Chapter 3

“Are you the gentleman who is looking for a summer resort?” asked the lady, coming towards him.

“That’s me!” said Victor, merely in order to say something, for he had never thought of looking for a summer resort in the winter time.

The lady seemed embarrassed, but she was as beautiful as sin, and cast a bewitching glance at the pilot.

“It’s no use trying to bewitch me, for I am engaged to a very nice girl,” he said, staring between her second and third finger in the manner of a witch, when she wants to charm the judge.

The lady was young and beautiful from the waist upwards, but below the waist she seemed very old; it was just as if she had been patched together of two pieces which didn’t match.

“Well, show me the summer resort,” said the pilot.

“If you please, sir,” replied the lady, opening a door in the background.

They went out and at once found themselves in a wood, consisting entirely of oak trees.

“We’ll only just have to cross the wood, and we’ll be there,” said the lady, beckoning to the pilot to go on, for she did not want to show him her back.

“I shouldn’t wonder if there were a bull somewhere about,” said the pilot, who had all his wits about him.

“Surely you aren’t afraid of a bull?” replied the lady.

“We’ll see,” answered the pilot.

They walked across stony hillocks, tree-roots, moors and fells, clearings and deep recesses, but Victor could not help turning round every now and then to see whether she was following him, for he could not hear her footsteps. And even when he had turned round and had her right before his eyes he had to look very hard, for her green and yellow dress made her almost invisible.

At last they came to an open space, and when Victor had reached the centre of the clearing, there was the bull; it was just as if it had stood there all the time waiting for him. It was jet black, with a white star in the middle of its forehead, and the corners of its eyes were blood-red.

Escape was impossible; there was nothing for it but to fight. Victor glanced at the ground and behold! there lay a stout cudgel, newly cut. He seized it and took up his position.

“You or I!” he shouted. “Come on! One--two--three!” The fight began. The bull backed like a steam-boat, smoke came through its nostrils, it moved its tail like a propeller, and then came on at full speed.

The cudgel flashed through the air and with a sound like a shot hit the bull right between the eyes. Victor sprang aside, and the bull dashed past him. Then everything seemed to change, and Victor, terrified, saw the monster make for the border of the wood, from whence his sweetheart, in a light summer dress, emerged to meet him.

“Climb up the tree, Anna,” he shouted. “The bull’s coming!” It was a cry of anguish from the very bottom of his soul.

And he ran after the monster and hit it on the slenderest part of its hind-legs in the hope of breaking its shin-bone. With superhuman strength he felled the giant. Anna was saved, and the pilot held her in his arms.

“Where shall we go?” he asked. “Home, of course?”

It did not occur to him to ask her whence she had come, for reasons which we shall learn hereafter.

They walked along the footpath, hand in hand, happy at their unexpected meeting. When they had gone a little way, Victor suddenly stood still.

“Just wait a moment,” he said. “I must go and have a look at the bull; I’m sorry for it, poor brute!”

The expression of Anna’s face changed, and the corners of her eyes grew bloodshot. “All right! I’ll wait,” she said, with a savage and malicious glance at the pilot.

Victor gazed at her sadly, for he knew that she had told him an untruth. But he followed her. There was something extraordinary about her walk, and all at once the whole of his left side grew as cold as ice.

When they had proceeded a little further, Victor stopped again.

“Give me your hand,” he said. “No, the left one.” He saw that she was not wearing her engagement ring.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked.

“I’ve lost it,” she replied.

“You are my Anna, and yet you are not,” he exclaimed. “A stranger has taken possession of you.”

As he said these words, she looked at him with a side-long glance, and all at once he realised that her eyes were not human, but the blood-shot eyes of a bull; and then he understood.

“Begone, witch!” he cried, and breathed into her face.

If you could only have seen what happened now! The would-be Anna was immediately transformed, her face grew green and yellow like gall, and she burst with rage; at the next moment a black rabbit jumped over the bilberry bushes and disappeared in the wood.

