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发帖数: 6791 | 1 There where good people walk, those are God's ways. | D*****r
发帖数: 6791 | 2 http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37726/37726-h/37726-h.htm
IN GOD'S WAY
SCHOOL-DAYS
I.
In the melting snow on the hill-side by the sea, in the last rays of the
evening sun, stood a boy of fourteen, awestruck. He looked toward the west,
out across the sea; he looked toward the east, over town and shore and the
broad hills; in the background still higher peaks rose far away in the clear
sky.
The storm had lasted a long time; it had been more terrible, too, than any
the old people could remember. In spite of the new dyke, many ships had been
driven ashore, and many had sunk. The telegraph brought news of wrecks all
along the coast, and close by here the herring-nets had been broken and
washed away, oars and anchors had disappeared; it was even feared that the
worst was not yet known.
It was but a few hours since a calm had set in, the storm had abated, the
gusts of wind ceased, all was over--all except the last low grumblings of
the storm.
But the sea was rebellious; it does not do to stir up the deep and then to
run away. Far off in the distance great sea-waves, higher than houses, came
rolling up in endless lines with foam-white crests and a crashing fall; the
dull, heavy thud was heard across the town and shore; it was like a piece of
land slipping away down into space.
Each time the waves at full height stormed the mountain, the spray was
dashed up to a monstrous height; from afar it seemed as though the great
white sea-monsters of the old legends were trying to land just at that very
spot. But a few salt splashes were all that reached the top; they stung the
boy's cheek as he stood there motionless.
As a rule it was only the very worst westerly storms that could dash the
spray so high; but now it had reached the top though the air was so calm. No
one but he had ever seen such a sight.
Away in the far west, sky and sea seemed melting into one in the glow of the
setting sun. It was like some golden realm of peace; and all the deep sea-
waves, with their white crests rolling up from as far as the eye could reach
, were like banished rebels; they came crowding onward, protesting, million-
mouthed.
The contrast of colouring was now at its height; no more blending of lights
and shades, not even a red shimmer made its way across. There was a rich,
warm glow, here a cold, blue-black lay over the sea and snowy coast; all
that could be seen of the town from the hill-side dwindled away and seemed
to grow less and less every time the boy turned to look inland. But each
time he looked he felt himself grow more restless and uneasy; surely that
was a bad sign; could more be going to happen? His imagination was startled,
and, tired as he was from want of sleep, he had no strength to fight
against this fear.
The splendour of the sky was disappearing, all the colour gradually fading
away. The roar from down below, where the sea-monsters were trying to climb,
grew louder and louder; or was it he who heard it more plainly?
Was this meant for him? What in the world had he been doing? Or was he going
to do something wrong? Once before the same vague fear had proved to be a
bad omen.
It was not the storm alone that had frightened him; a short time ago a lay
preacher had prophesied that the end of the world was at hand; all the signs
of the Bible had come to pass, and the prophecies of Jeremiah and Daniel
were clearly to be understood. It made such a sensation that the papers took
up the matter and announced that the same thing had been foretold so very
often before, and those prophecies of Jeremiah and Daniel were always suited
to the occasion. But when the hurricane came, and was fiercer and more
terrible than any that could be remembered; when ships loosed from their
moorings were driven up against the wharf, crushed themselves and crushing
others, and especially when night came on and shrouded everything in
darkness, and no lantern even could keep alight, ... the crashing fall of
the waves was heard but not seen, shouts of command, screamings and great
lamentations; and in the streets such terror, roofs were lifted right off,
houses shook, windows rattled, stones hurled about, and the distant screams
of those trying to escape only added to the fright, ... then, indeed, were
many who remembered the words of the preacher; God help and save us, surely
the last day has come and the stars are about to fall. The children
especially were frightened to death. The parents had not time to stay with
them; though the last day of the world had come, still there was a doubt as
to whether it really were the last day, and from sheer force of habit it was
thought wiser to look well after all worldly goods, so they saved what they
could, and put up bolts and bars, and ran to look to the fires, and were
busy everywhere. But to the children they gave prayer-books and psalm-books,
and told them to read what was written about earthquakes and other plagues,
and about the day of judgment; hurriedly they found the places for them,
and then ran and left them. As if the children could read then!
Some there were who went to bed and pulled the bedclothes over their heads;
some took their dog or cat with them--it was company for them, and they
would die together. But it happened sometimes that neither dog nor cat chose
to die under the bedclothes, so then there was a fight.
The boy who now stood up on the top of the hill had been absolutely crazy
with fear. But he was one of those whom fright drove about from place to
place--out of the house into the street, from the street down to the harbour
, and then back home again. No less than three times had his father been
after him, caught him and locked him in, but he always managed to get out
again. Now this was not the sort of thing that could have been done with
impunity in an ordinary way, for no boy was kept more strictly or got such
abundance of thrashings as Edward Kallem; but the one benefit the storm
brought was that there were no blows that night.
The night passed away, and the stars still shone clear until day dawned once
more, and the sun was as bright as ever; the storm died away and with it
all remains of fear.
But once one has been influenced by anything so terrifying there will ever
after be, as it were, a dread of the actual terror. Not only by night in
evil dreams, but by day when one fancies one's self safest, it lurks in our
imagination, ready to seize hold of us at the smallest provocation, and
devouring us with cunning eyes and bated breath drives us sometimes to
madness.
As the lad stood there he began to feel afraid of the deepening twilight and
the roar of the sea; and all at once a terrible fear came upon him, and all
the horrors of the last day began afresh. How could he have been so foolish
as to venture up there, and alone, too! He stood like one paralysed, he
dared not move one foot forward, it might be noticed, and he was surrounded
by enemies. He whispered a prayer to his dead mother that if this really
were the last day, and the resurrection set her free, she would come to him
up there and stay with him; not with his sister, for she had the headmaster
of the school to take care of her; but he was quite alone.
But all remained as before. Only toward the west it grew lighter, but darker
toward the east; the cold grew more intense and reigned supreme; but there
was a comforting feeling in the more equal size and monotony of all around.
By degrees he regained courage, and began to breathe more freely--timidly at
first, then a long-drawn breath several times; he began then to touch
himself all over very gently and cautiously, half afraid that those
invisible powers which were looking out for him might suspect some evil.
Softly he crept away from the edge of the precipice and drew nearer to the
downward path. He was not going to run away, oh dear no! He was not even
sure that he would go down; he might just try; certainly he would gladly
come again. But the descent just here was dangerous, and really ought to be
got over before dark, and at this time of year it got dark so very quickly.
If he could manage to climb down to the path that led across the mountain
from the fishing village down below, then there would be no danger; but up
here--well, he would go carefully, cautiously, one little step forward, then
another quite tiny little step. It was just a trial; he would be sure to
come again.
No sooner had he in this way clambered down the steepest and most dangerous
part of the descent, and stood where he felt himself protected from those
invisible powers he had been so anxiously capitulating with, than he set to
work to cheat them most thoroughly; down he fled, leaping and jumping,
bounding like an India-rubber ball from one piece of rock to another, till
suddenly he saw a pointed cap sticking up so far down below him that he
could only just distinguish it. In an instant he came to a dead stop! His
terror and flight, all he had just gone through vanished; not a shadow of it
remained. Now it was his turn to frighten others; and here came the very
boy he had been waiting for all the time. His excitement, his eyes, his
whole eager attitude showed how he delighted in the knowledge that the other
was coming within range. How he would give it him!
The other boy came climbing upward, little suspecting the danger that
awaited him; slowly he jogged along as if enjoying his liberty and solitude:
soon his heavy boots were heard with their iron heels clanking against the
stones.
A well-built lad he was, tall and fair, a year or so older than the one
awaiting him. He wore coarse cloth clothes, and a woollen scarf around his
neck; his hands were encased in thick, knitted gloves; he carried one of the
little wooden boxes generally used by the peasants; it was painted blue,
with white and yellow roses.
A great mystery was now going to be revealed. For many days the whole school
had been waiting, wondering with whom, and how and where this meeting would
take place, and when the important moment would arrive when Ole Tuft,
confronted by one of the school's most solemn police force would be obliged
to confess where he went to, and what he did in the afternoons and evenings.
Ole Tuft was the son and only child of a well-to-do peasant along the coast.
His father, who had been dead now a year, had been one of the most popular
lay preachers in all the West country, and had early determined that his son
should be a clergyman, that was why he went to the town-school. Ole was
clever, industrious, and so respectful to the masters that he soon was a
favourite with them all.
But no one can know a dog by his coat only. This most respectful and simple
lad began to disappear from the playground in the afternoons; he was not at
home (he lived with his aunt, his father's sister), and he was not at the
Schultzes, where he used to help two of the children with their lessons--he
always did that directly after dinner; neither was he at the head-master's,
which was the same as being with the master's adopted daughter, Josephine
Kallem, Edward's sister; Ole and she were always so much together. Sometimes
the other lads would see him go in there, but never come out again, and yet
they always found Josephine alone when they went in to look for him; for
they posted out sentinels, and the whole search was carried on most
methodically. They could track him as far as to the school-yard but no
farther--surely he could not have disappeared into the earth? They ransacked
the yard from one end to the other, every corner, every hiding-place was
visited over and over again; Josephine herself went about with the boys and
took them even up to the cock-loft, down into the cellar, and into every
room where none of the family were sitting, assuring them, on her word of
honour, that he was not there; but they could look for themselves. Where in
all the world was he then?
It so happened that the dux of the school had just won in a lottery "Les
trois Mousquetaires," by Alexandre Dumas the elder, a splendid book, with
illustrations; but as he soon discovered it was not the kind of book for so
learned a man as he, he offered it as a reward to that one of his school-
fellows who could find out where Ole Tuft went to, and what he did in the
afternoons and evenings. This seemed a very enticing offer to Edward Kallem;
he had always lived in Spain until about a year ago; he could read French
just as well as Norwegian, and he had heard that "Les trois Mousquetaires"
was the most splendid novel in the world. And now he stood sentinel for "Les
trois Mousquetaires." Hurrah for all the three! now they would be his.
Down he crept softly, softly, until he reached the path; the culprit was
close at hand.
There was something about Edward Kallem's head that made one think of a bird
of prey. The nose was like a beak; the eyes wild looking, partly from their
expression and partly because they had a slight squint. His forehead was
sharp and short, the light brown hair closely cropped around it. There was
an extraordinary mobility about him which made one feel that he was very
agile. He was standing still, but he bent his body forward, shifted his feet
and raised his arms as though the next moment he would throw himself into
the air.
"Boo-oo!" shouted he with all the strength of his lungs. How he startled the
boy who was climbing up--he nearly dropped his box. "Now I have got you! It
's all up with your secret now!"
Ole Tuft was like one turned to stone.
"So there you are! Ha, ha! What have you got in the box?" And he rushed at
him; but the other one quickly changed his box from right to left hand, and
held it behind him; it was impossible for Edward to get hold of it. "What
are you thinking of lad? Do you fancy you can escape? Give up the box!"
"No, you shan't have it!"
"What! you won't obey? Then I'll just go down and ask."
"No; oh no!"
"Indeed but I will though."
"No, you won't?"
"Yes, I shall!" And he pushed past and tried to go down.
"I'll tell all, if only you'll not tell again."
"Not tell again? Are you out of your senses?"
"Oh, but you must not tell!"
"What a ridiculous idea! Give me the box or I'm away down to ask!" shouted
he.
"Well, you'll not tell about it?" And Ole's eyes filled with tears.
"I won't promise."
"Don't tell, Edward!"
"I tell you I won't promise. Out with the box; look sharp!"
"Indeed it's nothing wrong. Do you hear, Edward?"
"Then if it's nothing wrong, I suppose you can give it me. Come, be quick!"
Boylike, Ole took this as a sort of half promise; he looked imploringly at
him and began hesitatingly: "I go down there to--to--oh, you know--to walk
in the ways of God." This last was said very timidly and he burst into tears.
"In the ways of God?" repeated Edward, half uneasily but highly astonished.
Then he remembered that once in a very drowsy geography class, the master
had asked, "What are the best kind of roads or ways?" The answer in the
lesson-book was, "The best way for the exportation of wares is by sea."
"Well," repeated the master, "what ways arc the best? Answer, you, Tuft!"
"The ways of God," answered Tuft. In an instant the whole class was wide
awake, a roar of laughter gave evidence of it.
But for all that Edward Kallem did not really know the true meaning of "God'
s ways." Ole down in the fishing village, and walking in the ways of God!
From sheer curiosity he forgot that he was a member of the moral police
force, and blurted out, just like any other school-boy, "I don't understand
what you mean, Ole; walking in the ways of God, did you say?"
Ole noticed the change at once; those wild-looking eyes were friendly again,
but still had that strange light which indeed never left them. Edward
Kallem was the one of all his school-fellows whom Ole secretly admired the
most. The peasant boy suffered much from the town boys' superior brightness
and sharpness, and both these qualities were very much to the fore in Edward
Kallem. And besides, there was as it were a halo round his head--he was his
brown-haired sister's brother.
