Stories by Foreign Authors
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"I am only patching up my shoes," said Pekka to father.
"Oh, indeed! Patching your shoes, eh? Then if you can't see to do
that by the same light that does for me, you may take yourself off
with your pare into the bath-house or behind it if you like."
And Pekka went.
He stuck his boots under his arm, took his stool in one hand and
his pare in the other, and off he went. He crept softly through
the door into the hall, and out of the hall into the yard. The
pare light flamed outside in the blast, and played a little while,
glaring red, over outhouses, stalls, and stables. We children saw
the light through the window and thought it looked very pretty.
But when Pekka bent down to get behind the bath-house door, it was
all dark again in the yard, and instead of the pare we saw only
the lamp mirroring itself in the dark window-panes.
Henceforth we never burned a pare in the dwelling-room again. The
lamp shone victoriously from the roof, and on Sunday evenings all
the townsfolk often used to come to look upon and admire it. It
was known all over the parish that our house was the first, after
the parsonage, where the lamp had been used. After we had set the
example, the magistrate bought a lamp like ours, but as he had
never learned to light it, he was glad to sell it to the
innkeeper, and the innkeeper has it still.
The poorer farmfolk, however, have not been able to get themselves
lamps, but even now they do their long evening's work by the glare
of a pare.
But when we had had the lamp a short time, father planed the walls
of the dwelling-room all smooth and white, and they never got
black again, especially after the old stove, which used to smoke,
had to make room for another, which discharged its smoke outside
and had a cowl.
Pekka made a new fireplace in the bath-house out of the stones of
the old stove, and the crickets flitted thither with the stones--
at least their chirping was never heard any more in the dwelling
room. Father didn't care a bit, but we children felt, now and
then, during the long winter evenings, a strange sort of yearning
after old times, so we very often found our way down to the bath-
house to listen to the crickets, and there was Pekka sitting out
the long evenings by the light of his pare.
THE FLYING MAIL
BY
M. GOLDSCHMIDT
From "The Flying Mail." Translated by Carl Larsen.
THE FLYING MAIL
BY
M. GOLDSCHMIDT
I.
Fritz Bagger had just been admitted to the bar. He had come home
and entered his room, seeking rest. All his mental faculties were
now relaxed after their recent exertion, and a long-restrained
power was awakened. He had reached a crisis in life: the future
lay before him,--the future, the future! What was it to be? He was
twenty-four years old, and could turn himself whichever way he
pleased, let fancy run to any line of the compass. Out upon the
horizon, he saw little rose-colored clouds, and nothing therein
but a certain undefined bliss. He put his hands over his eyes, and
sought to bring this uncertainty into clear vision; and after a
long time had elapsed, he said: "Yes, and so one marries."
"Yes, one marries," he continued, after a pause; "but whom?"
His thoughts now took a more direct course; but the pictures in
his mind's eye had not become plainer. Again the horizon widely
around was rose-colored, and between the tinted cloud-layers
angel-heads peeped out--not Bible angels, which are neither man
nor woman; but angelic girls, whom he didn't know, and who didn't
know him. The truth was, he didn't know anybody to whom he could
give his heart, but longed, with a certain twenty-four-year power,
for her to whom he could offer it,--her who was worthy to receive
his whole self-made being, and in exchange give him all that queer
imagined bliss, which is or ought to be in the world, as every one
so firmly believes.
"Oh, I am a fool!" he said, as he suddenly became conscious that
he was merely dreaming and wishing. He tried to think of something
practical, thought upon a little picnic that was to be held in the
evening; but the same dream returned and overpowered him, because
the season of spring was in him, because life thrilled in him as
in trees and plants when the spring sun shines.
He leaned upon the window-seat--it was in an attic--and let the
wind cool his forehead. But while the wind refreshed, the street
itself gave his mind new nourishment. Down there it moved, to him
unknown, and veiled and hidden as at a masquerade. What a treasure
might not that easy virgin foot carry! What a fancy might there
not be moving in the head under that little bonnet, and what a
heart might there not be beating under the folds of that shawl!
But, too, all this preciousness might belong to another.
Alas! yes, there were certainly many amiable ones down there!--and
if destiny should lead him to one of them, who was free, lovely,
well-bred, of good family, could any one vouch that for her sake
he was not giving up HER, the beau-ideal, the expected, whose
portrait had shown itself between the tinted clouds? or, in any
event, who can vouch for one's success in not missing the right
one?