Victor stood alone in the perplexing, bewildering forest, but he was not afraid. “I will go on,” he thought, “and if I should meet the devil himself, I will not be afraid; I shall say the Lord’s Prayer, and that will go a long way towards protecting me.”

He trudged on and presently he came to a cottage. He knocked; the door was opened by an old woman; he inquired whether he could stay the night. He could stay, if he liked, but the old dame had nothing to offer him but a small attic, which was only so so.

Victor did not mind what it was like, as long as it was a place where he could sleep.

When they were agreed about the price, he followed her upstairs to the attic. A huge wasp’s nest hung right over the bed, and the old dame began to make excuses for harbouring such guests.

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” interrupted the pilot, “wasps are like human beings, quite inoffensive until you irritate them. Perhaps you keep snakes, too?”

“Well, there are some, of course.”

“I thought so; they like the warmth of the bed, so we shall get on. Are they adders or vipers? I don’t very much mind which, but on the whole I prefer vipers.”

The old dame watched him breathlessly while he arranged his bed, and in every way betrayed his firm resolution to spend the night in her cottage.

All at once an excited buzzing could be heard outside the closed window, and a huge hornet bumped against the glass.

“Let the poor thing come in,” said the pilot, opening the window.

“No, no, not that one, kill it!” yelled the old dame.

“Why should I? Perhaps its young ones are in this room, and would starve. Am I to lie here and listen to the screaming of hungry babies? No, thank you! Come in, little wasp!”

“It will sting you!” shrieked the old dame.

“No, indeed it won’t. It only stings the wicked.”

The window was open now. A big hornet, as large as a pigeon’s egg, flew in; buzzing like a bass string, it flew at once to the nest. And then it was still.

The old dame left the attic, and the pilot got between the sheets.

When he came downstairs into the parlour on the following morning, the old dame was not there. A black cat sat on the only chair and purred; cats have been condemned to purr, because they are such lazy beasts, and they must do something.

“Get up, pussy,” said the pilot, “and let me sit down.”

And he took the cat and put it on the hearth. But it was no ordinary cat, for immediately sparks began to fly from its fur, and the chips caught file.

“If you can light a fire, you can make me some coffee,” said the pilot.

But the cat is so constituted that it never wants to do what it is told, and so it began at once to swear and spit until the fire was out.

In the meantime the pilot had heard somebody leaning a spade against the wall of the cottage. He looked out of the window and saw the old dame standing in a pit which she had dug in the garden.

“I see you are digging a grave for me, old woman,” he said.

The old dame came in. When she saw Victor safe and sound, she was beside herself with amazement; she confessed that up to now nobody had ever left the attic alive, and that therefore she had dug his grave in anticipation.

She was a little short-sighted, but it seemed to her that the pilot was wearing a strange handkerchief round his neck.

“Ha ha! Have you ever seen such a handkerchief in all your life?” laughed Victor, putting his hand up to his throat.

Wound round his neck was a snake which had tied itself in front into a knot with two bright yellow spots; the spots were its ears, and its eyes shone like diamonds.

“Show auntie your scarfpins, little pet,” said the pilot, gently scratching its head, and the snake opened its mouth and disclosed two sharp, pointed teeth right in the middle of it.

At the sight of them the old dame fell on her knees and said, “Now I see that you have received my letter and understood its meaning. You are a brave lad!”

“So the letter I got out of the automatic machine was from you,” said the pilot, taking it from his breast pocket. “I shall have it framed when I get home.”

Would you like to know what was written in the letter? Just these few words in plain English, “Don’t be bluffed,” which might be translated, “Fortune favours the Brave.”

***

“Yes, but how was it that the pilot could walk from the ship down the passage?” asked Annie-Mary, when her mama had finished the story. “And did he come back, or had he dreamed the whole story?”

“I’ll tell you another time, little Miss Curiosity,” said her mama.

