Dry Fish and Wet Part 2

"My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my friend, this n.o.ble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us like a vision from another world--a visitor from the lower regions, so to speak (Hear!)--him we acclaim, by all the G.o.ds of ancient myth, by the deities of the upper and the nether world--steady, boys--not to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me see). 'My father was a----' something or other. Anyhow, never mind.

To come to the point, we, er--raise our gla.s.ses now in honour of this revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. _Skaal!_"

The speech was received with general acclamation.

Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could hardly open the campaign at such a moment with a sermon; mechanically he took the gla.s.s offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his lips than he asked in astonishment:

"When--where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping for my jubilee in the business--all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I must say!"

He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.

"These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and patron----" began Frantz sententiously.

"Oh, stop that nonsense, do," growled Holm. And, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining-room and hid it behind the sofa.

"Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are you?" whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck.

"I'm not bad-tempered--I'm angry."

"Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?"

Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to stay up with them?

"Shall I sing to you, papa?"

"Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not."

"But what's the matter? What's it all about?"

"What's the matter--good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that enough?"

"Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use.

You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur of the moment; it was simply lovely."

She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the others were still in the drawing-room.

"Lovely, was it, little one?" said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice.

"Yes, papa--oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer--there, you can see, the tall thin man in gla.s.ses--he said I had a beautiful voice--beautiful!"

"Don't you believe it, my child."

"What--when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy--and now you come and...." She stood up and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Just then William came in.

"Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?"

"Papa--papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said--that I'd a beautiful voice. Ugh--it's always like that at home--it's _miserable_." She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her face in her hands.

"Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go out into the world with." And William stalked off in dudgeon.

Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh, these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now.

And Marie--he was always helpless where she was concerned. He was sorry now he had not brought her up differently. But he had never said an unkind word to her--how could he, to a sweet little thing like that? Only last year she had nursed him herself for three weeks, when he was at death's door with inflammation of the lungs; that girl, that girl! He went over to the sofa and put his arms round her.

"There, there, little one, it's not so bad as all that."

"Hu--hu--hu--I didn't know--I didn't know about the old Madeira. It was me--hu--hu--that brought it up."

"Well, well, never mind about the Madeira, child. We can get some more; only don't cry now."

She turned towards him.

"Then you're not angry with me any more, papa?" "No, no, child.

There--now go in and enjoy yourself again."

"Oh, but it's so horrid, papa--I'm sure the others must have noticed us."

Just then William came in and reported that the scene had made a painful impression on the guests; Strom, the composer, and Berg, the sculptor, were for going off at once, and were only with difficulty persuaded to stay.

Holm did not know what to say to this; the transition from accuser to accused was too sudden.

"Couldn't you make us some punch, father; it would sort of set things right again if you were to come marching in yourself with a big bowl of punch."

"Punch? H'm--well--I could, of course, but then..."

"Oh yes, that lovely punch, papa, you know, with champagne and hock and curacao in--and all the rest of it."

"Well, I suppose I must. Now that I have once got into all this--this artist business, why..." And off he went for the key of the cellar.

No sooner was he out of the room than William burst out laughing.

"Oh, Marie, you are the most irresistible little devil that ever lived." And he waltzed her round and round.

"Well, it wanted some doing to-day, William, I can tell you. I was half afraid I shouldn't manage it after all. As it was, I had to cry before he'd come round."

"First-rate. Woman's tears are the finest weapon ever invented--and punch on top of all--bravo! Come along, we must go and prepare the rest of the band for what's coming."

Out in the kitchen, Holm was busy over a punch bowl, solemnly stirring the brew and dropping in slices of lemon one by one.

"I am an old fool, I know, to let them get round me as they do. H'm.

And the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. We shall have to come to a proper understanding some time; it can't go on like this...."

"Papa, are you nearly ready?"

"Coming, coming, dear, in a minute. Open the door, there's a good girl."

The entry of the host with a bowl of punch was the signal for a general demonstration of delight. Frantz Pettersen promptly sat down at the piano and started off, the rest of the party accompanying with anything they could lay hands on. One had a pair of fire tongs, one beat a bra.s.s tray, one rang a couple of gla.s.ses against each other, and so on. The words were something like this:

"Our host he is a lasting joy, A perfect Pa for girl and boy, A perfect Pa, hurray, hurrah, Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!