安徒生童話故事第101篇：沙丘的故事A Story from the Sand-Hills

　　引導語：《沙丘的故事》這篇安徒生童話非常長,語言優美而情節沉重,表達了作者對莫測宿命的無力質問與有些消極的美好希望。下面是中英文版本的，我們一起來學習。

　　這是尤蘭島許多沙丘上的一個故事，不過它不是在那里開始的，唉，是在遙遠的、南方的西班牙發生的。海是國與國之間的公路——請你想象你已經到了那里，到了西班牙吧!那兒是溫暖的，那兒是美麗的;那兒火紅的石榴花在濃密的月桂樹之間開著。一股清涼的風從山上吹下來，吹到橙子園里，吹到摩爾人的有金色圓頂和彩色墻壁的輝煌的大殿上①。孩子們舉著蠟燭和平蕩的旗幟，在街道上游行;高闊的青天在他們的頭上閃著明亮的星星。處處升起一起歌聲和響板聲，年輕的男女在槐花盛開的槐樹下跳舞，而乞丐則坐在雕花的大理石上吃著水汪汪的西瓜，然后在昏睡中把日子打發過去。這一切就像一個美麗的夢一樣!日子就是這樣地過去了……是的，一對新婚夫婦就是這樣;此外，他們享受著人世間一切美好的東西：健康和愉快的心情、財富和尊榮。

　　“我們快樂得不能再快樂了!”他們的心的深處這樣說。不過他們的幸福還可以再前進一步，而這也是可能的，只要上帝能賜給他們一個孩子——在精神和外貌上像他們的一個孩子。

　　他們將會以最大的愉快來迎接這個幸福的孩子，用最大的關懷和愛來撫養他;他將能享受到一個有聲望、有財富的家族所能供給的一切好處。

　　日子一天一天地過去，像一個節日。

　　“生活像一件充滿了愛的、大得不可想象的禮物!”年輕的妻子說，“圓滿的幸福只有在死后的生活中才能不斷地發展!我不理解這種思想。”

　　“這無疑地也是人類的一種狂妄的表現!”丈夫說。“有人相信人可以像上帝那樣永恒地活下去——這種思想，歸根結底，是一種自大狂。這也就是那條蛇②——謊騙的祖宗——說的話!”

　　“你對于死后的生活不會有什么懷疑的吧?”年輕的妻子說。看樣子，在她光明的思想領域中，現在第一次起來了一個陰影。

　　“牧師們說過，只有信心能保證死后的生活!”年輕人回答說。“不過在我的幸福之中，我覺得，同時也認識到，如果我們還要求有死后的生活——永恒的幸福——那么我們就未免太大膽，太狂妄了。我們在此生中所得到的東西還少么?我們對于此生應當、而且必須感到滿意。”

　　“是的，我們得到了許多東西，”年輕的妻子說。“但是對于成千上萬的人說來，此生不是一個很艱苦的考驗嗎?多少人生到這個世界上來，不就是專門為了得到窮困、羞辱、疾病和不幸么?不，如果此生以后再沒有生活，那么世界上的一切東西就分配得太不平均，上天也就太不公正了。”

　　“街上的那個乞丐有他自己的快樂，他的快樂對他說來，并不亞于住在華麗的皇宮里的國王，”年輕的丈夫說，“難道你覺得那勞苦的牲口，天天挨打挨餓，一直累到死，它能夠感覺到自己生命的痛苦么?難道它也會要求一個未來的生活，也會說上帝的安排不公平，沒有把它列入高等動物之中嗎?”

　　“基督說過，天國里有許多房間，”年輕的妻子回答說。“天國是沒有邊際的，上帝的愛也是沒有邊際的!啞巴動物也是一種生物呀!我相信，沒有什么生命會被忘記：每個生命都會得到自己可以享受的、適宜于自己的一份幸福。”

　　“不過我覺得，這世界已經足夠使我感到滿意了!”丈夫說。于是他就伸出雙臂來，擁抱著他美麗的、溫存的妻子。于是他就在這開朗的陽臺上抽一支香煙。這兒涼爽的空氣中充滿了橙子和石竹花的香味。音樂聲和響板聲從街上起來;星星在上面照著。一對充滿了愛情的眼睛——他的妻子的眼睛——帶著一種不滅的愛情的光，在凝視著他。

　　“這樣的一忽間，”他說，“使得生命的出世、生命的享受和它的滅亡都有價值。”于是他就微笑起來。妻子舉起手，作出一個溫和的責備的姿勢。那陣陰影又不見了;他們是太幸福了。

　　一切都似乎是為他們而安排的，使他們能享受榮譽、幸福和快樂。后來生活有了一點變動，但這只不過是地點的變動罷了，絲毫也不影響他們享受生活的幸福和快樂。年輕人被國王派到俄羅斯的宮廷去當大使。這是一個光榮的職位，與他的出身和學問都相稱。他有巨大的資財，他的妻子更帶來了與他同樣多的財富，因為她是一個富有的、有地位的商人的女兒。這一年，這位商人恰巧有一條最大最美的船要開到斯德哥爾摩去;這條船將要把這對親愛的年輕人——女兒和女婿——送到圣彼得堡去。船上布置得非常華麗——腳下踏的是柔軟的地毯，四周是絲織物和奢侈品。

　　每個丹麥人都會唱一支很古老的戰歌，叫做《英國的王子》。王子也是乘著一條華麗的船：它的錨鑲著赤金，每根纜索里夾著生絲。當你看到這條從西班牙開出的船的時候，你一定也會想到那條船，因為那條船同樣豪華，也充滿了同樣的離愁別緒：

　　愿上帝祝福我們在快樂中團聚。

　　順風輕快地從西班牙的海岸吹過來，別離只不過是暫時的事情，因為幾個星期以后，他們就會到達目的地。不過當他們來到海面上的時候，風就停了。海是平靜而光滑的，水在發出亮光，天上的星星也在發出亮光。華貴的船艙里每晚都充滿了宴樂的氣氛。

　　最后，旅人們開始盼望有風吹來，盼望有一股清涼的順風。但是風卻沒有吹來。當它吹起來的時候，卻朝著相反的方向吹。許多星期這樣過去了，甚至兩個月也過去了。最后，好風算是吹起來了，它是從西南方吹來的。他們是在蘇格蘭和尤蘭之間航行著。正如在《英國的王子》那支古老的歌中說的一樣，風越吹越大：

　　它吹起一陣暴風雨，云塊非常陰暗，

　　陸地和隱蔽處所都無法找到，

　　于是他們只好拋出他們的錨，

　　但是風向西吹，直吹到丹麥的海岸。

　　從此以后，好長一段時間過去了。國王克利斯蒂安七世坐上了丹麥的王位;他那時還是一個年輕人。從那時起，有許多事情發生了，有許多東西改變了，或者已經改變過了。海和沼澤地變成了茂盛的草原;荒地變成了耕地。在西尤蘭的那些茅屋的掩蔽下，蘋果樹和玫瑰花生出來了。自然，你得仔細看才能發現它們，因為它們為了避免刺骨的東西，都藏起來了。

　　在這個地方人們很可能以為回到了遠古時代里去——比克利斯蒂安七世統治的時代還要遠。現在的尤蘭仍然和那時一樣，它深黃色的荒地，它的古冢，它的海市蜃樓和它的一些交叉的、多沙的、高低不平的道路，向天際展開去。朝西走，許多河流向海灣流去，擴展成為沼澤地和草原。環繞著它們的一起沙丘，像峰巒起伏的阿爾卑斯山脈一樣，聳立在海的周圍，只有那些粘土形成的高高的海岸線才把它們切斷。浪濤每年在這兒咬去幾口，使得那些懸崖絕壁下塌，好像被地震搖撼過一次似的。它現在是這樣;在許多年以前，當那幸福的一對乘著華麗的船在它沿岸航行的時候，它也是這樣。

　　那是9月的最后的一天——一個星期天，一個陽光很好的一天。教堂的鐘聲，像一連串音樂似地，向尼松灣沿岸飄來。這兒所有的教堂全像整齊的巨石，而每一個教堂就是一個石塊。西海可以在它們上面滾過來，但它們仍然可以屹立不動。這些教堂大多數都沒有尖塔;鐘總是懸在空中的兩根橫木之間。禮拜做完以后，信徒們就走出上帝的屋子，到教堂的墓地里去。在那個時候，正像現在一樣，一棵樹，一個灌木林也沒有。這兒沒有人種過一株花;墳墓上也沒有人放過一個花圈。粗陋的土丘就說明是埋葬死人的處所。整個墓地上只有被風吹得零亂的荒草。各處偶爾有一個紀念物從墓里露出來：它是一塊半朽的木頭，曾經做成一個類似棺材的東西。這塊木頭是從西部的森林——大海——里運來的。大海為這些沿岸的居民生長出大梁和板子，把它們像柴火一樣漂到岸上來;風和浪濤很快就腐蝕掉這些木塊。一個小孩子的墓上就有這樣一個木塊;從教堂里走出的女人中有一位就向它走去。她站著不動，呆呆地望著這塊半朽的紀念物。不一會兒，她的丈夫也來了。他們一句話也沒有講。他挽著她的手，離開這座墳墓，一同走過那深黃色的荒地，走過沼澤地，走過那些沙丘。他們沉默地走了很久。

　　“今天牧師的講道很不錯，”丈夫說。“如果我們沒有上帝，我們就什么也沒有了。”

　　“是的，”妻子回答說。“他給我們快樂，也給我們悲愁，而他是有這種權利給我們的!到明天，我們親愛的孩子就有五周歲了——如果上帝準許我們保留住他的話。”

　　“不要這樣苦痛吧，那不會有什么好處的，”丈夫說，“他現在一切都好!他現在所在的地方，正是我們希望去的地方。”

　　他們沒有再說什么別的話，只是繼續向前走，回到他們在沙丘之間的屋子里去。忽然間，在一個沙丘旁，在一個沒有海水擋住的流沙的地帶，升起了一股濃煙。這是一陣吹進沙丘的狂風，向空中卷起了許多細沙。接著又掃過來另一陣風，它使掛在繩子上的魚亂打著屋子的墻。于是一切又變得沉寂，太陽射出熾熱的光。

　　丈夫和妻子走進屋子里去，立刻換下星期日穿的整齊的衣服，然后他們急忙向那沙丘走去。這些沙丘像忽然停止了波動的浪濤。海草的淡藍色的梗子和沙草把白沙染成種種顏色。有好幾個鄰居來一同把許多船只拖到沙上更高的地方。風吹得更厲害。天氣冷得刺骨;當他們再回到沙丘間來的時候，沙和小尖石子向他們的臉上打來。浪濤卷漂白色的泡沫，而風卻把浪頭截斷，使泡沫向四周飛濺。

　　黑夜到來了。空中充滿了一種時刻在擴大的呼嘯。它哀鳴著，號叫著，好像一群失望的精靈要淹沒一切浪濤的聲音——雖然漁人的茅屋就緊貼在近旁。沙子在窗玻璃上敲打。忽然，一股暴風襲來，把整個房子都撼動了。天是黑的，但是到半夜的時候，月亮就要升起來了。

　　空中很晴朗，但是風暴仍然來勢洶洶，掃著這深沉的大海。漁人們早已上床了，但在這樣的天氣中，要合上眼睛是不可能的。不一會兒，他們就聽到有人在窗子上敲。門打開了，一個聲音說：

　　“有一條大船在最遠的那個沙灘上擱淺了!”

　　漁人們立刻跳下床來，穿好衣服。

　　月亮已經升起來了。月光亮得足夠使人看見東西——只要他們能在風沙中睜開眼睛。風真是夠猛烈的;人們簡直可以被它刮起來。人們得費很大的氣力才能在陣風的間歇間爬過那些沙丘。咸味的浪花像羽毛似地從海里向空中飛舞，而海里的波濤則像喧鬧的瀑布似地向海灘上沖擊。只有富有經驗的眼睛才能看出海面上的那只船。這是一只漂亮的二桅船。巨浪把它簸出了平時航道的半海里以外，把它送到一個沙灘上去。它在向陸地行駛，但馬上又撞著第二個沙灘，擱了淺，不能移動。要救它是不可能的了。海水非常狂暴，打著船身，掃著甲板。岸上的人似乎聽到了痛苦的叫聲，臨死時的呼喊。人們可以看到船員們的忙碌而無益的努力。這時有一股巨浪襲來;它像一塊毀滅性的石頭，向牙檣打去，接著就把它折斷，于是船尾就高高地翹在水上。兩個人同時跳進海里，不見了——這只不過是一眨眼的工夫。一股巨浪向沙丘滾來，把一個尸體卷到岸上。這是一個女人，看樣子已經死了;不過有幾個婦女翻動她時覺得她還有生命的氣息，因此就把她抬過沙丘，送到一個漁人的屋子里去。她是多么美麗啊!她一定是一個高貴的婦人。

　　大家把她放在一張簡陋的床上，上面連一寸被單都沒有，只有一條足夠裹著她的身軀的毛毯。這已經很溫暖了。

　　生命又回到她身上來了，但是她在發燒;她一點也不知道發生了什么事情，也不知道自己現在在什么地方。這樣倒也很好，因為她喜歡的東西現在都被埋葬在海底了。正如《英國的王子》中的那支歌一樣，這條船也是：

　　這情景真使人感到悲哀，

　　這條船全部都成了碎片。

　　船的某些殘骸和碎脾氣到岸上來;她算是它們中間唯一的生物。風仍然在岸上呼嘯。她休息了不到幾分鐘就開始痛苦地叫喊起來。她睜開一對美麗的眼睛，講了幾句話——但是誰也無法聽懂。

　　作為她所受的苦痛和悲哀的報償，現在她懷里抱著一個新生的嬰兒——一個應該在豪華的公館里、睡在綢帳子圍著的華美的床上的嬰兒。他應該到歡樂中去，到擁有世界上一切美好東西的生活中去。但是上帝卻叫他生在一個卑微的角落里;他甚至于還沒有得到母親的一吻。

　　漁人的妻子把孩子放到他母親的懷里。他躺在一顆停止了搏動的心上，因為她已經死了。這孩子本來應該在幸福和豪華中長大的;但是卻來到了這個被海水沖洗著的、位置在沙丘之間的人世，分擔著窮人的命運和艱難的日子。

　　這時我們不禁又要記起那支古老的歌：

　　眼淚在王子的臉上滾滾地流，

　　我來到波烏堡，愿上帝保佑!