He had one unbearable fault, he was a fearful tease. He often got a beating
for it from the master or his father, or his companions, but a moment after
he would begin again. This sort of courage was beyond the peasant boy's
comprehension. Therefore a friendly word or smile from Edward had a greater
effect than it was really worth; it had about it a sunny glow of gracious
condescension. This coaxing, kindly questioning, coming from the bird of
prey (though its beak only was visible), together with the bright, shining
eyes, made Ole give in. As soon as Edward changed his tactics and asked
innocently to be allowed to look at the box he gave it up, and felt so safe
and at his ease that he dried his eyes with his big gloves, took off the one
glove and blew his nose, then remembering that someone had given him a
checked pocket-handkerchief for that purpose, he looked for it in his
pockets but could not find it.
Edward had unfastened the lid of the box; before he raised it he looked up,
saying, "May I?"
"Yes, you may."
Edward put the lid on one side and took off a handkerchief, under which lay
a large book; it was a Bible. He felt rather small, almost awed. Underneath
the Bible lay several unbound books; he took up a few of them, turned them
over and put them back again; they were religious tracts. He laid down the
Bible again carefully, just as he had found it, spread the handkerchief over
it, and shut the lid. In reality he was not a bit wiser than before, but he
was more curious.
"You surely don't read the Bible to the people down there?" asked he.
Ole Tuft blushed. "Yes, I do, sometimes, and then----"
"Who do you read to?"
"Oh, to the sick, but it is not often I can get so far."
"Do you go and visit the sick?"
"Yes, it is just the sick I do visit."
"The sick? What can you do for them?"
"Oh, I help them as well as I can."
"You?" repeated Edward, with all the astonishment he was capable of. After a
pause he went on. "But how do you help them? Do you take food to them?"
"Sometimes I do. I help them whenever they need it; I change the straw under
them."
"Change the straw?"
"Why, yes, they lie upon straw, and then, don't you see, they would lie on
there, no matter how dirty it got, for they are ill and cannot help
themselves, and often in the daytime they are left quite alone when every
one is out at work and the children are at school. So when I come in the
afternoon, I go first to the boats just in from along the coast with straw,
and there I buy what I need and carry it up and then take away the old straw
."
"But, my dear fellow, have you got money to buy it with?" asked Edward.
"My aunt collects money for me, and so does Josephine too."
"Josephine!" exclaimed the brother.
"Yes; oh, but perhaps I ought not to have told."
"Who does Josephine get money from?" asked Edward, with all an elder brother
's aroused curiosity.
Ole bethought himself a moment, then answered decidedly and clearly: "From
your father."
"From father?"
Edward knew quite well that even though it were Josephine who asked their
father for money, he would never give it for any useless purpose; he always
liked to know what it was wanted for. Therefore his father must approve of
what Ole did, and that took away all doubt from Edward's mind. Ole could
feel how entirely he changed his view of the matter; he could see it, too,
in his eyes. He longed to tell him more about it all, and he did so. He
explained how, often when he went there, there was hard work for him to do;
he was obliged to light the fire and cook for them.
"Can you cook?"
"Of course I can, and clean up too, and buy all that is needed, and send a
messenger rowing across to the apothecary; for the doctor may have written a
prescription, but no one ever thinks of sending it over."
"And have you time to do all this?"
"Directly after dinner I finish work at the Schultzes, and I learn my own
lessons at night."
And he talked on, telling all there was to tell, until he, too, remembered
that they ought to get down from the mountain before dark.
Edward walked on in front, deep in thought; the other followed after with
his box.
There, on the slope of the hill, they could hear the roaring of the waves as
if in the air; it was like the low murmur of a distant crowd, but high
above their heads. They felt it getting very cold; the moon was up, but no
stars were to be seen; yes, one solitary one peeped forth.
"And what made you think of doing this?" asked Edward, turning round.
Ole stood still too. He moved his box backward and forward from one hand to
the other; should he make a bold venture and tell all?
Edward understood at once that he had not heard everything, and that what
remained to be told was the most important part of all.
"Can't you tell me?" he asked, as though it was quite immaterial.
"Yes, I think I can;" but he kept on changing his box from hand to hand
without saying a word.
Then Edward became impatient and began trying to persuade him, to which Ole
had no objections, but still he hesitated.
"Surely it is nothing wicked?"
"No, it is not wicked." And he added, after a pause, "It is rather something
grand, very grand and great."
"Really something great?"
"In reality the grandest thing in all the world."
"But what can you mean?"
"Well, then, if only you will not tell, not to a living soul--do you hear?--
I might tell you."
"What is it, Ole?"
"I am going to be a missionary."
"A missionary?"
"Yes, a missionary among the heathen, the regular savages, don't you know,
those who eat people." He saw that Edward was almost speechless; so he made
haste to tell him all sorts of things about cyclones, raging wild beasts,
and poisonous snakes. "You see one requires to be prepared for such things."
"How prepared--for raging wild beasts and poisonous snakes?" Edward began to
think everything possible.
"The people are the worst," said Ole, who had to give in about the wild
beasts; "they are such dreadful heathens, and cruel and ugly and wicked into
the bargain. So it will not be so easy to manage them. One must have
practice."
"But how can you get practice in that sort of thing here? They are not
heathens down in the fishing village?"
"No, but they can teach one how to bear a little of everything; there is no
use complaining down there, but just be ready to do all sorts of hard work.
They are often so suspicious when they are ill and fretful, and some of them
are downright brutes. Just fancy, one evening one of them was going to hit
me."
"Hit you?"
"I prayed to God that she would, but she only cursed and swore." Ole's eyes
glistened, his whole face was beaming. "In one of the tracts I have in my
box it says that that is the mistake of our missionaries, they go out to
their work without having any practice or experience. And it says, too, that
the art of winning people is a very difficult one, but hardest of all it is
to win them for the kingdom of God, and that we ought to strive to do it
from our childhood upward; that is what the book says, and I mean to do it.
For to be a missionary is higher and greater than anything upon earth;
greater than to be king, greater than to be emperor or pope. That is all in
the tract, and this, too, that a missionary said: 'If I had ten lives, I
would give them all to the mission.' And I mean to do the same."
They were walking side by side; unconsciously Ole had turned to the stars as
they began to twinkle, and they both stood still awhile gazing into space.
Beneath them lay the harbour with its dimly outlined ships, the silent,
empty wharfs, and the scattered lights from the town; beyond was the shore,
gray with snow and the dark sea-waves rolling up; they could hear the sound
again, faintly in the distance, the monotony of the roar seemed in keeping
with the star-spangled twilight. An invisible wave of sympathy passed
between the lads, and seemed to link them together. There was no one Ole was
so anxious should think well of him as his friend here with his jaunty fur
cap; while Edward was thinking all the time how much better Ole was than he;
for he knew quite well that he was far from good, and indeed he was told of
it every day. He glanced sideways at the peasant boy. The peaked cap was
pulled down over his ears, the big gloves, the thick scarf, the coarse cloth
jacket, and trousers hanging loosely on him; the heavy, iron-bound boots--a
curious figure--but his eyes alone made up for it all. And then the
innocent, trusting expression, though it was rather an old-fashioned face...
. Ole would decidedly be a great man some day.
They trotted on again, Edward in front, Ole after him, down toward the "hill
-town," as that part was called which lay nearest the hill-side, and which
consisted chiefly of workmen's houses, a few workshops, and some smaller
factories. As yet the streets were neither properly paved nor lighted, and
now the muddy snow was stiffening into ice as night came on. The lanterns,
few and far between, hung in the middle of the streets, on ropes stretched
across from opposite houses; they were made to be hoisted up and down. They
had been badly cleaned and burned dimly. Here and there one of the small
workshops had its own private lantern, which was hung up outside on the
steps. Edward stopped again under one of these; he felt he must ask more
questions. He wanted to know more particularly who it was Ole went to see
among the fisher people--whether it was anyone they both knew.
Ole boldly put down his box on the steps, and stood there resting his hand
on it; he smiled. "Do you know Martha from the docks?" The whole town knew
her; she was a clever woman, but much given to drink, and on Saturday
evenings the school-boys always had great fun with her, when she stood
leaning up against a wall, abusing them roundly with gestures not of the
most refined, in fact, quite unmentionable. This, however, was just what the
boys were waiting for, and was invariably received with shouts of delight.
"What! Dock Martha?" shrieked Edward. "Do you suppose you can convert her?"
"Hush! hush! For goodness' sake, not so loud," implored Ole, reddening and
looking anxiously round.
Edward repeated, in a whisper: "Do you think anyone could ever convert
Martha?"
"I believe I am on the high road to do so," whispered the other,
mysteriously.
"Come, you won't get me to believe that," and he smiled with squinting eyes.
"Just you wait and hear. You know she fell on the ice this winter and was
badly hurt?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Well, she is still laid up, and now everyone is tired of helping her, for
she is so cross and so wicked. At first she was very disagreeable to me; I
could hardly bear it; but I took no notice, and now it is nothing but, 'my
little angel,' and 'my lamb,' and 'my pigeon,' and 'dear child;' for I have
taken care of her, and got clothes and food for her, and bedclothes too, and
have done much for her that was not at all pleasant; that I have. And yet
it was she who wanted to beat me the other evening. I was going to help her
up, and somehow she managed to hurt her bad foot. She shrieked with pain and
lifted her stick, but then she thought better of it, and began to curse and
abuse me dreadfully. Now we are good friends again, and the other day I
ventured to read the Bible to her."
"What! to Martha?"
"Yes, the Sermon on the Mount, and she cried, lad."
"She cried? Then did she understand it?"
"No, for she cried so that she could not have heard much of it. But I don't
think she cried on account of what was in the Bible, for she began as soon
as ever I took it out."
The two boys stood looking at each other; a noise of hammering was heard
over from the backyard, and in the far distance a steam-whistle; then the
faint cry of a child from across the street.
"Did she say anything?"
"She said she felt much too miserable to listen to anything. So I explained
that it was just the most wretched and miserable whom God wanted. But she
seemed not to hear that at all. She only begged me to go away, and to go
round and see if Lars the washerman had come home."
"Lars the washerman!" cried Edward so loud that again Ole had to check him;
Lars was the woman's sweetheart.
"Yes, just fancy his being fond of that creature. But they all say there is
a great deal of good in Lars. He goes there every evening to see what he can
do for her. This evening he came earlier than usual, so I got away; but
generally I stay there much longer."
"Have you read to her more than once?"
"Yes, to-day I did. She began to cry at once, but I do think she heard me to
-day; for I read about the Prodigal Son, and she said: 'I expect I am one of
his swine.'" Both the lads laughed. "Then I spoke to her and said I could
not believe that, and that I would try and pray. 'Oh,' said she, 'there's
not much use in that;' but when I began to say 'Our Father,' she became
perfectly crazy, just as though she were frightened, and sat up in bed
crying out that she would not hear another word, not for anything. Then she
lay down again and sobbed most bitterly."
"So you never said your prayer after all?"
"No, for then Lars came in, and she told me to go. But you see, it did some
good. Don't you think I am on the right way?"
Edward was not sure about it. It was clear that his admiration had received
a blow. Soon after they separated.
II.
Sometimes in the higher class of schools there reigns a spirit utterly
opposed to that prevalent in the town where the school is; and it is even a
rule that in certain matters the school exists under its own independent
influence. One single master can often keep the pupils to his own way of
thinking, just as it may depend on one or several of the boys whether there
is a chivalrous spirit among them or the opposite, a spirit of obedience or
one of rebellion; as a rule there is one who leads them all. It is the same,
too, as regards morality; the boys become what they are according to the
example set before them, and oftenest it is one or more of themselves who
have the power to set this example.
Just at this time it was Anders Hegge, the dux of the school, who took the
lead in everything. He was the cleverest and best-read boy the school had
seen since its foundation; he was to stay there a year longer than was
necessary, so as to lend to the school the glory of a certain double first.
The other boys were tremendously proud of him; they told admiring tales of
how he had been known to catch the masters at fault, that he could choose
what lessons he liked, and could come and go whenever he pleased; he did his
lessons, too, mostly alone. He had a library, the shelves of which had long
since covered the walls and now stood out upon the floor; there was one
long shelf on each side of the sofa; it was so much talked about that the
smaller boys were allowed to go up and look at it all. And there, in the
middle, in front of the window, sat he smoking, in a long loose dressing-
gown, a present from a married sister, a velvet cap with gold tassel, a
present from an aunt (his mother's sister), and embroidered slippers, from
another aunt (his father's sister). He was quite a ladies' man, lived with
his mother, who was a widow, and five elderly female relatives paid for his
books and his clothes, and gave him pocket-money.
He was a tall, stout fellow, with marked, regular features, showing descent
from a good old family; the face would have been good-looking enough, but
his eyes were too prominent and had something at once greedy and inquiring
about them. It was the same with his well-made figure; the effect would have
been good but that he stooped so much, just as if his back were too heavy
for him, and his walk was uneven. His hands and feet were neat, he was
dainty and particular, and his tastes in general were effeminate.
