Peter Oiland

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Title:     Peter Oiland
Author: Anthon B. E. Nilsen [More Titles by Nilsen]

Peter Oiland, the new master at the girls' school in Strandvik, was a tall, thin man of about thirty. He had taken a theological degree, and his solemn, clean face gave him a somewhat clerical air; his manner, too, appeared calm and reserved.

"Not much fun to be got out of him, by his looks," said Old Nick, the first time he encountered Peter Oiland's lanky figure and serious countenance on his way up through the town.

It was not from any predilection of his own, however, that Peter Oiland had come to study theology, but a result of circumstances which left him no choice in the matter. His studies had been carried through at the expense of an old uncle, who was parish clerk at Sandefjord, and whose dearest wish it was to see the boy in Holy Orders. Only fancy; to be handing the cassock to a nephew of his own.

Peter, then, had taken his degree accordingly, and endeavoured conscientiously to suit himself as far as possible to the clerical rôle for which he was cast in life; how he succeeded we shall presently see.

His quiet and sober dignity of manner gained him the entry to the Sukkestads' house, where he was soon a frequent guest; not that he found himself particularly attracted by Sukkestad and his wife, or their severely earnest circle of friends. The attraction, in fact, was Andrea, the daughter of the house and only child, for whom he entertained the tenderest feeling. Andrea was a buxom, pink-and-white beauty of eighteen summers. Her light blue eyes and little stumpy nose were quite charming in their way, while the plait of long, fair hair over the shoulders gave her an air of childish innocence.

In a word, Peter Oiland was desperately in love, while Andrea, who had never before been the object of such attentions, began to lie awake at nights wondering whether he "really meant it." The solution, however, came quite naturally.

Andrea played the piano, and sang touching little songs of the sentimental type, such as "When my eyes are closing," "The Last Rose of Summer," or "The Deserted Cottage"--which transported Peter Oiland to the eighth heaven at least. One evening, when she had finished one of her usual turns, he took her hand and thanked her warmly, pressing it also quite perceptibly--and Andrea, well, she somehow managed to press his quite perceptibly in return--by accident, of course. And then these hand-clasps were repeated, nay, became a regular thing, to such an extent that the pair would press each other's hands when seated on the sofa with Mamma Sukkestad between them. That good lady, however, did not notice, or affected not to notice, these evidences of tender passion taking place behind her back.

Thanks to his intimacy with Sukkestad, and also to his own reputation as a sober and earnest man, Peter Oiland was chosen, after only a couple of months' residence in the place, as one of the two representatives of the town to attend the mission meeting at Stavanger. Sukkestad himself was the other.

On the evening before their departure, he was invited to a party at the Sukkestads', together with the members of the Women's Union.

Peter Oiland had already succeeded in making himself a special favourite with Mrs. Sukkestad, and was on very confidential terms with her; relations, indeed, became quite intimate, when Andrea confided the secret of their mutual feelings to her mother.

After supper, preserved fruit and pastry were handed round, which Peter Oiland inwardly considered a somewhat insipid form of entertainment. He had often felt the lack of a glass of grog on his visits to the house, and this evening he deftly turned the conversation with Mrs. Sukkestad to the subject of "colds," from which he declared himself to be suffering considerably just lately. Mrs. Sukkestad recommended hot turpentine bandages on the chest and barley water internally. Oiland, however, hinted that the only thing he had ever known to do him any good was egg punch. Mrs. Sukkestad, who was one of those stout little homely persons always anxious to help, and with a fine store of household recipes ever available, set to work at once to find some means of getting him his favourite medicine, while Peter coughed distressingly, and screwed up his eyes behind his glasses.

"I tell you what," whispered Mrs. Sukkestad at last. "Sukkestad is an abstainer, you know, so we've never anything in the way of spirits in the house as a rule. But I've half a bottle of brandy out in the pantry that I got last spring when I was troubled with the toothache; I was going to use it for cleaning the windows, really, but if you think it would do your cold any good, I'd be only too pleased."

"Thanks ever so much, it's awfully good of you," said Peter Oiland hoarsely.

"Well, then, be sure you don't let anyone know what it is. I'll put it in one of the decanters, and say it's gooseberry wine."

"Yes, yes, of course; I understand."

And, shortly after, Peter Oiland was comfortably seated in a corner with a lovely big glass of grog, enjoying himself thoroughly, and, to complete his satisfaction, Andrea sang:

"Thou art my one and only thought,
My one and only love...."

