安徒生童话 A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS
感谢您访问-www.cetstudy.cn - 分类: 六级翻译 - 无评论1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENA STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLSby Hans Christian AndersenTHIS story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland, but itdoes not begin there in the North, but far away in the South, in Spain. The wide sea is the highroad from nation to nation; journey in thought; then, to sunny Spain. It is warm and beautiful there;the fiery pomegranate flowers peep from among dark laurels; a coolrefreshing breeze from the mountains blows over the orange gardens,over the Moorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls.Children go through the streets in procession with candles andwaving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glitteringstars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can be heard, and youths and maidens dance upon the flowering acacia trees, while even the beggar sits upon a block of marble, refreshing himself with a juicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful dream.Here dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave themselvesup to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing theycould desire- health and happiness, riches and honour.We are as happy as human beings can be,” said the young couplefrom the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one stephigher to mount on the ladder of happiness- they hoped that Godwould give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happylittle one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for withlove and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxurythat a rich and influential family can give. So the days went bylike a joyous festival.”Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift forus to appreciate!” said the young wife. “Yet they say that fulnessof joy for ever and ever can only be found in the future life. Icannot realise it!”"The thought arises, perhaps, from the arrogance of men,” said thehusband. “It seems a great pride to believe that we shall live forever, that we shall be as gods! Were not these the words of theserpent, the father of lies?”"Surely you do not doubt the existence of a future life?”exclaimed the young wife. It seemed as if one of the first shadowspassed over her sunny thoughts.”Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so,” replied herhusband; “but amid all my happiness I feel that it is arrogant todemand a continuation of it- another life after this. Has not somuch been given us in this world that we ought to be, we must be,contented with it?”"Yes, it has been given to us,” said the young wife, “but thislife is nothing more than one long scene of trial and hardship to manythousands. How many have been cast into this world only to endurepoverty, shame, illness, and misfortune? If there were no future life,everything here would be too unequally divided, and God would not be the personification of justice.”"The beggar there,” said her husband, “has joys of his own whichseem to him great, and cause him as much pleasure as a king would find in the magnificence of his palace. And then do you not think thatthe beast of burden, which suffers blows and hunger, and worksitself to death, suffers just as much from its miserable fate? Thedumb creature might demand a future life also, and declare the lawunjust that excludes it from the advantages of the higher creation.”"Christ said: ‘In my father’s house are many mansions,’” sheanswered. “Heaven is as boundless as the love of our Creator; the dumb animal is also His creature, and I firmly believe that no life will be lost, but each will receive as much happiness as he can enjoy, which will be sufficient for him.”"This world is sufficient for me,” said the husband, throwinghis arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He sat by her sideon the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in the cool air, which wasloaded with the sweet scent of carnations and orange blossoms.Sounds of music and the clatter of castanets came from the roadbeneath, the stars shone above then, and two eyes full of affection-those of his wife- looked upon him with the expression of undyinglove. “Such a moment,” he said, “makes it worth while to be born, todie, and to be annihilated!” He smiled- the young wife raised her handin gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from her mind, andthey were happy- quite happy.Everything seemed to work together for their good. They advancedin honour, in prosperity, and in happiness. A change came certainly,but it was only a change of place and not of circumstances.The young man was sent by his Sovereign as ambassador to theRussian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his birth andhis acquirements entitled him to the honour. He possessed a largefortune, and his wife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for shewas the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. One of thismerchant’s largest and finest ships was to be sent that year toStockholm, and it was arranged that the dear young couple, thedaughter and the son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg.All the arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury onevery side.In an old war song, called “The King of England’s Son,” it says:”Farewell, he said, and sailed away.And many recollect that day.The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,And everywhere riches and wealth untold.”These words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain, for herewas the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:”God grant that we once more may meetIn sweet unclouded peace and joy.”There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanishcoast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reachtheir destination in a few weeks; but when they came out upon the wide ocean the wind dropped, the sea became smooth and shining, and the stars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At last the travellers began to wish for wind, for a favourable breeze; but their wish was useless- not a breath of air stirred, or if itdid arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two wholemonths, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. Theship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then thewind increased, just as it did in the old song of “The King ofEngland’s Son.”"‘Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,Their efforts were of no avail.The golden anchor forth they threw;Towards Denmark the west wind blew.”This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who saton the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has happened since then, much has altered or been changed. Sea and moorland have been turned into green meadows, stretches of heather have become arable land, and in the shelter of the peasant’s cottages, apple-trees and rose-bushes grow, though they certainly require much care, as the sharp west wind blows upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in thought to old times, farther back than the days when Christian VII ruled. The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows and aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads, just as it did then; towards the west, where broad streams run into the bays, are marshes and meadows encircled by lofty, sandy hills, which, like a chain of Alps, raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are only broken by high ridges of clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites out great mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun wasshining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissumwas carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churchesthere are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like apiece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bellsare hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and thecongregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree orbush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had notplaced a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the samenow. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard; here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by loving hands on a child’s grave, and one of the women who had come out of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.”It was a good sermon to-day,” the man said at last. “If we hadnot God to trust in, we should have nothing.”"Yes,” replied the woman, “He sends joy and sorrow, and He has aright to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been fiveyears old if we had been permitted to keep him.”"It is no use fretting, wife,” said the man. “The boy is wellprovided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to.”They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses amongthe sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where thesea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, whatseemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushedbetween the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped andbeat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything wasquiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon takenoff their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the duneswhich stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested intheir course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluishstalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours alsocame out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on thebeach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stonesblew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing ormoaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded abovethe thunder of the waves. The fisherman’s little cottage was on thevery margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; everynow and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.It was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on theair became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea withundiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but insuch weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently therewas a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:”There’s a large ship stranded on the farthest reef.”In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastilydressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was light enough tomake the surrounding objects visible to those who could open theireyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the violence of the wind wasterrible, and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if onecrept forward between the gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sealike down, and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards thebeach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in theoffing; she was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over thereef, three or four cables’ length out of the usual channel. She drovetowards the shore, struck on the second reef, and remained fixed.It was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in upon thevessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought theyheard cries for help from those on board, and could plainlydistinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors.Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on thebowsprit, tearing it from the vessel, and the stern was lifted highabove the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea, and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman; the sailors said that she was quite dead, but the women thought they saw signs of life in her, so the stranger was carried across the sand-hills to the fisherman’s cottage. How beautiful and fair she was!She must be a great lady, they said.They laid her upon the humble bed; there was not a yard of linenon it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.Life returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing ofwhat had happened or where she was; and it was better so, foreverything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The samething happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about”The King of England’s Son.”"Alas! how terrible to seeThe gallant bark sink rapidly.”Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore; they were all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on the coast.For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest; but she awokein pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened herwonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words, but nobodyunderstood her.- And lo! as a reward for the sorrow and sufferingshe had undergone, she held in her arms a new-born babe. The childthat was to have rested upon a magnificent couch, draped with silkencurtains, in a luxurious home; it was to have been welcomed with joyto a life rich in all the good things of this world; and now Heavenhad ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat, that itshould not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when thefisherman’s wife laid the child upon the mother’s bosom, it restedon a heart that beat no more- she was dead.The child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxurywas cast into the world, washed by the sea among the sand-hills toshare the fate and hardships of the poor.Here we are reminded again of the song about “The King ofEngland’s Son,” for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent atthe time, when knights and squires plundered those who had beensaved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south ofNissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman days, when, as we have just said,the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudelywere past, long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice forthe unfortunate existed then, just as it does in our own time inmany a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate childwould have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast bythe winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in thecottage of the poor fisherman’s wife, who had stood, only the daybefore, beside her child’s grave, who would have been five years oldthat day if God had spared it to her.No one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even forma conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter andson-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and violentstorms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given:”Foundered at sea- all lost.” But in the fisherman’s cottage among thesand-hills near Hunsby, there lived a little scion of the rich Spanishfamily.Where Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to find ameal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for thehungry.They called the boy Jurgen.”It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark,” thepeople said.”It might be an Italian or a Spaniard,” remarked the clergyman.But to the fisherman’s wife these nations seemed all the same, andshe consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as aChristian.The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and hebecame strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble cottage, and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language.The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man’s life!To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience cold and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the poor; but he also tasted of their joys.Childhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of themshines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources ofpleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full ofplaythings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral oryellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds’ eggsand smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes’skeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, whiteand shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones- all theseseemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy’s thoughts,and he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant in him.How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard, and howdexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells hecould put together pictures and ships with which one could decoratethe room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, hisfoster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. Hehad a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally fromhis lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might havesounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere elsethan in the fisherman’s hut by the North Sea.One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among otherthings a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore.Some were put into saucepans and cooked, for they were thought to be fit to eat, and others lay and shrivelled in the sand- they did notaccomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. WouldJurgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, buthe had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor hisfriends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followedanother, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itselfwas a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calmor storm- the crested wave or the smooth surface.The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among thefisherman’s house one was especially looked forward to; this was, infact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen’s foster-mother, theeel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in acart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full ofeels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it,and Jurgen was allowed to guide them.The eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought ameasure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or acupful if there were not enough glasses; even Jurgen had about athimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, as the eel-breeder said;he always told one story over and over again, and if his hearerslaughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jurgen while still aboy, and also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder’sstory on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to listento it. It runs thus:”The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged leave to goa little farther out. ‘Don’t go too far,’ said their mother; ‘the uglyeel-spearer might come and snap you all up.’ But they went too far,and of eight daughters only three came back to the mother, and thesewept and said, ‘We only went a little way out, and the uglyeel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters todeath.’ ‘They’ll come back again,’ said the mother eel. ‘Oh, no,’exclaimed the daughters, ‘for he skinned them, cut them in two, andfried them.’ ‘Oh, they’ll come back again,’ the mother eelpersisted. ‘No,’ replied the daughters, ‘for he ate them up.’ ‘They’llcome back again,’ repeated the mother eel. ‘But he drank brandyafter them,’ said the daughters. ‘Ah, then they’ll never come back,’said the mother, and she burst out crying, ‘it’s the brandy thatburies the eels.’”"And therefore,” said the eel-breeder in conclusion, “it is alwaysthe proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels.”This story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous recollectionof Jurgen’s life. He also wanted to go a little way farther out and upthe bay- that is to say, out into the world in a ship- but hismother said, like the eel-breeder, “There are so many bad people-eel spearers!” He wished to go a little way past the sand-hills, outinto the dunes, and at last he did: four happy days, the brightestof his childhood, fell to his lot, and the whole beauty andsplendour of Jutland, all the happiness and sunshine of his home, were concentrated in these. He went to a festival, but it was a burialfeast.A rich relation of the fisherman’s family had died; the farm wassituated far eastward in the country and a little towards the north.Jurgen’s foster parents went there, and he also went with them fromthe dunes, over heath and moor, where the Skjaerumaa takes itscourse through green meadows and contains many eels; mother eelslive there with their daughters, who are caught and eaten up by wickedpeople. But do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards theirown fellow-men? Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wickedpeople? And though he was well spoken of, did he not also wish to kill the architect who built the castle for him, with its thick walls andtower, at the point where the Skjaerumaa falls into the bay? Jurgenand his parents now stood there; the wall and the ramparts stillremained, and red crumbling fragments lay scattered around. Here itwas that Sir Bugge, after the architect had left him, said to one ofhis men, “Go after him and say, ‘Master, the tower shakes.’ If heturns round, kill him and take away the money I paid him, but if hedoes not turn round let him go in peace.” The man did as he wastold; the architect did not turn round, but called back “The towerdoes not shake in the least, but one day a man will come from the west in a blue cloak- he will cause it to shake!” And so indeed it happened a hundred years later, for the North Sea broke in and cast down the tower; but Predbjorn Gyldenstjerne, the man who then possessed the castle, built a new castle higher up at the end of the meadow, and that one is standing to this day, and is called Norre-Vosborg.Jurgen and his foster parents went past this castle. They had toldhim its story during the long winter evenings, and now he saw thestately edifice, with its double moat, and trees and bushes; the wall,covered with ferns, rose within the moat, but the lofty lime-treeswere the most beautiful of all; they grew up to the highest windows,and the air was full of their sweet fragrance. In a north-westcorner of the garden stood a great bush full of blossom, like wintersnow amid the summer’s green; it was a juniper bush, the first thatJurgen had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the lime-trees;the child’s soul treasured up these memories of beauty and fragranceto gladden the old man.From Norre-Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the journeybecame more pleasant, for they met some other people who were alsogoing to the funeral and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had tosit all together on a little box at the back of the waggon, but eventhis, they thought, was better than walking. So they continued theirjourney across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggonstopped every now and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid the heather. The sun shone with considerable heat, and it waswonderful to behold how in the far distance something like smokeseemed to be rising; yet this smoke was clearer than the air; it wastransparent, and looked like rays of light rolling and dancing afarover the heath.”That is Lokeman driving his sheep,” said some one.And this was enough to excite Jurgen’s imagination. He felt asif they were now about to enter fairyland, though everything was stillreal. How quiet it was! The heath stretched far and wide around themlike a beautiful carpet. The heather was in blossom, and thejuniper-bushes and fresh oak saplings rose like bouquets from theearth. An inviting place for a frolic, if it had not been for thenumber of poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke; they alsomentioned that the place had formerly been infested with wolves, andthat the district was still called Wolfsborg for this reason. Theold man who was driving the oxen told them that in the lifetime of hisfather the horses had many a hard battle with the wild beasts thatwere now exterminated. One morning, when he himself had gone out to bring in the horses, he found one of them standing with its forefeeton a wolf it had killed, but the savage animal had torn andlacerated the brave horse’s legs.The journey over the heath and the deep sand was only tooquickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning, wherethey found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggonstood side by side, while the horses and oxen had been turned out tograze on the scanty pasture. Great sand-hills like those at home bythe North Sea rose behind the house and extended far and wide. How had they come here, so many miles inland? They were as large and high as those on the coast, and the wind had carried them there; there was also a legend attached to them.Psalms were sung, and a few of the old people shed tears; withthis exception, the guests were cheerful enough, it seemed toJurgen, and there was plenty to eat and drink. There were eels ofthe fattest, requiring brandy to bury them, as the eel-breeder said;and certainly they did not forget to carry out his maxim here.Jurgen went in and out the house; and on the third day he feltas much at home as he did in the fisherman’s cottage among thesand-hills, where he had passed his early days. Here on the heath were riches unknown to him until now; for flowers, blackberries, andbilberries were to be found in profusion, so large and sweet that whenthey were crushed beneath the tread of passers-by the heather wasstained with their red juice. Here was a barrow and yonder another.Then columns of smoke rose into the still air; it was a heath fire,they told him- how brightly it blazed in the dark evening!The fourth day came, and the funeral festivities were at an end;they were to go back from the land-dunes to the sand-dunes.”Ours are better,” said the old fisherman, Jurgen’s foster-father;”these have no strength.”And they spoke of the way in which the sand-dunes had come inland,and it seemed very easy to understand. This is how they explained it:A dead body had been found on the coast, and the peasants buriedit in the churchyard. From that time the sand began to fly about andthe sea broke in with violence. A wise man in the district advisedthem to open the grave and see if the buried man was not lying sucking his thumb, for if so he must be a sailor, and the sea would not rest until it had got him back. The grave was opened, and he really was found with his thumb in his mouth. So they laid him upon a cart, and harnessed two oxen to it; and the oxen ran off with the sailor over heath and moor to the ocean, as