But if it really were true that the people in this community could not stand riches?--Already four were ruined, who hitherto had been dignified and excellent men. He seemed to see the whole community before him, and he pictured to himself how this silver mine would destroy one after another. Was it befitting that he, who had been appointed to watch over these poor human beings' souls, should let loose upon them that which would be their destruction?"

All of a sudden the King sat bolt upright in his chair. "I declare!"

said he, "you'll make me understand that a parson in this isolated settlement must be every inch a man."

"Nor was it enough with what had already happened," continued the parson, "for as soon as the news about the mine spread among the parishioners, they stopped working and went about in idleness, waiting for the time when great riches should pour in on them. All the ne'er-do-wells there were in this section streamed in, and drunkenness and fighting were what the parson heard talked of continually. A lot of people did nothing but tramp round in the forest searching for the mine, and the parson marked that as soon as he left the house people followed him stealthily to find out if he wasn't going to the silver mountain and to steal the secret from him.

"When matters were come to this pa.s.s, the parson called the peasants together to vote. To start with, he reminded them of all the misfortunes which the discovery of the mountain had brought upon them, and he asked them if they were going to let themselves be ruined or if they would save themselves. Then he told them that they must not expect him, who was their spiritual adviser, to help on their destruction. Now he had decided not to reveal to any one where the silver mine was, and never would he himself take riches from it. And then he asked the peasants how they would have it henceforth. If they wished to continue their search for the mine and wait upon riches, then he would go so far away that not a hearsay of their misery could reach him; but if they would give up thinking about the silver mine and be as heretofore, he would remain with them. 'Whichever way you may choose,' said the parson, 'remember this, that from me no one shall ever know anything about the silver mountain!'"

"Well," said the King, "how did they decide?"

"They did as their pastor wished," said the parson. "They understood that he meant well by them when he wanted to remain poor for their sakes. And they commissioned him to go to the forest and conceal the vein of ore with evergreen and stone, so that no one would be able to find it--neither they themselves nor their posterity."

"And ever since the parson has been living here just as poor as the rest?"

"Yes," answered the curate, "he has lived here just as poor as the rest."

"He has married, of course, and built himself a new parsonage?" said the King.

"No, he couldn't afford to marry, and he lives in the old cabin."

"It's a pretty story that you have told me," said the King. After a few seconds he resumed: "Was it of the silver mountain that you were thinking when you said that the parson here would be able to procure for me as much money as I need?"

"Yes," said the other.

"But I can't put the thumb-screws on him," said the King. "Or how would you that I should get such a man to show me the mountain--a man who has renounced his sweetheart and all the allurements of life?"

"Oh, that's a different matter," said the parson. "But if it's the Fatherland that is in need of the fortune, he will probably give in."

"Will you answer for that?" asked the King.

"Yes, that I will answer for," said the clergyman.

"Doesn't he care, then, what becomes of his parishioners?"

"That can rest in G.o.d's hand."

The King rose from the chair and walked over to the window. He stood for a moment and looked upon the group of people outside. The longer he looked, the clearer his large eyes shone, and his figure seemed to grow.

"You may greet the pastor of this congregation, and say that for Sweden's King there is no sight more beautiful than to see a people such as this!"

Then the King turned from the window and looked at the clergyman. He began to smile. "Is it true that the pastor of this parish is so poor that he removes his black clothes as soon as the service is over and dresses himself like a peasant?" asked the King.

"Yes, so poor is he," said the curate, and a crimson flush leaped into his rough-hewn face.

The King went back to the window. One could see that he was in his best mood. All that was n.o.ble and great within him had been quickened into life. "You must let that mine lie in peace," said the King. "Inasmuch as you have labored and starved a lifetime to make this people such as you would have it, you may keep it as it is."

"But if the kingdom is in danger?" said the parson.

"The kingdom is better served with men than with money," remarked the King. When he had said this, he bade the clergyman farewell and went out from the vestry.

Without stood the group of people, as quiet and taciturn as they were when he went in. As the King came down the steps, a peasant stepped up to him.

"Have you had a talk with our pastor?" said the peasant.

"Yes," said the King. "I have talked with him."

"Then of course you have our answer?" said the peasant. "We asked you to go in and talk with our parson, that he might give you an answer from us."

"I have the answer," said the King.

The Airship

Father and the boys are seated one rainy October evening in a third-cla.s.s railway coach on their way to Stockholm. The father is sitting by himself on one bench, and the boys sit close together directly opposite him, reading a Jules Verne romance ent.i.tled "Six Weeks in a Balloon." The book is much worn. The boys know it almost by heart and have held endless discussions on it, but they always read it with the same pleasure. They have forgotten everything else to follow the daring sailors of the air all over Africa, and seldom raise their eyes from the book to glance at the Swedish towns they are travelling through.

The boys are very like each other. They are the same height, are dressed alike, with blue caps and gray overcoats, and both have large dreamy eyes and little pug noses. They are always good friends, always together, do not bother with other children, and are forever talking about inventions and exploring expeditions. In point of talent they are quite unlike. Lennart, the elder, who is thirteen, is backward in his studies at the High School and can hardly keep up with his cla.s.s in any theme. To make up for this, he is very handy and enterprising. He is going to be an inventor and works all the time on a flying-machine which he is constructing. Hugo is a year younger than Lennart, but he is quicker at study and is already in the same grade as his brother. He doesn't find studying any special fun, either; but, on the other hand, he is a great sportsman--a ski-runner, a cyclist, and a skater. He intends to start out on voyages of discovery when he is grown up. As soon as Lennart's airship is ready, Hugo is going to travel in it in order to explore what is still left of this globe to be discovered.

