# The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 9/A Perilous Wooing

From the Norwegian. Illustrations by J. Finnemore.
Layout 4
A Perilous Wooing.
From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.
[Björnstjerne Björnson, the first and greatest writer which Norway has produced, was born at Quiken, in North Norway, on the 8th of December, 1832, his father being a Lutheran country pastor. At an early age he began to write, and a two years' residence at Copenhagen, to which city he removed at twenty-four, and where he studied the chief Danish writers, confirmed him in his resolve to create a literature in Norway. He was only twenty-six when he assumed the directorship of the theatre at Bergen, where he produced play after play of national importance. He wrote also several novels, of which "Arne" and "In Gods Way" are, perhaps, the best known to English readers. The following little story shows as well as any of his long romances his peculiar and original characteristics—his faithful yet poetic painting of the life and the wild scenery of the Norwegian Alps.]
"What do you want with me," asked Thor.
ROM the time that Aslang was quite grown up there was no longer any peace or quiet at Husaby. In fact, all the handsomest young fellows in the village did nothing but fight and quarrel night after night; and it was always worst on Saturday nights. Aslang's father, old Canute Husaby, never went to bed on those nights without keeping on at least his leather breeches, and laying a good stout birch stick on the bed beside him. "If I have such a pretty daughter," said old Canute, "I must know how to take care of her."
Thor Nesset was only the son of a poor cottager, and yet folks said that it was he who went oftenest to visit the farmer's daughter at Husaby. Of course old Canute was not pleased to hear this. He said it was not true; that, at any rate, he had never seen him there. Still they smiled and whispered to each other that if he only had thoroughly searched the hay-loft, whither Aslang had many an errand, he would have found Thor there.
Spring came, and Aslang went up the mountain with the cattle. And now, when the heat of the day hung over the valley, the rocks rose cool and clear through the sun's misty rays, the cow-bells tinkled, the shepherd's dog barked, Aslang sang her "jodel" songs, and blew the cow-horn, all the young men felt their hearts grow sore and heavy as they gazed upon her beauty. And on the first Saturday evening one after the other they crept up the hill. But they came down again quicker than they had gone up, for at the top stood a man, who kept guard, receiving each one who came up with such a warm reception that he all his life long remembered the words that ​accompanied the action: "Come up here again, and there will be still more in store for you!"
All the young fellows could arrive but at one conclusion, that there was only one man in the whole parish who had such fists, and that man was Thor Nesset. And all the rich farmers' daughters thought it was too bad that this cottager's son should stand highest in Aslang Husaby's favour.
Old Canute thought the same when he heard about it all, and said that if there were no one else who could check him he would do it himself. Now Canute was certainly getting on in years; still, although he was past sixty, he often enjoyed a good wrestling match with his eldest son whenever time indoors fell heavy on his hands.
There was but one path up to the mountain belonging to Husaby, and it went straight through the farm garden. Next Saturday evening, as Thor was on his way to the mountain, creeping carefully across the yard, hurrying as soon as he was well past the farm buildings—a man suddenly rushed at him.
"What do you want with me?" asked Thor, and hit him such a blow in the face that sparks danced before his eyes.
"You will soon learn that," said someone else behind him, and gave him a great blow in the back of his neck. That was Aslang's brother.
"And here's the third man," said Old Canute, and attacked him also.
"He rowed away round the point."
The greater the danger the greater was Thor's strength. He was supple as a willow, and hit out right manfully; he dived and he ducked; whenever a blow fell it missed him; and when none expected it he would deal a good one. He stooped down, he sprang on one side, but for all that he got a terrible thrashing. Old Canute said afterwards that "he had never fought with a braver fellow." They kept it up till blood began to flow, then Canute cried out: "Stop!" Then he added in a croaking tone: "If you can get up here next Saturday, in spite of Canute Husaby and his men, the girl shall be yours!"
Thor dragged himself home as best he could, and when he reached the cottage went straight to bed. There was a great deal of talk about the fight up on Husaby-hill, but everyone said, "Why did he go there?" Only one person did not say so, and that was Aslang. She had been expecting Thor that Saturday evening, but when ​she heard what had happened between him and her father, she sat down and cried bitterly, and said to herself, "If I may not have Thor, I shall never have a happy day again in this world."
