The Great Hunger

Chapter VII

“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.