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THE

FISHER GIRL

BY

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN

BY

SIVERT AND ELIZABETH HJERLEID.

(Translators of Ovind.)

LONDON:
TRÜBNER AND CO.

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1871.

[Entered at Stationers' Hall.]

TRANSLATORS' PREFACE.

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Encouraged by the general appreciation with which our former translation "Ovind" was received last winter, we now offer to the English reader what we believe to be a faithful re-production of Herr Björnson's latest work. The poems are rendered in the metre of the original, and as in "Ovind" we have taken the liberty of adding headings to the chapters.

North Ormesby,

Middlesbrough,

December, 1870.

CONTENTS.

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CHAP. I.

Peer, Peter, and Pedro.

CHAP. II.

"Some Other Boys."

CHAP. III.

Ready for Confirmation.

CHAP. IV.

One and Another.

CHAP. V.

A Mistake.

CHAP. VI.

The Sound of the Clock.

CHAP. VII.

The First Act.

CHAP. VIII.

At the Rural Dean's.

CHAP. IX.

Apprehensions.

CHAP. X.

Is Music Lawful?

CHAP. XI.

Reconciliation.

CHAP. XII.

The Scene.

CHAPTER I.

PEER, PETER, AND PEDRO.

When the herring has for a long time frequented a coast, by degrees, if other circumstances admit of it, there springs up a town. Not only of such towns may it be said, that they are cast up out of the sea, but from a distance they look like washed-up timber and wrecks, or like a mass of upturned boats that the fishermen have drawn over for shelter some stormy night; as one draws nearer, one sees how accidentally the whole has been built, mountains rising in the midst of the thoroughfare, or the hamlet separated by water into three, four divisions, while the streets crook and crawl. One condition only is common to them all, there is safety in the harbour for the largest ship; there is shelter and calm, and the ships find these enclosures grateful, when with torn sails and broken bulwarks, they come driving in from the North Sea to seek for breathing space.

Such a little town is quiet; all the noise there is, is directed to the quay, where the boats of the peasants are moored, and the ships are loading and unloading. The only street in our little town lies along the quay, the white and red painted, one and two-storied houses follow this, yet not house to house, but with pretty gardens in between; consequently it is a long broad street, which, when the wind is landward, smells of that which is on the quay.

It is quiet here,--not from fear of the police, for, as a rule, there is none,--but from fear of report, as everybody knows everybody. If you go along the street, you must bow at every window, for there sits an old lady ready to bow again. Besides you must bow to those you meet, for all these quiet people are thinking what is becoming to the inhabitants in general, and to themselves in particular. He who oversteps the bounds where his standing or position is placed, loses his good reputation; for you know not only him, but his father and grandfather and you seek out where there has been a tendency in the family before to that which is unbecoming.

Many years since to this quiet little town came the well esteemed man, Peer Olsen; he came from the country, where he had lived as a small stall keeper and by playing the violin. In this town he opened a little shop for his old customers, where besides other wares he sold brandy and bread. One could hear him going backwards and forwards in the room behind the shop, playing spring dances and wedding marches; every time he passed the door he peeped through the glass pane, when, if he saw a customer, he finished up with a trill, and went in. Trade went well, he married and got a son, whom he named after himself, yet not Peer but Peter. Little Peter should be what Peer felt HE was not, an educated man, so the lad was sent to the Latin school. Now when those who should have been his companions, thrust him out of their play because he was the son of Peer Olsen, Peer Olsen turned him out to them again, as that was the only way for the boy to learn manners. Little Peter, therefore, feeling himself forsaken at the school, grew idle, and gradually became so indifferent to everything, that his father could neither

thrash smiles nor tears out of him, so the father gave up struggling with him and put him in the shop. How astonished then--was he not? when he saw the lad give to each customer what he asked for, without a grain too much, never even touching so much as a raisin himself preferring not to talk, but weighing, counting, entering, without any change of countenance, very slowly, but with scrupulous exactness. His father's hopes began to revive, and he sent him with a fishing smack to Hamburg, to enter a Merchant's College, and to learn fine manners; he was away eight months, that must surely be sufficient. When he came back he had provided himself with six new suits of clothes, and on landing he put one suit on the top of another, for "things in actual wear are exempt from duty." But thickness excepted, he made about the same figure in the street next day. He walked straight or stiff with his arms perpendicular, shook hands with a sudden jerk, and bowed as if without joints to be at once stiff again; he had become politeness itself, but everything was done without uttering a word, and quickly, with a certain shyness. He did not sign his name Olsen any more, but Ohlsen, which led the wits of the town to ask, "How far did Peter Ohlsen get in Hamburg?" Answer: "As far as the first letter." He even went so far as to think of calling himself Pedro, but he had to brook so much annoyance for the h's sake, that he gave it up and signed himself P. Ohlsen. He extended the business, and though only twenty-two, he married a red-handed shop girl, for his father had just become a widower, and it was safer to have a wife than a housekeeper. That day year he got a son, who that day week was named Pedro. When worthy Peer Olsen became a grandfather, he felt an inward calling to grow old. Therefore he left the business to his son, sat outside upon a bench, and smoked twist tobacco from a short pipe; and when one day he began to grow tired of sitting there, he wished he might soon die, and even as all his wishes had quietly been fulfilled, so also was this.

If the son Peter had inherited exclusively the one feature of his father's character, aptitude for business, the grandson Pedro seemed to have inherited the other exclusively--talent for music. He was very slow in learning to read, but quick in learning to sing, and he played the flute so exquisitely that one might easily perceive he was of a refined and susceptible nature. But this was only a trouble to the father, as if the boy should be brought up to his own busy exactness. Then, when he forgot anything, he was not scolded nor thrashed as the father had been, but he was pinched. It was done very quietly, and with a kindness one might almost call polite, but it was done on every possible occasion. Every night when she undressed him, the mother counted the blue and yellow marks, and kissed them, but she offered no resistance, for she was pinched herself. For every tear in his clothes, (the father's Hamburg suits made up again,) for every blot on his copy-book she was to blame. So it was constantly: "Don't do that, Pedro!" "Take care, Pedro!" "Remember, Pedro!" He was afraid of his father, and his mother wearied him. He did not suffer much from his companions, as he cried directly, and begged them not to spoil his clothes, so they called him, "Withered stick!" and took no more notice of him. He was like a weak featherless duckling, limping after the rest, and waddling to one side with the little bit he could catch for himself, nobody shared with him, and therefore he shared with nobody.

