokes and _bons-mots_ passed over the table, and from mouth to mouth.
'Der liebe Doctor' alone engaged in a serious discussion with the
gentleman next to him--a French journalist with a red ribbon in his
buttonhole.
And there was one more who was not drawn into the general merriment. He
sat on the right of Mademoiselle Adele, while on the left was her new
lover, the corpulent Anatole, who had surfeited himself on truffles.
During dinner Mademoiselle Adele had endeavoured, by many innocent
little arts, to infuse some life into her right-hand neighbour. However,
he remained very quiet, answering her courteously, but briefly, and in
an undertone.
At first she thought he was a Pole--one of those very tiresome specimens
who wander about and pretend to be outlaws. However, she soon perceived
that she had made a mistake, and this piqued Mademoiselle Adele. For one
of her many specialties was the ability to immediately 'assort' all the
foreigners with whom she mingled, and she used to declare that she could
guess a man's nationality as soon as she had spoken ten words with him.
But this taciturn stranger caused her much perplexed cogitation. If he
had only been fair-haired, she would at once have set him down as an
Englishman, for he talked like one. But he had dark hair, a thick black
moustache, and a nice little figure. His fingers were remarkably long,
and he had a peculiar way of trifling with his bread and playing with
his dessert-fork.
'He is a musician,' whispered Mademoiselle Adele to her stout friend.
'Ah!' replied Monsieur Anatole. 'I am afraid I have eaten too many
truffles.'
Mademoiselle Adele whispered in his ear some words of good counsel, upon
which he laughed and looked very affectionate.
However, she could not relinquish her hold of the interesting foreigner.
After she had coaxed him to drink several glasses of champagne, he
became livelier, and talked more.
'Ah!' cried she suddenly; 'I hear it in your speech. You are an
Englishman!'
The stranger grew quite red in the face, and answered quickly, 'No,
madame.'
Mademoiselle Adele laughed. 'I beg your pardon. I know that Americans
feel angry when they are taken for Englishmen.'
'Neither am I an American,' replied the stranger.
This was too much for Mademoiselle Adele. She bent over her plate and
looked sulky, for she saw that Mademoiselle Louison opposite was
enjoying her defeat.
The foreign gentleman understood the situation, and added, half aloud:
'I am an Irishman, madame.'
'Ah!' said Mademoiselle Adele, with a grateful smile, for she was easily
reconciled.
'Anatole! Irishman--what is that?' she asked in a whisper.
'The poor of England,' he whispered back.
'Indeed!'
Adele elevated her eyebrows, and cast a shrinking, timid glance at the
stranger. She had suddenly lost much of her interest in him.
De Silvis's dinners were excellent. The party had sat long at table, and
when Monsieur Anatole thought of the oysters with which the feast had
begun, they appeared to him like a beautiful dream. On the contrary, he
had a somewhat too lively recollection of the truffles.
Dinner was over; hands were reaching out for glasses, or trifling with
fruit or biscuits.
That sentimental blonde, Mademoiselle Louison, fell into meditation over
a grape that she had dropped in her champagne glass. Tiny bright
air-bubbles gathered all round the coating of the fruit, and when it was
quite covered with these shining white pearls, they lifted the heavy
grape up through the wine to the surface.
'Look!' said Mademoiselle Louison, turning her large, swimming eyes upon
the journalist, 'look, white angels are bearing a sinner to heaven!'
'Ah! _charmant_, mademoiselle! What a sublime thought!' exclaimed the
journalist, enraptured.
Mademoiselle Louison's sublime thought passed round the table, and was
much admired. Only the frivolous Adele whispered to her obese admirer,
'It would take a good many angels to bear you, Anatole.'
Meanwhile the journalist seized the opportunity; he knew how to rivet
the general attention. Besides, he was glad to escape from a tiresome
political controversy with the German; and, as he wore a red ribbon and
affected the superior journalistic tone, everybody listened to him.