　　但現在我來得恰好不是時候;

　　假如我來到布格老爺的領地，

　　我就不會為男子或騎士所欺。

　　船擱淺的地方是在尼松灣南邊，在布格老爺曾經宣稱為自己的領地的那個海灘上。據傳說，沿岸的居民常常對遭難船上的人做出壞事，不過這樣艱難和黑暗的日子早已經過去了。遭難的人現在可以得到溫暖、同情和幫助，我們的這個時代也應該有這種高尚的行為。這位垂死的母親和不幸的孩子，不管“風把他們吹到什么地方”，總會得到保護和救助的。不過，在任何別的地方，他們不會得到比在這漁婦的家里更熱誠的照顧。這個漁婦昨天還帶著一顆沉重的心，站在埋葬著她兒子的墓旁。如果上帝把這孩子留給她的話，那么他現在就應該有五歲了。

　　誰也不知道這位死去的少婦是誰，或是從什么地方來的。那只破船的殘骸和碎片在這點上說明不了任何問題。

　　在西班牙的那個豪富之家，一直沒有收到關于他們女兒和女婿的信件或消息。這兩個人沒有到達他們的目的地;過去幾星期一直起著猛烈的風暴。大家等了好幾個月：“沉入海里——全部犧牲。”他們知道這一點。

　　可是在胡斯埠的沙丘旁邊，在漁人的茅屋里，他們現在有了一個小小的男孩。

　　當上天給兩個人糧食吃的時候，第三個人也可以吃到一點。海所能供給饑餓的人吃的魚并不是只有一碗。這孩子有了一個名字：雨爾根。

　　“他一定是一個猶太人的孩子，”人們說，“他長得那么黑!”

　　“他可能是一個意大利人或西班牙人!③”牧師說。

　　不過，對那個漁婦說來，這三個民族都是一樣的。這個孩子能受到基督教的洗禮，已經夠使她高興了。孩子長得很好。他的貴族的血液是溫暖的;家常的飲食把他養成為一個強壯的人。他在這個卑微的茅屋里長得很快。西岸的人所講的丹麥方言成了他的語言。西班牙土地上一棵石榴樹的種子，成了西尤蘭海岸上的一棵耐寒的植物。一個人的命運可能就是這樣!他整個生命的根深深地扎在這個家里。他將會體驗到寒冷和饑餓，體驗到那些卑微的人們的不幸和痛苦，但是他也會嘗到窮人們的快樂。

　　童年時代對任何人都有它快樂的一面;這個階段的記憶永遠會在生活中發出光輝。他的童年該是充滿了多少快樂和玩耍啊!許多英里長的海岸上全都是可以玩耍的東西：卵石砌成的一起圖案——像珊瑚一樣紅，像琥珀一樣黃，像鳥蛋一樣白，五光十色，由海水送來，又由海水磨光。還有漂白了的魚骨，風吹干了的水生植物，白色的、發光的、在石頭之間飄動著的、像布條般的海草——這一切都使眼睛和心神得到愉快和娛樂。潛藏在這孩子身上的非凡的才智，現在都活躍起來了。他能記住的故事和詩歌真是不少!他的手腳也非常靈巧：他可以用石子和貝殼砌成完整的圖畫和船;他用這些東西來裝飾房間。他的養母說，他可以把他的思想在一根木棍上奇妙地刻繪出來，雖然他的年紀還是那么小!他的聲音很悅耳;他的嘴一動就能唱出各種不同的歌調。他的心里張著許多琴弦：如果他生在別的地方、而不是生在北灣旁一個漁人家的話，這些歌調可能流傳到整個世界。

　　有一天，另外一條船在這兒遇了難。一個裝著許多稀有的花根的匣子漂到岸上來了。有人取出幾根，放在菜罐里，因為人們以為這是可以吃的東西;另外有些則被扔在沙上，枯萎了。它們沒有完成它們的任務，沒有把藏在身上的那些美麗的色彩開放出來。雨爾根的命運會比這好一些嗎?花根的生命很快就完結了，但是他的還不過是剛開始。

　　他和他的一些朋友從來沒有想到日子過得多么孤獨和單調，因為他們要玩的東西、要聽的東西和要看的東西是那么多。海就像一本大的教科書。它每天翻開新的一頁：一忽兒平靜，一忽兒漲潮，一忽兒清涼，一忽兒狂暴，它的頂點是船只的遇難。做禮拜是歡樂拜訪的場合。不過，在漁人的家里，有一種拜訪是特別受歡迎的。這種拜訪一年只有兩次：那就是雨爾根養母的弟弟的拜訪。他住在波烏堡附近的菲亞爾特令，是一個養鱔魚的人。他來時總是坐著一輛涂了紅漆的馬車，里面裝滿了鱔魚。車子像一只箱子似地鎖得很緊;它上面繪滿了藍色和白色的郁金香。它是由兩騎暗褐色的馬拉著的。雨爾根有權來趕著它們。

　　這個養鱔魚的人是一個滑稽的人物，一個愉快的客人。他總是帶來一點兒燒酒。每個人可以喝到一杯——如果酒杯不夠的話，可以喝到一茶杯。雨爾根年紀雖小，也能喝到一丁點兒，為的是要幫助消化那肥美的鱔魚——這位養鱔魚的人老是喜歡講這套理論。當聽的人笑起來的時候，他馬上又對同樣的聽眾再講一次。——喜歡扯淡的人總是這樣的!雨爾根長大了以后，以及成年時期，常常喜歡引用養鱔魚人的故事的許多句子和說法。我們也不妨聽聽：

　　湖里的鱔魚走出家門。鱔魚媽媽的女兒要求跑到離岸不遠的地方去，所以媽媽對她們說：“不要跑得太遠!那個丑惡的叉鱔魚的人可能來了，把你們統統都捉去!”但是她們走得太遠。在八個女兒之中，只有三個回到鱔魚媽媽身邊來。她們哭訴著說：“我們并沒有離家門走多遠，那個可惡的叉鱔魚的人馬上就來了，把我們的五個姐妹都刺死了!”……“她們會回來的，”鱔魚媽媽說。“不會!”女兒們說，“因為他剝了她們的皮，把她們切成兩半，烤熟了。”……“她們會回來的!”鱔魚媽媽說。“不會的，因為他把她們吃掉了!”……“她們會回來的!”鱔魚媽媽說。“不過他吃了她們以后還喝了燒酒，”女兒們說。“噢!噢!那么她們就永遠不會回來了!”鱔魚媽媽號叫一聲，“燒酒把她們埋葬了!”

　　“因此吃了鱔魚后喝幾口燒酒總是對的!”養鱔魚的人說。

　　這個故事是一根光輝的牽線，貫串著雨爾根整個的一生。他也想走出大門，“到海上去走一下”，這也就是說，乘船去看看世界。他的養母，像鱔魚媽媽一樣，曾經說過：“壞人可多啦——全是叉鱔魚的人!”不過他總得離開沙丘到內地去走走;而他也就走了。四天愉快的日子——這要算是他兒時最快樂的幾天——在他面前展開了;整個尤蘭的美、內地的快樂和陽光，都要在這幾天集中地表現出來;他要去參加一個宴會——雖然是一個出喪的宴會。

　　一個富有的漁家親戚去世了，這位親戚住在內地，“向東，略為偏北”，正如俗話所說的。養父養母都要到那兒去;雨爾根也要跟著去。他們從沙丘走過荒地和沼澤地，來到綠色的草原。這兒流著斯加龍河——河里有許多鱔魚、鱔魚媽媽和那些被壞人捉去、砍成幾段的女兒。不過人類對自己同胞的行為比這也好不了多少。那只古老的歌中所提到的騎士布格爵士不就是被壞人謀害了的么?而他自己，雖然人們總說他好，不也是想殺掉那位為他建筑有厚墻和尖塔的堡寨的建筑師么?雨爾根和他的養父養母現在就正站在這兒;斯加龍河也從這兒流到尼松灣里去。

　　護堤墻現在還存留著;紅色崩頹的碎磚散在四周。在這塊地方，騎士布格在建筑師離去以后，對他的一個下人說：“快去追上他，對他說：‘師傅，那個塔兒有點歪。’如果他掉轉頭，你就把他殺掉，把我付給他的錢拿回來。不過，如果他不掉轉頭，那么就放他走吧。”這人服從了他的指示。那位建筑師回答說：“塔并不歪呀，不過有一天會有一個穿藍大衣的人從西方來;他會叫這個塔傾斜!”100年以后，這樣的事情果然發生了;西海打進來，塔就倒了。那時堡寨的主人叫做卜里邊·古爾登斯卡納。他在草原盡頭的地方建立起一個更高的新堡寨。它現在仍然存在，叫做北佛斯堡。

　　雨爾根和他的養父養母走過這座堡寨。在這一帶地方，在漫長的冬夜里，人們曾把這個故事講給他聽過。現在他親眼看到了這座堡寨、它的雙道塹壕、樹和灌木林。長滿了鳳尾草的城墻從塹壕里冒出來。不過最好看的還是那些高大的菩提樹。它們長到屋頂那樣高，在空氣中散發出一種清香。花園的西北角有一個開滿了花的大灌木林。它像夏綠中的一起冬雪。像這樣的一個接骨木樹林，雨爾根還是有生以來第一次看到。他永遠也忘記不了它和那些菩提樹、丹麥的美和香——這些東西在他稚弱的靈魂中為“老年而保存下來”。

　　更向前走，到那開滿了接骨木樹花的北佛斯堡，路就好走得多了。他們碰到許多乘著牛車去參加葬禮的人。他們也坐上牛車。是的，他們得坐在后面的一個釘著鐵皮的小車廂里，但這當然要比步行好得多。他們就這樣在崎嶇不平的荒地上繼續前進。拉著這車子的那幾條公牛，在石楠植物中間長著青草的地方，不時總要停一下。太陽在溫暖地照著;遠處升起一股煙霧，在空中翻騰。但是它比空氣還要清，而且是透明的，看起來像是在荒地上跳著和滾著的光線。

　　“那就是趕著羊群的洛奇④，”人們說。這話足夠刺激雨爾根的幻想。他覺得他現在正在走向一個神話的國度，雖然一切還是現實的。這兒是多么寂靜啊!

　　荒地向四周開展出去，像一張貴重的地毯。石楠開滿了花，深綠的杜松和細嫩的小櫟樹像地上長出來的花束。要不是這里有許多毒蛇，這塊地方倒真是叫人想留下來玩耍一番。

　　可是旅客們常常提到這些毒蛇，而且談到在此為害的狼群——因此這地方仍舊叫做“多狼地帶”。趕著牛的老頭說，在他父親活著的時候，馬兒常常要跟野獸打惡仗——這些野獸現在已經不存在了。他還說，有一天早晨，他親眼看見他的馬踩著一只被它踢死了的狼，不過這騎馬兒腿上的肉也都被咬掉了。

　　在崎嶇的荒地和沙子上的旅行，很快就告一結束。他們在停尸所前面停下來：屋里屋外都擠滿了客人。車子一輛接著一輛地并排停著，馬兒和牛兒到貧瘠的草場上去吃草。像在西海濱的故鄉一樣，巨大的沙丘聳立在屋子的后面，并且向四周綿延地伸展開去。它們怎樣擴展到這塊伸進內地幾十里路遠，又寬又高，像海岸一樣空曠的地方呢?是風把它們吹到這兒來的;它們的到來產生了一段歷史。

　　大家唱著贊美詩。有幾個老年人在流著眼淚。除此以外，在雨爾根看來，大家倒是很高興的。酒菜也很豐盛。鱔魚是又肥又鮮，吃完以后再喝幾口燒酒，像那個養鱔魚的人說的一樣，“把它們埋葬掉”。他的名言在這兒無疑地成了事實。

　　雨爾根一會兒待在屋里，一會兒跑到外面去。到了第三天，他就在這兒住熟了;這兒就好像他曾在那里度過童年的、沙丘上那座漁人的屋子一樣。這片荒地上有另外一種豐富的東西：這兒長滿了石楠花、黑莓和覆盆子。它們是又大又甜;行人的腳一踩著它們，紅色的汁液就像雨點似地朝下滴。

　　這兒有一個古墳;那兒也有一個古墳。一根一根的煙柱升向沉靜的天空：人們說這是荒地上的野花。它在黑夜里放出美麗的光彩。

　　現在是第四天了。入葬的宴會結束了。他們要從這土丘的地帶回到沙丘的地帶去。

　　“我們的地方最好，”雨爾根的養父說。“這些土丘沒有氣魄。”

