BY ALEXANDER LANGE KIELLAND
Translated by Leonora Teller.
There was once upon a time in Kraruper Inn a maiden named Karen. She attended to the serving of the guests herself, for the landlady lived among her pots and pans in the kitchen. And many people came to Kraruper Inn—neighbors who collected there when the autumn evenings began to darken and sat in the warm room, and drank unlimited quantities of coffee punch. Travelers and wanderers, too, who came in blue with cold, stamping their feet and calling for something hot, that would enable them to reach the next station.
Karen went about silently, without haste, serving each in his turn. She was small and delicate, only a child, earnest and reserved, and the young fellows did not notice her. But she was very dear to the older customers, to whom a visit to the Inn was an event of importance. She prepared their coffee quickly, and served it seven times hot. When she moved about among the guests with her waiter the burly, coarsely dressed men stood aside and made place for her, and every one looked admiringly after her. Karen had great, gray eyes that took in everything, and seemed to look far, far away, and her eyebrows were arched in surprise and wonder. Strangers thought she did not understand their orders; but Karen heard it all, and made never a mistake. She had a way all her own, whether she gazed off into the distance, or listened, or waited, or dreamed. The west wind blew strong; it threw up long, heavy waves from the west sea. Salt and damp, with froth and foam it threw them on the sands. But when the wind reached Kraruper Inn it had only strength enough left to tear open the stable door, and then that which connected the kitchen with the stable. It burst in, filled the space, swung the lantern that hung from the roof back and forth; tore off the hostler’s cap and rolled it out into the darkness; threw the horses’ blankets over their heads, and finally blew a white hen from her perch into the water trough. The hen squawked frightfully, the hostler swore, the chickens cackled. The kitchen was full of smoke; the horses grew restless and beat sparks of fire from the stones with their hoofs. Even the ducks which were gathered quacking together near the manger to be at hand when the oats were scattered, began to chatter, and through it all the wind roared fearfully. At last two men came out of the inn parlor and, putting their broad backs against the door, pushed it shut, while a shower of sparks rained from their pipes over their dark beards. Having done all the mischief possible the wind fled back over the plain, crossed the great pond, and shook the mail coach that rolled majestically along about half a mile from the inn.
“What terrible haste he always makes to reach Kraruper Inn,” muttered the postilion, Anders, cracking his whip over the smoking horses. For the twentieth time the conductor had let down the window to call to him. At first it had been a friendly invitation to take a coffee punch with him, then little by little the good-nature disappeared. Finally the window went down with a bang, and remarks far from conciliating were showered on driver and horses.
The wind swept low on the ground, and long, mysterious sighs murmured through the heather bushes. The moon was full, but thick clouds obscured its light. Behind Kraruper Inn lay the gloomy moor, covered by black heaps of peat and deep, treacherous holes. And between the heather bushes wound a strip of grass that looked like a path, but it was no path, for it came to a sudden end at the brink of a hole deeper than the others, and filled with water. In the grass a sleek fox crouched and waited, and a hare hopped softly over the plain. The fox could reckon with certainty that the hare would not make a long circuit so late in the evening. He stretched out a cautious nose, and, as he sniffed in the direction of the wind and sought a secure post of observation, he thought how wise foxes always were and how stupid the hares.
Yonder in the inn there was an unusual commotion. A couple of traveling men had ordered roast hare. The landlord had gone to an auction at Thisted, and his wife was used only to the responsibilities of her kitchen. Now it happened unfortunately that the Advocate would speak with the host on business, and because he was not at home the good woman must listen to a long speech and take charge of an important letter, a proceeding that sadly disturbed her composure. A stranger, who was waiting for a bottle of soda water, stood by the stove in greasy sailor clothes. Two fish pedlers had three times ordered brandy for their coffee. The stable boy stood with an empty lantern and waited for a candle, and a tall, rough farmer followed Karen with longing eyes—she owed him change for a crown he had just given her. Karen came and went without haste, without error. One would hardly imagine she could attend to so many things at once. The great eyes and the high arched brows were full of wonder and expectation. The fine little head was held straight and still. If she would make no mistakes she must keep her thoughts collected. Her blue woolen dress was too small for her. The tight neckband wrinkled her flesh just under the hair. “The maiden from Agger has a white skin,” said one fish pedler to the other. They were young people and spoke of Karen as connoisseurs.
