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| - Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as En Landsbydegns Dagbog, 1824 FÖULUM, January 1, 1708. GOD give us all a happy New Year! and preserve our good Pastor Sören. He blew out the candle last night, and mother says he will not live to see next New Year; but I dare say it means nothing.--We had a merry evening. When Pastor Sören took off his cap after supper, and said "Agamus gratias," he pointed to me instead of to Jens. It is the first time I have said grace in Latin. A year ago today Jens said it, and then I opened my eyes wide, for then I didn't understand a word, but now I know half of Cornelius. Just think if I could become pastor at Föulum! Oh, how happy my dear parents would be if they might live to see that day. And then if the Pastor's Jens could become bishop of Ribe--as his father says--well, who can tell? It is all in God's hands. His will be done! Amen in nomine Jesu. FÖULUM, September 3, 1708. Yesterday by the grace of God I completed my fifteenth year. Now Jens is not much ahead of me in Latin. I work harder at home than he does; I study hard while he is running about with Peer Gamekeeper. That's hardly the way to become a bishop. I am sorry for Pastor Sören; he can't help seeing it. The tears come into his eyes sometimes when he says, "Mi fili! mi fili! otium est pulvinar diaboli."--At New Year we shall begin the study of Greek. Pastor Sören has given me a Greek Testament. "They're queer crow's feet, are they not? They must seem like a whetstone in your eyes," he said kindly, and pinched my ear, as he always does when he is pleased. But heyday, won't he be surprised when he finds that I can read it quite fast already! FÖULUM,die St. Martini. Things are going badly with Jens. Pastor Sören was so angry with him that he talked Danish to him all day. To me he spoke in Latin. I once overheard him saying to himself, "Vellem hunc esse filium meum" He meant me. And how Jens did stammer at his Cicero! I know very well why, for day before yesterday, while his father was attending a wedding in Vinge, he was with Peer Gamekeeper in Lindum woods, and--God help us!--a wild boar had torn his breeches. He lied to his mother and said the Thiele bull had done it, but she gave him a good box on the ear--_habeat!_ FÖULUM, _Calendis Januar, 1709._ _Proh, dolor_ Pastor Sören is dead. _Vae me miserum!_ When we had sat down to the table Christmas Eve he put away his spoon and looked long and sadly at Jens. _"Fregisti cor meum"_ he said with a sigh, and went into his bedchamber. Alas, he never rose again. I have visited him every day since then, and he has given me much good advice and admonition; but now I shall never see him again. Thursday I saw him for the last time. Never shall I forget what he said, after a very moving address to me, "God, give my son an upright heart!" He folded his thin hands, and sank back on the pillow. _"Pater! in manus tuas committo spiritum meum."_ Those were his last words. When I saw the mistress put her apron to her eyes, I ran out of the room, feeling very unhappy. Jens was standing outside the door, crying. _"Seras dat poenas turpi poenitentia,"_ I thought, but he fell on my neck and sobbed. God forgive him his wildness! That is what has grieved me most. FÖULUM, _Pridie iduum Januarii MDCCIX._ Yesterday my dear father went to Viborg to arrange for my dinners when I am to go to school. How I long for that time to come! I study all day, but the days are so short now, and mother says we cannot afford to use candles to read by. I can't make head or tail of that letter to Tuticanus. No--things were different when the good Pastor Sören was living. _Eheu mortuus est!_ It is a terrible winter. Heaven and earth are one whirl; there is a snowdrift that reaches to the rooftree of our barn. Last night Jens shot two hares in our vegetable garden--he seems to have forgotten his poor father. But if Peer Gamekeeper finds out about it, there will be trouble. FÖULUM, _Idibus Januarii MDCCIX._ Father has not come home yet, and the weather is as bad as ever. If only he does not lose his way! There is Jens on top of our barn carrying his gun and a brace of birds in his hand--he is coming in here. They were partridges he had shot on Mads Madsen's dunghill, and he wanted mother to roast them for him, but she was afraid of the squire, and refused. FÖULUM, _XVIII Calend. Februar._ Alas the day! My dear father is frozen to death. The man at Kokholm found him in a snowdrift and brought him home in his cart. I have cried till I can't see out of my eyes--and mother, too. God help us both! FÖULUM, February 18, 1709. I hardly know Jens; he had gotten a green coat and a green feather in his hat. "There, you can see," he said. "Now I'm a hunter. What are you? A schoolboy, a Latin grind!"--"Yes, God help us," I replied. "There will be no more Latin. I can become a pastor where you're a bishop. My mother is not going to starve to death while I sing at people's doors in Viborg. I have to stay home and earn a living for her. Oh, Jens, if your father had lived!"--"Don't let us talk about it," he said. "Anyway, I'd never in all my days have learned Latin--devil take the stupid stuff! Why don't you try to get service at the squire's? There you'll have a fine time and live well."--"How should I get in there?" I replied.--"We'll try anyway," said Jens, and ran away. After all, Jens has a kind heart, but he is wild and flighty. Six weeks ago he buried his sainted father, and three weeks ago his mother followed her husband. But now it is as if it didn't concern him. He can cry one moment, and laugh the next. THIELE, May 1, 1709. So now I am a servant in the squire's family. Good-bye pastorate! Good-bye Latin! Oh, my precious books! _Valete, pluri-mum! Vendidi libertatem_ for twelve dollars. The eight must go to my poor mother, and the squire has promised her besides a part in all the trees that are felled in the forest, so she will neither freeze nor starve. It is really Jens who has gotten me this place. He has a lot to say here in the big house. He is a devil of a fellow, or rather cock of the walk. The housekeeper put a big piece of cake in his hand; the dairy woman smirked at him, the chambermaid likewise, and even one of the young ladies nodded kindly as she passed him. It looks as if he may become gamekeeper in place of Peer. The worst of it is that he has gotten into the habit of swearing worse than any sailor. THIELE, March 12, 1709. I am getting along very well, God be thanked. We are six servants to wait on the master and mistress, the young master, and the two young ladies. I have time to read, and I don't neglect my beloved books. Of course it is not of any use, but I can't leave them alone. Yesterday the books of our dear Pastor Sören were sold. I bought for two dollars and got as many as I could carry away. Among them were a number of Ovidius; one is entitled _Ars amoris_ and another _Remedium amoris._ I am going to read them first; I do want to know what they are all about. Once I happened to get hold of them in Pastor Sören's study, but he snatched them away from me, saying, _"Abstine manus!