Thor stayed in his bed all Sunday, and when Monday came he felt he must stay on where he was. Tuesday came, and it was a very lovely day. It had rained in the night; the hills looked so fresh and green, the window was open, sweet odours were wafted in, the cow-bells were tinkling on the mountain, and far up above someone was "jodling." . . . Truly, if it had not been for his mother who was sitting in the room, he could have cried. Wednesday came, and still he stayed in bed; on Thursday, though, he began to think about the possibility of being well again by Saturday, and Friday found him on his legs again. Then he thought of what Aslang's father had said: "If you can get up to her next Saturday without being stopped by Canute and his men, the girl shall be yours." Over and over again he looked up at Husaby farm: "I shall never see another Christmas," thought Thor.
As before mentioned, there was but one path up to Husaby-hill; but surely any strong, able fellow must be able to get to it, even though the direct way were barred to him. For instance, if he were to row round the point yonder and fasten his boat at the one side, it might be possible to climb up there, although it was so very steep that the goats had great difficulty in climbing it, and they are not usually afraid of mountain work.
Saturday came, and Thor went out early in the morning. The day was most beautiful; the sun shone so brightly that the very bushes seemed alive. Up on the mountain many voices were "jodling," and there was much blowing of horns. When evening came he was sitting at his cottage door watching the steaming mist rise up on the hills. He looked upwards—all was quiet; he looked over towards Husaby farm—and then he jumped into his boat and rowed away round the point.
"She looked down." Aslang sat before the hut; her day's work was done; she was thinking Thor would not come that evening, and that therefore many others might come instead, so she unfastened the dog, and, without saying anything, walked further on. She sat down so that she could see across the valley, but the mist was rising there and prevented her looking down. Then she chose another place, and without thinking about it, sat down so that she looked towards the side where lay the fjord; it seemed to bring peace to her soul when she could gaze far away across the water.
As she sat there the fancy struck her that she was inclined to sing, so she chose a song with "long-drawn notes," and far and wide it sounded through the mountains. She liked to hear herself sing, so she began over again when the first verse was ended. But when she had sung the second, it seemed to her as though someone answered from far down below. "Dear me, what can that, be?" thought Aslang. She stepped forward to the edge, and twined her arms round a ​slender birch which hung trembling over the precipice, and looked down. But she could see nothing; the fjord lay there calm and at rest; not a single bird skimmed the water. So Aslang sat herself down again, and again she began to sing. Once more came the answering voice in the same tones and nearer than the first time. "That sound was no echo, whatever it may be." Aslang jumped to her feet and again leaned over the cliff. And there down below, at the foot of the rocky-wall, she saw a boat fastened. It looked like a tiny nutshell, for it was very far down. She looked again and saw a fur cap, and under it the figure of a man, climbing up the steep and barren cliff.
"Who can it be?" Aslang asked herself; and, letting go the birch, she stepped back. She dared not answer her own question, but well she knew who it was. She flung herself down on the greensward, seized the grass with both hands as though it were she who dared not loose her hold for fear of falling. But the grass came up by the roots; she screamed aloud, and dug her hands deeper and deeper into the soil. She prayed to God to help him; but then it struck her that this feat of Thor's would be called "tempting Providence," and, therefore, he could not expect help from above.
"Only just this once!" she prayed. "Hear my prayer just this one time, and help him!" Then she threw her arms round the dog, as though it were Thor whom she was clasping, and rolled herself on the grass beside it.
The time seemed to her quite endless.
Suddenly the dog began to bark. "Bow, wow!" said he to Aslang, and jumped upon her. And again, "Wow, wow!" then over the edge of the cliff a coarse, round cap came to view, and—Thor was in her arms!
He lay there a whole minute, and neither of them was capable of uttering a syllable. And when they did begin to talk there was neither sense nor reason in anything they said.
But when old Canute Husaby heard of it he uttered a remark which had both sense and reason. Bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous crash, "The lad deserves her," he cried; "the girl shall be his!"