The Modern Vikings

For about four months all went well at the parsonage. So long as Mikkel was confined in the stable he behaved himself with perfect propriety, and, occasionally, when he was (by special permission) taken into the house to play with the children, he won golden opinions for himself by his cunning tricks, and became, in fact, a great favorite in the nursery. When the spring came and the sun grew warm, his kennel was, at Thor’s request, moved out into the yard, where he could have the benefit of the fine spring weather. There he could be seen daily, lying in the sun, with half-closed eyes, resting his head on his paws, seeming too drowsy and comfortable to take notice of anything. The geese and hens, which were at first a trifle suspicious, gradually grew accustomed to his presence, and often strayed within range of Mikkel’s chain, and even within reach of his paws; but it always happened that on such occasions either the pastor or his wife was near, and Mikkel knew enough to be aware that goose was forbidden fruit. But one day (it was just after dinner, when the pastor was taking his nap), it happened that a great fat gander, prompted by a pardonable curiosity, stretched his neck a little too far toward the sleeping Mikkel; when, quick as a wink and wide-awake, Mr. Mikkel jumped up, and before he knew it, the gander found himself minus his head. Very cautiously the culprit peered about, and seeing no one near, he rapidly dug a hole under his kennel and concealed his victim there, covering it well with earth, until a more favorable opportunity should present itself for making a meal of it. Then he lay down, and stretched himself in the sun as before, and seemed too sleepy even to open his eyes; and when, on the following day, the gander was missed, the innocent demeanor of Mikkel so completely imposed upon everyone, that he was not even suspected. Not even when the second and the third goose disappeared could any reasonable charge be brought against Mikkel.

When the summer vacation came, however, the even tenor of Mikkel’s existence was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the parson’s oldest son, Finn, who was a student in Christiania, and his dog Achilles. Achilles was a handsome brown pointer, that, having been brought up in the city, had never been accustomed to look upon the fox as a domestic animal. He, therefore, spent much of his time in harassing Mikkel, making sudden rushes for him when he thought him asleep; but always returning from these exploits shamefaced and discomfited, for Mikkel was always a great deal too clever to be taken by surprise. He would lie perfectly still until Achilles was within a foot of him, and then, with remarkable alertness, he would slip into the kennel, through his door, where the dog’s size would not permit him to follow; and the moment his enemy turned his tail to him, Mikkel’s face would appear bland and smiling, at the door, as if to say:

“Good-by! Call again whenever you feel like it. Now, don’t you wish you were as clever as I am?”

And yet in spite of his daily defeats, Achilles could never convince himself that his assaults upon Mikkel brought him no glory. Perhaps his master, who did not like Mikkel any too well, encouraged him in his enmity, for it is certain that the assaults grew fiercer daily. And at last, one day when the young student was standing in the yard, holding his dog by the collar, while exciting him against the half-sleeping fox, Achilles ran with such force against the kennel that he upset it. Alas! For then the evidence of Mikkel’s misdemeanors came to light. From the door-hole of the rolling kennel a heap of goose-feathers flew out, and were scattered in the air; and, what was worse, a little “dug-out” became visible, filled with bones and bills and other indigestible articles, unmistakably belonging to the goose’s anatomy. Mikkel, who was too wise to leave the kennel so long as it was in motion, now peeped cautiously out, and he took in the situation at a glance. Mr. Finn, the student, who thought that Mikkel’s skin would look charming as a rug before his fire-place in the city, was overjoyed to find out what a rascal this innocent-looking creature had been; for he knew well enough that his father would now no longer oppose his desire for the crafty little creature’s skin. So he went into the house, loaded his rifle, and prepared himself as executioner.