He explained how small forces, when united, can lift great burdens; and
then he entered upon the topic of the day--the magnificent collections
made by the press for the sufferers by the floods in Spain, and for the
poor of Paris. Concerning this he had much to relate, and every moment
he said 'we,' alluding to the press. He talked himself quite warm about
'these millions, that we, with such great self-sacrifice, have raised.'
But each of the others had his own story to tell. Numberless little
touches of nobility--all savouring of self-denial--came to light from
amidst these days of luxury and pleasure.
Mademoiselle Louison's best friend--an insignificant little lady who sat
at the foot of the table--told, in spite, of Louison's protest, how the
latter had taken three poor seamstresses up to her own rooms, and had
them sew the whole of the night before the _fete_ in the hippodrome. She
had given the poor girls coffee and food, besides payment.
Mademoiselle Louison suddenly became an important personage at table,
and the journalist began to show her marked attention.
The many pretty instances of philanthropy, and Louison's swimming eyes,
put the whole company into a quiet, tranquil, benevolent frame of mind,
eminently in keeping with the weariness induced by the exertions of the
feast. And this comfortable feeling rose yet a few degrees higher after
the guests were settled in soft easy-chairs in the cool drawing-room.
There was no other light than the fire in the grate. Its red glimmer
crept over the English carpet and up the gold borders in the tapestry;
it shone upon a gilt picture-frame, on the piano that stood opposite,
and, here and there, on a face further away in the gloom. Nothing else
was visible except the red ends of cigars and cigarettes.
The conversation died away. The silence was broken only by an occasional
whisper or the sound of a coffee-cup being put aside; each seemed
disposed to enjoy, undisturbed, his genial mood and the quiet gladness
of digestion. Even Monsieur Anatole forgot his truffles, as he reclined
in a low chair close to the sofa, on which Mademoiselle Adele had taken
her seat.
'Is there no one who will give us a little music?' asked Senhor de
Silvis from his chair. 'You are always so kind, Mademoiselle Adele.'
'Oh no, no!' cried Mademoiselle; 'I am too tired.'
But the foreigner--the Irishman--rose from his corner and walked towards
the instrument.
'Ah, you will play for us! A thousand thanks, Monsieur--.' Senhor de
Silvis had forgotten the name--a thing that often happened to him with
his guests.
'He is a musician,' said Mademoiselle Adele to her friend. Anatole
grunted admiringly.
Indeed, all were similarly impressed by the mere way in which he sat
down and, without any preparation, struck a few chords here and there,
as if to wake the instrument.
Then he began to play--lightly, sportively, frivolously, as befitted the
situation. The melodies of the day were intermingled with fragments of
waltzes and ballads; all the ephemeral trifles that Paris hums over for
eight days he blended together with brilliantly fluent execution.
The ladies uttered exclamations of admiration, and sang a few bars,
keeping time with their feet. The whole party followed the music with
intense interest; the strange artist had hit their mood, and drawn them
all with him from the beginning. 'Der liebe Doctor' alone listened with
the Sedan smile on his face; the pieces were too easy for him.
But soon there came something for the German too; he nodded now and then
with a sort of appreciation.
It was a strange situation: the piquant fragrance that filled the air,
the pleasure-loving women--these people, so free and unconstrained, all
strangers to one another, hidden in the elegant, half-dark salon, each
following his most secret thoughts--thoughts born of the mysterious,
muffled music; whilst the firelight rose and fell, and made everything
that was golden glimmer in the darkness.
And there constantly came more for the doctor. From time to time he
turned and signed to De Silvis, as he heard the loved notes of 'unser
Schumann,' 'unser Beethoven,' or even of 'unser famoser Richard.'