He never forgot anything that had once been told him, important or not it
made no difference; except, perhaps, he considered the trifling things of
most importance. Few things escaped him; he had a quiet way of gaining the
confidence of others, it was quite an art. He knew the history of all the
great families in the whole country and in foreign countries as well; his
greatest delight in life was to repeat these stories, especially when they
were scandalous ones, and to sit listening greedily for new ones. If the
masters had only known how the air of the school was infected and corrupted
by this much-admired piece of goods, with the contents of its secret drawers
, they would hardly have kept him there another year; the whole school was
critical and doubting, full of slander and mean efforts to curry favor, and
infected by slanderous stories.
Ever eager for news, he was always to be found in his smoking-gear, sitting
among his books, and was there, too, when Edward came in that evening to
tell him that he knew now where Ole went to and what he did with himself; so
now he expected to get the reward! Anders got up and begged him to wait
till he fetched some beer that they might enjoy themselves together.
The first glass was most delicious, a second little half glass equally so,
but not till then did Edward tell his news--how Ole went to nurse the sick
down in the fishing village.
Anders felt almost as small as Edward had done when he saw Ole's Bible in
his box; Edward laughed heartily at him. But very soon Anders began to
insinuate doubts; he suggested that Ole had invented all that so as to
screen himself; there must be something more under it all; peasant boys, he
said, were always so cunning, and to prove it he began telling some rather
good stories from school. Edward did not at all relish this everlasting
doubting, and to cut the matter short (for he was very tired) he informed
the other that his father knew and approved of it, and even helped Ole with
money. Of course when he heard that, Anders could doubt no longer; and yet
there might be more under it, peasant boys were so very sly.
But this was too much for Edward; he started up from his seat and asked if
he thought any of them told lies?
Anders sipped his beer quite calmly, rolling his prominent eyes cautiously
around. "Lie" was a strange word to use; might he be allowed to ask who were
the sick people Ole went to see?
Edward was not prepared for this; he had intended to tell as much as would
justify his getting the reward, but not a word more. He got up from his seat
again. If Anders wouldn't believe him, he might leave it alone, but he
meant to have the reward.
Now it was not Anders Hegge's way to quarrel with anyone, and Edward knew
that well. Of course he would give Edward the book, but first he must just
listen to such a funny story about the sick people down in the fishing
village. The parish doctor and his wife had been to see his mother yesterday
, and someone had asked after Martha from the docks, who had not been seen
for so long, whether she was still laid up from her fall in the winter? Yes,
she was still laid up, but she was not in any want, for, strange to say,
people sent her all she needed, and Lars brought in brandy to her every
evening, and they had many a merry carouse together. She would probably not
be up again for some time to come.
Edward got very red, and Anders noticed it directly; he suggested that
perhaps Martha was one of those whom Ole visited.
Yes she was.
His prominent eyes widened at this piece of news. Edward saw with what
eagerness he gulped it down and it made him feel as if he had been devoured
and swallowed up himself. But if there is a thing that schoolboys cannot
stand it is to be thought too confiding and innocent; he hastened to free
himself from the most insulting insinuation that he was not able to see
through Ole Tuft and his stupid ways; only fancy, he actually read the Bible
to Martha!
He read the Bible to her? Again those prominent eyes opened and greedily
drank it in, but he closed them at once, and was seized with laughter; he
regularly shouted with laughter--and Edward with him.
Yes, he read the Bible to Martha, he read to her about the Prodigal Son, and
then Edward repeated all that Martha had said. They laughed in chorus and
drank up the rest of the beer. All that was pleasant and amusing in Anders
showed itself when he laughed, although his laugh had a grating sound down
in the throat; still it incited one to more fun, more mischief. So Edward
had to tell all, and a little more than all.
As he ran home later with the grand book under his arm, he had a kind of
disgusted feeling. The effects of the beer were over, he was no longer
tempted to laugh, and his wounded pride was satisfied; but Ole's trusting
eyes seemed to meet him everywhere, as soon as he got out in the air. He
tried to put it from him, he was so dreadfully tired; he would think no more
about it this evening; but to-morrow--to-morrow he would ask Anders not to
speak about it.
But the next morning he overslept himself. He hurried on his clothes and
rushed off, eating his bread-and-butter as he went along, and giving a rapid
thought to "Les trois Mousquetaires," now his precious property; he longed
for the afternoon to be able to read it. In school he stumbled through his
lessons one by one, for he had learned nothing, and on Saturdays there was
always so much. He worked on until two hours before the school closed; there
was still to be French and Natural History, but to neither of these classes
did he belong--so away he flew downstairs before any of the others.
Just as he stood outside the school gates he saw Anders coming from the
opposite side; he was going now to take his lesson in the upper class.
Edward thought at once of the preceding day, and he felt anxious as to what
Anders might take it into his head to tell; but at that very moment he
caught sight of a monster steamer, a wreck, coming slowly in between the two
piers, and all the people running by said there had never been so large a
ship in the harbour before. She dragged along, hardly able to move, her
masts gone, bulwarks all damaged, and the propped-up funnel all white with
salt water up to the very top; was that another steamer towing her? Edward
could not make out for the pier. Everyone was running that way; he ran too!
Meanwhile Anders turned in at the school gate. Just as he opened it a class
was over, and all the boys rushed down the stairs as through a long funnel,
and out into the yard; it was a storm in a wizard's belly, the very house
shook; first came one short, sharp yell, the first-comer's shout of delight;
then a screaming of mingled voices high and low, some cracked and breaking
ones toning down the whole; then a mighty shout from all together like a sea
of fire shooting up to the sky, then half quenched on one side, but flaring
up again on the other, then uniting in a broad glow over the whole yard.
Anders whistled softly as he came along; it was not like being in a sea of
fire; it was like sailing through dangerous rocks and reefs, tossed about
and dashed from one side, and tossed and dashed back again to the other; but
he had an object in view; he would try cautiously to reach the stack of
wood over by the neighbour's paling; there all was quiet, and he could
partially screen his body up among the wood.
When he had reached this point of vantage and had looked cautiously round to
see if it was safe, he gazed down on the crowd with delight; he felt a
pleasurable satisfaction in knowing that he could quiet this uproar just
with three or four words which he would whisper in the ear of his nearest
neighbour. They would act like oil upon a raging sea, and the noise would
cease as those few words were spread about.
Where was Ole? There he was, he and a big boy together; they had hold of
each other by the collar and were tumbling about; the bigger of the two was
trying to knock down the other, using his feet freely for many a kick. Ole's
heavy boots swung round, the iron heels shining in the air; he shouted with
laughter as his companion grew fiercer and wilder, but could not get him
down.
Then Anders bent his head down to the boy who stood nearest him:
"Now I know what Ole Tuft does in the evenings!"
"Oh, rubbish!"
"But I do know."
"Who found it out?"
"Edward Kallem."
"Edward Kallem? And has he got the book?" asked the other, hurriedly.
"Of course he has."
"No, really? So Edward Kallem has----!"
"Edward Kallem? What about him?" put in a third, and the one who had just
heard the news repeated the story. A fourth boy, a fifth, a sixth, all
rushed away, crying out: "Edward Kallem has won the prize, lads! Anders
Hegge knows what Ole Tuft does in the evenings." Wherever they went the
noise stopped instantaneously; all of them wanted to hear the news, and
rushed across to Anders Hegge.
Hardly had a fourth part of them reached him before the remaining three-
fourths, losing interest in their games, followed suit. What in all the
world was the matter over by the wood-stack? why were they all running there
? They crowded round Anders, and climbed up on the wood as many of them as
could find room. "What's the matter?" "Edward Kallem has won the prize." "
Edward Kallem?" And the noise began again, everyone asking, everyone
answering--all except Ole Tuft, who remained standing just where his
companion had left him.
There was a dead silence as Anders Hegge told the story; and he had a right
to tell it, for he had paid for it. He told it well, in a short, dry sort of
way that gave an air of double meaning to everything; he told them first
where Ole went to and what he did; how he changed the straw in Martha's bed,
moved and lifted her, cooked for her, and fetched medicine for her from the
apothecary. Then he told them why Ole did all this; he wished to be a
missionary, and was practising for it down at Martha's; he read the Bible to
her and made her cry; then, as soon as Ole had gone, Lars, the washerman,
came in with the brandy bottle, and he and Martha had a grand carouse
together on the top of the Bible reading.
At first the boys stood as quiet as mice; they had never heard the like
before. They looked upon it as a sort of game, and from the way it had been
told it could hardly be understood otherwise; but never before had they
heard of anyone playing at being missionary and Bible-reader; it was funny,
but it was something else besides--something they could not quite make out.
As nobody laughed, Anders continued. And what made Ole do all this? Because
he was ambitious and wanted to become an apostle, which was more than to be
either king, emperor, or pope; Ole had told Edward Kallem that himself. But,
in order to become an apostle, he had to find out "God's ways," and those
ways began down at Martha's; there he meant to learn how to work miracles,
to wrestle with the heathen and the wild beasts and poisonous snakes, and to
calm a cyclone. Then there was a roar. But just at that moment the school-
bell rang, and, shouting with laughter, the boys had only time to run past
Ole back to their lessons again.
Once before in his young life had Ole Tuft gazed down into a bottomless
abyss. It was on a winter's day, as he stood by his father's grave and heard
the dull sound of the frozen earth falling upon the coffin; the air was
thick with driving mist, and the sea was black as pitch. Whenever he was in
trouble his thoughts flew back to that day; and now it seemed as if he were
standing there again, and heard the mournful church bells toll. Just as the
noise on the stairs and along the passages had ceased, the last stray
loiterer gone in, the last door been shut--complete quiet suddenly--then,
through this empty silence, he heard a bell, ding-dong, and in fancy saw
himself at the little pine-wood church by the shore. How they creaked and
rustled in the wind, those long-armed, leafless birches by the wall, and the
ancient fir-tree at the gate; the clanging of the bells, harsh and shrill,
floating in the air, and the dull thud of the earth on the coffin, made a
life-long impression on him; and his mother's ceaseless weeping--she had
kept it all back until now, had made no sound, neither by the sick man's
bedside, nor even when he was carried away in his coffin; but now, suddenly,
the tears gushed forth--ah, so bitterly.... O father, mother! Mother,
father! And he, too, burst into tears.
This was sufficient reason for his not following the other boys in; he would
never go back to school again. He could not face any of them after what had
happened, he would have to leave the town; in a couple of hours it would be
known everywhere, they would all be asking questions, and staring and
laughing at him. And now, too, all his hopes and intentions for the future
had been profaned; what was the use of studying any more; nor would he go to
any other town, only home, home, home.
But if he stood there much longer one of them would be sent down to fetch
him; he ought to get away at once. But not home to his aunt, or he would
have to tell her everything; and not out by the big gates and down the
principal street, for there were so many people who would see how he was
crying. No, he must make his way to the little hiding-place that Josephine
had made for him, and through which she helped him out every afternoon, so
that the other boys might not see him.
The wood-stacks stood next to the neighbour's paling; but to the right
leaned up against a shed into which Ole went. He loosened two boards in the
wall nearest the wood-stack, crept through, and closed them behind him. This
performance could not have been carried out if there had not been on the
other side an open space, made by an impediment of nature, in the shape of a
large stone, taller than the boy, but which stood at a little distance from
the wall. If the stone had not been there, the two stacks of wood would
have touched each other and barred the way; but as it was, there was plenty
of room at both ends of the stone as well as on the top of it. The children
had made themselves little rooms here, one on each side of the stone. The
most comfortable one was at the back; there they had a board to sit on, and
when that was fastened at both ends in the stacks, they could pass each
other in crossing it. They had laid some planks overhead, and then wood on
the top of that, so that nobody might suspect anything; it had been quite a
piece of work for the children. It was not very light, certainly, but then
that made it all the cosier. Here she would tell him tales of Spain, and he
would tell her of missionaries' adventures; she told of bull-fights, but he
of fights with tigers, lions, and snakes, of terrible cyclones and water-
spouts, of savage monkeys and man-eaters. And by degrees his stories had
eclipsed hers; they were more exciting, and then there was an object in them
; she had only her recollections to look back to, but he threw himself heart
and soul into all his imagination could scrape together. He drew such vivid
, glowing pictures, till at last she was fascinated too! At first she felt
her way with a few cautious questions as to whether women could be
missionaries too? But he did not know; he thought it was only work for men,
though they might possibly be allowed to be missionaries' wives. Then she
asked if missionaries ever married. He, taking it up as a dogmatic question,
answered that he had once heard his father speak on the subject; it was at
a meeting when someone had had doubts as to this missionary-marriage
question, for St. Paul was the first missionary, and the greatest, too, and
he certainly had not been married, and even gloried in that fact; but his
father had replied that St. Paul believed that Christ was so soon to come
again so he had to hurry as quickly as possible from place to place to tell
that to the people so that they might be in readiness. But nowadays
missionaries always lived in the same place, and therefore might be allowed
to marry. He had even read about missionaries' wives who kept schools for
the little black children. They had not advanced further than that, but it
was easy to see she often thought about it by the questions she asked: If it
were true that black children ate snails? She did not like the idea of that
at all.