Peter drank deep of the joy of life, and eke of grog, and Andrea seemed more charming than ever.

Later in the evening he held forth to the ladies--among whom, as above mentioned, were all the members of the Women's Union--about the blacks of the South Sea Islands, and gave so lurid a description of the state of things there prevailing as to make his audience fairly shudder.

"And would you believe it, on one of the islands in the Pacific, a place called Kolamukka, belonging to Queen Rabagadale, they eat roast baby just as we do sucking pig, the only difference being that they don't serve them up with lemons in their mouths."

Sukkestad thought this was going rather too far, and broke in, "Oh, come now, Oiland; you're exaggerating, I'm sure. Thank goodness, all the poor heathens are not cannibals."

"Have to quote the worst examples, to make it properly interesting," said Oiland, which dictum was supported by Mrs. Writher, who declared that one could not paint these things too darkly; it was hard enough as it was to make people realise the dreadful state of those benighted creatures.

When the guests had left, Mrs. Sukkestad felt some qualms of conscience at the thought of having "served intoxicating liquors" in her house. She lay awake for hours, debating with herself whether she ought to confess at once to her husband. The excuse about having a cold was--well, rather poor after all. Suppose Oiland had a weakness, a leaning towards drink, and she had led him astray! His cough, too, had vanished so quickly, it was suspicious. However, she decided to say nothing for the present.

It was a fine, bright, sunny day when Sukkestad and Peter Oiland, as delegates from Strandvik to the meeting at Stavanger, stepped on board the coasting steamer, which was already half full of delegates with white neckerchiefs and broad-brimmed felt hats.

The smoke-room was thick with the fumes of cheap tobacco and a hum of quiet talk from decent folk in black Sunday coats and well-polished leg boots. A swarthy little commercial traveller, with a bright red tie and waxed moustache, sat squeezed up in a corner puffing at a "special" cigar with a coloured waistband.

Peter Oiland gave a formal greeting to the company assembled as he entered; those nearest politely made way for him.

"It's a hard life, teaching," observed a stout little man with a florid, clean-shaven face and glistening black hair brushed forward over his ears. "Tells on the nerves."

"You find it so?" put in Peter Oiland. "Well, now, it all depends on how you take it--as the young man said when he took a kiss in the dark."

There was a somewhat awkward silence; the company seemed rather in doubt as to the speaker's sympathy with their ideas.

Presently the sea began to make itself felt, and Peter Oiland found occasion to relate the anecdote of the old lady who had been in to Christiania for a new set of false teeth, and, being sea-sick on the way back, dropped them overboard; next day the local papers had an account of a big cod just caught, with false teeth in its mouth!

A smile--a very faint one--greeted the story, and the passengers relapsed into their customary seriousness, not without occasional glances between one and another: what sort of a fellow was this they had got on board?

"H'm!" thought Peter Oiland. "Have another try; wake them up a bit. Must be a queer sort of party if I can't."

Just then Sukkestad appeared in the doorway.

"This way, this way, if you please," shouted Peter gaily. "Gentlemen, my friend and colleague, Bukkestad--beg pardon, Sukkestad; slip of the tongue, you understand. Come along in, old man! Jolly evening we had at your place last night--first-rate fun."

Sukkestad did not know whether to laugh or cry, or take himself off and have done with it. The fellow must be mad!

The commercial, who had been hiding his face behind an old newspaper, burst out laughing, and hurried out on deck.

Peter Oiland settled his glasses on his nose, and went on:

"Smart lot of ladies you'd got hold of, too, Sukkestad; quite the up-to-date sort--eh, what? Ah, you're the man for the girls, no doubt about that."

"Really, Mr. Oiland, I don't know what you mean. Party--girls--I never heard of such a thing."

Peter then fell to telling stories, in the course of which one after another of the delegates disappeared. When he came to the story of the clerk who handed the parson his cassock with the words: "Tch! steady, old hoss, till I get your harness on," the last one left the room; no one was left now but the little commercial, who had found his way back again, and was thoroughly enjoying it all. The sea was calm now, and the moon was up, so the pair seated themselves on deck. And in the course of the evening the delegates below, endeavouring to get to sleep in their respective berths, were entertained by a series of drinking-songs much favoured by the wilder youth of the universities, Peter Oiland singing one part and the commercial traveller the other.

