Of his life, till one year before confirmation, there is not much to relate. He read in the mornings, worked in the afternoons, and played in the evenings.
As he was very lively the children of the neighbourhood sought his company during play hours. Close to the farm lay a great hill, as before mentioned, where, on a fine day, they assembled to drive their sledges on the snow. Ovind was always master in the field: he had two sledges, "Quick Trotter," and "Superior." The last he lent out, and the first he used himself, taking Marit with him.
The first thing Ovind did when he awoke in the morning, was to look out and see if it was fine weather; if it was thick and misty, or he heard it dripping from the roof, he dressed as slowly as if there was nothing to be done that day. But on the contrary, and especially on holidays, if it was sharp, cold, and clear weather,--his best clothes and no work, the whole of the afternoon and evening free,--hey! he bounded out of bed, was dressed like lightning, and could scarcely eat anything for excitement. When afternoon came he sprang over the hill to the sledge ground, and joined the party with a long shout that echoed from cliff to cliff, and the sound died far away. Then he looked for Marit, and when he found her there, he did not take much more notice of her.
Now one Christmas the boy and the girl were both about sixteen or seventeen years of age, and they were both to be confirmed in the Spring. In Christmas week there was to be a grand party at Heidegaard, where Marit's grand-parents lived, who had brought her up and educated her. They had promised her this fête for three years, and now at last they were obliged to fulfil their word. To this party Ovind was invited.
It was a dull evening, not a single star to be seen; it would probably rain next day. There were great drifts of snow along the mountain side, with here and there bare places, and again the groups of birch trees standing isolated and conspicuous against the white back ground. The farmstead lay in the middle of the fields on the mountain side, and in the darkness the houses looked like black clumps from which the light streamed first from one window then from another. It seemed as though they were busy inside. Old and young flocked thither from different directions. No one liked to go in first; so when they reached the farm, instead of going direct to the house, they loitered about the outbuildings. Some hid behind the cattle shed, a few under the granary, some stood beside the hay-loft and imitated foxes, while others replied in the distance as cats; one stood behind the bakehouse and howled like an angry old dog, until there was a general chase. The girls came by-and-bye in great numbers, accompanied by their younger brothers, who would fain conduct themselves as grown-up men. The girls were very shy, and when the older youths already assembled came out to meet them, they ran away in all directions, and had to be brought in one by one. A few there were who would not be persuaded to enter, till Marit came herself and bade them. Now and then there also came a few who had certainly not been invited, and whose intention had been simply to look on from outside, but who, seeing the dancing, at last ventured in just for one single turn. Marit invited those she liked best into the private sitting room where her grandparents sat, and they fared exceedingly well. Now Ovind was not of the number, and this he thought very strange.
The grand fiddler of the neighbourhood could not come until late, so they had to content themselves with the old gardener, known by the name of "Grey Knut." He could play four dances,--two Spring dances, a halling,[1] and a waltz. When they tired of these, they made him vary the hailing to suit a quadrille, and a Spring dance in the same way to the mazurka polka.
The party being at her grandfather's house, Marit was dancing nearly all the time, and this the more drew Ovind's attention to her. He wished to dance with her himself, and therefore he sat during one round in order to spring to her side the moment the dance was done; and this he succeeded in doing, but a tall, dark-looking fellow with black hair, stepped suddenly forward;--"Away, child!" he cried, and pushed Ovind that he nearly fell over Marit. Never before had he known such behaviour,--never had any one been so unkind to him, and never had he been called "Child!" in that contemptuous way. He blushed crimson, but said nothing, and turned back to where the new fiddler, who had just entered, had seated himself, and now tuned up. Every one stood still, waiting to hear the first strong tones of "Himself;" they waited long while he tuned the fiddle, but at last he began with a "Spring;"--the lads stepped out, and, pair by pair, they quickly joined in the dance. Ovind looked at Marit as she danced with the dark-haired man; he saw her smiling face over the man's shoulder, and for the first time in his life he felt a strange pang at his heart.
He looked more and more earnestly at her, and it came forcibly before him that Marit was now quite grown up. "And yet it cannot be," thought he, "for she is still playing with us in the sledges." But grown she certainly was, and the dark-haired man drew her to him at the end of the dance; she loosened herself from his clasp but continued to sit by his side.
