For the next few years Peer managed his estate and his workshop, without giving too much of his time to either. He had his bailiff and his works-manager, and the work went on well enough in its accustomed grooves. If anyone had asked him what he actually did himself all the time, he would have found it hard to answer. He seemed to be going round gathering up something not clearly defined. There was something wanting—something missed that now had to be made good. It was not knowledge now, but life—life in his native land, the life of youth, that he reached out to grasp. The youth in him, that had never had free play in the years of early manhood, lay still dammed up, and had to find an outlet.
There were festive gatherings at Loreng. Long rows of sleighs drove in the winter evenings up from the town and back again. Tables were spread and decked with glass and flowers, the rooms were brightly lit, and the wine was good. And sometimes in the long moonlit nights respectable citizens would be awakened by noisy mirth in the streets of the little town, and, going to the window in their night-shirts, would see sleighs come galloping down, with a jangle of bells, full of laughing, singing young people, returning from some excursion far up in the hills, where there had been feasting and dancing. Here a young lawyer—newly married and something of a privileged buffoon—was sitting on the lap of somebody else’s wife, playing a concertina, and singing at the top of his voice. “Some of that Loreng man’s doings again,” people would say. “The place has never been the same since he came here.” And they would get back to bed again, shaking their heads and wondering what things were coming to.
Peer drove out, too, on occasion, to parties at the big country houses round, where they would play cards all night and have champagne sent up to their rooms next morning, the hosts being men who knew how to do things in style. This was glorious. Not mathematics or religion any more—what he needed now was to assimilate something of the country life of his native land. He was not going to be a stranger in his own country. He wanted to take firm root and be able to feel, like others, that he had a spot in the world where he was at home.
Then came the sunny day in June when he stood by Merle’s bed, and she lay there smiling faintly her one-sided smile, with a newborn girl on her arm.
“What are we to call her, Peer?”
“Why, we settled that long ago. After your mother, of course.”
“Of course her name’s to be Louise,” said Merle, turning the tiny red face towards her breast.
This came as a fresh surprise. She had been planning it for weeks perhaps, and now it took him unawares like one of her spontaneous caresses, but this time a caress to his inmost soul.
He made a faint attempt at a joke. “Oh well, I never have any say in my own house. I suppose you must have it your own way.” He stroked her forehead; and when she saw how deeply moved he was, she smiled up at him with her most radiant smile.
On one of the first days of the hay-harvest, Peer lay out on a sunny hillside with his head resting on a haycock, watching his people at work. The mowing machine was buzzing down by the lake, the spreader at work on the hill-slopes, the horses straining in front, the men sitting behind driving. The whole landscape lay around him breathing summer and fruitfulness. And he himself lay there sunk in his own restful quiet.
A woman in a light dress and a yellow straw hat came down the field road, pushing a child’s cart before her. It was Merle, and Merle was looking round her, and humming as she came. Since the birth of her child her mind was at peace; it was clear that she was scarcely dreaming now of conquering the world with her music—there was a tiny being in the little cart that claimed all her dreams. Never before had her skin been so dazzling, her smile so red; it was as if her youth now first blossomed out in all its fullness; her eyes seemed opened wide in a dear surprise.
After a while Peer went down and drove the mowing machine himself. He felt as if he must get to work somehow or other to provide for his wife and child.
But suddenly he stopped, got down, and began to walk round the machine and examine it closely. His face was all alert now, his eyes keen and piercing. He stared at the mechanism of the blades, and stood awhile thinking.
What was this? A happy idea was beginning to work in his mind. Vague only as yet—there was still time to thrust it aside. Should he?
Warm mild days and luminous nights. Sometimes he could not sleep for thinking how delicious it was to lie awake and see the sun come up.
On one such night he got up and dressed. A few minutes later there was a trampling of hoofs in the stable-yard and the chestnut stallion appeared, with Peer leading him. He swung himself into the saddle, and trotted off down the road, a white figure in his drill suit and cork helmet.
Where was he going? Nowhere. It was a change, to be up at an unusual hour and see the day break on a July morning.
He trotted along at an easy pace, rising lightly in the stirrups, and enjoying the pleasant warmth the rider feels. All was quiet around him, the homesteads still asleep. The sky was a pearly white, with here and there a few golden clouds, reflected in the lake below. And the broad meadows still spread their many-coloured flower-carpet abroad; there was a scent in the air of leaf and meadow-grass and pine, he drew in deep breaths of it and could have sung aloud.