In this dim light, with their two heads, brown and fair, bent close together
over their tales of adventures, they had in fancy sat under palm-trees amid
swarms of black children, all so good and clean and converted, and there
were tame tiger-cubs playing on the sand at their feet; friendly, good-
natured monkeys waited upon them, elephants conveyed them carefully about,
and all the food they needed hung in plenty on the trees.
And now Ole came for the last time to say farewell to this little Paradise.
Just as he raised himself to climb over the stone, he remembered that it was
Saturday, and her lessons were always over on Saturdays by eleven o'clock (
she took private lessons), and that she often used to sit behind the stacks
during the boys' free quarter-hour. Suppose she were sitting there, and had
heard all? Up he clambered onto the stone in greatest haste, and there she
sat, down on the board, and looked at him! At the sight of her and as their
eyes met he began sobbing again. "I want to ... go ... home," stammered he,
"and never ... never come back again," and he came sliding down to her. She
received him with open arms and hastened to give him her pocket-handkerchief
to stuff into his mouth that his crying might not be heard. She had a good
deal of knowledge as to school and play-ground ways, and knew that some one
would soon be sent to look for him. He gave in, as he always did, to her
superior guidance in matters of good behaviour and manners; he thought she
was reminding him of that everlasting use of the pocket-handkerchief, so he
began alternately to blow his nose and to cry. She seized hold of the back
of his neck with one of her small but coarse girl's hands, with the other
she grasped his hands with the handkerchief and forced it right into his
mouth, at the same time shaking her dark-haired head warningly in his face.
Then it dawned upon him! And it was high time too; for he heard his name
called down in the yard, again and again on all sides. His whole body shook
and trembled with his efforts to stifle his sobs; but he kept them down
bravely, waiting till the boy who had been sent down to look for him had
gone rushing back again. He began anew: "I ... want to ... go ... home," and
a fresh burst of tears followed, he couldn't help it. So he gave her back
her pocket-handkerchief with a nod and got up to pull away the wood in front
of the hole in the neighbour's fence, sobbing bitterly all the time and
half-alarmed at his own grief. Hardly had he pulled the wood aside before he
disappeared into the hole; the seat of his trousers, polished and shiny
from daily contact with the school benches, and the iron heels of his boots
crept farther and farther in, till at last they vanished; he stood upright
on the other side, pushed himself between the paling and the shed, and on
past some old wood-work which lay there rotting, from there he sprang across
to the back door, and not until he stood outside on free ground in a narrow
road, did he remember that he had forgotten to say good-bye to Josephine
and had never even thanked her! This addition to all his other troubles made
him turn and flee from the town, and he never stopped before he, by
roundabout ways, had reached the high road. It was almost as if it were his
property, this well-known road by the shore.
Josephine stood still a moment gazing after the vanishing heels; but she did
not wait long. She hopped upon the stone and slid down to the wall, pushed
the boards aside, crept through and closed them again carefully behind her.
Soon after she was seen at the apothecary's without her hat; she asked after
her brother, first down in the shop where she knew he liked to be, but he
was not there and he had not been in either to leave his bundle of books.
Upstairs she went through all the rooms, but he was not there; then looking
out of the window she saw the great foreign steamer and ten or twelve small
boats around it; of course he would be there! Away she flew to the pier,
unfastened their own little white-painted boat and pushed off.
She rowed until the perspiration streamed down her face, rowed and looked
about her until she reached the wreck, the great green monster lying there
groaning under the pumps. From afar she could see Edward up on the captain's
bridge, with his books under his arm, talking to his friend Mo, the pilot.
As soon as she was within call she shouted his name; he heard her, he and
all the others; they saw a brown-haired girl, without hat, red and heated
with rowing, standing up in the boat, leaning on her oars, and staring up at
the captain's bridge; they did not think much of it, though, and forgot her
quickly. But Edward felt a sharp pang; something out of the common must
have happened, and it did not take him long to get down from the captain's
bridge on to the deck, across the deck and down the steamer's side, climbing
over the other boats and up into hers, exclaiming, as he pushed off: "What'
s the matter?" He put his books down in the bottom of the boat, took the
oars from her and sat down repeating: "What's the matter?"
With streaming hair, breathless and red she stood and looked at him as he
turned the boat; then she moved back to a farther bench. Here she unfastened
the other pair of oars and sat down behind him. He did not like to question
her a third time so he rowed on silently--and then, keeping her oars on the
surface of the water meanwhile, she began:
"What have you done to Ole Tuft?"
He turned pale, then red; he too stopped rowing.
"It's all up with him now at school; he has gone home, and he'll never come
back any more."
"Oh, that's a lie!"--but his voice failed him, he felt she was speaking the
truth. He plunged the oars into the water with all his strength and rowed
with might and main.
"Indeed you had better row hard," though she herself began backing her oars;
"you had better hurry after him even if you have to walk all the way to
Store Tuft; if you don't, it will be a bad look-out for you both at school
and at home with father. What a mean wretch you are!"
"Oh, you hold your tongue!"
"No, I shan't! and if you don't go after him at once and bring him home with
you again, I'll tell father, and the head master too, I will!"
"It's you who are the mean wretch with all your gossiping and story-telling."
"You should have heard how Anders Hegge went on, and the whole school, and
how they laughed at Ole, every one of them; and he poor fellow, he cried as
if his heart would break, and then ran right away home. Oh, fie! fie! For
shame! If you don't bring him back with you it will be bad for you."
"You stupid! Don't you see I am rowing as hard as I can?"
His finger-nails were quite white and his face streaming and he bent double
each time to take a longer pull at the oars. Without another word she moved
over to the bench nearest him and rowed with all her might.
As he stood up when they were nearing the pier and stretched out his hand to
prevent the boat bumping against it, he said: "I have had no lunch to-day,
and now I shall get no dinner either; have you any money with you that I
might buy myself some biscuits?"
"Yes, a few pence I have;" she laid down her oars and looked in her pocket
for the money.
"You take my books!" shouted he as he rushed up the street. Shortly after he
too was out on the high road.
III.
The day had been dull, the air thick, and the clouds were driving along
against a light southerly wind; it was mild, though, and had begun to thaw
again; the roads were in a fearful state with snow slush and mud, especially
close by the town where it had been trampled and trodden into a perfect
morass.
Edward had not been walking more than ten minutes before his somewhat thin
boots were wet through. Well, that did not matter, what was much worse was
that he had finished his last biscuit and was by no means satisfied--not by
a long way! However, even that did not matter as he would soon overtake Ole,
he walked so much quicker and lighter than he did, and then he was hurrying
tremendously. As soon as he reached him he would put things right again;
not for an instant did he doubt that. Ole was very easily managed and he,
Edward, would make all square with the other boys, it was the least he could
do; he would enjoy it, too; he would get others to join him and they would
have a fight.
But after he had walked a quarter of a mile[1] without seeing any traces of
Ole's boots in the mud and no sign of himself either, and particularly after
he had dragged on for another quarter along the most dreadful roads, his
feet dripping wet, now perspiring, now cold, then half-dry, then wet again--
it was threatening rain and the wind was getting up, and all nature seemed
so uncomfortably lonely along the stony ridges with dark woods between each
valley--then indeed his courage fell considerably.
And it seemed so strange, too, that after the first quarter of a mile he
never met a soul. There were plenty of footmarks on the road both of horses,
people, and dogs; they were all bent in the same direction as himself and
most of them were quite fresh, but there was not a creature to be seen
anywhere, not even in the farmyards, not a dog did he hear bark, nor did he
see a chimney smoke; all was deserted. He passed by one empty cove after the
other; they were divided by jutting out ridges of loose stones caused by
landslips; on each side of these ridges lay a cove, and in every cove one or
more farmyards and a brook or stream, but no people. So many times had the
boy now struggled up these stony hills and gone so far along that he could
see across the next field without distinguishing Ole on the high road, in
fact without seeing anyone, so he began to think that he would have to
trudge on, hungry and tired as he was, the whole way to Store Tuft. It was
nearly a mile distant; that would keep him away so long that his father
would hear of his absence, and then it would be a case of scolding and
lecturing, and probably of beating and swearing as well, and the head-master
would very likely look in and then it would all begin over again.... He
could not help it, the tears would come. Confound Anders Hegge, with his
greedy, fishy eyes and oily smile, his mocking laugh and sneaking
friendliness, the story-teller, the brute! Here was he now forced to tramp
along with tingling feet in all the mud, tired and done up. This then was
the meaning of his fearful fright the evening before, now all was explained.
But, hang it all! who would cry about that? One must arrive some day at the
journey's end, and a beating would be nothing new, tra-la-la! And he broke
into a Spanish ditty and sang verse upon verse till he became quite
breathless and was obliged to slacken his pace, but taking fright when he no
longer heard the sound of his own voice, he began afresh and kept on
singing all the way through the long valley.
He met nobody there either, only traces of cart-wheels and footmarks of old
and young folk, of horses and dogs from the farms; all bound in the same
direction. What could be going on? A fire? An auction? But then they would
not have taken carts with them. Had there been a landslip anywhere? Or was
it a wreck from yesterday's storm? Well, it was all the same to him. Just as
he was crossing over the next ridge which jutted out into the bay, he
caught sight for the first time of Ole's footsteps on the hill; he could see
that he had walked along by the side of the road; he recognized the iron
heels and the straps under each foot. The marks were quite fresh too, so Ole
could not be far off. This was exciting, and he hurried on.
Here there was a thick fir-wood, very still and quiet, and as he had to stop
singing going up-hill it was rather uncanny. The farther he advanced into
the wood the thicker it became; the snow lay firmer on the ground, stones
and small tufts of heather peeping up through it like animals; and then
there was a crack here and a rustle there and sometimes a cry; a startled
capercailzie flew up with great flapping of wings, and the boy in a terrible
fright bent down to look for Ole's foot-marks, just for company's sake--the
terror of the day before was on him again. If he dared but begin to run,
and if the wood would only come to an end! In the painfully long silence
that followed the capercailzie's cry he felt that a very little more and he
would go mad with fright. And this bit of road with high banks on each side,
through which he would have to pass--he looked on ahead at the steep dark
sides which seemed as if they would close over him; terrible looking trees
hung over the top peering down at him. When at last he arrived there, he
felt as if he were the tiniest little ant in a wood; if only all would keep
still, or at least no one swoop down upon him and seize him by the neck, or
drop down suddenly before him, or behind him, or begin to puff and blow at
him.... He walked on with stiff eyes, like one walking in his sleep, the
gnarled and crooked roots of the fir-trees stretched along the banks, they
seemed as though alive, but he pretended not to notice them. High up in the
air far in front of him a bird was winging its way toward the town he came
from. Ah, if he might but mount that bird! He could see the town distinctly
and the ships in the harbour; he could hear the cheery heave-a-hoy songs and
the rattling of anchor chains, the rolling of barrels along the wharf, and
the merry screams of laughter and the shouts of command.... Yes, he could
even hear those, and the whistle of a steamer! and then another, a shrill
one! and voices! Those were voices! And neighing of horses, and barking of
dogs! And again the sound of voices, many voices. He had got through the
road with the steep banks, for it had only been a short bit, and through the
trees he could see the sea and boats.... But what was that? Was he back in
town again? Had he been walking round and round? No, surely he had followed
the sea all the way. He began to run, he felt all right again. But had he
really walked straight on? Of course, here is the clearing in the wood, and
there the bay, he knew it well, and the little islands, he remembered them
too, it was the right way, and it was not so very far now to Store Tuft....
But what are all those boats doing there? And what is the meaning of that
steady buzzing noise? Herring fishing! Hurrah! herring fishing! He had come
right into the midst of a take of herrings, hurrah! hurrah! And away with
hunger, fatigue, and fear, off flew the boy down the hill with mighty
strides.
One of the sweep-nets had been hauled in, one was out, one was just going to
be put out, it was a great take. But it was Saturday evening, and it was
necessary to net the herrings before Sunday evening, and to gut the fish
that was already taken. In the twinkling of an eye he understood it all.
The shore was crowded with people, near the road and on the road, and up on
the fields, crowds and crowds. And endless carts and sledges with barrels
and tubs, some with horses still harnessed, others with the horses taken out
, crowds of dogs; children everywhere, and great laughter and noise. Out in
the bay the boats were round the sweep-net that was to be put out, the men
shouting and calling to each other, and high in the air a flock of birds
flew overhead, flapping their wings and screaming.