But at that very moment, Thor chanced to be coming home from an errand; and he had hardly entered the yard, when he sniffed danger in the air. He knew, without asking, that Mikkel’s doom was sealed. For the parson was a great poultry-fancier and was said to be more interested in his ganders than he was in his children. Therefore, without waiting for further developments, Thor unhooked Mikkel’s chain, lifted the culprit in his arms, and slipped him into the bosom of his waistcoat. Then he stole up to his garret, gathered his clothes in a bundle, and watched his chance to escape from the house unnoticed. And while Master Finn and his dog were hunting high and low for Mikkel in the barns and stables, Thor was hurrying away over the fields, every now and then glancing anxiously behind him, and nearly smothering Mikkel in his efforts to keep him concealed, lest Achilles should catch his scent. But Mikkel had his own views on that subject, and was not to be suppressed; and just as his master was congratulating himself on their happy escape, they heard the deep baying of a dog, and saw Achilles, followed by the student with his gun, tracking them in fierce pursuit. Thor, whose only hope was to reach the fiord, redoubled his speed, skipped across fences, hedges, and stiles, and ran so fast that earth and stones seemed to be flying in the other direction. Yet Achilles’ baying was coming nearer and nearer, and was hardly twenty feet distant by the time the boy had flung himself into a boat, and with four vigorous oar-strokes had shot out into the water. The dog leaped after him, but was soon beyond his depth, and the high breakers flung him back upon the beach.

“Come back at once,” cried Finn, imperiously. “It is not your boat. If you don’t obey, I’ll have you arrested.”

Thor did not answer, but rowed with all his might.

“If you take another stroke,” shouted the student furiously, levelling his gun, “I’ll shoot both you and your thievish fox.”

It was meant only for intimidation; but where Mikkel’s life was at stake, Thor was not easily frightened.

“Shoot away!” he cried, thinking that he was now at a safe distance, and that the student’s marksmanship was none of the best. But before he realized what he had said, whiz! went a bullet over his head. A stiff gale was blowing, and the little boat was tossed like a foot-ball on the incoming and the outgoing waves; but the plucky lad struggled on bravely, until he hove alongside a fishing schooner, which was to sail the next morning for Drontheim. Fortunately the skipper needed a deck hand, and Thor was promptly engaged. The boat which had helped him to escape was found later and towed back to shore by a fisherman.

III.

HOW MIKKEL MAKES HIS FORTUNE

In Drontheim, which is a large commercial city on the western coast of Norway, Thor soon found occupation as office-boy in a bank, which did business under the name of C. P. Lyng & Co. He was a boy of an open, fearless countenance, and with a frank and winning manner. Mr. Lyng, at the time when Thor entered his employ, had just separated from his partner, Mr. Tulstrup, because the latter had defrauded the firm and several of its customers. Mr. Lyng had papers in his safe which proved Mr. Tulstrup’s guilt, but he had contented himself with dismissing him from the firm, and had allowed him to take the share of the firm’s property to which he was legally entitled. The settlement, however, had not satisfied Mr. Tulstrup, and he had, in order to revenge himself, gone about to the various customers, whom he had himself defrauded, and persuaded them to commence suit against Mr. Lyng, whom he represented as being the guilty party. He did not, at that time, know that Mr. Lyng had gained possession of the papers which revealed the real author of the fraud. On the contrary, he flattered himself that he had destroyed every trace of his own dishonest transactions.

The fact that Mr. Lyng belonged to a family which had always been distinguished, in business and social circles, for its integrity and honor only whetted Tulstrup’s desire to destroy his good name, and having laid his plans carefully, he anticipated an easy triumph over honest Mr. Lyng. His dismay, therefore, was very great when, after the suit had been commenced in the courts, he learned that it was his own name and liberty which were in danger, and not those of his former partner. Mr. Tulstrup, in spite of the position he had occupied, was a desperate man, and was capable, under such circumstances, of resorting to desperate remedies. But, like most Norwegians, he had a streak of superstition in his nature, and cherished an absurd belief in signs and omens, in lucky and unlucky days, and in spectres and apparitions, foreboding death or disaster. Mr. Tulstrup’s father had believed in such things, and it had been currently reported among the peasantry that he had been followed by a spectral fox, which some asserted to be his wraith, or double. This fox, it was said, had frequently been seen during the old man’s lifetime, and when he once saw it himself, he was frightened nearly out of his wits. Superstitious stories of this kind are so common in Norway that one can hardly spend a month in any country district without hearing dozens of them. The belief in a fylgia, or wraith in the shape of an animal, dates far back into antiquity, and figures largely in the sagas, or ancient legends of the Northland.