"Oh! life is a lottery, a cruel lottery; for to everybody there is
but one drawing, and the whole man is at stake. Woe to the loser!"
After the expiration of some time, Fritz, under the influence of
these meditations, had become melancholy, and all bright, smiling,
and sure as life had recently appeared to him, so misty,
uncertain, and painful it now appeared. For the second time he
stroked his forehead, shook these thoughts from him, seeking more
practical ones, and for the second time it terminated in going to
the window and gazing out.
A whirlwind filled the street, slamming gates and doors, shaking
windows and carrying dust with it up to his attic chamber. He was
in the act of drawing back, when he saw a little piece of paper
whirled in the dust cloud coming closely near him. He shut his
eyes to keep out the dust, grasping at random for the paper, which
he caught. At the same moment the whirlwind ceased, and the sky
was again clear. This appeared to him ominous; the scrap of paper
had certainly a meaning to him, a meaning for him; the unknown
whom he had not really spoken to, yet had been so exceedingly busy
with, could not quite accidentally have thus conveyed this to his
hands, and with throbbing heart he retired from the window to read
the message.
One side of the paper was blank; in the left-hand corner of the
other side was written "beloved," and a little below it seemed as
if there had been a signature, but now there was nothing left
excepting the letters "geb."
"'Geb,' what does that mean?" asked Fritz Bagger, with dark humor.
"If it had been gek, I could have understood it, although it were
incorrectly written. Geb, Gebrer, Algebra, Gebruderbuh,--I am a
big fool."
"But it is no matter, she shall have an answer," he shouted after
a while, and seated himself to write a long, glowing love-letter.
When it was finished and read, he tore it in pieces.
"No," said he, "if destiny has intended the least thing by acting
to me as mail-carrier through the window, let me act reasonably."
He wrote on a little piece of paper:
"As the old Norwegians, when they went to Iceland, threw their
high-seat pillars into the sea with the resolution to settle where
they should go ashore, so I send this out. My faith follows after;
and it is my conviction that where this alights, I shall one day
come, and salute you as my chosen, as my--." "Yes, now what more
shall I add?" he asked himself. "Ay, as my--'geb'--!" he added,
with an outburst of merry humor, that just completed the whole
sentimental outburst. He went to the window and threw the paper
out; it alighted with a slow quivering. He was already afraid that
it would go directly down into the ditch; but then a breeze came
lifting it almost up to himself again, then a new current carried
it away, lifting it higher and higher, whirling it, till at last
it disappeared from his sight in continual ascension, so he
thought.
"After all, I have become engaged to-day," he said to himself,
with a certain quiet humor, and yet impressed by a feeling that he
had really given himself to the unknown.
II.
Six years had passed, and Fritz Bagger had made his mark, although
not as a lover. He had become Counsellor, and was particularly
distinguished for the skill and energy with which he brought
criminals to confession. It is thus that a man of fine and poetic
feelings can satisfy himself in such a business, for a time at
least: with the half of his soul he can lead a life which to
himself and others seems entire only because it is busy, because
it keeps him at work, and fills him with a consciousness of
accomplishing something practical and good. There is a youthful
working power, which needs not to look sharply out into the future
for a particular aim of feeling or desire. This power itself, by
the mere effort to keep in a given place, is for such an
organization, every day, an aim, a relish; and one can for a
number of years drive business so energetically, that he, too,
slips over that difficult time which in every twenty-four hours
threatens to meet him, the time between work and sleep, twilight,
when the other half of the soul strives to awaken.
Be it because his professional duties gave him no time or
opportunity for courtship, or for some other reason, Fritz Bagger
remained a bachelor; and a bachelor with the income of his
profession is looked upon as a rich man. Counsellor Bagger would,
when business allowed, enter into social life, treating it in that
elegant, independent, almost poetic manner, which in most cases is
denied to married men, and which is one reason why they press the
hand of a bachelor with a sigh, a mixture of envy, admiration, and
compassion. If we add here that a bachelor with such a
professional income is the possible stepping-stone to an
advantageous marriage, it is easily seen that Fritz Bagger was
much sought for in company. He went, too, into it as often as
allowed by his legal duties, from which he would hasten in the
black "swallow-tail" to a dinner or soiree, and often amused
himself where most others were weary; because conversation about
anything whatever with the cultivated was to him a refreshment,
and because he brought with him a good appetite and good humor,
resting upon conscientious work. He could show interest in divers
trifles, because in their nothingness (quite contrary to the
trifles in which half an hour previous, with painful interest, he
had ferreted out crime), they appeared to him as belonging to an
innocent, childish world; and if conversation approached more
earnest things, he spoke freely, and evidently gave himself quite
up to the subject, letting the whole surface of his soul flow out.