_ Hands off! That's nothing for you." THIELE, June 3, 1709. If I could only learn French! The family never speak anything but French at table, and I don't understand a word of it. Today they were speaking about me, for they looked at me several times. Once I came near dropping a plate. I was standing right behind Miss Sophie's chair, when she turned and looked me full in the face. She is a beautiful young lady, Miss Sophie--it is a joy to look at her. THIELE, September 13, 1709. Yesterday was a day full of commotion. The family from Viskum were here, and there was a big hunt. I was along and had one of the squire's guns. At first all went well, but then a wolf passed close to me. I was so frightened, I almost dropped the gun, and quite forgot to shoot. Jens was standing by my side and shot the wolf. "You're a blockhead," he said, "but I won't tell on you." Soon after the squire passed me. "You're a bungler, Martin," he said. "You must have been bribed."--"I humbly beg your pardon, sir," I replied. "I am quite innocent, but someone must have slandered me. God helping, I will serve you honestly and truly, sir." At that he was pleased to laugh, and said, "You're a great bungler." But that was not the end of it, for when the family were at table they began to talk about the wolf again, asked me, "How much did he give you?" and so forth. I don't know just what they meant, but at least I could understand that they were making fun of me in French and in Danish, too. Even Miss Sophie was laughing at me to my face--that hurt me most of all. I wonder if I couldn't learn that snuffling gibberish. Surely it can't be more difficult than Latin. THIELE, October 2, 1709. It's not impossible--I see that now. French is nothing but garbled Latin. In a box of old books that I bought there was a French translation of _Metamorphoses_--it came in quite pat. The Latin I had learned before. But one thing seems odd to me. When I listen to them talking up there, I can't make out a French word in what they are saying--it's certainly not Ovidius they're discussing. I must learn to shoot. The squire wants me to go along when he hunts, but there I can never please him; he either scolds me or laughs at me--and sometimes he does both at once: I don't carry the gun right, I don't take aim right, and I don't shoot right. "Look at Jens!" says the squire. "He's a hunter. You carry the gun as if it were a scythe slung over your shoulder, and when you take aim you look as if you were falling backward." Miss Sophie, too, laughs at me--but laughing is very becoming to her; she has such beautiful teeth. THIELE, November 7, 1709. Yesterday I shot a fox; the squire called me a good _garçon_ and made me a present of an inlaid powder horn. Jens's instruction has borne fruit. This shooting is quite good fun.--I am getting along better with the French; I am catching on to the pronunciation. One day I listened at the door when the French governess was giving the young ladies their lesson. When they were through and had gone upstairs, I contrived to look at the book to find out which one they were using. Good gracious! How surprised I was! It was one that I too have, one called _L'École du Monde._ So now I stand outside the door every day with my book in my hand, listening to them. It works very well. After all, the French language is much prettier than I realized; it sounds lovely when Miss Sophie speaks it. THIELE, December 13, 1709. Yesterday God saved my gracious master's life by my poor hand. We had a battue in Lindum woods. Just as we were opposite Graakjaer, a wild boar rushed out and made straight for the squire. He fired, and hit it all right, but did not kill it, and the boar went for him. The squire was not frightened; he drew his hanger and was about to plunge it in the breast of the boar when it broke in two. Now, what was to be done? It all happened so quickly that no one could reach him. I ran toward him, but in the same moment I saw the squire on the back of the boar, and off it dashed with him. "Fire!" he cried to the bailiff, who had been standing next to him on the left--but the bailiff didn't dare to. "Fire, in the devil's name," he called to Jens as he passed him. Jens's gun missed fire. Then the boar turned and passed close to me. "Fire, Martin, or the boar will ride to hell with me," he screamed. In the name of God, I thought, and aimed for the animal's hindquarters, and was lucky enough to crush both its thighs. Glad was I, and happy were we all, the squire especially. "That was a master shot," he said. "And now you keep the gun, since you can use it so well. And listen," he said to the bailiff, "you mollycoddle! Mark me the biggest beech in the forest for his mother. Jens can go home and fix his gun." Then, when we came home in the evening, there was a questioning and narrating. The squire patted me on the shoulder, and Miss Sophie smiled on me so kindly that my heart was in my throat. THIELE, January n, 1710. A _plaisant_ weather! The sun rises red as a burning coal. It looks so _curieux_ as it shines through the white trees, and all the trees look as if they had been powdered, and the branches hang around them down to the ground. The old Grand Richard is badly battered; a couple of its limbs are broken already. It was just such a day a week ago when we drove to Fussingöe, and I was standing on the runners of Miss Sophie's sleigh. She wanted to handle the reins herself, but after about fifteen minutes her small fingers began to feel cold. _"J'ai froid,"_ she said to herself. "Do you want me to drive, Miss?" I asked.--_"Comment!"_ she said. "Do you understand French?"--_"Un feu, mademoiselle,"_ I replied. She turned round and looked me full in the face. I took one of the reins in either hand, and thus had both my arms round her. I tried to hold them far apart in order not to come too near her, but whenever the sleigh gave a jolt and threw her against me, it seemed as if I had touched a hot stove. I felt as if I were flying through space with her, and we were at Fussingöe before I knew it. If she had not called out, _"Tenez, Martin! arretez-vous!"