The sky was overcast, the smoke from the steamers making the air seem
thicker and more threatening, the bare, bleak islands seemed suited to the
coming storm, they looked as if they had just started into existence; the
little wooded islet far out rose up solitary and mysterious through the
rainy mist; the steamers came steaming in, puffing and whistling as if for a
wager; they belonged to rival companies. Men were stamping about in
fishermen's boots and in oilskin clothes over their ordinary ones; others
were dressed more like peasants in coarse cloth coats and fur caps. Women as
well as men were busy cleaning the fish, wrapped in shawls or in a man's
jacket over their own; the usual quiet style of conversation had been
disturbed.
Heavy drops of rain began to fall, faster and faster; nearly all the faces
Edward looked at were wet with the rain. They stared a great deal at him,
the delicate looking town boy in the midst of this noisy crowd, thinly clad,
with dripping face and breathless, his little fur cap clinging wet to his
head.
Who should he see just in front of him but Ingebert Syvertsen, the tall,
black-haired man, who did business with his father. He was standing there
bargaining, tall and thin, and dressed in oilskin from top to toe; he had
evidently taken a very active part in it all, the shiny fish-scales lay
thick on his arms and his boots like silver.
"Good day, Ingebert!" shouted the boy in great light.
The great fellow with wet face under his sou'wester, a great drop hanging
from his nose, thin black beard, and three of his upper teeth missing, knew
him at once and laughed; then he said: "Your father is somewhere about my
lad, he is out riding to-day."
Someone spoke to Ingebert at that moment; he turned round, became angry and
abusive, which took up time, when he turned again to speak to the boy he saw
him already far away along the road beyond the whole of the fishing crowd.
Edward had run away from sheer fright--and it was only when he found himself
out on the road that he remembered he was running just in the direction his
father was coming from. Was it likely he could get to Store Tuft without
meeting his father?
But what was he to do? All those people had seen him, and had stared hard at
him, they would be sure to find out who he was, and then when his father
came riding past he would hear of it too. There was not much use trying to
run away. It was all one whether he got a beating now or one later. He felt
inclined to sing again, for nothing could be worse than the present state of
affairs. He actually did strike up a song, the Marseillaise, in French; it
was so very suitable for one advancing to get a beating as he was! But
before he got to the end of the first verse his courage failed him, his
voice grew fainter, the time slower, there was a general change of colouring
. And oh, it was heavy walking, and raining fast. So his song gradually died
away until it stopped. Then the boy's thoughts went back to something he
had lately read in the papers about a large coal mine in England that had
been inundated with water. The miners tried to escape as quickly as possible
, the horses after them, down in the mine they could not help themselves,
poor creatures! One boy who had escaped told the others about a horse that
had neighed and whinnied so hopelessly; the boy climbed to the top, but not
the horse.... Edward could distinctly see what the horse must have looked
like, its head, the beautiful shining eyes, he heard its breathing, its
whinnying and felt himself turn quite sick. What it must be to die amid such
horrors! And to think that all that would come to life again at the day of
judgment! And all that would arise from the mines and very bowels of the
earth! Why not the animals too? Surely they would come forward whining and
complaining against mankind? Great heavens, what complaints there would be.
And so many animals, too--only fancy, from the creation of the world! And
where were they all to be found? On the earth and down in the earth--and
think of those that lay in the sea, at the bottom of the deep sea! And those
who lay under that again, for in many places there had been land where
there now was sea. Well, well!
Oh, how hungry he was! And cold too; he could no longer walk so fast, and he
was very, very tired.
And certainly there was nothing very inviting to look forward to, oh, no!
Well he knew the new riding-whip; he had himself despatched the old one out
of the world; but if he had known that the new one was still worse, he would
have let the old one live on for a couple of years more. Ouf! how his nails
began to ache and his fingers to swell with the cold. And his feet! But it
would never do to think about them or they got worse directly; hark, how the
water sopped in his boots! He amused himself by putting his feet forward
cross ways, and went on from right to left, from left to right till he got
tired of that too. Harder and harder was the struggle, more and more tedious
, again he had to climb up hill. Dear me! is not this the last hill? Does
not Store Tuft lie in the next valley? Just under the hill? Surely that is
Store Tuft? Perhaps after all he could get there before his father? It would
always be something gained, the evil day put off awhile. At any rate it was
worth hurrying for. Fresh life came to the boy, on he went again!
His father was not always severe either, he could be kind sometimes.
Especially if Josephine were on his side and asked to get him off; and if
Ole came back again then she surely would do that, she must take his part.
They could try, too, to make the apothecary join them! He, the apothecary,
was always so kind, and it is a good thing to be many. Good heavens! were
there no others who----
Up came the chestnut's head over the hill-top! The big straw shoes which his
father used in the winter as stirrups stood out on each side of the old
hack like the paws of a wild beast; the boy stood still, petrified.
The old hack stared at the lad from out of its heavy Spanish harness; it
could hardly believe its own clever eyes! Neither could the boy's father
believe his, for the round head in the gray woollen cap stretched farther
and farther forward over the horse's neck, till he had to lean with both
hands on the pommel of the saddle. Was that drenched, dripping boy, with the
wisp of fur on his head, standing terrified and pale as a ghost in the
middle of the road--was that the boy who ought to be sitting at home doing
his lessons before he was allowed to move? And on Saturday afternoon! In
such weather and such roads, and so thinly clad, out on the hill at Store
Tuft? And without permission?
"What the devil are you doing there?"
The horse was pulled up sharp; its warm breath seemed to fill the air around
the boy and envelop him in a thick mist of unpleasant vapours from its
steaming body. Edward dared neither move nor answer. He only stared up at
his father through the mist in a stupid, clumsy fashion, as though half-
dazed.
His father dismounted without delay, and with the bridle round his left arm
and the whip in his right hand he stood before the boy.
"What's the matter? Hey? Why are you here! Why the devil can't you answer?"
Mechanically Edward slipped farther and farther away, his father after him;
mechanically, too, the boy raised his right arm to shield his face, and
stretched out his left to ward off the coming blows.
"Where are you going to?"
"To Ole Tuft."
"What are you going to do there? Hey? Is Ole Tuft at home? Hey?"
"Yes."
"What are you going there for?"
"I am going to--to----"
"Well!"
"To beg his pardon."
"To beg his pardon? What for? What for? Hey?" and he raised his whip.
The boy answered, hurriedly: "He won't come to school any more."
"Oh, indeed! So you've been teasing him? Hey? You at the head? Hey?"
"Yes."
"Your fault, was it? Hey?" he cried.
"I found out----" here he stopped.
"Well?"
"That he--that he----" and the boy began to cry.
"Well?"
"That he goes to visit the sick."
"So you told the others? Hey? Carried tales? Hey?"
Edward dared not answer, and then the whip began to be troublesome; both the
lad's arms swung up and down, keeping time with the whip, as if uncertain
where it would fall next. He kept slipping farther and farther away.
"Stand still!" shouted his father.
But instead the boy sprang with one bound right to the edge of the ditch.
Fiercely the father lifted his whip again; but, unintentionally, the horse
behind him received such a sharp cut that it pulled so hard at the bridle as
nearly to upset its master. Edward could not resist the comical side of
this most welcome deliverance and he burst into a roar of laughter. But he
was so startled at hearing himself laugh that he hopped over the ditch and
ran into the wood. He could not possibly control himself as he turned away;
he began to laugh again, and could hit upon no better way of hiding it than
to set up a good howl.
The father's contempt for his son was not to be described. He recovered his
temper, though, quieted the horse, and mounted again. "Come along," said he,
quietly, pointing with his whip in the direction of the Tuft valley.
"There will be more accounts to settle when we get there," thought the boy
to himself.
He obeyed his father's call, of course, and walked on, but at a safe
distance in front of the horse. He kept at the same distance all the time;
the horse was a quick stepper, so it was an effort.
The man in gray on the chestnut horse drove his son mercilessly on before
him, through the snow and slush, although one could clearly see by the way
he walked that his feet hurt him, and although his hands were half-frozen--
he kept putting them in his mouth--and although he was dripping wet; his fur
cap was sticking to his head like a washed-out rag. The man in gray sat
comfortably on his horse, in warm, waterproof clothes, his whip in his hand,
his eyes glistening on each side of his hooked nose. No one who saw this
little procession could have guessed that the dearest wish of this stern-
looking man was to love the boy he was so angrily driving before him.
But in order to love anyone that person must be exactly as we would wish--is
not that the case? And supposing now the boy was not willing? And that
Kallem was not accustomed to opposition? His wife's death was the first
serious blow he had met with; it happened not very long before this affair
with the boy. Up to that time they had all lived abroad, Kallem leading a
quiet retired life with his wife, his business, sport, and his silent books
(he was a great reader), and had never been worried or annoyed. His wife's
brother took charge of the business, which was a flourishing one, and his
wife took charge of the house, where all flourished too. Everything was
managed without fear or disturbance, and exactly as was proper, until the
wife died. But afterward!
At first neither he himself nor any of the others could realize the
unexpected change that had come over him. Some people thought that the loss
of his wife had made him mad; he himself thought that the air of Spain was
too warm; he was anxious to leave, and longed for home. The head of the firm
agreed at once. It would be a capital speculation to move the principal
house of business to Norway and just have a branch house in Spain. And so
they left--now about a year ago.
But it was the boy who, when they were still in Spain, had been the cause of
his father's first losing command of himself, and indeed the second time
too, and unfortunately also the third, fourth, fifth, sixth time; it was
always the boy. And the same thing, too, when they had moved to Norway. Hot
or cold climate, the boy was equally troublesome.
Soon there began to come complaints about him over from the school, then
from the apothecary, who was an old friend of Kallem's, and in whose house
they had lodgings; then from the courtyard, from the neighbours, and from
the wharf. But possibly other parents also heard complaints about their sons
, and perhaps people in this part of the world were more given to
complaining; of course Kallem could know nothing about that, for he was a
solitary man. But he knew that his son was the cleverest lad in all the
school; one master after the other came and assured him of that; he knew
that nothing was lacking in the boy, neither heart nor will; but he was
peculiar, indifferent to all, and yet liked meddling in matters that did not
concern him. He was both brave and cowardly, a shameful tease, and
altogether hopelessly naughty. He would have tried the patience of an angel
from heaven, to say nothing of Kallem, who was entirely without that virtue.
This thin, slippery customer, limping on in front of him with frightened
side-glances at both horse and whip, had spoilt the peace of his father's
life. Not only had he made him feel inwardly so unsafe and uncertain, but at
times his want of power became perfect helplessness, and on those occasions
he longed to beat the boy to smithereens.
He would send for him and try both threats and entreaties. Last night, the
night of the storm, he had kept guard over him and used all his powers of
persuasion trying to talk the boy out of his shameful fright, scolded him
and tried to make it clear to him by all manner of natural history proofs
that the prophecy about the end of the world was all a lie, an invention.
The boy answered, yes, and indeed, but did not believe a word his father
said! As soon as the storm broke he was like one crazy, out and away in the
most abject state of fear.
And here he is now to-day, out on the open high road, a mile from the town,
in rain, storm, and wind, and of course without permission. First he goes
and ill-treats the best lad in the school, a little fellow whom Kallem was
really fond of and had helped with a few pence now and then for his little
mission, which he heard of from Josephine; and then on the top of that----
"Look at him!" said he, to himself. "Deuce take the boy, if he isn't
laughing!" but he pretended not to see it.
What was that? Why, the horse behind him with "What the devil" on its back,
and the whip, and the heavy tramp, tramp in the snow and slush. Sop-sop, sop
-sop, sop-sop, sop-sop; all this grew and grew and got larger and larger,
until it became a huge monster all twisted and shapeless.... Hurriedly the
boy began thinking of other things. He threw himself into the coal-mine in
England that had been inundated, and tried to conjure up before him the
horse that had neighed so piteously after the escaping miner lad. But no, he
could not force himself into the mine; there was nothing but the high road
and "sop-sop, sop-sop," and "What the devil" and his whip, and he himself in
front limping along with one leg and a half, he, he--e--e!
A shrill "Hey!" came from behind. The sound seemed to creep down the boy's
back like a sharp piece of ice.
Presently Store Tuft came in sight. It lay just below the hill they were
going down. There were many outhouses, most of them in a square round the
farmyard; a stream rushed noisily by on the other side where the corn and
saw-mills lay; the islands outside and the two arms of land on either side
shut in the bay so completely that the water there was as still and quiet as
a millpond, with ice in the corners; there was a row of boathouses side by
side along the bay; there were fruit-gardens, too, most of them a good size.
The smoke rose up from the house-chimney at Store Tuft--at last! Ole's
mother must be cooking dinner for him! And hunger, grief, and longing came
over the boy, and the thought of a warm room and dry clothes, and the
remembrance of his own mother and of their home in Spain nearly made him cry
again; but then he thought that his father would say: "Devil take him! Now
he's crying again!" so he controlled himself.
He looked toward the farm with fear and trembling.
The house lay with its longest side out to the garden; it was a two-storied
wooden house, painted red, with white window-sills. They turned up the road,
the boy still in front, the father after him.
