The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories by Foreign Authors, by  Various

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Title: Stories by Foreign Authors

Author:  Various

Release Date: March, 2004  [EBook #5336]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on July 2, 2002]
[Date last updated: August 14, 2005]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS ***




Nicole Apostola, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.



STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS

SCANDINAVIAN




THE FATHER . . . . BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON

WHEN FATHER BROUGHT HOME THE LAMP . . . . BY JUHANI AHO

THE FLYING MAIL . . . . BY M. GOLDSCHMIDT

THE RAILROAD AND THE CHURCHYARD . . . . BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON

TWO FRIENDS . . . . BY ALEXANDER KIELLAND

HOPES . . . . BY FREDERIKA BREMER






THE FATHER

BY

BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON




From "The Bridal March." Translated by Prof. R. B. Anderson.


THE FATHER

BY

BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON


The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most
influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Overaas. He
appeared in the priest's study one day, tall and earnest.

"I have gotten a son," said he, "and I wish to present him for
baptism."

"What shall his name be?"

"Finn,--after my father."

"And the sponsors?"

They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and women of
Thord's relations in the parish.

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest, and looked up.

The peasant hesitated a little.

"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself," said
he, finally.

"That is to say on a week-day?"

"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon."

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest.

"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as
though he were about to go.

Then the priest rose. "There is yet this, however," said he, and
walking toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked gravely
into his eyes: "God grant that the child may become a blessing to
you!"

One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest's
study.

"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord," said the
priest; for he saw no change whatever in the man.

"That is because I have no troubles," replied Thord.

To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked: "What
is your pleasure this evening?"

"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be
confirmed to-morrow."

"He is a bright boy."

"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number the
boy would have when he takes his place in church to-morrow."

"He will stand number one."

"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" inquired the priest,
fixing his eyes on Thord.

"There is nothing else."

Thord went out.

Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was heard
outside of the priest's study, for many men were approaching, and
at their head was Thord, who entered first.

The priest looked up and recognized him.

"You come well attended this evening, Thord," said he.

"I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son;
he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who
stands here beside me."

"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish."

"So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with
one hand.

The priest sat a while as if in deep thought, then entered the
names in his book, without making any comments, and the men wrote
their signatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on the
table.

"One is all I am to have," said the priest.

"I know that very well; but he is my only child, I want to do it
handsomely."

The priest took the money.

"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here on
your son's account."

"But now I am through with him," said Thord, and folding up his
pocket-book he said farewell and walked away.

The men slowly followed him.

A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing across the lake,
one calm, still day, to Storliden to make arrangements for the
wedding.

"This thwart is not secure," said the son, and stood up to
straighten the seat on which he was sitting.

At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped from under
him; he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and fell overboard.

"Take hold of the oar!" shouted the father, springing to his feet
and holding out the oar.

But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew stiff.

"Wait a moment!" cried the father, and began to row toward his
son. Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father one
long look, and sank.

Thord could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still, and
stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as though he must
surely come to the surface again. There rose some bubbles, then
some more, and finally one large one that burst; and the lake lay
there as smooth and bright as a mirror again.

For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing round
and round the spot, without taking either food or sleep; he was
dragging the lake for the body of his son. And toward morning of
the third day he found it, and carried it in his arms up over the
hills to his gard.

It might have been about a year from that day, when the priest,
late one autumn evening, heard some one in the passage outside of
the door, carefully trying to find the latch. The priest opened
the door, and in walked a tall, thin man, with bowed form and
white hair. The priest looked long at him before he recognized
him. It was Thord.

"Are you out walking so late?" said the priest, and stood still in
front of him.

"Ah, yes! it is late," said Thord, and took a seat.

The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, long silence
followed. At last Thord said:

"I have something with me that I should like to give to the poor;
I want it to be invested as a legacy in my son's name."

He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again. The
priest counted it.

"It is a great deal of money," said he.

"It is half the price of my gard. I sold it today."

The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but gently:

"What do you propose to do now, Thord?"

"Something better."

They sat there for a while, Thord with downcast eyes, the priest
with his eyes fixed on Thord. Presently the priest said, slowly
and softly:

"I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing."

"Yes, I think so myself," said Thord, looking up, while two big
tears coursed slowly down his cheeks.






WHEN FATHER BROUGHT HOME THE LAMP

BY

JUHANI AHO


In spite of ethnological and philological distinctions,
geographical association makes it more natural to include a
Finnish tale in the volume with Scandinavian stories than in any
other volume of this collection.


From "Squire Hellman." Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. Published by
the Cassell Publishing Co.




WHEN FATHER BROUGHT HOME THE LAMP

BY

JUHANI AHO


When father bought the lamp, or a little before that, he said to
mother:

"Hark ye, mother--oughtn't we to buy us a lamp?"

"A lamp? What sort of a lamp?"

"What! Don't you know that the storekeeper who lives in the market
town has brought from St. Petersburg lamps that actually burn
better than ten PAREA? [Footnote: A pare (pr. payray; Swed.,
perta; Ger., pergei) is a resinous pine chip, or splinter, used
instead of torch or candle to light the poorer houses in Finland.] They've
already got a lamp of the sort at the parsonage."

"Oh, yes! Isn't it one of those things which shines in the middle
of the room so that we can see to read in every corner, just as if
it was broad daylight?"

"That's just it. There's oil that burns in it, and you only have
to light it of an evening, and it burns on without going out till
the next morning."

"But how can the wet oil burn?"

"You might as well ask--how can brandy burn?"

"But it might set the whole place on fire. When brandy begins to
burn you can't put it out, even with water."

"How can the place be set on fire when the oil is shut up in a
glass, and the fire as well?"

"In a glass? How can fire burn in a glass--won't it burst?"

"Won't what burst?"

"The glass."

"Burst! No, it never bursts. It might burst, I grant you, if you
screwed the fire up too high, but you're not obliged to do that."

"Screw up the fire? Nay, dear, you're joking--how CAN you screw up
fire?"

"Listen, now! When you turn the screw to the right, the wick
mounts--the lamp, you know, has a wick, like any common candle,
and a flame too--but if you turn the screw to the left, the flame
gets smaller, and then, when you blow it, it goes out."

"It goes out! Of course! I But I don't understand it a bit yet,
however much you may explain--some sort of new-fangled gentlefolk
arrangement, I suppose."

"You'll understand it right enough when I've bought one."

"How much does it cost?"

"Seven and a half marks, and the oil separate at one mark the
can."

"Seven and a half marks and the oil as well! Why, for that you
might buy parea for many a long day--that is, of course, if you
were inclined to waste money on such things at all, but when Pekka
splits them not a penny is lost."

"And you'll lose nothing by the lamp, either! Pare wood costs
money too, and you can't find it everywhere on our land now as you
used to. You have to get leave to look for such wood, and drag it
hither to the bog from the most out-of-the-way places--and it's
soon used up, too."

Mother knew well enough that pare wood is not so quickly used up
as all that, as nothing had been said about it up to now, and that
it was only an excuse to go away and buy this lamp. But she wisely
held her tongue so as not to vex father, for then the lamp and all
would have been unbought and unseen. Or else some one else might
manage to get a lamp first for his farm, and then the whole parish
would begin talking about the farm that had been the FIRST, after
the parsonage, to use a lighted lamp. So mother thought the matter
over, and then she said to father:

"Buy it, if you like; it is all the same to me if it is a pare
that burns, or any other sort of oil, if only I can see to spin.
When, pray, do you think of buying it?"

"I thought of setting off to-morrow--I have some other little
business with the storekeeper as well."

It was now the middle of the week, and mother knew very well that
the other business could very well wait till Saturday, but she did
not say anything now either, but, "the sooner the better," thought
she.

And that same evening father brought in from the storehouse the
big travelling chest in which grandfather, in his time, had stowed
his provisions when he came from Uleaborg, and bade mother fill it
with hay and lay a little cotton-wool in the middle of it. We
children asked why they put nothing in the box but hay and a
little wool in the middle, but she bade us hold our tongues, the
whole lot of us. Father was in a better humor, and explained that
he was going to bring a lamp from the storekeeper, and that it was
of glass, and might be broken to bits if he stumbled or if the
sledge bumped too much.

That evening we children lay awake a long time and thought of the
new lamp; but old scullery-Pekka, the man who used to split up all
the parea, began to snore as soon as ever the evening pare was put
out. And he didn't once ask what sort of a thing the lamp was,
although we talked about it ever so much.

The journey took father all day, and a very long time it seemed to
us all. We didn't even relish our food that day, although we had
milk soup for dinner. But scullery-Pekka gobbled and guzzled as
much as all of us put together, and spent the day in splitting
parea till he had filled the outhouse full. Mother, too, didn't
spin much flax that day either, for she kept on going to the
window and peeping out, over the ice, after father. She said to
Pekka, now and then, that perhaps we shouldn't want all those
parea any more, but Pekka couldn't have laid it very much to
heart, for he didn't so much as ask the reason why.

It was not till supper time that we heard the horses' bells in the
courtyard.

With the bread crumbs in our mouths, we children rushed out, but
father drove us in again and bade scullery-Pekka come and help
with the chest. Pekka, who had already been dozing away on the
bench by the stove, was so awkward as to knock the chest against
the threshold as he was helping father to carry it into the room,
and he would most certainly have got a sound drubbing for it from
father if only he had been younger, but he was an old fellow now,
and father had never in his life struck a man older than himself.
Nevertheless, Pekka would have heard a thing or two from father if
the lamp HAD gone to pieces, but fortunately no damage had been
done.

"Get up on the stove, you lout!" roared father at Pekka, and up on
the stove Pekka crept.

But father had already taken the lamp out of the chest, and now
let it hang down from one hand.

"Look! there it is now! How do you think it looks? You pour the
oil into this glass, and that stump of ribbon inside is the wick--
hold that pare a little further off, will you!"

"Shall we light it?" said mother, as she drew back.

"Are you mad? How can it be lighted when there's no oil in it?"

"Well, but can't you pour some in, then?"

"Pour in oil? A likely tale! Yes, that's just the way when people
don't understand these things; but the storekeeper warned me again
and again never to pour the oil in by firelight, as it might catch
fire and burn the whole house down."

"Then when will you pour the oil into it!"

"In the daytime--daytime, d'ye hear? Can't you wait till day? It
isn't such a great marvel as all that." "Have you SEEN it burn,
then?"

"Of course I have. What a question! I've seen it burn many a time,
both at the parsonage and when we tried this one here at the
storekeeper's."

"And it burned, did it?"

"Burned? Of course it did, and when we put up the shutters of the
shop, you could have seen a needle on the floor. Look here, now!
Here's a sort of capsule, and when the fire is burning in this
fixed glass here, the light cannot creep up to the top, where it
isn't wanted either, but spreads out downward, so that you could
find a needle an the floor."

Now we should have all very much liked to try if we could find a
needle on the floor, but father rang up the lamp to the roof and
began to eat his supper.

"This evening we must be content, once more, with a pare," said
father, as he ate; "but to-morrow the lamp shall burn in this very
house."

"Look, father! Pekka has been splitting parea all day, and filled
the outhouse with them."

"That's all right. We've fuel now, at any rate, to last us all the
winter, for we sha'n't want them for anything else."

"But how about the bathroom and the stable?" said mother.

"In the bathroom we'll burn the lamp," said father.

That night I slept still less than the night before, and when I
woke in the morning I could almost have wept, if I hadn't been
ashamed, when I called to mind that the lamp was not to be lit
till the evening. I had dreamed that father had poured oil into
the lamp at night and that it had burned the whole day long.

Immediately when it began to dawn, father dug up out of that great
travelling chest of his a big bottle, and poured something out of
it into a smaller bottle. We should have very much liked to ask
what was in this bottle, but we daren't, for father looked so
solemn about it that it quite frightened us.

But when he drew the lamp a little lower down from the ceiling and
began to bustle about it and unscrew it, mother could contain
herself no longer, and asked him what he was doing.

"I am pouring oil into the lamp."

"Well, but you're taking it to pieces! How will you ever get
everything you have unscrewed into its proper place again?"

Neither mother nor we knew what to call the thing which father
took out from the glass holder.

Father said nothing, but he bade us keep further off. Then he
filled the glass holder nearly full from the smaller bottle, and
we now guessed that there was oil in the larger bottle also.

"Well, won't you light it now?" asked mother again, when all the
unscrewed things had been put back into their places and father
hoisted the lamp up to the ceiling again.

"What! in the daytime?"

"Yes--surely we might try it, to see how it will burn."

"It'll burn right enough. Just wait till the evening, and don't
bother."

After dinner, scullery-Pekka brought in a large frozen block of
wood to split up into parea, and cast it from his shoulders on to
the floor with a thud which shook the whole room and set in motion
the oil in the lamp.

"Steady!" cries father; "what are you making that row for?"

"I brought in this pare-block to melt it a bit--nothing else will
do it--it is regularly frozen."

"You may save yourself the trouble then," said father, and he
winked at us.

"Well, but you can't get a blaze out of it at all, otherwise."

"You may save yourself the trouble, I say."

"Are no more parea to be split up, then?"

"Well, suppose I DID say that no more parea were to be split up?"

"Oh! 't is all the same to me if master can get on without 'em."

"Don't you see, Pekka, what is hanging down from the rafters
there?" When father put this question he looked proudly up at the
lamp, and then he looked pityingly down upon Pekka.

Pekka put his clod in the corner, and then, but not till then,
looked up at the lamp.

"It's a lamp," says father, "and when it burns you don't want any
more pare light."

"Oh!" said Pekka, and, without a single word more, he went off to
his chopping-block behind the stable, and all day long, just as on
other days, he chopped a branch of his own height into little
fagots; but all the rest of us were scarce able to get on with
anything. Mother made believe to spin, but her supply of flax had
not diminished by one-half when she shoved aside the spindle and
went out. Father chipped away at first at the handle of his axe,
but the work must have been a little against the grain, for he
left it half done. After mother went away, father went out also,
but whether he went to town or not I don't know. At any rate he
forbade us to go out too, and promised us a whipping if we so much
as touched the lamp with the tips of our fingers. Why, we should
as soon have thought of fingering the priest's gold-embroidered
chasuble. We were only afraid that the cord which held up all this
splendor might break and we should get the blame of it.

But time hung heavily in the sitting-room, and as we couldn't hit
upon anything else, we resolved to go in a body to the sleighing
hill. The town had a right of way to the river for fetching water
therefrom, and this road ended at the foot of a good hill down
which the sleigh could run, and then up the other side along the
ice rift.

"Here come the Lamphill children," cried the children of the town,
as soon as they saw us.

We understood well enough what they meant, but for all that we did
not ask what Lamphill children they alluded to, for our farm was,
of course, never called Lamphill.

"Ah, ah! We know! You've gone and bought one of them lamps for
your place. We know all about it!"

"But how came you to know about it already?"

"Your mother mentioned it to my mother when she went through our
place. She said that your father had bought from the storeman one
of that sort of lamps that burn so brightly that one can find a
needle on the floor--so at least said the justice's maid."

It is just like the lamp in the parsonage drawing-room, your
father told us just now. I heard him say so with my own ears,"
said the innkeeper's lad.

"Then you really have got a lamp like that, eh?" inquired all the
children of the town.

"Yes, we have; but it is nothing to look at in the daytime, but in
the evening we'll all go there together."

And we went on sleighing down hill and up hill till dusk, and every
time we drew our sleighs up to the hilltop, we talked about the lamp
with the children of the town.

In this way the time passed quicker than we thought, and when we
had sped down the hill for the last time, the whole lot of us
sprang off homeward.

Pekka was standing at the chopping block and didn't even turn his
head, although we all called to him with one voice to come and see
how the lamp was lit. We children plunged headlong into the room
in a body.

But at the door we stood stock-still. The lamp was already burning
there beneath the rafters so brightly that we couldn't look at it
without blinking.

"Shut the door; it's rare cold," cried father, from behind the
table.

"They scurry about like fowls in windy weather," grumbled mother
from her place by the fireside.

"No wonder the children are dazed by it, when I, old woman as I
am, cannot help looking up at it," said the innkeeper's old
mother.

"Our maid also will never get over it," said the magistrate's
step-daughter.

It was only when our eyes had got a little used to the light that
we saw that the room was half full of neighbors.

"Come nearer, children, that you may see it properly," said
father, in a much milder voice than just before.

"Knock that snow off your feet, and come hither to the stove; it
looks quite splendid from here," said mother, in her turn.

Skipping and jumping, we went toward mother, and sat us all down
in a row on the bench beside her. It was only when we were under
her wing that we dared to examine the lamp more critically. We had
never once thought that it would burn as it was burning now, but
when we came to sift the matter out we arrived at the conclusion
that, after all, it was burning just as it ought to burn. And when
we had peeped at it a good bit longer, it seemed to us as if we
had fancied all along that it would be exactly as it was.

But what we could not make out at all was how the fire was put
into that sort of glass. We asked mother, but she said we should
see how it was done afterward.

The townsfolk vied with each other in praising the lamp, and one
said one thing, and another said another. The innkeeper's old
mother maintained that it shone just as calmly and brightly as the
stars of heaven. The magistrate, who had sad eyes, thought it
excellent because it didn't smoke, and you could burn it right in
the middle of the hall without blackening the walls in the least,
to which father replied that it was, in fact, meant for the hall,
but did capitally for the dwelling room as well, and one had no
need now to dash hither and thither with parea, for all could now
see by a single light, let them be never so many.

When mother observed that the lesser chandelier in church scarcely
gave a better light, father bade me take my ABC book, and go to
the door to see if I could read it there. I went and began to
read: "Our Father." But then they all said: "The lad knows that by
heart." Mother then stuck a hymn-book in my hand, and I set off
with "By the Waters of Babylon."

"Yes; it is perfectly marvellous!" was the testimony of the
townsfolk.

Then said father: "Now if any one had a needle, you might throw it
on the floor and you would see that it would be found at once."

The magistrate's step-daughter had a needle in her bosom, but when
she threw it on the floor, it fell into a crack, and we couldn't
find it at all--it was so small.

It was only after the townsfolk had gone that Pekka came in.

He blinked a bit at first at the unusual lamplight, but then
calmly proceeded to take off his jacket and rag boots.

"What's that twinkling in the roof there enough to put your eyes
out?" he asked at last, when he had hung his stockings up on the
rafters.

"Come now, guess what it is," said father, and he winked at mother
and us.

"I can't guess," said Pekka, and he came nearer to the lamp.

"Perhaps it's the church chandelier, eh?" said father jokingly.

"Perhaps," admitted Pekka; but he had become really curious, and
passed his thumb along the lamp.

"There's no need to finger it," says father; "look at it, but
don't touch it."

"All right, all right! I don't want to meddle with it!" said
Pekka, a little put out, and he drew back to the bench alongside
the wall by the door.

Mother must have thought that it was a sin to treat poor Pekka so,
for she began to explain to him that it was not a church
chandelier at all, but what people called a lamp, and that it was
lit with oil, and that was why people didn't want parea any more.

But Pekka was so little enlightened by the whole explanation that
he immediately began to split up the pare-wood log which he had
dragged into the room the day before. Then father said to him that
he had already told him there was no need to split parea any more.

"Oh! I quite forgot," said Pekka; "but there it may bide if it
isn't wanted any more," and with that Pekka drove his pare knife
into a rift in the wall.

"There let it rest at leisure," said father.

But Pekka said never a word more. A little while after that he
began to patch up his boots, stretched on tiptoe to reach down a
pare from the rafters, lit it, stuck it in a slit fagot, and sat
him down on his little stool by the stove. We children saw this
before father, who stood with his back to Pekka planing away at
his axe-shaft under the lamp. We said nothing, however, but
laughed and whispered among ourselves, "If only father sees that,
what will he say, I wonder?" And when father did catch sight of
him, he planted himself arms akimbo in front of Pekka, and asked
him, quite spitefully, what sort of fine work he had there, since
he must needs have a separate light all to himself?

