Alfred Noyes, the one English poet of his time who has succeeded in the public recital of his own verse; John Drinkwater, in the surprising position of helping Americans to understand their own greatest man; Hugh Walpole and Gilbert Cannan, discoursing of the English novel to the most enthusiastic novel-reading public in the world; St. John Ervine and Granville Barker, alike in the ability to speak with convincing force on the stagecraft they practise; W. L. George, whom in a moment of expansive humor some one seems to have commended as an authority on the soul of woman. And, among women, Mrs. Pankhurst, coming in the heyday of the suffrage agitation, preceded by a terrifying fame; or Maude Royden, in the present year, making a unique spiritual appeal for the healing of society. The third division of visiting lecturers is by far the smallest. It consists of the men and women who year after year play the arduous calling of the international missioner, literary or educational: John Cowper Powys, for example, ranging over the universe of modern art and expression; Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale, prospecting the widening world of women; Norman Angell, following up his international thesis with quiet pertinacity and with a sense that the postwar world is somewhat too full of corroborative illustrations. There remains one practical aspect of the matter upon which a few words may here be said. Lecturing lies still almost entirely within the province of speculative adventure. Doubtless it will for the most part remain there, and no one would propose to interfere with the enterprise of the lecture bureau. None the less must it be recognized that lecturing has become an important international service, and it seems advisable that responsible bodies on both sides of the Atlantic should give some systematic thought to it. In this connection I have seen only one practical suggestion, which comes from Mr. Vachel Lindsay. It is that a committee of the universities should take in hand the selection of a small company of speakers every year, arrange invitations and hospitality, and so relieve the public servant, the writer, or the holder of an academic position who may wish to visit America from the necessity of approaching a commercial agent or of being troubled by the matter of fees and traveling expenses. It will, I think, be manifest that a proposal of this kind can only be of limited application, and will leave the business of lecturing where it is. And now a personal word in conclusion. Every Englishman who has enjoyed the privilege and delight of addressing any large number of meetings in the United States and Canada carries within him a memory that is beyond expression and above price. Countless happenings and a cumulative sense of indebtedness have gone to its making. For myself, I think of audiences eager and kind and transcendently forgiving; visits to cities large and small that stand out among the brightest experiences of life; fleeting glimpses of intelligent and joyous households that seemed to contain all the promise and fulfilment of American life; talks with men and women possessing that shining quality of citizenship which, as we are proud to believe, is a divine gift to our Englishspeaking world; and friendships that year by year have shown themselves to be "part of our life's unalterable good." The Last of the Vikings A Novel in Seven Parts-Part VI BY JOHAN BOJER NORWEGIAN DRAWINGS BY SIGURD SKOU T HAT evening, when Kristàver had put his fish on board the tradingvessel, he asked the skipper if for a good sum of money he would take a sick man to the hospital at Kabelvaag. The skipper, however, was going south to Aalesund when he had his cargo on board, and did Kristàver imagine that these were times for carrying about sick people? No, perhaps not. He went to several trading-vessels, but was only laughed at. A sick man! They would soon all be ill, the way they toiled and worked night and day; but all the same every one had enough to do in looking after himself in times like these. "You'll have to look after your sick man yourself, old man." The evening was calm and frosty when the men sat in the plank hut eating their supper. On the rock outside they had boiled fresh fish, for they had fire-wood now, and numerous fires burned along both shores, where boats' crews were at last having a hot supper. A candle-end in the neck of a bottle lighted up the hut, and at last the men's hunger was appeased; but they hardly dared to utter a word. They knew that Elezeus had inflammation of the lungs, and he was now so ill that they were dreading the night. He was their neighbor at home in their poverty, and here he was their comrade. Lars noiselessly cleared away the cups after their meal, and the men remained sitting on the benches and chests. Kristàver had hinted that if Elezeus was no better in the morning, they would have to make up a bed in the boat and take him in to Kabelvaag. The others