And this procured him friendship and reputation.
In this way, then, six years had slipped by, when Counsellor
Bagger, or rather Fritz Bagger as we will call him, in remembrance
of his examination-day, and his notes by the flying mail, was
invited to a wedding-party on the shooting-ground. The company was
not very large,--only thirty couples,--but very elegant. Bagger
was a friend in the families of both bride and bridegroom, and
consequently being well known to nearly all present he felt
himself as among friends gathered by a mutual joy, and was more
than usually animated. A superb wine, which the bride's father had
himself brought, crowned their spirits with the last perfect
wreath. Although the toast to the bridal pair had been officially
proposed, Bagger took occasion to offer his congratulations in a
second encomium of love and matrimony; which gave a solid, prosaic
man opportunity for the witty remark and hearty wish that so
distinguished a practical office-holder as Counsellor Bagger would
carry his fine theories upon matrimony into practice. The toast
was drunk with enthusiasm, and just at that moment a strong wind
shook the windows, and burst open one of the doors, blowing so far
into the hall as to cause the lights to flicker much.
Bagger became, through the influence of the wine, the company, and
the sight of the happy bridal pair, six years younger. His soul
was carried away from criminal and police courts, and found itself
on high, as in the attic chamber, with a vision of the small
tinted clouds and the angel-heads. The sudden gust of wind carried
him quite back to the moment when he sent out his note as the
Norwegian heroes their high-seat pillars: the spirit of his
twenty-fourth year came wholly over him, queerly mixed with the
half-regretful reflection of the thirtieth year, with fun,
inclination to talk and to breathe; and he exclaimed, as he rose
to acknowledge the toast:
"I am engaged."
"Ay! ay! Congratulate! congratulate!" sounded from all sides.
"This gust of wind, which nearly extinguished the lights, brought
me a message from my betrothed!"
"What?" "What is it?" asked the company, their heads at that
moment not in the least condition for guessing charades.
"Counsellor Bagger, have you, like the Doge of Venice, betrothed
yourself to the sea or storm?" asked the bridegroom.
"Hear him, the fortunate! sitting upon the golden doorstep to the
kingdom of love! Let him surmise and guess all that concerns
Cupid, for he has obtained the inspiration, the genial sympathy,"
exclaimed Bagger. "Yes," he continued, "just like the Doge of
Venice, but not as aristocratic! From my attic chamber, where I
sat on my examination-day, guided by Cupid, in a manner which it
would take too long to narrate, I gave to the whirlwind a love-
letter, and at any moment SHE can step forward with my letter, my
promise, and demand me soul and body."
"Who is it, then?" asked bridegroom and bride, with the most
earnest interest.
"Yes, how can I tell that? Do I know the whirlwind's roads?"
"Was the letter signed with your name?"
"No; but don't you think I will acknowledge my handwriting?"
replied Bagger, quite earnestly.
This earnestness with reference to an obligation which no one
understood became comical; and Bagger felt at the moment that he
was on the brink of the ridiculous. Trying to collect himself, he
said:
"Is it not an obligation we all have? Do not both bride and
bridegroom acknowledge that long before they knew each other the
obligation was present?"
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the bridegroom.
"And the whirlwind, accident, the unknown power, brought them
together so that the obligation was redeemed?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Let us, then," continued Bagger, "drink a toast to the wind, the
accident, the moving power, unknown and yet controlling. To those
of us who, as yet, are unprovided for and under forty, it will at
some time undoubtedly bring a bride; to those who are already
provided for will come the expected in another form. So a toast to
the wind that came in here and flickered the lights; to the
unknown, that brings us the wished for; and to ourselves, that we
may be prepared to receive it when announced."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the bridegroom, looking upon his bride.
"Puh-h-h!" thought Bagger, seating himself with intense relief, "I
have come out of it somewhat decently after all. The deuce take me
before I again express a sentimentality."
How Counsellor Bagger that night could have fallen asleep, between
memory, or longing and discontent, is difficult to tell, had he
not on his arrival home found a package of papers, an interesting
theft case. He sat down instantly to read, and day dawned ere they
were finished. His last thought, before his eyelids closed, was,--
Two years in the House of Correction.