_ I should have driven on to Randers or to the world's end. I wonder if she isn't going out driving today! But there is Jens with the squire's gun, which he has cleaned--so I suppose we are going out hunting again. THIELE, February 13, 1710. I don't feel well. It is as if a heavy stone were weighing on my chest. I can't keep my food down, and at night I can't sleep. Last night I had a strange dream. It seemed to me that I was standing on the runners of Miss Sophie's sleigh, and then suddenly I was sitting in the sleigh and had her on my lap. My right arm was around her waist, and her left around my neck. She bent down and kissed me, but in the same moment I awakened. Oh, I wanted so much to go on dreaming!--It is a fine book she lent me. I amuse myself reading it every night. Oh, if one could be as happy as the Tartarean prince! The more French I read the better I like it; I am almost forgetting my Latin on account of it. THIELE, March 13, 1710. Yesterday, as we were coming home from hunting snipes, the squire said to me, "And I hear that you understand French?"--"A little, sir," I replied.--"But then you can't wait on table; we couldn't open our mouths with you there."--"Oh, sir," I cried, "you don't mean to send me away?"--_"Point de tout"_ he replied. "From now on you shall be my _valet de chambre._ And when Master Kresten goes to Paris, you shall go with him. What do you say to that?" I was so moved that I couldn't say a word, but kissed his hand. But although I look forward to going, I dread the thought of leaving, and I really think my health has worsened since then. THIELE, May 1, 1710. Wretched creature that I am! Now I know what is the matter with me. Ovidius has described my distemper exactly. If I am not mistaken, it is called _Amor,_ which means "love" or "infatuation," and the person I am enamored of must without a doubt be Miss Sophie. Miserable fool that I am! What will this lead to? I must try his _Remedia amoris._ A few minutes ago I saw her standing in the hall and talking to Jens. It cut me to the heart as with a knife. I could have shot him through the head, but then she skipped past me with a smile--I felt as when I am out hunting and the quarry comes within range of my gun; my heart pounds against my ribs, and I can hardly get my breath, and my eyes are as if they were glued to the animal--_ah, malheureux que je suis!_ THIELE, June 17, 1710. How empty and tiresome the house seems. The family are away and won't be back for a week. How shall I get through it? I don't want to do anything. My gun hangs there dirty and rusty, and I don't care to bother about cleaning it. How can Jens and the rest of them be so gay and happy! They're jabbering and roaring with laughter till the yard gives echo--while I sigh like a bittern. Oh, Miss Sophie, if only you were a peasant girl or I a prince! THIELE, June 28, 1710. Now the house looks to me as if it had been newly whitewashed and embellished. The trees in the garden have taken on a lovely light green color, and everybody looks kind. Miss Sophie has come home. She came in through the gate like the sun piercing a cloud; but nevertheless I trembled like a leaf. It's both good and bad to be in love. THIELE, October 4, 1710. We had a magnificent hunt today. Three hundred beaters were posted in Hvidding copse, for they had come from Viskum and Fussingöe with all their hounds. We of Thiele were on the spot at dawn. There was no wind, and a thick layer of fog covered the land; only the beacon hills could be seen above it. Within the fog we could hear the heavy footsteps of the beaters and occasionally the baying of a hound. "There they are coming from Viskum," said the squire; "I know Chasseur's bark."--"And now they are coming from Fussingöe, too," said Jens. "That's Perdrix baying." Still we couldn't see anything on account of the fog, but as they came nearer we heard the rumbling of the carts, the breathing of the horses, the talk and laughter of the gamekeepers. The huntsmen were already putting the beaters in their positions; we could hear them whispering and hushing those who were inclined to talk too loud, and sometimes using their sticks. From the west and the south the gamekeepers came driving in, and behind them came the carts with the hounds, their tails wagging over the side of the carts and sometimes a head protruding--only to get a box on the ear from the huntsmen's boys. Now the squire himself posted us all down the long valley that runs through the copse. When he was ready, he blew his whistle, and the hornblowers started to play a merry piece. The hounds were loosed, and it was not long before they began baying, first one, then two, then the whole pack. Hares, foxes, and deer darted back and forth in the brushwood on the hills. Now and then a shot rang out, echoing down through the valley. We could not see the beaters, but we heard them shouting and calling when a hare or a deer tried to break through. I held my place and shot two foxes and a buck before lunch. While we were eating, the hounds were called in and tied up, but the hornblowers played. When it was over, off we went again. Just then two carriages stopped at the entrance to the valley with the ladies, among them Miss Sophie. That saved a fox, for while I was looking up at them, he slipped past me. Before nightfall the copse was cleared of game. We must have shot about thirty animals, and Master Kresten, who had killed the most foxes, was honored by a piece played on the bugle. THIELE, December 17, 1710. Yesterday I followed my dear mother to her last resting-place. The new pastor--God reward him for it!--honored her passing with a funeral sermon that lasted an hour and three quarters. She was a good and loving mother to me. God give her a blessed awakening! THIELE, January 23, 1711. What a miserable winter! No sleighing yet! I have been longing for it ever since Martinmas, but in vain. Rain and wind, southerly gales, and dreary weather. Last year at this time we drove to Fussingöe. When I think of that night! The moon shone as bright as a silver platter on the blue sky, throwing our shadows to the side of the road on the white snow. Sometimes I leaned over till my shadow mingled with that of Miss Sophie; then it seemed to me that we two were one. A cold wind blew in our faces and carried her sweet breath back to me; I drank it in like wine. Oh, fool that I am!--lovesick fool that I am! What good do such thoughts do me? Sunday I am going to Copenhagen with Master Kresten, and there we are going to stay all summer. I dare say I shall be dead before Mayday.--_Ah, mademoiselle Sophie, adieu! un éternel adieu!