He turned into the by-road up the hill, dismounting now and again to open a gate; past farms and little cottages, ever higher and higher, till at last he reached the topmost ridge, and halted in a clearing. The chestnut threw up his head and sniffed the air; horse and rider were wet with the dew-drip from the trees, that were now just flushing in the first glow of the coming sun. Far below was the lake, reflecting sky and hills and farmsteads, all asleep. And there in the east were the red flames—the sun—the day.
The horse pawed impatiently at the ground, eager to go on, but Peer held him back. He sat there gazing under the brim of his helmet at the sunrise, and felt a wave of strange feeling passing through his mind.
It seemed to him impossible that he should ever reach a higher pitch of sheer delight in life. He was still young and strong; all the organs of his body worked together in happy harmony. No cares to weigh upon his mind, no crushing responsibilities; the future lying calm and clear in the light of day, free from dizzy dreams. His hunger after knowledge was appeased; he felt that what he had learned and seen and gathered was beginning to take living organic form in his mind.
But then—what then?
The great human type of which you dreamed—have you succeeded in giving it life in yourself?
You know what is common knowledge about the progress of humanity; its struggle towards higher forms, its gropings up by many ways toward the infinite which it calls God.
You know something of the life of plants; the nest of a bird is a mystery before which you could kneel in worship. A rock shows you the marks of a glacier that scraped over it thousands of years ago, and looking on it you have a glimpse of the gigantic workings of the solar system. And on autumn evenings you look up at the stars, and the light and the death and the dizzy abysses of space above you send a solemn thrill through your soul.
And this has become a part of yourself. The joy of life for you is to grasp all you can compass of the universe, and let it permeate your thought and sense on every side.
But what then? Is this enough? Is it enough to rest thus in yourself?
Have you as yet raised one stepping-stone upon which other men can climb and say: Now we can see farther than before?
What is your inner being worth, unless it be mirrored in action?
If the world one day came to be peopled with none but supermen—what profit in that, as long as they must die?
What is your faith?
Ah, this sense of exile, of religious homelessness! How many times have you and Merle lain clasping each other’s hands, your thoughts wandering together hand in hand, seeking over earth or among the stars for some being to whom you might send up a prayer; no slavish begging cry for grace and favour, but a jubilant thanksgiving for the gift of life.
But where was He?
He is not. And yet—He is.
But the ascetic on the cross is a God for the sick and aged. What of us others? When shall the modern man, strong, scientifically schooled, find a temple for the sacred music, the anthem of eternity in his soul?
The sun rose up from behind a distant hill-crest, scattering gold over the million spires of the pine-forest. Peer bent forward, with red-gleaming dewdrops on his hand and his white sleeve, and patted the neck of his restless beast.
It was two o’clock. The fires of morning were lit in the clouds and in all the waters over the earth. The dew in the meadows and the pearls on the wings of butterflies began to glisten.
“Now then, Bijou!—now for home!”
And he dashed off down the grass-grown forest paths, the chestnut snorting as he galloped.
“Hei, Merle; We’re going to have distinguished visitors—where in the world have you got to!” Peer hurried through the rooms with an open telegram in his hand, and at last came upon his wife in the nursery. “Oh, is it here you are?”
“Yes—but you shout so, I could hear you all through the house. Who is it that’s coming?”
“Ferdinand Holm and Klaus Brock. Coming to the christening after all. Great Caesar!—what do you say to that, Merle?”
Merle was pale, and her cheeks a little sunken. Two years more had passed, and she had her second child now on her knee—a little boy with big wondering eyes.
“How fine for you, Peer!” she said, and went on undressing the child.
“Yes; but isn’t it splendid of them to set off and come all that way, just because I asked them? By Jove, we must look sharp and get the place smartened up a bit.”
And sure enough the whole place was soon turned upside-down—cartloads of sand coming in for the garden walks and the courtyard, and painters hard at work repainting the houses. And poor Merle knew very well that there would be serious trouble if anything should be amiss with the entertainment indoors.