Meanwhile the stranger played on, steadily and without apparent effort,
slightly inclined to the left, so as to give power to the bass. It
sounded as if he had twenty fingers, all of steel; he knew how to unite
the multitudinous notes in a single powerful clang. Without any pause to
mark the transition from one melody to another, he riveted the interest
of the company by constant new surprises, graceful allusions, and genial
combinations, so that even the least musical among them were constrained
to listen with eager attention.
But the character of the music imperceptibly changed. The artist bent
constantly over the instrument, inclining more to the left, and there
was a strange unrest in the bass notes. The Baptists from 'The Prophet'
came with heavy step; a rider from 'Damnation de Faust' dashed up from
far below, in a desperate, hobbling hell-gallop.
The rumbling grew stronger and stronger down in the depths, and Monsieur
Anatole again began to feel the effects of the truffles. Mademoiselle
Adele half rose; the music would not let her lie in peace.
Here and there the firelight shone on a pair of black eyes staring at
the artist. He had lured them with him, and now they could not break
loose; downward, ever downward, he led them--downward, where was a dull
and muffled murmur as of threatenings and plaints.
'Er fuehrt eine famose linke Hand,' said the doctor. But De Silvis did
not hear him; he sat, like the others, in breathless expectancy.
A dark, sickening dread went out from the music and spread itself over
them all. The artist's left hand seemed to be tying a knot that would
never be loosened, while his right made light little runs, like flames,
up and down in the treble. It sounded as if there was something uncanny
brewing down in the cellar, whilst those above burnt torches and made
merry.
A sigh was heard, a half-scream from one of the ladies, who felt ill;
but no one heeded it. The artist had now got quite down into the bass,
and his tireless fingers whirled the notes together, so that a cold
shudder crept down the backs of all.
But into that threatening, growling sound far below there began to come
an upward movement. The notes ran into, over, past each other--upward,
always upward, but without making any way. There was a wild struggle to
get up, as it were a multitude of small, dark figures scratching and
tearing; a mad eagerness, a feverish haste; a scrambling, a seizing with
hands and teeth; kicks, curses, shrieks, prayers--and all the while the
artist's hands glided upward so slowly, so painfully slowly.
'Anatole,' whispered Adele, pale as death, 'he is playing Poverty.'
'Oh, these truffles!' groaned Anatole, holding his stomach.
All at once the room was lit up. Two servants with lamps and candelabra
appeared in the _portiere_; and at the same moment the stranger finished
by bringing down his fingers of steel with all his might in a
dissonance, so startling, so unearthly, that the whole party sprang up.
'Out with the lamps!' shouted De Silvis.
'No, no!' shrieked Adele; 'I dare not be in the dark. Oh, that dreadful
man!'
Who was it? Yes, who was it? They involuntarily crowded round the host,
and no one noticed the stranger slip out behind the servants.
De Silvis tried to laugh. 'I think it was the devil himself. Come, let
us go to the opera.'
'To the opera! Not at any price!' exclaimed Louison. 'I will hear no
music for a fortnight.'
'Oh, those truffles!' moaned Anatole.
The party broke up. They had all suddenly realized that they were
strangers in a strange place, and each one wished to slip quietly home.
As the journalist conducted Mademoiselle Louison to her carriage, he
said: 'Yes, this is the consequence of letting one's self be persuaded
to dine with these semi-savages. One is never sure of the company he
will meet.'
'Ah, how true! He quite spoiled my good spirits,' said Louison
mournfully, turning her swimming eyes upon her companion. 'Will you
accompany me to La Trinite? There is a low mass at twelve o'clock.'
The journalist bowed, and got into the carriage with her.
But as Mademoiselle Adele and Monsieur Anatole drove past the English
dispensary in the Rue de la Paix, he stopped the driver, and said
pleadingly to his fair companion: 'I really think I must get out and get
something for those truffles. You will excuse me, won't you? That music,
you know.'
'Don't mind me, my friend. Speaking candidly, I don't think either of us
is specially lively this evening. Good-night.'