But he soon observed that it was different with the poorer children of the town; for they bore with him because he was better dressed than themselves. The leader of the flock was a tall powerful girl, who took him under her special protection. He never tired of looking at her, she had raven black hair, all in one curl that was never combed except with the fingers; she had deep blue eyes, short brow; the expression of her face acted simultaneously. She was full of activity, and excitable; in the summer, bare-footed, bare-armed, and sunburnt; in the winter, clad as others in summer. Her father was a pilot and fisherman, she flew about and sold his fish; she rigged his boat, and when he was out as a pilot she went fishing alone. Every one who saw her turned to look again, she was so self-reliant. Her name was Gunlaug, but she was called "The Fisher Girl," a title she accepted as if by rank. In games she took the weaker side; it was a necessity of her nature to have something to care for, and now she cared for this delicate boy.

In her boat he could play his flute, that had been banished at home because they fancied it drew his thoughts from his lessons. She rowed him out into the fiord; then she took him with her on her longer fishing expeditions; and by-and-bye also on the night fishing. At sunset they rowed out into the light summer stillness, when he would play his flute, or listen to her as she told him all she knew about the mermen, dragons, shipwrecks, strange lands and black people, as she had heard it from the sailors. She shared her viands with him as she shared her knowledge, and he received all without giving anything in return, for he had no provisions with him from home, and no imagination from the school. They rowed till the sun went down behind the snowcapped mountains, then they drew to shore on some rocky island, and kindled a fire, i.e. she gathered branches and sticks, while he looked on. She had bundled along a sailor's jacket of her father's and a rug for him, and in these he was wrapped. She kept up the fire, while he fell asleep; she kept herself awake by singing snatches of psalms and songs; she sang in a full clear voice until he slept--then softly. When the sun rose again on the other side, and as a harbinger, cast his pale yellow rays before him over the mountains, she awoke him. The forest was still black, the fields were dark, but changing to a brown red and shimmering, until the ridge top glowed, and all the colours came rushing. Then they pushed the boat in the water again, cut through the waves in the sharp morning breeze, and were soon aground with the fishermen.

When winter came and the fishing tours were given up, he sought her in her own home; he often came and watched her while she worked, but neither of them spoke much; it was as if they sat together and waited for the summer. When summer came, however, this new object in life was unfortunately also gone; Gunlaug's father died; she left the town, and, at the suggestion of the schoolmaster, the lad was placed in the shop. There he stood together with his mother, for his father, who little by little had taken the colour of the grains he weighed, had to keep his bed in the back room. From there he must yet take part in everything, must know what each especially had sold, then appeared not to hear, till he got them so near that he could pinch them. And one night when the wick had become quite dry in this little lamp, it went out. The wife wept without exactly knowing why, but the son could not pinch a tear. As they had sufficient to live on, they gave up the business, swept away every reminder, and converted the shop into a parlour. There the mother sat in the window and knitted stockings; Pedro sat in the room on the other side of the passage, and played his flute. But as soon as the summer came he bought a light little sailing-boat, drove out to the rocky island and lay where Gunlaug had lain.

One day as he was resting among the ling, he saw a boat steering directly towards him; it drew up by the side of his, and Gunlaug stepped out. She was exactly the same, only full grown and taller than other women. Just as she saw him, she drew to one side a little quite slowly; she had not thought about his being grown up too.

This pale thin face she did not know; it was no longer delicate and fine; it was inanimate. But, as he looked at her, his eye caught a brightness from the dreams of the past; she went forward again;

with every step she took, a year seemed to fall from off him, and when she stood beside him, where he had sprung up, then he laughed as a child and spoke as a child; the old face seemed like a mask over the child; he was certainly older, but he was not grown.

Yet, though it was the child she was seeking, now, when she had found it, she knew not what further to do; she smiled and blushed. Involuntarily he felt, as it were, a power within him; it was the first time in his life, and in the same minute he grew handsome; it lasted, perhaps, scarcely a moment, but in that moment she was caught.

She was one of those natures that can only love that which is weak, that they have borne in their arms. She had intended to be in the town two days; she stayed two months. During these two months he developed more than in all the rest of his youth; he was lifted so far out of dreams and drowsiness as to form plans; he would leave, he would learn to play! But when one day he repeated this, she turned pale; "Yes,--" she said, "but we must be married first." He looked at her, she looked wistfully again, they both grew fiery red, and he said: "What would people say?"

Gunlaug had never thought over the possibility of his doing other than agree to what she wished because she acceded to every wish of his. But now she saw that in the depths of his soul he had never for a moment thought of sharing anything else with her than what she gave. In one minute she became conscious that thus it had been the whole of their lives. She had begun in pity, and ended in love to that which she herself had tended. Had she been composed but for a single moment! Seeing her gathering wrath, he was afraid, and exclaimed: "I will!"----She heard it, but anger over her own folly and his paltriness, over her own shame and his cowardice, boiled up in such fervid heat towards the exploding point, that never had a love beginning in childhood and evening sun, cradled by the waves and moonlight, led by the flute and gentle song, ended more wretchedly. She seized him with both her hands, lifted him, and from the very depths of her heart gave him a good sound thrashing, then rowed straight back to town, and went direct over the mountains.

He had sailed out like a youth in love about to win his manhood, and he rowed back as an old man to whom that was a thing unknown. His life held but one remembrance, and that he had miserably lost, but one spot in the world had he to turn to, and thither he never dare come again. In pondering over his own wretchedness, how all this had really come about, his energy sank as in a morass never to rise again. The boys of the town, observing his singularity, soon began to tease him, and as he was an obscure person whom no one rightly knew, either what he lived on or what he did,--it never occurred to any one to defend him, and soon he durst no longer go out, at all events, not into the street. His whole existence became a strife with the boys, who were perhaps of the same use as gnats in the heat of summer, for without them he would have sunk down into perpetual drowsiness.

Nine years after, Gunlaug came to the town, quite as unexpectedly as she had left it. She had with her a girl of eight years, just like herself formerly, only finer, and as if veiled by a dream. Gunlaug had been married, it was said, and having had something left her, had now come to the town to establish a boarding house for seamen. This she conducted in such a way, that merchants and skippers came to her to hire their men, and sailors to get hired; besides, the whole town ordered fish there. She was called "Fish-Gunlaug," or "Gunlaug on the Bank"; the appellation "Fisher Girl" passed over to the daughter, who was everywhere at the head of the boys in the town.