Ovind looked at the man: he wore a fine blue cloth suit, and fancy shirt, and carried a silk pocket handkerchief; he had a small face, deep blue eyes, laughing defying mouth; he was good looking. Ovind looked long at him, and at last he looked at himself. He had got new trousers for Christmas, which had much pleased him, but now he saw they were only of gray homespun; his jacket was of the same material but old and dark; his vest of common plaided cloth, also old, and with two bright buttons and one black. He looked round and thought very few were so poorly clad as he. Marit wore a black bodice of fine stuff, a brooch in her necktie, and had a folded silk pocket handkerchief in her hand. She had a little black head-dress fastened under the chin with broad striped silk ribbons; she was red and white; she smiled, and the man talked to her and laughed; the fiddler tuned up, and the dance must begin again.
One of his companions came and sat by him.
"Why don't you dance, Ovind?" he said kindly.
"Oh! no!" said Ovind, "I don't look like dancing."
"Don't look like dancing!" said his companion; but before he could get further, Ovind interrupted him,--
"Who is that in the blue cloth suit, dancing with Marit?"
"That is Jon Hatlen; he has been at the Agricultural School, and is now to take the farm."
At the same moment Jon and Marit seated themselves.
"Who is that light-haired lad sitting there by the fiddler and staring at me?" said Jon.
Then Marit laughed and said, "Oh! that's the peasant's son at the little farm."
Ovind had always known that he was a peasant's son, but until now he had never felt it. He felt now so insignificant, that in order to keep himself up, he tried to think of everything that had ever made him feel proud, from the sledge playing to the smallest word of commendation. But when he thought of his father and mother sitting at home, and picturing him happy and glad, he could scarcely refrain from tears. All about him were laughing and joking; the fiddler thrummed close under his ear; it seemed to darken before his eyes; then he remembered the school with all his companions, and the schoolmaster who was so kind to him, and the pastor, who, at the last examination, had given him a book and said he was a clever lad; his father even, who sat by, hearing it had given him a smile. "Be a good boy, Ovind," he could fancy he heard the schoolmaster say, taking him on his knee as though he were still a child. "Dear me, it is so small a matter, and in reality they are all kind, it only looks as though they were not,--we two shall get on Ovind, as well as Jon Hatlen, we shall get good clothes, and dance with Marit, a fine room, a hundred people, smile and talk together, go to church together, chiming bells, a bride and bridegroom, the pastor and I in the vestry, all with gladsome faces, and mother at home, a large farm, twenty cows, three horses, and Marit good and kind as at school...."
The dance over, Ovind saw Marit opposite to him, and Jon sat by her side, his face close to hers; he felt again the sharp pain at his heart, and it was as if he said to himself,--"Yes, I am not well."
At the same moment Marit rose and came direct over to him. She bent down to speak to him,--"You must not sit and stare at me in that way," she said, "the people will notice it; now go and dance with some one."
He did not answer, but looked at her, and the tears came into his eyes. She had already turned to go, but observing it she stopped. She blushed crimson, turned and went to her place, then turned again and took another seat. Jon quickly followed her.
Ovind rose and went out; he passed through the house, and sat down on the steps of the adjacent porch, but did not know what he did it for. He got up, but sat down again, for he would not go home, and thought he might as well be there as anywhere else. He could not realise anything of what had happened, and he would not think about it, neither would he think of the future, it seemed so void.
"But what is it that I am thinking of?" he asked himself half aloud, and when he heard his own voice, he thought, "I can still speak; can I laugh?" And he tried: yes, he could laugh, and he laughed louder and louder, and then it seemed so curious to be sitting there quite alone and laughing, that at last he laughed at himself.
Now Hans his companion, who had been sitting by him in the dancing-room, had come out after him,--"Bless me, Ovind, what are you laughing at!" he exclaimed, and stopped in front of the porch.
Then Ovind ceased. Hans remained standing, as if waiting to see what would happen next. Ovind got up, looked carefully round, and then said in a low tone,--"Now I will tell you, Hans, why I have been so happy hitherto; it is because I have not really cared for anybody; from the day we care for any one we are no longer glad;" and he burst into tears.