"I am only patching up my shoes," said Pekka to father.

"Oh, indeed! Patching your shoes, eh? Then if you can't see to do
that by the same light that does for me, you may take yourself off
with your pare into the bath-house or behind it if you like."

And Pekka went.

He stuck his boots under his arm, took his stool in one hand and
his pare in the other, and off he went. He crept softly through
the door into the hall, and out of the hall into the yard. The
pare light flamed outside in the blast, and played a little while,
glaring red, over outhouses, stalls, and stables. We children saw
the light through the window and thought it looked very pretty.
But when Pekka bent down to get behind the bath-house door, it was
all dark again in the yard, and instead of the pare we saw only
the lamp mirroring itself in the dark window-panes.

Henceforth we never burned a pare in the dwelling-room again. The
lamp shone victoriously from the roof, and on Sunday evenings all
the townsfolk often used to come to look upon and admire it. It
was known all over the parish that our house was the first, after
the parsonage, where the lamp had been used. After we had set the
example, the magistrate bought a lamp like ours, but as he had
never learned to light it, he was glad to sell it to the
innkeeper, and the innkeeper has it still.

The poorer farmfolk, however, have not been able to get themselves
lamps, but even now they do their long evening's work by the glare
of a pare.

But when we had had the lamp a short time, father planed the walls
of the dwelling-room all smooth and white, and they never got
black again, especially after the old stove, which used to smoke,
had to make room for another, which discharged its smoke outside
and had a cowl.

Pekka made a new fireplace in the bath-house out of the stones of
the old stove, and the crickets flitted thither with the stones--
at least their chirping was never heard any more in the dwelling
room. Father didn't care a bit, but we children felt, now and
then, during the long winter evenings, a strange sort of yearning
after old times, so we very often found our way down to the bath-
house to listen to the crickets, and there was Pekka sitting out
the long evenings by the light of his pare.






THE FLYING MAIL

BY

M. GOLDSCHMIDT


From "The Flying Mail." Translated by Carl Larsen.




THE FLYING MAIL

BY

M. GOLDSCHMIDT


I.

Fritz Bagger had just been admitted to the bar. He had come home
and entered his room, seeking rest. All his mental faculties were
now relaxed after their recent exertion, and a long-restrained
power was awakened. He had reached a crisis in life: the future
lay before him,--the future, the future! What was it to be? He was
twenty-four years old, and could turn himself whichever way he
pleased, let fancy run to any line of the compass. Out upon the
horizon, he saw little rose-colored clouds, and nothing therein
but a certain undefined bliss. He put his hands over his eyes, and
sought to bring this uncertainty into clear vision; and after a
long time had elapsed, he said: "Yes, and so one marries."

"Yes, one marries," he continued, after a pause; "but whom?"

His thoughts now took a more direct course; but the pictures in
his mind's eye had not become plainer. Again the horizon widely
around was rose-colored, and between the tinted cloud-layers
angel-heads peeped out--not Bible angels, which are neither man
nor woman; but angelic girls, whom he didn't know, and who didn't
know him. The truth was, he didn't know anybody to whom he could
give his heart, but longed, with a certain twenty-four-year power,
for her to whom he could offer it,--her who was worthy to receive
his whole self-made being, and in exchange give him all that queer
imagined bliss, which is or ought to be in the world, as every one
so firmly believes.

"Oh, I am a fool!" he said, as he suddenly became conscious that
he was merely dreaming and wishing. He tried to think of something
practical, thought upon a little picnic that was to be held in the
evening; but the same dream returned and overpowered him, because
the season of spring was in him, because life thrilled in him as
in trees and plants when the spring sun shines.

He leaned upon the window-seat--it was in an attic--and let the
wind cool his forehead. But while the wind refreshed, the street
itself gave his mind new nourishment. Down there it moved, to him
unknown, and veiled and hidden as at a masquerade. What a treasure
might not that easy virgin foot carry! What a fancy might there
not be moving in the head under that little bonnet, and what a
heart might there not be beating under the folds of that shawl!
But, too, all this preciousness might belong to another.

Alas! yes, there were certainly many amiable ones down there!--and
if destiny should lead him to one of them, who was free, lovely,
well-bred, of good family, could any one vouch that for her sake
he was not giving up HER, the beau-ideal, the expected, whose
portrait had shown itself between the tinted clouds? or, in any
event, who can vouch for one's success in not missing the right
one?

"Oh! life is a lottery, a cruel lottery; for to everybody there is
but one drawing, and the whole man is at stake. Woe to the loser!"

After the expiration of some time, Fritz, under the influence of
these meditations, had become melancholy, and all bright, smiling,
and sure as life had recently appeared to him, so misty,
uncertain, and painful it now appeared. For the second time he
stroked his forehead, shook these thoughts from him, seeking more
practical ones, and for the second time it terminated in going to
the window and gazing out.

A whirlwind filled the street, slamming gates and doors, shaking
windows and carrying dust with it up to his attic chamber. He was
in the act of drawing back, when he saw a little piece of paper
whirled in the dust cloud coming closely near him. He shut his
eyes to keep out the dust, grasping at random for the paper, which
he caught. At the same moment the whirlwind ceased, and the sky
was again clear. This appeared to him ominous; the scrap of paper
had certainly a meaning to him, a meaning for him; the unknown
whom he had not really spoken to, yet had been so exceedingly busy
with, could not quite accidentally have thus conveyed this to his
hands, and with throbbing heart he retired from the window to read
the message.

One side of the paper was blank; in the left-hand corner of the
other side was written "beloved," and a little below it seemed as
if there had been a signature, but now there was nothing left
excepting the letters "geb."

"'Geb,' what does that mean?" asked Fritz Bagger, with dark humor.
"If it had been gek, I could have understood it, although it were
incorrectly written. Geb, Gebrer, Algebra, Gebruderbuh,--I am a
big fool."

"But it is no matter, she shall have an answer," he shouted after
a while, and seated himself to write a long, glowing love-letter.
When it was finished and read, he tore it in pieces.

"No," said he, "if destiny has intended the least thing by acting
to me as mail-carrier through the window, let me act reasonably."
He wrote on a little piece of paper:

"As the old Norwegians, when they went to Iceland, threw their
high-seat pillars into the sea with the resolution to settle where
they should go ashore, so I send this out. My faith follows after;
and it is my conviction that where this alights, I shall one day
come, and salute you as my chosen, as my--." "Yes, now what more
shall I add?" he asked himself. "Ay, as my--'geb'--!" he added,
with an outburst of merry humor, that just completed the whole
sentimental outburst. He went to the window and threw the paper
out; it alighted with a slow quivering. He was already afraid that
it would go directly down into the ditch; but then a breeze came
lifting it almost up to himself again, then a new current carried
it away, lifting it higher and higher, whirling it, till at last
it disappeared from his sight in continual ascension, so he
thought.

"After all, I have become engaged to-day," he said to himself,
with a certain quiet humor, and yet impressed by a feeling that he
had really given himself to the unknown.

II.

Six years had passed, and Fritz Bagger had made his mark, although
not as a lover. He had become Counsellor, and was particularly
distinguished for the skill and energy with which he brought
criminals to confession. It is thus that a man of fine and poetic
feelings can satisfy himself in such a business, for a time at
least: with the half of his soul he can lead a life which to
himself and others seems entire only because it is busy, because
it keeps him at work, and fills him with a consciousness of
accomplishing something practical and good. There is a youthful
working power, which needs not to look sharply out into the future
for a particular aim of feeling or desire. This power itself, by
the mere effort to keep in a given place, is for such an
organization, every day, an aim, a relish; and one can for a
number of years drive business so energetically, that he, too,
slips over that difficult time which in every twenty-four hours
threatens to meet him, the time between work and sleep, twilight,
when the other half of the soul strives to awaken.

Be it because his professional duties gave him no time or
opportunity for courtship, or for some other reason, Fritz Bagger
remained a bachelor; and a bachelor with the income of his
profession is looked upon as a rich man. Counsellor Bagger would,
when business allowed, enter into social life, treating it in that
elegant, independent, almost poetic manner, which in most cases is
denied to married men, and which is one reason why they press the
hand of a bachelor with a sigh, a mixture of envy, admiration, and
compassion. If we add here that a bachelor with such a
professional income is the possible stepping-stone to an
advantageous marriage, it is easily seen that Fritz Bagger was
much sought for in company. He went, too, into it as often as
allowed by his legal duties, from which he would hasten in the
black "swallow-tail" to a dinner or soiree, and often amused
himself where most others were weary; because conversation about
anything whatever with the cultivated was to him a refreshment,
and because he brought with him a good appetite and good humor,
resting upon conscientious work. He could show interest in divers
trifles, because in their nothingness (quite contrary to the
trifles in which half an hour previous, with painful interest, he
had ferreted out crime), they appeared to him as belonging to an
innocent, childish world; and if conversation approached more
earnest things, he spoke freely, and evidently gave himself quite
up to the subject, letting the whole surface of his soul flow out.
And this procured him friendship and reputation.

In this way, then, six years had slipped by, when Counsellor
Bagger, or rather Fritz Bagger as we will call him, in remembrance
of his examination-day, and his notes by the flying mail, was
invited to a wedding-party on the shooting-ground. The company was
not very large,--only thirty couples,--but very elegant. Bagger
was a friend in the families of both bride and bridegroom, and
consequently being well known to nearly all present he felt
himself as among friends gathered by a mutual joy, and was more
than usually animated. A superb wine, which the bride's father had
himself brought, crowned their spirits with the last perfect
wreath. Although the toast to the bridal pair had been officially
proposed, Bagger took occasion to offer his congratulations in a
second encomium of love and matrimony; which gave a solid, prosaic
man opportunity for the witty remark and hearty wish that so
distinguished a practical office-holder as Counsellor Bagger would
carry his fine theories upon matrimony into practice. The toast
was drunk with enthusiasm, and just at that moment a strong wind
shook the windows, and burst open one of the doors, blowing so far
into the hall as to cause the lights to flicker much.

Bagger became, through the influence of the wine, the company, and
the sight of the happy bridal pair, six years younger. His soul
was carried away from criminal and police courts, and found itself
on high, as in the attic chamber, with a vision of the small
tinted clouds and the angel-heads. The sudden gust of wind carried
him quite back to the moment when he sent out his note as the
Norwegian heroes their high-seat pillars: the spirit of his
twenty-fourth year came wholly over him, queerly mixed with the
half-regretful reflection of the thirtieth year, with fun,
inclination to talk and to breathe; and he exclaimed, as he rose
to acknowledge the toast:

"I am engaged."

"Ay! ay! Congratulate! congratulate!" sounded from all sides.

"This gust of wind, which nearly extinguished the lights, brought
me a message from my betrothed!"

"What?" "What is it?" asked the company, their heads at that
moment not in the least condition for guessing charades.

"Counsellor Bagger, have you, like the Doge of Venice, betrothed
yourself to the sea or storm?" asked the bridegroom.

"Hear him, the fortunate! sitting upon the golden doorstep to the
kingdom of love! Let him surmise and guess all that concerns
Cupid, for he has obtained the inspiration, the genial sympathy,"
exclaimed Bagger. "Yes," he continued, "just like the Doge of
Venice, but not as aristocratic! From my attic chamber, where I
sat on my examination-day, guided by Cupid, in a manner which it
would take too long to narrate, I gave to the whirlwind a love-
letter, and at any moment SHE can step forward with my letter, my
promise, and demand me soul and body."

"Who is it, then?" asked bridegroom and bride, with the most
earnest interest.

"Yes, how can I tell that? Do I know the whirlwind's roads?"

"Was the letter signed with your name?"

"No; but don't you think I will acknowledge my handwriting?"
replied Bagger, quite earnestly.

This earnestness with reference to an obligation which no one
understood became comical; and Bagger felt at the moment that he
was on the brink of the ridiculous. Trying to collect himself, he
said:

"Is it not an obligation we all have? Do not both bride and
bridegroom acknowledge that long before they knew each other the
obligation was present?"

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the bridegroom.

"And the whirlwind, accident, the unknown power, brought them
together so that the obligation was redeemed?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Let us, then," continued Bagger, "drink a toast to the wind, the
accident, the moving power, unknown and yet controlling. To those
of us who, as yet, are unprovided for and under forty, it will at
some time undoubtedly bring a bride; to those who are already
provided for will come the expected in another form. So a toast to
the wind that came in here and flickered the lights; to the
unknown, that brings us the wished for; and to ourselves, that we
may be prepared to receive it when announced."

"Bravo!" exclaimed the bridegroom, looking upon his bride.

"Puh-h-h!" thought Bagger, seating himself with intense relief, "I
have come out of it somewhat decently after all. The deuce take me
before I again express a sentimentality."

How Counsellor Bagger that night could have fallen asleep, between
memory, or longing and discontent, is difficult to tell, had he
not on his arrival home found a package of papers, an interesting
theft case. He sat down instantly to read, and day dawned ere they
were finished. His last thought, before his eyelids closed, was,--
Two years in the House of Correction.

III.

A month later, toward the close of September, two ladies, twenty
or twenty-two years of age, were walking in a garden about ten
miles from Copenhagen. Although the walks were quite wide,
impediments in them made it difficult for the ladies to go side by
side. The autumn showed itself uneven and jagged. The currant and
gooseberry boughs, that earlier hung in soft arches, now projected
stiffly forth, catching in the ladies' dresses; branches from plum
and apple trees hung bare and broken, and required attention above
also. One of the ladies apparently was at home there: this was
evident partly from her dress, which, although elegant, was
domestic, and partly by her taking the lead and paying honor, by
drawing boughs and branches aside, holding them until the other
lady, who was more showily dressed, had slipped past. On account
of the hindrances of the walk there were none of those easy,
subdued, familiar conversations, which otherwise so naturally
arise when young ladies, acquaintances, or "friends," visit each
other, and from the house slip out alone into garden or wood. An
attentive observer meanwhile, by scrutinizing the physiognomy of
both, would, perhaps, have come to the conclusion, that even if
these two had been together on the most unobstructed road, no
confidence would have arisen between them, and would have
suspected the hostess of trying to atone for her lack of interest,
by being polite and careful. She was not strikingly handsome, but
possessed of a fine nature, which manifested itself in the whole
figure, and perhaps, especially, in the uncommonly well-formed
nose; yet it was by peering into her eyes that one first obtained
the idea of a womanhood somewhat superior to the generality of her
sex. Their expression was not to be caught at once: they told of
both meditation and resolve, and hinted at irony or badinage,
which works so queerly when it comes from deep ground. The other
lady was "burgherly-genteel," a handsome, cultivated girl, had
certainly also some soul, but yet was far less busy with a world
in her own heart than with the world of fashion. It was about the
world, the world of Copenhagen, that Miss Brandt at this moment
was giving Miss Hjelm an account, interrupted by the boughs and
branches, and although Miss Hjelm was not, nun-like, indifferent
either to fashions or incidents in high life, the manner in which
Miss Brandt unmistakably laid her soul therein, caused her to go
thus politely before.

"But you have heard about Emmy Ibsen's marriage?" asked Miss
Brandt.

"Yes, it was about a month ago, I think."

"Yes, I was bridesmaid."

"Indeed!" said Miss Hjelm, in a voice which atoned for her
brevity.

"The party was at the shooting-ground."

"So!" said Miss Hjelm again, with as correct an intonation as if
she had learned it for "I don't care." "Take care, Miss Brandt,"
she added, stooping to avoid an apple-branch.

"Take care?--oh, for that branch!" said Miss Brandt, and avoided
it as charmingly and coquettishly as if it had been living.

"It was very gay," she added, "even more so than wedding-parties
commonly are; but this was caused a good deal by Counsellor
Bagger."

"So!"

"Yes, he was very gay ... I was his companion at table.

"Ah!"

"Oh, only to think! at the table he stands up declaring that he is
engaged."

"Was his lady present?"

"No, that she was not, I think. Do you know who it was?"

"No, how should I know that, Miss Brandt?"

"The whirlwind!"

"The whirlwind?"

"Yes. He said that he, as a young man, in a solemn moment had sent
his love letter or his promise out with the wind, and he was
continually waiting for an answer: he had given his promise, was
betrothed!--Ou!"

"What is it?" asked Miss Hjelm, sympathetically. The truth was,
the young hostess at this moment had relaxed her polite care, and
a limb of a gooseberry-bush had struck against Miss Brandt's
ankle.

The pain was soon over; and the two ladies, who now had reached
the termination of the walk, turned toward the house side by side,
each protecting herself, unconscious that any change had occurred.

"But I hardly believe it," continued Miss Brandt: "he said it
perhaps only to make himself conspicuous, for certain gentlemen
are just as coquettish as ... as they accuse us of being."

Miss Hjelm uttered a doubting, "Um!"

"Yes, that they really are! Have you ever seen any lady as
coquettish as an actor?"

"I don't know any of them, but I should suppose an actress might
be."

"No: no actress I have ever met of the better sort was really
coquettish. I don't know how it is with them, but I believe they
have overcome coquettishness."

"But you think, then, Counsellor Bang is coquettish?"

"Not Bang--Bagger. Yes; for although he said he had this romantic
love for a fairy, he often does court to modest earthly ladies. He
is properly somewhat of a flirt."

"That is unbecoming an old man."

"Yes; but he is not old."

"Oh!" said Miss Hjelm, laughing: "I have only known one war
counsellor, and he was old; so I thought of all war counsellors as
old."

"Yes; but Counsellor Bagger is not war counsellor, but a real
Superior Court Counsellor."

"Oh, how earnest that is! And so he is in love with a fairy?"

"Yes: it is ridiculous!" said Miss Brandt, laughing. During this
conversation they had reached the house, and Miss Brandt
complained that something was yet pricking her ankle. They went
into Miss Hjelm's room, and here a thorn was discovered and taken
out.

"How pretty and cosy this room really is!" said Miss Brandt,
looking around. "In a situation like this one can surely live in
the country summer and winter. Out with us at Taarback it blows in
through the windows, doors, and very walls."

"That must be bad in a whirlwind."

"Yes--yes: still, it might be quite amusing when the whirlwind
carried such billets: not that one would care for them; yet they
might be interesting for a while."

"Oh, yes! perhaps."

"Yes: how do you think a young girl would like it, when there came
from Heaven a billet, in which one pledged himself to her for time
and eternity?"

"That isn't easy to say; but I don't believe the occurrence quite
so uncommon. A friend of mine once had such a billet blown to her,
and she presented me with it."

"Does one give such things away? Have you the billet?"

"I will look for it," answered Miss Hjelm; and surely enough,
after longer search in the sewing-table, in drawers, and small
boxes, than was really necessary, she found it. Miss Brandt read
it, taking care not to remark that it very much appeared to her as
if it resembled the one the counsellor had mentioned.

"And such a billet one gives away!" she said after a pause.

"Yes: will you have it?" asked Miss Hjelm, as though after a
sudden resolution.

Miss Brandt's first impulse was an eager acceptance; but she
checked herself almost as quickly, and answered:

"Oh, yes, thank you, as a curiosity." Then slowly put it between
her glove and hand.

As Miss Brandt and her company rode away, said Miss Hjelm's
cousin, a handsome, middle-aged widow, to her:

"How is it, Ingeborg? It appears to me you laugh with one eye and
weep with the other."

"Yes: a soap-bubble has burst for me, and glitters, maybe, for
another."

"You know I seldom understand the sentimental enigmas: can you not
interpret your words?"

"Yes: to-day an illusion has vanished, that had lasted for six
years."

"For six years?" said her cousin, with an inquiring or
sympathizing look. "So it began when you were hardly sixteen
years."