　　于是他們就談起沙丘是怎樣形成的。事情似乎是非常容易理解。海岸上出現了一具尸體;農人們就把它埋在教堂的墓地里面。于是沙子開始飛起來，海開始瘋狂地打進內地。教區的一個聰明人叫大家趕快把墳挖開，看看那里面的死者是否躺著舔自己的拇指;如果他是在舔，那末他們埋葬掉的就是一個“海人”了;海在沒有收回他以前，決不會安靜的。所以這座墳就被挖開了，“海人”躺在那里面舔大拇指。他們立刻把他放進一部牛車里，拖著牛車的那兩條牛好像是被牛虻刺著似的，拉著這個“海人”，越過荒地和沼澤地，一直向大海走去。這時沙子就停止飛舞，可是沙丘依舊停在原地沒有動。這些他在兒時最快樂的日子里、在一個入葬的宴會的期間所聽來的故事，雨爾根都在他的記憶中保存下來了。

　　出門去走走、看看新的地方和新的人，這全都是愉快的事情!他還要走得更遠。他不到14歲，還是一個孩子。他乘著一條船出去看看這世界所能給他看的東西：他體驗過惡劣的天氣、陰沉的海、人間的惡意和硬心腸的人。他成了船上的一個侍役。他得忍受粗劣的伙食和寒冷的夜、拳打和腳踢。這時他高貴的西班牙的血統里有某種東西在沸騰著，毒辣的字眼爬到他嘴唇邊上，但是最聰明的辦法還是把這些字眼吞下去為好。這種感覺和鱔魚被剝了皮、切成片、放在鍋里炒的時候完全一樣。

　　“我要回去了!”他身體里有一個聲音說。

　　他看到了西班牙的海岸——他父母的祖國;甚至還看到了他們曾經在幸福和快樂中生活過的那個城市。不過他對于他的故鄉和族人什么也不知道，而關于他的事情，他的族人更不知道。

　　這個可憐的小侍役沒有得到上岸的許可;不過在他們停泊的最后一天，總算上岸去了一次，因為有人買了許多東西，他得去拿到船上來。

　　雨爾根穿著襤襟的衣服。這些衣服像是在溝里洗過、在煙囪上曬干的;他——一個住在沙丘里的人——算是第一次看到了一個大城市。房子是多么高大，街道是多么窄，人是多么擠啊!有的人朝這邊擠，有的人朝那邊擠——簡直像是市民和農人、僧侶和兵士所形成的一個大蜂窩——叫聲和喊聲、驢子和騾子的鈴聲、教堂的鐘聲混做一團;歌聲和鼓聲、砍柴聲和敲打聲，形成亂嘈嘈的一起，因為每個行業手藝人的工場就在自己的門口或階前。太陽照得那么熱，空氣是那么悶，人們好像是走進一個擠滿了嗡嗡叫的甲蟲、金龜子、蜜蜂和蒼蠅的爐子。雨爾根不知道自己在什么地方，在走哪一條路。這時他看到前面一座主教堂的威嚴的大門。燈光在陰暗的教堂走廊上照著，一股香煙向他起來。甚至最窮苦的衣衫襤褸的乞丐也爬上石級，到教堂里去。雨爾根跟著一個水手走進去，站在這神圣的屋子里。彩色的畫像從金色的底上射出光來。圣母抱著幼小的耶穌立在祭壇上，四周是一起燈光和鮮花。牧師穿著節日的衣服在唱圣詩，歌詠隊的孩子穿著漂亮的服裝，在搖晃著銀香爐。這兒是一起華麗和莊嚴的景象。這情景滲進雨爾根的靈魂，使他神往。他的養父養母的教會和信心感動了他，觸動了他的靈魂，他的眼睛里閃出淚珠。

　　大家走出教堂，到市場上去。人們買了一些廚房的用具和食品，要他送回船上。到船上去的路并不短，他很疲倦，便在一幢有大理石圓柱、雕像和寬臺階的華麗的房子面前休息了一會兒。他把背著的東西靠墻放著。這時有一個穿制服的仆人走出來，舉起一根包著銀頭的手杖，把他趕走了。他本來是這家的一個孫子。可是誰也不知道，他自己當然更不知道。

　　他回到船上來。這兒有的是咒罵和鞭打，睡眠不足和沉重的工作——他得忍受這樣的生活!人們說，青年時代受些苦只有好處——是的，如果年老能夠得到一點幸福的話。他的雇傭合同滿期了。船又在林卻平海峽停下來。他走上岸，回到胡斯埠沙丘上的家里去。不過，在他航行的時候，養母已經去世了。

　　接著就是一個嚴寒的冬天。暴風雪掃過陸地和海上;出門是很困難的。世界上的事情安排得多么不平均啊!當這兒正是寒冷刺骨和刮暴風雪的時候，西班牙的天空上正照著熾熱的太陽——是的，太熱了。然而在這兒的家鄉，只要晴朗的下霜天一出現，雨爾根就可以看到大群的天鵝在海上飛來，越過尼松灣向北佛斯堡飛去。他覺得這兒可以呼吸到最好的空氣，這兒將會有一個美麗的夏天!他在想象中看到了石楠植物開花，結滿了成熟的、甜蜜的漿果;看到了北佛斯堡的接骨木樹和平提樹開滿了花朵。他決定再回到北佛斯堡去一次。

　　春天來了，捕魚的季節又開始了。雨爾根也參加這項工作。他在過去一年中已經變成了一個成年人，做起活來非常敏捷。他充滿了生命力，他能游水，踩水，在水里自由翻騰。人們常常警告他要當心大群的青花魚：就是最能干的游泳家也不免被它們捉住，被它們拖下去和吃掉，因而也就此完結。但是雨爾根的命運卻不是這樣。

　　沙丘上的鄰居家里有一個名叫莫爾登的男子。雨爾根和他非常要好。他們在開到挪威去的同一條船上工作，他們還要一同到荷蘭去。他們兩人從來沒有鬧過別扭，不過這種事也并非是不可能的。因為如果一個人的脾氣急躁，他是很容易采取激烈的行動的。有一天雨爾根就做出了這樣的事情：他們兩人在船上無緣無故地吵起來了。他們在一個船艙口后邊坐著，正在吃放在他們之間的、用一個土盤子盛著的食物。雨爾根拿著一把小刀，當著莫爾登的面把它舉起來。在這同時，他臉上變得像灰一樣白，雙眼現出難看的神色。莫爾登只是說：

　　“嗨，你也是那種喜歡耍刀子的人啦!”

　　這話還沒有說完，雨爾根的手就垂下來了。他一句話也不說，只是繼續吃下去。后來他走開了，去做他的工作。他做完工作回來，就到莫爾登那兒去說：

　　“請你打我的耳光吧!我應該受到這種懲罰。我的肚皮真像有一個鍋在沸騰。”

　　“不要再提這事吧，”莫爾登說。于是他們成了更要好的朋友。當他們后來回到尤蘭的沙丘之間去、講到他們航海的經歷時，這件事也同時被提到了。雨爾根的確可以沸騰起來，但他仍然是一個誠實的鍋。

　　“他的確不是一個尤蘭人!人們不能把他當做一個尤蘭人!”莫爾登的這句話說得很幽默。

　　他們兩人都是年輕和健壯的。但雨爾根卻是最活潑。

　　在挪威，農人爬到山上去，在高地上尋找放牧牲畜的牧場。在尤蘭西岸一帶，人們在沙丘之間建造茅屋。茅屋是用破船的材料搭起來的，頂上蓋的是草皮和石楠植物。屋子四周沿墻的地方就是睡覺的地方;初春的時候，漁人也在這兒生活和睡覺。每個漁人有一個所謂“女助手”。她的工作是：替漁人把魚餌安在鉤子上;當漁人回到岸上來的時候;準備熱啤酒來迎接他們;當他們回到茅屋里來，覺得疲倦的時候，拿飯給他們吃。此外，她們還要把魚運到岸上來，把魚切開，以及做許多其他的工作。

　　雨爾根和他的養父養母以及其他幾個漁人和“女助手”都住在一間茅屋里。莫爾登則住在隔壁的一間屋子里。

　　“女助手”之中有一個叫做愛爾茜的姑娘。她從小就認識雨爾根。他們的交情很好，而且性格在各方面都差不多。不過在表面上，他們彼此都不相象：他的皮膚是棕色的，而她則是雪白的;她的頭發是亞麻色的，她的眼睛藍得像太陽光里的海水。

　　有一天他們在一起散步，雨爾根緊緊地、熱烈地握著她的手，她對他說：

　　“雨爾根，我心里有一件事情!請讓我作你的‘女助手’吧，因為你簡直像我的一個弟兄。莫爾登只不過和我訂過婚——他和我只不過是愛人罷了。但是這話不值得對別人講!”

　　雨爾根似乎覺得他腳下的一堆沙在向下沉。他一句話也說不出來，只是點著頭，等于說：“好吧。”別的話用不著再說了。不過他心里忽然覺得，他瞧不起莫爾登。他越在這方面想——因為他從前從來沒想到過愛爾茜——他就越明白;

　　他認為莫爾登把他唯一心愛的人偷走了。現在他懂得了，愛爾茜就是他所愛的人。

　　海上掀起了一股不大不小的波浪，漁人們都駕著船回來;他們克服重重暗礁的技術，真是值得一看：一個人筆直地立在船頭，別的人則緊握著槳坐著，注意地看著他。他們在礁石的外面，朝著海倒劃，直到船頭上的那個人打出一個手勢，預告有一股巨浪到來時為止。浪就把船托起來，使它越過暗礁。船升得那么高，岸上的人可以看得見船身;接著整個的船就在海浪后面不見了——船桅、船身、船上的人都看不見了，好像海已經把他們吞噬了似的。可是不一會兒，他們像一個龐大的海洋動物，又爬到浪頭上來了。槳在劃動著，像是這動物的靈活肢體。他們于是像第一次一樣，又越過第二道和第三道暗礁。這時漁人們就跳到水里去，把船拖到岸邊來。每一股浪幫助他們把船向前推進一步，直到最后他們把船拖到海灘上為止。

　　如果號令在暗礁面前略有錯誤——略有遲疑——船兒就會撞碎。

　　“那么我和莫爾登也就完了!”雨爾根來到海上的時候，心中忽然起了這樣一個思想。他的養父這時在海上病得很厲害，全身燒得發抖。他們離開礁石只有數槳之遙。雨爾根跳到船頭上去。

　　“爸爸，讓我來吧!”他說。他向莫爾登和浪花看了一眼。不過當每一個人都在使出最大的氣力劃槳、當一股最大的海浪向他們襲來的時候，他看到了養父的慘白的面孔，于是他心里那種不良的動機也就不能再控制住他了。船安全地越過了暗礁，到達了岸邊，但是那種不良的思想仍然留在他的血液里。在他的記憶中，自從跟莫爾登做朋友時起，他就懷著一股怨氣。現在這種不良的思想就把怨恨的纖維都掀動起來了。但是他不能把這些纖維織到一起，所以也就只好讓它去。莫爾登毀掉了他，他已經感覺到了這一點，而這已足夠使他憎恨。有好幾個漁人已經注意到了這一點，但是莫爾登沒有注意到。他仍然像從前一樣，喜歡幫助，喜歡聊天——的確，他太喜歡聊天了。

　　雨爾根的養父只能躺在床上。而這張床也成了送他終的床，因為他在下個星期就死去了。現在雨爾根成為這些沙丘后面那座小屋子的繼承人。的確，這不過是一座簡陋的屋子，但它究竟還有點價值，而莫爾登卻連這點東西都沒有。

　　“你不必再到海上去找工作吧，雨爾根?你現在可以永遠地跟我們住在一起了。”一位年老的漁人說。

　　雨爾根卻沒有這種想法。他還想看一看世界。法爾特令的那位年老的養鱔魚的人在老斯卡根有一個舅父，也是一個漁人。不過他同時還是一個富有的商人，擁有一條船。他是一個非常可愛的老頭兒，幫他做事倒是很不壞的。老斯卡根是在尤蘭的極北部，離胡斯埠的沙丘很遠——遠得不能再遠。但是這正合雨爾根的意思，因為他不愿看見莫爾登和愛爾茜結婚：他們在幾個星期內就要舉行婚禮了。

　　那個老漁人說，現在要離開這地方是一件傻事，因為雨爾根現在有了一個家，而且愛爾茜無疑是愿意和他結婚的。

　　雨爾根胡亂地回答了他幾句話;他的話里究竟有什么意思，誰也弄不清楚。不過老頭兒把愛爾茜帶來看他。她沒有說多少話，只說了這一句：

　　“你現在有一個家了，你應該仔細考慮考慮。”

　　于是雨爾根就考慮了很久。

　　海里的浪濤很大，而人心里的浪濤卻更大。許多思想——堅強的和脆弱的思想——都集中到雨爾根的腦子里來。他問愛爾茜：

　　“如果莫爾登也有我這樣的一座屋子，你情愿要誰呢?”

　　“可是莫爾登沒有一座屋子呀，而且也不會有。”

　　“不過我們假設他有一座屋子吧!”

