Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=f8QFAAAAQAAJ

2. This volume includes three stories: "Ovind," "The Eagle's Nest," and "The Father."

OVIND:

A Story of Country Life in Norway,

BY

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN
"EN GLAD GUT,"

BY

SIVERT AND ELIZABETH HJERLEID.

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
MIDDLESBROUGH: BURNETT AND HOOD.

1869.

TRANSLATORS' PREFACE.

In offering to the public our Translation of Ovind, we wish to say that the work was commenced simply for the pleasure of it, and without any view to publication; but having completed it, we have decided to follow the advice of many of our friends who have read the book, and who think it a pity to keep in manuscript the translation of a work so original as this. It is therefore offered to the English reader, in the hope that it will meet with the same success in this country that it has done in others; for Björnstjerne Björnson, that singular man who seemed so long destined to be distinguished for naught but foolish pranks as a boy, and inaptitude at school and college, has won for himself high literary honors, not only in his native land but throughout Northern Europe. A restless nature, wandering in a wilderness of unfixed purpose, he has repeatedly been on the point of giving himself up as good for naught, until at last the sequestered valley, and the lowly and quiet life of his home, broke upon his wondering eye, in forms he had been seeking in that dreamy half-conscious instinct, which has so often been the harbinger of greatness.

The "Bonde," that sturdy aristocrat of a northern settlement, a man of noble descent, a lord of his ground, and the mainstay of his country, covering under the rugged garb of his matter-of-fact life, a heart that beats warm with attachment to his fellow man, and an inborn pride, nurtured by Saga memories and family traditions,--is Björnson's text, and a text he handles well. His romances are true to nature, and the sombre grandeur of his land inspires him with ideas which we meet with only in his writings, and which are completely his own. There is a weird light over his whole mind, reflected in his works, which does not repel, but allures. In short, Björnson, of all men living, seems to have entered most entirely into the life of his nation as it is in its reality, the life which exists on the national traditions, customs, thought, handed down from generation to generation.

The story, which it has been our endeavour to translate as literally as possible, is one of the author's earliest works. In the original the chapters are without headings, but we have added them as more consonant with English taste and custom. As the Norwegian title, "En glad Gut," scarcely bears translation, we have given the name of the hero of the story to the book. Thinking it would be acceptable to our readers, we have added two of Björnson's shorter pieces, "The Eagle's Nest," and "The Father."

We should not feel to be doing Herr Björnson justice, if we spoke only of his romances, and omitted to mention his success as a poet and dramatist. In the drama he has mostly chosen for his subjects, scenes in old Norwegian history, but his play entitled, "Mary Stuart," and another of more general interest, "The newly-married couple," would perhaps be better suited to the English reader.

North Ormesby,

Middlesbrough, October, 1869.

CONTENTS

OVIND.

Chap. I.

The Lost Goat.

Chap. II

At School.

Chap. III

The Schoolmaster's Story.

Chap. IV

Two Bright Buttons and One Black.

Chap. V

A New Aim in Life.

Chap. VI

Not Quite Fair.

Chap. VII

A Voice from the Ridge.

Chap. VIII

Be Sure that You Burn It.

Chap. IX

Ovind Throws his Cap in the Air.

Chap. X

Turn the River Where it can Flow.

Chap. XI

Gathering Berries.

Chap. XII

The Old Man gets his Own Way.

THE EAGLE'S NEST.

THE FATHER.

CHAP. I.

THE LOST GOAT.

They called him Ovind, and he cried when he was born. But when he could sit upon his mother's lap he smiled, and when they lit the candle in the dusk, he laughed and laughed again, but cried when he couldn't come to it.

"This child will be something rare," said the mother.

There, where he was born, the wild rocks overhung. From the top of the ridge, the firs and birch looked down upon the cottage; the bird cherry strewed its flowers on the roof. And up on the roof grazed Ovind's little goat; they kept him there that he mightn't stray, and Ovind gathered leaves and grass for him. One fine morning the goat leapt down, and skipped among the rocks, away where he had never been before. When Ovind came out in the afternoon, the goat was gone. He thought at once of a fox, and grew hot and listened--"Billy, Billy, Billy, Bil-ly goat!" "Ba-a-a!" he answered up from the ridge, laid his head to one side, and looked down.