"Now do you believe, that when I was in my sixteenth year I saw an
ideal of a man, and was enamoured of him, and to-day I hear that
he is married."

"No, I don't know as I believe just that," answered the cousin,
dropping her eyes; "but I suppose that then you had a pretty
vision, and have carried it along with you in silence--and with
faith."

"But it was something more than a vision; it was a letter--a love-
letter."

The cousin looked upon Ingeborg so inquiringly, so anxiously, that
words were unnecessary. Beside this the cousin knew, that when
Ingeborg was inclined to talk, she did so without being asked, and
if she wished to be silent, she was silent.

Ingeborg continued: "One time, I drove to town with sainted
father. Father was to go no further than to Noerrebro, and I had
an errand at Vestervold. So I stepped out and went through the
Love-path. As I came to the corner of the path, and the
Ladegaardsway, the wind blew so violently against me, that I could
hardly breathe; and something blew against my veil, fluttering
with wings like a humming-bird. I tried to drive it away, for it
blinded one of my eyes; but it blew back again. So I caught it and
was going to let it fly away over my head, but that moment I saw
it was written upon, and read it. It was a love-letter! A man
wrote that he sent this as in old times the Norwegian emigrants
let their high-seat pillars be carried by the sea, and where it
came he would one time come, and bring his faith to his destined--
Geb.'"

"'Geb'? What is that?" asked the cousin. "That is Ingeborg,"
answered Miss Hjelm, with a plain simplicity, showing how deeply
she had believed in the earnestness of the message.

"It was really remarkable!" said the cousin, and added with a
smile which perhaps was somewhat ironical: "And did you then
resolve to remain unmarried, until the unknown letter-writer
should come and redeem his vow?"

"I will not say that," answered Ingeborg, who quickly became more
guarded; "but the letter perhaps contained some stronger
requirements than under the circumstances could be fulfilled."

"So! and now?"

"Now I have presented the letter to Miss Brandt."

"You gave it away? Why?"

"Because I learned that the man, who perhaps or probably wrote it
in his youth, has spoken about it publicly, and is counsellor in
one of the courts."

"Oh, I understand," said the cousin, half audibly: "when the ideal
is found out to be a counsellor, then--"

"Then it is not an ideal any longer? No. The whole had been
spoiled by being fumbled in public. I would get away from the
temptation to think of him. Do court to him, announce myself to
him as the happy finder,--I could not."

"That I understand very well," said the cousin, putting her arm
affectionately around Ingeborg's waist; "but why did you just give
Miss Brandt the letter?"

"Because she is acquainted with the counsellor, and indeed, as far
as I could understand, feels somewhat for him. They two can get
each other; and what a wonderful consecration it will be when she
on the marriage-day gives him the letter!"

The cousin said musingly: "And such secrets can live in one whole
year, without another surmising it!" Suddenly she added: "But how
will Miss Brandt on that occasion interpret the word 'Geb'?"

"Oh! I suppose a single syllable is of no consequence; and,
besides, Miss Brandt is a judicious girl," answered Ingeborg, with
an inexpressible flash in the dark eyes.

IV.

Good fortune seldom comes singly. One morning Criminal and Court
Counsellor Bagger got, at his residence at Noerre Street, official
intelligence that from the first of next month he was transferred
to the King's Court, and in grace was promoted to be veritable
counsellor of justice there; rank, fourth-class, number three. As,
gratified by this friendly smile from above, he went out to repair
to the court-house, he met in the porch a postman, who delivered
him a letter. With thoughts yet busy with new title and court,
Counsellor Bagger broke the letter, but remained as if fixed to
the ground. In it he read:

"The high-seat pillars have come on shore.

"--'GEB.'--"

One says well, that a man's love or season of courtship lasts till
his thirtieth year, and after that time he is ambitious; but it is
not always so, and with Counsellor Bagger it was in all respects
the contrary. His ambition was already, if not fully reached, yet
in some degree satisfied. The faculty of love had not been at all
employed, and the letter came like a spark in a powder-cask; it
ran glowing through every nerve. The youthful half of his soul,
which had slept within him, wakened with such sudden,
revolutionary strength, that the other half soul, which until now
had borne rule, became completely subject; yes, so wholly, that
Counsellor Bagger went past the court-house and came down in
Court-house Street without noticing it. Suddenly he missed the big
building with the pillars and inscription: "With law shall Lands
be built;" looked around confused, and turned back.

So much was he still at this moment Criminal Examiner, that among
the first thoughts or feelings which the mysterious letter excited
in him was this: It can be a trick, a foolery. But in the next
moment it occurred to him, that never to any living soul had he
mentioned his bold figure of the high-seat pillars, and still less
revealed the mysterious, to him so valued, syllable--geb--. No
doubt could exist: the fine, perfumed paper, the delicate lady
handwriting, and the few significant words testified, that the
billet which once in youthful, sanguine longing he had entrusted
to the winds of heaven, had come to a lady, and that in one way or
another she had found him out. He remembered very well, that a
single time, five or six weeks before, he had in a numerous
company mentioned that incident, and he did not doubt that the
story had extended itself as ripples do, when one throws a stone
into the water; but where in the whole town, or indeed the land,
had the ripple hit the exact point? He looked again at the
envelope. It bore the stamp of the Copenhagen city mail: that was
all. But that showed with some probability that the writer lived
in Copenhagen, and maybe at this moment she looked down upon him
from one of the many windows; for now he stood by the fountain.
There was something in the paper, the handwriting, or more
properly perhaps in the secrecy, that made her seem young,
spirited, beautiful, piquant. There was something fairy-like,
exalted, intoxicating, in the feeling that the object of the
longing and hope of his youth had been under the protection of a
good spirit, and that the great unknown had taken care of and
prepared for him a companion, a wife, just at the moment when he
had become Counsellor of Justice of the Superior Court. But who
was she? This was the only thing painful in the affair; but this
intriguing annoyance was not to be avoided, if the lady was to
remain within her sphere, surrounded by respect and esteem.

"What would I have thought of a lady, a woman, who came straight
forward and handed out the billet, saying: 'Here I am'?" he asked
himself, at the moment when at last he had found the court-house
stairs and was ascending.

How it fared that day with the examinations is recorded in
criminal and police court documents; but a veil is thrown over it
in consideration of the fact, that a man only once in his life is
made Counsellor of Justice in the King's Court. The day following
it went better; although it is pretty sure that a horse thief went
free from further reproof, because the counsellor was busy rolling
that stone up the mountain: Where shall I seek her if she does not
write again? Will she write again? If she would do that, why did
she not write a little more at first?

A couple of weeks after the receipt of the letter, one evening
about seven o'clock, the counsellor sat at home, not as before by
his writing-table busy with acts, but on a corner of the sofa, with
drooping arms, deeply absorbed in a mixture of anxious doubts
and dreaming expectations. Hope built air-castles, and doubt
then puffed them over like card-houses. One of  his fancies was,
that she summoned him--he would not even in thought use the expression:
gave him an interview--at a masquerade. It was consequently no
common masquerade, but a grand, elegant masked ball, to which
a true lady could repair. The clock was at eleven, the appointed
hour: he waited anxiously the pressing five minutes; then she came
and extended him the fine hand in the finest straw-colored glove--

"Letter to the Counsellor of Justice," said Jens, with strong
Funen accent, and short, soldierly pronunciation.

It is so uncommon that what one longs for comes just at the moment
of most earnest desire; but notwithstanding the letter was from
her, the Counsellor of Justice knew the superscription, would have
known it among a hundred thousand. The letter read thus:

"I ought to be open towards you; and, as we shall never meet, I
can be so."

Here the Counsellor of Justice stopped a moment and caught for
breath. A good many of our twenty-year-old beaux, who have never
been admitted to the bar, far less have been Court Counsellors,
would, under similar circumstances, have said to themselves: "She
writes that she will be open; that is to say, now she will fool
me: we will never meet; that is to say, now I shall soon see her."
But Counsellor Bagger believed every word as gospel, and his knees
trembled. He read further:

"I am ashamed of the few words I last wrote you; but my apology
is, that it is only two days since I learned that you are married.
I have been mistaken, but more in what may be imputed to me than
in what I have thought. My only comfort is, that I shall never be
known by you or anybody, and that I shall be forgotten, as I shall
forget."

"Never! But who can have spread the infamous slander! What
dreadful treachery of some wretch or gossiping wench, who knows
nothing about me! And how can she believe it! How in such a town
as Copenhagen can it be a matter of doubt for five minutes, if a
Superior Court Counsellor is married or not! Or maybe there is
some other Counsellor Bagger married,--a Chamber Counsellor or the
like? Or maybe she lives at a distance, in a quiet world, so that
the truth of it does not easily reach her? So there is no sunshine
more!

"If she should sometime meet me, and know that I was, am, and have
been unmarried, that meanwhile we have both become old and gray,--
can one think of anything more sad? It is enough to make the heart
cease beating! But suppose, too, that to-morrow she finds out that
she has been deceived: she has once written, 'I was mistaken,' and
cannot, as a true woman, write it again, unless she first heard
from me, and learned how I longed--and so I am cut off from her,
as if I lived in the moon. More, more! for I can meet her upon the
street and touch her arm without surmising it. It is
insupportable! Our time has mail, steamboats, railroads,
telegraphs: to me these do not exist; for of what use are they
altogether, when one knows not where to search."

A thought came suddenly, like a meteor in the dark: advertise.
What family in Copenhagen did not the Address Paper reach? He
would put in an advertisement,--but how? "Fritz Bagger is not
married."--No: that was too plain.--"F. B. is not married."--No:
that was not plain enough. As he could find no successful use for
his own name, it flashed into his mind to use hers,--geb--; and
although it was painful to him to publish this, to him, almost
sacred syllable for profane eyes to gaze upon, yet it comforted
him, that only one, she herself, would understand it. Yet he
hesitated. But one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs;
and although the heart's finest fibres ache at the thought of
sending a message to a fairy through the Address Paper, yet one
yields to this rather than lose the fairy.

At last, after numerous efforts he stopped at this: "--geb--! It
is a mistake: he waits only for--geb--." It appeared to him to
contain the approach to a happy result, and tired out by emotion
he fell asleep on his sofa.

Some days after came a new letter with the dear handwriting: its
contents were:

"Well! appear eight days from to-day at Mrs. Canuteson's, to
congratulate her upon her birthday."

This was sunshine after thunder; this was hope's rainbow which
arched itself up to heaven from the earth, yet wet with tears.

"And so she belongs to good society," said the Counsellor of
Justice, without noticing how by these words he discovered to
himself that a doubt or suspicion had lain until now behind his
ecstasy. "But," he added, "consequently, it is my own friends who
have spread the rumor of my marriage. Friends indeed! A wife is a
man's only friend. It is hard, suicidal, to remain a bachelor."

On the appointed day he went too early. Mrs. Canuteson was yet
alone. She was surprised at his congratulatory visit; but,
however, as it was a courtesy, the surprise was mingled with
delight, and Bagger was not the man whose visit a lady would not
receive with pleasure. With that ingenuity of wit one can
sometimes have, just when the heart is full and taken possession
of, he did wonders, and entertained the lady in so lively a manner
that she did not perceive how long a time he was passing with her.
As the door at length opened, the lady exclaimed:

"Oh, that is charming! Heartily welcome! Thank you for last time,
[Footnote: In Sweden and Norway when the guest meets the host or
hostess for the first time after an entertainment, the first
greeting on the part of the former is always, "Thank you for the
last time."] and for all the good in your house! How does your
mother do? This amiable young lady's acquaintance I made last
summer when we were in the country, and at last she is so good as
to keep her promise and visit me. Counsellor Bagger--Miss Hjelm."

The Counsellor wasn't sure that it was She, but he was convinced
that it ought to be. Not to speak of Ingeborg Hjelm's being really
amiable and distinguee, his heart was now prepared, as a
photographer's glass which has received collodium, and took the
first girl picture that met it. He was quite afraid that there
would come more to choose among. Yet the fairy brightness of the
unknown had at this moment lost itself for him; for, however
brilliant it may appear to the fancy, it cannot be compared with
the warm, beautiful reality, particularly so long as this itself
is new and unknown.

He approached and spoke to Miss Hjelm with painful hidden emotion
of soul. She was friendly and open, for the name Counsellor Bagger
did not occur to her; and the idea she had formed of him did not
at all compare with the young, elegant, handsome man she was now
speaking with. True enough, his manner was somewhat peculiarly
gallant, which a lady cannot easily mistake; but this gallantry
was united with such an unmistakable respect, or more properly
awe, that he gave her the impression of a poetical, knightly
nature.

By and by there came more ladies, both married and unmarried, but
Bagger had almost forgotten what errand they could have with him.
At last Miss Brandt came also, accompanied by her sister. As she
opened the door, and saw Bagger by the side of Miss Hjelm, she
gave a little, a very little, cry, or, more properly, gasped aloud
for breath, and made a movement, as if something kept her back.

"Oh! my dress caught," she said, arranged it a little, and then
approached Mrs. Canuteson, with smiling face, to offer her
congratulation.

Bagger looked at the watch: he had been there two hours! After yet
lingering to exchange a few polite words with Miss Brandt, he took
leave. His visit had in all respects been so unusual, and had
given occasion for so much comment, that it required more time
than could be given there; and his name was not at all mentioned
after he left.

V.

Now it is certainly true, that whenever Counsellor Bagger was seen
for quite a time, he was mostly dreaming and suffering; and people
who have not themselves experienced something similar, or have not
a fancy for putting themselves in his place, will say, perhaps,
that they could have managed themselves better. But, at all
events, it cannot be said, that from this time forward he was
unpractical; for within eight days from Mrs. Canuteson's birthday
he had not only learned where Miss Hjelm lived, but had
established himself in a tavern close by the farm, and obtained
admittance to the house, which last was not so difficult, since
Mrs. Hjelm was a friendly, hospitable lady, and since neither her
daughter nor niece thought they ought to prejudice her against
him.

In this manner four or five days passed away, which, to judge from
Bagger's appearance, were to him very pleasant. He wrote to his
colleagues in the Superior Court, that one could only value an
autumn in Nature's lap after so laborious and health-destroying
work as his life for many years had been. Then one day he received
a letter from the unknown, reading thus:

"Be more successful than last time, at Mrs. Emmy Lund's on
Tuesday, two o'clock. Please notice, two o'clock precisely."

"Does she mean so? Is she really coquettish? Yet I think I have
been successful so far," said Bagger to himself, and waited for
the Tuesday with comparative ease; in truth he did not at all
understand why he should be troubled to go to town.

As early on Tuesday forenoon as proper, he went over to the farm,
and was somewhat surprised that there was to be seen no
preparation for a town journey. Ingeborg, in her usual morning
dress, was seated at the sewing-table. He waited until towards
twelve o'clock, calculating that two hours was the least she
needed in which to dress and drive to town. The long hand
threatened to touch the short hand at the number twelve, without
any appearance of Ingeborg's noticing it. She only now and then
cast a stealthy look at him, for it had not escaped her, nor the
others, that he was in expectancy and excitement. When the clock
struck twelve,--he was just alone with her,--he asked suddenly, in
a quick, trembling voice:

"Miss Hjelm, you know I am Superior Court Counsellor?"

"No: that I did not know," she said almost with dread, and arose.
"No: that I have never known!"

"But allow me, dear lady, so you know it now," he said, surprised
that the title or profession produced so strong an effect.

"Yes, now I know it," she said, and held her hand upon her heart.
"Why do you tell me that? What does that signify?"

"Nothing else, Miss Hjelm, than that you may understand that I
don't believe in witchcraft."

A speaker's physiognomy is often more intelligible than his words;
and as Miss Hjelm saw the both hearty and spirited or jovial
expression in the counsellor's face, she had not that inclination,
which she under other circumstances would have had, quickly to
break off the conversation and go away. It is possible, also, that
his situation as Superior Court Counsellor--as that counsellor
mentioned by Miss Brandt--did not, after a moment's consideration,
appear to her so dreadful as at the first moment of surprise. So
she answered:

"But, Mr. Counsellor, is there then anybody who has accused you of
believing in witchcraft?"

"No, dear madam; but for all that I can assure you, that at the
moment the clock struck twelve I thought that you, by two o'clock,
most fly away in the form of a bird."

"As the clock struck twelve now, at noon?--not at midnight?"

"No, just a little since."

"That is remarkable. Can you satisfy my curiosity, and tell me
why?"

"Because under ordinary circumstances it appears to me impossible
for a lady to make her toilette and drive ten miles in less than
two hours."

"That is quite true, Mr. Counsellor; but neither do I intend to
drive ten miles to-day."

"It was for that reason that I said, fly."

"Neither fly. And to convince you and quite certainly rid you of
the idea of witchcraft, you can stay here, if you please, until--
what time was it?"

"Two o'clock."

"That is two long hours; but the Counsellor can, if he please, lay
that offering upon the altar of education."

"Oh! I know another altar, upon which I would rather offer the two
only all too short hours"--.

"Let it now be upon that of education. You promised my cousin and
me that you would read to us about popular science of nature and
interesting facts in the life of animals."

"Yes, dear madam; but _I_ cannot fly: my carriage stands waiting
at the tavern."

"Oh, I beg pardon! an agreeable journey, Mr. Counsellor."

"Yes; but I don't understand why I shall drive the ten miles."

"Every one knows his own concerns best."

"Oh, yes! that is true. But I at least don't know mine."

Miss Hjelm made no answer to this, and there was a little pause.

"I would," continued the counsellor, somewhat puzzled, "take the
great liberty to propose that you should ride with me."

"I have already told the Counsellor that I did not intend to go to
town to-day," answered Miss Hjelm, coldly.

"Yes," continued Bagger, following his own ideas, "and so I
thought, also, that we could as well stay here."

At this moment Bagger was so earnest and impassioned, that
Ingeborg, in hearing words so very wide of what she regarded as
reasonable, began to suspect his mind of being a little
disordered, and with an inquiring anxiousness looked at him.

Meeting the look from these eyes, Bagger could no longer continue
the inquisition which he had carried on for the sake of involving
Miss Hjelm in self-contradiction and bringing her to confession.
He himself came to confession, and exclaimed:

"Miss Ingeborg, I ask you for Heaven's sake have pity on me, and
tell me if you expect me at two o'clock to-day at Mrs. Lund's!"

"I expect you at Mrs. Lund's!" exclaimed Miss Hjelm.

"Is it not you, then, who have written me that--"

"I have never written to you!" cried Ingeborg, and almost tore
away the hand which Bagger tried to hold.

"For God's sake, don't go, Miss--! My dear madam, you must forgive
me: you shall know all!"

And now he began to tell his tale, not according to rules of
rhetoric and logic, but on the contrary in a way which certainly
showed how little even our abler lawyers are educated to
extemporize.

But, however, there was in his words a certain almost wild
eloquence; and, beside, Miss Hjelm had some foreknowledge, that
helped her to understand and fill up what was wanting under the
counsellor's restless eloquence. At last he came to the point;
while his words were of whirlwind and letters, his tone and eye
spoke, unconsciously to him, a true, honest, though fanciful
language of passion; and however comical a disinterested spectator
might have found it, it sounded very earnest to her who was the
object and sympathetic listener.

"Yes; but what then?" at last asked Ingeborg, with a soft smile
and not withdrawing the hand that Bagger had seized. "The proper
meaning of what you have told me is that your troth is plighted to
another, unknown lady."

"No: that isn't the proper meaning--"

"But yet it is a fact. At the moment when you stand at the altar
with one, another can step forward and claim you."

"Oh, that kind of a claim! A piece of paper without signature,
sent away in the air! In law it has no validity at all, and
morally it has no power, when I love another as I love you,
Ingeborg!"