if they had been stung by an adder.Then the sand ceased to fly inland, but the hills that had beenpiled up still remained.All this Jurgen listened to and treasured up in his memory ofthe happiest days of his childhood- the days of the burial feast.How delightful it was to see fresh places and to mix withstrangers! And he was to go still farther, for he was not yet fourteenyears old when he went out in a ship to see the world. Heencountered bad weather, heavy seas, unkindness, and hard men- such were his experiences, for he became ship-boy. Cold nights, bad living, and blows had to be endured; then he felt his noble Spanish blood boil within him, and bitter, angry, words rose to his lips, but he gulped them down; it was better, although he felt as the eel must feel when it is skinned, cut up, and put into the frying-pan.”I shall get over it,” said a voice within him.He saw the Spanish coast, the native land of his parents. Heeven saw the town where they had lived in joy and prosperity, but heknew nothing of his home or his relations, and his relations knew justas little about him.The poor ship boy was not permitted to land, but on the last dayof their stay he managed to get ashore. There were several purchasesto be made, and he was sent to carry them on board.Jurgen stood there in his shabby clothes which looked as if theyhad been washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney; he, who hadalways dwelt among the sand-hills, now saw a great city for thefirst time. How lofty the houses seemed, and what a number of people there were in the streets! some pushing this way, some that- a perfect maelstrom of citizens and peasants, monks and soldiers- the jingling of bells on the trappings of asses and mules, the chiming of church bells, calling, shouting, hammering and knocking- all going on at once. Every trade was located in the basement of the houses or inthe side thoroughfares; and the sun shone with such heat, and theair was so close, that one seemed to be in an oven full of beetles,cockchafers, bees and flies, all humming and buzzing together.Jurgen scarcely knew where he was or which way he went. Then he saw just in front of him the great doorway of a cathedral; the lights were gleaming in the dark aisles, and the fragrance of incense was wafted towards him. Even the poorest beggar ventured up the steps into the sanctuary. Jurgen followed the sailor he was with into the church, and stood in the sacred edifice. Coloured pictures gleamed from their golden background, and on the altar stood the figure of the Virgin with the child Jesus, surrounded by lights and flowers; priests in festive robes were chanting, and choir boys in dazzling attire swungsilver censers. What splendour and magnificence he saw there! Itstreamed in upon his soul and overpowered him: the church and thefaith of his parents surrounded him, and touched a chord in hisheart that caused his eyes to overflow with tears.They went from the church to the market-place. Here a quantityof provisions were given him to carry. The way to the harbour waslong; and weary and overcome with various emotions, he rested for afew moments before a splendid house, with marble pillars, statues, and broad steps. Here he rested his burden against the wall. Then a porter in livery came out, lifted up a silver-headed cane, and drove him away- him, the grandson of that house. But no one knew that, and he just as little as any one. Then he went on board again, and once more encountered rough words and blows, much work and little sleep-such was his experience of life. They say it is good to suffer inone’s young days, if age brings something to make up for it.His period of service on board the ship came to an end, and thevessel lay once more at Ringkjobing in Jutland. He came ashore, andwent home to the sand-dunes near Hunsby; but his foster-mother haddied during his absence.A hard winter followed this summer. Snow-storms swept over landand sea, and there was difficulty in getting from one place toanother. How unequally things are distributed in this world! Herethere was bitter cold and snow-storms, while in Spain there wasburning sunshine and oppressive heat. Yet, when a clear frosty daycame, and Jurgen saw the swans flying in numbers from the seatowards the land, across to Norre-Vosborg, it seemed to him thatpeople could breathe more freely here; the summer also in this part ofthe world was splendid. In imagination he saw the heath blossom andbecome purple with rich juicy berries, and the elder-bushes andlime-trees at Norre Vosborg in flower. He made up his mind to go there again.Spring came, and the fishing began. Jurgen was now an activehelper in this, for he had grown during the last year, and was quickat work. He was full of life, and knew how to swim, to tread water,and to turn over and tumble in the strong tide. They often warnedhim to beware of the sharks, which seize the best swimmer, draw himdown, and devour him; but such was not to be Jurgen’s fate.At a neighbour’s house in the dunes there was a boy namedMartin, with whom Jurgen was on very friendly terms, and they bothtook service in the same ship to Norway, and also went together toHolland. They never had a quarrel, but a person can be easilyexcited to quarrel when he is naturally hot tempered, for he oftenshows it in many ways; and this is just what Jurgen did one day whenthey fell out about the merest trifle. They were sitting behind thecabin door, eating from a delft plate, which they had placed betweenthem. Jurgen held his pocket-knife in his hand and raised it towardsMartin, and at the same time became ashy pale, and his eyes had anugly look. Martin only said, “Ah! ah! you are one of that sort, areyou? Fond of using the knife!”The words were scarcely spoken, when Jurgen’s hand sank down. Hedid not answer a syllable, but went on eating, and afterwards returnedto his work. When they were resting again he walked up to Martin andsaid:”Hit me in the face! I deserve it. But sometimes I feel as if Ihad a pot in me that boils over.”"There, let the thing rest,” replied Martin.And after that they were almost better friends than ever; whenafterwards they returned to the dunes and began telling theiradventures, this was told among the rest. Martin said that Jurgenwas certainly passionate, but a good fellow after all.They were both young and healthy, well-grown and strong; butJurgen was the cleverer of the two.In Norway the peasants go into the mountains and take the cattlethere to find pasture. On the west coast of Jutland huts have beenerected among the sand-hills; they are built of pieces of wreck, andthatched with turf and heather; there are sleeping places round thewalls, and here the fishermen live and sleep during the earlyspring. Every fisherman has a female helper, or manager as she iscalled, who baits his hooks, prepares warm beer for him when hecomes ashore, and gets the dinner cooked and ready for him by the time he comes back to the hut tired and hungry. Besides this the managers bring up the fish from the boats, cut them open, prepare them, and have generally a great deal to do.Jurgen, his father, and several other fishermen and their managersinhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.One of the girls, whose name was Else, had known Jurgen fromchildhood; they were glad to see each other, and were of the sameopinion on many points, but in appearance they were entirely opposite; for he was dark, and she was pale, and fair, and had flaxen hair, and eyes as blue as the sea in sunshine.As they were walking together one day, Jurgen held her hand veryfirmly in his, and she said to him:”Jurgen, I have something I want to say to you; let me be yourmanager, for you are like a brother to me; but Martin, whosehousekeeper I am- he is my lover- but you need not tell this to theothers.”It seemed to Jurgen as if the loose sand was giving way underhis feet. He did not speak a word, but nodded his head, and that meant “yes.” It was all that was necessary; but he suddenly felt in hisheart that he hated Martin, and the more he thought the more he feltconvinced that Martin had stolen away from him the only being heever loved, and that this was Else: he had never thought of Else inthis way before, but now it all became plain to him.When the sea is rather rough, and the fishermen are coming home intheir great boats, it is wonderful to see how they cross the reefs.One of them stands upright in the bow of the boat, and the otherswatch him sitting with the oars in their hands. Outside the reef itlooks as if the boat was not approaching land but going back to sea;then the man who is standing up gives them the signal that the greatwave is coming which is to float them across the reef. The boat islifted high into the air, so that the keel is seen from the shore; thenext moment nothing can be seen, mast, keel, and people are allhidden- it seems as though the sea had devoured them; but in a fewmoments they emerge