“And then there was a verse in the book--”

“What verse? Oh, I see... in the snail shop.... Well, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it. But you mustn’t ask too many details, for it’s only a fairy tale, little girlie.”

PHOTOGRAPHER AND PHILOSOPHER

Once upon a time there was a photographer. He was a splendid photographer; he did profiles and full-faces, three-quarter and full-length portraits; he could develop and fix, tone and print them. He was the deuce of a fellow! But he was always discontented, for he was a philosopher, a great philosopher and a discoverer. His theory was that the world was upside down. It was plainly proved by the plate in the developer. Everything that was on the right side of the original, now appeared on the left; everything that was dark, became light; light became shade; blue turned into white, and silver buttons looked as dark as iron. The world was upside down.

He had a partner, quite an ordinary man, full of petty characteristics. For instance, he smoked cigars all day long; he never shut a door; he put his knife into his mouth, instead of using his fork; he wore his hat in the room; he cleaned his nails in the studio, and in the evening he drank three glasses of beer.

He was full of faults!

The philosopher, on the other hand, was perfect, and therefore he nursed resentment against his imperfect brother; he would have liked to dissolve the partnership, but he could not, because their business held them together; and because they were bound to remain in partnership, the resentment of the philosopher turned into an unreasonable hatred. It was dreadful!

When the spring came they decided to take a lodging in a summer resort, and the partner was despatched to find one. He did find one. And one Saturday they departed together on a steamer.

The philosopher sat all day long on deck and drank punch. He was a very stout man and suffered from several things; his liver was out of order, and there was something wrong with his feet, perhaps rheumatism, or some similar disease. When they arrived, they crossed the bridge and went ashore.

“Is this the place?” asked the philosopher.

“A very little walk will take us there,” answered the partner.

They went along a footpath, full of roots, and the path ended abruptly before a stile. They had to climb over it. Then the road became stony, and the philosopher complained of his feet, but he forgot all about his pains when they came to another stile. After that, all trace of the road disappeared; they walked on the bare rock through shrubs and bilberry bushes.

Behind the third fence stood a bull, who chased the philosopher to the fourth stile, where he arrived in a bath of perspiration, which opened all the pores of his skin. When they had crossed the sixth stile, they could see the house. The philosopher went in and immediately stepped on to the verandah.

“Why are there so many trees?” he asked. “They interrupt the view.”

“But they shelter the house from the strong sea-breezes,” answered the partner.

“And the place looks like a churchyard; why, the house stands in the centre of a pine-wood.”

“A very healthy spot,” replied the partner.

Then they wanted to go and bathe. But there was no proper bathing-place, in the philosophical sense of the word. There was nothing but the stony ground and mud.

After they had bathed the philosopher felt thirsty, and wanted to drink a glass of water at the spring. It was of a reddish-brown colour, and had a peculiar, strong taste. It was no good. Nothing was any good. And meat was unobtainable, there was nothing to be had but fish.

The philosopher grew gloomy and sat down under a pumpkin to deplore his fate. But there was no help for it. He had to stay, and his partner returned to town to look after the business during his friend’s absence.

Six weeks passed and then the partner returned to his philosopher.

He was met on the bridge by a slender youth with red cheeks and a sunburnt neck. It was the philosopher, rejuvenated and full of high spirits.

He jumped over the six stiles and chased the bull.

When they were sitting on the verandah, the partner said to him:--

“You are looking very well, what sort of a time have you had?”

“Oh! an excellent time!” said the philosopher. “The fences have taken off my fat; the stones have massaged my feet; the mud-baths have cured me of my rheumatism; the plain food has cured my liver, and the pine-trees my lungs; and, could you believe it, the brown spring-water contained iron, just what I wanted!”