Passing the short end of the house they came into the yard; on the other
side of that lay cow-house and stable, under the same roof; these buildings
were quite new, and lay at right angles with the barn, wood-house, and other
buildings in the middle. A herd of goats stood in this corner munching
leaves, and surrounded by an incredible number of sparrows. The whole party
were collected together just outside the barn.
The goats caught sight of the newcomers; they lifted their heads and
stretched out their necks all at the same moment, their eyes wide open, ears
standing up stiff, with the last bite immovable in their mouths,
inquisitive to the last degree. The billy-goat only kept on munching as he
looked at them, lazily satisfied. The flock of sparrows flew away with a
whirr.
Between the cattle-stable and the short end of the dwelling-house, the
father stopped and dismounted. The boy was already inside the yard, and
stood staring at the barn roof, which was broken up and being renewed, but
there were no workmen to be seen; probably they had gone off to the herring
fishery; the ladder still stood on the scaffolding, leaning upward.
"Stop!" shouted the father, and the boy stopped and turned round; his father
was tying up his old hack to one of the grinding stones which stood up
against this short end of the dwelling-house; the lad stood and looked on.
"Wonderful, how quiet he is now," thought the father, as he came forward and
pointed with his whip. The boy was to walk in front of him up to the broad
stone step at the entrance in the middle of the house. And he did so. Past a
sledge with railed-in seat that was standing there; he discovered two
kittens playing with each other through the railing, the one inside, the
other outside. The windows they went past were so low that they could see
right through the little room which had windows on the other side, and
through that again into the other room. There sat Ole in a huge shirt that
reached down to his feet, in front of the hearth with his legs up; his
mother stood beside him, bending over some pots and pans. Edward had not
time to see more; he stepped over the stone and into the passage, where he
was met by a strong smell of fish, both old and new; also a smell of
something else which he could not at first make out. The father pointed on
to the right; to the left, too, there was a door, grandly painted and with a
brass handle, and he was not meant to go there. No, thought the boy, I knew
that much, too, that we were to go where there are people, and not into the
cold guest room. He put his swollen fingers on the latch and lifted it.
The fireplace was in the corner to the left, close by the door, and one can
fancy how the two in there opened their eyes! To such an extent that curly-
lock's head stretched up out of his father's wide blue linen shirt. The
mother was tall and had a delicate face; she wore a black cap; her fair hair
was puffed out down her cheeks and made her face seem long. She turned from
her pots and pans toward the two arrivals, whom she knew both. It was a
grave but friendly face. She seemed afraid and uncertain. Just at first she
did not let her eyes rest on either of them. Ole's boots stood by the
fireside; but his clothes, shirt, and stockings were hung up to dry above on
some of the many poles that reached across from beam to beam. On the other
poles were bundles of wood and various things put up to dry. Dishes and cups
stood about just as usual on a weekday.
The room was not painted but wainscoted; on each side under the windows
there were red-painted benches. In the corner to the left, at the other side
of the window, stood a table with a bookcase above; at the end of the table
, just by the door into the smaller room, hung the clock. It ticked as
evenly and cheerily as if there had never before been anything but peace in
that room. Outside he saw the kittens in the sledge, the one inside sticking
its paw out through the railing, and the outside one pushing its paw in;
and then he saw Ole's face just in front of him. He was smiling, was Ole,
and it was because he too was afraid. But those pots and pans! Hungry and
tired as Edward was, the pots seemed to him the best part of it all. There
were potatoes in the one which stood down, quite ready; but two pots still
hung over the fire; could it be fish in one of them? But in the other?
The mother hesitated, not knowing what to do; for they remained standing
there, the angry looking man and the boy. At last just as she was going to
ask them to sit down, or something similar, the father began. He presumed
that she knew now what had happened, hey? The boy had come to beg pardon and
to receive his punishment; it was quite necessary, for he was a bad boy and
nothing but punishing did him any good; kindness was utterly wasted on him.
"Oh, must it be?" said the mother, mildly. She was quite frightened, and Ole
turned a bluish-white, like the shirt he had on.
"Yes, he must have a beating! Beg pardon first. Sharp's the word?"
Ole began to cry, not so Edward. Ole could not sit still; he got up, he
looked at his mother: "Mother, dear!" said he. He could not get out another
word; but his meaning was evident, his mother was to make peace between them.
"Beg pardon!" shouted the father, and the whip became restless.
"But, mother dear!" shrieked Ole.
Then Edward had to come forward. Ole turned away; he could not look on any
longer, he was not used to that sort of thing. Edward dived and ducked, his
father after him with clanking spurs. In his fright Edward rushed to Ole's
mother with outstretched hand; she did not take it, but Ole began to yell.
So much sympathy was too much for poor Edward; he too began to roar, as he
dashed round and round the mother. There was such a hubbub and noise that
again the goats stopped their munching and stared in, listening; the
sparrows too, which had come back, flew away over the roof.
And what happened? The sparrows showed the boy the way. Quick as lightning,
he flew past his father and out at the door, which he left wide open behind
him. They saw the goats fly on all sides, and the boy into the scaffolding,
up the ladder, and on to the roof. Directly he got there he began to pull
the ladder up after him.
"Look at him! Look at him!" screamed his father from the window. "Hey!" and
away he rushed.
As soon as his son saw him coming he dropped the ladder which fell
thundering down. Like a cat the lad ran up the rafters to the ridge of the
roof and along that, balancing himself as though he had never done anything
else all his life. He thought no more of his aching feet.
His father was in great alarm: "Take care, I say, take care there, take care
! Come away from there, and at once! Come down, you young wretch!" He ran
out into the yard in his long riding-boots and threatened him with the whip.
"I think I see myself! I shall jump right down into the yard!"
"Mad boy! Devil take him! Will you come down?"
"Yes if you'll not beat me!"
"I won't promise."
"Oh, you won't promise?" and away crept the boy farther out along the ridge.
"Yes, yes! O you wretch! O you coward!"
"Well, have you promised?"
"Devil take your promising. Come down, can't you!"
"And you won't pull my hair either?"
"Down with you! You'll only fall up there!"
"You won't pull my hair and won't beat me, and won't do anything?"
"No, no, no! But come down directly! Look, now you're slipping! Edward, do
you hear?" shouted he.
"Well, will you keep to what you promise?"
"Oh! what don't you deserve!" and he threatened up with his whip. "Yes, yes,
I promise! But take care!"
But the boy went on: "May I stay here till tomorrow with Ole? May I?"
"I won't answer anything till you come down."
"Oh, you won't? all right!"
"Oh you scoundrel; oh, you miserable rascal!"
"Do you agree, then?"
"Yes, deuce take you! But get away from the outer edge at least! Devil take
the boy!"
"I say, it might be just as well if you went away first father."
"Not I; you'll not get me to do that. Never. I must see you down first."
The boy thought this just as well. His father put up the ladder and slowly
the lad came down; but not until his father had gone a little way back into
the yard. And he kept his distance, although his father wished to speak to
him and assured him he would not harm him. Neither would he go into the
house as long as his father stayed there; but being wet through, obliged his
father to go away.
Five or six minutes after both lads lay kicking on the floor, Edward in just
as big a shirt as Ole's and equally naked otherwise; they were both going
to put on a pair of thick woollen stockings, of the kind the peasants use
that come well up over the thighs. They had thought it easier to try and put
them on sitting on the floor, which was strewn with sand. There they pushed
each other over and laughed as though many days had gone by since that
happened which we have just witnessed. Everything Edward did Ole did after
him; they laughed until at last the quiet, gentle mother was obliged to
laugh too; there was no end to all that Edward hit upon. They were to put on
those long stockings so that they might sit at table and eat their dinner
without feeling too cold; at table there was no fireplace for their legs.
And at last they were so far ready they got them on. And then was disclosed
the contents of the other pot; it was cream porridge. Edward had never
tasted that before. Ole was to be coaxed into better spirits than he was in
when he arrived, therefore his mother had made that porridge for him. Edward
applauded loudly and greeted the food with laughter.
But all at once Ole sat quite solemn and quiet. What now? Hands folded, eyes
cast down? The mother stood before them; she too was serious with folded
hands and cast-down eyes. Her face was bent down, it seemed to be vanishing
gradually farther and farther, or rather it was as if shutters were put up
before and all light in it extinguished. And then she began, as though from
afar, a long, long grace, in a low monotonous voice, as if she were talking
quietly with someone but at some other place. Edward felt himself out of it
all. His loneliness and fright came back again, the old recollections and
the old longing for his mother. Then it passed away, pushed back like a
shutter; it all vanished behind the hill.
Edward had never before been present when grace was said at meals, and her
manner and ways were so altogether new to him, and he did not understand her
and her mumbling. He sat very quiet for some time after. Ole did not speak
either; all the time while they were dining he was very silent and hardly
even smiled. Food was God's gift; a certain solemnity was therefore
necessary.
But what a serious matter their eating was! The mother asked them at last if
they did not think it would be best to keep a little till the evening? No,
they said, this was dinner and supper in one. They were to sleep together in
the servant's room, which was used as a spare room; the fire had been
lighted there, and now they would sit by the fireside for an hour or so and
then go to bed.
The mother saw they would rather be alone, so she left them.
Then afterward when they were in the bedroom! At first the most terrific row
; the bed-clothes and featherbeds flew about them; then they grew calmer
after each attack, and at last they began to talk. Ole told how the boys had
treated him and Edward promised that he would give that boy such a
thrashing--yes, even if it were Anders Hegge himself--if he would not hold
his tongue about the "ways of God," and all that, Edward would give him a
proper kind of beating. Anders Hegge was a coward. He knew who he would get
to help him; they would have such fun!
As they grew more tired they became sentimental. Ole spoke of Josephine and
Edward joined in and assured him that she had behaved splendidly that day.
He described her as she came rowing out in search of him. Ole thought this
grand. Certainly there was something great about Josephine; they both agreed
as to that.
Edward could not understand why Ole should wish to be a missionary? Why on
earth was it such an excellent thing to go off on wild adventures when one
had enough to do here at home? Ole should be a clergyman and he would be a
doctor, and they would both live together in the same town; would not that
be much nicer?
And Edward went on drawing pictures of their future life. They were to live
next door to each other and be often together; in the evenings particularly,
with their glass of punch, just as his father and the apothecary were and
play chess together as those two did. And they would have a carriage for
high days and holidays, and each harness his own horse to it and drive out
together; it would be more sociable like that. Or else they would live by
the sea-side and have a big boat between them; everything must be between
them.
In Ole's fancy Josephine was to be always with them, though Edward did not
actually say as much. But it was clear that she was to be with them. And Ole
thought this showed so much tact on Edward's part and was very grateful to
him; indeed it quite decided him. Josephine was to be the clergyman's wife
and manage everything in the house.
At last he agreed to all; it was decided that one was to be a clergyman and
the other a doctor, and they were to live together. The last thing they
talked about was their fishing expeditions.
They heard sounds of tramping and talking; it was the men coming home from
the herring-fishing. But they were very tired and soon fell asleep.
YOUTH
I.
FIRST COUPLE FORWARD
There was a party of young people collected together at a country house
about five kilometres outside the town. The garden they were sitting in down
by the cove was brightly coloured by their light summer clothes, especially
those of the girls:
"Yellow, black, brown, white,
Green, violet, blue,"
some self-coloured, others variegated, checks and stripes; felt hats, straw
hats, tulle hats, caps, bare heads, parasols. A sound of singing rose
harmoniously up out of this medley of colour; men's and women's voices in
chorus floating in long undulating waves of sound. There was no conductor; a
dark young girl in a brown checked dress lay in the midst of the group,
leaning on one elbow, and led the singing with a soprano voice stronger and
clearer than the others; and they followed her lead. They were in good
practice. In the cove below them lay a freshly painted smack, with half
rigged up new sails; the water calm as a mirror.
The singing and the smack seemed brightly to enter into league with each
other down in that black-looking cove, overshadowed and shut in by the bleak
mountains with still higher ones in the distance. The little cove was like
a mountain lake, once caused by a flood but since forgotten. The mountains--
oh, so heavy and stunted in outline as in colour, rugged and leaden-looking,
the more distant ones blue-black, with dirty snow on their peaks, monsters
all of them.
The smack lay on the black water, ready for a dance; it belonged to a more
light-hearted community than these lofty accessories of nature and human
life. The smack and the singing protested against all overweening despotism,
all that was rude, rough, and coarse--a free swaying protest, proudly
delighting in their colours.
But the mountains took no notice of this protest, nor did the young people
ever understand that it had been made. The "high-born" part of being born
and bred in scenery like that of Norway's west country is just this, that
nature forces one to make a stand, if one would not be utterly crushed and
overwhelmed; either one must be beneath or above all! And they were above;
for the west country folk are the brightest and cleverest of all
Scandinavians. In so great a degree do they feel themselves masters of the
situation as regards their scenery that not one of all these young people
felt the mountains as heavy and cold in colour; all nature seemed to them
fresh and strong, as nowhere else in the world.