Her history it is that shall here be related; she had something of her mother's natural power, and she got opportunity to use it.

II.

"SOME OTHER BOYS."

The many lovely gardens of the town were fragrant after the rain in their second and third flowering. The sun had gone down behind the everlasting snow-capped mountains, the whole heavens there away were fire and light, and the snow gave a subdued reflection. The nearer mountains stood in shade, but were lightened by the forests in their many coloured tints of autumn. The rocky islands, that in the midst of the fiord followed one after another, just as though rowing to land, gave in their dense forests a yet more marked display of colours, because they lay nearer. The sea was perfectly calm, a large vessel was heaving landward. The people sat upon their wooden doorsteps, half covered with rose bushes on either side; they spoke to each other from porch to porch, or stepped across, or they exchanged greetings with those who were passing towards the long avenue. The tones of a piano might fall from an open window, otherwise there was scarcely a sound to be heard between the conversations; the feeling of stillness was increased by the last ray of sunlight over the sea.

All at once there rose up such a tumult from the midst of the town as though it were being stormed. Boys shouted, girls screamed, other boys hurrahed, old women scolded and ordered, the policeman's great dog howled, and all the curs of the town replied; they who were in-doors must go out, out; the noise became so frightful that even the magistrate himself turned on his door-step, and let fall these words: "There must be something up."

"Whatever is that?" assailed the ears of those who stood on the doorsteps from others who came from the avenue.--"Yes, what can it be!" they replied.--"Whatever can that be?" they now all of them asked anyone who was passing from the centre of the town. But as this town lies in a crescent shape in an easy curve round the bay, it was long before all at both ends had heard the reply: "It is only the Fisher Girl."

This adventurous soul, protected by a mother of whom all stood in awe, and certain of every sailor's defence, (for, for such they got always a free dram from the mother,) had, at the head of her army of boys, attacked a great apple tree in Pedro Ohlsen's orchard. The plan of attack was as follows: some of the boys should attract Pedro's attention to the front of the house by clashing the rose bushes against the window; one should shake the tree, and the others toss the apples in all directions over the hedge, not to steal them--far from it--but only to have some fun. This ingenious plan had been laid that same afternoon behind Pedro's garden; but as fortune would have it, Pedro was sitting just at the other side of the hedge, and heard every word. A little before the appointed time, therefore, he got the drunken policeman of the town and his great dog into the back room, where both were treated. When the Fisher Girl's curly pate was seen over the plank fencing, and at the same time a number of small fry tittered from every corner, Pedro suffered the scamps in front of the house to clash his rose bushes at their pleasure,--he waited quietly in the back room. And just as they were all standing round the tree in great stillness, and the Fisher Girl barefooted, torn, and scratched, was up to shake it, the side door suddenly flew open and Pedro and the Police rushed out with sticks, the great dog following. A cry of terror arose from the lads, while a number of little girls, who in all innocence were playing at "Last Bat," outside the plank fencing, thinking some one was being murdered within, began to shriek at the top of their voices; the boys who had escaped shouted hurrah! those who were yet hanging on the fence screamed under the play of the sticks, and to make the whole perfect, some old women rose up out of the depths, as

always when lads are screaming, and screamed with them. Pedro and the policeman, getting frightened themselves, tried to silence the women; but in the meantime the boys ran off, the dog, of whom they were most afraid, after them over the hedge,--for this was something for him--and now they flew like wild ducks, boys, girls, the dog and screams all over the town.

All this time the Fisher Girl sat quite still in the tree, thinking that no one had observed her. Crouched up in the topmost branch, through the leaves she followed the course of the fray. But when the policeman had gone out in a rage to the women, and Pedro Ohlsen was left alone in the garden, he went straight under the tree, looked up and cried: "Come down with you this minute, you rascal!"--Not a sound from the tree.--"Will you come down with you, I say! I know you are there!"--The most perfect stillness.--"I must go in for my gun, and shoot up, must I?" He made pretence to go.--"Hu-hu-hu-hu!" it answered in owlish tones, "I am so frightened!"--"Oh to be sure you are! You are the worst young scamp in the whole lot, but now I have you!"--"Oh dear! good kind sir, I won't do it any more," at the same time she flung a rotten apple right on to his nose, and a rich peal of laughter followed after. The apple caked all over, and while he was wiping it off, she scrambled down; she was already hanging on the plank fence before he could come after her, and she could have got over if she had not been so terrified that he was behind, that she let go instead. But when he caught her she began to shriek; the shrill and piercing yell she gave frightened him so that he let go his hold. At her signal of alarm, the people came flocking outside, and hearing them she gained courage. "Let me go, or I'll tell mother!" she threatened, her whole face flashing fire. Then he recognised the face, and cried: "Your mother? Who is your mother?"--"Gunlaug on the Bank, Fisher Gunlaug," replied the youngster triumphantly; she saw he was afraid. Being near sighted, Pedro had never seen the girl before now; he was the only one in the place who did not know who she was, and he was not even aware that Gunlaug was in the town. As though possessed, he cried: "What do they call you?"--"Petra," cried the other still louder.--"Petra!" howled Pedro, turned and ran into the house as if he had been talking to the devil. But as the palest fear and the palest wrath resemble each other, she thought he was rushing in for his gun. She was terror-stricken, and already she felt the shot in her back, but as, just at this moment, they had broken the door open from outside, she made her escape; her dark hair flew behind her like a terror, her eyes shot fire, the dog which she just met, followed howling, and thus she fell on her mother, who was coming from the kitchen with a tureen of soup, the girl into the soup, the soup on the floor, and a "Go to the dogs!" after them both. But as she laid there in the soup, she cried: "He'll shoot me, mother, shoot me!"--"Who'll shoot you, you rascal?"--"He, Pedro Ohlsen?"--"Who?" roared the mother.--"Pedro Ohlsen, we took apples from him," she never dare say anything but the truth.--"Who are you talking about, child?"--"About Pedro Ohlsen, he is after me with a great gun, and he'll shoot me!"--"Pedro Ohlsen!" fumed the mother, and with an enraged laugh she drew herself up.--The child began to cry and tried to escape, but the mother sprang over her, her white teeth glistening, and catching her by the shoulder, she pulled her up.--"Did you tell him who you were?"--"Yes!" cried the child, but the mother heard not, saw not, she only asked again twice, three times:--"Did you tell him who you were?"--"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" and the child held up her hands entreatingly. Then the mother rose up to her full height:--"So he got to know!--What did he say?"--"He ran in after a gun to shoot me."--"He shoot you!" she laughed in the utmost scorn. The child, scared and bespattered with soup had crept into the chimney corner, she was drying herself and crying, when the mother came to her again:--"If you go to him," she said, and took and shook her, "or speak to him, or listen to him. Heaven have mercy upon both him and you! Tell him so from me! Tell him so from me!" she repeated threateningly, as the child did not answer directly, "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" "Tell him so from me!" she repeated yet once more, but slowly, and nodding at every word as she went.