_ AT SEA BETWEEN SAMSÖE AND ZEALAND, February 3, 1711. The sun is setting behind my dear Jutland; the reflection lies over the calm sea like an endless path of fire. It seems to bring a greeting from my home. Alas! it is far away, and I am getting farther and farther away from it. I wonder what they are doing now at Thiele! My right ear is burning--perhaps it is Miss Sophie who is talking about me? Alas, no! I am only a poor servant; why should she think of me?--any more than the skipper who is walking up and down on the deck with arms crossed. Every little while he looks toward the north; I wonder what he sees there? "A Swede," he says. God help us in His mercy and goodness! KALLUNDBORG, February 4, 1711. Now I know what war is. I have been in battle, and--the Lord of Sabaoth be praised!--victory was ours. It was, as the skipper said, a Swedish privateer. Early this morning, as soon as it was light, we saw him only two miles away from us; they said he was chasing us. "Are there any of you passengers," said the skipper, "who have courage and stout hearts and would like to try a bout with that Swedish fellow?"--"I have a good rifle," replied Master Kresten, "and my servant has one. What of it, Morten, shall we try this kind of hunt for once?"--"As you please, Master Kresten," I said, ran down into the cabin, loaded our rifles, and brought them up on deck together with powder and shot. There were two soldiers from Jutland who came up from the hold, and they had each a blunderbuss, and the skipper had a Spanish gun as long as himself. The mate and the sailors armed themselves with axes and marlinspikes. "Can't we sail away from him, my good skipper?" I asked.--"The devil we can," he replied. "Don't you see he's gaining on us for all he's worth? We shall soon be hearing his cannon. But if you're scared, you can go home and crawl into your mother's bureau drawer." In the same moment the smoke poured from the Swedish ship, and then we heard a terrific noise and a whizzing over our heads. Before long there was another explosion, and then another, and the last cannon ball tore a splinter from our mast. Then a strange feeling came over me; my heart pounded, and there was a ringing and a buzzing in my ears. But when the Swede came so near that we could reach him with our rifles, and I had taken my first shot, then I felt as if I were out hunting. The Swede came nearer and nearer. We stood in the shelter of the cabin and fired at him across our stern as fast as we could. Several of his people fell, most of them hit by the young master or me. "If we can shoot a snipe, Morten, surely we can hit a Swede, when he stands still," he said.--"Brave fellows!" said the skipper. "Do you see the Swedish captain, the man with the big sabre, who's walking up and down? If you can pick him off, we've won the game!" I aimed at him, pressed the trigger, and as I took my rifle from my cheek, I saw him fall and strike the deck with his nose. "Hurrah!" cried the skipper, and we all cheered. But the privateer turned round and sailed away. With the Danish flag flying aloft we sailed into Kallundborg Fjord, proud and happy, for not a man had been wounded, although the cannon balls flew over and through the ship. The tutor, Monsieur Hartman, was the only one who saw his own blood, and that happened in a curious way. He was lying in the skipper's bunk smoking his pipe when the battle commenced. A little later I came down to fetch tow for the bullets. _"Martin,"_ said he, _'quid hoc sibi vult?"_ But before I could answer, a bullet flew through the cabin window and shot away his pipe which he was holding out over the edge of the bunk--and the mouthpiece pierced his palate. Now we are in port and on dry land, where rest is sweet after such a bout. COPENHAGEN, June 2, 1711. My head is full of all the strange things I have seen. I can't dispose them in my mind, for one chases the other like clouds in a wind. But the most curious thing is that I have almost gotten over my lovesickness. The longer I stay here, the less it seems to me I long for Miss Sophie, and I am almost ready to believe there are just as beautiful maidens in Copenhagen. If I were to write a footnote to _Ovidii Remedium amoris,_ I would recommend a trip to the Capital as one of the best cures for that dangerous malady. ANCHORED UNDER KRONBORG, September 12, 1711. Oh, gracious Heaven! What have I not lived through! What wretchedness and misery have I not seen with these my eyes! God has visited our sins upon us and stricken the people with boils. They died like flies round about me, but I, unworthy that I am, was saved from the jaws of death. Oh, my dear young master! What shall I say when I come back without him? But I did not leave him till he had drawn his last breath; I risked my life for him, and yet God preserved it--praised be His name! When I think of those days of horror, my heart is ready to break. Silent and full of fear, we sat from morning till night in our lonely apartment, gazing at each other and sighing. Once in a while we looked down into the empty streets that used to swarm with people. Now and then a mournful figure would walk across the pavement like a ghost. Inside the windows we could see people sitting like prisoners, most of them as immovable as if they were painted portraits. But when they heard the hollow rumbling of the dead-carts, they would rush away from the windows in order not to see the dreadful sight. I saw it but once, and wanted no more. There those black angels of death drove their long carts, full of corpses piled up like dead cattle. In the back of one cart hung the head and arms of a young woman; her eyes stared horribly in the blackish-yellow face, and her long hair swept the street. Then my young master was shaken for the first time; he tottered into his bedchamber and lay down on his deathbed; but I sighed in my heart: "Like sheep they are laid in the grave; death shall feed on them. But God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for He shall receive me. Selah!" THIELE, September 29, 1711. So now I am here again. When I went in through the door my heart pounded in me almost as on the day we fought the Swede. And when I came in to the family and saw them all in black, then I wept like a child, and they wept, too. I could hardly speak for tears, and before I had finished the _affreuse_ story, the squire turned away and went into his bedchamber. God comfort them in His mercy, amen! THIELE, October 8, 1711. Today we went hunting for the first time since my return. Alas, it was not as in former days and gave but little satisfaction! "Martin," said