Norway -- Fiction; Norwegian fiction -- Translations into English
Downcast and discouraged both, we tramped on till we came to the post.
“You're not going up, are you?” I asked.
“You can go yourself,” said Falkenberg sourly. “Here, take your rags of
things.”
But a little way farther on he slackened his pace, and muttered:
“It's a wicked shame to throw away a chance like that. Why, it's just
cut out for us as it is.”
“Well, then, why don't you go up and pay them a call? Who knows, you
might be some relation after all.”
“I wish I'd thought to ask if he'd a nephew in America.”
“What then? Could you talk English to them if he had?”
“You mind your own business, and don't talk so much,” said Falkenberg.
“I don't see what you've got to brag about, anyway.”
He was nervous and out of temper, and began stepping out. Then suddenly
he stopped and said:
“I'll do it. Lend me that pipe of yours again. I won't light it.”
We walked up the hill, Falkenberg putting on mighty airs, pointing this
way and that with the pipe and criticizing the place. It annoyed me
somewhat to see him stalking along in that vainglorious fashion while I
carried the load. I said:
“Going to be a piano-tuner this time?”
“I think I've shown I can tune a piano,” he said shortly. “I am good for
that at any rate.”
“But suppose there's some one in the house knows all about it--Fruen,
for instance--and tries the piano after you've done?”
Falkenberg was silent. I could see he was growing doubtful again. Little
by little his lordly gait sank to a slouching walk.
“Perhaps we'd better not,” he said. “Here, take your pipe. We'll just go
up and simply ask for work.”
XV
As it happened, there was a chance for us to make ourselves useful the
moment we came on the place. They were getting up a new flagstaff, and
were short of hands. We set to work and got it up in fine style. There
was a crowd of women looking on from the window.
Was Captain Falkenberg at home?
No.
Or Fruen?
Fruen came out. She was tall and fair, and friendly as a young foal; and
she answered our greeting in the kindliest way.
Had she any work for us now?
“Well, I don't know. I don't think so really, not while my husband's
away.”
I had an idea she found it hard to say no, and touched my cap and was
turning away, not to trouble her any more. But she must have found
something strange about Falkenberg, coming up like that wearing
decent clothes, and with a man to carry his things; she looked at him
inquisitively and asked:
“What sort of work?”
“Any kind of outdoor work,” said Falkenberg. “We can take on hedging and
ditching, bricklayer's work....”
“Getting late in the year for that sort,” put in one of the men by the
flagstaff.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Fruen agreed. “I don't know.... Anyhow, it's
just dinner-time; if you'd like to go in and get something to eat
meanwhile. Such as it is.”
“Thank you kindly,” answered Falkenberg.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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