The child washed herself, changed her dress, and sat out on the steps in her Sunday clothes. But at the thought of the terror she had been in, she began to sob again.--"What are you crying for, child?" asked a voice more kindly than any she had heard before. She looked up; before her stood a fine looking man, with high forehead and spectacles. She stood up quickly, for it was Hans Odegaard, a young man whom the whole town revered. "What are you crying for, my child?" She looked at him and said that she had been going to take some apples from Pedro Ohlsen's garden, together with "several other boys;" but then Pedro and the policeman had come, and then--; she remembered that the mother had made her uncertain about the shooting, so she durst not tell it; but she gave a deep sigh instead.

"Is it possible," said he, "that a child of your age could think of committing so great a sin?" Petra looked at him; she had known well enough that it was sin, but she had always heard it denounced thus: "You child of the devil, you black haired wretch!" Now, she felt ashamed. "That you do not go to school and learn God's commandment to us of what is good and evil!" She stood stroking her frock and answered, that mother did not wish her to go to school.--"Perhaps you cannot even read?" Yes, she could read. He took up a little book and gave her. She looked in it, then turned it round to look at the outside: "I cannot read such small print," she said. But she was obliged to try, and she felt herself utterly stupid; her eyes and mouth hung, all her limbs collapsed: "G-o-d, God the L-o-r-d, God the Lord s-a-i-d, God the Lord said to M-M-M--"--"Dear me! Why you cannot even read this! And a child of ten or twelve years? Would you not like to learn to read?" By degrees she drawled out, that she would like it. "Then come with me, we must begin at once." She rose, but only to look in the house. "Yes, tell your mother," he said. The mother was just passing, and seeing the child talking to a stranger, she came out upon the doorstep. "He will teach me to read," said the child doubtfully, with eyes fixed on the mother, who did not answer, but stood with her arms on her side looking at Odegaard.--"Your child is an ignorant one," he said, "you cannot answer to God or man, to let her go as she does."--"Who are you?" asked Gunlaug sharply.--"Hans Odegaard, your pastor's son." Her brow lightened a little, she had heard him highly spoken of. He began again: "During the time I have been at home, I have noticed this child, and to-day I have been again reminded of her. She must not any longer be brought up only to that which is useless."--What's that to you? the mother's face distinctly expressed. Then he asked her quietly: "But you mean her to learn something?"--"No."--He blushed slightly. "Why not?"--"People who have learning are perhaps the better for it?" She had had but one experience and this she held fast.--"I am astonished that any one can ask such a thing!"--"Ah, but, I know they are not;" she went down the steps to put an end to this nonsense. But he stepped in front of her: "Here is a duty which you SHALL NOT pass by. You are a thoughtless mother."--Gunlaug measured him from top to toe: "Who told you what I am?" she said as she passed by him.--"You have just now done it yourself, for otherwise you must have seen that the child is on the way to be ruined."--Gunlaug turned, and her eye met his; she saw he meant what he had said and she grew afraid. She had only had to do with seamen and tradespeople; such language she had never heard before. "What will you do with my child?" she asked.--"Teach her the things belonging to her soul's

salvation, and then see what she must be."--"My child shall not be other than that I will she shall be."--"Yes she shall; she shall be what God wills."--Gunlaug was silenced: "What is that to say?" she said and came nearer.--"It is, that she must learn what she is capable of by her natural abilities, for therefore has God given them."--Gunlaug now drew quite near. "Then must not I direct her, I, who am her mother?" she asked, as if she really wished to learn.--"That you must, but you must respect the advice of those who know better; you must listen to the will of God."--Gunlaug stood still a moment. "But if she learnt too much," she said; "a poor man's child!" she added and looked tenderly at her daughter.--"If she learns too much for her station, she has thereby reached a higher one."--She quickly saw his meaning, and said as if to herself, while she looked more and more anxiously at the child: "But this is dangerous."--"The question is not about that, he said mildly, but about what is right."--Her deep eyes took a strange expression; she looked again piercingly at him; but there lay so much of truth in his voice, words, countenance, that Gunlaug felt herself defeated. She went across to the child, laid her hand on her head, and could not speak.

"I shall read with her until she is confirmed," he said as if to help her; "I wish to take this child in hand."--"And you will take her away from me?"--He hesitated and looked at her inquiringly.--"You must understand it better than I," she struggled to say; "but if it was not that you named our Lord,"--she stopped; she had smoothed her daughter's hair, and now she took a handkerchief and tied round her neck. She did not say in any other way that the child should go with him, and she hastened back into the house as if she wished not to see it.

This behaviour made him feel suddenly anxious at that which in his youthful ardour he had taken upon himself. The child, too, was afraid of the one who for the first time had overcome her mother, and so with this natural fear they went to their first lesson.

From day to day, however, it seemed to him that she grew in wisdom and knowledge, and at times his conversation with her, assumed of themselves quite a peculiar tone. He often drew her attention to characters in sacred and profane history in pointing out the CALLING that God had given them. He would dwell upon Saul who was leading a wild roving life, and upon a lad like David who was tending his father's sheep, until Samuel came and laid the hand of the Lord upon them. But the greatest calling of all, was when the Lord himself was upon earth, when he stopped at the fishing village, and called, and the poor fishermen arose and went--to poverty, as to death, but always joyfully; for the feeling of a call carries through all adversities.

These thoughts followed her so, that at last she could bear these things no longer, and asked him about her own calling. He looked at her till she blushed, then answered her that we must reach our calling through work; it may be modest and simple, but it is there for all. Then she was seized with an eager zeal; it made her work with the power of a grown person, it upset her play, she grew quite thin. She got romantic longings; she would cut her hair, clothe herself like a boy, and go out to battle. But as her teacher said one day that her hair was beautiful if only it was nicely kept, she began to think much of it, and for the sake of her long hair she sacrificed the name of a hero.