It has already been told that Thor had obtained a position as office-boy in Mr. Lyng’s bank; and it was more owing to the boy’s winning appearance than to any fondness for foxes, on Mr. Lyng’s part, that Mikkel also was engaged. It was arranged that a cushion whereupon Mikkel might sleep should be put behind the stove in the back office. At first Mikkel endured his captivity here with great fortitude; but he did not like it, and it was plain that he was pining for the parsonage and his kennel in the free air, and the pleasant companionship of the geese and the stupid Achilles. Thor then obtained permission to have him walk about unchained, and the clerks, who admired his graceful form and dainty ways, soon grew very fond of him, and stroked him caressingly, as he promenaded along the counter or seated himself on their shoulders, inspecting their accounts with critical eyes. Thor was very happy to see his friend petted, though he had an occasional twinge of jealousy when Mikkel made himself too agreeable to old Mr. Barth, the cashier, or kissed young Mr. Dreyer, the assistant book-keeper. Such faithlessness on Mikkel’s part was an ill return for all the sacrifices Thor had made for him; and yet, hard as it was, it had to be borne. For an office-boy cannot afford to have emotions, or, if he has them, cannot afford the luxury of giving way to them.

C. P. Lyng & Co.’s bank was a solid, old-fashioned business-house which the clerks entered as boys and where they remained all their lives. Mr. Barth, the cashier, had occupied his present desk for twenty-one years, and had spent nine years more in inferior positions. He was now a stout little man of fifty, with close cropped, highly-respectable side-whiskers and thin gray hair, which was made to cover his crown by the aid of a small comb. This comb, which was fixed above his right ear and held the straggling locks together, was a source of great amusement to the clerks, who made no end of witticisms about it. But Mr. Barth troubled himself very little about their poor puns, and sat serenely poring over his books and packages of bank-bills from morning till night. He prided himself above all on his regularity, and it was said that he had never been one minute too late or too early during the thirty years he had been in Mr. Lyng’s bank; accordingly, he had little patience with the shortcomings of his subordinates, and fined and punished them in various ways, if they were but a moment tardy; for the most atrocious of all crimes, in Mr. Barth’s opinion, was tardiness. The man who suffered most from his severity was Mr. Dreyer, the assistant book-keeper. Mr. Dreyer was a good-looking young man, and very fond of society; and it happened sometimes that, on the morning after a ball, he would sleep rather late. He had long rebelled in silence against Mr. Barth’s tyranny, and when he found that his dissatisfaction was shared by many of the other clerks, he conceived a plan to revenge himself on his persecutor. To this end a conspiracy was formed among the younger clerks, and it was determined to make Mikkel the agent of their vengeance.

It was well known by the clerks that Mr. Barth was superstitious and afraid in the dark; and it was generally agreed that it would be capital fun to give him a little fright. Accordingly the following plan was adopted: A bottle of the oil of phosphorus was procured and Mikkel’s fur was thoroughly rubbed with it, so that in the dark the whole animal would be luminous. At five minutes before five, someone should go down in the cellar and turn off the gas, just as the cashier was about to enter the back office to lock up the safe. Then, when the illuminated Mikkel glared out on him from a dark corner, he would probably shout or faint or cry out, and then all the clerks should rush sympathetically to him and render him every assistance.