But they who now sat there singing or listening only had not been born and
nurtured by glad songs and the wide sea alone; no, they were children of the
mountains too; children of them as well as of the songs and sea. Just
before the song began they had been engaged in a discussion as sharp and
cutting, as leaden-hued as any mountain. It was to do away with this stone-
like sharpness among themselves that they had sent forth their melodious
song, building long bridges of glorious harmony across the mountain-peaks
and precipices. The summer day was slightly gray in itself; but occasionally
(just as at that moment!) the sun shone forth over song and sail and
landscape.
There sat two on whom both sun and song were wasted. Look at him down there,
a little to the right, lying in the grass, leaning on his elbow; a tall
young fellow in light summer clothes and without hat, a round closely-
cropped head, short, broad forehead that looked like butting, a forehead
that in his boyish days must have given many a hard bang! Below the forehead
was a nose like a beak, and sharp eyes that just then were slightly
squinting; either the spectacles concealed it so as to make it hardly
visible, or else it really was only very slight. The whole face had
something severe about it, the mouth was pinched and hard and the chin sharp
. But when one looked more closely into it the impression it gave one
changed entirely; all that was so sharply cut became energetic rather than
severe, and the spirit which had taken up its abode in this mountainous
country could doubtless be both a friendly and a mischievous one. Even then,
as he sat there in a towering rage, not caring a hang about either sunshine
or song, he would rather have had a fight--even then gleams of merriment
shot out from under the angry brows. It was clear that he was the conqueror.
If anyone doubted it they need only cast an eye over to the other side of
the group on him who sat up against a tree to the left, a little higher up
the bank. He was the picture of a wounded warrior, suffering, and with all
the trembling uneasiness of battle still in his features. It was a long fair
face, not a west country face, but belonging rather to the mountain
districts or highlands; either he was a foreigner, or else he came of a race
of immigrants; he was strikingly like the popular pictures of Melanchthon,
though perhaps the eyes were a little more dreamy and the eyebrows a little
more arched; altogether the likeness, particularly the forehead, position of
the eyes, and the mouth, was so striking that among his fellow-students he
always went by the name of Melanchthon.
This was Ole Tuft, student in theology, his studies nearly completed; and
the other one, the conqueror with the eagle's beak (which just now had been
hacking so sharply), was the friend of his childhood, Edward Kallem, medical
student.
Several years ago their paths in life had begun to deviate, but so far there
had never been any serious encounter between them; but now what had
happened was to prove decisive.
Between these two, in the middle of the garden and surrounded by the singers
, sat a tall girl in a plum-colored silk dress, round her neck some broad
yellow lace which hung in long loose folds down to her waist. She herself
was not singing; she was making a wreath out of a whole garden of field
flowers and grass. One could easily see that she was sister to the conqueror
, but with darker complexion and hair. The same shape of head, although her
forehead was comparatively higher and the whole face larger, undoubtedly too
large. The sharp family nose had a more gentle bend in her well-
proportioned face; his thin lips became fuller, his chin more rounded, his
uneven eyebrows more even, the eyes larger--and yet it was the same face.
The expression of the two was different; hers, though not cold, was calm and
silent; no one could quickly read those deep eyes; and yet the two
expressions were much alike. Her head was well set on a strong-looking neck
and well-shaped shoulders, the bust, too, was well developed. Her dark hair
was twisted into a knot peculiar to herself. Her throat was bare, but the
dress, with its yellow lace fastened closely round it--indeed, her whole
attire gave one the idea of something shut in, buttoned up as it were; and
so it was with her whole manner. As before said, she was making a wreath and
looked neither at one or the other of the two who had been fighting.
The quarrel has been caused by a large black dog; it lay there now
pretending to sleep, its thick wet coat glistening in the sun. Several of
them had been throwing sticks into the water and sending the dog in after
them; each time they threw a stick they shouted, "Samson! Samson!"--that was
the dog's name. Edward Kallem said to two or three who stood near him, "
Samson means sun-god."
"What?" asked one young girl, "does Samson mean sun-god?"
"Certainly it does; but of course the clergymen take care not to tell that."
He said it in youthful exuberance, not in the least intending to hurt
anyone's feelings, or to say more at all. But by chance Ole Tuft overheard
him and said, with rather a superior air:
"Why should the clergymen not dare to tell the children that Samson means
sun-god?"
"Why, for then the whole legend about him could no longer serve them as a
type of the Christ-myth."
This last word was like a sharp stab, and it was meant as such. With a
superior smile Ole said:
"I suppose Samson may be used as a type, whether he be called sun-god or not
."
"Certainly, whether he be called sun-god or not, but suppose him to be sun-
god?"
"Indeed, so he was sun-god?" shouted Ole, laughing.
"The name tells us so."
"The name? Are we bears or wolves because we are called after bears or
wolves? Or gods because we are called after gods?"
Several of the party stood by listening; others joined them, Josephine among
the number, and both turned at once to her.
"The misfortune is," said Edward, "that it is only the fact of his being a
sun-god that gives any sense to the stories told about Samson."
"Oh, nowadays all old records of everybody's forefathers are turned into sun
legends. And Ole related a few amusing parodies of this scientific craze
now so much in vogue. They all laughed, Josephine too; Edward became excited
at once and began to explain that our gods, who were Indian sun-gods, had
in reality been turned into our forefathers when a new religion was started;
the altars which then had been used for sacrifices were turned into graves
or burying-places. In the same way all the old sun-gods of the Jews had been
changed to forefathers when the worship of Jehovah did away with them as
gods."
"Who can know that?"
"Know it? Why, take Samson! How utterly meaningless to believe that anyone's
strength should be in his hair! But as soon as we take it for granted that
it is the sun's rays, lengthy in summer-time, but cut short in the lap of
winter, then there is some sense in it. And when the rays grew longer and
longer, and spring drew near, then all can understand that the sun-god could
again encircle with his arms the pillars of the world. Never have bees been
known to deposit their honey in a beast's carcase; but when we hear that
each time the sun passes over one of the signs of the stars--for instance,
the lion's--then it is said that the sun slaughtered the lion; then we can
understand that the bees made their honey in the dead lion's carcase, that
is to say, in the hottest part of the summer."
The whole party was all ears, and Josephine was highly astonished. She did
not look up at her brother because she felt he was looking at her, but the
impression made was unmistakable. What Edward had at first started, without
other thought than that of showing off a little, was now a decided thing
aimed at, and it was because Josephine stood between them.
"With the Egyptians," explained he, "the spring began when the sun
slaughtered the lamb, that is to say, passed across the sign of the lamb--in
their delight at the renewal of all things, every Egyptian slaughtered a
lamb that day. The Jews have it from them. It is utterly false if the Jews
later on have changed this to something that separates them from the
Egyptians. Just as with the circumcision, they have that, too, from Egypt.
But clergymen take care never to speak of that kind of thing."
Ole Tuft had little or no knowledge of all these things. His plodding
studies had been severely theological, he had not time for more, and his
faith was an inheritance from an old peasant race, and was far too secure in
itself to be capable of scientific doubts. Had he announced this fact
straight out, there would probably have been an end of the matter. But he
too felt that Josephine stood between them and was allowing herself to be
led away. So he began with great scorn to call everything vague inventions,
empty devices, shining one day, melted away on the morrow.
The other's vanity would not stand this. "Theologians," cried he, "are
wanting in the very simplest honesty. They conceal the fact that the most
important items of their faith are not revealed to the Jews, but simply
taken up and accepted from elsewhere! Like the creed of immortality, that is
from Egypt. The same with the Commandments. No one climbs up on to a high
mountain to have revealed to him in a thunderstorm what others have known
for thousands of years. Where is the devil from? And the punishments of hell
? Whence the last day and judgment? And the angels? The Jews knew nothing of
all this. Clergymen are a set--in short, a set who do not honestly
investigate matters, telling people such things."
Josephine subsided completely; all the young people, particularly the men,
were evidently on Kallem's side; free-thinking was the fashion, and it was
amusing to have a laugh at the old faith handed down from days of yore.
One young man began mocking at the history of the creation; Kallem possessed
both geological and pal?ontological learning, and he made good use of it.
Still less on this subject could Ole Tuft argue with them; he alluded again
to a trial that had been made to reconcile the doctrines of the Bible with
more recent discoveries, but it fared badly with him. And on they went in
rapid succession from dogma to dogma--now they lay basking in the doctrine
of the atonement of sins, it descended from so ancient and uncultured a time
that such a thing as individual responsibility was not then known, merely
that of the whole tribe or family. Tuft was in despair; to him it really was
an important question, and much moved, in a loud voice, he began to confess
his faith. As if that were of any use! Excuses! Inventions!--show us your
proofs! Too late, Ole Tuft perceived that he had defended the cause too
eagerly and had therefore lost all. He was overcome with grief, fought
without hope, but fought on all the same and shouted out that, if a single
one of all those truths seemed doubtful, the fault was his; he lacked the
power to defend it. But the Word of God would stand unharmed to the last
hour of the world! What is the Word of God? It is the spirit and entirety of
the Bible, the creation (No!); the deluge (No! No!); the expiation by death
(No, No, No!); he shouted, they shouted; the tears rushed to Tuft's eyes,
his voice shook; he looked pale and handsome.
Young people are not quite so cruel as children; but still it is the same
kind of spirit. Some were sorry for him, others just wanted to drive him
into a corner, Edward Kallem first and foremost.
But Josephine stepped quickly away to the dark girl with the soprano voice.
She began one of their songs directly, the others joined in, the gentlemen
rather after the ladies. With very few exceptions, the party consisted of a
chorus of ladies and gentlemen who had practised together the last three
winters with all the perseverance and industry only to be met with in a
small town.
Josephine went and sat down in the middle of the bank, the others round
about her. She did not sing; she had her flowers.
The party had come out there in the little schooner which now lay so fresh
and bright-looking in the sun. On board, Josephine, Edward, and Ole had sat
together, close together, for there was not much room. No one could guess,
hearing their merry, oft-whispered conversation, that there was aught
between them save friendship and goodwill. And now, only three hours after,
Ole Tuft sat there like an outcast! How he suffered! An attack on his
calling, on his faith, and before them all! And by Edward, too! So cruel, so
persistingly scornful! And Josephine? Not a single word of sympathy, not
even a look from Josephine.
From their childhood Ole and she had been constantly together; they had
written to each other when he was away at Christiania, he once a fortnight,
she as often as she had anything to write about. When he was at home for his
holidays they met daily. During the two years that she was at a French
school and away in Spain their correspondence had been more active than ever
, on her part, too, and when she came home again--changed though she was
otherwise--to him she was always the same. Her father had helped him with
his studies and enabled him to give all his attention to them; he was to
pass his last examination at Christmas; everyone prophesied that it would be
one of the first and best ever passed in theology. Undoubtedly he had her,
and possibly her brother too, to thank for his having been helped. In former
days they had both of them brought him to their father, to the head-master,
to the apothecary, and to many other families; and now through her he was
accepted everywhere. In everyday life she spoke but little, and was often
rather difficult to get on with; but she was a firm and true friend. At
times she would censure him (for he was not always according to her taste);
it was all part of their intercourse and he did not attach much importance
to it, nor she either; from the very first she had always been his guardian.
As yet he had not dared to say that he loved her; there was no necessity
for it, and, in fact, it was almost too sacred to be mentioned. He was as
sure of her as of his own faith. He was a peasant, his chief characteristic
was a certain trustful, solid collectiveness. God provided for his faith;
his well-being and future were provided for--of course also by God; but
through Josephine. In his eyes she was the cleverest, most beautiful and
healthiest girl not only in the town but in the whole country, and she was
very rich. This last must be taken into consideration too; as a small boy he
had been an ambitious dreamer, but now his dreams had a different bent.
His fellow-students knew all about it; as well as Melancthon, they called
him the "bishop-theme from the bay," or the "bay bishop." He had got
accustomed to this, it was almost a necessity for him; there was something
child-like in his smiling trustfulness that suited him well; then he was so
handsome, with his fair, open face; and when that is the case it is quite
excusable to be ambitious.
Now he felt that he had been hurled down from his secure and pleasant height
! Anyone who having been safe and secure, for the first time is thoroughly
defeated, feels so completely out of it all. The worst of this was that
Josephine did not appear to wish to have anything to do with him; he looked
repeatedly across to her, but she went on arranging her flowers and grass
just as if he did not exist.