"That I am not sure of. It appears to me there is something
painful in not being faithful to one's youth and its promises, and
in the consciousness of having deceived another."

"You say this so earnestly, Ingeborg, that you make me desperate.
I confess that there is something ... something I would wish
otherwise ... but for Heaven's sake, make it not so earnest!"

As Ingeborg knew so well about it, she could not regard the matter
as earnestly as her words denoted; but for another reason she had
suddenly conceived or felt an earnestness. It would not do to have
a husband with so much fancy as Bagger, always having something
unknown, fairy-like, lying out upon the horizon, holding claim
upon him from his youth; and on the other hand it was against her
principles, notwithstanding her confidence in his silence, to
convey to him the knowledge that it was Miss Brandt who played
fairy.

She said to him, "You must have your letter, your obligation, your
marriage promise back."

"Yes," he answered with a sigh of discouragement: "it is true
enough I ought; but where shall I turn? That is just the
immeasurable difficulty."

"Write by the same mail as before."

"Which?"

"Let the whirlwind, that brought the first letter to its
destination, also take care of this, in which you demand your word
back."

"Oh, that you do not mean! Or, if you mean it, then I may honestly
confess that I am not young any more or have not received another
youth. I have not courage to write anything, for fear it should
come to others than to you."

"So I see that, after all, I may act as witch to-day. Write, and I
will take care of the letter: do you hesitate?"

"No: only it took me a moment to comprehend the promise involved
in this that you will take care of my letter. I obey you blindly;
but what shall I write?"

"Write: 'Dear fairy,--Since I woo Miss Hjelm's hand and heart,'--"

"Oh, you acknowledge it! O Ingeborg, the Lord's blessing upon
you!" said Bagger, and would rise.

"'I ask you to send me my billet back.'--Have you that?"

"Yes, Ingeborg, my Ingeborg, my unspeakably loved Ingeborg! How
poor language is, when the heart is so full!"

"Now, name, date, and address. Have you that? 'Postscriptum. I
give you my word of honor, that I neither know who you are, or how
this letter shall reach you.'--Have you that?"

"That I can truly give. I am as blind as"...

"Let me add the witch-formulae."

"O Ingeborg, you will write upon the same paper with me, in a
letter where I have written your name!"

"Hand me the pen. We must have the letter sent to the mail before
two o'clock."

"Two o'clock. How queer! The last letter reads: 'Take notice of
the striking two.'"

"That we will," said Ingeborg.

She wrote: "Dear Miss Brandt, I, too, ask you to send the
Counsellor his billet, and I pray you to write upon it: 'Given me
by Miss Hjelm.' It is best for all parties that the fun does not
come out in gossip. You shall, by return of mail, receive back
your letters."

VI.

It is allowed to charitable minds to remain in doubt about what
had really been Miss Brandt's design. Perhaps she only wished to
make roguish psychological experiments, to convince herself to how
many forenoon congratulatory visits a Counsellor of Justice of the
Superior Court could be brought to appear. The emotion she almost
exposed, when at Mrs. Canuteson's she saw Bagger by Miss Hjelm's
side, may have been pure surprise at the working of the affair.
Every one of the rest of us who have been conversant with the
whirlwind, the letter, and Ingeborg's relinquishment of the same,
would also have been surprised at seeing her and the letter-writer
brought together notwithstanding, and would not, perhaps, have
been able with as much ease and success to hide our surprise. The
letter to Bagger, in which Miss Brandt, contrary to her better
knowledge, spoke of him as married, may have been a sincere
attempt to end the whole in a way which repentance and anxiety
quickly seized upon to put an insurmountable hindrance before
herself; but it may surely enough have had also the aim to see how
far Bagger had gone and how much spirit and fancy he had to carry
the intrigue out. The more one thinks upon it, the less one feels
able to give either of the two interpretations absolute
preference. Yet one will have remarked, that Ingeborg herself in
her little note mentioned the matter as "fun." On the other side,
if it was earnestness, if she had felt "somewhat" for Counsellor
Bagger, then let us take comfort in the fact that Miss Brandt was
a well-cultivated girl, and that her intellect held dominion over
her heart. She could with one eye see that the campaign had ended,
and further, that she, by receiving peace pure and simple, had
certainly not gained any conquest, but obtained the status quo
ante bellum, which often between antagonists has been considered
so respectable, that both parties officially have sung Te Deum,
although surely only one could sing it from the heart. Now it is
and may remain undecided what the real state of the case was: from
either point of view there was a plain and even line drawn for
her, and she followed it. Next day the letter came in an envelope
directed to the counsellor.

As Bagger in the presence of Ingeborg opened the letter and again
saw the long-lost epistle of his early days, he trembled like a
man before whom the spirit-world apparently passes. But as he
perceived the added words, he exclaimed in utter perplexity: "Am I
awake? Do I dream? How is this possible?"

"Why should it not be possible?" asked Ingeborg. "To whom else
should the letter originally have come, than to--geb--?"

"--Geb--?--geb--? Yes, who is--geb--?" asked Bagger with
bewildered look.

"Who other than Ingeborg? is it not the third fourth, and fifth
letters of my name?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Bagger, pressing his hand upon his forehead, and,
as he at the next moment seized Ingeborg's hand, added with an eye
which had become dim with joy, "Truly, I have had more fortune
than sense."

Ingeborg answered, smiling:

"That ought he to expect who entrusts his fate to the wind's
flying mail."






THE RAILROAD AND THE CHURCHYARD

BY

BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON


From "The Flying Mail" Translated by Carl Larsen.


THE RAILROAD AND THE CHURCH-YARD

BY

BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON


I.

Canute Aakre belonged to an ancient family of the parish, where it
had always been distinguished for its intelligence and care for
the public good. His father through self-exertion had attained to
the ministry, but had died early, and his widow being by birth a
peasant, the children were brought up as farmers. Consequently,
Canute's education was only of the kind afforded by the public
school; but his father's library had early inspired him with a
desire for knowledge, which was increased by association with his
friend Henrik Wergeland, who often visited him or sent him books,
seeds for his farm, and much good counsel. Agreeably to his
advice, Canute early got up a club for practice in debating and
study of the constitution, but which finally became a practical
agricultural society, for this and the surrounding parishes. He
also established a parish library, giving his father's books as
its first endowment, and organized in his own house a Sunday-
school for persons wishing to learn penmanship, arithmetic, and
history. In this way the attention of the public was fixed upon
him, and he was chosen a member of the board of parish-
commissioners, of which he soon became chairman. Here he continued
his endeavors to advance the school interests, which he succeeded
in placing in an admirable condition.

Canute Aakre was a short-built, active man, with small sharp eyes
and disorderly hair. He had large lips which seemed constantly
working, and a row of excellent teeth which had the same
appearance, for they shone when he spoke his clear sharp words,
which came out with a snap, as when the sparks are emitted from a
great fire.

Among the many he had helped to an education, his neighbor Lars
Hogstad stood foremost. Lars was not much younger than Canute, but
had developed more slowly. Being in the habit of talking much of
what he read and thought, Canute found in Lars--who bore a quiet,
earnest manner--a good listener, and step by step a sensible
judge. The result was, that he went reluctantly to the meetings of
the board, unless first furnished with Lars Hogstad's advice,
concerning whatever matter of importance was before it, which
matter was thus most likely to result in practical improvement.
Canute's influence, therefore, brought his neighbor in as a member
of the board, and finally into everything with which he himself
was connected. They always rode together to the meetings, where
Lars never spoke, and only on the road to and from, could Canute
learn his opinion. They were looked upon as inseparable.

One fine autumn day, the parish-commissioners were convened, for
the purpose of considering, among other matters, a proposal made
by the Foged, to sell the public grain-magazine, and with the
proceeds establish a savings-bank. Canute Aakre, the chairman,
would certainly have approved this, had he been guided by his
better judgment; but, in the first place, the motion was made by
the Foged, whom Wergeland did not like, consequently, neither did
Canute; secondly, the grain-magazine had been erected by his
powerful paternal grandfather, by whom it was presented to the
parish. To him the proposal was not free from an appearance of
personal offence; therefore, he had not spoken of it to any one,
not even to Lars, who never himself introduced a subject.

As chairman, Canute read the proposal without comment, but,
according to his habit, looked over to Lars, who sat as usual a
little to one side, holding a straw between his teeth; this he
always did when entering upon a subject, using it as he would a
toothpick, letting it hang loosely in one corner of his mouth, or
turning it more quickly or slowly, according to the humor he was
in. Canute now saw with surprise, that the straw moved very fast.
He asked quickly, "Do you think we ought to agree to this?"

Lars answered dryly, "Yes, I do."

The whole assembly, feeling that Canute was of quite a different
opinion, seemed struck, and looked at Lars, who said nothing
further, nor was further questioned. Canute turned to another
subject, as if nothing had happened, and did not again resume the
question till toward the close of the meeting, when he asked with
an air of indifference if they should send it back to the Foged
for closer consideration, as it certainly was contrary to the mind
of the people of the parish, by whom the grain-magazine was highly
valued; also, if he should put upon the record, "Proposal deemed
inexpedient."

"Against one vote," said Lars.

"Against two," said another instantly.

"Against three," said a third, and before the chairman had
recovered from his surprise, a majority had declared in favor of
the proposal.

He wrote; then read in a low tone, "Referred for acceptance, and
the meeting adjourned." Canute, rising and closing the "Records,"
blushed deeply, but resolved to have this vote defeated in the
parish meeting. In the yard he hitched his horse to the wagon, and
Lars came and seated himself by his side. On the way home they
spoke upon various subjects, but not upon this.

On the following day Canute's wife started for Lars' house, to
inquire of his wife if anything had happened between their
husbands; Canute had appeared so queerly when he returned home the
evening previous. A little beyond the house she met Lars' wife,
who came to make the same inquiry on account of a similar peculiar
behavior in her husband. Lars' wife was a quiet, timid thing,
easily frightened, not by hard words, but by silence; for Lars
never spoke to her unless she had done wrong, or he feared she
would do so. On the contrary, Canute Aakre's wife spoke much with
her husband, and particularly about the commissioners' meetings,
for lately they had taken his thoughts, work, and love from her
and the children. She was jealous of it as of a woman, she wept at
night about it, and quarrelled with her husband concerning it in
the day. But now she could say nothing; for once he had returned
home unhappy; she immediately became much more so than he, and for
the life of her she must know what was the matter. So as Lars'
wife could tell her nothing, she had to go for information out in
the parish, where she obtained it, and of course was instantly of
her husband's opinion, thinking Lars incomprehensible, not to say
bad. But when she let her husband perceive this, she felt that,
notwithstanding what had occurred, no friendship was broken
between them; on the contrary, that he liked Lars very much.

The day for the parish meeting came. In the morning, Lars Hogstad
drove over for Canute Aakre, who came out and took a seat beside
him. They saluted each other as usual, spoke a little less than
they were wont on the way, but not at all of the proposal. The
meeting was full; some, too, had come in as spectators, which
Canute did not like, for he perceived by this a little excitement
in the parish. Lars had his straw, and stood by the stove, warming
himself, for the autumn had begun to be cold. The chairman read
the proposal in a subdued and careful manner, adding, that it came
from the Foged, who was not habitually fortunate. The building was
a gift, and such things it was not customary to part with, least
of all when there was no necessity for it.

Lars, who never before had spoken in the meetings, to the surprise
of all, took the floor. His voice trembled; whether this was
caused by regard for Canute, or anxiety for the success of the
bill, we cannot say; but his arguments were clear, good, and of
such a comprehensive and compact character as had hardly before
been heard in these meetings. In concluding, he said:

"Of what importance is it that the proposal is from the Foged?--
none,--or who it was that erected the house, or in what way it
became the public property?"

Canute, who blushed easily, turned very red, and moved nervously
as usual when he was impatient; but notwithstanding, he answered
in a low, careful tone, that there were savings banks enough in
the country, he thought, quite near, and almost too near. But if
one was to be instituted, there were other ways of attaining this
end, than by trampling upon the gifts of the dead, and the love of
the living. His voice was a little unsteady when he said this, but
recovered its composure, when he began to speak of the grain
magazine as such, and reason concerning its utility.

Lars answered him ably on this last, adding: "Besides, for many
reasons I would be led to doubt whether the affairs of this parish
are to be conducted for the best interests of the living, or for
the memory of the dead; or further, whether it is the love and
hate of a single family which rules, rather than the welfare of
the whole."

Canute answered quickly: "I don't know whether the last speaker
has been the one least benefited not only by the dead of this
family, but also by its still living representative."

In this remark he aimed first at the fact that his powerful
grandfather had, in his day, managed the farm for Lars'
grandfather, when the latter, on his own account, was on a little
visit to the penitentiary.

The straw, which had been moving quickly for a long time, was now
still:

"I am not in the habit of speaking everywhere of myself and
family," said he, treating the matter with calm superiority; then
he reviewed the whole matter in question, aiming throughout at a
particular point. Canute was forced to acknowledge to himself,
that he had never looked upon it from that standpoint, or heard
such reasoning; involuntarily he had to turn his eye upon Lars.
There he stood tall and portly, with clearness marked upon the
strongly-built forehead and in the deep eyes. His mouth was
compressed, the straw still hung playing in its corner, but great
strength lay around. He kept his hands behind him, standing erect,
while his low deep intonations seemed as if from the ground in
which he was rooted. Canute saw him for the first time in his
life, and from his inmost soul felt a dread of him; for
unmistakably this man had always been his superior! He had taken
all Canute himself knew or could impart, but retained only what
had nourished this strong hidden growth.

He had loved and cherished Lars, but now that he had become a
giant, he hated him deeply, fearfully; he could not explain to
himself why he thought so, but he felt it instinctively, while
gazing upon him; and in this forgetting all else, he exclaimed:

"But Lars! Lars! what in the Lord's name ails you?"

He lost all self-control,--"you, whom I have"--"you, who have"--he
couldn't get out another word, and seated himself, only to
struggle against the excitement which he was unwilling to have
Lars see; he drew himself up, struck the table with his fist, and
his eyes snapped from below the stiff disorderly hair which always
shaded them. Lars appeared as if he had not been interrupted, only
turning his head to the assembly, asking if this should be
considered the decisive blow in the matter, for in such a case
nothing more need be said.

Canute could not endure this calmness.

"What is it that has come among us?" he cried. "Us, who to this
day have never debated but in love and upright zeal? We are
infuriated at each other as if incited by an evil spirit;" and he
looked with fiery eyes upon Lars, who answered:

"You yourself surely bring in this spirit, Canute, for I have
spoken only of the case. But you will look upon it only through
your own self-will; now we shall see if your love and upright zeal
will endure, when once it is decided agreeably to our wish."

"Have I not, then, taken good care of the interests of the
parish?"

No reply. This grieved Canute, and he continued:

"Really, I did not think otherwise than that I had accomplished
something;--something for the good of the parish;--but may be I
have deceived myself."

He became excited again, for it was a fiery spirit within him,
which was broken in many ways, and the parting with Lars grieved
him, so he could hardly control himself. Lars answered:

"Yes, I know you give yourself the credit for all that is done
here, and should one judge by much speaking in the meetings, then
surely you have accomplished the most."

"Oh, is it this!" shouted Canute, looking sharply upon Lars: "it
is you who have the honor of it!"

"Since we necessarily talk of ourselves," replied Lars, "I will
say that all matters have been carefully considered by us before
they were introduced here."

Here little Canute Aakre resumed his quick way of speaking:

"In God's name take the honor, I am content to live without it;
there are other things harder to lose!"

Involuntarily Lars turned his eye from Canute, but said, the straw
moving very quickly: "If I were to speak my mind, I should say
there is not much to take honor for;--of course ministers and
teachers may be satisfied with what has been done; but, certainly,
the common men say only that up to this time the taxes have become
heavier and heavier."

A murmur arose in the assembly, which now became restless. Lars
continued:

"Finally, to-day, a proposition is made which, if carried, would
recompense the parish for all it has laid out; perhaps, for this
reason, it meets such opposition. It is the affair of the parish,
for the benefit of all its inhabitants, and ought to be rescued
from being a family matter." The audience exchanged glances, and
spoke half audibly, when one threw out a remark as he rose to go
to his dinner-pail, that these were "the truest words he had heard
in the meetings for many years." Now all arose, and the
conversation became general. Canute Aakre felt as he sat there
that the case was lost, fearfully lost; and tried no more to save
it. He had somewhat of the character attributed to Frenchmen, in
that he was good for first, second, and third attacks, but poor
for self-defence--his sensibilities overpowering his thoughts.

He could not comprehend it, nor could he sit quietly any longer;
so, yielding his place to the vice-chairman, he left,--and the
audience smiled.

He had come to the meeting accompanied by Lars, but returned home
alone, though the road was long. It was a cold autumn day; the way
looked jagged and bare, the meadow gray and yellow; while frost
had begun to appear here and there on the roadside. Disappointment
is a dreadful companion. He felt himself so small and desolate,
walking there; but Lars was everywhere before him, like a giant,
his head towering, in the dusk of evening, to the sky. It was his
own fault that this had been the decisive battle, and the thought
grieved him sorely: he had staked too much upon a single little
affair. But surprise, pain, anger, had mastered him; his heart
still burned, shrieked, and moaned within him. He heard the
rattling of a wagon behind; it was Lars, who came driving his
superb horse past him at a brisk trot, so that the hard road gave
a sound of thunder. Canute gazed after him, as he sat there so
broad-shouldered in the wagon, while the horse, impatient for
home, hurried on unurged by Lars, who only gave loose rein. It was
a picture of his power; this man drove toward the mark! He,
Canute, felt as if thrown out of his wagon to stagger along there
in the autumn cold.

Canute's wife was waiting for him at home. She knew there would be
a battle; she had never in her life believed in Lars, and lately
had felt a dread of him. It had been no comfort to her that they
had ridden away together, nor would it have comforted her if they
had returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen, and they
had not yet come. She stood in the doorway, went down the road and
home again; but no wagon appeared. At last she hears a rattling on
the road, her heart beats as violently as the wheels revolve; she
clings to the doorpost, looking out; the wagon is coming; only one
sits there; she recognizes Lars, who sees and recognizes her, but
is driving past without stopping. Now she is thoroughly alarmed!
Her limbs fail her; she staggers in, sinking on the bench by the
window. The children, alarmed, gather around, the youngest asking
for papa, for the mother never spoke with them but of him. She
loved him because he had such a good heart, and now this good
heart was not with them; but, on the contrary, away on all kinds
of business, which brought him only unhappiness; consequently,
they were unhappy too.

"Oh, that no harm had come to him to-day! Canute was so excitable!
Why did Lars come home alone? why didn't he stop?"

Should she run after him, or, in the opposite direction, toward
her husband? She felt faint, and the children pressed around her,
asking what was the matter; but this could not be told to them, so
she said they must take supper alone, and, rising, arranged it and
helped them. She was constantly glancing out upon the road. He did
not come. She undressed and put them to bed, and the youngest
repeated the evening prayer, while she bowed over him, praying so
fervently in the words which the tiny mouth first uttered, that
she did not perceive the steps outside.

Canute stood in the doorway, gazing upon his little congregation
at prayer. She rose; all the children shouted "Papa!" but he
seated himself, and said gently:

"Oh! let him repeat it."

The mother turned again to the bedside, that meantime he might not
see her face; otherwise, it would have been like intermeddling
with his grief before he felt a necessity of revealing it. The
child folded its hands,--the rest followed the example,--and it
said:

"I am now a little lad, But soon shall grow up tall, And make papa
and mamma glad, I'll be so good to all! When in Thy true and holy
ways, Thou dear, dear God wilt help me keep;--Remember now Thy
name to praise And so we'll try to go to sleep!"

What a peace now fell! Not a minute more had passed ere the
children all slept in it as in the lap of God; but the mother went
quietly to work arranging supper for the father, who as yet could
not eat. But after he had gone to bed, he said:

"Now, after this, I shall be at home."

The mother lay there, trembling with joy, not daring to speak,
lest she should reveal it; and she thanked God for all that had
happened, for, whatever it was, it had resulted in good.

II.

In the course of a year, Lars was chosen head Justice of the
Peace, chairman of the board of commissioners, president of the
savings-bank, and, in short, was placed in every office of parish
trust to which his election was possible. In the county
legislature, during the first year, he remained silent, but
afterward made himself as conspicuous as in the parish council;
for here, too, stepping up to the contest with him who had always
borne sway, he was victorious over the whole line, and afterward
himself manager. From this he was elected to the Congress, where
his fame had preceded him, and he found no lack of challenge. But
here, although steady and independent, he was always retiring,
never venturing beyond his depth, lest his post as leader at home
should be endangered by a possible defeat abroad.

It was pleasant to him now in his own town. When he stood by the
church-wall on Sundays, and the community glided past, saluting
and glancing sideways at him,--now and then one stepping up for
the honor of exchanging a couple of words with him,--it could
almost be said that, standing there, he controlled the whole
parish with a straw, which, of course, hung in the corner of his
mouth.

He deserved his popularity; for he had opened a new road which led
to the church; all this and much more resulted from the savings-
bank, which he had instituted and now managed; and the parish, in
its self-management and good order, was held up as an example to
all others.

Canute, of his own accord, quite withdrew,--not entirely at first,
for he had promised himself not thus to yield to pride. In the
first proposal he made before the parish board, he became
entangled by Lars, who would have it represented in all its
details; and, somewhat hurt, he replied: "When Columbus discovered
America he did not have it divided into counties and towns,--this
came by degrees afterward;" upon which, Lars compared Canute's
proposition (relating to stable improvements) to the discovery of
America, and afterward by the commissioners he was called by no
other name than "Discovery of America." Canute thought since his
influence had ceased there, so, also, had his duty to work; and
afterwards declined re-election.

But he was industrious, and, in order still to do something for
the public good, he enlarged his Sunday-school, and put it, by
means of small contributions from the pupils, in connection with
the mission cause, of which he soon became the centre and leader
in his own and surrounding counties. At this, Lars remarked that,
if Canute ever wished to collect money for any purpose, he must
first know that its benefit was only to be realized some thousands
of miles away.

There was no strife between them now. True, they associated with
each other no longer, but saluted and exchanged a few words
whenever they met. Canute always felt a little pain in remembering
Lars, but struggled to overcome it, by saying to himself that it
must have been so. Many years afterward at a large wedding-party,
where both were present and a little gay, Canute stepped upon a
chair and proposed a toast to the chairman of the parish council,
and the county's first congressman. He spoke until he manifested
emotion, and, as usual, in an exceedingly handsome way. It was
honorably done, and Lars came to him, saying, with an unsteady
eye, that for much of what he knew and was, he had to thank him.

At the next election, Canute was again elected chairman.

But if Lars Hogstad had foreseen what was to follow, he would not
have influenced this. It is a saying that "all events happen in
their time," and just as Canute appeared again in the council, the
ablest men in the parish were threatened with bankruptcy, the
result of a speculative fever which had been raging long, but now
first began to react. They said that Lars Hogstad had caused this
great epidemic, for it was he who had brought the spirit of
speculation into the parish. This penny malady had originated in
the parish board; for this body itself had acted as leading
speculator. Down to the youth of twenty years, all were
endeavoring by sharp bargains to make the one dollar, ten; extreme
parsimony, in order to lay up in the beginning, was followed by an
exceeding lavishness in the end: and as the thoughts of all were
directed to money only, a disposition to selfishness, suspicion,
and disunion had developed itself, which at last turned to
prosecutions and hatred. It was said that the parish board had set
the example in this also; for one of the first acts, performed by
Lars as chairman, was a prosecution against the minister,
concerning doubtful prerogatives. The venerable pastor had lost,
but had also immediately resigned. At the time some had praised,
others denounced, this act of Lars; but it had proved a bad
example. Now came the effects of his management in the form of
loss to all the leading men of the parish; and consequently, the
public opinion quickly changed. The opposite party immediately
found a champion; for Canute Aakre had come into the parish
board,--introduced there by Lars himself.

The struggle at once began. All those youths, who, in their time,
had been under Canute Aakre's instruction, were now grown-up men,
the best educated, conversant with all the business and public
transactions in the parish; Lars had now to contend against these
and others like them, who had disliked him from their childhood.
One evening after a stormy debate, as he stood on the platform
outside his door, looking over the parish, a sound of distant
threatening thunder came toward him from the large farms, lying in
the storm. He knew that that day their owners had become
insolvent, that he himself and the savings-bank were going the
same way: and his whole long work would culminate in condemnation
against him.

In these days of struggle and despair, a company of surveyors came
one evening to Hogstad, which was the first farm at the entrance
of the parish to mark out the line of a new railroad. In the
course of conversation, Lars perceived it was still a question
with them whether the road should run through this valley, or
another parallel one.

Like a flash of lightning it darted through his mind, that, if he
could manage to get it through here, all real estate would rise in
value, and not only he himself be saved, but his popularity handed
down to future generations. He could not sleep that night, for his
eyes were dazzled with visions; sometimes he seemed to hear the
noise of an engine. The next day he accompanied the surveyors in
their examination of the locality; his horses carried them, and to
his farm they returned. The following day they drove through the
other valley, he still with them, and again carrying them back
home. The whole house was illuminated, the first men of the parish
having been invited to a party made for the surveyors, which
terminated in a carouse that lasted until morning. But to no
avail; for the nearer they came to the decision, the clearer it
was to be seen that the road could not be built through here
without great extra expense. The entrance to the valley was
narrow, through a rocky chasm, and the moment it swung into the
parish the river made a curve in its way, so that the road would
either have to make the same--crossing the river twice--or go
straight forward through the old, now unused, churchyard. But it
was not long since the last burials there, for the church had been
but recently moved.

Did it only depend upon a strip of an old churchyard, thought
Lars, whether the parish should have this great blessing or not?--
then he would use his name and energy for the removal of the
obstacle. So immediately he made a visit to minister and bishop,
from them to county legislature and Department of the
Interior; he reasoned and negotiated; for he had possessed
himself of all possible information concerning the vast profits
that would accrue on the one side, and the feelings of the parish
on the other, and had really succeeded in gaining over all
parties. It was promised him that by the reinterment of some
bodies in the new churchyard, the only objection to this line
might be considered as removed, and the king's approbation
guaranteed. It was told him that he need only make the motion in
the county meeting.

The parish had become as excited on the question as himself. The
spirit of speculation, which had been prevalent so many years, now
became jubilant. No one spoke or thought of anything but Lars'
journey and its probable result. Consequently, when he returned
with the most splendid promises, they made much ado about him;
songs were sung to his praise,--yes, if at that time one after
another of the largest farms had toppled over, not a soul would
have given it any attention; the former speculation fever had been
succeeded by the new one of the railroad.

The county board met; an humble petition that the old churchyard
might be used for the railroad was drawn up to be presented to the
king. This was unanimously voted; yes, there was even talk of
voting thanks to Lars, and a gift of a coffee-pot, in the model of
a locomotive. But finally, it was thought best to wait until
everything was accomplished. The petition from the parish to the
county board was sent back, with a requirement of a list of the
names of all bodies which must necessarily be removed. The
minister made out this, but instead of sending it directly to the
county board, had his reasons for communicating it first to the
parish. One of the members brought it to the next meeting. Here,
Lars opened the envelope, and as chairman read the names.

Now it happened that the first body to be removed was that of
Lars' own grandfather. A Hide shudder passed through the assembly;
Lars himself was taken by surprise; but continued. Secondly, came
the name of Canute Aakre's grandfather; for the two had died at
nearly the same time. Canute Aakre sprang from his seat; Lars
stopped; all looked up with dread; for the name of the elder
Canute Aakre had been the one most beloved in the parish for
generations. There was a pause of some minutes. At last Lars
hemmed, and continued. But the matter became worse, for the
further he proceeded, the nearer it approached their own day, and
the dearer the dead became. When he ceased, Canute Aakre asked
quietly if others did not think as he, that spirits were around
them. It had begun to grow dusk in the room, and although they
were mature men sitting in company, they almost felt themselves
frightened. Lars took a bundle of matches from his pocket and lit
a candle, somewhat dryly remarking that this was no more than they
had known beforehand.

"No," replied Canute, pacing the floor, "this is more than I knew
beforehand. Now I begin to think that even railroads can be bought
too dearly."

This electrified the audience, and Canute continued that the whole
affair must be reconsidered, and made a motion to that effect. In
the excitement which had prevailed, he said it was also true that
the benefit to be derived from the road had been considerably
overrated; for if it did not pass through the parish, there would
have to be a depot at each extremity; true, it would be a little
more trouble to drive there, than to a station within; yet not so
great as that for this reason they should dishonor the rest of the
dead. Canute was one of those who, when his thoughts were excited,
could extemporize and present most sound reasons; he had not a
moment previously thought of what he now said; but the truth of it
struck all. Lars, seeing the danger of his position, thought best
to be careful, and so apparently acquiesced in Canute's
proposition to reconsider; for such emotions, thought he, are
always strongest in the beginning; one must temporize with them.

But here he had miscalculated. In constantly increasing the dread
of touching their dead overswept the parish; what no one had
thought of as long as the matter existed only in talk became a
serious question when it came to touch themselves. The
women particularly were excited, and at the parish house, on the day
of the next meeting, the road was black with the gathered
multitude. It was a warm summer day, the windows were taken out,
and as many stood without as within. All felt that that day would
witness a great battle.

Lars came, driving his handsome horse, saluted by all; he looked
quietly and confidently around, not seeming surprised at the
throng. He seated himself, straw in mouth, near the window, and
not without a smile saw Canute rise to speak, as he thought, for
all the dead lying over there in the old churchyard.

But Canute Aakre did not begin with the churchyard. He made a
stricter investigation into the profits likely to accrue from
carrying the road through the parish, showing that in all this
excitement they had been over-estimated. He had calculated the
distance of each farm from the nearest station, should the road be
taken through the neighboring valley, and finally asked:

"Why has such a hurrah been made about this railroad, when it
would not be for the good of the parish after all?"

This he could explain; there were those who had brought about such
a previous disturbance, that a greater was necessary in order that
the first might be forgotten. Then, too, there were those who,
while the thing was new, could sell their farms and lands to
strangers, foolish enough to buy; it was a shameful speculation,
which not the living only but the dead also must be made to
promote!

The effect produced by his address was very considerable. But Lars
had firmly resolved, come what would, to keep cool, and smilingly
replied that he supposed Canute Aakre himself had been anxious for
the railroad, and surely no one would accuse him of understanding
speculation. (A little laugh ensued.) Canute had had no objection
to the removal of bodies of common people for the sake of the
railroad, but when it came to that of his own grandfather, the
question became suddenly of vital importance to the whole parish.
He said no more, but looked smilingly at Canute, as did also
several others. Meanwhile, Canute Aakre surprised both him and
them by replying:

"I confess it; I did not realize what was at stake until it
touched my own dead; possibly this is a shame, but really it would
have been a greater one not even then to have realized it, as is
the case with Lars! Never, I think, could Lars' raillery have been
more out of place; for folks with common feelings the thing is
really revolting."

"This feeling has come up quite recently," answered Lars, "and so
we will hope for its speedy disappearance also. It may be well to
think upon what minister, bishop, county officers, engineers, and
Department will say, if we first unanimously set the ball in
motion and then come asking to have it stopped; if we first are
jubilant and sing songs, then weep and chant requiems. If they do
not say that we have run mad here in the parish, at least they may
say that we have grown a little queer lately."

"Yes, God knows, they can say so," answered Canute; "we have been
acting strangely enough during the last few days,--it is time for
us to retract. It has really gone far when we can dig up, each his
own grandfather, to make way for a railroad; when in order that
our loads may be carried more easily forward, we can violate the
resting-place of the dead. For is not overhauling our churchyard
the same as making it yield us food? What has been buried there in
Jesus' name, shall we take up in the name of Mammon? It is but
little better than eating our progenitors' bones."

"That is according to the order of nature," said Lars dryly.

"Yes, the nature of plants and animals," replied Canute.

"Are we not then animals?" asked Lars.

"Yes, but also the children of the living God, who have buried our
dead in faith upon Him; it is He who shall raise them, and not
we."

"Oh, you prate! Are not the graves dug over at certain fixed
periods anyway? What evil is there in that it happens some years
earlier?" asked Lars.

"I will tell you! What was born of them yet lives; what they built
yet remains; what they loved, taught, and suffered for is all
around us and within us; and shall we not, then, let their bodies
rest in peace?"

"I see by your warmth that you are thinking of your grandfather
again," replied Lars; "and will say it is high time you ceased to
bother the parish about him, for he monopolized space enough in
his lifetime; it isn't worth while to have him lie in the way now
he is dead. Should his corpse prevent a blessing to the parish
that would reach to a hundred generations, we surely would have
reason to say, that of all born here he has done us most harm."

Canute Aakre tossed back his disorderly hair, his eyes darted
fire, his whole frame appeared like a drawn bow.

"What sort of a blessing this is that you speak of, I have already
proved. It is of the same character as all the others which you
have brought to the parish, namely, a doubtful one. True enough
you have provided us with a new church; but, too, you have filled
it with a new spirit,--and not that of love. True, you have made
us new roads,--but also new roads to destruction, as is now
plainly evident in the misfortunes of many. True, you have
lessened our taxes to the public; but, too, you have increased
those to ourselves;--prosecutions, protests, and failures are no
blessing to a community. And you dare scoff at the man in his
grave whom the whole parish blesses! You dare say he lies in our
way,--yes, very likely he lies in your way. This is plainly to be
seen; but over this grave you shall fall! The spirit which has
reigned over you, and at the same time until now over us, was not
born to rule, only to serve. The churchyard shall surely remain
undisturbed; but to-day it numbers one more grave, namely, that of
your popularity, which shall now be interred in it."

Lars Hogstad rose, white as a sheet; he opened his mouth, but was
unable to speak a word, and the straw fell. After three or four
vain attempts to recover it and to find utterance, he belched
forth like a volcano:

"Are these the thanks I get for all my toils and struggles? Shall
such a woman-preacher be able to direct? Ah, then, the devil be
your chairman if ever more I set my foot here! I have
kept your petty business in order until to-day; and after me
it will fall into a thousand pieces; but let it go now. Here are
the 'Records!' (and he flung them across the table). Out on such a
company of wenches and brats! (striking the table with his fist).
Out on the whole parish, that it can see a man recompensed as I
now am!"

He brought down his fist once more with such force, that the leaf
of the great table sprang upward, and the inkstand with all its
contents downward upon the floor, marking for coming generations
the spot where Lars Hogstad, in spite of all his prudence, lost
his patience and his rule.

He sprang for the door, and soon after was away from the house.
The whole audience stood fixed,--for the power of his voice and
his wrath had frightened them,--until Canute Aakre, remembering
the taunt he had received at the time of his fall, with beaming
countenance, and assuming Lars' voice, exclaimed:

"Is this the decisive blow in the matter?"

The assembly burst into uproarious merriment. The grave meeting
closed amid laughter, talk, and high glee; only few left the
place, those remaining called for drink, and made a night of
thunder succeed a day of lightning. They felt happy and
independent as in old days, before the time in which the
commanding spirit of Lars had cowed their souls into silent
obedience. They drank toasts to their liberty, they sang, yes,
finally they danced, Canute Aakre with the vice-chairman taking
lead, and all the members of the council following, and boys and
girls too, while the young ones outside shouted, "hurrah!" for
such a spectacle they had never before witnessed.

III.

Lars moved around in the large rooms at Hogstad without uttering a
word. His wife who loved him, but always with fear and trembling,
dared not so much as show herself in his presence. The management
of the farm and house had to go on as it would, while a multitude
of letters were passing to and fro between Hogstad and the parish,
Hogstad and the capital; for he had charges against the county
board which were not acknowledged, and a prosecution ensued;
against the savings-bank, which were also unacknowledged, and so
came another prosecution. He took offence at articles in the
Christiania Correspondence, and prosecuted again, first the
chairman of the county board, and then the directors of the
savings-bank. At the same time there were bitter articles in the
papers, which according to report were by him, and were the cause
of great strife in the parish, setting neighbor against neighbor.
Sometimes he was absent whole weeks at once, nobody knowing where,
and after returning lived secluded as before. At church he was not
seen after the grand scene in the representatives' meeting.

Then, one Saturday night, the mail brought news that the railroad
was to go through the parish after all, and through the old
churchyard. It struck like lightning into every home. The
unanimous veto of the county board had been in vain; Lars
Hogstad's influence had proved stronger. This was what his absence
meant, this was his work! It was involuntary on the part of the
people that admiration of the man and his dogged persistency
should lessen dissatisfaction at their own defeat; and the more
they talked of the matter the more reconciled they seemed to
become: for whatever has once been settled beyond all change
develops in itself, little by little, reasons why it is so, which
we are accordingly brought to acknowledge.

In going to church next day, as they encountered each other they
could not help laughing; and before the service, just as nearly
all were convened outside,--young and old, men and women, yes,
even children,--talking about Lars Hogstad, his talents, his
strong will, and his great influence, he himself with his
household came driving up in four carriages. Two years had passed
since he was last there. He alighted and walked through the crowd,
when involuntarily all lifted their hats to him like one man; but
he looked neither to the right nor the left, nor returned a single
salutation. His little wife, pale as death, walked behind him. In
the house, the surprise became so great that, one after another,
noticing him, stopped singing and stared. Canute Aakre, who sat in
his pew in front of Lars', perceiving the unusual appearance and
no cause for it in front, turned around and saw Lars sitting bowed
over his hymn-book, looking for the place.

He had not seen him until now since the day of the
representatives' meeting, and such a change in a man he never
could have imagined. This was no victor. His head was becoming
bald, his face was lean and contracted, his eyes hollow and
bloodshot, and the giant neck presented wrinkles and cords. At a
glance he perceived what this man had endured, and was as suddenly
seized with a feeling of strong pity, yes, even with a touch of
the old love. In his heart he prayed for him, and promised himself
surely to seek him after service; but, ere he had opportunity,
Lars had gone. Canute resolved he would call upon him at his home
that night, but his wife kept him back.

"Lars is one of the kind," said she, "who cannot endure a debt of
gratitude: keep away from him until possibly he can in some way do
you a favor, and then perhaps he will come to you."

However, he did not come. He appeared now and then at church, but
nowhere else, and associated with no one. On the contrary, he
devoted himself to his farm and other business with an earnestness
which showed a determination to make up in one year for the
neglect of many; and, too, there were those who said it was
necessary.

Railroad operations in the valley began very soon. As the line was
to go directly past his house, Lars remodelled the side facing the
road, connecting with it an elegant verandah, for of course his
residence must attract attention. They were just engaged in this
work when the rails were laid for the conveyance of gravel and
timber, and a small locomotive was brought up. It was a fine
autumn evening when the first gravel train was to come down. Lars
stood on the platform of his house to hear the first signal, and
see the first column of smoke; all the hands on the farm were
gathered around him. He looked out over the parish, lying in the
setting sun, and felt that he was to be remembered so long as a
train should roar through the fruitful valley. A feeling of
forgiveness crept into his soul. He looked toward the churchyard,
of which a part remained, with crosses bowing toward the earth,
but a part had become railroad. He was just trying to define his
feelings, when, whistle went the first signal, and a while after
the train came slowly along, puffing out smoke mingled with
sparks, for wood was used instead of coal; the wind blew toward
the house, and standing there they soon found themselves enveloped
in a dense smoke; but by and by, as it cleared away, Lars saw the
train working through the valley like a strong will.

He was satisfied, and entered the house as after a long day's
work. The image of his grandfather stood before him at this
moment. This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to
forehanded circumstances; true, a part of his citizen-honor had
been lost, but forward he had pushed, nevertheless. His faults
were those of his time; they were to be found on the uncertain
borders of the moral conceptions of that period, and are of no
consideration now. Honor to him in his grave, for he suffered and
worked; peace to his ashes. It is good to rest at last. But he
could get no rest because of his grandson's great ambition. He was
thrown up with stone and gravel. Pshaw! very likely he would only
smile that his grandson's work passed above his head.

With such thoughts he had undressed and gone to bed. Again his
grandfather's image glided forth. What did he wish. Surely he
ought to be satisfied now, with the family's honor sounding forth
above his grave; who else had such a monument? But yet, what mean
these two great eyes of fire? This hissing, roaring, is no longer
the locomotive, for see! it comes from the churchyard directly
toward the house: an immense procession! The eyes of fire are his
grandfather's, and the train behind are all the dead. It advances
continually toward the house, roaring, crackling, flashing. The
windows burn in the reflection of dead men's eyes ... he made a
mighty effort to collect himself, "For it was a dream, of course,
only a dream; but let me waken! ... See: now I am awake; come,
ghosts!"

And behold: they really come from the churchyard, overthrowing
road, rails, locomotive and train with such violence that they
sink in the ground; and then all is still there, covered with sod
and crosses as before. But like giants the spirits advanced, and
the hymn, "Let the dead have rest!" goes before them. He knows it:
for daily in all these years it has sounded through his soul, and
now it becomes his own requiem; for this was death and its
visions. The perspiration started out over his whole body, for
nearer and nearer,--and see there, on the window-pane there, there
they are now; and he heard his name. Overpowered with dread he
struggled to shout, for he was strangling; a dead, cold hand
already clenched his throat, when he regained his voice in a
shrieking "Help me!" and awoke. At that moment the window was
burst in with such force that the pieces flew on to his bed. He
sprang up; a man stood in the opening, around him smoke and
tongues of fire.

"The house is burning, Lars, we'll help you out!"

It was Canute Aakre.

When again he recovered consciousness, he was lying out in a
piercing wind that chilled his limbs. No one was by him; on the
left he saw his burning house; around him grazed, bellowed,
bleated, and neighed his stock; the sheep huddled together in a
terrified flock; the furniture recklessly scattered: but, on
looking around more carefully, he discovered somebody sitting on a
knoll near him, weeping. It was his wife. He called her name. She
started.

"The Lord Jesus be thanked that you live," she exclaimed, coming
forward and seating herself, or rather falling down before him: "O
God! O God! now we have enough of that railroad!"

"The railroad?" he asked: but ere he spoke, it had flashed through
his mind how it was; for, of course, the cause of the fire was the
falling of sparks from the locomotive among the shavings by the
new side-wall. He remained sitting, silent and thoughtful; his
wife dared say no more, but was trying to find clothes for him:
the things with which she had covered him, as he lay unconscious,
having fallen off. He received her attentions in silence, but as
she crouched down to cover his feet, he laid a hand upon her head.
She hid her face in his lap, and wept aloud. At last he had
noticed her. Lars understood, and said:

"You are the only friend I have."

Although to hear these words had cost the house, no matter, they
made her happy; she gathered courage and said, rising and looking
submissively at him:

"That is because no one else understands you."

Now again they talked of all that had transpired, or rather he
remained silent, while she told about it. Canute Aakre had been
first to perceive the fire, had awakened his people, sent the
girls out through the parish, while he himself hastened with men
and horses to the spot where all were sleeping. He had taken
charge of extinguishing the fire and saving the property; Lars
himself he had dragged from the burning room and brought him here
on the left, to the windward,--here, out on the churchyard.

While they were talking of all this, some one came driving rapidly
up the road and turned off toward them; soon he alighted. It was
Canute, who had been home after his church-wagon; the one in which
so many times they had ridden together to and from the parish
meetings. Now Lars must get in and ride home with him. They took
each other by the hand, one sitting, the other standing.

"You must come with me now," said Canute, Without reply Lars rose:
they walked side by side to the wagon. Lars was helped in: Canute
seated himself by his side. What they talked about as they rode,
or afterward in the little chamber at Aakre, in which they
remained until morning, has never been known; but from that day
they were again inseparable.

As soon as disaster befalls a man, all seem to understand his
worth. So the parish took upon themselves to rebuild Lars
Hogstad's houses, larger and handsomer than any others in the
valley. Again he became chairman, but with Canute Aakre at his
side, and from that day all went well.






TWO FRIENDS

BY

ALEXANDER KIELLAND


From "Tales of Two Countries." Translated by H. H. Boyesen.


TWO FRIENDS

BY

ALEXANDER KIELLAND


No one could understand where he got his money from. But the
person who marvelled most at the dashing and luxurious life led by
Alphonse was his quondam friend and partner.

After they dissolved partnership, most of the custom and the best
connection passed by degrees into Charles's hands. This was not
because he in any way sought to run counter to his former partner;
on the contrary, it arose simply from the fact that Charles was
the more capable man of the two. And as Alphonse had now to work
on his own account, it was soon clear to any one who observed him
closely, that in spite of his promptitude, his amiability, and his
prepossessing appearance, he was not fitted to be at the head of
an independent business.

And there was one person who DID observe him closely. Charles
followed him step by step with his sharp eyes; every blunder,
every extravagance, every loss--he knew all to a nicety, and he
wondered that Alphonse could keep going so long.

They had as good as grown up together. Their mothers were cousins;
the families had lived near each other in the same street; and in
a city like Paris proximity is as important as relationship in
promoting close intercourse. Moreover, the boys went to the same
school.

Thenceforth, as they grew up to manhood, they were inseparable.
Mutual adaptation overcame the great differences which originally
marked their characters, until at last their idiosyncrasies fitted
into each other like the artfully-carved pieces of wood which
compose the picture-puzzles of our childhood.

The relation between them was really a beautiful one, such as does
not often arise between two young men; for they did not understand
friendship as binding the one to bear everything at the hands of
the other, but seemed rather to vie with each other in mutual
considerateness.

If, however, Alphonse in his relation to Charles showed any high
degree of considerateness, he himself was ignorant of it; and if
any one had told him of it he would doubtless have laughed loudly
at such a mistaken compliment.

For as life on the whole appeared to him very simple and
straightforward, the idea that his friendship should in any way
fetter him was the last thing that could enter his head. That
Charles was his best friend seemed to him as entirely natural as
that he himself danced best, rode best, was the best shot, and
that the whole world was ordered entirely to his mind.

Alphonse was in the highest degree a spoilt child of fortune; he
acquired everything without effort; existence fitted him like an
elegant dress, and he wore it with such unconstrained amiability
that people forgot to envy him.

And then he was so handsome. He was tall and slim, with brown hair
and big open eyes; his complexion was clear and smooth, and his
teeth shone when he laughed. He was quite conscious of his beauty,
but, as everybody had petted him from his earliest days, his
vanity was of a cheerful, good-natured sort, which, after all, was
not so offensive. He was exceedingly fond of his friend. He amused
himself and sometimes others by teasing him and making fun of him;
but he knew Charles's face so thoroughly that he saw at once when
the jest was going too far. Then he would resume his natural,
kindly tone, until he made the serious and somewhat melancholy
Charles laugh till he was ill.

From his boyhood Charles had admired Alphonse beyond measure. He
himself was small and insignificant, quiet and shy. His friend's
brilliant qualities cast a lustre over him as well, and gave a
certain impetus to his life.

His mother often said: "This friendship between the boys is a real
blessing for my poor Charles, for without it he would certainly
have been a melancholy creature."

When Alphonse was on all occasions preferred to him, Charles
rejoiced; he was proud of his friend. He wrote his exercises,
prompted him at examination, pleaded his cause with the masters,
and fought for him with the boys.

At the commercial academy it was the same story. Charles worked
for Alphonse, and Alphonse rewarded him with his inexhaustible
amiability and unfailing good-humor.

When subsequently, as quite young men, they were placed in the
same banker's office, it happened one day that the principal said
to Charles: "From the first of May I will raise your salary."

"I thank you," answered Charles, "both on my own and on my
friend's behalf."

"Monsieur Alphonse's salary remains unaltered," replied the chief,
and went on writing.

Charles never forgot that morning. It was the first time he had
been preferred or distinguished before his friend. And it was his
commercial capacity, the quality which, as a young man of
business, he valued most, that had procured him this preference;
and it was the head of the firm, the great financier, who had
himself accorded him such recognition.

The experience was so strange to him that it seemed like an
injustice to his friend. He told Alphonse nothing of the
occurrence; on the contrary, he proposed that they should apply
for two vacant places in the Credit Lyonnais.

Alphonse was quite willing, for he loved change, and the splendid
new banking establishment on the Boulevard seemed to him far more
attractive than the dark offices in the Rue Bergere. So they
removed to the Credit Lyonnais on the first of May. But as they
were in the chief's office taking their leave, the old banker said
to Charles, when Alphonse had gone out (Alphonse always took
precedence of Charles), "Sentiment won't do for a business man."

From that day forward a change went on in Charles. He not only
worked as industriously and conscientiously as before, but
developed such energy and such an amazing faculty for labor as
soon attracted to him the attention of his superiors. That he was
far ahead of his friend in business capacity was soon manifest;
but every time he received a new mark of recognition he had a
struggle with himself. For a long time, every advancement brought
with it a certain qualm of conscience; and yet he worked on with
restless ardor.

One day Alphonse said, in his light, frank way: "You are really a
smart fellow, Charlie! You're getting ahead of everybody, young
and old--not to mention me. I'm quite proud of you."

Charles felt ashamed. He had been thinking that Alphonse must feel
wounded at being left on one side, and now he learned that his
friend not only did not grudge him his advancement, but was even
proud of him. By degrees his conscience was lulled to rest, and
his solid worth was more and more appreciated.

But if he was in reality the more capable, how came it that he was
so entirely ignored in society, while Alphonse remained
everybody's darling? The very promotions and marks of appreciation
which he had won for himself by hard work were accorded him in a
dry, business manner; while every one, from the directors to the
messengers, had a friendly word or a merry greeting for Alphonse.

In the different offices and departments of the bank they
intrigued to obtain possession of Monsieur Alphonse; for a breath
of life and freshness followed ever in the wake of his handsome
person and joyous nature. Charles, on the other hand, had often
remarked that his colleagues regarded him as a dry person, who
thought only of business and of himself.

The truth was that he had a heart of rare sensitiveness, with no
faculty for giving it expression.

Charles was one of those small, black Frenchmen whose beard begins
right under the eyes; his complexion was yellowish and his hair
stiff and splintery. His eyes did not dilate when he was pleased
and animated, but they flashed around and glittered.
When he laughed the corners of his mouth turned upward, and many a
time, when his heart was full of joy and good-will, he had seen
people draw back, half-frightened by his forbidding exterior.
Alphonse alone knew him so well that he never seemed to see his
ugliness; every one else misunderstood him. He became suspicious,
and retired more and more within himself.

In an insensible crescendo the thought grew in him: Why should he
never attain anything of that which he most longed for--intimate
and cordial intercourse and friendliness which should answer to
the warmth pent up within him? Why should every one smile to
Alphonse with out-stretched hands, while he must content himself
with stiff bows and cold glances?

Alphonse knew nothing of all this. He was joyous and healthy,
charmed with life and content with his daily work. He had been
placed in the easiest and most interesting branch of the business,
and, with his quick brain and his knack of making himself
agreeable, he filled his place satisfactorily.

His social circle was very large--every one set store by his
acquaintance, and he was at least as popular among women as among
men.

For a time Charles accompanied Alphonse into society, until he was
seized by a misgiving that he was invited for his friend's sake
alone, when he at once drew back.

When Charles proposed that they should set up in business
together, Alphonse had answered: "It is too good of you to choose
me. You could easily find a much better partner."

Charles had imagined that their altered relations and closer
association in work would draw Alphonse out of the circles which
Charles could not now endure, and unite them more closely. For he
had conceived a vague dread of losing his friend.

He did not himself know, nor would it have been easy to decide,
whether he was jealous of all the people who flocked around
Alphonse and drew him to them, or whether he envied his friend's
popularity.

They began their business prudently and energetically, and got on
well.

It was generally held that each formed an admirable complement to
the other. Charles represented the solid, confidence-inspiring
element, while the handsome and elegant Alphonse imparted to the
firm a certain lustre which was far from being without value.

Every one who came into the counting-house at once remarked his
handsome figure, and thus it seemed quite natural that all should
address themselves to him.

Charles meanwhile bent over his work and let Alphonse be
spokesman. When Alphonse asked him about anything, he
answered shortly and quietly without looking up.

Thus most people thought that Charles was a confidential clerk,
while Alphonse was the real head of the house.

As Frenchmen, they thought little about marrying, but as young
Parisians they led a life into which erotics entered largely.

Alphonse was never really in his element except when in female
society. Then all his exhilarating amiability came into play, and
when he leaned back at supper and held out his shallow champagne-
glass to be refilled, he was as beautiful as a happy god.

He had a neck of the kind which women long to caress, and his
soft, half-curling hair looked as if it were negligently arranged,
or carefully disarranged, by a woman's coquettish hand.

Indeed, many slim white fingers had passed through those locks;
for Alphonse had not only the gift of being loved by women, but
also the yet rarer gift of being forgiven by them.

When the friends were together at gay supper-parties, Alphonse
paid no particular heed to Charles. He kept no account of his own
love-affairs, far less of those of his friend. So it might easily
happen that a beauty on whom Charles had cast a longing eye fell
into the hands of Alphonse.

Charles was used to seeing his friend preferred in life; but there
are certain things to which men can scarcely accustom themselves.
He seldom went with Alphonse to his suppers, and it was always
long before the wine and the general exhilaration could bring him
into a convivial humor.

But then, when the champagne and the bright eyes had gone to his
head, he would often be the wildest of all; he would sing loudly
with his harsh voice, laugh and gesticulate so that his stiff
black hair fell over his forehead; and then the merry ladies
shrank from him, and called him the "chimney-sweep."

--As the sentry paces up and down in the beleaguered fortress, he
sometimes hears a strange sound in the silent night, as if
something were rustling under his feet. It is the enemy, who has
undermined the outworks, and to-night or to-morrow night there
will be a hollow explosion, and armed men will storm in through
the breach.

If Charles had kept close watch over himself he would have heard
strange thoughts rustling within him. But he would not hear--he
had only a dim foreboding that sometime there must come an
explosion.

--And one day it came.

It was already after business hours; the clerks had all left the
outer office, and only the principals remained behind.

Charles was busily writing a letter which he wished to
finish before he left.

Alphonse had drawn on both his gloves and buttoned them. Then he
had brushed his hat until it shone, and now he was walking up and
down and peeping into Charles's letter every time he passed the
desk.

They used to spend an hour every day before dinner in a cafe on
the great Boulevard, and Alphonse was getting impatient for his
newspapers.

"Will you never have finished that letter?" he said, rather
irritably.

Charles was silent a second or two, then he sprang up so that his
chair fell over: "Perhaps Alphonse imagined that he could do it
better? Did he not know which of them was really the man of
business?" And now the words streamed out with that incredible
rapidity of which the French language is capable when it is used
in fiery passion.

But it was a turbid stream, carrying with it many ugly
expressions, upbraidings, and recriminations; and through the
whole there sounded something like a suppressed sob.

As he strode up and down the room, with clenched hands and
dishevelled hair, Charles looked like a little wiry-haired terrier
barking at an elegant Italian grayhound. At last he seized his hat
and rushed out.

Alphonse had stood looking at him with great wondering eyes. When
he was gone, and there was once more silence in the room, it
seemed as though the air was still quivering with the hot words.
Alphonse recalled them one by one, as he stood motionless beside
the desk.

"Did he not know which was the abler of the two?" Yes, assuredly!
he had never denied that Charles was by far his superior.

"He must not think that he would succeed in winning everything to
himself with his smooth face." Alphonse was not conscious of ever
having deprived his friend of anything.

"I don't care for your cocottes" Charles had said.

Could he really have been interested in the little Spanish dancer?
If Alphonse had only had the faintest suspicion of such a thing he
would never have looked at her. But that was nothing to get so
wild about; there were plenty of women in Paris.

And at last: "As sure as to-morrow comes, I will dissolve
partnership!"

Alphonse did not understand it at all. He left the counting-house
and walked moodily through the streets until he met an
acquaintance. That put other thoughts into his head; but all day
he had a feeling as if something gloomy and uncomfortable lay in
wait, ready to seize him so soon as he was alone.

When he reached home, late at night, he found a letter from
Charles. He opened it hastily; but it contained, instead of the
apology he had expected, only a coldly-worded request to M.
Alphonse to attend at the counting-house early the next morning
"in order that the contemplated dissolution of partnership might
be effected as quickly as possible."

Now, for the first time, did Alphonse begin to understand that the
scene in the counting-house had been more than a passing outburst
of passion; but this only made the affair more inexplicable.

And the longer he thought it over, the more clearly did he feel
that Charles had been unjust to him. He had never been angry with
his friend, nor was he precisely angry even now. But as he
repeated to himself all the insults Charles had heaped upon him,
his good-natured heart hardened; and the next morning he took his
place in silence, after a cold "Good morning."

Although he arrived a whole hour earlier than usual, he could see
that Charles had been working long and industriously. There they
sat, each on his side of the desk; they spoke only the most
indispensable words; now and then a paper passed from hand to
hand, but they never looked each other in the face.

In this way they both worked--each more busily than the other--
until twelve o'clock, their usual luncheon-time.

This hour of dejeuner was the favorite time of both. Their custom
was to have it served in their office, and when the old
housekeeper announced that lunch was ready, they would both rise
at once, even if they were in the midst of a sentence or of an
account.

They used to eat standing by the fireplace, or walking up and down
in the warm, comfortable office. Alphonse had always some piquant
stories to tell, and Charles laughed at them. These were his
pleasantest hours.

But that day, when madame said her friendly "Messieurs, on a
servi" they both remained sitting. She opened her eyes wide, and
repeated the words as she went out, but neither moved.

At last Alphonse felt hungry, went to the table, poured out a
glass of wine and began to eat his cutlet. But as he stood there
eating, with his glass in his hand, and looked round the dear old
office where they had spent so many pleasant hours, and then
thought that they were to lose all this and imbitter their lives
for a whim, a sudden burst of passion, the whole situation
appeared to him so preposterous that he almost burst out laughing.

"Look here, Charles," he said, in the half-earnest, half-joking
tone which always used to make Charles laugh, "it will really be
too absurd to advertise: 'According to an amicable agreement, from
such and such a date the firm of--'"

"I have been thinking," interrupted Charles, quietly, "that we
will put: 'According to MUTUAL agreement.'"

Alphonse laughed no more; he put down his glass, and the cutlet
tasted bitter in his mouth.

He understood that friendship was dead between them, why or
wherefore he could not tell; but he thought that Charles was hard
and unjust to him. He was now stiffer and colder than the other.

They worked together until the business of dissolution was
finished; then they parted.

A considerable time passed, and the two quondam friends worked
each in his own quarter in the great Paris. They met at the
Bourse, but never did business with each other. Charles never
worked against Alphonse; he did not wish to ruin him; he wished
Alphonse to ruin himself.

And Alphonse seemed likely enough to meet his friend's wishes in
this respect. It is true that now and then he did a good stroke of
business, but the steady industry he had learned from Charles he
soon forgot. He began to neglect his office, and lost many good
connections.

He had always had a taste for dainty and luxurious living, but his
association with the frugal Charles had hitherto held his
extravagances in check. Now, on the contrary, his life became more
and more dissipated. He made fresh acquaintances on every hand,
and was more than ever the brilliant and popular Monsieur
Alphonse; but Charles kept an eye on his growing debts.

He had Alphonse watched as closely as possible, and, as their
business was of the same kind, could form a pretty good estimate
of the other's earnings. His expenses were even easier to
ascertain, and he soon assured himself of the fact that Alphonse
was beginning to run into debt in several quarters.

He cultivated some acquaintances about whom he otherwise cared
nothing, merely because through them he got an insight into
Alphonse's expensive mode of life and rash prodigality. He sought
the same cafes and restaurants as Alphonse, but at different
times; he even had his clothes made by the same tailor, because
the talkative little man entertained him with complaints that
Monsieur Alphonse never paid his bills.

Charles often thought how easy it would be to buy up a part of
Alphonse's liabilities and let them fall into the hands of a
grasping usurer. But it would be a great injustice to suppose that
Charles for a moment contemplated doing such a thing himself. It
was only an idea he was fond of dwelling upon; he was, as it were,
in love with Alphonse's debts.

But things went slowly, and Charles became pale and sallow while
he watched and waited.

He was longing for the time when the people who had always looked
down upon him should have their eyes opened, and see how little
the brilliant and idolized Alphonse was really fit for. He wanted
to see him humbled, abandoned by his friends, lonely and poor; and
then--!

Beyond that he really did not like to speculate; for at this point
feelings stirred within him which he would not acknowledge.

He WOULD hate his former friend; he WOULD have revenge for all the
coldness and neglect which had been his own lot in life; and every
time the least thought in defence of Alphonse arose in his mind he
pushed it aside, and said, like the old banker, "Sentiment won't
do for a business man."

One day he went to his tailor's; he bought more clothes in these
days than he absolutely needed.

The nimble little man at once ran to meet turn with a roll of
cloth: "See, here is the very stuff for you. Monsieur Alphonse has
had a whole suit made of it, and Monsieur Alphonse is a gentleman
who knows how to dress."

"I did not think that Monsieur Alphonse was one of your favorite
customers," said Charles, rather taken by surprise.

"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed the little tailor, "you mean because I
have once or twice mentioned that Monsieur Alphonse owed me a few
thousand francs. It was very stupid of me to speak so. Monsieur
Alphonse has not only paid me the trifle he was owing, but I know
that he has also satisfied a number of other creditors. I have
done ce cher beau monsieur great injustice, and I beg you never to
give him a hint of my stupidity."

Charles was no longer listening to the chatter of the garrulous
tailor. He soon left the shop, and went up the street, quite
absorbed in the one thought that Alphonse had paid.

He thought how foolish it really was of him to wait and wait for
the other's ruin. How easily might not the adroit and lucky
Alphonse come across many a brilliant business opening, and make
plenty of money without a word of it reaching Charles's ears.
Perhaps, after all, he was getting on well. Perhaps it would end
in people saying, "See, at last Monsieur Alphonse shows what he is
fit for, now that he is quit of his dull and crabbed partner!"

Charles went slowly up the street with his head bent. Many people
jostled him, but he heeded not. His life seemed to him so
meaningless, as if he had lost all that he had ever possessed--or
had he himself cast it from him? Just then some one ran against
him with more than usual violence. He looked up. It was an
acquaintance from the time when he and Alphonse had been in the
Credit Lyonnais.

"Ah, good-day, Monsieur Charles!" cried he, "It is long since we
met. Odd, too, that I should meet you to-day. I was just thinking
of you this morning."

"Why, may I ask?" said Charles, half absently.

"Well, you see, only to-day I saw up at the bank a paper--a bill
for thirty or forty thousand francs--bearing both your name and
that of Monsieur Alphonse. It astonished me, for I thought that
you two--hm!--had done with each other."

"No, we have not quite done with each other yet," said Charles
slowly.

He struggled with all his might to keep his face calm, and asked,
in as natural a tone as he could command, "When does the bill fall
due? I don't quite recollect."

"To-morrow or the day after, I think," answered the other, who was
a hard-worked business man, and was already in a hurry to be off.
"It was accepted by Monsieur Alphonse."

"I know that," said Charles; "but could you not manage to let ME
redeem the bill to-morrow? It is a courtesy--a favor I am anxious
to do."

"With pleasure. Tell your messenger to ask for me personally at
the bank to-morrow afternoon. I will arrange it; nothing easier.
Excuse me; I'm in a hurry. Good-bye!" and with that he ran on.

Next day Charles sat in his counting-house waiting for the
messenger who had gone up to the bank to redeem Alphonse's bill.

At last a clerk entered, laid a folded blue paper by his
principal's side, and went out again.

Not until the door was closed did Charles seize the draft, look
swiftly round the room, and open it. He stared for a second or two
at his name, then lay back in his chair and drew a deep breath. It
was as he had expected--the signature was a forgery.

He bent over it again. For long he sat, gazing at his own name,
and observing how badly it was counterfeited.

While his sharp eyes followed every line in the letters of his
name, he scarcely thought. His mind was so disturbed, and his
feelings so strangely conflicting, that it was some time before he
became conscious how much they betrayed--these bungling strokes on
the blue paper.

He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose began to tickle a
little, and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the
paper.

He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the
old banker in the Rue Bergere.

What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at
last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he
not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that
Alphonse was ruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never
harmed him.

Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be
sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he
must have come to a jutting headland in life, and he prepared to
leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him.

At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse
should not have time to send a bullet through his bead and hide
his shame in the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror
which follows the suicide. Thus Charles would lose
his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose that he had gone
and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil through
it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at least expose
his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable
being was this charming Alphonse.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the
cafe in which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the
bill and buttoned his coat.

But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over
the bill to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should
suddenly advance into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was
always surrounded by his friends and admirers, and say loudly and
distinctly so that all should hear it:

"Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery."

It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and cold;
and well on in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a
downpour--the water did not fall from the clouds in regular
drops--but the clouds themselves had, as it were, laid themselves
down in the streets of Paris and there slowly condensed into water.

No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got
wet on all sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck,
laid itself like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into
your boots and far up your trousers.

A few sanguine ladies were standing in the portes cocheres, with
their skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by
the hour in the omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex
hurried along under their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible
enough to give up the battle, and had turned up their collars,
stuck their umbrellas under their arms, and their hands in their
pockets.

Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five
o'clock. A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a
shop here and there strove to shine out in the thick wet air.

People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off
the pavement, and ruined one another's umbrellas. All the cabs
were taken up; they splashed along and bespattered the foot
passengers to the best of their ability, while the asphalt
glistened in the dim light with a dense coating of mud.

The cafes were crowded to excess; regular customers went round and
scolded, and the waiters ran against each other in their hurry.
Ever and anon, amid the confusion, could be heard the sharp little
ting of the bell on the buffet; it was la dame du comptoir
summoning a waiter, while her calm eyes kept a watch upon the
whole cafe.

A lady sat at the buffet of a large restaurant on the Boulevard
Sebastopol. She was widely known for her cleverness and her
amiable manners.

She had glossy black hair, which, in spite of the fashion, she
wore parted in the middle of her forehead in natural curls. Her
eyes were almost black and her mouth full, with a little shadow of
a moustache.

Her figure was still very pretty, although, if the truth were
known, she had probably passed her thirtieth year; and she had a
soft little hand, with which she wrote elegant figures in her
cashbook, and now and then a little note. Madame Virginie could
converse with the young dandies who were always hanging about the
buffet, and parry their witticisms, while she kept account with
the waiters and had her eye upon every corner of the great room.

She was really pretty only from five till seven in the afternoon--
that being the time at which Alphonse invariably visited the cafe.
Then her eyes never left him; she got a fresher color, her mouth
was always trembling into a smile, and her movements became
somewhat nervous. That was the only time of the day when she was
ever known to give a random answer or to make a mistake in the
accounts; and the waiters tittered and nudged each other.

For it was generally thought that she had formerly had relations
with Alphonse, and some would even have it that she was still his
mistress.

She herself best knew how matters stood; but it was impossible to
be angry with Monsieur Alphonse. She was well aware that he cared
no more for her than for twenty others; that she had lost him--
nay, that he had never really been hers. And yet her eyes besought
a friendly look, and when he left the cafe without sending her a
confidential greeting, it seemed as though she suddenly faded, and
the waiters said to each other: "Look at madame; she is gray
tonight."

Over at the windows it was still light enough to read the papers;
a couple of young men were amusing themselves with watching the
crowds which streamed past. Seen through the great plate-glass
windows, the busy forms gliding past one another in the dense,
wet, rainy air looked like fish in an aquarium. Further back in
the cafe, and over the billiard-tables, the gas was lighted.
Alphonse was playing with a couple of friends.

He had been to the buffet and greeted Madame Virginie, and she,
who had long noticed how Alphonse was growing paler day by day,
had--half in jest, half in anxiety--reproached him with his
thoughtless life.

Alphonse answered with a poor joke and asked for absinthe.

How she hated those light ladies of the ballet and the opera who
enticed Monsieur Alphonse to revel night after night at the
gaming-table, or at interminable suppers! How ill he had been
looking these last few weeks! He had grown quite thin, and the
great gentle eyes had acquired a piercing, restless look. What
would she not give to be able to rescue him out of that life that
was dragging him down! She glanced in the opposite mirror and
thought she had beauty enough left.

Now and then the door opened and a new guest came in, stamped his
feet, and shut his wet umbrella. All bowed to Madame Virginie, and
almost all said, "What horrible weather!"

When Charles entered, he saluted shortly and took a seat in the
corner beside the fireplace.

Alphonse's eyes had indeed become restless. He looked towards the
door every time any one came in; and when Charles appeared, a
spasm passed over his face and he missed his stroke.

"Monsieur Alphonse is not in the vein to-day," said an onlooker.

Soon after a strange gentleman came in. Charles looked up from his
paper and nodded slightly; the stranger raised his eyebrows a
little and looked at Alphonse.

He dropped his cue on the floor.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm not in the mood for billiards to-day,"
said he, "permit me to leave off. Waiter, bring me a bottle of
seltzer-water and a spoon--I must take my dose of Vichy salts."

"You should not take so much Vichy salts, Monsieur Alphonse, but
rather keep to a sensible diet," said the doctor, who sat a little
way off playing chess.

Alphonse laughed, and seated himself at the newspaper-table. He
seized the JOURNAL AMUSANT, and began to make merry remarks
upon the illustrations. A little circle quickly gathered
round him, and he was inexhaustible in racy stories and
whimsicalities.

While he rattled on under cover of the others' laughter, he poured
out a glass of seltzer-water and took from his pocket a little box
on which was written, in large letters, "Vichy Salts."

He shook the powder out into the glass and stirred it round with a
spoon. There was a little cigar-ash on the floor in front of his
chair; he whipped it off with his pocket-handkerchief, and then
stretched out his hand for the glass.

At that moment he felt a hand on his arm. Charles had risen and
hurried across the room he now bent down over Alphonse.

Alphonse turned his head towards him so that none but Charles
could see his face. At first he let his eyes travel furtively over
his old friend's figure; then he looked up, and, gazing straight
at Charles, he said, half aloud, "Charlie!"

It was long since Charles had heard that old pet name. He gazed
into the well-known face and now for the first time saw how it had
altered of late. It seemed to him as though he were
reading a tragic story about himself.

They remained thus far a second or two and there glided over
Alphonse's features that expression of imploring helplessness which
Charles knew so well from the old school-days, when Alphonse came
bounding in at the last moment and wanted his composition written.

"Have you done with the JOURNAL AMUSANT?" asked Charles, with a
thick utterance.

"Yes; pray take it," answered Alphonse, hurriedly. He reached him
the paper, and at the same time got hold of Charles's thumb. He
pressed it and whispered, "Thanks," then--drained the glass.

Charles went over to the stranger who sat by the door: "Give me
the bill."

"You don't need our assistance, then?"

"No, thanks."

"So much the better," said the stranger, handing Charles a folded
blue paper. Then he paid for his coffee and went.

Madame Virginie rose with a little shriek: "Alphonse! Oh, my God!
Monsieur Alphonse is ill."

He slipped off his chair; his shoulders went up and his head fell
on one side. He remained sitting on the floor, with his back
against the chair.

There was a movement among those nearest; the doctor sprang over
and knelt beside him. When he looked in Alphonse's face he started
a little. He took his hand as if to feel his pulse, and at the
same time bent down over the glass which stood on the edge of the
table.

With a movement of the arm he gave it a slight push, so that it
fell on the floor and was smashed. Then he laid down the dead
man's hand and bound a handkerchief round his chin.

Not till then did the others understand what had happened. "Dead?
Is he dead, doctor? Monsieur Alphonse dead?"

"Heart disease," answered the doctor.

One came running with water, another with vinegar. Amid laughter
and noise, the balls could be heard cannoning on the inner
billiard-table.

"Hush!" some one whispered. "Hush!" was repeated; and the silence
spread in wider and wider circles round the corpse, until all was
quite still.

"Come and lend a hand," said the doctor.

The dead man was lifted up; they laid him on a sofa in a corner of
the room, and the nearest gas-jets were put out.

Madame Virginie was still standing up; her face was chalk-white,
and she held her little soft hand pressed against her breast. They
carried him right past the buffet. The doctor had seized him under
the back, so that his waistcoat slipped up and a piece of his fine
white shirt appeared.

She followed with her eyes the slender, supple limbs she knew so
well, and continued to stare towards the dark corner.

Most of the guests went away in silence. A couple of young men
entered noisily from the street; a waiter ran towards them and
said a few words. They glanced towards the corner, buttoned their
coats, and plunged out again into the fog.

The half-darkened cafe was soon empty; only some of Alphonse's
nearest friends stood in a group and whispered. The doctor was
talking with the proprietor, who had now appeared on the scene.

The waiters stole to and fro, making great circuits to avoid the
dark corner. One of them knelt and gathered up the fragments of
the glass on a tray. He did his work as quietly as he could; but
for all that it made too much noise.

"Let that alone until by and by," said the host, softly.

Leaning against the chimney-piece, Charles looked at the dead man.
He slowly tore the folded paper to pieces, while he thought of his
friend.






HOPES

BY

FREDERIKA BREMER


The Translation by Mary Howitt.


HOPES

BY

FREDERIKA BREMER


I had a peculiar method of wandering without very much pain along
the stormy path of life. Although, in a physical as well as in a
moral sense, I wandered almost barefoot,-I HOPED, hoped from day
to day; in the morning my hopes rested on evening, in the evening
on the morning; in the autumn; upon the spring, in spring upon the
autumn; from this year to the next, and this amid mere hopes, I
had passed through nearly thirty years of my life, without, of all
my privations, painfully perceiving the want of anything but whole
boots. Nevertheless, I consoled myself easily for this out of
doors in the open air but in a drawing-room it always gave me an
uneasy manner to have to turn the heels, as being the part least
torn, to the front. Much more oppressive was it to me, truly, that
I could in the abodes of misery only console with kind words.

I comforted myself, like a thousand others, by a hopeful glance
upon the rolling wheel of fortune, and with the philosophical
remark, "When the time comes, comes the counsel."

As a poor assistant to a country clergyman with a narrow income
and meagre table, morally becoming mouldy in the company of the
scolding housekeeper, of the willingly fuddled clergyman, of a
foolish young gentleman and the daughters of the house, who, with
high shoulders and turned-in toes, went from morning to night
paying visits, I felt a peculiarly strange emotion of tenderness
and joy as one of my acquaintance informed me by writing, that my
uncle, the Merchant P---in Stockholm, to me personally unknown,
now lay dying, and in a paroxysm of kindred affection had inquired
after his good-for-nothing nephew.

With a flat, meagre little bundle, and a million of rich hopes,
the grateful nephew now allowed himself to be shaken up hill and
down hill, upon an uncommonly uncomfortable and stiff-necked
peasant cart, and arrived, head-over-heels, in the capital.

In the inn where I alighted, I ordered for myself a little--only a
very little breakfast,--a trifle--a bit of bread-and-butter--a few
eggs.

The landlord and a fat gentleman walked up and down the saloon and
chatted. "Nay, that I must say," said the fat gentleman, "this
Merchant P--, who died the day before yesterday, he was a fine
fellow."

"Yes, yes," thought I; "aha, aha, a fellow, who had heaps of
money! Hear you, my friend" (to the waiter), "could not you get me
a bit of venison, or some other solid dish? Hear you, a cup of
bouillon would not be amiss. Look after it, but quick!"

"Yes," said mine host now, "it is strong! Thirty thousand dollars,
and they banko! Nobody in the whole world could have dreamed of
it--thirty thousand!"

"Thirty thousand!" repeated I, in my exultant soul,
"thirty thousand! Hear you, waiter! Make haste, give me here
thirty then--; and give me here banko--no give me here a glass of
wine, I mean;" and from head to heart there sang in me, amid the
trumpet-beat of every pulse in alternating echoes, "Thirty thousand!
Thirty thousand!"

"Yes," continued the fat gentlemen, "and would you believe that in
the mass of debts there are nine hundred dollars for credit
and five thousand dollars for champagne.  And now all his
creditors stand there prettily and open their mouths; all the thing
in the house are hardly worth two farthings; and out of the house
they find, as the only indemnification--a calash!"

"Aha, that is something quite different! Hear you, youth, waiter!
Eh, come you here! take that meat, and the bouillon, and the wine
away again; and hear you, observe well, that I have not eaten a
morsel of all this. How could I, indeed; I, that ever since I
opened my eyes this morning have done nothing else but eat (a
horrible untruth!), and it just now occurs to me that it would
therefore be unnecessary to pay money for such a superfluous
feast."

"But you have actually ordered it," replied the waiter, in a state
of excitement.

"My friend," I replied, and seized myself behind the ear, a place
whence people, who are in embarrassment, are accustomed in some
sort of way to obtain the necessary help--"my friend, it was a
mistake for which I must not be punished; for it was not my fault
that a rich heir, for whom I ordered the breakfast, is all at once
become poor,--yes, poorer than many a poor devil, because he has
lost more than the half of his present means upon the future. If
he, under these circumstances, as you may well imagine, cannot pay
for a dear breakfast, yet it does not prevent my paying for the
eggs which I have devoured, and giving you over and above
something handsome for your trouble, as business compels me to
move off from here immediately."

By my excellent logic, and the "something handsome," I removed
from my throat, with a bleeding heart and a watering mouth, that
dear breakfast, and wandered forth into the city, with my little
bundle under my arm, to seek for a cheap room, while I considered
where I w as to get the money for it.

In consequence of the violent coming in contact of hope and
reality I had a little headache. But when I saw upon my ramble a
gentleman, ornamented with ribbons and stars, alight from a
magnificent carriage, who had a pale yellow complexion, a deeply-
wrinkled brow, and above his eyebrows an intelligible trace of ill-
humour; when I saw a young count, with whom I had become
acquainted in the University of Upsala, walking along as if he
were about to fall on his nose from age and weariness of life,
I held up my head, inhaled the air, which accidentally
(unfortunately) at this place was filled with the smell of smoked
sausage, and extolled poverty, and a pure heart.

I found at length, in a remote street, a little room, which was
more suited to my gloomy prospects than to the bright hopes which
I cherished two hours before.

I had obtained permission to spend the winter in Stockholm, and
had thought of spending it in quite a different way to what now
was to be expected. But what was to be done? To let the courage
sink was the worst of all; to lay the hands in the lap and look up
to heaven, not much better. "The sun breaks forth when one least
expects it," thought I, as heavy autumn clouds descended upon the
city. I determined to use all the means I could to obtain for myself a
decent substance with a somewhat pleasanter prospect for the future,
than was opened to me under the miserable protection of Pastor G., and,
in the meantime, to earn my daily bread by copying,--a sorrowful
expedient in a sorrowful condition.