the squire again and again to me, "we miss Master Kresten!" He sighed so that it cut me to the heart. We came home long before nightfall with one poor little hare. THIELE, November 2, 1711. The house is getting lively again; we are expecting exalted company: His Excellency Lord Gyldenlöve and retinue. He is going to stay a few weeks and amuse himself with the chase. Yesterday the family discussed the matter at table. "He is of royal blood and a perfect gentleman," said the mistress, looking at Miss Sophie. She blushed, looked down at her plate, and smiled, but I grew cold as ice through my whole body. Alas, alas! I thought I had been cured of my foolish infatuation, but I feel the distemper has come back in even greater force. I struggle like a partridge in a snare, but it is of no avail. Oh, that I were a thousand miles from here! THIELE, November 14, 1711. At last His Excellency has arrived, in all his glory and grandeur. Two running footmen with tall, silver-trimmed caps came trotting into the yard half a mile ahead of him. They posted themselves with their long motley staves on either side of the big door. The mistress waddled in at one door and out another; never have I seen her in such _égalité._ Miss Sophie was standing in the drawing room and looking now at the mirror, now out of the window. She didn't even see me when I passed through the room. At last he himself came in a carnage drawn by six yellow horses, a handsome and _magnifique_ gentleman. He looked both distinguished and gracious, and yet I felt there was something repulsive about him. His smile seemed to me sickly sweet, and his eyes blinked as if he were looking at the sun. Though he bowed to each member of the family, it seemed as though he only bowed in order to draw himself up all the higher. When he came to Miss Sophie, the blood rose slightly in his face, and he whispered or lisped a long French compliment. At table he never took his eyes from her, not even when he was speaking to someone else. She threw a glance at him occasionally; but I burned my hand on the plates, and today it is full of blisters. Would it were only the hand that pained me! THIELE, November 20, 1711. Yes, it's certain enough; there will be a _mariage._ One need only look at the mistress. When she sees Miss Sophie, she lays her head back like a duck that has got its crop full, turns as if she were on the point of going to sleep, and then she gabbles: _"Un cavalier accompli, ma fille! n'est-ce pas vrai? et il vous dime, c'est trop clair?"_ Yes, more's the pity, it is plain enough; and she loves him in return, that is plain, too. May she be happy. THIELE, December 4, 1711. As yet His Excellency has not profited much from the chase. Twice we have set out, but each time he has wearied of it before we had gone half way. There is a quarry in the house at home that draws him like a magnet. Alas! Would that I had not left Copenhagen! THIELE, December 8, 1711. Today the _mariage_ was declared. The wedding is to be in a week. Where shall I hide till then? I can't bear it. When he puts his arm around her waist, it is as though someone stuck a knife into my heart-- Good heavens! I believe Jens is as badly smitten as I am. When I told him about the _mariage,_ he thrust his gun so hard against the ground that the butt broke, and then he dashed out on the heath with the broken piece in his hand. So I am not the only fool in the world. THIELE, December 16, 1711. Miss Sophie has the smallpox. Oh, how I tremble for her life! Would that I might die in her place; but they say I can't get this sickness more than once. Her lovely face is full of blisters. THIELE, December 19, 1711. Here is great sorrow and lamentation. Miss Marie is dead, and the squire is inconsolable, but the mistress speaks only about the funeral and how that is to be arranged. Miss Sophie will probably be the next to go, for she is very poorly. His Excellency, her fiance, is getting ready to leave--good riddance! THIELE, March 13, 1712. So now I have risen from my long illness. I thought it would have been my last, and prayed to God in my heart for deliverance. But it seems that I am to wander in this vale of tears yet a while--it is His will--let it be done! It seems as though I had risen from the dead, and I feel as though this illness had lasted three years instead of three months. Yesterday I saw her for the first time since I was stricken, and I kept my countenance. I could almost believe that the illness had taken with it my foolish infatuation. She was a little pale and did not look particularly happy. Nor has she any reason to be happy, more's the pity. His Excellency is surely a great libertine. The other day I saw through a crack in my door how he caught hold of the mistress' maid and that in a very unseemly manner. Oh, my poor young lady! If I were His Excellency I would worship her as an angel from heaven. THIELE, May i, 1712. His Excellency has gone away and left his fiancee here. He is plainly tired of her already, and--God forgive me!--if I don't think she is tired of him, too. She certainly is not pining for him; for she is just as merry and _vive_ or even more so; but once in a while she is a bit overbearing. Sometimes she speaks to me as if I were a beggar, sometimes as if I were her equal. I almost think she wants to make game of me--poor creature that I am! I am afraid I have not yet come to my senses, for she can make me happy or depressed as she pleases. THIELE, June 3, 1712. My health is gone forever, and my youthful gaiety is a thing of the past. I am dull and heavy in my whole being and have no pleasure in anything. I don't care to hunt, and I don't care to read; my gun and my _Ovidius_ are both equally dusty. French, which used to give me so much enjoyment, I cannot bear either to hear or to read--it is a deceitful language. THIELE, June 24, 1712. I have exchanged bedchambers with Jens. He was bent on getting mine, because he was afraid to lie near the cemetery, the silly fool! After all, that is where some time he will lie forever. I am well pleased with the change; from my window I can see the graves of my dear parents--they are at peace--God give their souls great joy in heaven! Over there is Pastor Sören's grave; the thistles are growing on it already--I must pull them up! THIELE, December 13, 1712. The mistress' maid has a little son. She has declared a lace-peddler to be the father, but everybody in the house knows who is the guilty one. Miss Sophie has even joked about it. I don't see how she could, but she takes things lightly--such is not my nature. THIELE, February 27, 1713. Am I dreaming or am I awake? Have my senses deceived me, or was she really mine? Yes, she was mine--I have embraced her with these my arms; she has lain on my breast, and covered my face with kisses--with hot kisses. Now I wish I could die, for I shall never be so happy again. But, no! What is the matter with me? What have I done? Oh, I don't know what I am writing--I believe I am going out of my mind. THIELE, March 5, 1713. Let me recall in my memory those douce moments! Let me reflect on the rapture I felt; it is only now that I seem to awaken as from an intoxication.