She leant back in the carriage, relieved at finding herself alone; and
this light, frivolous creature cried as if she had been whipped whilst
she drove homeward.
Anatole was undoubtedly suffering from the truffles, but yet he thought
he came to himself as the carriage rolled away. Never in their whole
acquaintance had they been so well pleased with each other as at this
moment of parting.
'Der liebe Doctor' had come best through the experience, because, being
a German, he was hardened in music. All the same, he resolved to take a
walk as far as Mueller's _brasserie_ in the Rue Richelieu to get a decent
glass of German beer, and perhaps a little bacon, on the top of it all.
A MONKEY.
Yes, it was really a monkey that had nearly procured me 'Laudabilis'
[Footnote: A second-class pass.] in my final law examination. As it
was, I only got 'Haud'; [Footnote: A third-class pass.] but, after
all, this was pretty creditable.
But my friend the advocate, who had daily, with mingled feelings, to
read the drafts of my work, found my process-paper so good that he hoped
it might raise me into the 'Laud' list. And he did not wish me to suffer
the injury and annoyance of being plucked in the _viva voce_
examination, for he knew me and was my friend.
But the monkey was really a coffee-stain on the margin of page 496 of
Schweigaard's Process, which I had borrowed from my friend Cucumis.
Going up to a law examination in slush and semi-darkness in mid-winter
is one of the saddest experiences that a man can have. It may, indeed,
be even worse in summer; but this I have not tried.
One rushes through these eleven papers (or is it thirteen?--it is
certainly the most infamous number that the college authorities have
been able to devise)--like an unhappy _debutant_ in a circus. He stands
on the back of a galloping horse, with his life in his hands and a silly
circus smile on his lips; and so he must leap eleven (or is it
thirteen?) times through one of these confounded paper-covered hoops.
The unhappy mortal who passes--or tries to pass--his law examination,
finds himself in precisely the same situation, only he does not gallop
round a ring, under brilliant gaslight, to the music of a full band. He
sits upon a hard chair in semi-darkness with his face to the wall, and
the only sound he hears is the creaking of the inspectors' boots. For in
all the wide, wide world there are no such creaky boots as those of law
examination inspectors.
And so comes the dreadful moment when the black-robed tormentor from the
Collegium Juridicum brings in the examination-paper. He plants himself
in the doorway, and reads. Coldly, impassively, with a cruel mockery of
the horror of the situation, he raises aloft this fateful document--this
wretched paper-covered hoop, through which we must all spring, or
dismount and wend our way back--on foot!
The candidates settle themselves in the saddle. Some seem quite unable
to get firmly seated; they rock uneasily hither and thither, and one
rider dismounts. He is followed to the door by all eyes, and a sigh runs
through the assembled students. 'You to-day; I to-morrow.'
Meanwhile one begins to hear a light trotting over the paper; they are
leaping.
Some few individuals sit firmly and gracefully through it all, and come
out on the other side 'standing for Laud.' Others think that leaping
straight is too easy; therefore, they turn in the air and alight with
backs first. These also get through, but backwards; and it is said that
their agility does not win from the judges its deserved meed of
appreciation.
Again, others leap, but miss the hoop. They spring underneath, to one
side--some even high over the top, alighting safe and sound on the other
side. These latter generally find the paper extremely simple, and
continue the wild ride quite unconcernedly.
But if one is not fond of riding, and has had no practice in leaping, he
is much to be pitied--unless, indeed, he has a monkey on page 496.
I do not know how many hoops I had passed when I found myself face to
face with the process-paper.
It was an unhealthy life that we then led: leaping by day and reading by
night. I sat at midnight half-way through Schweigaard's Process,
alternately putting my head out of the window and into the washhand
basin, and, between whiles, rushing like a whirlwind through the
withered leaves of the musty volume.