Afterwards it was more to her than before to be a girl, and her studies went quietly on, canopied by changing dreams.

III.

READY FOR CONFIRMATION.

Hans Odegaard had gone out as a young man from the hamlet of Odegaard in Bergen's shire; people had taken to him, and he was now a learned man and a strict preacher. He was besides an influential man, not so much in words as in deeds; for, as it was said, he "never forgot." This man who by perseverance pushed everything through, was however stopped in a way that he least expected, and where it was most painful.

He had three daughters and one son. Hans, the son, was the light of the school, and it was his father's daily pleasure to prepare him himself. Hans had a friend whom he helped to get the second place, and who therefore, save his mother, loved him more than all the world. They went together to school and to the university; they passed the two first examinations together, and were then to study for the same profession. One day as they were going joyfully down stairs after their studies, Hans, in an outburst of high spirits and glee, threw himself upon his companion's back, thereby causing him a fall, which some days later ended in his death. When dying he begged his mother, who was a widow, and now lost her only son, to fulfil his last request and take Hans up in his place. Almost immediately after the mother died, but her very considerable fortune was left to Hans Odegaard.

It was years before Hans could recover himself after this. A long tour on the continent so far restored him, that he could resume his theological studies; but on his return home, he could not be persuaded to make use of his examinations.

The father's greatest hope had been to see him as his assistant in the ministry, but he could not now be persuaded to enter the pulpit a single time; he gave always the same reply: "he felt no calling:" this was so bitter a disappointment to the father, that it made him several years older. He had commenced late in life, and was already an old man; he had worked hard, and always with this end in view. Now the son occupied the largest part of the house, handsomely furnished, while down below in his little study, by the lamp that lightened the night of age, sat the hard-working old father.

After this disappointment, he neither could nor would take other help, neither would he give in to his son, and relinquish altogether; therefore, summer or winter, he knew no rest; but each year the son took a longer tour abroad. When he was at home he associated with no one, except that in silence, greater or less, he dined at his father's table. If any began to converse with him, they were met by a superior clearness and earnestness for the truth, that made them always feel the conversation a little embarrassing. He never went to church, but he gave more than half his income to benevolent objects, and always with the most express injunctions as to its appropriation.

This beneficence was so different in its scale from the narrow customs of the little town that it won the hearts of all. Add to this, his reserve, his frequent journey abroad, the hesitation all felt in conversing with him, and one can easily understand that he was regarded as a mysterious being to which each added all possible qualities, and his own best judgment. Therefore when he condescended to take the Fisher Girl under his daily care, she was ennobled by it.

Every one, especially women, seemed anxious to show her some favour. One day she came to him clad in all the colours of the rainbow; she had put on her presents, thinking she would now be really to his taste, as he always wished her to be neat. But he had scarcely glanced at her, before he forbade her ever to receive presents; he called her vain, foolish: her aims were shallow, she took pleasure in folly.

When she came next morning, with eyes that told a tale of weeping, he took her with him a walk above the town. He told her about David in such a manner that he took now this, now that incident, and made the well-known story anew. First, he depicted him in his youth, beautiful and rich in talent, and in

child-like faith; how, while yet a boy, he came with the triumphal procession. From a shepherd he was called to be king, he dwelt in caves, but ended in building Jerusalem. When Saul was ill, he came beautifully attired, and played and sang before him, but when as king he himself was ill, he played and sang clad in the garb of repentance. When he had achieved his great works, he took rest in sin, then came the prophet and punishment, and he became a child again. David, who could call the people of God to songs of praise, lay contrite at the feet of the Lord. Was he most beautiful, when crowned with victory he danced before the ark to his own songs, or when in his private closet he begged for mercy from the punishing hand?

The night after this conversation Petra had a dream, which all her life she never forgot. She sat upon a white horse and came in triumphal procession, but, at the same time, in front of the horse, she saw herself dancing in rags.

One evening some time after this, as she was sitting at the edge of the forest above the town learning her lessons, Pedro Ohlsen, who since that day in the garden had approached gradually nearer, passed close by, and, with a singular smile, whispered: "Good evening!" Though more than a year had passed by, her mother's injunction not to speak to him was so strongly before her that she did not answer. But day after day he went by in the same way, and always with the same greeting; at last she missed him, when he did not come. Soon he asked a little question in passing, by-and-bye it increased to two, and at last it was quite a conversation. After such one day, he let a silver dollar slip down into her lap, and then hastened away in delight. Now, if it was against the mother's commands to talk to Pedro Ohlsen, it was against Odegaard's to take gifts from any one. The first prohibition she had little by little overstepped, but it came to her mind now, when it had led to her also overstepping the second. To get rid of the money she got hold of some one to treat; but, in spite of their best endeavours, they could not eat more than the worth of four marks; and afterwards it troubled her that she had misspent the dollar instead of giving it back. The mark that still lay in her pocket felt so hot that it might have burned a hole in her clothes; she took it and threw it into the sea. But she was not rid of the dollar thereby; her thoughts were burnt by it. She felt that, if she confessed, it might pass over, but her mother's fearful rage before, and Odegaard's good faith in her, were each, in its own way, alike alarming. Whilst the mother said nothing, Odegaard quickly observed that there was something which made her unhappy.