The pair were so pleased with each other's company that the commercial, whose name was Klingenstein--"Goloshes and rubber goods," decided not to land at Arendal as he had intended, but to go on to Stavanger instead. Peter Oiland recommended this course, as offering, perhaps--who could say--an opportunity for getting into touch with the South Sea Islands, and selling goloshes to the heathen.

"As a matter of fact," Peter added, "I know a man in Stavanger who lived some years on one of the South Sea Islands, personal friend of Queen Nabagadale; useful man to know." There was then every reason to believe that Klingenstein might open up a new market in elastic stockings and such like.

The moon went down about midnight, and Peter Oiland thought he might as well do likewise. Thoroughly pleased with himself and all the world, he went below and found his way to his cabin. The upper berth was occupied by a man in a big woollen nightcap. "Evening!" said Peter in the friendliest tone, as he sat down to take off his boot.

"Sir," said the gentleman in the nightcap, "permit me to observe that you might have a little consideration for people who wish to rest."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said Peter. "But what's the matter? Can't you get to sleep? Awful nuisance, insomnia, I know."

"Well, when people are so tactless as to sit up on deck just over one's head, stamping and shouting out ribald songs...."

But before his indignant fellow-passenger could finish his sentence, Peter Oiland was in his berth and snoring--snoring so emphatically, indeed, that he of the nightcap, after having listened to this new melody for three solid hours, got up in despair and went off to lie down on a sofa in the saloon.

Peter Oiland slept like a mummy till ten o'clock next morning, not even waking when the steamer touched at her two ports of call.

Coming on deck, he could not fail to perceive that the other delegates were somewhat cold and reserved in their manner towards him, while as for Sukkestad, he had retired to an obscure corner of the second-class quarters.

"Poor fellow, he's not used to travelling," thought Peter Oiland. "I must go and cheer him up a bit." And he went across to Sukkestad and asked if he didn't feel like something to eat.

Sukkestad was not inclined to be friendly at first, but Oiland took no heed; on the contrary, he took his reluctant colleague by the arm and dragged him off, willy nilly, to the dining-saloon. There was an excellent spread, hot and cold meats, and Peter Oiland's heart warmed at the sight.

Klingenstein was already seated and hard at work on the viands, with serviette tucked under his chin; he rose, however, and bowed in fine style as Oiland made the introduction: "Mr. Krickke--beg pardon, Sukkestad--Mr. Vingentein--er, I should say, Klingenstein." The two new acquaintances looked at one another rather blankly for a moment, then both stared at Oiland, who, however, appeared entirely unconcerned, and fell to with excellent appetite upon a generous helping of steak and onions.

Oiland ordered a bottle of beer and a schnapps, whereat Sukkestad shook his head mournfully, and inquired whether he really thought that was good for his health. Oiland, however, declared it was good for sea-sickness, and he never felt easy on board ship without it.

Sukkestad grew thoughtful. What would happen when they got to Stavanger? He wished he could get out of it somehow, and go back home again.

At last the voyage was over, the two delegates went ashore and put up at the Hotel Norge.

The first thing Sukkestad noticed, on coming down into the hall, was the name "Plukkestad" written on the board against the number of his room. This was too much; he rubbed out the offending letters with his own hand, and wrote instead, with emphatic distinction, "C. A. Sukkestad." He strongly suspected Oiland of being the culprit; he had gone downstairs a few minutes before, but having no proof he preferred to say nothing about it.

Sukkestad was now thoroughly ill at ease; his one constant thought was to find himself safely home again without any scandal. He saw little of Oiland the first day; the schoolmaster had hired a carriage and set off round the town to see the sights. In the evening, Oiland asked how the meeting had gone off that day, and if anyone had noticed his absence. Sukkestad answered emphatically, "No," inwardly hoping that Peter would not appear at the meetings still to come.

"Well, I think I've seen about all there is to see in this old place--Harbour, Cathedral, Town Hall, Mirror House, and statues of famous men--done it pretty thoroughly, I should say."

At the meeting on the following day Peter turned up, and astonished the assembly by delivering a long harangue on "The Civilising Influence of Missionary Work." Sukkestad nearly fainted.

Peter's speech produced a great effect, the listeners growing more and more interested as he went on. "Who is he--what's his name? You've got a regular speaker there, Sukkestad." Sukkestad was utterly at a loss, but vowed never again to expose himself to such surprises, either of one sort or the other.