--The squire came home from the chase, while Jens had stayed behind in the forest to dig out Tax who was stuck in a pit. I knew very well that he would not come home before daylight, and I had an impulse to lie in my old room. I had just gone to sleep when I was awakened by a kiss. Startled, I sat up and was about to cry out, when I felt a soft hand on my mouth and an arm around my neck, and a sweet voice whispering--heavens! it was hers--hers whom I don't dare to name. Then--then--oh, sinner that I am! hardened sinner that I am! I have betrayed my master! and I can't even repent it from my heart. Whenever I want to do penance, I am held back by a secret rapture which mocks my remorse. I feel it: I long to repeat the transgression which I ought to curse. "Ever mine!" were the first words I could utter, but then she tore herself from my embrace with a low cry, and--I was alone. The door creaked and I sat up in bed; I wondered if it had been a wraith. Oh, why did she flee? Why then did she come of herself, uncalled, untempted? Has she loved me as I have loved her, silently, deeply, passionately? THIELE, March 6, 1713. Oh, world, world! How art thou false! Honesty has passed away, virtue and honor are trampled under foot! Yet why do I complain? Am I better than he? Is my sin less because I believe my love is greater? Ah, I only got my deserts; one of us is as good as the other--one betrays the other. Ha, you deceitful woman, you Potiphar's wife! That was why you cried out and fled when you heard my voice. So it was old habit, a beaten path, when you sought my bed--no, Jens's bed! Old love, old sin! While I worshipped you, while I looked up to you with veneration as to a holy angel, you were whoring with my fellow servant! It was midnight. Intoxicated with sweet memories I strolled around in the garden. In a dim walk I saw something stirring--something that told me it was she. With quickened steps I hurried to the spot--it was she! Yes, it was she, but how did I find her? On Jens's lap, with her arms around his neck. Quickly they started away from each other, and I stood as if I were sinking into an abyss. The sun found me in the same place; I shivered with cold, trembled like an aspen leaf. Oh, thou wretched, thou false, thou corrupt world! THIELE, March 9, 1713. I have seen her for the first time since that night of sin. A quick blush passed over her face; she let her eyes flit around the room in order not to look at me. I felt myself getting hot and cold. As soon as we were alone, she passed me rapidly saying with half-closed eyes, _"Silence!"_ She was out of the door before I was quite conscious of something pressed into my hand. THIELE, April 13, 1713. Everything is discovered. The master, the mistress, the entire household know it, and it is Mademoiselle Lapouce who has found them out and exposed them. Miss Sophie sometimes amused herself by raillery at her expense, and this she had taken note of. No one has suspected that the sly woman understood a word of Danish, and so they must have said something carelessly in her presence from which she got wind of what was happening. She has followed the scent until she ran them down. Heavens! what a commotion! The squire ran around with his gun threatening to shoot Jens; but Jens was on his horse and already far away. The young lady was locked in the corner room in order that the squire should not lay violent hands on her. Good heavens! What will be the end of it! I tremble whenever I hear his voice. My conscience condemns me and makes a coward of me. Remorse and fear have so overpowered me that they have driven love and jealousy out of my heart. I wish I were fifteen leagues under the ground. THIELE, April 14, 1713. The young lady is gone! Last night she escaped through a window. Jens has surely been here and abducted her; for about midnight someone saw two persons on one horse, but on account of the dark, he could not see whether both were men. They were on the road to Viborg, and we have been out, every man of us, all day long hunting for them. We came back without finding them. I heard a rumor that they had crossed Skiern bridge, but I shall certainly take care not to come near them. Alas! alas! what a world we live in! My poor master! I am afraid he will take his death over it. He lies on his bed, and doesn't allow any human being to come near him. THIELE, April 20, 1713. Today I was called in to the squire. Oh, Thou gracious Saviour! How pale and shrunken he was! He will not live, that I could plainly see. "Martin," said he, when I came in, "is that you? Come over here to me." As soon as I heard his voice I burst into tears. Formerly it sounded as if he were speaking out of a barrel, and when he called out of the big door, "Martin, bring the dogs!" the house shook, and chickens and ducks flew up startled. But now he spoke so low and his voice was so feeble that my heart was ready to break. "Martin," he said, "have you seen any snipes?"--"No, dear master," I replied sobbing. "I haven't been out at all."--"Oh, haven't you?" he said. "I shall never shoot any more."--"Oh, you may," I said. "God can yet help you."--"No, Martin," he said, "I am nearing the end. If I had only had Kresten!" At that he pressed two tears back into his hollow eyes. "Where is Vaillant?" he asked.--"He is lying in front of the fire," I replied.--"Call him," said he. The dog came and laid his head on the edge of the bed. The master patted him a long time and looked sadly at him. "You have been a faithful servant," he said. "You have not left me. When I am dead, you must shoot him and bury him under the big ash outside the cemetery, but shoot him carefully and don't let him suspect what you are about to do--promise me that!"--"Yes, dear master," I said.--"I don't want him to belong to strangers," he said, as he sank back on the pillow. "My hunter and Donner (his favorite gun) and my sword-belt I want you to have. You must never part with my Blis. When he gets so old that he can't eat any more, you must shoot him."--"Yes, dear master," I said; I could hardly speak for weeping.