The day had been dull, the air thick, and the clouds were driving along
against a light southerly wind; it was mild, though, and had begun to
thaw again; the roads were in a fearful state with snow slush and mud,
especially close by the town where it had been trampled and trodden
into a perfect morass.
Edward had not been walking more than ten minutes before his somewhat
thin boots were wet through. Well, that did not matter, what was much
worse was that he had finished his last biscuit and was by no means
satisfied--not by a long way! However, even that did not matter as he
would soon overtake Ole, he walked so much quicker and lighter than he
did, and then he was hurrying tremendously. As soon as he reached him
he would put things right again; not for an instant did he doubt that.
Ole was very easily managed and he, Edward, would make all square with
the other boys, it was the least he could do; he would enjoy it, too;
he would get others to join him and they would have a fight.
But after he had walked a quarter of a mile[1] without seeing any
traces of Ole's boots in the mud and no sign of himself either, and
particularly after he had dragged on for another quarter along the most
dreadful roads, his feet dripping wet, now perspiring, now cold, then
half-dry, then wet again--it was threatening rain and the wind was
getting up, and all nature seemed so uncomfortably lonely along the
stony ridges with dark woods between each valley--then indeed his
courage fell considerably.
And it seemed so strange, too, that after the first quarter of a mile
he never met a soul. There were plenty of footmarks on the road both of
horses, people, and dogs; they were all bent in the same direction as
himself and most of them were quite fresh, but there was not a creature
to be seen anywhere, not even in the farmyards, not a dog did he hear
bark, nor did he see a chimney smoke; all was deserted. He passed by
one empty cove after the other; they were divided by jutting out ridges
of loose stones caused by landslips; on each side of these ridges lay a
cove, and in every cove one or more farmyards and a brook or stream,
but no people. So many times had the boy now struggled up these stony
hills and gone so far along that he could see across the next field
without distinguishing Ole on the high road, in fact without seeing
anyone, so he began to think that he would have to trudge on, hungry
and tired as he was, the whole way to Store Tuft. It was nearly a mile
distant; that would keep him away so long that his father would hear of
his absence, and then it would be a case of scolding and lecturing, and
probably of beating and swearing as well, and the head-master would
very likely look in and then it would all begin over again.... He could
not help it, the tears would come. Confound Anders Hegge, with his
greedy, fishy eyes and oily smile, his mocking laugh and sneaking
friendliness, the story-teller, the brute! Here was he now forced to
tramp along with tingling feet in all the mud, tired and done up. This
then was the meaning of his fearful fright the evening before, now all
was explained.
But, hang it all! who would cry about that? One must arrive some day at
the journey's end, and a beating would be nothing new, tra-la-la! And
he broke into a Spanish ditty and sang verse upon verse till he became
quite breathless and was obliged to slacken his pace, but taking fright
when he no longer heard the sound of his own voice, he began afresh and
kept on singing all the way through the long valley.
He met nobody there either, only traces of cart-wheels and footmarks of
old and young folk, of horses and dogs from the farms; all bound in the
same direction. What could be going on? A fire? An auction? But then
they would not have taken carts with them. Had there been a landslip
anywhere? Or was it a wreck from yesterday's storm? Well, it was all
the same to him. Just as he was crossing over the next ridge which
jutted out into the bay, he caught sight for the first time of Ole's
footsteps on the hill; he could see that he had walked along by the
side of the road; he recognized the iron heels and the straps under
each foot. The marks were quite fresh too, so Ole could not be far off.
This was exciting, and he hurried on.