At last came the hot August day when the flags were hoisted in honour of the expected guests. Once more the hum of mowing machines and hay-rakes came from the hill-slopes, and the air was so still that the columns of smoke from the chimneys of the town rose straight into the air. Peer had risen early, to have a last look round, inspecting everything critically, from the summer dress Merle was to wear down to the horses in the stable, groomed till their coats shone again. Merle understood. He had been a fisher-boy beside the well-dressed son of the doctor, and something meaner yet in relation to the distinguished Holm family. And there was still so much of the boy in him that he wanted to show now at his very best.
A crowd of inquisitive idlers had gathered down on the steamboat landing when the boat swung in and lay by the pier. The pair of bays in the Loreng carriage stood tossing their heads and twitching and stamping as the flies tormented them; but at last they got their passengers and were given their heads, setting off with a wild bound or two that scattered those who had pressed too near. But in the carriage they could see the two strangers and the engineer, all three laughing and gesticulating, and talking all at once. And in a few moments they vanished in a cloud of dust, whirling away beside the calm waters of the fjord.
Some way behind them a cart followed, driven by one of the stable-boys from Loreng, and loaded with big brass-bound leather trunks and a huge chest, apparently of wood, but evidently containing something frightfully heavy.
Merle had finished dressing, and stood looking at herself in the glass. The light summer dress was pretty, she thought, and the red bows at neck and waist sat to her satisfaction. Then came the roll of wheels outside, and she went out to receive her guests.
“Here they are,” cried Peer, jumping down. “This is Ferdinand Pasha, Governor-General of the new Kingdom of Sahara—and this is His Highness the Khedive’s chief pipe-cleaner and body-eunuch.”
A tall, stooping man with white hair and a clean-shaven, dried-up face advanced towards Merle. It was Ferdinand Holm. “How do you do, Madam?” he said, giving her a dry, bony hand.
“Why, this is quite a baronial seat you have here,” he added, looking round and settling his pince-nez.
His companion was a round, plump gentleman, with a little black goatee beard and dark eyes that blinked continually. But his smile was full of mirth, and the grip of his hand felt true. So this was Klaus Brock.
Peer led his two friends in through the rooms, showing them the view from the various windows. Klaus broke into a laugh at last, and turned to Merle: “He’s just the same as ever,” he said—“a little stouter, to be sure—it’s clear you’ve been treating him well, madam.” And he bowed and kissed her hand.
There was hock and seltzer ready for them—this was Merle’s idea, as suitable for a hot day—and when the two visitors had each drunk off a couple of glasses, with an: “Ah! delicious!”, Peer came behind her, stroked her hand lightly and whispered, “Thanks, Merle—first-rate idea of yours.”
“By the way,” exclaimed Ferdinand Holm suddenly, “I must send off a telegram. May I use the telephone a moment?”
“There he goes—can’t contain himself any longer!” burst out Klaus Brock with a laugh. “He’s had the telegraph wires going hard all the way across Europe—but you might let us get inside and sit down before you begin again here.”
“Come along,” said Peer. “Here’s the telephone.”
When the two had left the room, Klaus turned to Merle with a smile. “Well, well—so I’m really in the presence of Peer’s wife—his wife in flesh and blood. And this is what she looks like! That fellow always had all the luck.” And he took her hand again and kissed it. Merle drew it away and blushed.
“You are not married, then, Mr. Brock?”
“I? Well, yes and no. I did marry a Greek girl once, but she ran away. Just my luck.” And he blinked his eyes and sighed with an expression so comically sad that Merle burst out laughing.
“And your friend, Ferdinand Holm?” she asked.
“He, dear lady—he—why, saving your presence, I have an idea there’s a select little harem attached to that palace of his.”
Merle turned towards the window and shook her head with a smile.
An hour later the visitors came down from their rooms after a wash and a change of clothes, and after a light luncheon Peer carried them off to show them round the place. He had added a number of new buildings, and had broken new land. The farm had forty cows when he came, now he had over sixty. “Of course, all this is a mere nothing for fellows like you, who bring your harvest home in railway trains,” he said. “But, you see, I have my home here.” And he waved his hand towards the house and the farmstead round.
Later they drove over in the light trap to look at the workshop, and here he made no excuses for its being small. He showed off the little foundry as if it had been a world-famous seat of industry, and maintained his serious air while his companions glanced sideways at him, trying hard not to smile.