Their father is a tall thin man with a sunken chest, a haggard face, and pretty, slender hands. He is carelessly dressed. His shirt bosom is wrinkled and the coat band pokes up at the neck; his vest is b.u.t.toned wrongly and his socks sag down over his shoes. He wears his hair so long at the neck that it hangs on his coat collar. This is due not to carelessness, but to habit and taste.

The father is a descendant of an old musical family from far back in a rural district, and he has brought with him into the world two strong inclinations, one of which is a great musical talent; and it was this that first came into the light. He was graduated from the Academy in Stockholm and then studied a few years abroad, and during these study years made such brilliant progress that both he and his teacher thought he would some day be a great and world-renowned violinist. He certainly had talent enough to reach the goal, but he lacked grit and perseverance. He couldn't fight his way to any sort of standing out in the world, but soon came home again and accepted a situation as organist in a country town. At the start he felt ashamed because he had not lived up to the expectations of every one, but he felt, also, that it was good to have an a.s.sured income and not be forced to depend any longer upon the charity of others.

Shortly after he had got the appointment, he married, and a few years later he was perfectly satisfied with his lot. He had a pretty little home, a cheerful and contented wife, and two little boys. He was the town favorite, feted, and in great demand everywhere. But then there came a time when all this did not seem to satisfy him. He longed to go out in the world once more and try his luck; but he felt bound down at home because he had a wife and children.

More than all, it was the wife who had persuaded him to give up this journey. She had not believed that he would succeed any better now than before. She felt they were so happy that there was no need for him to strive after anything else. Unquestionably she made a mistake in this instance, but she also lived to regret it bitterly, for, from that time on, the other family trait showed itself. When his yearning for success and fame was not satisfied, he tried to console himself with drinking.

Now it turned out with him, as was usual with folk of his family--he drank inordinately. By degrees he became an entirely different person.

He was no longer charming or lovable, but harsh and cruel; and the greatest misfortune of all was that he conceived a terrible hatred for his wife and tortured her in every conceivable way, both when he was drunk and when he wasn't.

So the boys did not have a good home, and their childhood would have been very unhappy had they not been able to create for themselves a little world of their own, filled with machine models, exploring schemes, and books of adventure. The only one who has ever caught a glimpse of this world is the mother. The father hasn't even a suspicion of its existence, nor can he talk with the boys about anything that interests them. He disturbs them, time and again, by asking if they don't think it will be fun to see Stockholm; if they are not glad to be out travelling with father, and other things in that way, to which the boys give brief replies, in order that they may immediately bury themselves in the book again. Nevertheless the father continues to question the boys. He thinks they are charmed with his affability, although they are too bashful to show it.

"They have been too long under petticoat rule," he thinks. "They have become timid and namby-pamby. There will be some go in them now, when I take them in hand."

Father is mistaken. It is not because the boys are bashful that they answer him so briefly; it simply shows that they are well brought up and do not wish to hurt his feelings. If they were not polite, they would answer him in a very different manner. "Why should we think it fun to be travelling with father?" they would then say. "Father must think himself something wonderful, but we know, of course, that he is only a poor wreck of a man. And why should we be glad to see Stockholm? We understand very well that it is not for our sakes that father has taken us along, but only to make mother unhappy!"

It would be wiser, no doubt, if the father were to let the boys read without interrupting them. They are sad and apprehensive, and it irritates them to see him in a good humor. "It is only because he knows that mother is sitting at home crying that he is so happy to-day," they whisper to each other.

Father's questions finally bring matters to this pa.s.s: the boys read no more, although they continue to sit bent over the book. Instead, their thoughts begin in bitterness to embrace all that they have had to endure on their father's account.

They remember the time when he drank himself full in the morning and came staggering up the street, with a crowd of school boys after him, who poked fun at him. They recall how the other boys teased them and gave them nicknames because they had a father who drank.

They have been put to shame for their father. They have been forced to live in a state of constant anxiety for his sake, and as soon as they were having any enjoyment, he always came and spoiled their fun. It is no small register of sins that they are setting down against him! The boys are very meek and patient, but they feel a greater and greater wrath springing up in them.

He should at least understand that, as yet, they cannot forgive him for the great wrong he did them yesterday. This was by far the worst wrong he had ever done them.

It seems that, last year, mother and the boys decided to part from father. For a number of years he had been persecuting and torturing her in every possible way, but she was loath to part from him and remained, so that he wouldn't go altogether to rack and ruin. But now, at last, she wanted to do it for the sake of her boys. She had noticed that their father made them unhappy, and realized that she must take them away from this misery and provide them with a good and peaceable home.

When the spring school-term was over, she sent them to her parents in the country, and she herself went abroad in order to obtain a divorce in the easiest way possible. She regretted that, by going about it in this way, it would appear as though it were her fault that the marriage was dissolved; but that she must submit to. She was even less pleased when the courts turned the boys over to the father because she was a run-away wife. She consoled herself with the thought that he couldn't possibly wish to keep the children; but she had felt quite ill at ease.