III.
A month later, toward the close of September, two ladies, twenty
or twenty-two years of age, were walking in a garden about ten
miles from Copenhagen. Although the walks were quite wide,
impediments in them made it difficult for the ladies to go side by
side. The autumn showed itself uneven and jagged. The currant and
gooseberry boughs, that earlier hung in soft arches, now projected
stiffly forth, catching in the ladies' dresses; branches from plum
and apple trees hung bare and broken, and required attention above
also. One of the ladies apparently was at home there: this was
evident partly from her dress, which, although elegant, was
domestic, and partly by her taking the lead and paying honor, by
drawing boughs and branches aside, holding them until the other
lady, who was more showily dressed, had slipped past. On account
of the hindrances of the walk there were none of those easy,
subdued, familiar conversations, which otherwise so naturally
arise when young ladies, acquaintances, or "friends," visit each
other, and from the house slip out alone into garden or wood. An
attentive observer meanwhile, by scrutinizing the physiognomy of
both, would, perhaps, have come to the conclusion, that even if
these two had been together on the most unobstructed road, no
confidence would have arisen between them, and would have
suspected the hostess of trying to atone for her lack of interest,
by being polite and careful. She was not strikingly handsome, but
possessed of a fine nature, which manifested itself in the whole
figure, and perhaps, especially, in the uncommonly well-formed
nose; yet it was by peering into her eyes that one first obtained
the idea of a womanhood somewhat superior to the generality of her
sex. Their expression was not to be caught at once: they told of
both meditation and resolve, and hinted at irony or badinage,
which works so queerly when it comes from deep ground. The other
lady was "burgherly-genteel," a handsome, cultivated girl, had
certainly also some soul, but yet was far less busy with a world
in her own heart than with the world of fashion. It was about the
world, the world of Copenhagen, that Miss Brandt at this moment
was giving Miss Hjelm an account, interrupted by the boughs and
branches, and although Miss Hjelm was not, nun-like, indifferent
either to fashions or incidents in high life, the manner in which
Miss Brandt unmistakably laid her soul therein, caused her to go
thus politely before.
"But you have heard about Emmy Ibsen's marriage?" asked Miss
Brandt.
"Yes, it was about a month ago, I think."
"Yes, I was bridesmaid."
"Indeed!" said Miss Hjelm, in a voice which atoned for her
brevity.
"The party was at the shooting-ground."
"So!" said Miss Hjelm again, with as correct an intonation as if
she had learned it for "I don't care." "Take care, Miss Brandt,"
she added, stooping to avoid an apple-branch.
"Take care?--oh, for that branch!" said Miss Brandt, and avoided
it as charmingly and coquettishly as if it had been living.
"It was very gay," she added, "even more so than wedding-parties
commonly are; but this was caused a good deal by Counsellor
Bagger."
"So!"
"Yes, he was very gay ... I was his companion at table.
"Ah!"
"Oh, only to think! at the table he stands up declaring that he is
engaged."
"Was his lady present?"
"No, that she was not, I think. Do you know who it was?"
"No, how should I know that, Miss Brandt?"
"The whirlwind!"
"The whirlwind?"
"Yes. He said that he, as a young man, in a solemn moment had sent
his love letter or his promise out with the wind, and he was
continually waiting for an answer: he had given his promise, was
betrothed!--Ou!"
"What is it?" asked Miss Hjelm, sympathetically. The truth was,
the young hostess at this moment had relaxed her polite care, and
a limb of a gooseberry-bush had struck against Miss Brandt's
ankle.
The pain was soon over; and the two ladies, who now had reached
the termination of the walk, turned toward the house side by side,
each protecting herself, unconscious that any change had occurred.
"But I hardly believe it," continued Miss Brandt: "he said it
perhaps only to make himself conspicuous, for certain gentlemen
are just as coquettish as ... as they accuse us of being."
Miss Hjelm uttered a doubting, "Um!"
"Yes, that they really are! Have you ever seen any lady as
coquettish as an actor?"
"I don't know any of them, but I should suppose an actress might
be."
"No: no actress I have ever met of the better sort was really
coquettish. I don't know how it is with them, but I believe they
have overcome coquettishness."
"But you think, then, Counsellor Bang is coquettish?"
"Not Bang--Bagger. Yes; for although he said he had this romantic
love for a fairy, he often does court to modest earthly ladies. He
is properly somewhat of a flirt."