One day he asked her tenderly what it was, and, as instead of answering, she burst into tears, he thought they must be in want at home and gave her ten specie dollars. It made a strong impression on her that, although she had sinned against him, he yet gave her money, and as into the bargain she could now give this openly to her mother, she felt herself freed from her guilt, and gave herself up to the greatest joy. She took his hand in both of hers, she thanked him, she laughed, she jumped about, and smiled in ecstacy through her tears, as she looked at him something in the way that a dog regards his master when going out. He did not know her again; she who always sat wrapt in what he was saying, now took all power from him; for the first time he felt a strong, wild nature heaving within him, for the first time the well of life sent her red streams over him, and he drew back all crimson. Meanwhile Petra went out to run home over the hills behind the town. Once there, she laid the money on the baking-stone before her mother, throwing her arms round her neck. "Who has been giving you money?" said the mother, vexed already.--"Odegaard, mother, he is the greatest man upon earth."--"What am I to do with it?"--"I don't know--heavens! mother, if you knew"--and she again threw her arms round her neck; she could and she would now tell her all, but the mother released herself impatiently: "Will you have me to take alms? Take the money back at once. If you have made him believe I am in want, you have lied!"--"But, mother?"--"Take the money to him, I say, or I shall go myself and throw them at him, HIM who has taken my child from me!" The mother's lips trembled after the last words. Petra turned back very pale. She opened the door softly and glided out of the house. Before she knew what she was about the ten specie notes were torn to pieces in her fingers. When she found what she had done, she burst out in an invective against the mother. But Odegaard must know nothing about it, yes, he should know all! for to him she must not lie. A moment after and she stood in his house, and told him that her mother would not take the money, and that in her vexation at having to bring it back, she had torn the notes in two. She would have told him more, but he received her coldly, and told her to go home with the admonition to shew her mother obedience, even where it felt hard to do so. This, however, seemed strange to her, as she knew so much, that he did not do what the father most desired! On her way home she was quite overcome, and just then she met Pedro Ohlsen. She had shunned him all this time, and would have done the same now, for from him came all this unhappiness, but he followed her, and asked her, "Where have you been, has anything happened to you?" The waves of her mind rose so high that they cast her whithersoever they would, and, as she thought it over, she could not understand why the mother should forbid her to have anything to do with him; it could be only a fancy, the one as well as the other. "Do you know what I have done?" he said, almost humbly, when she had stopped "I have bought a sailing boat for you. I thought you might like to have a sail," and he laughed. His kindness, which resembled a poor man's entreaty, could touch her now; she nodded; he was in a great hurry and whispered eagerly that she must go through the town, and down the avenue to the right, till she came to the great yellow boat-house, behind which he would come and fetch her; no one could see them there. She went, and he came and took her in. They sailed along for some time in the light breeze, then made for a rocky island, where they moored the boat and got out. He had brought some nice things for her to eat, and he took out his flute and played. In seeing his pleasure she forgot her sorrows for a time, and the joy of weak people having a tendering influence, she became attached to him.

After this day she had a new and continual secret from her mother, and soon this had the effect of keeping everything from her. Gunlaug made no inquiries, she believed everything till she doubted all.

But now Petra had also a secret from Odegaard, for she accepted many gifts from Pedro Ohlsen; he likewise made no inquiries, but the lessons were day by day conducted in a more distant manner. Petra was now divided amongst three; she never spoke to any one of them about the others, and she had something to hide from each in particular.

Under all this she had grown up without being aware of it herself, and one day Odegaard communicated to her that she must now be confirmed.

This intimation filled her with uneasiness, for she knew that with the confirmation her lessons were to cease, and what would then become of her? The mother was having an attic chamber made for her, that after the confirmation she might have a room of her own, and the constant knocking and hammering was a painful reminder. Odegaard observed that she grew more and more quiet, sometimes he saw also that she had been weeping. Under these circumstances the religious instruction made a great impression on her, although Odegaard with great care avoided all that might excite or move her. For this reason a fortnight before the confirmation, he gave up the lessons with the short intimation that this was the last time. By this

he meant the last with him; for he would certainly watch over her still, though through others. She, however, remained seated where she was, the blood left her veins, her eyes remained fixed, and involuntarily moved, he hastened to give a reason: "It is not all young girls that are grown up at their confirmation; but you must be aware that it is so with you." If she had stood in the glare of a great fire, she could not have been more fiery red than she became at these words; her bosom heaved, her eyes took a vague expression and filled with tears, and driven further he hastened to say: "We may perhaps still go on?" He did not until after realise what he had proposed; he was wrong, he must retract it; but her eyes were already lifted towards him. She did not answer "yes" with her lips, but more plainly it could not be said. To excuse himself in his own eyes, by finding a pretext, he asked: "There will be something you would especially like to do now, something you--" he bent down towards her--"feel a calling to, Petra?"--"No," she replied so quickly that he coloured, and as if chilled, fell back into the considerations which for years had occupied his mind; her unexpected reply had recalled them.

That she was possessed of some peculiar qualities, he had never doubted from the time she was a child, and he saw her march singing at the head of the street boys; but the longer he taught her, the less he felt to understand her talent. It was present in every movement; what she thought, what she wished, mind and body simultaneously made known in the fulness of power, and the light of beauty, but put in words, and especially in writing, it is only child-like simplicity. She appeared all imagination, but he perceived in it especially a feeling of unrest. She was very earnest, but she read more to go on than to learn; what could be on the other side occupied her most. She had religious feeling, but as the pastor expressed it, "no turn for a religious life," and Odegaard was often anxious about her. Now that he was at the closing point, his thoughts involuntarily reverted to the stone step where he had received her; he heard the mother's sharp voice leaving the responsibility with him, because he had used the name of Our Lord. After pacing a few times up and down he collected himself: "I am going abroad, now," he said with a certain shyness, "I have asked my sister to care for you in my absence, and when I return we will try again. Farewell! We shall meet again before I go!" he went so quickly into the next room, that she could not even shake hands with him.

She saw him again where she had least expected it, in the pastor's pew beside the choir, just in front of her as she stepped forth with the others to be confirmed. This so affected her, that her thoughts flew far away from the holy act, for which, in humility and prayer, she had prepared herself. Yes, if that was Odegaard's old father, he stopped and looked long at his son, as he stepped forth to begin. Soon Petra was once more to be startled in church, for a little below sat Pedro Ohlsen in prim new clothes; he was just stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of her over the heads of the boys; he soon bobbed down, but she saw him repeatedly stick up his thin-haired head to bob again. This distracted her, she did not wish to look, but she did look, and there,--just as the others were all deeply moved, many in tears,--she was terrified to see him rise up with stiff open mouth and transfixed eyes, without power to sit down or move, for opposite him, stretched to her full height, stood Gunlaug; Petra shuddered to see her, she was white as the altar cloth. Her black crimpy hair seemed to rise up, while her eyes got suddenly a repulsive power, as though they said: "Away from her, what have you to do with her?" Under this look he sank down upon the form, and a minute after stole out of church.

After this Petra felt composed, and the further the rite proceeded the more fully she entered into it. And when, after having given her promise, she turned round and looked through her tears at Odegaard, as the one who stood nearest to her good intentions, she resolved in her heart that she would not put his hopes to shame. The steadfast eye that looked expressively in return seemed to entreat her for the same, but when she had taken her place and would find him again, he was gone. She soon went home with her mother, who on the way let fall these words: "I have done my part;--now may Our Lord do His!"