Thus I passed my days amid fruitless endeavors to find ears which
might not be deaf, amid the heart-wearing occupation of writing
out fairly the empty productions of empty heads, with my dinners
becoming more and more scanty, and with ascending hopes, until
that evening against whose date I afterwards made a cross in my
calendar.

My host had just left me with the friendly admonition to pay the
first quarter's rent on the following day, if I did not prefer
(the politeness is French) to march forth again with bag and
baggage on a voyage of discovery through the streets of the city.

It was just eight o'clock, on an indescribably cold November
evening, when I was revived with this affectionate salutation on
my return from a visit to a sick person, for whom I, perhaps--
really somewhat inconsiderately, had emptied my purse.

I snuffed my sleepy, thin candle with my fingers, and glanced
around the little dark chamber, for the further use of which I
must soon see myself compelled to gold-making.

"Diogenes dwelt worse," sighed I, with a submissive mind, as I
drew a lame table from the window where the wind and rain were not
contented to stop outside. At that moment my eye fell upon a
brilliantly blazing fire in a kitchen, which lay, Tantalus-like,
directly opposite to my modest room, where the fireplace was as
dark as possible.

"Cooks, men and women, have the happiest lot of all serving
mortals!" thought I, as, with a secret desire to play that fire-
tending game, I contemplated the well-fed dame, amid iron pots and
stewpans, standing there like an empress in the glory of the
firelight, and with the fire-tongs sceptre rummaging about
majestically in the glowing realm.

A story higher, I had, through a window, which was concealed by no
envious curtain, the view into a brightly lighted room, where a
numerous family were assembled round a tea-table covered with cups
and bread baskets.

I was stiff in my whole body, from cold and damp. How empty it was
in that part which may be called the magazine, I do not say; but,
ah, good Heavens! thought I, if, however, that pretty girl, who
over there takes a cop of tea-nectar and rich splendid rusks to
that fat gentleman who, from satiety, can hardly raise himself
from the sofa, would but reach out her lovely hand a little
further, and could--she would with a thousand kisses--in vain!--
ah, the satiated gentleman takes his cup; he steeps and steeps his
rusk with such eternal slowness--it might be wine. Now the
charming girl caresses him. I am curious whether it is the dear
papa himself or the uncle, or, perhaps--Ah, the enviable mortal!
But no, it is quite impossible; he is at least forty years older
than she. See, that indeed must be his wife--an elderly lady, who
sits near him on the sofa, and who offers rusks to the young lady.
The old lady seems very dignified; but to whom does she go now? I
cannot see the person. An ear and a piece of a shoulder are all
that peep forth near the window. I cannot exactly take it amiss
that the respectable person turns his back to me; but that he
keeps the young lady a quarter of an hour standing before him,
lets her courtesy and offer her good things, does thoroughly
provoke me. It must be a lady--a man could not be so unpolite
towards this angelic being. But--or--now she takes the cup; and
now, oh, woe! a great man's hand grasps into the rusk-basket--the
savage! and how he helps himself--the churl! I should like to know
whether it is her brother,--he was perhaps hungry, poor fellow!
Now come in, one after the other, two lovely children, who are
like the sister. I wonder now, whether the good man with one ear
has left anything remaining. That most charming of girls, how she
caresses the little ones, and kisses them, and gives to them all
the rusks and the cakes that have escaped the fingers of Monsieur
Gobble. Now she has had herself, the sweet child! of the whole
entertainment, no more than me--the smell.

What a movement suddenly takes place in the room! The old
gentleman heaves himself up from the sofa--the person with one ear
starts forward, and in so doing, gives the young lady a blow (the
dromedary!) which makes her knock against the tea-table, whereby
the poor lady, who was just about springing up from the sofa, is
pushed down again--the children hop about and clap their hands--
the door flies open--a young officer enters--the young girl throws
herself into his arms. So, indeed! Aha, now we have it! I put to
my shutters so violently that they cracked, and seated myself on a
chair, quite wet through with rain, and with my knees trembling.

What had I to do at the window? That is what one gets when one is
inquisitive.

Eight days ago, this family had removed from the country into the
handsome house opposite to me; and it had never yet occurred to me
to ask who they were, or whence they came. What need was there for
me to-night to make myself acquainted with their domestic concerns
in an illicit manner? How could it interest me? I was in an ill-humor;
perhaps, too, I felt some little heartache. But for all that, true
to my resolution, not to give myself up to anxious thoughts when they
could do no good, I seized the pen with stiff fingers, and, in order
to dissipate my vexation, wished to attempt a description of domestic
happiness, of a happiness which I had never enjoyed. For the rest, I
philosophized whilst I blew upon my stiffened hands. "Am I the first
who, in the hot hour of fancy, has sought for a warmth which the stern
world of reality has denied him? Six dollars for a measure of fir-wood.
Yes, prosit, thou art not likely to get it before December! I write!

"Happy, threefold happy, the family, in whose narrow, contracted
circle no heart bleeds solitarily, or solitarily rejoices! No
look, no smile, remains unanswered; and where the friends say
daily, not with words but with deeds, to each other, 'Thy cares,
thy joys, thy happiness, are mine also!'"

"Lovely is the peaceful, the quiet home, which closes itself
protectingly around the weary pilgrim through life--which, around
its friendly blazing hearth, assembles for repose the old man
leaning on his staff, the strong man, the affectionate wife, and
happy children, who, shouting and exulting, hop about in their
earthly heaven, and closing a day spent in the pastimes of
innocence, repeat a thanksgiving prayer with smiling lips, and
drop asleep on the bosom of their parents, whilst the gentle voice
of the mother tells them, in whispered cradle-tones, how around
their couch--

     "The little angels in a ring,
      Stand round about to keep
      A watchful guard upon the bed
      Where little children sleep."

Here I was obliged to leave off, because I felt something
resembling a drop of rain come forth from my eye, and therefore
could not any longer see clearly.

"How many," thought I, as my reflections, against my will, took a
melancholy turn--"how many are there who must, to their sorrow, do
without this highest happiness of earthly life--domestic
happiness!"

For one moment I contemplated myself in the only whole glass which
I had in my room--that OF TRUTH,--and then wrote again with gloomy
feeling:--"Unhappy, indeed, may the forlorn one be called, who, in
the anxious and cool moments of life (which, indeed, come so
often), is pressed to no faithful heart, whose sigh nobody
returns, whose quiet grief nobody alleviates with a 'I understand
thee, I suffer with thee!'

"He is cast down, nobody raises him up; he weeps, nobody sees it,
nobody will see it; he goes, nobody follows him; he comes, nobody
goes to meet him; he rests, nobody watches over him. He is lonely.
Oh, how unfortunate he is! Why dies he not? Ah, who would weep for
him? How cold is a grave which no warm tears of love moisten!

"He is lonesome in the winter night; for him the earth has no
flowers, and dark burn the lights of heaven. Why wanders he, the
lonesome one; why waits he; why flies he not, the shadow, to the
land of shades? Ah, he still hopes, he is a mendicant who begs for
joy, who yet waits in the eleventh hour, that a merciful hand may
give him an alms.

"One only little blossom of earth will he gather, bear it upon his
heart, in order henceforth not so lonesomely, not so entirely
lonesome, to wander down to rest."

It was my own condition which I described. I deplored myself.

Early deprived of my parents, without brothers and sisters,
friends, and relations, I stood in the world yet so solitary and
forlorn, that but for an inward confidence in heaven, and a
naturally happy temper, I should often enough have wished to leave
this contemptuous world; till now, however, I had almost
constantly hoped from the future, and this more from an
instinctive feeling that this might be the best, than to subdue by
philosophy every too vivid wish for an agreeable present time,
because it was altogether so opposed to possibility. For some
time, however, alas! it had been otherwise with me; I felt, and
especially this evening, more than ever an inexpressible desire to
have somebody to love,--to have some one about me who would cleave
to me--who would be a friend to me;--in short, to have (for me the
highest felicity on earth) a wife--a beloved, devoted wife! Oh,
she would comfort me, she would cheer me! her affection, even in
the poorest hut, would make of me a king. That the love-fire of my
heart would not insure the faithful being at my side from being
frozen was soon made clearly sensible to me by an involuntary
shudder. More dejected than ever, I rose up and walked a few times
about my room (that is to say, two steps right forward, and then
turn back again). The sense of my condition followed me like the
shadow on the wall, and for the first time in my life I felt
myself cast down, and threw a gloomy look on my dark future. I had
no patron, therefore could not reckon upon promotion for a long
time; consequently, also, not upon my own bread--on a friend--a
wife, I mean.

"But what in all the world," said I yet once more seriously to
myself, "what helps beating one's brains?" Yet once more I tried
to get rid of all anxious thoughts. "If, however, a Christian soul
could only come to me this evening! Let it be whoever it would--
friend or foe--it would be better than this solitude. Yes, even if
an inhabitant of the world of spirits opened the door, he would be
welcome to me! What was that? Three blows on the door! I will not,
however, believe it--again three!" I went and opened; there was
nobody there; only the wind went howling up and down the stairs. I
hastily shut the door again, thrust my hands into my pockets, and
went up and down for a while, humming aloud. Some moments
afterwards I fancied I heard a sigh--I was silent, and listened,--
again there was very evidently a sigh--and yet once again, so deep
and so mournful, that I exclaimed with secret terror, "Who is
there?" No answer.

For a moment I stood still, and considered what this really could
mean, when a horrible noise, as if cats were sent with yells
lumbering down the whole flight of stairs, and ended with a mighty
blow against my door, put an end to my indecision. I took up the
candle, and a stick, and went out. At the moment when I opened the
door my light was blown out. A gigantic white figure glimmered
opposite to me, and I felt myself suddenly embraced by two strong
arms. I cried for help, and struggled so actively to get loose
that both myself and my adversary fell to the ground, but so that
I lay uppermost. Like an arrow I sprang again upright, and was
about to fetch a light, when I stumbled over something--Heaven
knows what it was (I firmly believe that somebody held me fast by
the feet), by which I fell a second time, struck my head on the
corner of the table, and lost my consciousness, whilst a
suspicions noise, which had great resemblance to laughter,
rang in my ears.

When I again opened my eyes, they met a dazzling blaze of light. I
closed them again, and listened to a confused noise around me--
opened them again a very little, and endeavoured to distinguish
the objects which surrounded me, which appeared to me so
enigmatical and strange that I almost feared my mind had vanished.
I lay upon a sofa, and--no, I really did not deceive myself,--that
charming girl, who on this evening had so incessantly floated
before my thoughts, stood actually beside me, and with a heavenly
expression of sympathy bathed my head with vinegar. A young man
whose countenance seemed known to me held my hand between his. I
perceived also the fat gentleman, another thin one, the lady, the
children, and in distant twilight I saw the shimmer of the
paradise of the tea-table; in short, I found myself by an
incomprehensible whim of fate amidst the family which an hour
before I had contemplated with such lively sympathy.

When I again had returned to full consciousness, the young man
embraced me several times with military vehemence.

"Do you then no longer know me?" cried he indignantly, as he saw
me petrified body and soul. "Have you then forgotten August D--,
whose life a short time since you saved at the peril of your own?
whom you so handsomely fished up, with danger to yourself, from
having for ever to remain in the uninteresting company of fishes?
See here, my father, my mother, my sister, Wilhelmina!"

I pressed his hand; and now the parents embraced me. With a stout
blow of the fist upon the table, August's father exclaimed, "And
because you have saved my son's life, and because you are such a
downright honest and good fellow, and have suffered hunger
yourself--that you might give others to eat--you shall really have
the parsonage at H--. Yes, you shall become clergyman, I say!--I
have jus patronatum, you understand!"

For a good while I was not at all in a condition to comprehend, to
think, or to speak; and before all had been cleared up by a
thousand explanations, I could understand nothing clearly
excepting that Wilhelmina was not--that Wilhelmina was August's
sister.

He had returned this evening from a journey of service, during
which, in the preceding summer, chance had given to me the good
fortune to rescue him from a danger, into which youthful heat and
excess of spirit had thrown him. I had not seen him again since
this occurrence; earlier, I had made a passing acquaintance with
him, had drunk brotherhood with him at the university, and after
that had forgotten my dear brother.

He had now related this occurrence to his family,
with the easily kindled-up enthusiasm of youth, together with
what he knew of me beside, and what he did not know. The father,
who had a living in his gift, and who (as I afterwards found) had
made from his window some compassionate remarks upon my meagre
dinner-table, determined, assailed by the prayers of his son, to
raise me from the lap of poverty to the summit of good fortune.
August would in his rapture announce to me my good luck instantly,
and in order, at the same time, to gratify his passion for merry
jokes, made himself known upon my stairs in a way which occasioned
me a severe, although not dangerous, contusion on the temples, and
the unexpected removal across the street, out of the deepest
darkness into the brightest light. The good youth besought a
thousand times forgiveness for his thoughtlessness; a thousand
times I assured him that it was not worth the trouble to speak of
such a trifling blow. And, in fact, the living was a balsam which
would have made a greater wound than this imperceptible also.

Astonished, and somewhat embarrassed, I now perceived that the ear
and the shoulder, whose possessor had seized so horribly upon the
contents of the rusk basket, and over whom I had poured out my
gall belonged to nobody else than to August's father, and my
patron. The fat gentleman who sat upon the sofa was Wilhelmina's
uncle.

The kindness and gayety of my new friends made me soon feel at
home and happy. The old people treated me like a child of the
house, the young ones as a brother, and the two little ones seemed
to anticipate a gingerbread-friend in me.

After I had received two cups of tea from Wilhelmina's pretty
hand, to which I almost feared taking, in my abstraction of mind,
more rusks than my excellent patron, I rose up to take my leave.
They insisted absolutely upon my passing the night there; but I
abode by my determination of spending the first happy night in my
old habitation, amid thanksgiving to the lofty Ruler of my fate.

They all embraced me afresh; and I now also embraced all rightly,
from the bottom of my heart, Wilhelmina also, although not without
having gracious permission first. "I might as well have left that
alone," thought I afterwards, "if it is to be the first and last
time!" August accompanied me back.

My host stood in my room amid the overturned chairs and tables,
with a countenance which alternated between rain and sunshine; on
one side his mouth drew itself with a reluctant smile up to his
ear, on the other it crept for vexation down to his double chin;
the eyes followed the same direction, and the whole had a look of
a combat, till the tone in which August indicated to him
that he should leave us alone, changed all into the most friendly,
grinning mien, and the proprietor of the same vanished from the
door with the most submissive bows.

August was in despair about my table, my chair, my bed, and so on.
It was with difficulty that I withheld him from cudgelling the
host who would take money for such a hole. I was obliged to
satisfy him with the most holy assurances, that on the following
day I would remove without delay. "But tell him," prayed August,
"before you pay him, that he is a villain, a usurer, a cheat, a--
or if you like, I will--"

"No, no; heaven defend us!" interrupted I, "be quiet, and let me
only manage."

After my young friend had left me, I passed several happy hours in
thinking on the change in my fate, and inwardly thanking God for
it. My thoughts then rambled to the parsonage; and heaven knows
what fat oxen and cows, what pleasure grounds, with flowers,
fruits, and vegetables, I saw in spirit surrounding my new
paradise, where my Eve walked by my side, and supported on my arm;
and especially what an innumerable crowd of happy and edified
people I saw streaming from the church when I had preached. I
baptized, I confirmed, I comforted my beloved community in the
zeal and warmth of my heart--and forgot only the funerals.

Every poor clergyman who has received a living, every mortal,
especially to whom unexpectedly a long-cherished wish has been
accomplished, will easily picture to himself my state.

Later in the night it sunk at last like a veil before my eyes, and
my thoughts fell by degrees into a bewilderment which exhibited on
every hand strange images. I preached with a loud voice in my
church, and the congregation slept. After the service, the people
came out of the church like oxen and cows, and bellowed against me
when I would have admonished them. I wished to embrace my wife,
but could not separate her from a great turnip, which increased
every moment, and at last grew over both our heads. I endeavored
to climb up a ladder to heaven, whose stars beckoned kindly and
brightly to me; but potatoes, grass, vetches, and peas, entangled
my feet unmercifully, and hindered every step. At last I saw
myself in the midst of my possessions walking upon my head, and
whilst in my sleepy soul I greatly wondered how this was possible,
I slept soundly in the remembrance of my dream. Yet then, however,
I must unconsciously have continued the chain of my pastoral
thoughts, for I woke in the morning with the sound of my own voice
loudly exclaiming, "Amen."

That the occurrences of the former evening were actual truth, and
no dream, I could only convince myself with difficulty, till August
paid me a visit, and invited me to dine with his parents.

The living, Wilhelmina, the dinner, the new chain of hopes for the
future which beamed from the bright sun of the present, all
surprised me anew with a joy, which one can feel very well, but
never can describe.

Out of the depths of a thankful heart, I saluted the new life
which opened to me, with the firm determination that, let happen
what might, yet always TO DO THE RIGHT, AND TO HOPE FOR THE BEST.

Two years after this, I sat on an autumn evening in my beloved
parsonage by the fire. Near to me sat my dear little wife, my
sweet, Wilhelmina, and spun. I was just about to read to her a
sermon which I intended to preach on the next Sunday, and from
which I promised myself much edification, as well for her as for
the assembled congregation. Whilst I was turning over the leaves,
a loose paper fell out. It was the paper upon which, on that evening
two years before, in a very different situation, I had written down
my cheerful and my sad thoughts. I showed it to my wife. She read,
smiled with a tear in her eye, and with a roguish countenance which,
as I fancy, is particular to her, took the pen and wrote on the other
side of the paper:

"The author can now, thank God, strike out a description which
would stand in perfect contrast to that which he once, in a dark
hour, sketched of an unfortunate person, as he himself was then.

"Now he is no more lonesome, no more deserted. His quiet sighs are
answered, his secret griefs shared, by a wife tenderly devoted to
him. He goes, her heart follows him; he comes back, she meets him
with smiles; his tears flow not unobserved, they are dried by her
hand, and his smiles beam again in hers; for him she gathers
flowers, to wreathe around his brow, to strew in his path. He has
his own fireside, friends devoted to him, and, counts as his
relations all those who have none of their own. He loves, he is
beloved; he can make people feel happy, he is himself happy."

Truly had my Wilhelmina described the present; and, animated by
feelings which are gay and delicious as the beams of the spring
sun, I will now, as hitherto, let my little troop of light hopes
bound out into the future.

I hope, too, that my sermon for the next Sunday may not be without
benefit to my hearers; and even if the obdurate should sleep, I
hope that neither this nor any other of the greater or the less
unpleasantnesses which can happen to me may go to my heart and
disturb my rest. I know my Wilhelmina, and believe also that I
know myself sufficiently, to hope with certainty that I may always
make her happy. The sweet angel has given me hope that we may soon
be able to add a little creature to our little happy family, I
hope, in the future, to be yet multiplied. For my children I have
all kinds of hopes _in petto_. If I have a son, I hope that he will be
my successor; if I have a daughter, then--if August would wait--
but I fancy that he is just about to be married.

I hope in time to find a publisher for my sermons. I hope to live
yet a hundred years with my wife.

We--that is to say, my Wilhelmina and I--hope, during this time,
to be able to dry a great many tears, and to shed as few ourselves
as our lot, as children of the earth, may permit.

We hope not to survive each other.

Lastly, we hope always to be able to hope; and when the hour comes
that the hopes of the green earth vanish before the clear light of
eternal certainty, then we hope that the All-good Father may pass
a mild sentence upon His greatful and, in humility, hoping
children.




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