Ovind.
by Bjornstjerne Bjornson.
PREFACE.
In offering to the public our Translation of Ovind, we wish to say that the work was commenced simply for the pleasure of it, and without any view to publication; but having completed it, we have decided to follow the advice of many of our friends who have read the book, and who think it a pity to keep in ma.n.u.script the translation of a work so original as this. It is therefore offered to the English reader, in the hope that it will meet with the same success in this country that it has done in others; for Bjornstjerne Bjornson, that singular man who seemed so long destined to be distinguished for naught but foolish pranks as a boy, and inapt.i.tude at school and college, has won for himself high literary honors, not only in his native land but throughout Northern Europe. A restless nature, wandering in a wilderness of unfixed purpose, he has repeatedly been on the point of giving himself up as good for naught, until at last the sequestered valley, and the lowly and quiet life of his home, broke upon his wondering eye, in forms he had been seeking in that dreamy half-conscious instinct, which has so often been the harbinger of greatness.
The "Bonde," that st.u.r.dy aristocrat of a northern settlement, a man of n.o.ble descent, a lord of his ground, and the mainstay of his country, covering under the rugged garb of his matter-of-fact life, a heart that beats warm with attachment to his fellow man, and an inborn pride, nurtured by Saga memories and family traditions,--is Bjornson"s text, and a text he handles well. His romances are true to nature, and the sombre grandeur of his land inspires him with ideas which we meet with only in his writings, and which are completely his own. There is a weird light over his whole mind, reflected in his works, which does not repel, but allures. In short, Bjornson, of all men living, seems to have entered most entirely into the life of his nation as it is in its reality, the life which exists on the national traditions, customs, thought, handed down from generation to generation.
The story, which it has been our endeavour to translate as literally as possible, is one of the author"s earliest works. In the original the chapters are without headings, but we have added them as more consonant with English taste and custom. As the Norwegian t.i.tle, "En glad Gut,"
scarcely bears translation, we have given the name of the hero of the story to the book. Thinking it would be acceptable to our readers, we have added two of Bjornson"s shorter pieces, "The Eagle"s Nest," and "The Father."
We should not feel to be doing Herr Bjornson justice, if we spoke only of his romances, and omitted to mention his success as a poet and dramatist. In the drama he has mostly chosen for his subjects, scenes in old Norwegian history, but his play ent.i.tled, "Mary Stuart," and another of more general interest, "The newly-married couple," would perhaps be better suited to the English reader.
North Ormesby,
Middlesbrough, October, 1869.
CHAP. I.
THE LOST GOAT.
They called him Ovind, and he cried when he was born. But when he could sit upon his mother"s lap he smiled, and when they lit the candle in the dusk, he laughed and laughed again, but cried when he couldn"t come to it.
"This child will be something rare," said the mother.
There, where he was born, the wild rocks overhung. From the top of the ridge, the firs and birch looked down upon the cottage; the bird cherry strewed its flowers on the roof. And up on the roof grazed Ovind"s little goat; they kept him there that he mightn"t stray, and Ovind gathered leaves and gra.s.s for him. One fine morning the goat leapt down, and skipped among the rocks, away where he had never been before.
When Ovind came out in the afternoon, the goat was gone. He thought at once of a fox, and grew hot and listened--"Billy, Billy, Billy, Bil-ly goat!" "Ba-a-a!" he answered up from the ridge, laid his head to one side, and looked down.
By the side of the goat sat a little girl. "Is the goat yours?" said she.
Ovind stood with open eyes and mouth, and stuck both his hands in his pocket. "Who are you?" said he.
"I am Marit, my mother"s pet, my father"s darling, the fairy in the house, granddaughter to Ole Nordistuen at Heidegaard, four years old in Autumn, two days after the frosty nights!"
"Oh! are you that!" said he, as he drew a long breath, for he had not stirred while she spoke.
"Is the goat yours?" said the little girl again.
"Why, yes," said he, and looked up.
"I have taken such a fancy to this goat;--you won"t give it to me?"
"No, that I won"t."
She twisted herself, looked down upon him, and said: "But if I give you a b.u.t.ter biscuit, can I get the goat?"
Ovind was of poor folk, he had only eaten b.u.t.ter biscuit once in his life, that was when his grandfather came, and the like he had never tasted before or since. "Let me first see the biscuit," said he.
She held up a large one--"Here it is!"--and tossed it down.
"Oh! it"s broken!" said the boy, and he carefully gathered up every crumb;--the smallest bit he must taste, and it was so good that he must take just another, and another, till before he knew it, the whole biscuit was gone.
"Now the goat is mine," said the little girl.
The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth. The girl sat and smiled, the goat standing by her side, with his white breast and dark brown s.h.a.ggy hair.
"Couldn"t you wait for a while?" begged the boy, and his heart began to beat.
Then the little girl laughed the more, and rose up on her knees.
"No--the goat is mine," said she, and threw her arm round his neck, untied her garter, and bound it round.
Ovind looked on. She rose and began to pull at the goat, but he wouldn"t go, and stretched his neck over towards Ovind. "Baa-a," said he. She took hold of him by the hair with one hand, and drawing the cord in with the other, said coaxingly,--"Come now, goaty, come, you shall come to the kitchen and I"ll give you nice milk and bread,"--then she sang:
"Come calf from my mother, Come goat from the lad, Come p.u.s.s.y mew kitty, Oh! I am so glad!
Come ducklings so yellow, Go each with your fellow, Come chickens and run, Haste to join in the fun, Come little doves cooing, Your feathers are fine-- The gra.s.s may be wet, But the sun will still shine, Early, early, early, in the summer sky, Calling unto autumn that her days are nigh!"
There stood the boy. He had tended the goat since winter when he was born, and the idea of losing him had never entered his mind, but now he was gone all in a minute, and he should never see him more.
The mother came singing up from the well. She saw the boy sitting in the gra.s.s crying, and went over to him. "What are you crying for?"
"Oh! the goat,--the goat."
"Yes, where is the goat?" said the mother, as she looked up to the roof.
"He won"t come any more!" said the boy.
"Dear, how can that be?"
Ovind wouldn"t tell about it.
"Has the fox taken it?"
"Oh! I wish it was the fox!"
"Now what have you been doing?" said the mother. "Where is the goat?"
"Oh! oh! oh!... I ... I ... sold the goat for a biscuit!"
Just as he said the words, he felt what it was to sell the goat for a biscuit, he had not thought about it before. The mother said, "And what do you say now the little goat thinks of you, that you could sell him for a biscuit?"