　　“嗯，那么我當然就會跟莫爾登結婚了，因為我現在的心情就是這樣!不過人們不能只靠這生活呀。”

　　雨爾根把這件事想了一整夜。他心上壓著一件東西——他自己也說不出一個道理來;但是他有一個思想，一個比喜愛愛爾茜還要強烈的思想。因此他就去找莫爾登。他所說的和所做的事情都是經過仔細考慮的。他以最優惠的條件把他的屋子租給了莫爾登。他自己則到海上去找工作，因為這是他的志愿。愛爾茜聽到這事情的時候，就吻了他的嘴，因為她是最愛莫爾登的。

　　大清早，雨爾根就動身走了。在他離開的頭一天晚上，夜深的時候，他想再去看莫爾登一次。于是他就去了。在沙丘上他碰到了那個老漁夫：他對他的遠行很不以為然。老頭兒說，“莫爾登的褲子里一定縫有一個鴨嘴”⑤，因為所有的女孩子都愛他。雨爾根沒有注意這句話，只是說了聲再會，就直接到莫爾登所住的那座茅屋里去了。他聽到里面有人在大聲講話。莫爾登并非只是一個人在家。雨爾根猶豫了一會兒，因為他不愿意再碰到愛爾茜。考慮了一番以后，他覺得最好還是不要聽到莫爾登再一次對他表示感謝，因此轉身就走了。

　　第二天早晨天還沒亮，他就捆好背包，拿著飯盒子，沿著沙丘向海岸走去。這條路比那沉重的沙路容易走些，而且要短得多。他先到波烏堡附近的法爾特令去一次，因為那個養鱔魚的人就住在那兒——他曾經答應要去拜訪他一次。

　　海是干凈和蔚藍的;地上鋪滿了黑蚌殼和卵石——兒時的這些玩物在他腳下發出響聲。當他這樣向前走的時候，他的鼻孔里忽然流出血來：這不過是一點意外的小事，然而小事可能有重大的意義。有好幾大滴血落到他的袖子上。他把血揩掉了，并且止住了流血。于是他覺得這點血流出來以后倒使頭腦舒服多了，清醒多了。沙子里面開的矢車菊花。他折了一根梗子，把它插在帽子上。他要顯得快樂一點，因為他現在正要走到廣大的世界上去。——“走出大門，到海上去走一下!”正如那此小鱔魚說的。“當心壞人啦。他們叉住你們，剝掉你們的皮，把你們切成碎片，放在鍋里炒!”他心里一再想起這幾句話，不禁笑起來，因為他覺得他在這個世界上決不會吃虧——勇氣是一件很強的武器呀。

　　他從西海走到尼松灣那個狹小的入口的時候，太陽已經升得很高了。他掉轉頭來，遠遠地看到兩個人牽著馬——后面還有許多人跟著——在匆忙地趕路。不過這不關他的事。

　　渡船停在海的另一邊。雨爾根把它喊過來，于是他就登上去。不過他和船夫還沒有渡過一半路的時候，那些在后面趕路的人就大聲喊起來。他們以法律的名義在威脅著船夫。雨爾根不懂得其中的意義，不過他知道最好的辦法還是把船劃回去。因此他就拿起一只槳，把船劃回來。船一靠岸，這幾個人就跳上來了。在他還沒有發覺以前，他們已經用繩子把他的手綁住了。

　　“你得用命來抵償你的罪惡，”他們說，“幸而我們把你抓住了。”

　　他是一個謀殺犯!這就是他所得到的罪名。人們發現莫爾登死了;他的脖子上插著一把刀子。頭天晚上很晚的時候，有一個漁人遇見雨爾根向莫爾登的屋子走去。人們知道，雨爾根在莫爾登面前舉起刀子，這并不是第一次。因此他一定就是謀殺犯;現在必須把他關起來。關人的地方是在林卻平，但是路很遠，而西風又正在向相反的方向吹。不過渡過這道海灣向斯卡龍去要不了半個鐘頭;從那兒到北佛斯堡去，只有幾里路。這兒有一座大建筑物，外面有圍墻和壕溝。船上有一個人就是這幢房子的看守人的兄弟。這人說，他們可以暫時把雨爾根監禁在這房子的地窖里。吉卜賽人朗·瑪加利曾經在這里被囚禁過，一直到執行死刑的時候為止。

　　雨爾根的辯白誰也不理。他襯衫上的幾滴血成了對他不利的證據。不過雨爾根知道自己是無罪的。他既然現在沒有機會來洗清自己，也就只好聽天由命了。

　　這一行人馬上岸的地方，正是騎士布格的堡寨所在的處所。雨爾根在兒時最幸福的那四天里，曾經和他的養父養母去參加宴會——入葬的宴會，途中在這兒經過。他現在又被牽著在草場上向北佛斯堡的那條老路走去。這兒的接骨木樹又開花了，高大的菩提樹在發出香氣。他仿佛覺得他離開這地方不過是昨天的事情。

　　在這幢堅固的樓房的西廂，在高大的樓梯間的下面，有一條地道通到一個很低的、拱形圓頂的地窖。朗·瑪加利就是從這兒被押到刑場上去的。她曾經吃過五個小孩子的心：她有一種錯覺，認為如果她再多吃兩顆心的話，就可以隱身飛行，任何人都看不見她。地窖的墻上有一個狹小的通風眼，但是沒有玻璃。鮮花盛開的菩提樹無法把香氣送進來安慰他;這兒是陰暗的，充滿了霉味。這個囚牢里只有一張木板床;但是“清白的良心是一個溫柔的枕頭”，因此雨爾根睡得很好。

　　粗厚的木板門鎖上了，并且插上了鐵插銷。不過迷信中的小鬼可以從一個鑰匙孔鉆進高樓大廈，也能鉆進漁夫的茅屋，更能鉆進這兒來——雨爾根正在這兒坐著，想著朗·瑪加利和她的罪過。在她被處決的頭天晚上，她臨終的思想充滿了這整個的房間。雨爾根心中記起那些魔法——在古代，斯萬魏得爾老爺住在這兒的時候，有人曾經使用過它。大家都知道，吊橋上的看門狗，每天早晨總有人發現它被自己的鏈子吊在欄桿的外面。雨爾根一想起這些事，心里就變得冰冷。不過這里有一絲陽光射進他的心：這就是他對于盛開的接骨木樹和芬芳的菩提樹的記憶。

　　他在這兒沒有囚禁多久，人們便把他移送到林卻平。在這兒，監禁的生活也是同樣艱苦。

　　那個時代跟我們的時代不同。平民的日子非常艱苦。農人的房子和村莊都被貴族們拿去作為自己的新莊園，當時還沒有辦法制止這種行為。在這種制度下，貴族的馬車夫和平人成了地方官。他們有權可以因一點小事而判一個窮人的罪，使他喪失財產，戴著枷，受鞭打。這一類法官現在還能找得到幾位。在離京城和開明的、善意的政府較遠的尤蘭，法律仍然是常常被人濫用的。雨爾根的案子被拖下去了——這還算是不壞的呢。

　　他在監牢里是非常凄涼的——這在什么時候才能結束呢?他沒有犯罪而卻受到損害的痛苦——這就是他的命運!在這個世界上為什么他該是這樣呢?他現在有時間來思索這個問題了。為什么他有這樣的遭遇呢?“這只有在等待著我的那個‘來生’里才可以弄清楚。”當他住在那個窮苦漁人的茅屋里的時候，這個信念就在他的心里生了根。在西班牙的豪華生活和太陽光中，這個信念從來沒有在他父親的心里照耀過;而現在在寒冷和黑暗中，卻成了他的一絲安慰之光——上帝的慈悲的一個標記，而這是永遠不會仆人的。

　　春天的風暴開始了。只要風暴略微平靜一點，西海的呼嘯在內地許多英里路以外都可以聽到：它像幾百輛載重車子，在崎嶇不平的路上奔騰。雨爾根在監牢里聽到這聲音——這對于他說來也算是寂寞生活中的一點變化。什么古老的音樂也比不上這聲音可以直接引其他心里的共鳴——這個呼嘯的、自由的海。你可以在它上面到世界各地去，乘風飛翔;你可以帶著你自己的房子，像蝸牛背著自己的殼一樣，又走到它上面去。即使在生疏的國家里，一個人也永遠是在自己的家鄉。

　　他靜聽著這深沉的呼嘯，他心中泛起了許多回憶——“自由!自由!哪怕你沒有鞋穿，哪怕你的衣服破爛，有自由你就是幸福的!”有時這種思想在他的心里閃過，于是他就握著拳頭，向墻上打去。

　　好幾個星期，好幾個月，一整年過去了。有一個惡棍——小偷尼爾斯，別名叫“馬販子”——也被抓進來了。這時情況才開始好轉;人們可以看出，雨爾根蒙受了多么大的冤枉。那樁謀殺事件是在雨爾根離家后發生的。在頭一天的下午，小偷尼爾斯在林卻平灣附近一個農人開的啤酒店里遇見了莫爾登。他們喝了幾杯酒——還不足以使任何人頭腦發昏，但卻足夠使莫爾登的舌頭放肆。他開始吹噓起來，說他得到了一幢房子，打算結婚。當尼爾斯問他打算到哪里去弄錢的時候，莫爾登驕傲地拍拍衣袋。

　　“錢在它應該在的地方，就在這兒，”他回答說。

　　這種吹噓使他喪失了生命。他回到家里來的時候，尼爾斯就在后面跟著他，用一把刀子刺進他的咽喉里去，然后劫走了他身邊所有的錢。

　　這件事情的詳細經過后來總算是水落石出了。就我們說來，我們只須知道雨爾根獲得了自由就夠了。不過他在牢獄和寒冷中整整受了一年罪，與所有的人斷絕來往，有什么可以賠償他這種損失呢?是的，人們告訴他，說他能被宣告無罪已經是很幸運的了，他應該離去。市長給了他10個馬克，作為旅費，許多市民給他食物和平酒——世界上總算還有些好人!并非所有的人都是把你“叉住、剝皮、放在鍋里炒”!不過最幸運的是：斯卡根的一個商人布洛涅——雨爾根一年以來就一直想去幫他工作——這時卻為了一件生意到林卻平來了。他聽到了這整個案情。這人有一個好心腸，他知道雨爾根吃過了許多苦頭，因此就想幫他一點忙，使他知道，世界上還有好人。

　　從監獄里走向自由，仿佛就是走向天國，走向同情和愛。他現在就要體驗到這種心情了。生命的酒并不完全是苦的：沒有一個好人會對他的同類倒出這么多的苦酒，代表“愛”的上帝又怎么會呢?

　　“把過去的一切埋葬掉和忘記掉吧!”商人布洛涅說：“把過去的一年劃掉吧。我們可以把日歷燒掉。兩天以后，我們就可以到那親愛的、友善的、平和的斯卡根去。人們把它叫做一個脾氣的角落，然而它是一個溫暖的、有火爐的角落：它的窗子開向廣闊的世界。”

　　這才算得是一次旅行呢!這等于又呼吸到新鮮的空氣——從那陰冷的地牢中走向溫暖的太陽光!荒地上長滿了盛開的石楠和無數的花朵，牧羊的孩子坐在墳丘上吹著笛子——他自己用羊腿骨雕成的短笛。海市蜃樓，沙漠上的美麗的天空幻象，懸空的花園和搖動的森林都在他面前展露開來;空中奇異的漂流——人們把它叫做“趕著羊群的湖人”——也同樣地出現了。

　　他們走過溫德爾⑥人的土地，越過林姆灣，向斯卡根進發。留著長胡子的人⑦——隆巴第人——就是從這兒遷移出去的。在那饑荒的歲月里，國王斯尼奧下命令，要把所有的小孩和老人都殺掉，但是擁有廣大土地的那個貴族婦人甘巴魯克提議讓年輕的人離開這個國家。雨爾根是一個知識豐富的人，他知道這全部的故事。即使他沒有到過在阿爾卑斯山后面的隆巴第人的國度⑧，他起碼也知道他們是個什么樣子，因為他在童年時曾經到過西班牙的南部。他記起了那兒成堆的水果，鮮紅的石榴花，蜂窩似的大城市里的嗡嗡聲、丁當聲和鐘聲。然而那究竟是最好的地方，而雨爾根的家鄉是在丹麥。

　　最后他們到達了“溫德爾斯卡加”——這是斯卡根在古挪威和冰島文字中的名稱。那時老斯卡根、微斯特埠和奧斯特埠在沙丘和耕地之間，綿延許多英里路遠，一直到斯卡根灣的燈塔那兒。那時房屋和田莊和現在一樣，零零落落地散布在被風吹到一起的沙丘之間。這是風和沙子在一起游戲的沙漠，一塊充滿了刺耳的海鷗、海燕和野天鵝的叫聲的地方。在西南30多英里的地方，就是“高地”或老斯卡根。商人布洛涅就住在這兒，雨爾根也將要住在這兒。大房子都涂上了柏油，小屋子都有一個翻過來的船作為屋頂;豬圈是由破船的碎脾氣成的。這兒沒有籬笆，因為這兒的確也沒有什么東西可圍。不過繩子上吊著長串的、切開的魚。它們掛得一層比一層高，在風中吹干。整個海灘上堆滿了腐朽的鯡魚。這種魚在這兒是那么多，網一下到海里去就可以拖上成堆的魚。這種魚是太多了，漁人們得把它們扔回到海里去，或堆在那兒腐爛。

　　商人的妻子和女兒，甚至他的仆人，都興高采烈地來歡迎父親回來。大家握著手，閑談著，講許多事情，而那位女兒，她有多么可愛的面孔和一對多么美麗的眼睛啊!