"That is unbecoming an old man."
"Yes; but he is not old."
"Oh!" said Miss Hjelm, laughing: "I have only known one war
counsellor, and he was old; so I thought of all war counsellors as
old."
"Yes; but Counsellor Bagger is not war counsellor, but a real
Superior Court Counsellor."
"Oh, how earnest that is! And so he is in love with a fairy?"
"Yes: it is ridiculous!" said Miss Brandt, laughing. During this
conversation they had reached the house, and Miss Brandt
complained that something was yet pricking her ankle. They went
into Miss Hjelm's room, and here a thorn was discovered and taken
out.
"How pretty and cosy this room really is!" said Miss Brandt,
looking around. "In a situation like this one can surely live in
the country summer and winter. Out with us at Taarback it blows in
through the windows, doors, and very walls."
"That must be bad in a whirlwind."
"Yes--yes: still, it might be quite amusing when the whirlwind
carried such billets: not that one would care for them; yet they
might be interesting for a while."
"Oh, yes! perhaps."
"Yes: how do you think a young girl would like it, when there came
from Heaven a billet, in which one pledged himself to her for time
and eternity?"
"That isn't easy to say; but I don't believe the occurrence quite
so uncommon. A friend of mine once had such a billet blown to her,
and she presented me with it."
"Does one give such things away? Have you the billet?"
"I will look for it," answered Miss Hjelm; and surely enough,
after longer search in the sewing-table, in drawers, and small
boxes, than was really necessary, she found it. Miss Brandt read
it, taking care not to remark that it very much appeared to her as
if it resembled the one the counsellor had mentioned.
"And such a billet one gives away!" she said after a pause.
"Yes: will you have it?" asked Miss Hjelm, as though after a
sudden resolution.
Miss Brandt's first impulse was an eager acceptance; but she
checked herself almost as quickly, and answered:
"Oh, yes, thank you, as a curiosity." Then slowly put it between
her glove and hand.
As Miss Brandt and her company rode away, said Miss Hjelm's
cousin, a handsome, middle-aged widow, to her:
"How is it, Ingeborg? It appears to me you laugh with one eye and
weep with the other."
"Yes: a soap-bubble has burst for me, and glitters, maybe, for
another."
"You know I seldom understand the sentimental enigmas: can you not
interpret your words?"
"Yes: to-day an illusion has vanished, that had lasted for six
years."
"For six years?" said her cousin, with an inquiring or
sympathizing look. "So it began when you were hardly sixteen
years."
"Now do you believe, that when I was in my sixteenth year I saw an
ideal of a man, and was enamoured of him, and to-day I hear that
he is married."
"No, I don't know as I believe just that," answered the cousin,
dropping her eyes; "but I suppose that then you had a pretty
vision, and have carried it along with you in silence--and with
faith."
"But it was something more than a vision; it was a letter--a love-
letter."
The cousin looked upon Ingeborg so inquiringly, so anxiously, that
words were unnecessary. Beside this the cousin knew, that when
Ingeborg was inclined to talk, she did so without being asked, and
if she wished to be silent, she was silent.
Ingeborg continued: "One time, I drove to town with sainted
father. Father was to go no further than to Noerrebro, and I had
an errand at Vestervold. So I stepped out and went through the
Love-path. As I came to the corner of the path, and the
Ladegaardsway, the wind blew so violently against me, that I could
hardly breathe; and something blew against my veil, fluttering
with wings like a humming-bird. I tried to drive it away, for it
blinded one of my eyes; but it blew back again. So I caught it and
was going to let it fly away over my head, but that moment I saw
it was written upon, and read it. It was a love-letter! A man
wrote that he sent this as in old times the Norwegian emigrants
let their high-seat pillars be carried by the sea, and where it
came he would one time come, and bring his faith to his destined--
Geb.'"
"'Geb'? What is that?" asked the cousin. "That is Ingeborg,"
answered Miss Hjelm, with a plain simplicity, showing how deeply
she had believed in the earnestness of the message.
"It was really remarkable!" said the cousin, and added with a
smile which perhaps was somewhat ironical: "And did you then
resolve to remain unmarried, until the unknown letter-writer
should come and redeem his vow?"
"I will not say that," answered Ingeborg, who quickly became more
guarded; "but the letter perhaps contained some stronger
requirements than under the circumstances could be fulfilled."
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