The workmen touched their caps respectfully, and sent curious glances at the strangers.
“Quite a treat to see things on the Norwegian scale again,” Ferdinand Holm couldn’t resist saying at last.
“Yes, isn’t it charming!” cried Peer, putting on an air of ingenuous delight. “This is just the size a foundry should be, if its owner is to have a good time and possess his soul in peace.”
Ferdinand Holm and Brock exchanged glances. But next moment Peer led them through into a side-room, with tools and machinery evidently having no connection with the rest.
“Now look out,” said Klaus. “This is the holy of holies, you’ll see. He’s hard at it working out some new devilry here, or I’m a Dutchman.”
Peer drew aside a couple of tarpaulins, and showed them a mowing machine of the ordinary type, and beside it another, the model of a new type he had himself devised.
“It’s not quite finished yet,” he said. “But I’ve solved the main problem. The old single knife-blade principle was clumsy; dragged, you know. But with two blades—a pair of shears, so to speak—it’ll work much quicker.” And he gave them a little lecture, showing how much simpler his mechanism was, and how much lighter the machine would be.
“And there you are,” said Klaus. “It’s Columbus’s egg over again.”
“The patent ought to be worth a million,” said Ferdinand Holm, slowly, looking out of the window.
“Of course the main thing is, to make the work easier and cheaper for the farmers,” said Peer, with a rather sly glance at Ferdinand.
Dinner that evening was a festive meal. When the liqueur brandy went round, Klaus greeted it with enthusiasm. “Why, here’s an old friend, as I live! Real Lysholmer!—well, well; and so you’re still in the land of the living? You remember the days when we were boys together?” He lifted the little glass and watched the light play in the pale spirit. And the three old friends drank together, singing “The first full glass,” and then “The second little nip,” with the proper ceremonial observances, just as they had done in the old days, at their student wine-parties.
The talk went merrily, one good story calling up another. But Merle could not help noticing the steely gleam of Ferdinand Holm’s eyes, even when he laughed.
The talk fell on new doings in Egypt, and as Peer heard more and more of these, it seemed to her that his look changed. His glance, too, seemed to have that glint of steel, there was something strange and absent in his face; was he feeling, perhaps, that wife and children were but a drag on a man, after all? He seemed like an old war-horse waking suddenly at the sound of trumpets.
“There’s a nice little job waiting for you, by the way,” said Ferdinand Holm, lifting his glass to Peer.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure. A sub-directorship under you?”
“You’re no good under any one. You belong on top.” Ferdinand illustrated his words with a downward and an upward pointing of the finger. “The harnessing of the Tigris and Euphrates will have to be taken in hand. It’s only a question of time.”
“Thanks very much!” said Peer, his eyes wide open now.
“The plan’s simply lying waiting for the right man. It will be carried out, it may be next year, it may be in ten years—whenever the man comes along. I would think about it, if I were you.”
All looked at Peer; Merle fastened her eyes on him, too. But he laughed. “Now, what on earth would be the satisfaction to me of binding in bands those two ancient and honourable rivers?”
“Well, in the first place, it would mean an increase of many millions of bushels in the corn production of the world. Wouldn’t you have any satisfaction in that?”
“No,” said Peer, with a touch of scorn.
“Or regular lines of communication over hundreds of thousands of square miles of the most fertile country on the globe?”
“Don’t interest me,” said Peer.
“Ah!” Ferdinand Holm lifted his glass to Merle. “Tell me, dear lady, how does it feel to be married to an anachronism?”
“To—to what?” stammered Merle.
“Yes, your husband’s an anachronism. He might, if he chose, be one of the kings, the prophets, who lead the van in the fight for civilisation. But he will not; he despises his own powers, and one day he will start a revolution against himself. Mark my words. Your health, dear lady!”
Merle laughed, and lifted her glass, but hesitatingly, and with a side-glance towards Peer.
“Yes, your husband is no better now than an egoist, a collector of happy days.”
“Well, and is that so very wicked?”
“He sits ravelling out his life into a multitude of golden threads,” went on Ferdinand with a bow, his steely eyes trying to look gentle.
“But what is wrong in that?” said the young wife stoutly.