　　房子是寬大和舒適的。桌上擺出了許多盤魚——連國王都認為是美味的比目魚。這兒還有斯卡根葡萄園產的酒——這也就是說：海所產的酒，因為葡萄從海里運到岸上來時，早就釀成酒了，并且也裝進酒桶和平里去了。

　　母親和女兒一知道雨爾根是什么人、他無辜地受過多少苦難，她們就以更和善的態度來接待他;而女兒——美麗的克拉娜——她的一雙眼睛則是最和善的。雨爾根在老斯卡根算是找到了一個幸福的家。這對于他的心靈是有好處的——他已經受過苦痛的考驗，飲過能使心腸變硬或變軟的愛情的苦酒。雨爾根的一顆心不是軟的——它還年輕，還有空閑。三星期以后，克拉娜要乘船到挪威的克利斯蒂安桑得去拜訪一位姑母，要在那兒度過冬天。大家都覺得這是一個很好的機會。

　　在她離開之前的那個星期天，大家都到教堂去參加圣餐禮。教堂是好寬大和壯麗的;它是蘇格蘭人和荷蘭人在許多世紀以前建造的，離開城市不太遠。當然它是有些頹敗了，那條通向它的深深地陷在沙里的路是非常難走的。不過人們很愿意忍受困難，走到神的屋子里去，唱圣詩和聽講道。沙子沿著教堂的圍墻堆積起來，但是人們還沒有讓教堂的墳墓被它淹沒。

　　這是林姆灣以北的一座最大的教堂。祭壇上的圣母馬利亞，頭上罩著一道金光，手中抱著年幼的耶穌，看起來真是栩栩如生。唱詩班所在的高壇上，刻著神圣的12使徒的像。壁上掛著斯卡根過去一些老市長和市府委員們的肖像，以及他們的圖章。宣講臺也雕著花。太陽光耀地照進教堂里來，照在發亮的銅蠟燭臺上和圓屋頂下懸著的那個小船上，雨爾根覺得有一種神圣的、天真的感覺在籠罩著他的全身，跟他小時候站在一個華麗的西班牙教堂里一樣。不過在這兒他體會到他是信徒中的一員。

　　講道完畢以后，接著就是領圣餐⑨的儀式。他和別人一道去領取面包和酒。事情很湊巧，他恰恰是跪在克拉娜小姐的身邊。不過他的心是深深地想著上帝和這神圣的禮拜;只有當他站起來的時候，才注意到旁邊是什么人。他看到她臉上滾下了眼淚。

　　兩天以后她就動身到挪威去了。雨爾根在家里做些雜活或出去捕魚，而且那時的魚多——比現在要多得多。魚在夜里發出閃光，因此也就泄露出它們行動的方向。魴鮄在咆哮著，墨魚被捉住的時候在發出哀鳴。魚并不像人那樣沒有聲音。雨爾根比一般人更要沉默，把心事悶在心里——但是有一天會爆發出來的。

　　每個禮拜天，當他坐在教堂里、望著祭壇上的圣母馬利亞的像的時候，他的視線也在克拉娜跪過的那塊地方停留一會兒。于是他就想起了她對他曾經是多么溫柔。

　　秋天帶著冰雹和冰雪到來了。水漫到斯卡根的街道上來，因為沙不能把水全部吸收進去。人們得在水里走，甚至于還得坐船。風暴不斷地把船只吹到那些危險的暗礁上撞壞。暴風和飛沙襲來，把房子都埋掉了，居民只有從煙囪里爬出來。但這并不是稀有的事情。屋子里是舒適和愉快的。泥炭和破船的木片燒得噼啪地響起來;商人布洛涅高聲地朗讀著一本舊的編年史。他讀著丹麥王子漢姆雷特怎樣從英國到來，怎樣在波烏堡登陸作戰。他的墳墓就在拉姆，離那個養鱔魚的人所住的地方只不過幾十英里路遠。數以百計的古代戰士的墳墓，散布在荒地上，像一個寬廣的教堂墓地。商人布洛涅就親自到漢姆雷特的墓地去看過。大家都談論著關于那遠古的時代、鄰居們、英格蘭和蘇格蘭的事情。雨爾根也唱著那支關于《英國的王子》的歌，關于那條華貴的船和它的裝備：

　　金葉貼滿了船頭和船尾，

　　船身上寫著上帝的教誨。

　　這是船頭畫幅里的情景：

　　王子在擁抱著他的戀人。

　　雨爾根唱這支歌的時候非常激動，眼睛里射出亮光，他的眼睛生下來就是烏黑的，因而顯得特別明亮。

　　屋子里有人讀書，有人歌唱，生活也很富裕，甚至家里的動物也過著這樣的家庭生活。鐵架上的白盤子發著亮光;天花板上掛著香腸、火腿和豐饒的冬天食物。這種情況，在尤蘭西部海岸的許多富裕的田莊里現在還可以看到：豐富的食物、漂亮的房間、機智和聰明的幽默感。在我們這個時代，這一切都恢復過來了;像在阿拉伯人的帳篷里一樣，人們都非常好客。

　　自從他兒時參加過那四天的入葬禮的宴會以后，雨爾根再也沒有過過這樣愉快的日子;然而克拉娜卻不在這兒，她只有在思想和談話中存在。

　　四月間有一條船要開到挪威去，雨爾根也得一同去。他的心情非常好，精神也愉快，所以布洛涅太太說，看到他一眼也是舒服的。

　　“看你一眼也是同樣的高興啦，”那個老商人說。“雨爾根使冬天的夜晚變得活潑，也使得你變得活潑!你今年變得年輕了，你顯得健康、美麗。不過你早就是微堡的一個最美麗的姑娘呀——這是一個極高的評價，因為我早就知道微堡的姑娘們是世界上最美的人兒。”

　　這話對雨爾根不適當，因此他不表示意見。他心中在想著一位斯卡根的姑娘。他現在要駕著船去看這位姑娘了。船將要在克利斯蒂安桑得港下錨。不到半天的時間，一陣順風就要把他吹到那兒去了。

　　有一天早晨，商人布洛涅到離老斯卡根很遠、在港汊附近的燈塔那兒去。信號火早已滅了;當他爬上燈塔的時候，太陽已經升得很高。沙灘伸到水里去有幾十英里遠。在沙灘外邊，這天有許多船只出現。在這些船中他從望遠鏡里認出了他自己的船“加倫·布洛涅”號。是的，它正在開過來。雨爾根和克拉娜都在船上。就他們看來，斯卡根的教堂塔樓和燈塔就像藍色的水上漂浮著的一只蒼鷺和一只天鵝。克拉娜坐在甲板上，看到沙丘遠遠地露出地面：如果風向不變的話，她可能在一點鐘以內就要到家。他們是這么接近家和快樂——但同時又是這么接近死和死的恐怖。

　　船上有一塊板子松了，水在涌進來。他們忙著塞漏洞和抽水，收下帆，同時升起了求救的信號旗。但是他們離岸仍然有10多里路程。他們看得見一些漁船，但是仍然和它們相距很遠。風正在向岸吹，潮水也對他們有利;但是已經來不及了，船在向下沉。雨爾根伸出右手，抱著克拉娜。

　　當他喊著上帝的名字和她一起跳進水里去的時候，她是用怎樣的視線在注視著他啊!她大叫了一聲，但是仍然感到安全，因為他決不會讓她沉下去的。

　　在這恐怖和危險的時刻，雨爾根體會到了那支古老的歌中的字句：

　　這是船頭畫幅里的情景：

　　王子在擁抱著他的戀人。

　　他是一個游泳的能手，現在這對他很有用了。他用一只手和雙腳劃著水，用另一只手緊緊地抱著這年輕的姑娘。他在浪濤上浮著，踩著水，使用他知道的一切技術，希望能保持足夠的力量而到達岸邊。他聽到克拉娜發出一聲嘆息，覺著她身上起了一陣痙攣，于是他便更牢牢地抱住她。海水向他們身上打來，浪花把他們托起，水是那么深，那么透明，在轉眼之間他似乎看見一群青花魚在下面發出閃光——這也許就是“海有怪獸”⑩，要來吞噬他們。云塊在海上撒下陰影，然后耀眼的陽光又射出來了。驚叫著的鳥兒，成群地在他頭上飛過去。在水上浮著的、昏睡的胖野鴨惶恐地在這位游泳家面前突然起飛。他覺得他的氣力在慢慢地衰竭下來。他離岸還有好幾錨鏈長的距離;這時有一只船影影綽綽駛近來救援他們。不過在水底下——他可以看得清清楚楚——有一個白色的動物在注視著他們;當一股浪花把他托起來的時候，這動物就更向他逼近來：他感到一陣壓力，于是周圍便變得漆黑，一切東西都從他的視線中消逝了。

　　沙灘上有一條被海浪沖上來的破船。那個白色的“破浪神”⑾倒在一個錨上;錨的鐵鉤微微地露出水面。雨爾根碰到它，而浪濤更以加倍的力量推著他向它撞去。他昏過去了，跟他的重負同時一起下沉。接著襲來第二股浪濤，他和這位年輕的姑娘又被托了起來。

　　漁人們撈其他們，把他們抬到船里去;血從雨爾根的臉上流下來，他好像是死了一樣，但是他仍然緊緊地抱著這位姑娘，大家只有使出很大的氣力才能把她從他的懷抱中拉開。克拉娜躺在船里，面色慘白，沒有生命的氣息。船現在正向岸邊劃去。

　　他們用盡一切辦法來使克拉娜復蘇;然而她已經死了!他一直是抱著一具死尸在水上游泳，為這個死人而把他自己弄得精氣力竭。

　　雨爾根仍然在呼吸。漁人們把他抬到沙丘上最近的一座屋子里去。這兒只有一位類似外科醫生的人，雖然他同時還是一個鐵匠和雜貨商人。他把雨爾根的傷裹好，以便等到第二天到叔林鎮上去找一個醫生。

　　病人的腦子受了重傷。他在昏迷不醒中發出狂叫。但是在第三天，他倒下了，像昏睡過去了一樣。他的生命好像是掛在一根線上，而這根線，據醫生的說法，還不如讓它斷掉的好——這是人們對于雨爾根所能做出的最好的希望。

　　“我們祈求上帝趕快把他接去吧;他決不會再是一個正常的人!”

　　不過生命卻不離開他——那根線并不斷，可是他的記憶卻斷了：他的一切理智的聯系都被切斷了。最可怕的是：他仍然有一個活著的身體——一個又要恢復健康的身體。

　　雨爾根住在商人布洛涅的家里。

　　“他是為了救我們的孩子才得了病的，”老頭子說;“現在他要算是我們的兒子了。”

　　人們把雨爾根叫做白癡;然而這不是一個恰當的名詞。他只是像一把松了弦的琴，再也發不出聲音罷了。這些琴弦只偶然間緊張起來，發出一點聲音：幾支舊曲子，幾個老調子;畫面展開了，但馬上又籠罩了煙霧;于是他又坐著呆呆地朝前面望，一點思想也沒有。我們可以相信，他并沒有感到痛苦，但是他烏黑的眼睛失去了光彩，看起來像模糊的黑色玻璃。

　　“可憐的白癡雨爾根!”大家說。

　　他，從他的母親的懷里出生以后，本來是注定要享受豐富的幸福的人間生活的，因而對他說來，如果他還盼望或相信來世能有更好的生活，那末他簡直是“傲慢，可怕地狂妄”了。難道他心靈中的一切力量都已經喪失了嗎?他的命運現在只是一連串艱難的日子、痛苦和失望。他像一個美麗的花根，被人從土壤里拔出來，扔在沙子上，聽其它腐爛下去。不過，難道依著上帝的形象造成的人只能有這點價值嗎?難道一切都是由命運在那兒作祟嗎?不是的，對于他所受過的苦難和他所損失掉的東西，博愛的上帝一定會在來生給他報償的。“上帝對一切人都好;他的工作充滿了仁慈。”這是大衛《圣詩集》中的話語。這商人的年老而虔誠的妻子，以耐心和希望，把這句話念出來。她心中只祈求上帝早點把雨爾根召回去，使他能走進上帝的“慈悲世界”和永恒的生活中去。

　　教堂墓地的墻快要被沙子埋掉了;克拉娜就葬在這個墓地里。雨爾根似乎一點也不知道這件事情——這不屬于他的思想范圍，因為他的思想只包括過去的一些片斷。每個禮拜天他和一家人去做禮拜，但他只靜靜地坐在教堂里發呆。有一天正在唱圣詩的時候，他深深地嘆了一口氣，他的眼睛閃著光，注視著那個祭壇，注視著他和死去的女朋友曾經多次在一起跪過的那塊地方。他喊出她的名字來，他的面色慘白，眼淚沿著臉頰流下來。

　　人們把他扶出教堂。他對大家說，他的心情很好，他并不覺得有什么毛病。上帝所給予他的考驗與遺棄，他全記不得了——而上帝，我們的造物主，是聰明、仁愛的，誰能對他懷疑呢?我們的心，我們的理智都承認這一點，《圣經》也證實這一點：“他的工作充滿了仁慈。”

　　在西班牙，溫暖的微風吹到摩爾人的清真寺圓頂上，吹過橙子樹和月桂樹;處處是歌聲和響板聲。就在這兒，有一位沒有孩子的老人、一個最富有的商人，坐在一幢華麗的房子里。這時有許多孩子拿著火把和平動著的妻子在街上游行過去了。這時老頭子真愿意拿出大量財富再找回他的女兒：他的女兒，或者女兒的孩子——這孩子可能從來就沒有見過這個世界的陽光，因而也不能走進永恒的天國。“可憐的孩子!”