By the side of the goat sat a little girl. "Is the goat yours?" said she.

Ovind stood with open eyes and mouth, and stuck both his hands in his pocket. "Who are you?" said he.

"I am Marit, my mother's pet, my father's darling, the fairy in the house, granddaughter to Ole Nordistuen at Heidegaard, four years old in Autumn, two days after the frosty nights!"

"Oh! are you that!" said he, as he drew a long breath, for he had not stirred while she spoke.

"Is the goat yours?" said the little girl again.

"Why, yes," said he, and looked up.

"I have taken such a fancy to this goat;--you won't give it to me?"

"No, that I won't."

She twisted herself, looked down upon him, and said: "But if I give you a butter biscuit, can I get the goat?"

Ovind was of poor folk, he had only eaten butter biscuit once in his life, that was when his grandfather came, and the like he had never tasted before or since. "Let me first see the biscuit," said he.

She held up a large one--"Here it is!"--and tossed it down.

"Oh! it's broken!" said the boy, and he carefully gathered up every crumb;--the smallest bit he must taste, and it was so good that he must take just another, and another, till before he knew it, the whole biscuit was gone.

"Now the goat is mine," said the little girl.

The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth. The girl sat and smiled, the goat standing by her side, with his white breast and dark brown shaggy hair.

"Couldn't you wait for a while?" begged the boy, and his heart began to beat.

Then the little girl laughed the more, and rose up on her knees. "No--the goat is mine," said she, and threw her arm round his neck, untied her garter, and bound it round.

Ovind looked on. She rose and began to pull at the goat, but he wouldn't go, and stretched his neck over towards Ovind. "Baa-a," said he. She took hold of him by the hair with one hand, and drawing the cord in with the other, said coaxingly,--"Come now, goaty, come, you shall come to the kitchen and I'll give you nice milk and bread,"--then she sang:

There stood the boy. He had tended the goat since winter when he was born, and the idea of losing him had never entered his mind, but now he was gone all in a minute, and he should never see him more.

The mother came singing up from the well. She saw the boy sitting in the grass crying, and went over to him. "What are you crying for?"

"Oh! the goat,--the goat."

"Yes, where is the goat?" said the mother, as she looked up to the roof.

"He won't come any more!" said the boy.

"Dear, how can that be?"

Ovind wouldn't tell about it.

"Has the fox taken it?"

"Oh! I wish it was the fox!"

"Now what have you been doing?" said the mother. "Where is the goat?"

"Oh! oh! oh!... I ... I ... sold the goat for a biscuit!"

Just as he said the words, he felt what it was to sell the goat for a biscuit, he had not thought about it before. The mother said, "And what do you say now the little goat thinks of you, that you could sell him for a biscuit?"

Now the boy fully understood it, and he felt sure he could never more be happy here,--not even with God, he thought again.

He felt so grieved, that he made an agreement with himself that he would never do wrong any more,--he wouldn't cut the spinning thread, and he wouldn't lose the sheep, nor go down to the sea alone. And as he lay, he fell asleep, and dreamt that the goat had gone to heaven; the Lord sat there with a great beard as in the catechism, and the goat stood and nibbled the leaves from a shining tree, but Ovind sat alone upon the roof and couldn't come up.

Suddenly he felt something wet against his ear, and started up. "Ba-a-a!" it said. It was the goat come back again.

"Oh, are you come again!" He sprang up, took both the goat's forelegs, and danced with him as a brother; he pulled him by the beard, and was just going in with him when he heard something behind, and turning, he saw the little girl sitting on the greensward. Now he understood it, and let the goat loose. "Is it you who have brought him back?"

She sat and pulled the grass up. "They wouldn't let me keep him. My grandfather's up there waiting."

Just then they heard a shrill voice calling,--"Now!" Then she remembered what she had to do. She rose and went to Ovind, put one hand in his, looked down, and said: "Forgive me." But then her courage failed her; she cast herself over the goat, and wept.

"You shall keep the little goat," said Ovind, and turned away.

"Be quick!" said the grandfather up from the hill.

Marit rose and walked slowly on.

"You've forgotten your garter," cried Ovind.

She turned herself, looked first on the garter and then on him, and at last mumbled--"You can keep that."

He went and took her by the hand,--"Thank you!" he said.

"Oh, nothing to thank me for," she replied, heaved a deep sigh, and went away.

But Ovind wasn't so happy with the goat as he had been before.

CHAP. II.

AT SCHOOL.

By the cottage side the goat was tethered, but Ovind was looking up towards the hill. His mother came and sat by him; he wished to hear stories about things far away, for the goat could no longer satisfy him. So he was told how once all things could speak,--the mountain spoke to the brook, and the brook to the river, and the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky spoke to nothing,--yes, the sky spoke to the clouds, and the clouds to the trees, and the trees to the grass, and the grass to the flies, and the flies to the animals, and the animals to children, and children to old people, and so it went again and again, and round and round, and no one knew who began. Ovind looked on the mountain, the trees, the sea, and the sky, and had in reality never seen them before. The cat came out and laid herself on the doorstep in the sun. "What does pussy say?" said Ovind, and pointed. The mother sang:

The cock with all his hens passed by. "What does the cock say?" asked Ovind, and clapped his hands. The mother sang:

Two little birds sat and sang up on the roof. "What do the little birds say?" asked Ovind, and laughed.

And so he got to hear what all things said, even down to the ant that crept through the moss, and the worm that bored in the bark.

The same summer his mother began to teach him to read. He had often wondered how it would be when the books began to talk, and now all the letters were animals, birds, or anything else he thought of; but soon they began to go together two and two; A stood and leaned against a tree, and called to B, then E came and did the same, but now there were three or four together, and it seemed as if they disagreed,--the further he went the more he forgot what they were. He could remember A the longest, for he liked it the best, it was a little black lamb and was friends with everybody; but soon he forgot A too. The book had no stories, but was simply lessons.

One day his mother came in, and said to him "To-morrow the school begins again, and I shall take you there to the farm." Ovind had heard that the school was a place where little boys played together, and he had nothing to say against it. He was delighted, and ran on before his mother up the hill, full of glee and expectation. They reached the school-house, and a busy hum greeted their ears, like the sound of the water mill at home. He asked what it was. "It is the children reading," she said: then he was pleased, for he had read that way himself before he knew his letters. When he came in there were as many children sitting round the table as he had ever seen at church. Others sat on their dinner tins round the room, and some stood in small groups before a black board. The schoolmaster, an old grey-headed man, sat on a stool by the fire filling his pipe. When Ovind and his mother entered, they all looked up, and the murmur ceased, as if the mill stream were suddenly dammed. The mother said "Good morning," and shook hands with the schoolmaster.

"Here I come with a little boy who will learn to read," said the mother.

"What's the bairn's name?" said the schoolmaster, as he delved in his pouch for the tobacco.

"Ovind," said the mother; "he knows his letters and a few short words."

"Oh! indeed!" said the schoolmaster. "Come here you little white head!"

Ovind went to him, the schoolmaster lifted him on to his knee, and took off his cap. "Here's a nice little lad!" said he, and stroked his hair.

Ovind looked up in his face and smiled.

"Is it me you're laughing at?" and he frowned.

"Yes, that it is," replied Ovind, and laughed aloud. Then the schoolmaster laughed also, and the mother, so the children saw they might join, and they all laughed together.

This was the way in which Ovind entered the school.

When he had to take his seat each one wanted to make room for him, but he stood looking round and round, from side to side, with his cap in his hand and his book under his arm, while they whispered and pointed.

"What then?" said the schoolmaster, and he took his pipe again.

As the boy turned round to the schoolmaster he caught sight of Marit with the many names, sitting on a little red painted box in the chimney corner: she hid her face in both her hands and sat and peeped at him.

"I'll sit here!" said Ovind quickly, hopped across the room, and set himself down by her side. Now she lifted her arm and looked at him from under her elbows; then he did the same. This went on till they all laughed again.

"Be quiet, you naughty, troublesome, giggling gewgaws!--Come be good little children now!"

It was the voice of the schoolmaster, who, if he stormed, was sure to be calm before he finished.

The children were soon quiet again, until each began to con his lesson aloud. Then the treble voices sounded high, while the bass drummed louder and louder to overpower them, and one and another chimed in between, till Ovind thought he had never had such fun in all his days.

"Is it always like this?" he whispered to Marit.

"Yes, it's always like this," she said.

By and bye they had to go up to the schoolmaster to read, then a little boy was set to hear them, and they soon found a chance to slip back to their corner again.

"I've got a little goat now, too," said Marit.

"Have you?"

"Yes, but it's not so nice as yours."

"Why haven't you come up oftener to the ridge?"

"Grandfather was afraid lest I should fall down."

"But it isn't so high."

"Grandfather won't let me come though."

"My mother knows so many songs," said Ovind.

"Oh! so does grandfather."

"Yes, but not the same as mother sings."

"Grandfather knows a dancing song!--Will you hear it?"

"Oh yes!"

"Then come further away so that the schoolmaster shan't see us."

He came quite close to her, and she said the song over and over again, till he knew it by heart, and this was the first that he learnt at the school,--

"Up youngsters," cried the schoolmaster, "this is the first day at school, and you may go early, but now we must have prayers and singing." Up rushed the children, laughing and talking and scampering over the floor. "Silence! you little good-for-nothing chatter-boxes,--be good and walk nicely over the floor my children!" said the schoolmaster, whereupon they quietly took their places, the schoolmaster went in front and said a short prayer, and then they sang. He led in a deep bass voice, and all the children stood with folded hands. Ovind and Marit stood near the door--they also folded their hands, but they could not sing. So ended the first day at school.

CHAP. III.

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY.

Ovind grew, and became a promising lad. At school he was always among the first, and at home he was industrious, for at home he loved his mother and at school the schoolmaster. He did not see much of his father, who was either away fishing or else attending to the mill.

That which at this time had the most influence over his mind, was the history of the schoolmaster, which his mother told him one night as they sat over the log fire. It entered his books, it peeped out of every word the schoolmaster said, and crept stealthily round the school-room when all was still. It made him obedient and respectful, and, as it were, enlarged the powers of his mind. The story ran thus:--The schoolmaster's name was Baard, and he had one only brother called Anders. They were much attached to each other, they enlisted together, served in the same company, were together in the war, and were both made corporals; and, when after the war they returned home, they were looked upon by everybody as two brave fellows.

Soon after this their father died, leaving a good deal of property not easy to divide. To overcome the difficulty, they resolved to have an auction sale, when they could share the profits, and each could buy those things he liked best. Now the father had left a large gold watch, known through all the country side, for it was the only gold watch the people there had ever seen. When this watch was put up at the sale there were many bids, until both the brothers began, and then others ceased. Now Baard expected that Anders would let him have the watch, and Anders thought the same of Baard. When the watch had come up to twenty dollars, Baard thought it wasn't nice of his younger brother, and he bid again until it was near thirty, but Anders would not give in. Then Baard said forty dollars at one bid, and looked no longer at his brother. There was a deep silence in the room, broken only by the auctioneer quietly naming the last bid. Anders thought that if Baard could afford to pay forty dollars, he could do it equally as well, and if Baard would not let him have the watch, he should pay dearly for it, so he bid higher. Then Baard laughed--"A hundred dollars and my brotherhood into the bargain," he said, and went out. A moment after, as he saddled his horse, one came out and said to him, "The watch is yours; Anders gave in." As he heard this, a deep pang shot through him,--he thought of his brother and not of the watch. The horse was saddled, but he seemed uncertain whether to ride or not. Just then many of the people came out, and Anders among them, who, seeing Baard with his horse ready saddled and little dreaming of his real thoughts, called out aloud,--

"Thank you, Baard, you shall never see the day when I come in your way again!"

"Nor you the day when I set foot on this farm," retorted Baard, pale as death, as he swung himself into the saddle.

Neither of them ever trod again upon the threshold of their father's house.

Soon after this Anders got married, but Baard was not invited to the wedding.

During the same year, Anders' only cow was found dead close to his house, and no one could tell how it happened. One misfortune followed another, and everything seemed to go wrong; at last, in the middle of the Winter, his hay loft and everything in it was burnt to the ground, and it could not be found out how the fire originated. "Some one who wishes me evil has done this," said Anders, and he wept. He was now reduced to poverty, and all his energy for work was gone.

The next evening Baard appeared at his brother's house; Anders was lying down, but sprang up at the unexpected sight.

"What do you want here?" said he, then stood fixedly gazing at him.

Baard waited a little before he answered, "I came to help you, Anders; you are in trouble."

"Things have gone with me as you would have them, Baard! Go, or I cannot restrain myself."

"You are mistaken, Anders, I regret ..."

"Go Baard, or we are both victims!"

Baard retreated a few steps, then in a trembling voice he said,--"If you would like the watch you shall have it."

"Go, Baard!" screeched the other, and Baard went.

Now with Baard things had been thus:--Finding his brother fared so ill, his heart was softened, but pride held him back. He felt a desire to go to church, and there he made good resolutions, but failed in carrying them out. He often went so near that he could see the house, but either some one came out at the door, or there was a stranger, or Anders stood and chopped wood,--there was always something in the way. But one Sunday in the Winter, he again went to church, and Anders was there too. Baard saw him, he looked very pale and thin, and he wore the same clothes he had done when they lived together, but now they were old and worn. During the sermon he looked up at the pastor, and Baard thought he seemed good and kind, and he remembered their childhood's years and what a good lad he had been.

Baard himself went up to the altar that day, and he made the solemn promise before God, that he would be reconciled to his brother cost him what it might.

This resolution took hold of him in the same moment as he drank of the wine, and when he rose he meant to go and sit by his brother, but some one was in the way, and Anders did not look up. After service there were also hindering things,--there were so many people,--his wife walked beside him, and Baard did not know her; he thought it would be best to go home to him alone, and talk openly with him.

When evening came, he went. As he reached the room door, he listened, and heard his own name mentioned; it was by the wife.

"He came up to the altar to-day," said she, "he was certainly thinking of you."

"No, he never thought of me," said Anders, "I know him; he thought only of himself."

Then there was a long pause; Baard felt the sweat upon his brow, although the night was cold. He heard the wife busy with the kettle; the fire blazed and crackled, a little baby cried now and then, and Anders rocked the cradle.

Then she said these few words,--"I believe you both think of each other without admitting it."

"Let us talk of something else," said Anders.

Soon after, he rose and went towards the door; Baard hid himself in the stick house, but just there Anders came to get wood. Baard crouched in the corner, and could see him distinctly; he had doffed the poor clothes he wore at church, and had taken instead the uniform he had brought home from the war, the same as Baard's, and which they had promised each other never to use, but to descend as heirlooms in the family. Anders' was now all patched and torn. His strong well-built body seemed enveloped in a bundle of rags, and at the same moment Baard heard the gold watch ticking in his own pocket. Anders went to the spot where the wood lay, but instead of taking it he stood and leaned against the pile, and gazing up into the heavens, where the stars shone bright and clear, he gave a sigh and said, "Yes,--yes,--yes,--my God! my God!"

So long as Baard lived these words sounded in his ears. He stepped forward towards him, but just then his brother coughed, and it felt so hard that he stopped. Anders took the bundle of wood, and passed so close to Baard that the branches touched his face. There he stood, without moving, till a cold shudder ran through him. This aroused him; he went out, and confessed to himself that he was too weak to face his brother, and he therefore resolved upon another plan. In the corner of the stick-house he found a few pieces of charcoal; then he selected a piece of fir wood for a torch, went up to the hay-loft, and struck fire. When he had got the torch lighted, he sought for the nail where Anders would hang his lamp when he came in the morning to thrash. On this nail Baard hung the gold watch, blew out the light, and went down;--he felt so light-hearted that he sprang over the snow like a young lad.

The day after, he heard that the hay-loft had been burnt down the same night. Undoubtedly a spark must have fallen from his torch while he turned to hang up the watch.

This overpowered him so that he sat all day as though he were ill; then he took the psalm book out and sang, so that the people in the house could not think what was the matter. But in the evening he went out. It was bright moonlight; he made his way to the ruins of the hay-loft, and groped among the ashes. There, sure enough, he found a little lump of gold;--it was the watch.

It was with this in his hand, he went to his brother that evening as before related, and sought for a reconciliation.

A little girl had seen him groping among the ashes. He had also been observed going towards the farm the foregoing Sunday evening; the people in the house told how strangely he had behaved on Monday; everybody knew that he and his brother were not on good terms, and he was reported and brought up for trial. Nothing could be proved against him, but suspicion rested on him, and now more than ever it seemed impossible to approach his brother.

Though Anders had said nothing, he had thought of Baard when the hay-loft was burnt, and when the evening after, he saw him enter the room looking so pale and strange, he at once concluded that now remorse had struck him, but for such an offence, and against his own brother, there was no pardon. On hearing the circumstantial evidence against him, though nothing had been proved at the trial, he firmly believed that Baard was guilty. They met each other at the trial, Baard in his good clothes, and Anders in threadbare. Baard looked up as he went in, with so imploring a glance that Anders felt it deeply. "He does not want me to say anything," thought Anders, and when he was asked if he believed his brother guilty, he answered clearly and decidedly, "No."

From that day Anders took to drinking, and matters grew worse and worse with him. With Baard it was little better, although he never drank; he was not like himself.

Late one evening a poor woman entered the little room where Baard lived, and begged him to go with her. He knew her: it was his brother's wife. He understood the errand she had come upon, turned deadly pale, and followed without a word. There was a flickering light from the window of Anders' room that served to guide them, for there was no pathway over the snow. They reached the house and went in. On entering, Baard felt at once that here reigned poverty; the room was close; a little child sat on the hearth eating a piece of charcoal: its face was black all over, but it looked up with its white teeth and grinned. There on the bed, with all sorts of clothes to cover him, lay Anders, thin and worn, with his clear high forehead, looking mildly upon him. Baard trembled in all his limbs, he sat down on the bed foot, and burst into tears. The sick man continued silently looking at him. At last he told his wife to withdraw, but Baard signed to her to remain, and the two brothers began to speak together. They related each his history, from the day when they bid on the watch to the time they now met together, and it was clearly shown that during all these years they had never been happy for a single day. Baard finished by taking out the little lump of gold, which he always carried about with him.

Anders was not able to talk much, but as long as he was ill, Baard continued to watch by his bedside. "Now I am perfectly well," said Anders, one morning when he awoke,--"Now, my brother, we will always live together as in the olden time!" But that day he died.

Baard took the wife and the child to live with him, and they were well cared for from that time. That which the brothers had said to each other was soon known through the village, and Baard became the most esteemed man among them. Everybody met him as one who had known great sorrow and again found joy, or as one who had been long absent. Baard felt strengthened by all this friendliness around him, he loved God more, and felt a desire to be useful; so the old corporal became a schoolmaster. That which he impressed first and last upon his pupils, was love, and this precept was so exemplified in himself, that the children were attached to him as to a play-fellow and father at the same time.

This was the story told of the old schoolmaster that had such effect upon Ovind, that it became to him both religion and education.

He looked upon the schoolmaster as a being almost supernatural, although he sat there so familiarly and corrected them. Not to know his lessons was impossible, and if, after saying them well, he got a smile or a stroke of the head, he was glad and happy for the whole day. It always made a strong impression upon the children when, before singing, the schoolmaster would sometimes speak a little to them, and, at least once a week, read aloud a few verses about loving your neighbour. As he read the first of these verses his voice trembled, although he had now continually read it for twenty or thirty years. It ran thus:--

But when the whole of the piece was said, and he had stood still a little while, he looked at them and blinked with his eyes,--"Up children, and go nicely and quietly home,--go nicely, that I may hear nothing but good of you, bairns!" Then, while they hastened to find each his own things, he called out through the noise,--"Come again to-morrow, come in good time, little girls and little boys, that we may be industrious."