"Ovind!" a voice whispered out in the garden; "Ovind!" He stood still and listened; "Ovind!" it said again a little louder. It must be, he thought.
"Yes," he answered also in a whisper, dried his eyes quickly, and stepped forth. Then he saw a woman's figure slowly approaching,--
"Are you there?" said she.
"Yes," he answered, and stopped.
"Who is with you?"
"Hans."
Hans would go; but Ovind said "No! no!"
She now came slowly up to them; it was Marit.
"You went so soon away," she said to Ovind.
He did not know what to reply. This made her feel embarrassed, and they were all three silent. Then Hans gradually withdrew. The two now stood alone, but they neither looked at each other nor moved. Then Marit said in a whisper, "I have gone the whole evening with this Christmas fare in my pocket for you, Ovind, but I have not been able to give it you before." She then drew out some apples, a slice of yule cake, and a little bottle of home-made wine, which she pushed to him and said he could keep.
Ovind took it. "Thank you," he said, and held out his hand; her's was warm; he let it go quickly as if he had burnt himself.
"You have danced a great deal this evening."
"I have so," she replied; then added, "but you have not danced much!"
"No, I have not!"
"Why have you not?"
"Oh!"
"Ovind!"
"Yes."
"Why did you sit and look at me so?"
"Oh!"
"Marit!"
"Yes."
"Why did you not like me to look at you?"
"There were so many people."
"You have danced a great deal with Jon Hatlen this evening!"
"Oh! yes."
"He dances well."
"Do you think so?"
"Don't you?"
"Why yes!"
"I don't know how it is, but this evening I cannot bear to see you dance with him, Marit!"
He turned away; it had cost him much to say it.
"I don't understand you, Ovind."
"I don't understand it myself; it is stupid of me. Goodbye, Marit, now I must go."
He went a step without looking round; then she called after him,--"It is a mistake that which you have seen, Ovind!"
He stopped,--"That you are grown up is at least no mistake," said he.
He did not say what she had expected, and therefore she was silent; but at this moment she saw the light of a pipe before her; it was her grandfather who had just turned the corner and now passed by. He stood still. "Are you there, Marit?"
"Yes."
"Who are you talking with?"
"Ovind."
"Who did you say?"
"Ovind Pladsen."
"Oh J the peasant lad at the little farm!--Come in directly!"
When Ovind awoke the next morning it was from a long refreshing sleep, and happy dreams. Marit had been on the mountain and tossed grass down upon him; he had gathered it up and thrown it back again; it went up and down in a thousand shapes and colours, the sun stood high in the heavens, and the whole mountain looked dazzling in its brightness. On awaking, he looked round to see it all again; but then he remembered the events of the day before, and the same acute stinging pain at his heart returned. This will never leave me, he thought, and a feeling of helplessness came over him, as though the whole future were lost to him.
"You have slept long," said his mother, as she sat by his side and spun,--"Come now, and get your breakfast, your father is already in the forest, hewing wood."
It was as if the voice helped him; he got up with a little more courage. It may be the mother remembered her own dancing time, for she sat and hummed at her wheel whilst he took breakfast. This he could not bear; he rose from the table and went to the window; the same heaviness and indifference possessed him, but he sought to overcome it by thinking of his work. The weather had changed, it was colder, and that which yesterday threatened for rain fell to-day in wet sleet. He put on his sailor's jacket and mittens, his gaiters, and a skin cap, then said "Good morning," and took his axe on his shoulder.
The snow fell slowly in great white flakes; he trudged laboriously over the sledge hill to enter the forest from the left. Never before, either Winter or Summer, had he passed over the sledge hills without some joyful remembrance or happy thought. Now it was a lifeless, weary way; he dragged through the wet snow, his knees were stiff, either from dancing the day before or from lack of energy. He felt that the sledge play was at an end for this year, and, therefore, for ever. Something else he longed for, as he threaded his way among the trees where the snow fell noiselessly; a frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a few yards off, and everything seemed to stand as though waiting for a word that never was said. But what it was that he longed for he could not exactly tell, only it was not to be at home, nor was it to be anywhere else; it was not pleasure, nor work, it was something high above or far away. Shortly after, it shaped itself into a definite wish; it was to be confirmed in the Spring, and there to be number one. His heart beat as he thought of it, and before he could hear the sound of his father's axe among the branches, this desire had stronger hold of him than any he had ever known since he was born.