like a great sea animal climbing up the waves, and the oars move as if the creature had legs. The second and third reef are passed in the same manner; then the fishermen jump into thewater and push the boat towards the shore- every wave helps them-and at length they have it drawn up, beyond the reach of the breakers.A wrong order given in front of the reef- the slightest hesitation- and the boat would be lost, “Then it would be all over with me and Martin too!” This thought passed through Jurgen’s mind one day while theywere out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenlyill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few oars’ strokes fromthe reef, and Jurgen sprang from his seat and stood up in the bow.”Father-let me come!” he said, and he glanced at Martin and acrossthe waves; every oar bent with the exertions of the rowers as thegreat wave came towards them, and he saw his father’s pale face, anddared not obey the evil impulse that had shot through his brain. Theboat came safely across the reef to land; but the evil thoughtremained in his heart, and roused up every little fibre ofbitterness which he remembered between himself and Martin since they had known each other. But he could not weave the fibres together, nor did he endeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had robbed him, and this was enough to make him hate his former friend. Several of the fishermen saw this, but Martin did not- he remained as obliging and talkative as ever, in fact he talked rather too much.Jurgen’s foster-father took to his bed, and it became his death-bed, for he died a week afterwards; and now Jurgen was heir to the little house behind the sand-hills. It was small, certainly, but still it was something, and Martin had nothing of the kind.”You will not go to sea again, Jurgen, I suppose,” observed one ofthe old fishermen. “You will always stay with us now.”But this was not Jurgen’s intention; he wanted to see something ofthe world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an uncle at Old Skjagen,who was a fisherman, but also a prosperous merchant with ships upon the sea; he was said to be a good old man, and it would not be a bad thing to enter his service. Old Skjagen lies in the extreme north of Jutland, as far away from the Hunsby dunes as one can travel in that country; and this is just what pleased Jurgen, for he did not wantto remain till the wedding of Martin and Else, which would takeplace in a week or two.The old fisherman said it was foolish to go away, for now thatJurgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to take himinstead of Martin.Jurgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to make outwhat he meant- the old man brought Else to him, and she said:”You have a home now; you ought to think of that.”And Jurgen thought of many things.The sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in thehuman heart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, rushed through Jurgen’s brain, and he said to Else:”If Martin had a house like mine, which of us would you ratherhave?”"But Martin has no house and cannot get one.”"Suppose he had one?”"Well, then I would certainly take Martin, for that is what myheart tells me; but one cannot live upon love.”Jurgen turned these things over in his mind all night. Somethingwas working within him, he hardly knew what it was, but it was evenstronger than his love for Else; and so he went to Martin’s, andwhat he said and did there was well considered. He let the house toMartin on most liberal terms, saying that he wished to go to seaagain, because he loved it. And Else kissed him when she heard ofit, for she loved Martin best.Jurgen proposed to start early in the morning, and on theevening before his departure, when it was already getting rather late,he felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He started, and among thedunes met the old fisherman, who was angry at his leaving the place.The old man made jokes about Martin, and declared there must be some magic about that fellow, of whom the girls were so fond.Jurgen did not pay any attention to his remarks, but said good-byeto the old man and went on towards the house where Martin dwelt. He heard loud talking inside; Martin was not alone, and this madeJurgen waver in his determination, for he did not wish to see Elseagain. On second thoughts, he decided that it was better not to hearany more thanks from Martin, and so he turned back.On the following morning, before the sun rose, he fastened hisknapsack on his back, took his wooden provision box in his hand, and went away among the sand-hills towards the coast path. This way was more pleasant than the heavy sand road, and besides it was shorter; and he intended to go first to Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg, where the eel-breeder lived, to whom he had promised a visit.The sea lay before him, clear and blue, and the mussel shellsand pebbles, the playthings of his childhood, crunched over hisfeet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began to bleed; it was a trifling occurrence, but trifles sometimes are of greatimportance. A few large drops of blood fell upon one of his sleeves.He wiped them off and stopped the bleeding, and it seemed to him as if this had cleared and lightened his brain. The sea-cale bloomed hereand there in the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuckit in his hat; he determined to be merry and light-hearted, for he wasgoing out into the wide world- “a little way out, beyond the bay,”as the young eels had said. “Beware of bad people who will catchyou, and skin you, and put you in the frying-pan!” he repeated inhis mind, and smiled, for he thought he should find his way throughthe world- good courage is a strong weapon!The sun was high in the heavens when he approached the narrowentrance to Nissum Bay. He looked back and saw a couple of horsemen galloping a long distance behind him, and there were other people with them. But this did not concern him.The ferry-boat was on the opposite side of the bay. Jurgencalled to the ferry-man, and the latter came over with his boat.Jurgen stepped in; but before he had got half-way across, the men whom he had seen riding so hastily, came up, hailed the ferry-man, and commanded him to return in the name of the law. Jurgen did notunderstand the reason of this, but he thought it would be best to turnback, and therefore he himself took an oar and returned. As soon asthe boat touched the shore, the men sprang on board, and before he was aware of it, they had bound his hands with a rope.”This wicked deed will cost you your life,” they said. “It is agood thing we have caught you.”He was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had beenfound dead, with his throat cut. One of the fishermen, late on theprevious evening, had met Jurgen going towards Martin’s house; thiswas not the first time Jurgen had raised his knife against Martin,so they felt sure that he was the murderer. The prison was in a townat a great distance, and the wind was contrary for going there by sea;but it would not take half an hour to get across the bay, andanother quarter of an hour would bring them to Norre-Vosborg, thegreat castle with ramparts and moat. One of Jurgen’s captors was afisherman, a brother of the keeper of the castle, and he said it mightbe managed that Jurgen should be placed for the present in the dungeon at Vosborg, where Long Martha the gipsy had been shut up till her execution. They paid no attention to Jurgen’s defence; the few drops of blood on his shirt-sleeve bore heavy witness against him. But he was conscious of his innocence, and as there was no chance of clearing himself at present he submitted to his fate.The party landed just at the place where Sir Bugge’s castle hadstood, and where Jurgen had walked with his foster-parents after theburial feast, during. the four happiest days of his childhood. Hewas led by the well-known path, over the meadow to Vosborg; oncemore the elders were in bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forthsweet fragrance, and it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he hadlast seen the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was astaircase which led to a place below the entrance, from whence thereis access to a low, vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long Martha hadbeen imprisoned, and from here she was led away to the scaffold. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and had imagined that if shecould obtain two more she would be able to fly and make herselfinvisible. In the middle of the roof of the cellar there was alittle narrow air-hole, but no window. The flowering lime treescould not breathe refreshing fragrance into that abode, whereeverything was dark and mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the cell; but a good conscience is a soft pillow, and therefore Jurgencould sleep well.The thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the outside byan iron bar; but the goblin of superstition can creep through akeyhole into a baron’s castle just as easily as it can into afisherman’s cottage, and why should he not creep in here, where Jurgen sat thinking of Long Martha and her wicked deeds? Her last thoughts on the night before her execution had filled this place, and the magic that tradition asserted to have been practised here, in SirSvanwedel’s time, came into Jurgen’s mind, and made him shudder; but a sunbeam, a refreshing thought from without, penetrated his hearteven here- it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the sweet smelling lime-trees.He was not left there long. They took him away to the town ofRingkjobing, where he was imprisoned with equal severity.Those times were not like ours. The common people were treatedharshly; and it was just after the days when farms were converted intoknights’ estates, when coachmen and servants were often mademagistrates, and had power to sentence a poor man, for a smalloffence, to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges ofthis kind were still to be found; and in Jutland, so far from thecapital, and from the enlightened, well-meaning, head of theGovernment, the law was still very loosely administered sometimes- the smallest grievance Jurgen could expect was that his case should be delayed.His dwelling was cold and comfortless; and how long would he beobliged to bear all this? It seemed his fate to suffer misfortuneand sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on thedifference of fortune on earth, and to wonder why this fate had beenallotted to him; yet he felt sure that all would be made clear inthe next life, the existence that awaits us when this life is over.His faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman’s cottage; thelight which had never shone into his father’s mind, in all therichness and sunshine of Spain, was sent to him to be his comfort inpoverty and distress, a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.The spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of theNorth Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was blowing, and then it sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard road with a mine underneath. Jurgen heard these sounds in his prison, and it was a relief to him. No music could have touched his heart as did these sounds of the sea- the rolling sea, the boundlesssea, on which a man can be borne across the world before the wind,carrying his own house with him wherever he goes, just as the snailcarries its home even into a strange country.He listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the thought arose-”Free! free! How happy to be free, even barefooted and in raggedclothes!” Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, the fierynature rose within him, and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.Weeks, months, a whole year had gone by, when Niels the thief,called also a horse-dealer, was arrested; and now better times came,and it was seen that Jurgen had been wrongly accused.On the afternoon before Jurgen’s departure from home, and beforethe murder, Niels the thief, had met Martin at a beer-house in theneighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses were drank, not enough to cloud the brain, but enough to loosen Martin’s tongue. He began to boast and to say that he had obtained a house and intended to marry, and when Niels asked him where he was going to get the money, he slapped his pocket proudly and said:”The money is here, where it ought to be.”This boast cost him his life; for when he went home Niels followedhim, and cut his throat, intending to rob the murdered man of thegold, which did not exist.All this was circumstantially explained; but it is enough for usto know that Jurgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for having been imprisoned a whole year, and shut out from allcommunication with his fellow creatures? They told him he wasfortunate in being proved innocent, and that he might go. Theburgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses, and manycitizens offered him provisions and beer- there were still goodpeople; they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of allwas that the merchant Bronne, of Skjagen, into whose service Jurgenhad proposed entering the year before, was just at that time onbusiness in the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story;he was kind-hearted, and understood what Jurgen must have felt andsuffered. Therefore he made up his mind to make it up to the poor lad, and convince him that there were still kind folks in the world.So Jurgen went forth from prison as if to paradise, to findfreedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this path now, forno goblet of life is all bitterness; no good man would pour out such adraught for his fellow-man, and how should He do it, Who is lovepersonified?”Let everything be buried and forgotten,” said Bronne, themerchant. “Let us draw a thick line through last year: we will evenburn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear, friendly,peaceful Skjagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner; but it is agood warm chimney-corner, and its windows open toward every part of the world.”What a journey that was: It was like taking fresh breath out ofthe cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed inpride and beauty, and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew hispipe, which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. FataMorgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness, appearedwith hanging gardens and waving forests, and the wonderful cloudcalled “Lokeman driving his sheep” also was seen.Up towards Skjagen they went, through the land of the Wendels,whence the men with long beards (the Longobardi or Lombards) hademigrated in the reign of King Snio, when all the children and oldpeople were to have been killed, till the noble Dame Gambaruk proposed that the young people should emigrate. Jurgen knew all this, he had some little knowledge; and although he did not know the land of the Lombards beyond the lofty Alps, he had an idea that it must bethere, for in his boyhood he had been in the south, in Spain. Hethought of the plenteousness of the southern fruit, of the redpomegranate flowers, of the humming, buzzing, and toiling in the great beehive of a city he had seen; but home is the best place after all, and Jurgen’s home was Denmark.At last they arrived at “Vendilskaga,” as Skjagen is called in oldNorwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time Old Skjagen, with theeastern and western town, extended for miles, with sand hills andarable land as far as the lighthouse near “Grenen.” Then, as now,the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills- awilderness in which the wind sports with the sand, and where the voice of the sea-gull and wild swan strikes harshly on the ear.In the south-west, a mile from “Grenen,” lies Old Skjagen;merchant Bronne dwelt here, and this was also to be Jurgen’s homefor the future. The dwelling-house was tarred, and all the smallout-buildings had been put together from pieces of wreck. There was no fence, for indeed there was nothing to fence in except the long rows of fishes which were hung upon lines, one above the other, to dry in the wind. The entire coast was strewn with spoiled herrings, for there were so many of these fish that a net was scarcely thrown into the sea before it was filled. They were caught by carloads, and many of them were either thrown back into the sea or left to lie on the beach.The old man’s wife and daughter and his servants also came to meethim with great rejoicing. There was a great squeezing of hands, andtalking and questioning. And the daughter, what a sweet face andbright eyes she had!The inside of the house was comfortable and roomy. Fritters,that a king would have looked upon as a dainty dish, were placed onthe table, and there was wine from the Skjagen vineyard- that is,the sea; for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and preparedin barrels and in bottles.When the mother and daughter heard who Jurgen was, and howinnocently he had suffered, they looked at him in a still morefriendly way; and pretty Clara’s eyes had a look of especialinterest as she listened to his story. Jurgen found a happy home inOld Skjagen. It did his heart good, for it had been sorely tried. Hehad drunk the bitter goblet of love which softens or hardens theheart, according to circumstances. Jurgen’s heart was still soft- itwas young, and therefore it was a good thing that Miss Clara was going in three weeks’ time to Christiansand in Norway, in her father’s ship, to visit an aunt and to stay there the whole winter.On the Sunday before she went away they all went to church, to theHoly Communion. The church was large