--"And there on the table is a wad, that's for you, for your faithful service. Go now, Martin, and pray to God for my sinful soul." I kissed the hand he held out to me, and stumbled down to my own bedchamber. Oh, may God give him a blessed end! He was a good and gracious master to me. THIELE, May 3, 1713. So now he too is departed! Now I have not a friend on earth. Here I cannot stay; I must out in the world and get rid of my melancholy thoughts. Poor Vaillant! When I took my gun he leaped joyfully around me; he did not know I was leading him to his death. No, such a shot I will never fire again as long as I live. When I pulled the trigger, and he heard the click, he began to wag his tail and look around as if he expected a quarry, and least of all suspected that he himself was the object. When the shot was fired, and he writhed in the throes of death, I felt as if the heart would burst out of my breast. Oh, my dear blessed master! That was the last, the hardest service I have done you. SAILING PAST THUNÖE, May 17, 1713. For the second time--perhaps the last time--I am saying farewell to thee, my beloved native land. Farewell, thou green forest, thou brown heath! Farewell all the joys of my youth! It was with a lighter heart that I ploughed these wild waves two years ago. Then I had my kind master; now he is in his grave, and my young master, too; she--whom I would like to forget--is roving around in the wide world, God knows where and how. I too shall try my luck and eat my bread among strangers. Yes, I am going to try war, it will give bread or death. Blis and I shall go together, he is my last friend on earth. SWEDEN, June 13, 1716. Here I sit, a captive in a foreign land. That is what my sword has brought me to. My colonel and I cleared a space among the enemy, but we were only two against ten. Alas, my old Blis! You found death, would that I had found it, too! STOCKHOLM, August 14, 1717. This cannot go on much longer. They have dragged me from one fortress to another, tempted and threatened me to make me enter their service, but I would rather starve to death in a dungeon than fight against my rightful king and lord. But rather than that I would win my freedom. I will try it and find either that or death. NORRKÖPING, February 3, 1718. So I became a Swedish soldier after all! However long I fled and hid like a hunted beast in forests and mountain clefts, they found me at last. What could I do? Better be under God's open sky among swords and guns than within the four walls of a prison! They have promised me that I should never have to fight against my countrymen, but only against the Muscovite--perhaps he has the bullet with the name of Morten Vinge. SIBERIA, May 15, 1721. Lord my God! How strange are Thy ways! Many thousand miles from Denmark, I go about in a rough and dreary land; I walk over frozen rivers and wade in snow to my knees, while at home forest and field are putting on their green summer dress. Outside my old chamber window the apple tree is blossoming, the linnet is chirping in the gooseberry hedge, the starling sits on the well-curb and whistles a jolly piece, and the lark is singing overhead. Here wolves are howling, bears are grunting, hawks and ravens are crying in the black forests. Where, I wonder, is the end of this wilderness? And where is the end of my miserable life? RIGA, September 2, 1743. Shall I really live the day when I see my native land once more? Four and twenty long, sorrowful years, four and twenty winters I have hunted sable and marten in the forests of Siberia. How weary of life have I not been this long, long time! But I will wait patiently till my Lord and Saviour calls me. Perhaps He will lay my weary limbs to rest in my native soil. Ah, there I see the Danish flag with the precious sign of the Cross and of our salvation. My soul, praise the Lord, and all that in me is His holy name! FALSTER, October 23, 1743. Once more near death, and once more saved from it! In storm and bad weather I approached my beloved native land. The waves crushed our ship and threatened to devour us; but the Lord succored me, His hand upheld me--nor will He withdraw it from me now, though I wander, poor and half naked, among strangers. CORSELIDSE, November 2, 1743. I have found a place of refuge, a shelter from the storms of the world, a godly and generous lord who has taken me into service and promised to provide for me to the day of my death. So I shall not move again before I am carried to my last home. CORSELIDSE, May 1, 1744. What a lovely land this is! Everything in full bloom! The woods are green and the meadow is green. Flowers everywhere! In Siberia it is still winter. God be thanked for such an exchange! My master is very fond of me. I often have to sit for hours telling him about the war and about all the countries I have wandered through. And if he likes to hear, I like to talk; I take pleasure in recalling to memory the innumerable misfortunes I have endured. CORSELIDSE, July 2, 1744. Oh, Thou Father of Mercy! Was this bitter cup still left for me! Were the old wounds to be opened again! Ay, for such was Thy will.--I have seen her--her? Ah, no, not her! a fallen angel I have seen, an apparition of darkness. Often have I wished for death, but now--now I loathe my life--I cannot write any more. CORSELIDSE, August 8, 1744. It is not for my pleasure that I once more take up my pen; but if anyone after my death should come upon this journal, I want him to see how sin rewards its children. On that distressful day I was enjoying a walk in our beautiful garden. As I passed the open gate, I saw standing there a man whose face seemed familiar to me in spite of a thick black beard streaked with grey and a lowering look in his eyes that almost frightened me. "So you are here, too?" he said with a strange grin. The cane fell from my hand, and I trembled in every limb--it was Jens! "Good Lord my God!" said I. "Do I find you here! Where is Miss Sophie?"--He burst out with a loud oath, "No longer Miss or Madame either, but if you want to see my dearly beloved wife, she's lying down there, weeding. Sophy!" he cried, "here's an old acquaintance." Then she turned half around, looked at me for a moment, and went on weeding. I could not see the least sign of emotion in her face--this face!