As usual his father did not speak many words to him; they both hewed, and threw the wood together in heaps. Now and then they came into close contact, and once Ovind let slip the unhappy words,--"A poor peasant has much to endure!"
"As much as others," said the father, spat on his hands, and took the axe again.
When the tree was felled, and the father dragged it to the heap, Ovind remarked,--"If you were a rich farmer you wouldn't have to slave so."
"Oh, well there'd be other things to trouble me then," he replied, and worked away.
The mother came up with their dinner, and they seated themselves. The mother seemed in good spirits, she sat and hummed, and beat her feet together to the time.
"What will you be when you grow up, Ovind?" she said suddenly.
"Oh! for a peasant lad there isn't much to choose," said he.
"The schoolmaster says you must go to the training school."
"Can one go there free?" asked Ovind.
"The school fund pays," answered the father whilst he was eating.
"Would you like it?" asked the mother.
"I should like to learn something, but not to be schoolmaster."
They were all three silent awhile, she hummed again, and looked round. Ovind went away and sat by himself.
"We don't need to take from the school fund," said she, when the lad was gone.
Her husband looked at her: "Poor people like us!"
"I don't like, Thore, that you should always give yourself out for poor when you are not so."
They both of them peeped to see whether the lad could hear them where he sat.
Then the father looked sharply at her. "Nonsense! you don't understand things."
She laughed, then said seriously, "It seems like not thanking God that we have got on well."
"He can be thanked without wearing silver buttons," observed the father.
"Yes, but to let Ovind go as he went yesterday to the dance is not to thank Him."
"Ovind is a peasant lad."
"Yet he may dress decently when we can afford it."
"Say it so that he can hear it!"
"He can't hear, or else I should have a good mind to do it," she said, looking naively at her husband, as he glumly put his spoon away and took out his pipe.
"Such a poor farm we have," said he.
"I can't help laughing at you, you always talk of the farm and never speak of the mills!"
"Oh dear! you and the mills; I don't think you care whether they go or not."
"Yes, thank God, if they'd only go both night and day."
"But now they've been standing ever since before Christmas."
"No one grinds at Christmas time."
"They grind when there's water; but since they got the mill up at Nystrommen, there's nothing to be done."
"The schoolmaster didn't say so to-day."
"H'm-- I shall let a more discreet man than the schoolmaster manage our affairs."
"Yes, last of all he should talk with your own wife."
Thore did not reply to this, but lighting his pipe, he rose and leaned against the wood pile, looking first at his wife and then at his son, and finally fixing his gaze on an old crow's nest that hung deserted up in a pine tree.
Ovind sat by himself, with the future spread before him, like a long blank sheet of ice, along which, for the first time, he rushed restlessly from one side to the other. He saw clearly that poverty hemmed him in on every side, but this made him only the more determined to overcome it. From Marit it had certainly separated him for ever; he half regarded her as engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he resolved that with all his might he would strive to keep pace with them through life. Not to be any more humiliated as he had been yesterday, he would keep away, till, by God's help, he could become something more than he was at present, and he did not feel a doubt in his own mind but that he should succeed. He had a sort of feeling that he would do best to study, but what further that should lead to he must leave to the future.
There was capital sledge driving in the evenings; the children all came to the hill, but not Ovind. Ovind sat by the fire and read, he had not a moment to spare. The children waited long for him; at last they became impatient, and one and another came and peeped in and called to him, but he pretended not to hear. Evening after evening they came and waited outside in wonderment, but he turned his back to them and read, paying no heed to their entreaties.
Later he heard that Marit had not been to the sledge playing either. He read with such diligence that even his father thought it went too far. He grew thoughtful; his face, which had been so round and mild, became thinner and sharper, his eyes deeper; he seldom sang and never played, it was as if time were too short. When the desire to join his old companions came over him, it was as if something whispered, "Not yet, not yet,"--and continually, "not yet." The children played, shouted, and laughed awhile as before, but when they saw they could not by any means induce him to come, they gradually disappeared; they found other grounds and soon the sledge hill was quite vacated.