At last the conference was ended, and the two delegates from Strandvik set out for home.

It was with great relief that Sukkestad found himself on board the steamer; Peter might do what he pleased now, for all he cared. As it turned out, however, Peter was amiability itself towards his travelling companion, though the latter did not seem to appreciate his attention, but endeavoured to keep to himself--a matter of some difficulty on board a small steamboat. An hour before they got in to Strandvik, Oiland came up to him and begged the favour of a "serious word" with him. Sukkestad wondered what on earth was coming, as the other took him by the arm and dragged him off to the forepart of the ship.

"I have had the pleasure of being a frequent guest in your house," Peter began, buttonholing Sukkestad as if to make sure he did not escape.

"I shouldn't have thought it could be any pleasure to you," put in Sukkestad dryly.

"It has indeed, my dear fellow; and I have the more reason to say so, since your daughter Andrea----"

"What?"

"Forgive my saying so, Mr. Sukkestad, but your daughter has made a deep impression on me."

"Really, Mr. Oiland, this...." Sukkestad trembled at what was to come.

"A deep impression on me. And I think I may venture to say that she herself----"

"Pardon me, Mr. Oiland. My daughter has no feelings in any matter before consulting her father's wishes."

"Oh, but she has, my dear father-in-law, I assure you."

"Father-in-law Mr. Oiland, this is most unseemly jesting." Sukkestad tried to break away, but Peter held him fast.

"But, my dear sir, what objection can you have to the match? We've always got on splendidly together, and I'm sure this present voyage, and our little adventures on the way, will always be among our most cherished memories--won't they, now?"

"Oh, this is too much! I would recommend you, Mr. Oiland----"

"Most kind of you. I was sure you would. And I'm quite an eligible suitor, really, you know. Got my degree--rather low on the list, I confess, but, anyhow.... I ought to tell you, though, that I don't propose to enter the Church."

"Something to be thankful for at least," said Sukkestad.

"So glad you agree with me. Delighted, really. Well, my dear fellow, I can understand you're a little overwhelmed just at the moment, but we can settle the details when we're at home and at leisure. We're agreed on the essential point, so that's all right."

Oiland let go his hold, and Sukkestad hurried off to his cabin and began getting his things together in feverish haste. What, give his daughter, his only child, to a fellow like that? Never!

They got in without further event, and parted on the quay, Oiland shaking hands fervently with a hearty "Thanks for your pleasant company," while Sukkestad murmured absently: "Not at all, not at all."

Sukkestad had hardly got inside the house when Andrea came rushing up to him. "Oh, wasn't it a lovely speech of Oiland's? The parson's just been in and told us; simply splendid, he says it was."

"Well, my child, that's a matter of opinion."

"Oh, father, you're always so severe," said Andrea, turning away with tears in her eyes.

A quarter of an hour later Sukkestad and his wife were unpacking in the bedroom, and a serious conference took place between the two. He recounted Oiland's behaviour on the voyage. "And I do hope things haven't gone so far between them as he says," observed Sukkestad sternly, with a meaning glance at his wife. The latter turned away, wiping her eyes on a corner of her apron, and sniffing the while. "Marie, you don't mean to say you've been a party to it yourself?"

"I--yes--no, that is---- Oh, don't be angry with me. I did think he was such a nice man, really I did."

"Well, we must see what can be done," said Sukkestad.

That evening it was decided that Andrea should be sent as a Warder to the Moravian Mission at Kristiansfeldt.

Andrea wept bitterly, but to no purpose; she had to go, whether she liked it or not.

Peter Oiland came several times to the house, but got no farther than the doorstep; the maid invariably greeted him with the words: "Mr. Sukkestad's compliments, sir, but he's not at home."

On the occasion of his last attempt before Andrea's departure, he had just got out of the gate when he heard the drawing-room window open, and Andrea's well-known voice singing:

"Thou are my one and only thought,
My one and only love...."

He stopped and looked up, but saw only the stern countenance of Papa Sukkestad hastily closing the window, and the music ceased abruptly.

It was quite enough for Peter, however, and he walked home gaily, confident now that all would go well.

Andrea went off without having spoken to Oiland, but the post was busy between Strandvik and Kristiansfeldt, for letters passed daily either way--while Mrs. Sukkestad went about complaining that Andrea never wrote home.

[The end]
Anthon B. E. Nilsen's short story: Peter Oiland

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