At last it was exactly as though they all had glided away and he too were no
longer there. He sat without seeming to sit, heard without hearing, saw
without seeing. The supper was being got ready up before the house; they all
went up there as soon as the table was laid; they ate, they drank, they
laughed and made merry; but he was not with them, he stood there staring out
across the bay--far, far away. A young man, clerk in some business, spoke
to him about the routes of the different steamers and how badly they were
managed; a girl with crooked teeth, red hair in plaits and a freckled face (
he had formerly been her master), assured him that sailors were by no means
so well educated as one might expect from people who travelled so much. The
hostess came and asked how it was he would not eat anything, and the host
took wine with him; in doing so they showed him the usual respect; but both
of them cast a hurried, searching glance at his eyes, which made him tremble
. He felt they doubted. In his ceaseless and ever-increasing pain, he saw
nothing but doubt and scorn on every side, even in the fact of the general
merriment. Edward Kallem was especially full of fun and they all collected
round him. It was in his honor too (he had come home a fortnight ago) that
the expedition had been got up. As in a dream, Ole saw that Josephine's
flowers had been placed on the table, and he heard how everyone praised the
blending of their colors; she herself was sitting at a little stone table
with two girl friends--was that to prevent his joining her? There was much
noise and fun going on at the other side. He saw her talking and laughing,
all the young men waiting upon her; Edward joined them several times; he
made them laugh too. Ole noticed all this with a strange feeling of fear.
The noise jarred on him, the laughter made him feel ashamed, he could not
swallow a morsel, and the wine had a bad taste; everyone seemed as though
they were worked by machinery, the house, the bay, the schooner, the
mountains, all seemed so overwhelmingly near.
A dead calm had set in, so that the whole party were obliged to walk back to
town. They started on their walk singing and all together; but almost
immediately some of the numerous summer visitors came pouring out from the
houses along the road, and, as they were all acquaintances, they stopped to
speak. The newcomers joined them and walked on with them; then came others,
and each time they stopped, and each time the party broke up and became more
divided. In that way Ole was able to keep behind without anyone's noticing
it. He could not bear their company and their merriment any longer.
Now it was that everything was, as it were, concentrated in Josephine. The
being attacked and overthrown by Edward, the shame of this defeat, his
wounded religious feelings ... it all was due to the fact that she had not
upheld him, neither by word nor by look; had shunned him before, and now had
gone and left him! He could not stand that; for she had grown to be so much
, too much, for him, he knew it and was not ashamed. That which once had
been his highest aim, namely, to be a missionary, had fallen from him like
scales, when he saw she no longer cared about it. Whenever his mother had
said that he should never become a missionary, his answer was that God must
be obeyed before man. But when Josephine, in her strong sort of way, had
looked closer into the reality of things, he gave up all his wishes without
her needing even to say a word on the subject. He said to himself that he
would surely be punished for having so great a love for any one person. But
he could not help it.
With these and thousands of similar thoughts in his mind, he lagged behind,
and turned off from the road up into the wood; there he lay down, waiting
until their summer acquaintances should pass back again. He soon turned over
, and lay with his face downwards, the cool blades of grass prickling both
cheeks and forehead, and the half-wet earth he seemed to inhale suited his
mood. All these tiny blades of grass were as nothing in the shade; and so it
was with him--through her he reached the sunny side of life, without her
all was shadow.
A voice within him seemed to say her brother had taken her from him.
Her brother, who, until a very few days ago, had not cared a straw about her
, whilst Ole had always been with her since they were children together, had
rowed with her, read to her, been to her both brother and sister in one,
and had faithfully written to her when they were separated; her own brother
had never done any one of all these things. Even his defeat of to-day he
credited to her account; for if he had not, for her sake, been so
conscientious in working for his examination, to which he had been assisted
by her father, then he would probably have known more about all those
matters under discussion to-day--he would perhaps not have been defeated at
all; this, too, he suffered for the sake of his fidelity.
As long as Josephine was a child and half grown up, Edward had seldom been
together with her without teasing her. She was very thin, with large, black
eyes, often uncombed hair, red hands, altogether scraggy; he nicknamed her "
the duckling," and once when she had hurt her foot and went about limping, "
the lame duckling."
He could never really make her out, she was so defiant, and yet shy--kept
always at a distance. And then, time upon time, she was the cause of his
getting a beating. She considered it "just" to tell each time he did
anything wrong. And if he beat her for telling, then it was "just" to tell
about that too. He took a dislike to her. Soon, however, they were separated
, through his leaving his father's house. After that unlucky day, when
father and son met on the road to Store-Tuft, the apothecary took pity on
his old friend and, taking the boy from him, adopted him entirely as his own
son. What the father had never been able to succeed in succeeded now. The
boy was at once taken away from school, and allowed to devote himself to his
chief interest, natural history. Chemical and physical analysis or
botanical expeditions were his highest aim, and for two years he studied
nothing but what belonged to those branches. After that he went through
other necessary studies with a private master, and very quickly; he began
his medical studies after passing his second examination. As long as he was
at home he only saw his sister when she came across to the apothecary's to
see him, and, as their interests were entirely opposed, their intercourse
became almost nil. Later on, the apothecary used to take him abroad with him
in the holidays; Edward was so clever at languages, which he certainly was
not. It was not often, therefore, that the brother and sister met in their
holiday time. But from the time that, as a student, he had first travelled
abroad with the apothecary, and she saw her brother come home, grown-up,
with new fashions, both in ideas and in dress, energetic, full of life, a
very ideal, especially a woman's ideal of youth, from that time she had
always secretly admired him. He, for his part, either overlooked her
completely, or else teased her; it cost her many an hour's torture, but she
swallowed it all, so as to be allowed to be where he was, even if only
quietly in a corner.
Ole understood her, though she never betrayed herself. To him, too, she
spoke seldom of Edward without calling him "disgusting," "meddlesome," "
chatterbox," etc., etc. But Ole's faithful attention to her every time she
sat there neglected by her brother, and with wounded feelings heaped up "
treasures" for him in her heart.
A great change had taken place in Edward--his inquisitiveness had become a
desire for knowledge, his restlessness was now energy. But at the same time
his sister also underwent a change to an extent that he knew nothing about.
It was exactly two years and a half since he had seen her last; she had been
in France and Spain for two years, and in the last holidays, when she was
at home, he had been away travelling in England with the apothecary; this
year, too, they had been away for a couple of months. This sister whom he
now met again was like a stranger to him. He was much taken up with her
after their first meeting.
She was not handsome, he told Ole, as soon as they two met (to Ole's
greatest astonishment). But he never wearied talking of the new and peculiar
sort of impression she produced up here among all the others. Their mother
must surely have looked too much at some Spanish woman during the time
before Josephine's birth. If it had not been for that indescribable
something about the eyes which distinguishes one person from the other all
the world over--if it had not been for that something about the eyes--she
might very well have lived among Spaniards and been taken for their
countrywoman. The effect of this in a Norwegian household may be imagined!
She talked well, rapidly, and to the point; but, all the same, was rather
silent--kept herself at a distance. She dressed conspicuously, liked bright
colors, and was always in the height of fashion, thereby almost challenging
people, but in all other respects she was timid and shy.
From this time Edward really became a brother to her. Their father was away,
and during his absence she lived at the head-master's and was not always
easily got at; but whenever it was possible they were together. She had a
feeling that he wanted to study her thoroughly, so she was on her guard; but
it flattered her greatly that, whenever there was anyone present, his eyes
always sought hers and he appealed to her in everything.
While Ole, in deep distress, pressed his face down in the grass in the
little wood where he lay, he could see in his mind's eye Josephine at a ball
, her brother dancing first with this one, then with the other--sometimes
even several dances with the same partner, but with her only one little "
turn," out of compassion.
But now?
Now she had become a precious sister to Edward, and she and Ole were to be
separated.
Why should Edward break in upon and spoil their intercourse, he who knew so
little about it?--taking to himself all manner of rights which he did not in
the least deserve? Just after being together for a few days, was he to
decide who was suitable for her to be with, and who was not?
Why, before them all, had he thus attacked him, casting scorn and derision
on his calling in life?--not only mocking him, but mocking God himself.
As this thought passed through Ole Tuft's mind, a strange and strong light
seemed to rise up and spread over all the mountains far away on the other
side of the bay. He felt it in the back of his neck as he lay there with his
face buried in the grass. Then there seemed to come a whisper from over
there, filling all the air around him, "What hast thou done with me?"
Oh! how crushed he felt, he seemed forced down into the ground. Now he knew
that his suffering was like a sharp razor cutting away all that was diseased
out of his flesh. He had lost his cause to-day simply because he stood
there as a liar. "Thou shalt have no other gods but me!" No, no, forgive me,
spare me! "Thou with thy vain, sensual dreams! Let the night serve thee as
it did Jacob, to wrestle with me, writhing worm that thou art!"
The air around him seemed full of the sound of a thousand wings.
It was not the first time that the solemnity of the Old Testament had come
upon him from the heights and taken root in him. These questions of great or
small; as to whether he should hazard "the greatest"--or be contented, like
everyone else, with mediocrity--this was nothing new to him.
But were he to meet Josephine in good humor again, those questions would
cease to exist, with one stroke of her hand she made them vanish. And such
was the case now. Without any warning, it was as if a fresh protest from her
came and overwhelmed him. Josephine would never have turned from him to-day
because her brother wished it, never! And if she had understood it in that
way, she would have done just the opposite. No, she turned from him because
he was such a poor creature--for nothing else. Perhaps, too, because she did
not wish to be forced into a discussion, she was so very shy. Neither had
she turned to her brother. She sat in the middle of the group in the garden,
and later on, when they dined, she and a couple of girl friends had been at
a separate table. And when the party broke up she had made no effort to be
where her brother collected so many round him--why, in the world, had he not
thought of that before? She was true to him; upon my word, she was true and
faithful! He rose up; why, in the name of fortune, had he not seen that
sooner?
He had wished that she would help him one way or another--at least, would
comfort him and show him how sorry she was for him. But all that sort of
thing was utterly opposed to Josephine's nature. How could he even think of
it? Especially as there had been all this disturbance and everyone was on
the lookout as to what she would do.
He had been a great stupid. Delighted with this discovery, he hopped down
through the wood and across the ditch, on his homeward way, after the others.
Great heavens, how he loved her! He saw her before him as she was sometimes
when she thought him too child-like; through all her majesty he could always
catch a good, kind look from her!
The late sunset left no red sky behind, the night was dull and gray, a
deserted road winding down hill; by the roadside were some small factories,
the houses being up on the hill, poor places all of them, and a few shabby-
looking summer villas here and there, low trees, and a few bushes spread
about.
He saw it all without seeing it, occupied as he was with his own thoughts.
Not a soul on the road--yes, far off in the distance was a solitary
individual going toward the town. He slackened his pace so as not to
overtake this person, and never noticed that besides that person walking in
front of him was another advancing to meet him. At last he could distinguish
one from the other. Surely--it could never be--was he mistaken? No, he
recognized the hat, and then the walk, the whole figure, there was only one
such! Josephine was coming back to fetch him! It was just like her.
"But where have you been?" said she. Her large-featured face was flushed,
her breath came quickly, her voice was rather hesitating, and the parasol
she held in her left hand was not altogether steady. He did not answer; he
gazed at her face, her dress, the feather in her hat, her tall, fine figure,
till involuntarily she smiled; so much dumb admiration and gratitude would
pierce through any kind of armor. "Josephine! Oh, Josephine!" Joy and
admiration were reflected from the crown of his flat hat and down to his
very boots. She went gaily up to him and laid her right hand on his left arm
, pushing him gently forward; he was to walk on.
His face was all stained by the grass he had been burrowing in, she thought
he had been crying: "You are silly, Ole," she whispered.
Such a gray summer's night, when nothing really sleeps nor yet is fully
awake, gives one a strange, unsatisfied feeling. For these two it was as
would be a dimly lighted room for two who were secretly engaged. She allowed
her hand to remain resting on his arm, and when his eyes met hers she
looked at him as though watching over a child.
"You see, I thought," said he, "I thought, only fancy I thought--" The tears
stood in his eyes.
"You are very silly, Ole," whispered she again! And thus ended the storm of
that day.
Her hand still rested on his arm; it looked as if she were leading him to
prison. He could only just feel a very slight pressure, but it went to his
very marrow. Now and then her silk dress just touched his leg, they were
keeping step together, he seemed carried along by the electric current of
her vicinity. They were utterly alone, and the silence round them was
complete; they could hear their own steps and the rustling of the silk dress
. He kept the arm on which her hand lay, painfully quiet, half afraid that
the hand might fall down and be broken. There was just this one drawback--
for there must always be something not quite perfect, that he felt an ever-
increasing guilty desire to take her hand and tuck it under his arm in the
usual way; he could have pressed it then. But he dared not do it.
They walked on and on. He looked upward and discovered there was no moon. "
There is no moon," said he.
"It would have been lighter if there had been," answered she, smiling. "Much
lighter." Their voices had met and the sound of them mingled, floating
together like birds in the air.
But just on that account they found it difficult to say more. As Ole walked
along pondering over what he could venture to say next, he felt both touched
and proud. He thought of that snowy Saturday evening long ago, when the
other boys at school had treated him so badly, and he had fled away to Store
-Tuft; he thought of all his misery that day; but his promotion as it were
dated from then, he had walked into the town from the other side, but were |
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