The schoolmaster soon observed that he was not the same Ovind who used to read because it fell out so, and play because it was necessary. He often talked with him, and sought to find the cause, for the lad's heart was not light as in former days. He spoke also with the parents, and by agreement he came one Sunday evening late in the Winter, and after sitting awhile, he said,--"Come, Ovind, let us go out, I want to talk with you a little."
Ovind got up and went with him. They took the path towards Heidegaard. The conversation did not flag, but they spoke of nothing important; when they came near the farms, the schoolmaster took the direction of the middle one, and as they got nearer they heard the sound of laughter and merriment.
"What is up here?" said Ovind.
"They are dancing," said the schoolmaster, "shall we not go in?"
"No."
"Will you not go to a dance, lad!"
"No, not yet."
"Not yet? When then?"
He did not answer.
"What do you mean,--not yet?"
As he did not reply, the schoolmaster said,--"Come now, no such talk!"
"No, I won't go."
He was very positive and seemed agitated.
"That your own schoolmaster should stand here and have to ask you twice to go to dance!"
There was a long silence.
"Is there any one you are afraid of meeting?"
"I cannot tell who there may be there."
"But could there be any one?"
No answer.
Then the schoolmaster went close up to him, and laid his hand on his shoulder,--"Are you afraid of meeting Marit?"
Ovind looked down, and breathed heavily and quickly.
"Tell me, Ovind."
Still no answer.
"You perhaps feel ashamed to confess it before you are confirmed, but tell me anyhow, and you will never regret it."
Ovind looked up but he could not say a word, and his eyes fell again.
"You are not light-hearted as you were; does she care for any one more than you?"
Ovind was still silent, the schoolmaster felt a little hurt, and turned away; then they went back.
When they had gone some distance, the schoolmaster waited till Ovind got up to him,--"You wish very much, that you were confirmed," said he.
"Yes."
"What do you then intend to do?"
"I should like to go to the Training School."
"And to be schoolmaster?"
"No."
"You think it isn't good enough?"
Ovind was silent.
"Then what would you be?"
"I haven't thought much about it."
"If you had money I suppose you'd buy a farm?"
"Yes, but keep the mills."
"Then it would be better to go to the Agricultural School."
"Do they learn as much there as at the Training School?"
"No; but they learn that which will afterwards be of use."
"Do they get numbers there?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"I should like to be amongst the first."
"You can be that without numbers."
They were silent again till they came in sight of the little farm; they could see a light shining from the room; the overhanging mountains looked black in the Winter evening, the lake below was one blank sheet of ice, and the moon reflected the shadow of the pine trees.
"It is a beautiful place!" said the schoolmaster.
Ovind could sometimes see it with the same eyes as when his mother told him stories, and as when they played with the sledges; this he did now,--all looked pleasing and bright.
"Yes, it is beautiful," said he, but sighed.
"Your father has found it sufficient; perhaps you might do so too."
The happy aspect of the place vanished at once. The schoolmaster stood as if waiting a reply, but getting none he shook his head and went in. He sat awhile with them, but was more silent than talkative. When he said good night, the parents both rose and followed him out, as if expecting that he had something to say. They stood waiting, and looked out upon the night.
"It has grown so quiet," said the mother at last, "since the children left off playing here."
"You have no longer a child in the house," said the schoolmaster.
The mother understood him,--"Ovind has not been happy of late," said she.
"No, he who is ambitious is not happy," and he looked up calmly into the quiet heavens.
Half a year after, in the Autumn, the confirmation being deferred till then, the candidates were all assembled in the school-room for examination, and among them Ovind Pladsen and Marit Heidegaard. Marit had just come down from the pastor, who had given her a book and much praise, and she laughed and talked with her friends on all sides. Marit was now quite grown up, free and easy in her manners, and the boys as well as the girls knew that Jon Hatlen, the first young man in the district was paying attention to her. She might well be glad they thought as she sat there.
Close by the door there stood a group of girls and boys who had failed in their examination, and these were crying, while Marit and her friends were laughing. Among them was a little boy in his father's boots and with his mother's church handkerchief,--"Dear, oh dear!" he sobbed, "I daren't go home again."