said nothing. They had had a good supper and could hardly keep their eyes open; they would have liked to lie down and go to sleep, if their comrade had not lain there close to them, wrapped in skin rugs and talking confusedly. Something seemed to be always rousing them, so that their eyes opened wide. Elezeus was scolding his wife, or he laughed and joked with her; at one moment he was ill natured, and the next good to her. His sea-boots projected from beneath the coverlet. They were probably frozen stiff, and perhaps his feet were wet; but it would be no end of a business to get those big boots off the feet of the fever-stricken man. The little door was lifted to one side, letting in the frosty mist, and Peter Suzansa entered in all his sea-clothes, Sou'wester and big, fingerless woolen gloves. Round his throat he still wore the bandage that the doctor had put on, and over it a red 1 Synopsis of preceding chapters in "Among Our Contributors." woolen scarf wound several times round his neck. He came from the cold winter night outside, with its stars and streamers of northern lights, but in this tiny room he was met by a stillness as of a sacred place, and he stood still without speaking. At last he whispered: "How is he?" Kristàver looked up, and shook his head. The five men sat there with sou'wester and woolen gloves on for the cold, but they said nothing. There was nothing to say. Peter advanced to the sick man and bent over him. He saw that they had tied his gloves on with string round his wrists, and the strings of his sou'wester were tied beneath his chin. He looked as if he was ready to get up at any moment and go out with them on the sea. His mouth was open, and the white teeth gleamed in the bearded face. The old head-man began to whisper to him, as one would speak to a child that is to go to sleep. "Do you feel bad to-night, Elezeus?" The sick man frowned in an attempt to understand, and then opened his eyes and said in a voice that was almost inaudible: "I must go to the sacrament." man. Peter kneeled down. His eyes were on the other man's face, and as he looked, his own face gradually changed and became a reflection of what was passing through the mind of the sick Lars looked at the old headman. Could this be Peter Suzansa, that merry spinner of yarns? He was behaving like a father to Elezeus, and his red-lidded eyes were full of concern for him, while the expression of his weather-beaten face was one of a peace that might have come from the singing of a hymn. No one spoke. All eyes were upon Peter Suzansa. At last Kristàver said: "It would be of no use, perhaps, to— to sail in for the doctor?" "H-m." Peter looked up at the others, but no one had anything to say. There was silence again until the sick man said: "I-I must get pardon. I must take the sacrament." Again there was a movement among the men, but they no longer dared look at one another. Peter Suzansa raised his head and looked at Kristàver. It was as if the two head-men had been overtaken by a trouble from which they saw no escape. It was impossible to get hold of a priest within a reasonable time, and they looked at each other. It was unnecessary to shake their heads. They sat listening to the sick man's "It 's-it's farther to-to pardon," breathing, and the tallow candle said Elezeus. The other men moved a little. Peter Suzansa said, "H-m," and a little while after he said gently that it was a long way to the priest. Peter bent lower and, taking off his glove, laid his hand on the sick man's forehead. burned lower and lower. "If only something could be done!" said Kristàver at last. The eyes of all the men seemed to "Are you so very bad, then, Ele- be searching for this something, and zeus?" he asked. in a little while Arnt Awsan said hesitatingly: "If we had been Baptists, now-" They were silent again. Kristàver passed his gloved hand across his forehead, and at last ventured to say: "As far as I can remember from my school learning, any one can-h-m." "Yes," said Lars, who was the most recently confirmed of them all. "It says in the catechism that in cases of need any Christian-” He dared not say more, for it seemed pretty well impossible that an ordinary man would be bold enough to give the sacrament. The sick man began muttering again. He opened his eyes and looked about wildly, saying he must get up and go to church with his wife. "Come along, Berit!" Henry lowered his eyes, not daring to look at any one. to look at any one. Would they lay such a burden, such a responsibility, upon his shoulders? But he felt their eyes still rested upon him, as much as to say: "We choose you. If any one of us is worthy to do this, it is you." He? Was not he just like the others? He had no more learning and was not pious; he was a poor farm-laborer and fisherman, just as they were. He managed to comb his hair and beard and to wash when the others thought it was unnecessary, and he had a garden at home. He did not fight, or drink until he was quite