Thus the plan was laid, and there was a breathless, excited stillness in the bank when the hour of five approached. It had been dark for two hours, and the clerks sat on their high stools, bending silently over their desks, scribbling away for dear life. Promptly at seven minutes before five, up rose Mr. Barth and gave the signal to have the books closed; then, to the unutterable astonishment of the conspirators, he handed the key of the safe to Mr. Dreyer (who knew the combination), and told him to lock the safe and return the key. At that very instant, out went the gas; and Mr. Dreyer, although he was well prepared, could himself hardly master his fright at Mikkel’s terrible appearance. He struck a match, lighted a wax taper (which was used for sealing letters), and tremblingly locked the safe; then, abashed and discomfited, he advanced to the cashier’s desk and handed him the key.

“Perhaps you would have the kindness, Mr. Dreyer,” said Mr. Barth, calmly, “to write a letter of complaint to the gas-company before you go home. It will never do in the world to have such things happen. I suppose there must be water in the pipes.”

The old man buttoned his overcoat up to his chin and marched out; whereupon a shout of laughter burst forth, in which Mr. Dreyer did not join. He could not see what they found to laugh at, he said. It took him a long while to compose his letter of complaint to the gas-company.

Mikkel in the meanwhile was feeling very uncomfortable. He could not help marvelling at his extraordinary appearance. He rubbed himself against chairs and tables, and found to his astonishment that he made everything luminous that he touched. He had never known any respectable fox which possessed this accomplishment, and he felt sure that in some way something was wrong with him. He could not sleep, but walked restlessly about on the desks and counters, bristled with anger at the slightest sound, and was miserable and excited. He could not tell how far the night had advanced, when he heard a noise in the back office (which fronted upon the court-yard) as if a window was being opened. His curiosity was aroused and he walked sedately across the floor; then he stopped for a moment to compose himself, for he was well aware that what he saw was something extraordinary. A man with a dark-lantern in his hand was kneeling before the safe with a key in his hand. Mikkel advanced a little farther and paused in a threatening attitude on the threshold of the door. With his luminous face and body, and a halo of phosphorescent light round about him, he was terrible to behold. He gave a little snort, at which the man turned quickly about. But no sooner had he caught sight of the illuminated Mikkel than he flung himself on his knees before the little animal, and with clasped hands and a countenance wild with fear exclaimed: “Oh, I know who thou art! Pardon me, pardon me! Thou art my father’s spectral fox! I know thee, I know thee!”

Mikkel had never suspected that he was anything so terrible; but, as he saw that the man was bent on mischief, he did not think it worth while to contradict him. He only curved his back and bristled, until the man, beside himself with fear, made a rush for the window and leaped out into the court-yard. Then Mikkel, thinking that he had had excitement enough for one night, curled himself up on his cushion behind the stove and went to sleep.

The next morning, when Mr. Barth arrived, he found a window in the back office broken, and the door of the safe wide open. On the floor lay a bundle of papers, all relating to the transactions of Tulstrup while a member of the firm, and, moreover, a hat, marked on the inside with Tulstrup’s name, was found on a chair.

On the same day Mr. Lyng was summoned to the bedside of his former partner, who made a full confession, and offered to return through him the money which he had fraudulently acquired. His leg was broken, and he seemed otherwise shattered in body and mind. It had been his purpose, he said, to drive Mr. Lyng from the firm in disgrace, and he was sure he could have accomplished it, if Providence itself had not interfered. But, incredible as it seemed, he had seen a luminous animal in the bank, and he felt convinced that it was his father’s spectral fox. It was well enough to smile at such things and call them childish, but he had certainly seen, he said, a wonderful, shining fox.

Mr. Lyng did not attempt to convince Mr. Tulstrup that he was wrong. He took the money and distributed it among those who had suffered by Mr. Tulstrup’s frauds, and thus many needy people – widows and industrious laborers – regained their hard-earned property, and all because Mikkel’s skin was luminous. When Mr. Lyng heard the whole story from Mr. Dreyer, he laughed heartily and long. But from that day he took a warm interest in Thor and his fox, and sent the former to school and, later, to the university, where he made an honorable name for himself by his talents and industry.