And those who had not yet been called up, were so affected by the power of fellow feeling that it caused a general silence. Fear seized them in the throat and eyes; they could not see clearly, neither could they swallow, though feeling a constant desire to do so.
One sat and reckoned up how much he knew, and although a few hours before he had found he knew everything required, he now saw with equal certainty that he knew nothing; he could not even read. Another called to mind all his wrong-doings from the earliest time he could remember, till now when he sat there, and he though it wouldn't be strange of God if He didn't let him pass. A third sat and took signs from everything around him. If the clock, which was on the point of striking, should not sound till he counted twenty, he would pass; if the footstep he heard in the passage was that of the farm-boy Lars, he would pass; if the great raindrop that ran down the window pane should get to the bottom, he would pass. The last and final proof should be, if he could get the one foot twisted right round the other, but this he always found to be impossible. A fourth felt sure that if they would ask him only about Joseph in the Bible history, and about baptism in the Catechism, or about Saul, or the Commandments, or about Jesus, or----he sat and was still proving himself, when he was called. A fifth had a strong partiality for the Sermon on the Mount, he had dreamt about the Sermon on the Mount, he was certain to be heard in the Sermon on the Mount; he said it over to himself, and he thought to go out and read it over again, when just then he was called up to be questioned on the Prophets. The sixth thought about the pastor, who was such a good man and knew his father so well, and of the schoolmaster, who had so friendly a face, and of God, who was so really good, and had helped so many before both Jacob and Joseph, and then he thought that his mother and sisters at home would be praying for him, and that would certainly help. The seventh sat and gave up in despair all the things he had thought he would be when he grew up. Once he had thought of being a general or a pastor, and once he had even dreamt of being king, but now that time was gone by. Up to the present he had thought of going to sea, and of becoming captain, perhaps a pirate, and thereby to attain great riches; now gave up first the riches, then the pirate, then the captain, and the mate, and he stopped at the common sailor, or, at the most, the boatswain, if ever he got to sea at all, but probably he must just take a place on his father's farm.
The eighth was more confident of himself, but yet not sure; the cleverest even was not sure. He thought of the clothes he was to be confirmed in, and what they could be used for if he did not pass; but if he passed he should go to town and get cloth clothes, and come home again at Christmas time and dance, to the envy of the youths and the astonishment of the girls. The ninth reckoned differently;--he made up a small account book between himself and God. On the one side he wrote, "Debit; He shall let me pass," and on the other side, "Credit; so shall I never lie any more, nor tell tales; always go to church, leave the girls to themselves, and never swear any more." The tenth thought that if Ole Hansen had passed last year, it would be more than injustice if he, who had always got on better at school, and besides was of better family, should not pass this year. By his side sat the eleventh, who revolved in his mind the most fearful plans of revenge in case he should fail, either to burn the school down, or else to leave the village and come again as the thundering judge of the pastor and the whole of the school commissioners, but proudly to let mercy go before justice. To begin with, he would take a place with the pastor in the neighbouring district, and there be number one next year, giving answers so as to astonish the whole church.
The twelfth sat by himself under the clock, with both his hands in his pockets, looking over the assembly with a dejected and sorrowful air. No one here knew what was his responsibility. One at home knew it; he was betrothed. A great daddy long-legs came crawling along the floor near to his feet; he used to tread upon the odious insect, but to-day he kindly lifted his foot to let it go in peace whithersoever it would. His voice was mild as a Collect; his eyes said continually that all men were good; his hands slowly moved out of his pocket and up to his hair, to smooth it down. If only he could squeeze himself through this dangerous needle eye, he would recover himself again at the other side, smoke tobacco, and make his engagement public.
Down on a low stool, with his legs crouched up together under him, sat the uneasy thirteenth; his small sparkling eyes looked round the whole room three times in a second, and through his strong rough head rushed all the thoughts of the twelve in broken disorder, from the brightest hope to the most despairing doubt, from the humblest promises to the most mighty plans of revenge; and, meanwhile, having bitten his poor thumb so that he could bite no longer, he began with his nails, and sent great pieces to all parts of the floor.