　　是的，可憐的孩子!他的確是一個孩子，雖然他已經有30歲了——這就是老斯卡根的雨爾根的年齡。

　　流沙把教堂墓地的墳墓全都蓋滿了，蓋到墻頂那么高。雖然如此，死者還得在這兒和比他們先逝去的親族或親愛的人葬在一起。商人布洛涅和他的妻子，現在就跟他們的孩子一道，躺在這白沙的下面。

　　現在是春天了——是暴風雨的季節。沙上的沙丘粒飛到空中，形成煙霧;海上翻出洶涌的浪濤;鳥兒像暴風中的云塊一樣，成群地在沙丘上盤旋和尖叫。在沿著斯卡根港汊到胡斯埠沙丘的這條海岸線上，船只接二連三地觸到礁上出了事。

　　有一天下午雨爾根單獨地坐在房間里，他的頭腦忽然似乎清醒起來;他有一種不安的感覺——這種感覺，在他小時候，常常驅使他走到荒地和沙丘之間去。

　　“回家啊!回家啊!”他說。誰也沒有聽到他。他走出屋子，向沙丘走去。沙子和石子吹到他的臉上來，在他的周圍打旋。他向教堂走，沙子堆到墻上來，快要蓋住窗子的一半了。可是門口的積沙被鏟掉了，因此教堂的入口是敞開的。雨爾根走進去。

　　風暴在斯卡根鎮上呼嘯。這樣的風暴，這樣可怕的天氣，人們記憶中從來不曾有過。但是雨爾根是在上帝的屋子里。當外面正是黑夜的時候，他的靈魂里就現出了一線光明——一線永遠不滅的光明。他覺得，壓在他頭上的那塊沉重的石頭現在爆裂了。他仿佛聽到了風琴的聲音——不過這只是風暴和海的呼嘯。他在一個座位上坐下來。看啊，蠟燭一根接著一根地點起來了。這兒現在出現了一種華麗的景象，像他在西班牙所看到的一樣。市府老參議員們和市長們的肖像現在都有了生命。他們從掛過許多世紀的墻上走下來，坐到唱詩班的席位上去。教堂的大門和小門都自動打開了;所有的死人，穿著他們生前那個時代的節日衣服，在悅耳的音樂聲中走進來了，在凳子上坐下來了。于是圣詩的歌聲，像洶涌的浪濤一樣，洪亮地唱起來了。住在胡斯埠的沙丘上的他的養父養母都來了;商人布洛涅和他的妻子也來了;在他們的旁邊、緊貼著雨爾根，坐著他們和善的、美麗的女兒。她把手向雨爾根伸來，他們一起走向祭壇：他們曾經在這兒一起跪過。牧師把他們的手拉到一起，把他們結為愛情的終身伴侶。于是喇叭聲響起來了——悅耳得像一個充滿了歡樂和平望的小孩子的聲音。它擴大成為風琴聲，最后變成充滿了洪亮的高貴的音色所組成的暴風雨，使人聽到非常愉快，然而它卻是強烈得足夠打碎墳上的石頭。

　　掛在唱詩班席位頂上的那只小船，這時落到他們兩人面前來了。它變得非常龐大和美麗;它有綢子做的帆和鍍金的帆桁：它的錨是赤金的，每一根纜索，像那支古老的歌中所說的，是“摻雜著生絲”。這對新婚夫婦走上這條船，所有做禮拜的人也跟著他們一起走上來，因為大家在這兒都有自己的位置和快樂。教堂的墻壁和拱門，像接骨木樹和芬芳的菩提樹一樣，都開出花來了;它們的枝葉在搖動著，散發出一種清涼的香氣;于是它們彎下來，向兩邊分開;這時船就拋錨，在中間開過去，開向大海，開向天空;教堂里的每一根蠟燭是一顆星，風吹出一首圣詩的調子，于是大家便跟著風一起唱：

　　“在愛情中走向快樂!——任何生命都不會滅亡!永遠的幸福!哈利路亞!”

　　這也是雨爾根在這個世界里所說的最后的話。連接著不滅的靈魂的那根線現在斷了;這個陰暗的教堂里現在只有一具死尸——風暴在它的周圍呼嘯，用散沙把它掩蓋住。

　　第二天早晨是禮拜天;教徒和牧師都來做禮拜。到教堂去的那條路是很難走的，在沙子上幾乎無法通過。當他們最后到來的時候，教堂的入口已經高高地堆起了一座沙丘。牧師念了一個簡短的禱告，說：上帝把自己的屋子的門封了，大家可以走開，到別的地方去建立一座新的教堂。

　　于是他們唱了一首圣詩，然后就都回到自己的家里去。在斯卡根這個鎮上，雨爾根已經不見了;即使在沙丘上人們也找不到他。據說滾到沙灘上來的洶涌的浪濤把他卷走了。

　　他的尸體被埋在一個最大的石棺——教堂——里面。在風暴中，上帝親手用土把他的棺材蓋住;大堆的沙子壓到那上面，現在仍然壓在那上面。

　　飛沙把那些拱形圓頂都蓋住了。教堂上現在長滿了山楂和玫瑰樹;行人現在可以在那上面散步，一直走到冒出沙土的那座教堂塔樓。這座塔樓像一塊巨大的墓碑，在附近十多里地都望得見。任何皇帝都不會有這樣漂亮的墓碑!誰也不來攪亂死者的安息，因為在此以前誰也不知道有這件事情：這個故事是沙丘間的風暴對我唱出來的。

　　①指清真寺，因為非洲信仰伊斯蘭教的摩爾人在第8世紀曾經征服過西班牙。

　　②據希伯來人的神話，人類的始祖亞當和夏娃在天國里過著快樂的生活。因為受了蛇的教唆，夏娃和亞當吃了知識之果，以為這樣就可以跟神一樣聰明。結果兩人都被上帝驅出了天國。見《圣經·舊約全書·創世紀》第三章。

　　③意大利人和西班牙人住在較熱的南歐，皮膚較一般北歐人黑。

　　④這是北歐神話中的一種神仙。

　　⑤這句話不知源出何處，大概是與丹麥的民間故事有關。

　　⑥這是現在住在德國東部施普雷(Spree)流域的一個屬于斯拉夫系的民族，人口約15萬。在第六世紀他們是一個強大的民族，占有德國和北歐廣大的地區。

　　⑦指龍哥巴爾第這個民族，在意大利文里是Longobardi，即“長胡子的人”的意思。他們原住在德國和北歐，在第六世紀遷移到意大利。現在意大利的隆巴第省(Lombardia)就是他們過去的居留地。

　　⑧指意大利。

　　⑨基督教的一種宗教儀式，教徒們領食少量的餅和酒，表示紀念耶穌。

　　⑩原文是Leviathan。《圣經》中敘述為象征邪惡的海中怪獸。見《舊約全書·約伯記》第41章。

　　⑾這是一個木雕的人像，一般安在船頭，古時的水手迷信它可以“破浪”，使船容易向前行駛。

 

　　沙丘的故事英文版：

　　A Story from the Sand-Hills

　　THIS story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland, but it does 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 cool refreshing 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 and waving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering stars, 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 themselves up to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing they could desire—health and happiness, riches and honour.

　　“We are as happy as human beings can be,” said the young couple from the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one step higher to mount on the ladder of happiness—they hoped that God would give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happy little one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for with love and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxury that a rich and influential family can give. So the days went by like a joyous festival.

　　“Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift for us to appreciate!” said the young wife. “Yet they say that fulness of joy for ever and ever can only be found in the future life. I cannot realise it!”

　　“The thought arises, perhaps, from the arrogance of men,” said the husband. “It seems a great pride to believe that we shall live for ever, that we shall be as gods! Were not these the words of the serpent, 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 shadows passed over her sunny thoughts.

　　“Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so,” replied her husband; “but amid all my happiness I feel that it is arrogant to demand a continuation of it—another life after this. Has not so much 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 this life is nothing more than one long scene of trial and hardship to many thousands. How many have been cast into this world only to endure poverty, 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 which seem 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 that the beast of burden, which suffers blows and hunger, and works itself to death, suffers just as much from its miserable fate? The dumb creature might demand a future life also, and declare the law unjust that excludes it from the advantages of the higher creation.”

　　“Christ said: ‘In my father’s house are many mansions,’” she answered. “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, throwing his arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He sat by her side on the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in the cool air, which was loaded with the sweet scent of carnations and orange blossoms. Sounds of music and the clatter of castanets came from the road beneath, the stars shone above then, and two eyes full of affection—those of his wife—looked upon him with the expression of undying love. “Such a moment,” he said, “makes it worth while to be born, to die, and to be annihilated!” He smiled—the young wife raised her hand in gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from her mind, and they were happy—quite happy.

　　Everything seemed to work together for their good. They advanced in 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 the Russian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his birth and his acquirements entitled him to the honour. He possessed a large fortune, and his wife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for she was the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. One of this merchant’s largest and finest ships was to be sent that year to Stockholm, and it was arranged that the dear young couple, the daughter and the son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg. All the arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury on every 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 here was the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:

　　“God grant that we once more may meet

　　In sweet unclouded peace and joy.”

　　There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish coast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reach their 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 it did arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole months, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The ship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then the wind increased, just as it did in the old song of “The King of England’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 sat on 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 was shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same now. 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 had not God to trust in, we should have nothing.”

　　“Yes,” replied the woman, “He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five years old if we had been permitted to keep him.”

　　“It is no use fretting, wife,” said the man. “The boy is well provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to.”

　　They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the sea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed between the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air; another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and beat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was quiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.

　　The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes which stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in their course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish stalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also came out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the beach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones blew 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 or moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above the thunder of the waves. The fisherman’s little cottage was on the very margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every now 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 the air became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with undiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there was 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 hastily dressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was light enough to make the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their eyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the violence of the wind was terrible, and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one crept forward between the gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sea like down, and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the beach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the offing; she was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over the reef, three or four cables’ length out of the usual channel. She drove towards the shore, struck on the second reef, and remained fixed.

　　It was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in upon the vessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they heard cries for help from those on board, and could plainly distinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors. Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the bowsprit, tearing it from the vessel, and the stern was lifted high above 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 linen on it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.

　　Life returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing of what had happened or where she was; and it was better so, for everything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same thing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about “The King of England’s Son.”

　　“Alas! how terrible to see

　　The 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 awoke in pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her wonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words, but nobody understood her.—And lo! as a reward for the sorrow and suffering she had undergone, she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child that was to have rested upon a magnificent couch, draped with silken curtains, in a luxurious home; it was to have been welcomed with joy to a life rich in all the good things of this world; and now Heaven had ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat, that it should not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when the fisherman’s wife laid the child upon the mother’s bosom, it rested on a heart that beat no more—she was dead.

　　The child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury was cast into the world, washed by the sea among the sand-hills to share the fate and hardships of the poor.

　　Here we are reminded again of the song about “The King of England’s Son,” for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at the time, when knights and squires plundered those who had been saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of Nissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman days, when, as we have just said, the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely were past, long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for the unfortunate existed then, just as it does in our own time in many a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child would have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by the winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the cottage of the poor fisherman’s wife, who had stood, only the day before, beside her child’s grave, who would have been five years old that day if God had spared it to her.

　　No one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even form a conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.

　　No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and violent storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given: “Foundered at sea—all lost.” But in the fisherman’s cottage among the sand-hills near Huusby, there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish family.

　　Where Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to find a meal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the hungry.

　　They called the boy Jørgen.

　　“It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark,” the people said.

　　“It might be an Italian or a Spaniard,” remarked the clergyman.

　　But to the fisherman’s wife these nations seemed all the same, and she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a Christian.

　　The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and he became 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 them shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of pleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full of playthings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral or yellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds’ eggs and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes’ skeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, white and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones—all these seemed 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 how dexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells he could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate the room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, his foster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. He had a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else than in the fisherman’s hut by the North Sea.

　　One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among other things 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 not accomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. Would Jørgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his friends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed another, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself was a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm or storm—the crested wave or the smooth surface.

　　The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among the fisherman’s house one was especially looked forward to; this was, in fact, the visit of the brother of Jørgen’s foster-mother, the eel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a cart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full of eels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it, and Jørgen was allowed to guide them.

　　The eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought a measure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or a cupful if there were not enough glasses; even Jørgen had about a thimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, as the eel-breeder said; he always told one story over and over again, and if his hearers laughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jørgen while still a boy, and also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder’s story on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to listen to it. It runs thus:

　　“The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged leave to go a little farther out. ‘Don’t go too far,’ said their mother; ‘the ugly eel-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 these wept and said, ‘We only went a little way out, and the ugly eel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to death.’ ‘They’ll come back again,’ said the mother eel. ‘Oh, no,’ exclaimed the daughters, ‘for he skinned them, cut them in two, and fried them.’ ‘Oh, they’ll come back again,’ the mother eel persisted. ‘No,’ replied the daughters, ‘for he ate them up.’ ‘They’ll come back again,’ repeated the mother eel. ‘But he drank brandy after them,’ said the daughters. ‘Ah, then they’ll never come back,’ said the mother, and she burst out crying, ‘it’s the brandy that buries the eels.’”

　　“And therefore,” said the eel-breeder in conclusion, ”it is always the proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels.”

　　This story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous recollection of Jørgen’s life. He also wanted to go a little way farther out and up the bay—that is to say, out into the world in a ship—but his mother said, like the eel-breeder, “There are so many bad people—eel spearers!” He wished to go a little way past the sand-hills, out into the dunes, and at last he did: four happy days, the brightest of his childhood, fell to his lot, and the whole beauty and splendour of Jutland, all the happiness and sunshine of his home, were concentrated in these. He went to a festival, but it was a burial feast.