“Well, you old philosopher,” said the partner, “don’t you understand that from the negative you get a positive, where all the shade becomes light again? If you would only take such a positive picture of me and try and find out what faults I do _not_ possess, you would not dislike me so much. Only think: I don’t drink, and therefore I am able to manage the business; I don’t steal; I never talk evil of you behind your back; I never complain; I never make white appear black; I am never rude to the customers; I rise early in the morning; I clean my nails so as to keep the developer clean; I leave my hat on so that no hairs shall fall on the plates; I smoke so as to purify the air of poisonous gases; I keep the door ajar so as not to make a noise in the studio; I drink beer in the evening so as to escape the temptation of drinking whisky; and I put the knife into my mouth because I am afraid of pricking myself with the fork.”

“You really are a great philosopher,” said the photographer, “henceforth we will be friends! Then we shall get on in life!”

HALF A SHEET OF FOOLSCAP

The last furniture van had left; the tenant, a young man with a crape band round his hat, walked for the last time through the empty rooms to make sure that nothing had been left behind. No, nothing had been forgotten, nothing at all. He went out into the front hall, firmly determined never to think again of all that had happened to him in these rooms. And all at once his eyes fell on half a sheet of foolscap, which somehow had got wedged between the wall and the telephone; the paper was covered with writing, evidently the writing of more persons than one. Some of the entries were written quite legibly with pen and ink, while others were scribbled with a lead-pencil; here and there even a red pencil had been used. It was a record of everything that had happened to him in the short period of two years; all these things, which he had made up his mind to forget, were noted down. It was a slice of a human life on half a sheet of foolscap.

He detached the paper; it was a piece of scribbling paper, yellow and shining like the sun. He put it on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room and glanced at it. Heading the list was a woman’s name: “Alice,” the most beautiful name in the world, as it had seemed to him then, for it was the name of his fiancée. Next to the name was a number, “15,11.” It looked like the number of a hymn, on the hymn-board. Underneath was written “Bank.” That was where his work lay, his sacred work to which he owed bread, home, and wife--the foundations of life. But a pen had been drawn through the word, for the Bank had failed, and although he had eventually found another berth, it was not until after a short period of anxiety and uneasiness.

The next entries were: “Flower-shop and livery-stable.” They related to his betrothal, when he had plenty of money in his pockets.

Then came “furniture dealer and paper-hanger “--they were furnishing their house. “Forwarding agents”--they were moving into it. The “Box-office of the Opera-house, No. 50,50”--they were newly married, and went to the opera on Sunday evenings; the most enjoyable hours of their lives were spent there, for they had to sit quite still, while their souls met in the beauty and harmony of the fairyland on the other side of the curtain.

Then followed the name of a man, crossed out. He had been a friend of his youth, a man who had risen high in the social scale, but who fell, spoilt by success, fell irremediably, and had to leave the country.

So unstable was fortune!

Now, something new entered the lives of husband and wife. The next entry was in a lady’s hand: “Nurse.” What nurse? Well, of course, the kindly woman with the big cloak and the sympathetic face, who walked with a soft footfall, and never went into the drawing-room, but walked straight down the passage to the bedroom.

Underneath her name was written “Dr. L.”

And now, for the first time, a relative appeared on the list: “Mama.” That was his mother-in-law, who had kept away discreetly, so as not to disturb their newly found happiness, but was glad to come now, when she was needed.

A great number of entries in red and blue pencil followed: “Servants’ Registry Office”--the maid had left and a new one had to be engaged. “The chemist’s”--hm! life was growing dark. “The dairy”--milk had been ordered--sterilised milk!

“Butcher, grocer, etc.” The affairs of the house were being conducted by telephone; it argued that the mistress was not at her post. No, she wasn’t, for she was laid up.

He could not read what followed, for it grew dark before his eyes; he might have been a drowning man trying to see through salt water. And yet, there it was written, plainly enough: “undertaker--a large coffin and a small one.” And the word “dust” was added in parenthesis.

It was the last word of the whole record. It ended with “dust”! and that is exactly what happens in life.

He took the yellow paper, kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.

In two minutes he had lived again through two years of his life.