When they had dined together, they two alone, the mother said as she rose: "Now we may as well go to him,--the pastor's son. Though I don't know what it will lead to that he does, he surely means it well. Put on your things again, child!"

The road to church which they two had so often trodden, lay above the town, but through the street they had never before walked together; indeed the mother had scarcely been there since she had come back to the place, but she would now go the whole length with her grown up daughter!

On the afternoon of a confirmation Sunday, such a little town is all on the move, either going from house to house to congratulate, or in the street to see and to be seen; there is a salutation and halting at every step, a shaking of hands, and interchanging of good wishes: the poor children appear in the cast-off clothes of the rich, and are paraded forth to return their thanks. The sailors in their foreign pageantry, with the hat upon three hairs; and the fops, the merchants, clerks, walked in groups, bowing to all as they passed. The half-grown up lads of the Latin school, each arm in arm with his best friend in the world, sauntered after in rash criticism; but to-day every one in his own mind must yield the palm to the lion of the place, the young merchant, the wealthiest man in the town, Yngve Vold, just returned from Spain, all in trim to take charge on the morrow of his mother's extensive fish trade. With a light hat over his light hair, he strolled through the streets; every one bade him welcome, he spoke to all, smiled to all; so the young people who had just been confirmed were almost forgotten;--backwards and forwards one might see the light hat over the light hair, and hear the light laughter. When Petra and her mother entered the street, he was the first they stumbled upon, and as if they had in reality stumbled against him, he started back before Petra, whom he did not recognise.

She had grown tall, not as tall as the mother but above the average height, easy, elegant, and fearless, the mother and not the mother inconstant interchange. The young merchant, who walked along behind them, could no longer attract the attention of the passers-by; the two, mother and daughter, were a more striking sight. They walked quickly, without noticing any one, for they were seldom greeted except by seamen; they soon returned more quickly still, for they had heard that Odegaard had just left home for the steamer and would soon be gone. Petra was in great haste; she must, she must indeed see him and thank him before he went; it was wrong of him to leave her thus! She saw none of all those who were looking at her; it was the smoke from the steamer she saw over the roofs of the houses, and it seemed to be getting further away. When they came to the quay, the boat had just left, and, with sobs in her throat, she hastened further up the walk; indeed she more sprang than walked, and the mother strode after. As the steamer had taken some minutes to turn in the harbour, she was just in time to spring down on the wharf, get up on a stone, and wave her pocket handkerchief. The mother remained on the walk, and would not go down; Petra waved--waved higher and higher, but there was no one who waved again.

Then she could bear it no longer; she could not restrain her tears, and was obliged to return home by the higher path; the mother followed, but in silence. The attic which her mother had prepared for her, and where she had slept for the first

time the night before, and had that morning put on her new dress with so much delight, now received her bathed in tears, and without so much as a glance around; she would not go down where the seamen and others were sitting;--she took off her confirmation dress and sat on the bed till night came; to be grown up seemed to her the most unhappy thing that could be.

IV.

ONE AND ANOTHER.

One day after the Confirmation Petra went over to Odegaard's sisters, but she soon saw that this must have been a mistake on his part, for the pastor went by as though he never saw her, and the daughters, both older than Odegaard, received her stiffly. They satisfied themselves with giving a bare account from their brother of what she was now to do. The whole of the forenoon she was to be engaged in household duties at a house in the suburbs of the town, and in the afternoon to go to the sewing school; she was to sleep at home, and take breakfast and supper there.

She acted according to this arrangement, and found it agreeable enough as long as it was new, but afterwards, and especially when summer came, she began to get tired of it, for she had been accustomed in summer to sit up in the forest the whole day long, and had read in her books, which from the depths of her heart she now missed, as she missed Odegaard, as she missed conversation. The consequence was that at last she took it where it was to be found. About this time a young girl entered the sewing school, called Lise Let, i.e. Lise, but not Let; for that was the name of a young cadet, who had been at home one Christmas, and betrothed himself to her on the ice, while she was only a child at school. Lise vowed it was not true, and cried if any one named it; nevertheless, she went by the name of Lise Let. The little, active Lise Let often laughed and often cried; but, whether she laughed or cried, she thought about love. A perfect swarm of new and curious thoughts soon filled the school; if a hand was reached out for the scissors, it was to go a courting, and the scissors said, yes, or gave a refusal. The needle was bethrothed to the thread, and the thread sacrificed herself stitch by stitch to the heartless tyrant; she who pricked her finger, shed her heart's blood, and to change needles was to be unfaithful. If two of the girls whispered together, it was about something remarkable that had happened to them; soon two more began to whisper, and then two again; each one had her confidant, and there were a thousand secrets: it was impossible to stand it.