“It is wrong. It is wasting his immortal soul. A man has no right to ravel out his life, even though the threads are of gold. A man’s days of personal happiness are forgotten—his work endures. And your husband in particular—why the deuce should HE be so happy? The world-evolution uses us inexorably, either for light or for fuel. And Peer—your husband, dear lady—is too good for fuel.”
Merle glanced again at her husband. Peer laughed, but then suddenly compressed his lips and looked down at his plate.
Then the nurse came in with little Louise, to say good-night, and the child was handed round from one to the other. But when the little fair-haired girl came to Ferdinand Holm, he seemed loth to touch her, and Merle read his glance at Peer as meaning: “Here is another of the bonds you’ve tied yourself up with.”
“Excuse me,” he said suddenly, looking at his watch, “I’m afraid I must ask for the use of the telephone again. Pardon me, Fru Holm.” And he rose and left the room. Klaus looked at the others and shook his head. “That man would simply expire if he couldn’t send a telegram once an hour,” he said with a laugh.
Coffee was served out on the balcony, and the men sat and smoked. It was a dusky twilight of early autumn; the hills were dark blue now and distant; there was a scent of hay and garden flowers. After a while Merle rose and said good-night. And in her thoughts, when she found herself alone in her bedroom, she hardly knew whether to be displeased or not. These strange men were drawing Peer far away from all that had been his chief delight since she had known him. But it was interesting to see how different his manner was towards the two friends. Klaus Brock he could jest and laugh with, but with Ferdinand Holm he seemed always on his guard, ready to assert himself, and whenever he contradicted him it was always with a certain deference.
The great yellow disc of the moon came up over the hills in the east, drawing a broad pillar of gold across the dark water. And the three comrades on the balcony sat watching it for a while in silence.
“So you’re really going to go on idling here?” asked Ferdinand at last, sipping his liqueur.
“Is it me you mean?” asked Peer, bending slightly forward.
“Well, I gather you’re going round here simply being happy from morning to night. I call that idling.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course, you’re very unhappy in reality. Everyone is, as long as he’s neglecting his powers and aptitudes.”
“Very many thanks,” said Peer, with a laugh. Klaus sat up in his chair, a little anxious as to what was coming.
Ferdinand was still looking out over the lake. “You seem to despise your own trade—as engineer?”
“Yes,” said Peer.
“And why?”
“Why, I feel the lack of some touch of beauty in our ceaseless craving to create something new, something new, always something new. More gold, more speed, more food—are these things not all we are driving at?”
“My dear fellow, gold means freedom. And food means life. And speed carries us over the dead moments. Double the possibilities of life for men, and you double their numbers.”
“And what good will it do to double their numbers? Two thousand million machine-made souls—is that what you want?”
“But hang it all, man,” put in Klaus Brock eagerly, “think of our dear Norway at least. Surely you don’t think it would be a misfortune if our population increased so far that the world could recognise our existence.”
“I do,” said Peer, looking away over the lake.
“Ah, you’re a fanatic for the small in size and in numbers.”
“I am loth to see all Norway polluted with factories and proletariat armies. Why the devil can’t we be left in peace?”
“The steel will not have it,” said Ferdinand Holm, as if speaking to the pillar of moonlight on the water.
“What? Who did you say?” Peer looked at him with wide eyes.
Ferdinand went on undisturbed: “The steel will not have peace. And the fire will not. And Prometheus will not. The human spirit has still too many steps to climb before it reaches the top. Peace? No, my friend—there are powers outside you and me that determine these things.”
Peer smiled, and lit a new cigar. Ferdinand Holm leaned back in his chair and went on, addressing himself apparently to the moon. “Tigris and Euphrates—Indus and Ganges—and all the rest of this planet—regulate and cultivate the whole, and what is it after all? It’s only a question of a few years. It is only a humble beginning. In a couple of centuries or so there will be nothing left to occupy us any more on this little globe of ours. And then we’ll have to set about colonising other worlds.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Peer spoke.
“And what do we gain by it all?” he asked.
“Gain? Do you imagine there will ever be any ‘thus far and no farther’ for the spirit of man? Half a million years hence, all the solar systems we know of now will be regulated and ordered by the human spirit. There will be difficulties, of course. Interplanetary wars will arise, planetary patriotism, groups of planetary powers in alliances and coalitions against other groups. Little worlds will be subjugated by the bigger ones, and so on. Is there anything in all this to grow dizzy over? Great heavens—can anyone doubt that man must go on conquering and to conquer for millions of years to come? The world-will goes its way. We cannot resist. Nobody asks whether we are happy. The will that works towards the infinite asks only whom it can use for its ends, and who is useless. Viola tout.”