--this once lovely face! How changed it was! --pale and wan, wrinkled, sullen as if it had never smiled. A ragged hood with long tatters of black lace made it look still darker. Dirty remnants of clothes that had once been handsome and fine hung about her heavy, ill-shaped body. I felt as if I were almost getting sick, and not a tear came into my eyes. A fear, a loathing, as when one suddenly sees a viper, seized me. I could neither speak nor stir from the spot. Jens roused me from my stupor. "Now she isn't as handsome," he cried, "as when she crept into bed with you." I shuddered. "The gilding has worn off," he went on, "but she still has her fine spirit, high and mighty she is still, and spiteful, and she can cackle. Hey, gracious lady, talk to us!" She was silent, and pretended not to hear, though he spoke loudly enough. "Now it doesn't please her to speak," he said, "but when we get home, she'll set her mouth going. Haven't you got something for a drink, Morten, for old acquaintance's sake?" I gave him something, and went up to the house like a sleepwalker. My master was standing by the garden door. "Do you know those people;" he asked.--"Ah, good God," I said. "Yes, I have known them many years ago."--"They're a bad lot," he said. "She is shrewish and full of cussedness, and he drinks like a sponge. They have lived for a couple of years in a house down on the beach. He fishes, and she works by the day in the garden. They say she is come of decent people?" Then at last my tears began to flow, and relieved the pressure on my heart. I told him who she was, and his horror was as great as my sorrow. CORSELIDSE, September 14, 1744. I doubt that I shall stay here. I no longer feel happy, since I know that she is near me and I can't avoid seeing her often. As yet I have not spoken with her, for I shun her as an evil spirit. Jens seeks me with an importunity that pleases neither me nor my master. When I smell his breath reeking with brandy, I feel as if someone were offering me poison to drink. He has told me their story--oh, how terrible it is, how loathsome. They have strolled around from one place to another in Denmark and Germany; he played the bugle, and she sang and played the lute. In this way they made enough to subsist, and when it was not enough, she practised another trade which it wrings my heart to think of. At last that had to be given up, and they would have died of want if my kind master had not taken pity on them.--God forgive me, but I could almost wish I was back in Siberia. CORSELIDSE, May 1, 1745. God bless my kind, generous master! He has understood my wish: to end my days in the place where I was born; and so he has arranged--without my knowledge--for a good place for me with the new family at Thiele. On Tuesday I shall take ship at Stubbekjöbing. God reward him for it in all eternity. AT SEA BETWEEN ZEALAND AND SAMSÖE, June 4, 1745. "Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body." I feel the force of these words of the Saviour. When in my youth, on these waters, I stood before the bullets of the Swedes, I felt better than in the garden at Corselidse when I saw the fallen angel of my youth. Swords and bullets, stabbing and cutting, wounds and death are as nothing against the wasting of a soul, against the destruction of an innocent soul. If I had seen her beautiful body torn by wild beasts, it could not have wrung my heart as now when I found her ruined, corrupted, contemptible, lost beyond redemption. As she lay there digging in the dirt, it seemed to me that she buried my last hope, my last vestige of faith in honor and virtue. But I will say, as the old Turk who shared my captivity in Siberia used to say even amidst the greatest sufferings: "God is great." Yes, and merciful. He can do far more than we poor human beings understand. THIELE, July 4, 1745. At last I have entered my winter haven. For more than thirty years I have been tossed about on the wild ocean waves of the world, in order to end where I began. What have I achieved? What have I gained? A grave--a resting-place with my parents. That is something, indeed not so little; I have friends and acquaintances here both above and under the ground. The apple tree still stands outside my window; it too has grown older, there's a canker in its trunk, the storms have bowed its head, and its limbs are covered with moss like the grey hair on the head of an old man. On the way to the church I see the big ash under the roots of which I buried poor Vaillant. So I remember many a tree, many a heather-grown hill, and even the dead stones that have stood here unchanged and seen one generation after another grow up and pass away. The generation that I knew is gone. New masters, new servants--I am a stranger, and an alien among them all. THIELE, September 2, 1749. Today it is fifty-six years since I first saw the light of this world. Lord my God, what has become of these years? of these many thousands of days? Where are the pleasures of my youth? They are gone with the friends of my youth. It was at this time of the year that we used to enjoy the delights of the chase. How merrily it went when we set out in the morning; the huntsmen calling, the hounds baying, and the horses stamping, as impatient as we ourselves. Sometimes we went after the black cocks on the heath, sometimes after the wild game in the forest. Singing and with horns blowing we rode out and came back. Now it's quiet as a monastery; the new master doesn't care about the chase. Silent and solitary, the gamekeeper goes out, and quietly he comes home. This generation is joyless like myself. THIELE, January 12, 1751. A calm, glorious winter night! Everything that I see is blue or white. The moon has driven away the stars and shines alone. So beautifully it shone many, many years ago when I was coachman for Miss Sophie. My young soul shone as brightly and merrily as the moon, and hers too was pure, unspotted as this newfallen snow. Now my soul is dark as the heath when the snows of winter have melted, and hers--if she is still living--must be like a Siberian valley after a flood: darkly furrowed by streams of water, thickly strewn with tussocks, stones, and fallen trees. Yea, Lord, Lord! "When Thou with rebukes dost correct man for iniquity, Thou makest his beauty to consume away like a moth: surely every man is vanity." FOULUM, May 12, 1753. Last Sunday I officiated for the first time as parish clerk of Thiele and Vinge. The squire called me on his deathbed. I am now living in my father's house; but I am living here alone. All the friends of my youth have long since gone to rest; I alone am left as a stripped tree on the heath, but in due time I shall be gathered to them, as the last of my line. These pages will be the only memorial of me. If anyone--when I am dead and gone--should read them, he will sigh and say: "As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting."
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