Poor Mikkel is now almost gray, and his teeth are so blunt that he has to have his food minced before he can eat it. But he still occupies a soft rug behind the stove in the student’s room, and Thor hopes he will live long enough to be introduced to his master’s wife. For it would be a pity if she were not to know him to whom her husband owes his position, and she, accordingly, hers.

THE FAMINE AMONG THE GNOMES

I believe it was in the winter of 18 – (but it does not matter so much about the time) that the servants on the large estate of Halthorp raised a great ado about something or other. Whereupon the Baron of Halthorp, who was too stout to walk down the stairs on slight provocation, called his steward, in a voice like that of an angry lion, and asked him, “Why in the name of Moses he did not keep the rascals quiet.”

“But, your lordship,” stammered the steward, who was as thin as the baron was stout, “I have kept them quiet for more than a month past, though it has been hard enough. Now they refuse to obey me unless I admit them to your lordship’s presence, that they may state their complaint.”

“Impudent beggars!” growled the old gentleman. “Tell them that I am about to take my after-dinner nap, and that I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“I have told them that a dozen times,” whined the steward, piteously. “But they are determined to leave in a body, unless your lordship consents to hear them.”

“Leave! They can’t leave,” cried his honor. “The law binds them. Well, well, to save talking, fling the doors open and let them come in.”

The steward hobbled away to the great oak-panelled doors (I forgot to tell you that he limped in his left foot), and, cautiously turning the knob and the key, peeped out into the hall. There stood the servants – twenty-eight in all – but, oh! what a sight! They were hollow-cheeked, with hungry eyes and bloodless lips, and deep lines about their mouths, as if they had not seen food for weeks. Their bony hands twitched nervously at the coarse clothes that flapped in loose folds about their lean and awkward limbs. They were indeed a pitiful spectacle. Only a single one of them – and that was of course the cook – looked like an ordinary mortal, or an extraordinary mortal, if you like, for he was nearly as broad as he was long. It was owing to the fact that he walked at the head of the procession, as they filed into the parlor, that the baron did not immediately discover the miserable condition of the rest. But when they had faced about, and stood in a long row from wall to wall – well, you would hardly believe it, but the baron, hard-hearted as he was, came near fainting. There is a limit to all things, and even a heart of steel would have been moved at the sight of such melancholy objects.

“Steward,” he roared, when he had sufficiently recovered himself, “who is the demon who has dared to trifle with my fair name and honor? Name him, sir – name him, and I will strangle him on the spot!”

The steward, even if he had been acquainted with the demon, would have thought twice before naming him under such circumstances. Accordingly he was silent.

“Have I not,” continued the baron, still in a voice that made his subjects quake – “have I not caused ample provisions to be daily distributed among you? Have not you, Mr. Steward, the keys to my store-houses, and have you not my authority to see that each member of my household is properly provided for?”

The steward dared not answer; he only nodded his head in silence.

“If it please your lordship,” finally began a squeaky little voice at the end of the row (it was that of the under-groom), “it isn’t the steward as is to blame, but it’s the victuals. Somehow there isn’t any taste nor fillin’ to them. Whether I eat pork and cabbage or porridge with molasses, it don’t make no difference. It all tastes alike. As I say, your lordship, the old Nick has got into the victuals.”

The under-groom had hardly ceased speaking before the baron, who was a very irascible old gentleman, seized his large gold-headed cane and as quickly as his bulk would allow, rushed forward to give vent to his anger.

“I’ll teach you manners, you impudent clown!” he bawled out, as, with his cane lifted above his head, he rushed into the ranks of the frightened servants, shouting to the under-groom, “Criticise my victuals, will you, you miserable knave!”