However, even the most violent wind must eventually fall; and, indeed,
this was my heartfelt wish. But the juridical momentum was strong
within me. I sat stiffly, peering and reading for the eleventh time:
'One might thus certainly assume'--'One--might--thus--certainly,'--
combine the useful with the agreeable--and lean back--a little in the
chair. I can read just as well; the lamp doesn't bother me in the least.
'One--might--thus--'
But all manner of non-juridical images rose up from the book, entwined
themselves about the lamp, and threatened to completely overshadow my
clear legal brain. I could yet dimly see the white paper. 'One--might--
thus--'. The rest disappeared in a myriad of small dark characters that
flowed down the closely-printed pages; in dull despair my eyes followed
the stream, and then I saw, towards the bottom of the right-hand page, a
face.
It was a monkey that was drawn on the margin. It was excellently drawn,
I thought, the brown colouring of the face being especially remarkable.
I am ashamed to say that my interest in this work of art proved stronger
than Schweigaard himself. I roused myself a little, and leant forward
in order to see better.
By turning the leaf, I discovered that the remarkable brown colouring of
the face was due to the fact that the whole monkey, after all, was only
a coffee-stain. The artist had merely added a pair of eyes and a little
hair; the genial expression of the picture was really to be credited to
the individual who had spilt the coffee.
'Cucumis couldn't draw,' thought I; that I knew. 'But, by Jove! he
_could_ do his process!'
And now I came to think of Cucumis, of his handsome degree, of his
triumphant home-coming, and of how much he must have read in order to
become so learned. And, while I thought of all this, my consciousness
awoke little by little, until my own ignorance suddenly stood clearly
before me in all its horrible nakedness.
I pictured to myself the shame of having to 'dismount,' or, still worse,
of being that one unfortunate of whom it is invariably said with
sinister anonymity, 'One of the candidates received _non contemnendus_'.
And as it sometimes happens that people lose their reason through much
learning, so I grew half crazy with terror at my ignorance.
Up I jumped, and dipped my head in the wash-basin. Scarcely taking time
to dry myself, I began to read with an energy that fixed every word in
my memory.
Down the left page I hurried, with unabated vigour down the right; I
reached the monkey, rushed past him, turned the leaf, and read bravely
on.
I was not conscious of the fact that my strength was now completely
exhausted. Although I caught a glimpse of a new section (usually so
strong an incentive to increased effort), I could not help getting
entangled in one of those artful propositions that one reads over and
over again in illusory profundity.
I groped about for a way of escape, but there was none. Incoherent
thoughts began to whirl through my brain. 'Where is the monkey?--a spot
of coffee--one cannot be genial on both sides--everything in life has a
right and a wrong side--for example, the university clock--but if I
cannot swim, let me come out--I am going to the circus--I know very well
that you are standing there grinning at me, Cucumis--but I can leap
through the hoop, I can--and if that professor who is standing smoking
at my paraffin lamp had only conscientiously referred to _corpus juris_,
I should not now be lying here--in my night-shirt in the middle of Karl
Johan's Gade [Footnote: A principal street of Christiania.]--but--' Then
I sank into that deep, dreamless slumber which only falls to the lot of
an evil conscience when one is very young.
I was in the saddle early next morning.
I don't know if the devil ever had shoes on, but I must suppose he had,
for his inspectors were in their boots, and they creaked past me, where
I sat in my misery with my face to the wall.
A professor walked round the rooms and looked at the victims.
Occasionally he nodded and smiled encouragingly, as his eye fell on one
of those miserable lick-spittles who frequent the lectures; but when he
discovered me, the smile vanished, and his ice-cold stare seemed to
write upon the wall over my head: 'Mene, mene! [Footnote: Dan. v. 25.]
Wretch, I know thee not!'
A pair of inspectors walked creakily up to the professor and fawned upon
him; I heard them whispering behind my chair. I ground my teeth in
silent wrath at the thought that these contemptible creatures were paid
for--yes, actually made their living by torturing me and some of my best
friends.
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