Ovind sat by the window, having been up and given correct answers to everything he had been asked; but neither the pastor nor the schoolmaster had commended him, though for a whole half-year he had been thinking what they both would say when they got to know how hard he had worked, and he felt very much disappointed as well as hurt. There sat Marit, who, for far less labour and knowledge, had received both encouragement and reward. It was just to be great in her eyes he had studied, and now she had reached laughing, the point he had toiled so hard to attain. Her laughter and joking touched him to the quick,--the easiness with which she moved wounded him. He had carefully avoided speaking to her since that evening; years should pass first he thought, but the sight of her now, so bright and lively, pressed him down, and all his proud resolutions hung as wet leaves.
He sought little by little to shake it off; much, however, depended on his being Number One to-day, and to know this he waited anxiously. The schoolmaster used to remain a little while with the pastor to consider the order in which the children should stand, and then he would come down and tell them the result; it was certainly not the final decision, but it was what they agreed upon together.
The conversation in the room became more and more lively as one after another was examined and passed; but now the ambitious began to separate themselves from those who were merely light-hearted. The latter either went at once to tell their parents and friends of their success, or they waited for their companions who had not yet been called up; the former, on the contrary, became more and more silent, their eyes directed constantly towards the door.
At last the young people were all ready, the last had come down, and the schoolmaster was consulting with the pastor. Ovind looked at Marit; she was one of those who had remained, but whether for her own sake or for others he knew not. How beautiful Marit had grown; exquisitely fine was her complexion, he had never seen its equal; her nose was well formed, her mouth smiling. Her eyes were dreamy when she was not directly looking at any one, but therefore her glance came with unexpected power when it did come; and she half smiled in the same, as if to say that she meant nothing by it. Her hair was more dark than light, it was wavy, and she wore long curls, which, together with the dreamy eyes, gave a depth and charm that captivated. One could not be certain who it was that she looked for, as she sat there among them all, nor what she really thought when she turned to any one to speak, for that which she gave she took as quickly back again. Under all this, Jon Hatlen is certainly hidden, thought Ovind, but yet he continued to look at her.
Then the schoolmaster came. They all with one accord rushed up to him.
"What number am I?" "And I?" "And I, I?"
"Silence! uproarious children,---no noise here; be quiet, and then I will tell you."
He looked slowly round him. "You are Number 2," he said to a lad with blue eyes looking beseechingly at him, and the lad danced out of the circle. "You are Number 3,"--he touched a red-haired quick little boy who stood and pulled at his coat; "You are Number 5;" "You Number 8," &c. He caught sight of Marit,--"You are Number One of the girls." She blushed crimson over her face and neck, but tried to smile. "You, Number 12, have been lazy, you idle worthless scamp;" "Number 11, you couldn't expect to stand higher, my lad;" "You, Number 13, must read diligently before the confirmation or else you won't succeed!"
Ovind could not bear it any longer. Number One had certainly not been named, and yet he had stood the whole time so that the schoolmaster could see him. "Schoolmaster?" He did not hear. "Schoolmaster!" Three times he had to call before he was heard.
At last the schoolmaster looked at him--"Number 9 or 10, can't say exactly which," said he, and turned quickly to another.
"Who is Number One then?" asked Hans, who was Ovind's best friend.
"Not you, you curly head!" and tapped him on the hand with a paper roll.
"Who is it then?" asked many. "Who is it?" "Yes, who is it?"
"He will get to know it himself!" said the schoolmaster decidedly. He would not have more questions.
"Now go nicely home children, thank God, and make your parents happy! Thank your old schoolmaster too, if it had not been for him you would not have been good for much!"
They thanked him and laughed, then went joyously home. One only was left, who could not quickly find his books, and when he found them, sat down as if to read again.
The schoolmaster went up to him, "Well Ovind, are you not going with the others?"
He did not answer.
"Why are you opening your books again?"
"I want to see what it is that I've answered wrong."
"You have not answered anything wrong."
Ovind looked at him, and the tears gathered in his eyes, he turned his head away while one after another rolled slowly down, but he did not speak a word.
The schoolmaster went in front of him,--"Are you not pleased that you have passed?"