and handsome, and had been built centuries before by Scotchmen and Dutchmen; it stood some little way out of the town. It was rather ruinous certainly, and the road to it was heavy, through deep sand, but the people gladly surmounted these difficulties to get to the house of God, to sing psalms and to hear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the walls of the church, but the graves were kept free from it.It was the largest church north of the Limfjorden. The VirginMary, with a golden crown on her head and the child Jesus in her arms, stood lifelike on the altar; the holy Apostles had been carved inthe choir, and on the walls there were portraits of the oldburgomasters and councillors of Skjagen; the pulpit was of carvedwork. The sun shone brightly into the church, and its radiance fell onthe polished brass chandelier and on the little ship that hung fromthe vaulted roof.Jurgen felt overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like that whichpossessed him, when, as a boy, he stood in the splendid Spanishcathedral. But here the feeling was different, for he felt consciousof being one of the congregation.After the sermon followed Holy Communion. He partook of thebread and wine, and it so happened that he knelt by the side of MissClara; but his thoughts were so fixed upon heaven and the HolySacrament that he did not notice his neighbour until he rose fromhis knees, and then he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.She left Skjagen and went to Norway two days later. He remainedbehind, and made himself useful on the farm and at the fishery. Hewent out fishing, and in those days fish were more plentiful andlarger than they are now. The shoals of the mackerel glittered inthe dark nights, and indicated where they were swimming; thegurnards snarled, and the crabs gave forth pitiful yells when theywere chased, for fish are not so mute as people say.Every Sunday Jurgen went to church; and when his eyes rested onthe picture of the Virgin Mary over the altar as he sat there, theyoften glided away to the spot where they had knelt side by side.Autumn came, and brought rain and snow with it; the water roseup right into the town of Skjagen, the sand could not suck it allin, one had to wade through it or go by boat. The storms threwvessel after vessel on the fatal reefs; there were snow-storm andsand-storms; the sand flew up to the houses, blocking the entrances,so that people had to creep up through the chimneys; that wasnothing at all remarkable here. It was pleasant and cheerfulindoors, where peat fuel and fragments of wood from the wrecksblazed and crackled upon the hearth. Merchant Bronne read aloud,from an old chronicle, about Prince Hamlet of Denmark, who had come over from England, landed near Bovbjerg, and fought a battle; close by Ramme was his grave, only a few miles from the place where the eel-breeder lived; hundreds of barrow rose there from the heath, forming as it were an enormous churchyard. Merchant Bronne had himself been at Hamlet’s grave; they spoke about old times, and about their neighbours, the English and the Scotch, and Jurgen sang the air of “The King of England’s Son,” and of his splendid ship and its outfit.”In the hour of peril when most men fear,He clasped the bride that he held so dear,And proved himself the son of a King;Of his courage and valour let us sing.”This verse Jurgen sang with so much feeling that his eyesbeamed, and they were black and sparkling since his infancy.There was wealth, comfort, and happiness even among the domesticanimals, for they were all well cared for, and well kept. Thekitchen looked bright with its copper and tin utensils, and whiteplates, and from the rafters hung hams, beef, and winter stores inplenty. This can still be seen in many rich farms on the west coast ofJutland: plenty to eat and drink, clean, prettily decorated rooms,active minds, cheerful tempers, and hospitality can be found there, asin an Arab’s tent.Jurgen had never spent such a happy time since the famous burialfeast, and yet Miss Clara was absent, except in the thoughts andmemory of all.In April a ship was to start for Norway, and Jurgen was to sail init. He was full of life and spirits, and looked so sturdy and wellthat Dame Bronne said it did her good to see him.”And it does one good to look at you also, old wife,” said themerchant. “Jurgen has brought fresh life into our winter evenings, andinto you too, mother. You look younger than ever this year, and seemwell and cheerful. But then you were once the prettiest girl inViborg, and that is saying a great deal, for I have always found theViborg girls the prettiest of any.”Jurgen said nothing, but he thought of a certain maiden ofSkjagen, whom he was soon to visit. The ship set sail forChristiansand in Norway, and as the wind was favourable it soonarrived there.One morning merchant Bronne went out to the lighthouse, whichstands a little way out of Old Skjagen, not far from “Grenen.” Thelight was out, and the sun was already high in the heavens, when hemounted the tower. The sand-banks extend a whole mile from theshore, beneath the water, outside these banks; many ships could beseen that day, and with the aid of his telescope the old man thoughthe descried his own ship, the Karen Bronne. Yes! certainly, thereshe was, sailing homewards with Clara and Jurgen on board.Clara sat on deck, and saw the sand-hills gradually appearing inthe distance; the church and lighthouse looked like a heron and a swan rising from the blue waters. If the wind held good they might reach home in about an hour. So near they were to home and all its joys-so near to death and all its terrors! A plank in the ship gave way,and the water rushed in; the crew flew to the pumps, and did theirbest to stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted, but they werestill fully a mile from the shore. Some fishing boats were in sight,but they were too far off to be of any use. The wind blew towardsthe land, the tide was in their favour, but it was all useless; theship could not be saved.Jurgen threw his right arm round Clara, and pressed her to him.With what a look she gazed up into his face, as with a prayer to Godfor help he breasted the waves, which rushed over the sinking ship!She uttered a cry, but she felt safe and certain that he would notleave her to sink. And in this hour of terror and danger Jurgen feltas the king’s son did, as told in the old song:”In the hour of peril when most men fear,He clasped the bride that he held so dear.”How glad he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his wayonward with his feet and one arm, while he held the young girl upfirmly with the other. He rested on the waves, he trod the water- infact, did everything he could think of, in order not to fatiguehimself, and to reserve strength enough to reach land. He heardClara sigh, and felt her shudder convulsively, and he pressed her more closely to him. Now and then a wave rolled over them, the current lifted them; the water, although deep, was so clear that for amoment he imagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering, orLeviathan himself ready to swallow them. Now the clouds cast ashadow over the water, then again came the playing sunbeams; flocks of loudly screaming birds passed over him, and the plump and lazy wild ducks which allow themselves to be drifted by the waves rose upterrified at the sight of the swimmer. He began to feel his strengthdecreasing, but he was only a few cable lengths’ distance from theshore, and help was coming, for a boat was approaching him. At thismoment he distinctly saw a white staring figure under the water- awave lifted him up, and he came nearer to the figure- he felt aviolent shock, and everything became dark around him.On the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship, which was covered withwater at high tide; the white figure head rested against the anchor,the sharp iron edge of which rose just above the surface. Jurgen hadcome in contact with this; the tide had driven him against it withgreat force. He sank down stunned with the blow, but the next wavelifted him and the young girl up again. Some fishermen, coming witha boat, seized them and dragged them into it. The blood streameddown over Jurgen’s face; he seemed dead, but still held the young girlso tightly that they were obliged to take her from him by force. Shewas pale and lifeless; they laid her in the boat, and rowed as quicklyas possible to the shore. They tried every means to restore Clara tolife, but it was all of no avail. Jurgen had been swimming for somedistance with a corpse in his arms, and had exhausted his strength forone who was dead.Jurgen still breathed, so the fishermen carried him to the nearesthouse upon the sand-hills, where a smith and general dealer livedwho knew something of surgery, and bound up Jurgen’s wounds in atemporary way until a surgeon could be obtained from the nearesttown the next day. The