Heinemann's International Library.

EDITOR'S NOTE.

There is nothing in which the Anglo-Saxon world differs more from the world of the Continent of Europe than in its fiction. English readers are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with English novels, and it is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often so familiar to us. We climb the Alps, but are content to know nothing of the pastoral romances of Switzerland. We steam in and out of the picturesque fjords of Norway, but never guess what deep speculation into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled but richly endowed nation. We stroll across the courts of the Alhambra, we are listlessly rowed upon Venetian canals and Lombard lakes, we hasten by night through the roaring factories of Belgium; but we never pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a Spanish, an Italian, a Flemish school of fiction. Of Russian novels we have lately been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether Poland may not possess a Dostoieffsky and Portugal a Tolstoi.

Yet, as a matter of fact, there is no European country that has not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. Everywhere there has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic interpretation of nature and of man. In almost every language, too, this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the direction of what is reported and less of what is created. Fancy has seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the world of dreams fainter than the world of men. They have not been occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents invaluable to futurity.

But to us they should be still more valuable. To travel in a foreign country is but to touch its surface. Under the guidance of a novelist of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very language of its citizens. We may go to Normandy summer after summer and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of Guy de Maupassant's. The present series is intended to be a guide to the inner geography of Europe. It presents to our readers a series of spiritual Baedekers and Murrays. It will endeavour to keep pace with every truly characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist's art in each of the principal European countries, presenting what is quite new if it is also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been presented to our public. That will be selected which gives with most freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand, amusing, and, on the other, wholesome.

One difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. Life is now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour. The novelists of the Lutheran North are not more fully emancipated from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the Catholic South. Everywhere in Europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither blaming nor applauding. Continental fiction has learned to exclude, in the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of Holland and of Denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly discretion. It is not difficult, however, we believe--it is certainly not impossible--to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet to offer to an English public as many of the masterpieces of European fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. It will be the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter.

EDMUND GOSSE.

IN GOD'S WAY

IN GOD'S WAY

A NOVEL

BY

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN

BY

ELIZABETH CARMICHAEL

LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1890

[All rights reserved]

TO MY BEST FRIEND
ETATSRÅD FREDERIK HEGEL
IN REMEMBRANCE

Thou never hast been here; yet I roam
Often up and down and meet thee everywhere.
Here is no room, nor road
But thoughts of thee stand forth
Awaiting me from by-gone days,
When thou by deeds of faithful friendship
Brought comfort to my home in all its troubles.

And ofttimes as I wrote this book,
Thy kindly eye would beam on me;
We were alone then, thou and I, and
All that silently grew into words--
Here and there the book must needs
Be like thy heart, thy simple faith,
And therefore may thy name impart a blessing unto it.

Aulestad, September 11, 1889.

INTRODUCTION.

Among many Scandinavian candidates for fame in the province of fiction, by far the most distinguished in our own day is the Norwegian, Björnstjerne Björnson. He is a child of the mountains; it was in the remote and romantic parish of Kvike, of which his father was priest, that he was born on the 8th of December, 1832. In the bleak parsonage high up in a ravine of the hills, the child led the solitary life which he has described in the little story called Blakken. When he was six years old, his father was transferred to Næsset, in the Romsdal, one of the loveliest parishes in Norway, where the influences of natural beauty and a full peasant society instantly began to mould the child's poetic sensations. At the grammar school of Molde, Björnson was an active, tiresome, and industrious boy; in whom, at about the age of fifteen, a feeling for literature was suddenly awakened, by the reading of Wergeland's poem, The English Pilot. At seventeen, he was sent to a high school at Christiania, and in 1852 he entered the university. At the age of twenty he began to write dramas in verse, none of which have seen the light, and a little later he began to live by journalism in the capital. His early career was one of struggle against privation and disappointment. It was not until 1857 that Björnson made his literary debut, with a little historic drama, called Between the Battles, and with a novel, Synnöve Solbakken, of unprecedented charm and freshness, an exceedingly naïve study of peasant life in Norway; of this four or five separate translations exist in the English language. He was now suddenly famous, and the great success of this book led the author to write a similar, but perhaps a stronger novel, Arne, in 1858. Of this also many versions have been made. In 1860 followed Short Stories, a volume including six tales, one of which, "A Happy Boy," has been regarded as Björnson's most successful effort in this line of peasant-romance. He proceeded to concentrate his attention on a revival of the poetical drama, and wrote a succession of masterly tragedies and a good comedy. His next novel, The Fisher Maiden, did not appear until 1868.

Absorbed in dramatic work of various kinds, a short story called The Bridal March, 1873, was Bjornson's only contribution to fiction for several years. When he reappeared as a novelist, a great change in his manner was discernible. In Magnhild, published in 1877, his exquisite purity and simplicity of style had disappeared; this book was more real, perhaps, but it was much more turbid and more speculative than his early mountain romances. Björnson had been touched by the "novel of experience," and had been troubled by it. Captain Mansana, a story of the Italian war, was slight in character. Everything seemed to point to the abandonment of prose fiction by Björnson, in favour of the drama, in which he had made and was still making a series of paradoxical successes. Quite in recent years, however, Björnson has returned to the novel, and has produced several works of extraordinary merit. Among these, the latest, In God's Way, which was originally published in 1889, has been universally received as the most remarkable. It is a book which combines the romantic colour and ideal glow of the author's early pastoral stories, with a deeper insight into life and a graver examination of the relations of impulse to duty.

Björnson is a Radical in almost every department of thought. Within the last ten years he has been drawn more and more closely into the vortex of political life. From his farm at Aulestad, in the mountains, he sent forth in 1877, a drama, The King, the consequences of which were such as he probably never anticipated. The piece, which was far from being one of his most artistic creations, was looked upon as a manifestation of enmity to the throne, and since that time the poet has been driven further and further into opposition to the existing Sovereign of Sweden and Norway. But, fortunately for literature, no revolution has as yet given him that opportunity which so many advanced Norwegians yet hope may be placed in his way, of helping to administer the government of his country upon a Republican basis. He is probably able to do better service to Norway by writing those pure and manly stories of his, which thousands of young people read with enthusiasm, than if he were entrusted with the responsibilities of a portfolio. But it would be idle to speculate what triumphs, whether literary, social, or political, the future may not hold for one whose physical and intellectual health is superb, and who has not yet approached his sixtieth year.

EDMUND GOSSE.

SCHOOL-DAYS

IN GOD'S WAY

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?"