　　A rich relation of the fisherman’s family had died; the farm was situated far eastward in the country and a little towards the north. Jørgen’s foster parents went there, and he also went with them from the dunes, over heath and moor, where the Skjærumaa takes its course through green meadows and contains many eels; mother eels live there with their daughters, who are caught and eaten up by wicked people. But do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards their own fellow-men? Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wicked people? 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 and tower, at the point where the Skjærumaa falls into the bay? Jørgen and his parents now stood there; the wall and the ramparts still remained, and red crumbling fragments lay scattered around. Here it was that Sir Bugge, after the architect had left him, said to one of his men, “Go after him and say, ‘Master, the tower shakes.’ If he turns round, kill him and take away the money I paid him, but if he does not turn round let him go in peace.” The man did as he was told; the architect did not turn round, but called back “The tower does 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 Predbjørn 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 Nørre-Vosborg.

　　Jørgen and his foster parents went past this castle. They had told him its story during the long winter evenings, and now he saw the stately edifice, with its double moat, and trees and bushes; the wall, covered with ferns, rose within the moat, but the lofty lime-trees were the most beautiful of all; they grew up to the highest windows, and the air was full of their sweet fragrance. In a north-west corner of the garden stood a great bush full of blossom, like winter snow amid the summer’s green; it was a juniper bush, the first that Jørgen had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the lime-trees; the child’s soul treasured up these memories of beauty and fragrance to gladden the old man.

　　From Nørre-Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the journey became more pleasant, for they met some other people who were also going to the funeral and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had to sit all together on a little box at the back of the waggon, but even this, they thought, was better than walking. So they continued their journey across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggon stopped every now and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid the heather. The sun shone with considerable heat, and it was wonderful to behold how in the far distance something like smoke seemed to be rising; yet this smoke was clearer than the air; it was transparent, and looked like rays of light rolling and dancing afar over the heath.

　　“That is Lokeman driving his sheep,” said some one.

　　And this was enough to excite Jørgen’s imagination. He felt as if they were now about to enter fairyland, though everything was still real. How quiet it was! The heath stretched far and wide around them like a beautiful carpet. The heather was in blossom, and the juniper-bushes and fresh oak saplings rose like bouquets from the earth. An inviting place for a frolic, if it had not been for the number of poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke; they also mentioned that the place had formerly been infested with wolves, and that the district was still called Wolfsborg for this reason. The old man who was driving the oxen told them that in the lifetime of his father the horses had many a hard battle with the wild beasts that were now exterminated. One morning, when he himself had gone out to bring in the horses, he found one of them standing with its forefeet on a wolf it had killed, but the savage animal had torn and lacerated the brave horse’s legs.

　　The journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too quickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning, where they found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggon stood side by side, while the horses and oxen had been turned out to graze on the scanty pasture. Great sand-hills like those at home by the 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; with this exception, the guests were cheerful enough, it seemed to Jørgen, and there was plenty to eat and drink. There were eels of the fattest, requiring brandy to bury them, as the eel-breeder said; and certainly they did not forget to carry out his maxim here.

　　Jørgen went in and out the house; and on the third day he felt as much at home as he did in the fisherman’s cottage among the sand-hills, where he had passed his early days. Here on the heath were riches unknown to him until now; for flowers, blackberries, and bilberries were to be found in profusion, so large and sweet that when they were crushed beneath the tread of passers-by the heather was stained 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, Jørgen’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 buried it in the churchyard. From that time the sand began to fly about and the sea broke in with violence. A wise man in the district advised them 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 been piled up still remained.

　　All this Jørgen listened to and treasured up in his memory of the happiest days of his childhood—the days of the burial feast.

　　How delightful it was to see fresh places and to mix with strangers! And he was to go still farther, for he was not yet fourteen years old when he went out in a ship to see the world. He encountered 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. He even saw the town where they had lived in joy and prosperity, but he knew nothing of his home or his relations, and his relations knew just as little about him.

　　The poor ship boy was not permitted to land, but on the last day of their stay he managed to get ashore. There were several purchases to be made, and he was sent to carry them on board.

　　Jørgen stood there in his shabby clothes which looked as if they had been washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney; he, who had always dwelt among the sand-hills, now saw a great city for the first 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 in the side thoroughfares; and the sun shone with such heat, and the air was so close, that one seemed to be in an oven full of beetles, cockchafers, bees and flies, all humming and buzzing together. Jørgen 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. Jørgen 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 swung silver censers. What splendour and magnificence he saw there! It streamed in upon his soul and overpowered him: the church and the faith of his parents surrounded him, and touched a chord in his heart that caused his eyes to overflow with tears.

　　They went from the church to the market-place. Here a quantity of provisions were given him to carry. The way to the harbour was long; and weary and overcome with various emotions, he rested for a few 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 in one’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 the vessel lay once more at Ringkjøbing in Jutland. He came ashore, and went home to the sand-dunes near Huusby; but his foster-mother had died during his absence.

　　A hard winter followed this summer. Snow-storms swept over land and sea, and there was difficulty in getting from one place to another. How unequally things are distributed in this world! Here there was bitter cold and snow-storms, while in Spain there was burning sunshine and oppressive heat. Yet, when a clear frosty day came, and Jørgen saw the swans flying in numbers from the sea towards the land, across to Nørre-Vosborg, it seemed to him that people could breathe more freely here; the summer also in this part of the world was splendid. In imagination he saw the heath blossom and become purple with rich juicy berries, and the elder-bushes and lime-trees at Nørre Vosborg in flower. He made up his mind to go there again.

　　Spring came, and the fishing began. Jørgen was now an active helper in this, for he had grown during the last year, and was quick at 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 warned him to beware of the sharks, which seize the best swimmer, draw him down, and devour him; but such was not to be Jørgen’s fate.

　　At a neighbour’s house in the dunes there was a boy named Martin, with whom Jørgen was on very friendly terms, and they both took service in the same ship to Norway, and also went together to Holland. They never had a quarrel, but a person can be easily excited to quarrel when he is naturally hot tempered, for he often shows it in many ways; and this is just what Jørgen did one day when they fell out about the merest trifle. They were sitting behind the cabin door, eating from a delft plate, which they had placed between them. Jørgen held his pocket-knife in his hand and raised it towards Martin, and at the same time became ashy pale, and his eyes had an ugly look. Martin only said, “Ah! ah! you are one of that sort, are you? Fond of using the knife!”

　　The words were scarcely spoken, when Jørgen’s hand sank down. He did not answer a syllable, but went on eating, and afterwards returned to his work. When they were resting again he walked up to Martin and said:

　　“Hit me in the face! I deserve it. But sometimes I feel as if I had a pot in me that boils over.”

　　“There, let the thing rest,” replied Martin.

　　And after that they were almost better friends than ever; when afterwards they returned to the dunes and began telling their adventures, this was told among the rest. Martin said that Jørgen was certainly passionate, but a good fellow after all.

　　They were both young and healthy, well-grown and strong; but Jørgen was the cleverer of the two.

　　In Norway the peasants go into the mountains and take the cattle there to find pasture. On the west coast of Jutland huts have been erected among the sand-hills; they are built of pieces of wreck, and thatched with turf and heather; there are sleeping places round the walls, and here the fishermen live and sleep during the early spring. Every fisherman has a female helper, or manager as she is called, who baits his hooks, prepares warm beer for him when he comes 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.

　　Jørgen, his father, and several other fishermen and their managers inhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.

　　One of the girls, whose name was Else, had known Jørgen from childhood; they were glad to see each other, and were of the same opinion 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, Jørgen held her hand very firmly in his, and she said to him:

　　“Jørgen, I have something I want to say to you; let me be your manager, for you are like a brother to me; but Martin, whose housekeeper I am—he is my lover—but you need not tell this to the others.”

　　It seemed to Jørgen as if the loose sand was giving way under his 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 his heart that he hated Martin, and the more he thought the more he felt convinced that Martin had stolen away from him the only being he ever loved, and that this was Else: he had never thought of Else in this way before, but now it all became plain to him.

　　When the sea is rather rough, and the fishermen are coming home in their 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 others watch him sitting with the oars in their hands. Outside the reef it looks 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 great wave is coming which is to float them across the reef. The boat is lifted high into the air, so that the keel is seen from the shore; the next moment nothing can be seen, mast, keel, and people are all hidden—it seems as though the sea had devoured them; but in a few moments 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 the water 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 Jørgen’s mind one day while they were out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenly ill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few oars’ strokes from the reef, and Jørgen sprang from his seat and stood up in the bow.

　　“Father-let me come!” he said, and he glanced at Martin and across the waves; every oar bent with the exertions of the rowers as the great wave came towards them, and he saw his father’s pale face, and dared not obey the evil impulse that had shot through his brain. The boat came safely across the reef to land; but the evil thought remained in his heart, and roused up every little fibre of bitterness 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.

　　Jørgen’s foster-father took to his bed, and it became his death-bed, for he died a week afterwards; and now Jørgen 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, Jørgen, I suppose,” observed one of the old fishermen. “You will always stay with us now.”

　　But this was not Jørgen’s intention; he wanted to see something of the world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an uncle at Old Skagen, 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 Skagen lies in the extreme north of Jutland, as far away from the Huusby dunes as one can travel in that country; and this is just what pleased Jørgen, for he did not want to remain till the wedding of Martin and Else, which would take place in a week or two.

　　The old fisherman said it was foolish to go away, for now that Jørgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to take him instead of Martin.

　　Jørgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to make out what he meant—the old man brought Else to him, and she said:

　　“You have a home now; you ought to think of that.”

　　And Jørgen thought of many things.

　　The sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in the human heart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, rushed through Jørgen’s brain, and he said to Else:

　　“If Martin had a house like mine, which of us would you rather have?”

　　“But Martin has no house and cannot get one.”

　　“Suppose he had one?”

　　“Well, then I would certainly take Martin, for that is what my heart tells me; but one cannot live upon love.”

　　Jørgen turned these things over in his mind all night. Something was working within him, he hardly knew what it was, but it was even stronger than his love for Else; and so he went to Martin’s, and what he said and did there was well considered. He let the house to Martin on most liberal terms, saying that he wished to go to sea again, because he loved it. And Else kissed him when she heard of it, for she loved Martin best.

　　Jørgen proposed to start early in the morning, and on the evening before his departure, when it was already getting rather late, he felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He started, and among the dunes 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.

　　Jørgen did not pay any attention to his remarks, but said good-bye to the old man and went on towards the house where Martin dwelt. He heard loud talking inside; Martin was not alone, and this made Jørgen waver in his determination, for he did not wish to see Else again. On second thoughts, he decided that it was better not to hear any more thanks from Martin, and so he turned back.

　　On the following morning, before the sun rose, he fastened his knapsack 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 shells and pebbles, the playthings of his childhood, crunched over his feet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began to bleed; it was a trifling occurrence, but trifles sometimes are of great importance. 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 here and there in the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuck it in his hat; he determined to be merry and light-hearted, for he was going out into the wide world—“a little way out, beyond the bay,” as the young eels had said. “Beware of bad people who will catch you, and skin you, and put you in the frying-pan!” he repeated in his mind, and smiled, for he thought he should find his way through the world—good courage is a strong weapon!

　　The sun was high in the heavens when he approached the narrow entrance 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. Jørgen called to the ferry-man, and the latter came over with his boat. Jørgen 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. Jørgen did not understand the reason of this, but he thought it would be best to turn back, and therefore he himself took an oar and returned. As soon as the 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 a good thing we have caught you.”

　　He was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had been found dead, with his throat cut. One of the fishermen, late on the previous evening, had met Jørgen going towards Martin’s house; this was not the first time Jørgen had raised his knife against Martin, so they felt sure that he was the murderer. The prison was in a town at 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, and another quarter of an hour would bring them to Nørre-Vosborg, the great castle with ramparts and moat. One of Jørgen’s captors was a fisherman, a brother of the keeper of the castle, and he said it might be managed that Jørgen 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 Jørgen’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 had stood, and where Jørgen had walked with his foster-parents after the burial feast, during. the four happiest days of his childhood. He was led by the well-known path, over the meadow to Vosborg; once more the elders were in bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forth sweet fragrance, and it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he had last seen the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was a staircase which led to a place below the entrance, from whence there is access to a low, vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long Martha had been imprisoned, and from here she was led away to the scaffold. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and had imagined that if she could obtain two more she would be able to fly and make herself invisible. In the middle of the roof of the cellar there was a little narrow air-hole, but no window. The flowering lime trees could not breathe refreshing fragrance into that abode, where everything was dark and mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the cell; but a good conscience is a soft pillow, and therefore Jørgen could sleep well.

　　The thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the outside by an iron bar; but the goblin of superstition can creep through a keyhole into a baron’s castle just as easily as it can into a fisherman’s cottage, and why should he not creep in here, where Jørgen 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 Sir Svanwedel’s time, came into Jørgen’s mind, and made him shudder; but a sunbeam, a refreshing thought from without, penetrated his heart even 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 of Ringkjøbing, where he was imprisoned with equal severity.

　　Those times were not like ours. The common people were treated harshly; and it was just after the days when farms were converted into knights’ estates, when coachmen and servants were often made magistrates, and had power to sentence a poor man, for a small offence, to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges of this kind were still to be found; and in Jutland, so far from the capital, and from the enlightened, well-meaning, head of the Government, the law was still very loosely administered sometimes—the smallest grievance Jørgen could expect was that his case should be delayed.

　　His dwelling was cold and comfortless; and how long would he be obliged to bear all this? It seemed his fate to suffer misfortune and sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on the difference of fortune on earth, and to wonder why this fate had been allotted to him; yet he felt sure that all would be made clear in the next life, the existence that awaits us when this life is over. His faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman’s cottage; the light which had never shone into his father’s mind, in all the richness and sunshine of Spain, was sent to him to be his comfort in poverty and distress, a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.

　　The spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the North 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. Jørgen 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 boundless sea, 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 snail carries 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 ragged clothes!” Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, the fiery nature 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 Jørgen had been wrongly accused.