Here there was a thick fir-wood, very still and quiet, and as he had to
stop singing going up-hill it was rather uncanny. The farther he
advanced into the wood the thicker it became; the snow lay firmer on
the ground, stones and small tufts of heather peeping up through it
like animals; and then there was a crack here and a rustle there and
sometimes a cry; a startled capercailzie flew up with great flapping of
wings, and the boy in a terrible fright bent down to look for Ole's
foot-marks, just for company's sake--the terror of the day before was
on him again. If he dared but begin to run, and if the wood would only
come to an end! In the painfully long silence that followed the
capercailzie's cry he felt that a very little more and he would go mad
with fright. And this bit of road with high banks on each side, through
which he would have to pass--he looked on ahead at the steep dark sides
which seemed as if they would close over him; terrible looking trees
hung over the top peering down at him. When at last he arrived there,
he felt as if he were the tiniest little ant in a wood; if only all
would keep still, or at least no one swoop down upon him and seize him
by the neck, or drop down suddenly before him, or behind him, or begin
to puff and blow at him.... He walked on with stiff eyes, like one
walking in his sleep, the gnarled and crooked roots of the fir-trees
stretched along the banks, they seemed as though alive, but he
pretended not to notice them. High up in the air far in front of him a
bird was winging its way toward the town he came from. Ah, if he might
but mount that bird! He could see the town distinctly and the ships in
the harbour; he could hear the cheery heave-a-hoy songs and the
rattling of anchor chains, the rolling of barrels along the wharf, and
the merry screams of laughter and the shouts of command.... Yes, he
could even hear those, and the whistle of a steamer! and then another,
a shrill one! and voices! Those _were_ voices! And neighing of horses,
and barking of dogs! And again the sound of voices, many voices. He had
got through the road with the steep banks, for it had only been a short
bit, and through the trees he could see the sea and boats.... But what
was that? Was he back in town again? Had he been walking round and
round? No, surely he had followed the sea all the way. He began to run,
he felt all right again. But had he really walked straight on? Of
course, here is the clearing in the wood, and there the bay, he knew it
well, and the little islands, he remembered them too, it was the right
way, and it was not so very far now to Store Tuft.... But what are all
those boats doing there? And what is the meaning of that steady buzzing
noise? Herring fishing! Hurrah! herring fishing! He had come right into
the midst of a take of herrings, hurrah! hurrah! And away with hunger,
fatigue, and fear, off flew the boy down the hill with mighty strides.
One of the sweep-nets had been hauled in, one was out, one was just
going to be put out, it was a great take. But it was Saturday evening,
and it was necessary to net the herrings before Sunday evening, and to
gut the fish that was already taken. In the twinkling of an eye he
understood it all.
The shore was crowded with people, near the road and on the road, and
up on the fields, crowds and crowds. And endless carts and sledges with
barrels and tubs, some with horses still harnessed, others with the
horses taken out, crowds of dogs; children everywhere, and great
laughter and noise. Out in the bay the boats were round the sweep-net
that was to be put out, the men shouting and calling to each other, and
high in the air a flock of birds flew overhead, flapping their wings
and screaming.
The sky was overcast, the smoke from the steamers making the air seem
thicker and more threatening, the bare, bleak islands seemed suited to
the coming storm, they looked as if they had just started into
existence; the little wooded islet far out rose up solitary and
mysterious through the rainy mist; the steamers came steaming in,
puffing and whistling as if for a wager; they belonged to rival
companies. Men were stamping about in fishermen's boots and in oilskin
clothes over their ordinary ones; others were dressed more like
peasants in coarse cloth coats and fur caps. Women as well as men were
busy cleaning the fish, wrapped in shawls or in a man's jacket over
their own; the usual quiet style of conversation had been disturbed.
Heavy drops of rain began to fall, faster and faster; nearly all the
faces Edward looked at were wet with the rain. They stared a great deal
at him, the delicate looking town boy in the midst of this noisy crowd,
thinly clad, with dripping face and breathless, his little fur cap
clinging wet to his head.
Who should he see just in front of him but Ingebert Syvertsen, the
tall, black-haired man, who did business with his father. He was
standing there bargaining, tall and thin, and dressed in oilskin from
top to toe; he had evidently taken a very active part in it all, the
shiny fish-scales lay thick on his arms and his boots like silver.
"Good day, Ingebert!" shouted the boy in great light.
The great fellow with wet face under his sou'wester, a great drop
hanging from his nose, thin black beard, and three of his upper teeth
missing, knew him at once and laughed; then he said: "Your father is
somewhere about my lad, he is out riding to-day."
Someone spoke to Ingebert at that moment; he turned round, became angry
and abusive, which took up time, when he turned again to speak to the
boy he saw him already far away along the road beyond the whole of the
fishing crowd.
Edward had run away from sheer fright--and it was only when he found
himself out on the road that he remembered he was running just in the
direction his father was coming from. Was it likely he could get to
Store Tuft without meeting his father?