But he was not bowed down as he left the house. On the contrary, he carried his head high, like a happy and proud man, for he knew that the best things life has to bestow had been given to him. And he pitied all those from whom they are withheld.

CONQUERING HERO AND FOOL

It was on the evening of a spring day in 1880 (a day which will never be forgotten in Sweden, because it is the day of commemoration of a national event), when an old couple, simple country people, were standing on the headland at the entrance to the harbour of Stockholm, looking at the dark watercourse under the dim stars, and watching a man who was busy with a dark, undefinable object on the landing bridge. They stood there for a long, long time, now gazing at the dark watercourse, now looking at the brilliant lights of the town.

At last a light appeared on the fjord, then another, then many lights. The old man seized the woman’s hand and pressed it, and in silence, under the stars, they thanked God for having safely brought home their son whom they had mourned as dead for a whole year.

It is true, he had not been the leader of the expedition, but he had been one of the crew. And now he was to dine with the long, receive an order, and, in addition to a sum of money from the nation, which Parliament had voted for the purpose, an appointment which would mean bread and butter for the rest of his life.

The lights grew in size as they approached; a small steamer was towing a big dark craft, which, seen close by, looked as plain and simple as most great things do.

And now the man on the bridge, who had been very busy about the dark object, struck a match.

“Whatever is it?” said the old man, much puzzled. “It looks like huge wax candles.”

They went nearer to examine it more closely.

“It looks like a frame for drying fishes,” said the old woman, who had been born on the coast.

Ratsh! It-sh! Si-si-si-si! it said, and the old people were instantly surrounded by fire and flames.

Great fiery globes rose up to the skies and, bursting, lit up the night with a shower of stars; an astronomer, observing the heavens with a telescope, might have come to the conclusion that new stars had been born. And he would not have been altogether wrong, for in the year 1880 new thoughts were kindled in new hearts, and new light and new discoveries vouchsafed to mankind. Doubtless, there were weeds, too, growing up together with the splendid wheat; but weeds have their uses, also; shade and moisture depend on their presence, and they will be separated from the wheat at harvest time. But there must be weeds, they are as inseparable from wheat as chaff is from corn.

What had puzzled the old couple, however, was a rocket frame, and when all the smoke had cleared away--for there is no fire without smoke--not a trace of all the magnificence was left.

“It would have been jolly to have been in town with them to-night,” said the old woman.

“Oh, no!” replied the man. “We should have been in the way, poor people like we ought never to push themselves to the front. And there’s plenty of time to-morrow for seeing the boy, after he has left his sweetheart, who is dearer to him than we are.”

It was a very sensible speech for the old man to make; but who in the world is to have sense, if old people have not?

And then they continued their way to the town.

***

Now, let us see what happened to the son.

He was the leadsman, that is to say, it was his business to sound the depths of the sea; he had plumbed the profound abysses of the ocean, calculated the elevation of the land and the apparent motion of the sky; he knew the exact time by looking at the sun, and he could tell from the stars how far they had travelled. He was a man of importance; he believed that he held heaven and earth in his hand, measured time and regulated the clock of eternity. And after he had been the king’s guest and received an order to wear on his breast, he fancied that he was made of finer stuff than most men; he was not exactly haughty when he met his poor parents and his sweetheart, but, although they said nothing, they felt that he thought himself their superior. Possibly he was a little stiff, he was built that way.

Well, the official ceremonies were over, but the students also had decided to pay homage to the heroes, who had returned home after a prolonged absence. And they went to the capital in full force.

Students are queer people, who read books and study under Dr. Know-all; consequently they imagine that they know more than other people. They are also young, and therefore they are thoughtless and cruel.

The respectful and sensible speeches which the old professors had been making all the afternoon in honour of the explorers had come to an end, and the procession of the students had started.

The leadsman and his sweetheart were sitting on a balcony in the company of the other great men. The ringing of the church bells and the booming of the guns mingled with the sound of the bugles and the rolling of the drums; flags were waving and fluttering in the breeze. And then the procession marched by.