His lips quivered, but he did not answer.
"Your father and mother will be very pleased," said the schoolmaster, and looked at him.
Ovind struggled some time to get a word out; at last he asked in slow broken sentences,--"Is it--because I--am a peasant lad--that I am Number 9 or 10?"
"Surely it must be so," said the schoolmaster.
"Then it is no use for me to work," said he hopelessly, and all his grand dreams vanished. Suddenly he lifted his head, raised his right hand, struck it on the table with all his might, cast himself down on his face, and burst into a violent fit of tears.
The schoolmaster left him to lay there and cry it out; he waited long, till at last his grief became more childlike. Then he rose took Ovind's head in both his hands, lifted it up, and looked into the tearful face.
"Do you think God has been with you?" said he, as he looked kindly at him.
Ovind sobbed still, but not so violently, the tears ran more quietly, but he dare not look at him who spoke, nor reply.
"This, Ovind, has been a deserved reward; you have not read from love to religion, nor your parents, but you have read from vanity."
There was silence in the room between each time of the schoolmaster's speaking, and Ovind felt his glance to be resting upon him, and grew softened and humbled under it.
"With such angry feelings in your heart, you could not have stood forth to have made a compact with your God, could you Ovind?"
"No," he stammered, as well as he could.
"And if you stood there conceitedly flattering yourself that you were Number One, would it not be wrong?"
"Yes," he whispered, and his mouth quivered.
"You are still attached to me, Ovind?"
"Yes." He looked up for the first time.
"Then I must tell you it was I who had your number placed low down; because I care for you so much, Ovind."
The old schoolmaster looked at him, blinked a few times, and the tears ran quickly down.
"You have not anything against me for it?"
"No." He looked up brightly though his voice trembled.
"My dear child, I will watch over you as long as I live."
He waited for him till he had gathered his books together, and then said he would go home with him. They went slowly along: at first Ovind was silent, battling with himself, but by degrees he overcame. He was convinced that that which had come to pass was the best that could have happened, and, before he reached home, this belief was so strong, that he thanked God, and told the schoolmaster so.
"Yes, now we shall hope to attain to something in life," said the schoolmaster, "better than running after blind men and numbers. What do you say to the Training School?"
"Yes, I should like to go there."
"You mean the Agricultural School?"
"Yes."
"That is certainly the best; it gives other prospects than those of a schoolmaster."
"But how can I get there? I do so wish it, but I have no means."
"Be industrious and good, and the means will be found."
Ovind was quite overwhelmed with gratitude. He felt the kindling in the eye, the lightheartedness, the endless fire of love, that comes when we experience the unexpected kindness of our fellow-men. The whole future presents itself for a moment, with that sort of feeling one has when walking in fresh mountain air, of being borne along rather than of walking.
When they came home, both the parents were in the sitting-room, quietly waiting there, though it was the busy time of the day. The schoolmaster entered first; Ovind after; both were smiling.
"Now?" said the father, laying aside a prayer-book, where he had just been reading a catechumen's prayer.
The mother was standing by the fire-place; she smiled, but did not say anything; her hands trembled, and she evidently expected good news though she did not wish to betray herself.
"I thought I must just come to give you the good news, that he has answered every question correctly, and that the pastor said, after Ovind was gone, that he had not examined a more promising candidate.
"Oh no!" said the mother, and was much moved.
"Well done!" said the father, and turned restlessly round.
After a long silence, the mother asked in a low voice, "What number is he?"
"Number 9 or 10," said the schoolmaster quietly.
The mother looked at the father, who looked first at her and then at Ovind,--"A peasant lad cannot expect more," said he.
Ovind looked at him in return; it was as if something would stick in his throat, but he forced it back by quickly thinking of one cheering thing after another.
"Now I must leave," said the schoolmaster, nodded, and turned to go.
As usual both parents followed him out; then the schoolmaster taking a quid, said smiling, "He will be Number One after all, but it is better not to tell him till the day comes."
"No, no," said the father, and nodded. "No, no," said the mother, and nodded too; then taking the schoolmaster's hand,--"Thank you for all you have done," said she. "Yes, thank you," said the father, and the schoolmaster went, but they stood long and looked after him.