But what was he to do? All those people had seen him, and had stared
hard at him, they would be sure to find out who he was, and then when
his father came riding past he would hear of it too. There was not much
use trying to run away. It was all one whether he got a beating now or
one later. He felt inclined to sing again, for nothing could be worse
than the present state of affairs. He actually did strike up a song,
the Marseillaise, in French; it was so very suitable for one advancing
to get a beating as he was! But before he got to the end of the first
verse his courage failed him, his voice grew fainter, the time slower,
there was a general change of colouring. And oh, it was heavy walking,
and raining fast. So his song gradually died away until it stopped.
Then the boy's thoughts went back to something he had lately read in
the papers about a large coal mine in England that had been inundated
with water. The miners tried to escape as quickly as possible, the
horses after them, down in the mine they could not help themselves,
poor creatures! One boy who had escaped told the others about a horse
that had neighed and whinnied so hopelessly; the boy climbed to the
top, but not the horse.... Edward could distinctly see what the horse
must have looked like, its head, the beautiful shining eyes, he heard
its breathing, its whinnying and felt himself turn quite sick. What it
must be to die amid such horrors! And to think that all that would come
to life again at the day of judgment! And all that would arise from the
mines and very bowels of the earth! Why not the animals too? Surely
they would come forward whining and complaining against mankind? Great
heavens, what complaints there would be. And so many animals, too--only
fancy, from the creation of the world! And where were they all to be
found? On the earth and down in the earth--and think of those that lay
in the sea, at the bottom of the deep sea! And those who lay under that
again, for in many places there had been land where there now was sea.
Well, well!
Oh, how hungry he was! And cold too; he could no longer walk so fast,
and he was very, very tired.
And certainly there was nothing very inviting to look forward to, oh,
no! Well he knew the new riding-whip; he had himself despatched the old
one out of the world; but if he had known that the new one was still
worse, he would have let the old one live on for a couple of years
more. Ouf! how his nails began to ache and his fingers to swell with
the cold. And his feet! But it would never do to think about them or
they got worse directly; hark, how the water sopped in his boots! He
amused himself by putting his feet forward cross ways, and went on from
right to left, from left to right till he got tired of that too. Harder
and harder was the struggle, more and more tedious, again he had to
climb up hill. Dear me! is not this the last hill? Does not Store Tuft
lie in the next valley? Just under the hill? Surely that is Store Tuft?
Perhaps after all he could get there before his father? It would always
be something gained, the evil day put off awhile. At any rate it was
worth hurrying for. Fresh life came to the boy, on he went again!
His father was not always severe either, he could be kind sometimes.
Especially if Josephine were on his side and asked to get him off; and
if Ole came back again then she surely would do that, she must take his
part. They could try, too, to make the apothecary join them! He, the
apothecary, was always so kind, and it is a good thing to be many. Good
heavens! were there no others who----
Up came the chestnut's head over the hill-top! The big straw shoes
which his father used in the winter as stirrups stood out on each side
of the old hack like the paws of a wild beast; the boy stood still,
petrified.
The old hack stared at the lad from out of its heavy Spanish harness;
it could hardly believe its own clever eyes! Neither could the boy's
father believe his, for the round head in the gray woollen cap
stretched farther and farther forward over the horse's neck, till he
had to lean with both hands on the pommel of the saddle. Was that
drenched, dripping boy, with the wisp of fur on his head, standing
terrified and pale as a ghost in the middle of the road--was that the
boy who ought to be sitting at home doing his lessons before he was
allowed to move? And on Saturday afternoon! In such weather and such
roads, and so thinly clad, out on the hill at Store Tuft? And without
permission?
"What the devil are you doing there?"
The horse was pulled up sharp; its warm breath seemed to fill the air
around the boy and envelop him in a thick mist of unpleasant vapours
from its steaming body. Edward dared neither move nor answer. He only
stared up at his father through the mist in a stupid, clumsy fashion,
as though half-dazed.
His father dismounted without delay, and with the bridle round his left
arm and the whip in his right hand he stood before the boy.
"What's the matter? Hey? Why are you here! Why the devil can't you
answer?"
Mechanically Edward slipped farther and farther away, his father after
him; mechanically, too, the boy raised his right arm to shield his
face, and stretched out his left to ward off the coming blows.
"Where are you going to?"
"To Ole Tuft."
"What are you going to do there? Hey? Is Ole Tuft at home? Hey?"
"Yes."
"What are you going there for?"
"I am going to--to----"
"Well!"
"To beg his pardon."
"To beg his pardon? What for? What for? Hey?" and he raised his whip.