　　On the afternoon before Jørgen’s departure from home, and before the murder, Niels the thief, had met Martin at a beer-house in the neighbourhood of Ringkjøbing. 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 followed him, and cut his throat, intending to rob the murdered man of the gold, which did not exist.

　　All this was circumstantially explained; but it is enough for us to know that Jørgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for having been imprisoned a whole year, and shut out from all communication with his fellow creatures? They told him he was fortunate in being proved innocent, and that he might go. The burgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses, and many citizens offered him provisions and beer—there were still good people; they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of all was that the merchant Brønne, of Skagen, into whose service Jørgen had proposed entering the year before, was just at that time on business in the town of Ringkjøbing. Brønne heard the whole story; he was kind-hearted, and understood what Jørgen must have felt and suffered. 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 Jørgen went forth from prison as if to paradise, to find freedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this path now, for no goblet of life is all bitterness; no good man would pour out such a draught for his fellow-man, and how should He do it, Who is love personified?

　　“Let everything be buried and forgotten,” said Brønne, the merchant. “Let us draw a thick line through last year: we will even burn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear, friendly, peaceful Skagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner; but it is a good 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 of the cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed in pride and beauty, and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew his pipe, which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. Fata Morgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness, appeared with hanging gardens and waving forests, and the wonderful cloud called “Lokeman driving his sheep” also was seen.

　　Up towards Skagen they went, through the land of the Wendels, whence the men with long beards (the Longobardi or Lombards) had emigrated in the reign of King Snio, when all the children and old people were to have been killed, till the noble Dame Gambaruk proposed that the young people should emigrate. Jørgen 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 be there, for in his boyhood he had been in the south, in Spain. He thought of the plenteousness of the southern fruit, of the red pomegranate 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 Jørgen’s home was Denmark.

　　At last they arrived at “Vendilskaga,” as Skagen is called in old Norwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time Old Skagen, with the eastern and western town, extended for miles, with sand hills and arable land as far as the lighthouse near “Grenen.” Then, as now, the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills—a wilderness 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 Skagen; merchant Brønne dwelt here, and this was also to be Jørgen’s home for the future. The dwelling-house was tarred, and all the small out-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 meet him with great rejoicing. There was a great squeezing of hands, and talking and questioning. And the daughter, what a sweet face and bright 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 on the table, and there was wine from the Skagen vineyard—that is, the sea; for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and prepared in barrels and in bottles.

　　When the mother and daughter heard who Jørgen was, and how innocently he had suffered, they looked at him in a still more friendly way; and pretty Clara’s eyes had a look of especial interest as she listened to his story. Jørgen found a happy home in Old Skagen. It did his heart good, for it had been sorely tried. He had drunk the bitter goblet of love which softens or hardens the heart, according to circumstances. Jørgen’s heart was still soft—it was 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 the Holy 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 Virgin Mary, 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 in the choir, and on the walls there were portraits of the old burgomasters and councillors of Skagen; the pulpit was of carved work. The sun shone brightly into the church, and its radiance fell on the polished brass chandelier and on the little ship that hung from the vaulted roof.

　　Jørgen felt overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like that which possessed him, when, as a boy, he stood in the splendid Spanish cathedral. But here the feeling was different, for he felt conscious of being one of the congregation.

　　After the sermon followed Holy Communion. He partook of the bread and wine, and it so happened that he knelt by the side of Miss Clara; but his thoughts were so fixed upon heaven and the Holy Sacrament that he did not notice his neighbour until he rose from his knees, and then he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.

　　She left Skagen and went to Norway two days later. He remained behind, and made himself useful on the farm and at the fishery. He went out fishing, and in those days fish were more plentiful and larger than they are now. The shoals of the mackerel glittered in the dark nights, and indicated where they were swimming; the gurnards snarled, and the crabs gave forth pitiful yells when they were chased, for fish are not so mute as people say.

　　Every Sunday Jørgen went to church; and when his eyes rested on the picture of the Virgin Mary over the altar as he sat there, they often glided away to the spot where they had knelt side by side.

　　Autumn came, and brought rain and snow with it; the water rose up right into the town of Skagen, the sand could not suck it all in, one had to wade through it or go by boat. The storms threw vessel after vessel on the fatal reefs; there were snow-storm and sand-storms; the sand flew up to the houses, blocking the entrances, so that people had to creep up through the chimneys; that was nothing at all remarkable here. It was pleasant and cheerful indoors, where peat fuel and fragments of wood from the wrecks blazed and crackled upon the hearth. Merchant Brønne 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 Brønne had himself been at Hamlet’s grave; they spoke about old times, and about their neighbours, the English and the Scotch, and Jørgen 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 Jørgen sang with so much feeling that his eyes beamed, and they were black and sparkling since his infancy.

　　There was wealth, comfort, and happiness even among the domestic animals, for they were all well cared for, and well kept. The kitchen looked bright with its copper and tin utensils, and white plates, and from the rafters hung hams, beef, and winter stores in plenty. This can still be seen in many rich farms on the west coast of Jutland: plenty to eat and drink, clean, prettily decorated rooms, active minds, cheerful tempers, and hospitality can be found there, as in an Arab’s tent.

　　Jørgen had never spent such a happy time since the famous burial feast, and yet Miss Clara was absent, except in the thoughts and memory of all.

　　In April a ship was to start for Norway, and Jørgen was to sail in it. He was full of life and spirits, and looked so sturdy and well that Dame Brønne said it did her good to see him.

　　“And it does one good to look at you also, old wife,” said the merchant. “Jørgen has brought fresh life into our winter evenings, and into you too, mother. You look younger than ever this year, and seem well and cheerful. But then you were once the prettiest girl in Viborg, and that is saying a great deal, for I have always found the Viborg girls the prettiest of any.”

　　Jørgen said nothing, but he thought of a certain maiden of Skagen, whom he was soon to visit. The ship set sail for Christiansand in Norway, and as the wind was favourable it soon arrived there.

　　One morning merchant Brønne went out to the lighthouse, which stands a little way out of Old Skagen, not far from “Grenen.” The light was out, and the sun was already high in the heavens, when he mounted the tower. The sand-banks extend a whole mile from the shore, beneath the water, outside these banks; many ships could be seen that day, and with the aid of his telescope the old man thought he descried his own ship, the Karen Brønne. Yes! certainly, there she was, sailing homewards with Clara and Jørgen on board.

　　Clara sat on deck, and saw the sand-hills gradually appearing in the 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 their best to stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted, but they were still 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 towards the land, the tide was in their favour, but it was all useless; the ship could not be saved.

　　Jørgen 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 God for help he breasted the waves, which rushed over the sinking ship! She uttered a cry, but she felt safe and certain that he would not leave her to sink. And in this hour of terror and danger Jørgen felt as 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 way onward with his feet and one arm, while he held the young girl up firmly with the other. He rested on the waves, he trod the water—in fact, did everything he could think of, in order not to fatigue himself, and to reserve strength enough to reach land. He heard Clara 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 a moment he imagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering, or Leviathan himself ready to swallow them. Now the clouds cast a shadow 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 up terrified at the sight of the swimmer. He began to feel his strength decreasing, but he was only a few cable lengths’ distance from the shore, and help was coming, for a boat was approaching him. At this moment he distinctly saw a white staring figure under the water—a wave lifted him up, and he came nearer to the figure—he felt a violent shock, and everything became dark around him.

　　On the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship, which was covered with water at high tide; the white figure head rested against the anchor, the sharp iron edge of which rose just above the surface. Jørgen had come in contact with this; the tide had driven him against it with great force. He sank down stunned with the blow, but the next wave lifted him and the young girl up again. Some fishermen, coming with a boat, seized them and dragged them into it. The blood streamed down over Jørgen’s face; he seemed dead, but still held the young girl so tightly that they were obliged to take her from him by force. She was pale and lifeless; they laid her in the boat, and rowed as quickly as possible to the shore. They tried every means to restore Clara to life, but it was all of no avail. Jørgen had been swimming for some distance with a corpse in his arms, and had exhausted his strength for one who was dead.

　　Jørgen still breathed, so the fishermen carried him to the nearest house upon the sand-hills, where a smith and general dealer lived who knew something of surgery, and bound up Jørgen’s wounds in a temporary way until a surgeon could be obtained from the nearest town the next day. The injured man’s brain was affected, and in his delirium he uttered wild cries; but on the third day he lay quiet and weak upon his bed; his life seemed to hang by a thread, and the physician said it would be better for him if this thread broke. “Let us pray that God may take him,” he said, “for he will never be the same 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 had been cut through, and what was still more grievous, a body remained—a living healthy body that wandered about like a troubled spirit.

　　Jørgen remained in merchant Brønne’s house. “He was hurt while endeavouring to save our child,” said the old man, “and now he is our son.” People called Jørgen insane, but that was not exactly the correct term. He was like an instrument in which the strings are loose and will give no sound; only occasionally they regained their power for a few minutes, and then they sounded as they used to do. He would sing snatches of songs or old melodies, pictures of the past would rise before him, and then disappear in the mist, as it were, but as a general rule he sat staring into vacancy, without a thought. We may conjecture that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes lost their brightness, and looked like clouded glass.

　　“Poor mad Jørgen,” said the people. And this was the end of a life whose 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 upon the 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 be only the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator would certainly repay him in the life to come for what he had suffered and lost here. “The Lord is good to all; and His mercy is over all His works.” The pious old wife of the merchant repeated these words from the Psalms of David in patience and hope, and the prayer of her heart was that Jørgen might soon be called away to enter into eternal life.

　　In the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with sand Clara lay buried. Jørgen did not seem to know this; it did not enter his mind, which could only retain fragments of the past. Every Sunday he went to church with the old people, and sat there silently, staring vacantly before him. One day, when the Psalms were being sung, he sighed deeply, and his eyes became bright; they were fixed upon a place near the altar where he had knelt with his friend who was dead. He murmured her name, and became deadly pale, and tears rolled down his cheeks. They led him out of church; he told those standing round him that he was well, and had never been ill; he, who had been so grievously afflicted, the outcast, thrown upon the world, 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 and gently stir the orange and myrtle groves, where singing and the sound of the castanets are always heard, the richest merchant in the place, a childless old man, sat in a luxurious house, while children marched in procession through the streets with waving flags and lighted tapers. If he had been able to press his children to his heart, his daughter, or her child, that had, perhaps never seen the light of day, far less the kingdom of heaven, how much of his wealth would he not have given! “Poor child!” Yes, poor child—a child still, yet more than thirty years old, for Jørgen had arrived at this age in Old Skagen.

　　The shifting sands had covered the graves in the courtyard, quite up to the church walls, but still, the dead must be buried among their relatives and the dear ones who had gone before them. Merchant Brønne and his wife now rested with their children under the white sand.

　　It was in the spring—the season of storms. The sand from the dunes 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 Huusby dunes.

　　One evening Jørgen sat in his room alone: all at once his mind seemed to become clearer, and a restless feeling came over him, such as had often, in his younger days, driven him out to wander over the sand-hills or on the heath. “Home, home!” he cried. No one heard him. He went out and walked towards the dunes. Sand and stones blew into his face, and whirled round him; he went in the direction of the church. The sand was banked up the walls, half covering the windows, but it had been cleared away in front of the door, and the entrance was free and easy to open, so Jørgen went into the church.

　　The storm raged over the town of Skagen; there had not been such a terrible tempest within the memory of the inhabitants, nor such a rough sea. But Jørgen was in the temple of God, and while the darkness of night reigned outside, a light arose in his soul that was never to depart from it; the heavy weight that pressed on his brain burst asunder. He fancied he heard the organ, but it was only the 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 was brightness and grandeur such as he had only seen in the Spanish cathedral. The portraits of the old citizens became alive, stepped down from the walls against which they had hung for centuries, and took seats near the church door. The gates flew open, and all the dead people from the churchyard came in, and filled the church, while beautiful music sounded. Then the melody of the psalm burst forth, like the sound of the waters, and Jørgen saw that his foster parents from the Huusby dunes were there, also old merchant Brønne with his wife and their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They both went up to the altar where they had knelt before, and the priest joined their hands and united them for life. Then music was heard again; it was wonderfully sweet, like a child’s voice, full of joy and expectation, swelling to the powerful tones of a full organ, sometimes soft and sweet, then like the sounds of a tempest, delightful and elevating to hear, yet strong enough to burst the stone tombs of the dead. Then the little ship that hung from the roof of the choir was let down and looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silken sails 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 whole congregation, for there was room and enjoyment for them all. Then the walls and arches of the church were covered with flowering junipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance; the branches waved, creating a pleasant coolness; they bent and parted, and the ship sailed between them through the air and over the sea. Every candle in the church became a star, and the wind sang a hymn in which they all joined. “Through love to glory, no life is lost, the future is full of blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!” These were the last words Jørgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound his immortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body lay in the dark church, while the storm raged outside, covering it with loose sand.

　　The next day was Sunday, and the congregation and their pastor went to the church. The road had always been heavy, but now it was almost unfit for use, and when they at last arrived at the church, a great 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 the congregation must go and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So they sung a hymn in the open air, and went home again.

　　Jørgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skagen, nor on the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere. They came to the conclusion that one of the great waves, which had rolled far up on the beach, had carried him away; but his body lay buried in a great sepulchre—the church itself. The Lord had thrown down a covering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sand lies upon it to this day. The drifting sand had covered the vaulted roof of the church, the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. The white thorn and the dog rose now blossom above the place where the church lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over a grave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more splendid memorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was the first to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among the sand-hills.

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