Some one stood near the window, and looking at the clock said: “The post is early to-night.” It rattled over the pavement, the doors were thrown open, and the wind blew the smoke from the stove. Karen entered from the kitchen just as the conductor stepped into the door and greeted the company with a hearty “Good evening!” He was a tall, handsome man, with dark eyes, a crisp brown beard framed his face, and curly brown hair covered his small head. His long heavy mantle of beautiful red royal Danish cloth was trimmed with black fur, and hung from his shoulders. The entire light of the two dim paraffin lamps that were suspended from the wall over the table centred itself on this spot of glorious crimson, as if it loved it, and left all the black and gray of the room to grow still grayer and blacker. And the tall figure with the fine, dark curly head, the long folds of the crimson cloak shone like a very marvel of splendor and color.
Karen came in quickly from the kitchen with her waiter. She bent her head so no one could see her face, as she hastened from one guest to the other. She set the roast hare before the fish pedlers, and brought the commercial traveler, who sat in an adjacent room, the bottle of soda water. She gave the anxious farmer a tallow candle, and, slipping to the stranger by the stove, she thrust the change from the crown in his hand.
The hostess was in the deepest despair. Everything had gone wrong in her kitchen. She had lost the advocate’s letter, and boundless confusion filled the inn. The traveler pounded the table with the bell loudly; the fish pedlers laughed until they were half dead over the hares spread before them; the bewildered farmer tapped the landlady on the shoulder with the candle and puffed himself out like a turkey cock.
And amid all this maddening confusion Karen had disappeared. The postilion Anders sat on the driver’s seat; the stable boy stood ready to open the door; the travelers in the mail coach were impatient and so were the horses, although they had nothing pleasant to look forward to, and the wind still rattled and whistled through the stable. At last the conductor, whom they all awaited, came. He carried his mantle over his arm as he stepped into the coach and excused his delay with a few curt words. He laughed to himself as he drew his cloak about him and took his seat. The door was closed; the mail coach rolled on. Anders let the horses trot gently, now there was no more need of haste. From time to time he glanced slyly at the conductor, who still laughed to himself, while the wind ruffled his hair. The postilion laughed, too. He suspected something. The wind followed the coach to a turn in the road, then threw itself again over the plain and sighed mysteriously through the heather bushes.
The fox lay at his post. All was ready now, the hare must soon come. Yonder at the inn harmony was restored, the anxious farmer was relieved of his candle, and received his change, and the travelers consumed their hare. The hostess complained a little, but she did not blame Karen. No one in all the world had ever scolded Karen. Quietly, unconsciously she hastened from one to the other, and the serene satisfaction that always followed her footsteps spread through the cozy half-dark inn parlor.
The two fish peddlers that had ordered a second cup of cognac and coffee, to follow the first, were specially pleased with her. A soft pink flush rested on her pale cheek, the glimmer of a smile on her lip, and once when she raised her eyes their light was dazzling. When she felt the men’s eyes followed her she went into the next room where the travelers sat, pretending that she wanted some teaspoons from the cupboard. “Did you notice the conductor?” asked one of them.
“No; not till he went out. He left very quickly,” answered the other with his mouth full of roast hare.
“A devilish handsome fellow. I attended his wedding.”
“So, is he married?”
“Yes, indeed; his wife is the daughter of the landlord at Ulstrup, and I got there the night of the wedding. That was a jolly time, I assure you. They have two children, I believe.”
Karen dropped the teaspoons and went out. She heard nothing that was called after her from the inn. She went across the court to her room and began mechanically to make her bed. Her eyes stared into the darkness. She pressed her hands to her head, to her breast; she groaned. She could comprehend nothing—nothing! She heard the landlady’s complaining voice: “Karen, dear Karen!” it called. She ran out across the court, behind the inn, across the moor.
The winding strip of grass glimmered in the half-light as if it were a path, but it was no path. No one dared to follow it, for it led abruptly to the brink of the great pond. The hare quickened his steps. He heard a rustling. He gave long jumps as if he were mad to escape; not knowing what he feared, he fled over the plain. The fox stretched out his sharp nose and stared in surprise at the hare. He had heard nothing. According to the instincts of his kind he had crouched there in the hollow—he was conscious of no error. He could not understand the action of the hare. He stood long with outstretched head and slinking body. His bushy tail was hid by the heather bushes, and he began to wonder if foxes were getting duller or hares wiser. But when the west wind had run its long course it turned into a north wind, and then into an east wind, and then into the south wind, and at last came back over the sea as the west wind again, threw itself upon the dunes, and long, mysterious sighs moaned through the heather bushes.
But there were wanting in Kraruper Inn two wondering gray eyes, a little blue woolen gown that had grown too small, and the hostess complained more than ever. She could not understand it at all. No one could understand it, save the postilion Anders, and one other!