One afternoon at dusk, in a fine drizzling rain, Petra, with a large handkerchief over her head, stood outside her mother's house, and peeped into the passage, where a young sailor was standing, whistling a waltz. She held the handkerchief together with both her hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose could be seen, but the sailor saw she was winking at him, and he went quickly out where she stood. "I say, Gunnar, will you go a walk?"--"But it rains!"--"Tut, is that anything!" and so they went to a small house higher up the mountain. "Buy me a few cakes,--those with the icing!"--"You are always wanting cakes."--"With the icing!" He came out again with them; she stuck one hand out from under the handkerchief, took them in, and went on again, eating as she went. When they had got just above the town, she said as she gave him the cake: "I say now, Gunnar! we have always thought so much of each other, we two; I have always liked you better than any other boys! You don't believe it? But I assure you, Gunnar! And now you are second mate and can soon take a ship; it seems to me you should get engaged Gunnar! Dear, why don't you eat the cake?"--"I have begun to chew tobacco."--"Well, what do you say?"--"Oh! there's no hurry for that!"--"No hurry? And you go away day after to-morrow?"--"Yes, but am I not coming back again?"--"But it isn't certain that I shall have time then, and you don't know where I shall be either,"--"It should be to you, then?"--"Yes, Gunnar, you might have understood that, but you were always slow, that was why you were only a sailor, too."--"Oh! I'm not sorry for that, it's quite nice to be a sailor."--"Yes, to be sure,--your mother has ships. But what do you say now? You are so dull!"--"Yes, what shall I say?"--"What shall you say? Ha-ha-ha, perhaps you won't have me!"--"Ah! Petra, you know quite well I will; but I don't think I can trust you."--"Yes, Gunnar, I shall be as true, as true!"--He stood a minute still; "Let me see your face, Petra!"--"What for that?"--"I want to see if you really mean it."--"Do you think I go and trifle with you, Gunnar?" She was vexed and lifted the handkerchief.--"Well, Petra, if it is to be right regular earnest, then give me a kiss upon it, for one knows what that means."--"Have you lost your wits?" She drew the handkerchief over, and went on.--"Stay Petra, stay! You don't understand.--If we are engaged--" "Oh! nonsense with you!"--"Yes, but I know what is customary, and as far as experience goes, I beat you hollow. Remember all that I have seen."--"Yes, you've seen all like a simpleton, and you talk as you've seen."--"What do you mean by being engaged, then, Petra? I may surely ask about that! There's no meaning in running up and down hill after each other!"--"No, that's true enough." She laughed, and stopped. "But listen now, Gunnar! While we stand here and puff--huf!--I'll tell you how lovers do. Every evening as long as you are here, you must wait outside the sewing school and go home with me to the door, and if I am out anywhere else, you must wait in the street till I come. And when you go away, you must write to me, and buy things to send me. To be sure: we must exchange rings, with your name in one and mine in the other, and then the year and the day; but I have no money, so you must buy them both."--"Yes, I'll do that; but--" "Now, what about 'but' again?"--"Good heavens! I only meant I must have the measure of your finger."--"Yes, that you shall have directly;" and she picked up a straw and bit off the measure: "Now don't lose it!" He wrapped it in paper, and put it in his pocket book; she watched him till the pocket book was hidden again. "Let us go now, I'm tired of standing here."--"But, I must say I think it rather flat, Petra!"--"Very well, if you won't, it's all the same to me!"--"Certainly I will, it's not that; but shan't I even so much as get hold of your hand!"--"What for that?"--"As a sign that we're really engaged."--"Such nonsense, does that make it more certain? You can have my hand, anyhow; here it is! No thank you, no squeezing, sir!"--She drew her head within the handkerchief again, then suddenly she lifted the handkerchief with both hands, and her face came full into view. "If you tell any one, Gunnar, I shall say it is not true, so you know!" She laughed, and went on down the hill. A little after, she stopped, and said: "The sewing school will be over to-morrow at nine, so you can go and stand at the foot of the garden."--"Very well."--"Yes, but now you must go!"--"Won't you, then, even give me your hand at parting?"--"I don't know what you are always wanting with my hand,--no, you won't get it now. Good bye!" she cried, and away she sprang.

Next evening she arranged it so, that she was the last at the sewing school. It was nearly ten when she left, but when she had passed through the garden, Gunnar was not there. She had imagined all sorts of misfortunes, but not this; she was so much offended, that she waited, merely to give it him in earnest, when at last he did come. Besides she had good company as she walked up and down; for the merchants' singing club had just begun to practise with open windows, in a house near by, and a Spanish song, that mild evening, lured her thoughts till she was in Spain, and heard her praises

sung from the open balcony. Spain was her great longing, for every summer came the dark Spanish ships into the harbour, the Spanish songs into the streets, and upon Odegaard's walls, hung a row of pictures from Spain; perhaps he was there again now, and she was with him! But in the same minute she was called home again, for there, behind the apple tree, was Gunnar coming at last; she rushed towards--not Gunnar, but the one returned from Spain, the light hat over the light hair. "Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed the light laughter, "so you take me for another?" She denied it eagerly, hastily, and began to run in her vexation, but he ran after, talking incessantly whilst he ran very quickly, and with that mixed accent that people get when they use several languages. "Yes, I can easily keep you company, for I'm a capital runner,--it won't help you,--I must speak to you,--it is too quiet here, people are dead, but you are not dead, I can see. I must speak to you; I am here for the eighth evening."--"For the eighth evening!"--"The eighth evening; ha, ha, ha, I would gladly go for eight more, for we two suit each other, don't we? It's no use, I shan't let you slip, for now you are tired, I can see."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are! Talk, then, if you are not tired!"--"Ha, ha, ha!"--"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, that's not to talk," and so they stopped. They exchanged a few witty words, half in jest, and half in earnest; then he began to speak in praise of Spain, and one picture followed another, till he ended in cursing the little town at their feet. The first, Petra followed with beaming eyes; the second tingled in her ears, while her eyes moved up and down over a gold chain that hung twice round his neck. "Yes, this," he said hastily, and drew out the end of the chain, to which a gold cross was fastened, "see, I took it with me to-night, to show at the singing club; it is from Spain. You shall hear its history." Then he related: "When I was in the south of Spain, I was present at a shooting match, and won this prize; it was handed to me at the festival with these words: 'Take this with you to Norway and give it to the most beautiful woman in your country, with the respectful homage of Spanish Cavaliers.' Then followed shouts, and processions, the waving of banners and the clapping of cavaliers, and I received the gift."--"No, how splendid! Tell more, more!" broke in Petra, for her imagination already pictured the Spanish feast, with the Spanish colours and songs, and the dusky Spaniards, standing under the vines in the evening sunlight, sending their thoughts to the most beautiful woman in the land of snow. He did as she requested; he increased her longing with new recitals, and, as if transported to that wonderful land, she began humming the Spanish song she had just heard, and, little by little, to move her feet to its time. "What! You can dance the Spanish dance?" he cried.--"Yes, yes--yes!" she sang in dancing time, snapping her fingers to imitate the castanets, and making some rapid steps upon the spot where she stood, for she had seen the Spanish sailors dance!--"You shall have the gift of the Spanish Cavaliers," cried he, in ecstacy, "you are the most beautiful woman I have met." He had taken the gold chain from his own neck, and had lightly thrown it once or twice round hers before she came to understand it. But, when she understood it, she was suffused with the deep scarlet, peculiarly her own, and the tears were about to burst forth, so that he, falling from one surprise into another, did not know what more to do, but felt that he ought to go, and went.

At twelve o'clock with the chain in her hand, she still stood at the open window of her little room. The summer night lay gently over town and fiord and distant mountains; from the street the Spanish song sounded again, for the club had gone home with young Yngve Vold. Word for word it could be heard, about a beautiful wreath. Two voices only sang the words, the rest hummed the guitar accompaniment.