“And when I die,” asked Peer—“what then?”
“You! Are you still going about feeling your own pulse and wanting to live for ever? My dear fellow, YOU don’t exist. There is just one person on our side—the world-will. And that includes us all. That’s what I mean by ‘we.’ And we are working towards the day when we can make God respect us in good earnest. The spirit of man will hold a Day of Judgment, and settle accounts with Olympus—with the riddle, the almighty power beyond. It will be a great reckoning. And mark my words—that is the one single religious idea that lives and works in each and every one of us—the thing that makes us hold up our heads and walk upright, forgetting that we are slaves and things that die.”
Suddenly he looked at his watch. “Excuse me a moment. If the telegraph office is open . . .” and he rose and went in.
When he returned, Klaus and Peer were talking of the home of their boyhood and their early days together.
“Remember that time we went shark-fishing?” asked Klaus.
“Oh yes—that shark. Let me see—you were a hero, weren’t you, and beat it to death with your bare fists—wasn’t that it?” And then “Cut the line, cut the line, and row for your lives,” he mimicked, and burst out laughing.
“Oh, shut up now and don’t be so witty,” said Klaus. “But tell me, have you ever been back there since you came home?”
Peer told him that he had been to the village last year. His old foster-parents were dead, and Peter Ronningen too; but Martin Bruvold was there still, living in a tiny cottage with eight children.
“Poor devil!” said Klaus.
Ferdinand Holm had sat down again, and now he nodded towards the moon. “An old chum of yours? Well, why don’t we send him a thousand crowns?”
There was a little pause. “I hope you’ll let me join you,” went on Ferdinand, taking a note for five hundred crowns from his waistcoat pocket. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Peer glanced at him and took the note. “I’m delighted for poor old Martin’s sake,” he said, putting the note in his waistcoat pocket. “That’ll make fifteen hundred for him.”
Klaus Brock looked from one to the other and smiled a little. The talk turned on other things for a while, and then he asked:
“By the way, Peer, have you seen that advertisement of the British Carbide Company’s?”
“No, what about?”
“They want tenders for the damming and harnessing of the Besna River, with its lake system and falls. That should be something in your line.”
“No,” said Ferdinand sharply. “I told you before—that job’s too small for him. Peer’s going to the Euphrates.”
“What would it amount to, roughly?” said Peer, addressing no one in particular.
“As far as I could make out, it should be a matter of a couple of million crowns or thereabout,” said Klaus.
“That’s not a thing for Peer,” said Ferdinand, rising and lifting his hand to hide a yawn. “Leave trifles like that to the trifling souls. Good-night, gentlemen.”
A couple of hours later, when all was silent throughout the house, Peer was still up, wandering to and fro in soft felt slippers in the great hall. Now and again he would stop, and look out of the window. Why could he not sleep? The moon was paling, the day beginning to dawn.
The next morning Merle was alone in the pantry when she heard steps behind her, and turned her head. It was Klaus Brock.
“Good-morning, madam—ah! so this is what you look like in morning dress. Why, morning neglige might have been invented for you, if I may say so. You might be a Ghirlandajo. Or no, better still, Aspasia herself.”
“You are up early,” said Merle drily.
“Am I? What about Ferdinand Holm then? He has been up since sunrise, sitting over his letters and accounts. Anything I can help you with? May I move that cheese for you?—Well, well! you are strong. But there, I’m always de trop where women are concerned.”
“Always de trop?” repeated Merle, watching him through her long lashes.
“Yes—my first and only love—do you know who she was?”
“No, indeed. How should I?”
“Well, it was Louise—Peer’s little sister. I wish you could have known her.”
“And since then?” Merle let her eyes rest on this flourishing gentleman, who looked as if he could never have had a trouble in the world.
“Since then, dear lady?—since then? Let me see. Why, at this moment I really can’t remember ever having met any other woman except . . .”
“Except . . . ?”
“Except yourself, madam.” And he bowed.
“You are TOO kind!”
“And, that being so, don’t you think it’s your plain duty, as a hospitable hostess, to grant me . . .”
“Grant you—what? A piece of cheese?”
“Why, no, thanks. Something better. Something much better than that.”
“What, then?”
“A kiss. I might as well have it now.” As he took a step nearer, she looked laughingly round for a way of escape, but he was between her and the door.
“Well,” said Merle, “but you must do something to make yourself useful first. Suppose you ran up that step-ladder for me.”
“Delighted. Why, this is great fun!” The slight wooden ladder creaked under the weight of his solid form as he climbed. “How high am I to go?”
“To reach the top shelf—that’s it. Now, you see that big brown jar? Careful—it’s cranberries.”
“Splendid—I do believe we’re to have cranberry preserve at dinner.” By standing on tiptoe he managed to reach and lift the heavy jar, and stood holding it, his face flushed with his exertions.
“And now, little lady?”
“Just stay there a moment and hold it carefully; I have to fetch something.” And she hurried out.
Klaus stood at the top of the ladder, holding the heavy jar. He looked round. What was he to do with it? He waited for Merle to return—but she did not appear. Someone was playing the piano in the next room. Should he call for help? He waited on, getting redder and redder in the face. And still no Merle came.
With another mighty effort he set the jar back in its place, and then climbed down the ladder and walked into the drawing-room, very red and out of breath. In the doorway he stopped short and stared.
“What—well, I’ll—And she’s sitting here playing the piano!”
“Yes. Aren’t you fond of music, Herr Brock?”
“I’ll pay you out for this,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “Just you wait and see, little lady, if I don’t pay you out, with interest!” And he turned and went upstairs, chuckling as he went.
Peer was sitting at the writing-table in his study when Klaus came in. “I’m just sealing up the letter with the money for Martin Bruvold,” he said, setting the taper to a stick of sealing wax. “I’ve signed it: ‘From the shark fishers.’”
“Yes, it was a capital idea of Ferdinand’s. What d’you think the poor old fellow’ll say when he opens it and the big notes tumble out?”
“I’d like to see his face,” said Peer, as he wrote the address on the envelope.
Klaus dropped into a leather armchair and leaned back comfortably. “I’ve been downstairs flirting a little with your wife,” he said. “Your wife’s a wonder, Peer.”
Peer looked at him, and thought of the old days when the heavy-built, clumsy doctor’s son had run about after the servant-girls in the town. He had still something of his old lurching walk, but intercourse with the ladies of many lands had polished him and given lightness and ease to his manner.
“What was I going to say?” Klaus went on. “Oh yes—our friend Ferdinand’s a fine fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I felt yesterday exactly as I used to feel when we three were together in the old days. When I listen to his talk I can’t help agreeing with him—and then you begin to speak, and what you say, too, seems to be just what I’ve been thinking in my inmost soul. Do you think I’ve become shallow, Peer?”
“Well, your steam ploughs look after themselves, I suppose, and the ladies of your harem don’t trouble you overmuch. Do you read at all?”
“Best not say too much about that,” said Klaus with a sigh, and it suddenly struck Peer that his friend’s face had grown older and more worn.
“No,” said Klaus again. “Better not say much about that. But tell me, old fellow—you mustn’t mind my asking—has Ferdinand ever spoken to you as his brother . . . or . . .”
Peer flushed hotly. “No,” he said after a pause.
“No?”
“I owe more to him than to anybody in the world. But whether he regards me as a kinsman or simply as an object for his kindness to wreak itself on is a matter he’s always left quite vague.”
“It’s just like him. He’s a queer fellow. But there’s another thing. . . .”
“Well?” said Peer, looking up.
“It’s—er—again it’s rather a delicate matter to touch on. I know, of course, that you’re in the enviable position of having your fortune invested in the best joint-stock company in the world—”
“Yes; and so are you.”
“Oh, mine’s a trifle compared with yours. Have you still the whole of your money in Ferdinand’s company?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking of selling a few shares, by the way. As you may suppose, I’ve been spending a good deal just lately—more than my income.”
“You mustn’t sell just now, Peer. They’re—I daresay you’ve seen that they’re down—below par, in fact.”
“What—below par! No, I had no idea of that.”
“Oh, only for the time being, of course. Just a temporary drop. There’s sure to be another run on them soon, and they’ll go up again. But the Khedive has the controlling interest, you know, and he’s rather a ticklish customer. Ferdinand is all for extension—wants to keep on buying up new land—new desert, that is. Irrigation there’s just a question of power—that’s how he looks at it. And of course the bigger the scale of the work the cheaper the power will work out. But the Khedive’s holding back. It may be just a temporary whim—may be all right again to-morrow. But you never know. And if you think Ferdinand’s the man to give in to a cranky Khedive, you’re much mistaken. His idea now is to raise all the capital he can lay hands on, and buy him out! What do you say to that? Buy the Khedive clean out of the company. It’s a large order. And if I were you, old man, as soon as the shares go up again a bit, I’d sell out some of my holding, and put the money into something at home here. After all, there must be plenty of quite useful things to be had here.”
Peer frowned, and sat for a while looking straight before him. “No,” he said at last. “As things stand between Ferdinand Holm and me—well, if either of us goes back on the other, it’s not going to be me.”
“Ah, in that case—I beg your pardon,” said Klaus, and he rose and departed.
The christening was a great occasion, with a houseful of guests, and a great deal of speechmaking. The host was the youngest and gayest of the party. The birth of his son should be celebrated in true Ethiopian fashion, he declared—with bonfires and boating parties.
The moon was hidden that evening behind thick dark clouds, but the boats full of guests glided over the black water to the accompaniment of music and laughter. The young madcap of a lawyer was there, again sitting on the lap of someone else’s wife, and playing a concertina, till people in the farms on shore opened their windows and put their heads out to listen.
Later on the bonfires blazed up all along the lake shore and shone like great flaming suns in the water below. The guests lay on the grass in little groups round picnic suppers, and here and there a couple wandered by themselves, talking in whispers.
Merle and Peer stood together for a moment beside one of the bonfires. Their faces and figures were lit by the red glow; they looked at each other and exchanged a smile. He took her hand and led her outside the circle of light from the fire, and pointed over to their home, with all its windows glowing against the dark.
“Suppose this should be the last party we give, Merle.”
“Peer, what makes you say that?”
“Oh, nothing—only I have a sort of feeling, as if something had just ended and something new was to begin. I feel like it, somehow. But I wanted to thank you, too, for all the happy times we’ve had.”
“But Peer—what—” She got no farther, for Peer had already left her and joined a group of guests, where he was soon as gay as the rest.
Then came the day when the two visitors were to leave. Their birthday gift to the young gentleman so lately christened Lorentz Uthoug stood in the drawing-room; it was a bust in red granite, the height of a man, of the Sun-god Re Hormachis, brought with them by the godfathers from Alexandria. And now it sat in the drawing-room between palms in pots, pressing its elbows against its sides and gazing with great dead eyes out into endless space.
Peer stood on the quay waving farewell to his old comrades as the steamer ploughed through the water, drawing after it a fan-shaped trail of little waves.
And when he came home, he walked about the place, looking at farms and woods, at Merle and the children, with eyes that seemed to her strange and new.
Next night he stayed up once more alone, pacing to and fro in the great hall, and looking out of the windows into the dark.
Was he ravelling out his life into golden threads that vanished and were forgotten?
Was he content to be fuel instead of light?
What was he seeking? Happiness? And beyond it? As a boy he had called it the anthem, the universal hymn. What was it now? God? But he would hardly find Him in idleness.
You have drawn such nourishment as you could from joy in your home, from your marriage, your fatherhood, nature, and the fellowmen around you here. There are unused faculties in you that hunger for exercise; that long to be set free to work, to strive, to act.
You should take up the barrage on the Besna, Peer. But could you get the contract? If you once buckle-to in earnest, no one is likely to beat you—you’ll get it, sure enough. But do you really want it?
Are you not working away at a mowing-machine as it is? Better own up that you can’t get on without your old craft, after all—that you must for ever be messing and meddling with steel and fire. You can’t help yourself.
All the things your eyes have been fixed on in these last years have been only golden visions in a mist. The steel has its own will. The steel is beginning to wake in you—singing—singing—bent on pressing onward. You have no choice.
The world-will goes on its way. Go with it or be cast overboard as useless.
And still Peer walked up and down, up and down.
Next morning he set off for the capital. Merle watched the carriage as it drove away, and thought to herself: “He was right. Something new is beginning.”