The under-groom having on former occasions made the acquaintance of the baron’s cane, and still remembering the unpleasant sensation, immediately made for the door, and slipped nimbly out before a blow had reached him. All the others, who had to suffer for their spokesman’s boldness, tumbled pell-mell through the same opening, jumped, rolled, or vaulted down the steps, and landed in a confused heap at the bottom of the stairs.

The baron, in the meanwhile, marched with long strides up and down the floor, and expressed himself, not in the politest language, concerning the impudence of his domestics.

“However,” he grumbled to himself, “I must look into this affair and find out what fraud there is at the bottom of it. The poor creatures couldn’t get as lean as that unless there was some real trouble.”

About three hours later the baron heard the large bell over the gable of his store-house ring out for dinner. The wood-cutters and the men who drove the snow-plough, and all other laborers on the large estate, as soon as they heard it, flung away their axes and snow-shovels and hurried up to the mansion, their beards and hair and eyebrows all white with hoar-frost, so that they looked like walking snow-men. But as it happened, the under-groom, Nils Tagfat, chanced at that moment to be cutting down a large snow-laden fir-tree which grew on a projecting knoll of the mountain. He pulled off his mittens and blew on his hands (for it was bitter cold), and was about to shoulder his axe, when suddenly he heard a chorus of queer little metallic voices, as it seemed, right under his feet. He stopped and listened.

“There is the bell of Halthorp ringing! Where is my cap? where is my cap?” he heard distinctly uttered, though he could not exactly place the sound, nor did he see anybody within a mile around. And just for the joke of the thing, Nils, who was always a jolly fellow, made his voice as fine as he could, and, mimicking the tiny voices, squeaked out:

“Where is my cap? Where is my cap?”

But imagine his astonishment when suddenly he heard a voice answer him: “You can take grandfather’s cap!” and at the same moment there was tossed into his hands something soft, resembling a small red-peaked cap. Just out of curiosity, Nils put it on his head to try how it would fit him, and small as it looked, it fitted him perfectly. But now, as the cap touched his head, his eyes were opened to the strangest spectacle he ever beheld. Out of the mountain came a crowd of gnomes, all with little red-peaked caps, which made them invisible to all who were not provided with similar caps. They hurried down the hill-side toward Halthorp, and Nils, who was anxious to see what they were about, followed at a proper distance behind. As he had half expected, they scrambled up on the railings at the door of the servants’ dining-hall, and as soon as the door was opened they rushed in, climbed up on the chairs, and seated themselves on the backs just as the servants took their places on the seats. And now Nils, who, you must remember, had on the cap that made him invisible, came near splitting his sides with laughter. The first course was boiled beef and cabbage. The smell was delicious to Nils’s hungry nostrils, but he had to conquer his appetite in order to see the end of the game. The steward stood at the end of the table and served each with a liberal portion; and at the steward’s side sat the baron himself, in a large, cushioned easy-chair. He did not eat, however; he was there merely to see fair play.

Each servant fell to work greedily with his knife and fork, and just as he had got a delicious morsel half-way to his mouth, the gnome on the back of his chair stretched himself forward and deftly snatched the meat from the end of the fork. Thus, all the way around the table, each man unconsciously put his piece of beef into the wide-open mouth of his particular gnome. And the unbidden guests grinned shrewdly at one another, and seemed to think it all capital fun. Sometimes, when the wooden trays (which were used instead of plates) were sent to be replenished, they made horrrible grimaces, often mimicking their poor victims, who chewed and swallowed and went through all the motions of eating, without obtaining the slightest nourishment. They all would have liked to fling knives and forks and trays out through the windows, but they had the morning’s chastisement freshly in mind, and they did not dare open their mouths, except for the futile purpose of eating.

“Well, my lads and lasses,” said the baron, when he had watched the meal for some minutes; “if you can complain of food like this, you indeed deserve to be flogged and put on prison fare.”

“Very likely, your lordship,” said one of the milkmaids; “but if your lordship would demean yourself to take a morsel with us, we would bless your lordship for your kindness and complain no more.”