drunk; but that was mere chance, for he would have liked to. If there was any one to whom Peter made him lie down again, and people behaved unreasonably, he did, covered him up. "You must lie still, Elezeus," he said gently, as if he were speaking to a little child. But Elezeus began again: "I must go to church. I must-take the sacrament, or else—I shall be lost." They sat for a little while listening to his quick, labored breathing. Then he began to sob. "There he is!" he said. "It 's too late now. There's no pardon for me. If only I could have the sacrament! But it's too late now. Is it too late?" Again they sat silent for a little while, not knowing what to do. They could see that Elezeus had not long to live. At last Arnt Awsan spoke. "We can't let it end like this, can we?" he said. Suddenly Peter raised his head again and looked at Henry Rabben, and immediately all faces were turned in his direction. No one ventured to speak, but he felt they had indicated him. Their eyes said, "If any one of us is worthy to do this, it is you." perhaps, take his part, but not so often as he ought. Why should they now choose him? He wanted to rise and say that he was not the right man, that it should be their head-man or Peter Suzansa, who was the oldest; but the silence was so profound that he felt he could not break it. All the eyes resting upon him, every face, said, "It must be you!" When the sick man moaned and spoke a few muttered words, it seemed like a warning. Perhaps there was no time to waste; he must make up his mind. He rose, and as he did so, he met the eyes of the others, but was unable to speak. He moved toward the door. "Are you going?" asked Kristàver. "I'm coming back," Henry replied. He went out and stood on the beach. The night was frosty, and the waves broke at his feet; on the fiord lights gleamed from ships, and in the sky stars glittered above the white mountain-tops. In the west the roar of the ocean could be heard. Henry wanted to move, to walk up and down in order to collect his thoughts and find out what he ought to do; but there was no room. The hut belonging to the Sea-Fire was near, and beyond that the mountain rose perpendicularly out of the sea. Suddenly he heard a strange sound from the other side of the fiord, where lights were shining from many huts. It was singing, the singing of a hymn. He knew now what it was. It was the Methodists holding a prayer-meeting before they went to bed. He stood listening. At last he looked up into the clear, frosty sky, over which played bright bands of auroral light, and as he stroked his beard he whispered: Henry Rabben still stood there. He passed his hand across his forehead and looked from one to another of his comrades. "But there's one more thing," he said. "If a simple man undertakes to perform a sacred act, he must have a clear conscience; so I'll ask you, comrades, have I done you any wrong? For if I have, I stand here now and ask your forgiveness for it." This was more than Lars could stand, and he covered his face with his hands and turned away, that no one should see that he was crying. He heard his father say: "You can be quite certain of that, Henry. You 've never done us anything but what was good." "Well, in God's name, then," said "Forgive me, Lord, if I 'm doing Henry. wrong!" He turned to go in again, but at the door he stopped, and going round to the other side of the hut, he kneeled down in the snow and folded his hands as well as he could with his gloves on. When he entered the hut a little later, the men sitting there saw a strange expression of peace in his face, and he held himself erect and looked from one to the other of them. "If you choose me for this," he said, "I'll do it in God's name. We must remember that the disciples-they were only simple fishermen like us." The head-men glanced at each other and nodded. No one spoke, but Henry felt that all were of the same mind. Lars had a difficulty in keeping back his tears. Something great was taking place. It reminded him of the time when the doctor took out his instruments to operate on grandmother. But, no; it was something much greater than that. It was only now that he began to wonder what he was to use. There was no wine, no proper bread. But there was no time for long consideration. The candle in the bottle burned on, and all sat silent while Henry opened his chest and took out a small bottle of Riga balsam. He poured a little of this into a coffee-cup, mixed a little water with it, and tasted it. He then cut a piece of his own. bread that his wife had baked, but after doing so it occurred to him that Elezeus had a loaf like it in his chest that his wife Berit had made. It would be better to take that, for then Berit would be with them. With the piece of bread on a pewter plate and the cup in his hand, he then went up to the sick man and kneeled down, placing the cup and plate on the floor. "Elezeus," he said, touching him, "do you know me?" "Yes," said the sick man. |