injured man’s brain was affected, and in hisdelirium he uttered wild cries; but on the third day he lay quietand weak upon his bed; his life seemed to hang by a thread, and thephysician said it would be better for him if this thread broke. “Letus pray that God may take him,” he said, “for he will never be thesame man again.”But life did not depart from him- the thread would not break,but the thread of memory was severed; the thread of his mind hadbeen cut through, and what was still more grievous, a body remained- a living healthy body that wandered about like a troubled spirit.Jurgen remained in merchant Bronne’s house. “He was hurt whileendeavouring to save our child,” said the old man, “and now he isour son.” People called Jurgen insane, but that was not exactly thecorrect term. He was like an instrument in which the strings are looseand will give no sound; only occasionally they regained their powerfor a few minutes, and then they sounded as they used to do. Hewould sing snatches of songs or old melodies, pictures of the pastwould rise before him, and then disappear in the mist, as it were, butas a general rule he sat staring into vacancy, without a thought. Wemay conjecture that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes lost theirbrightness, and looked like clouded glass.”Poor mad Jurgen,” said the people. And this was the end of a lifewhose infancy was to have been surrounded with wealth and splendour had his parents lived! All his great mental abilities had been lost, nothing but hardship, sorrow, and disappointment had been his fate. He was like a rare plant, torn from its native soil, and tossed uponthe beach to wither there. And was this one of God’s creatures,fashioned in His own likeness, to have no better fate? Was he to beonly the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator wouldcertainly repay him in the life to come for what he had suffered andlost here. “The Lord is good to all; and His mercy is over all Hisworks.” The pious old wife of the merchant repeated these words from the Psalms of David in patience and hope, and the prayer of herheart was that Jurgen might soon be called away to enter intoeternal life.In the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with sandClara lay buried. Jurgen did not seem to know this; it did not enterhis mind, which could only retain fragments of the past. EverySunday he went to church with the old people, and sat theresilently, staring vacantly before him. One day, when the Psalms werebeing sung, he sighed deeply, and his eyes became bright; they werefixed upon a place near the altar where he had knelt with his friendwho was dead. He murmured her name, and became deadly pale, andtears rolled down his cheeks. They led him out of church; he toldthose standing round him that he was well, and had never been ill; he,who had been so grievously afflicted, the outcast, thrown upon theworld, could not remember his sufferings. The Lord our Creator is wise and full of loving kindness- who can doubt it?In Spain, where balmy breezes blow over the Moorish cupolas andgently stir the orange and myrtle groves, where singing and thesound of the castanets are always heard, the richest merchant in theplace, a childless old man, sat in a luxurious house, while childrenmarched in procession through the streets with waving flags andlighted tapers. If he had been able to press his children to hisheart, his daughter, or her child, that had, perhaps never seen thelight of day, far less the kingdom of heaven, how much of his wealthwould he not have given! “Poor child!” Yes, poor child- a child still,yet more than thirty years old, for Jurgen had arrived at this agein Old Skjagen.The shifting sands had covered the graves in the courtyard,quite up to the church walls, but still, the dead must be buried amongtheir relatives and the dear ones who had gone before them. MerchantBronne and his wife now rested with their children under the whitesand.It was in the spring- the season of storms. The sand from thedunes was whirled up in clouds; the sea was rough, and flocks of birds flew like clouds in the storm, screaming across the sand-hills.Shipwreck followed upon shipwreck on the reefs between Old Skagen and the Hunsby dunes.One evening Jurgen sat in his room alone: all at once his mindseemed to become clearer, and a restless feeling came over him, suchas had often, in his younger days, driven him out to wander over thesand-hills or on the heath. “Home, home!” he cried. No one heardhim. He went out and walked towards the dunes. Sand and stones blew into his face, and whirled round him; he went in the direction ofthe church. The sand was banked up the walls, half covering thewindows, but it had been cleared away in front of the door, and theentrance was free and easy to open, so Jurgen went into the church.The storm raged over the town of Skjagen; there had not beensuch a terrible tempest within the memory of the inhabitants, nor sucha rough sea. But Jurgen was in the temple of God, and while thedarkness of night reigned outside, a light arose in his soul thatwas never to depart from it; the heavy weight that pressed on hisbrain burst asunder. He fancied he heard the organ, but it was onlythe storm and the moaning of the sea. He sat down on one of the seats, and lo! the candies were lighted one by one, and there wasbrightness and grandeur such as he had only seen in the Spanishcathedral. The portraits of the old citizens became alive, steppeddown from the walls against which they had hung for centuries, andtook seats near the church door. The gates flew open, and all the dead people from the churchyard came in, and filled the church, whilebeautiful music sounded. Then the melody of the psalm burst forth,like the sound of the waters, and Jurgen saw that his foster parentsfrom the Hunsby dunes were there, also old merchant Bronne with hiswife and their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They both went up to the altar where they had knelt before, and the priest joinedtheir hands and united them for life. Then music was heard again; itwas wonderfully sweet, like a child’s voice, full of joy andexpectation, swelling to the powerful tones of a full organ, sometimessoft and sweet, then like the sounds of a tempest, delightful andelevating to hear, yet strong enough to burst the stone tombs of thedead. Then the little ship that hung from the roof of the choir waslet down and looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silkensails and rigging:”The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,And everywhere riches and pomp untold,”as the old song says.The young couple went on board, accompanied by the wholecongregation, for there was room and enjoyment for them all. Thenthe walls and arches of the church were covered with floweringjunipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance; the branches waved,creating a pleasant coolness; they bent and parted, and the shipsailed between them through the air and over the sea. Every candlein the church became a star, and the wind sang a hymn in which theyall joined. “Through love to glory, no life is lost, the future isfull of blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!” These were the lastwords Jurgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound hisimmortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body lay in thedark church, while the storm raged outside, covering it with loosesand.The next day was Sunday, and the congregation and their pastorwent to the church. The road had always been heavy, but now it wasalmost unfit for use, and when they at last arrived at the church, agreat heap of sand lay piled up in front of them. The whole church was completely buried in sand. The clergyman offered a short prayer, and said that God had closed the door of His house here, and that thecongregation must go and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So they sung a hymn in the open air, and went home again.Jurgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skjagen, noron the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere. They came to the conclusion that one of the great waves, which had rolled far upon the beach, had carried him away; but his body lay buried in agreat sepulchre- the church itself. The Lord had thrown down acovering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sandlies upon it to this day. The drifting sand had covered the vaultedroof of the church, the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. Thewhite thorn and the dog rose now blossom above the place where thechurch lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over agrave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more splendidmemorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was thefirst to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among thesand-hills.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson