Tales of Two Countries
rotting flowers clustering down their stalks.
And disappointment and bitterness cut deep into the young heart. As the
flowers were dying, she was ripening for the winter of life.
So they disappeared up the avenue. But the empty chair remained standing
in the half-withered summer-house, while the wind busied itself afresh
in piling up the leaves in a little cairn.
And in the course of time we all come--each in his turn--to seat
ourselves on the empty chair in a corner of the garden and gaze on a
little cairn of withered leaves.--
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
Since it is not only entertaining in itself, but also consonant with use
and wont, to be in love; and since in our innocent and moral society,
one can so much the more safely indulge in these amatory diversions
as one runs no risk of being disturbed either by vigilant fathers or
pugnacious brothers; and, finally, since one can as easily get out of
as get into our peculiarly Norwegian form of betrothal--a half-way
house between marriage and free board in a good family--all these things
considered I say, it was not wonderful that Cousin Hans felt profoundly
unhappy. For he was not in the least in love.
He had long lived in expectation of being seized by a kind of delirious
ecstasy, which, if experienced people are to be trusted, is the
infallible symptom of true love. But as nothing of the sort had
happened, although he was already in his second year at college, he said
to himself: “After all, love is a lottery if you want to win, you must
at least table your stake. ‘Lend Fortune a helping hand,’ as they say in
the lottery advertisements.”
He looked about him diligently, and closely observed his own heart.
Like a fisher who sits with his line around his forefinger, watching for
the least jerk, and wondering when the bite will come, so Cousin Hans
held his breath whenever he saw a young lady, wondering whether he was
now to feel that peculiar jerk which is well known to be inseparable
from true love--that jerk which suddenly makes all the blood rush to the
heart, and then sends it just as suddenly up into the head, and makes
your face flush red to the very roots of your hair.
But never a bite came. His hair had long ago flushed red to the roots,
for Cousin Hans’s hair could not be called brown; but his face remained
as pale and as long as ever.
The poor fisherman was growing quite weary, when he one day strolled
down to the esplanade. He seated himself on a bench and observed, with
a contemptuous air, a squad of soldiers engaged in the invigorating
exercise of standing on one leg in the full sunshine, and wriggling
their bodies so as to be roasted on both sides.
“Nonsense!” [Note: The English word is used in the original] said Cousin
Hans, indignantly; “it’s certainly too dear a joke for a little country
like ours to maintain acrobats of that sort. Didn’t I see the other
day that this so-called army requires 1500 boxes of shoe-blacking, 600
curry-combs, 3000 yards of gold-lace and 8640 brass buttons?--It would
be better if we saved what we spend in gold-lace and brass buttons, and
devoted our half-pence to popular enlightenment,” said Cousin Hans.
For he was infected by the modern ideas, which are unfortunately
beginning to make way among us, and which will infallibly end in
overthrowing the whole existing fabric of society.
“Good-bye, then, for the present,” said a lady’s voice close behind him.
“Good-bye for the present, my dear,” answered a deep, masculine voice.
Cousin Hans turned slowly, for it was a warm day. He discovered a
military-looking old man in a close-buttoned black coat, with an order
at his buttonhole, a neck-cloth twisted an incredible number of times
around his throat, a well-brushed hat, and light trousers. The gentleman
nodded to a young lady, who went off towards the town, and then
continued his walk along the ramparts.
Weary of waiting as he was, Cousin Hans could not help following the
young girl with his eyes as she hastened away. She was small and trim,
and he observed with interest that she was one of the few women who do
not make a little inward turn with the left foot as they lift it from
the ground.
This was a great merit in the young man’s eyes; for Cousin Hans was one
of those sensitive, observant natures who are alone fitted really to
appreciate a woman at her full value.
After a few steps the lady turned, no doubt in order to nod once again
to the old officer; but by the merest chance her eyes met those of
Cousin Hans.
At last occurred what he had so long been expecting: he felt the bite!
His blood rushed about just in the proper way, he lost his breath, his
head became hot, a cold shiver ran down his back, and he grew moist
between the fingers. In short, all the symptoms supervened which,
according to the testimony of poets and experienced prose-writers,
betoken real, true, genuine love.
There was, indeed, no time to be lost. He hastily snatched up his
gloves, his stick, and his student’s cap, which he had laid upon the
bench, and set off after the lady across the esplanade and towards the
town.
In the great, corrupt communities abroad this sort of thing is not
allowable. There the conditions of life are so impure that a well-bred
young man would never think of following a reputable woman. And the few
reputable women there are in those nations, would be much discomposed to
find themselves followed.
But in our pure and moral atmosphere we can, fortunately, permit our
young people somewhat greater latitude, just on account of the strict
propriety of our habits.
Cousin Hans, therefore, did not hesitate a moment in obeying the voice
of his heart; and the young lady, who soon observed what havoc she had
made with the glance designed for the old soldier, felt the situation
piquant and not unpleasing.
The passers-by, who, of course, at once saw what was going on (be it
observed that this is one of the few scenes of life in which the leading
actors are quite unconscious of their audience), thought, for the most
part, that the comedy was amusing to witness. They looked round and
smiled to themselves; for they all knew that either it would lead
to nothing, in which case it was only the most innocent of youthful
amusements; or it would lead to an engagement, and an engagement is the
most delightful thing in the world.
While they thus pursued their course at a fitting distance, now on the
same sidewalk and now on opposite sides of the street, Cousin Hans had
ample time for reflection.
As to the fact of his being in love he was quite clear. The symptoms
were all there; he knew that he was in for it, in for real, true,
genuine, love; and he was happy in the knowledge. Yes, so happy was
Cousin Hans that he, who at other times was apt to stand upon his
rights, accepted with a quiet, complacent smile all the jostlings and
shoves, the smothered objurgations and other unpleasantnesses, which
inevitably befall any one who rushes hastily along a crowded street,
keeping his eyes fixed upon an object in front of him.
No--the love was obvious, indubitable. That settled, he tried to
picture to himself the beloved one’s, the heavenly creature’s, mundane
circumstances. And there was no great difficulty in that; she had been
walking with her old father, had suddenly discovered that it was past
twelve o’clock, and had hastily said good-bye for the present, in order
to go home and see to the dinner. For she was doubtless domestic, this
sweet creature, and evidently motherless.
The last conjecture was, perhaps, a result of the dread of
mothers-in-law inculcated by all reputable authors; but it was none the
less confident on that account. And now it only remained for Cousin Hans
to discover, in the first place, where she lived, in the second place
who she was, and in the third place how he could make her acquaintance.
Where she lived he would soon learn, for was she not on her way home?
Who she was, he could easily find out from the neighbors. And as for
making her acquaintance--good heavens! is not a little difficulty an
indispensable part of a genuine romance?
Just as the chase was at its height, the quarry disappeared into a
gate-way; and it was really high time, for, truth to tell, the hunter
was rather exhausted.
He read with a certain relief the number, “34,” over the gate, then went
a few steps farther on, in order to throw any possible observer off the
scent, and stopped beside a street-lamp to recover his breath. It was,
as aforesaid, a warm day; and this, combined with his violent emotion,
had thrown Hans into a strong perspiration. His toilet, too, had been
disarranged by the reckless eagerness with which he had hurled himself
into the chase.
He could not help smiling at himself, as he stood and wiped his face and
neck, adjusted his necktie, and felt his collar, which had melted on the
sunny side. But it was a blissful smile, he was in that frame of mind
in which one sees, or at any rate apprehends, nothing of the external
world; and he said to himself, half aloud, “Love endures everything,
accepts everything.”
“And perspires freely,” said a fat little gentleman whose white
waistcoat suddenly came within Cousin Hans’s range of vision.
“Oh, is that you, uncle?” he said, a little abashed.
“Of course it is,” answered Uncle Frederick. “I’ve left the shady side
of the street expressly to save you from being roasted. Come along with
me.”
Thereupon he tried to drag his nephew with him, but Hans resisted. “Do
you know who lives at No. 34, uncle?”
“Not in the least; but do let us get into the shade,” said Uncle
Frederick; for there were two things he could not endure: heat and
laughter--the first on account of his corpulence, and the second on
account of what he himself called “his apoplectic tendencies.”
“By-the-bye,” he said, when they reached the cool side of the street,
and he had taken his nephew by the arm, “now that I think of it, I do
know, quite well, who lives in No. 34; it’s old Captain Schrappe.”
“Do you know him?” asked Cousin Hans, anxiously.
“Yes, a little, just as half the town knows him, from having seen him on
the esplanade, where he walks every day.”
“Yes, that was just where I saw him,” said his nephew. “What an
interesting old gentleman he looks. I should like so much to have a talk
with him.”
“That wish you can easily gratify,” answered Uncle Frederick. “You need
only place yourself anywhere on the ramparts and begin drawing lines in
the sand, then he’ll come to you.”
“Come to you?” said Cousin Hans.
“Yes, he’ll come and talk to you. But you must be careful: he’s
dangerous.”
“Eh?” said Cousin Hans.
“He was once very nearly the end of me.”
“Ah!” said Cousin Hans.
“Yes, with his talk, you understand.”
“Oh?” said Cousin Hans.
“You see, he has two stories,” continued Uncle Frederick, “the one,
about a sham fight in Sweden, is a good half-hour long. But the other,
the battle of Waterloo, generally lasts from an hour and a half to two
hours. I have heard it three times.” And Uncle Frederick sighed deeply.
“Are they so very tedious, then, these stories? asked Cousin Hans.
“Oh, they’re well enough for once in a way,” answered his uncle, “and if
you should get into conversation with the captain, mark what I tell you:
If you get off with the short story, the Swedish one, you have nothing
to do but alternately to nod and shake your head. You’ll soon pick up
the lay of the land.”
“The lay of the land?” said Cousin Hans.
“Yes, you must know that he draws the whole manoeuvre for you in the
sand; but it’s easy enough to understand if only you keep your eye on A
and B. There’s only one point where you must be careful not to put your
foot in it.”