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Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed | |
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net | |
ARNE | |
A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life | |
BY | |
BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON | |
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY | |
AUGUSTA PLESNER AND S. RUGELEY-POWERS | |
SEVER, FRANCIS, & CO | |
Boston and Cambridge | |
1869 | |
CAMBRIDGE: | |
PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. | |
TRANSLATORS' PREFACE. | |
The story which is here first presented in an English form, is one of | |
Herr Bjoernson's best works. In the original, it has already attained | |
a very wide circulation throughout Northern Europe, and is there | |
generally recognized as one of the truest and most beautiful | |
representations of Norwegian life. At the present time, when there is | |
among us a constantly increasing interest in all things pertaining to | |
the Scandinavian nations, this work possesses great claims to | |
attention, not only through its intrinsic merits, but also from the | |
fact that it is one of the very few works which can, in the fullest | |
sense, be termed Norwegian. During the long political union of Norway | |
with Denmark, Norwegian literature was so deeply imbued by Danish | |
thought and feeling, that it could not be considered national. After | |
those political changes in 1814, which placed Norway among the free | |
nations, she strove to take an independent position; and she produced | |
several gifted writers who endeavored to create a national | |
literature; but she had for many years no great works unimpressed | |
with the old Danish stamp. Not till 1857, when a young and | |
comparatively unknown writer published a book called "Synnove | |
Solbakken," can the distinct literary life of Norway be considered to | |
have commenced. That young writer was Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson. Since | |
the appearance of "Synnove Solbakken," he has produced the present | |
story, a few other short sketches, and several dramatic works. All | |
these productions are, both in subject and style, thoroughly | |
representative of the grand old nation whence they sprang; and they | |
are, moreover, so full of original poetic beauty and descriptive | |
power, that they have stamped their author as one of the greatest | |
writers in Northern Europe. | |
While presenting this work from one who so well deserves to be known | |
and honored by all, we very much wish we could also present a sketch | |
of his history. But, so far as we have been able to ascertain, there | |
is very little material; for, happily, Herr Bjoernson is yet young, | |
and in the midst of his literary career; and therefore only a small | |
part of his life-story can yet be told. We have, however, obtained a | |
few interesting details, principally from a little sketch in the | |
Danish of Herr Clemens Petersen. | |
Herr Bjoernson is the son of a clergyman; and was born in 1832, at | |
Kvikne, a lonely parish on the Dovre Fjeld. In his earliest years, he | |
was so far from being marked by any unusual degree of mental | |
development, that he was even regarded as "stupid:" he seems to have | |
been at that time merely a strong-limbed, happy, playful little | |
fellow. Whenever he was at home, he constantly made the quiet | |
parsonage a scene of confusion and uproar through his wild play. | |
"Things," says Herr Petersen, "which had within the memory of man | |
never been moved, were flung down; chairs and tables spun round; and | |
all the girls and boys in the place ran about with him in noisy play; | |
while his mother used to clasp her hands in fright, and declare he | |
must soon be sent off to sea." When, in his twelfth year, he went to | |
school, he appears to have been just as little characterized by any | |
unusual mental development, and just as much by physical activity. He | |
was placed on the lowest form to learn with the little boys. But when | |
he got out-doors into the playground, he was at once among the | |
leaders, and feared nobody: on one occasion he soundly thrashed the | |
strongest boy in the whole school. Although, however, no one else at | |
this time saw any promise of his future greatness, he had himself a | |
presentiment of it: deep in the heart of the rough Norwegian | |
school-boy, who seemed to think of little but play, was hidden a | |
purpose to become an author, and even the greatest of all authors. | |
At the University, Herr Bjoernson was as little distinguished by | |
intellectual attainments as at school; and he never passed the second | |
part of his examination. He seems, indeed, never to have been a very | |
earnest student of any writings save those "manuscripts of God" | |
contained in the great volumes of Nature and human society. _These_, | |
few have studied more earnestly, or translated with greater force and | |
beauty. | |
While studying at the University, Herr Bjoernson's literary purposes | |
still remained; and during this time he produced his first drama, | |
"Valburg," though he had then never read one dramatic work through, | |
or been at a theatre more than twice in his life. He sent "Valburg" | |
to the managers of the theatre at Christiana; and it was accepted. | |
But as soon as he had been to the theatre a few times, he decided | |
that, in its present state, it was not a fit medium for the | |
expression of his inner life; and he therefore took his piece back | |
before it had been played. For a while afterwards, he devoted a great | |
part of his time to dramatic criticism. He attacked some of the | |
prevalent errors in theatrical affairs with so much force and | |
boldness that he greatly exasperated the orthodox actors and | |
managers, and thus brought down much annoyance upon himself. His | |
criticisms were, however, the means of greatly improving the | |
Norwegian drama, especially by partly releasing it from the undue | |
Danish influence which prevented it from becoming truly national. | |
Herr Bjoernson subsequently abandoned his dramatic criticism, left | |
Christiana, and returned to his father's home in the country. Here he | |
assiduously devoted himself to literary work, but without very | |
satisfactory tangible results. Next, he went back to Christiana, and | |
employed himself in writing for various periodicals, where he | |
inserted a series of short sketches which, although far inferior to | |
his subsequent and more mature productions, bore strong indications | |
of genius, and attracted much attention. But, meanwhile, their noble | |
young author lived a sad and weary life--depressed by the fear that | |
his best hopes would never be realized--harassed by pecuniary | |
difficulties, and tormented by the most cruel persecution. Next, he | |
went to Upsala, where he still employed himself upon periodical | |
literature, and had an interval of comparative quiet and happiness. | |
Thence, he travelled to Hamburg, and afterwards to Copenhagen. Here | |
he remained half a year, living a quiet, studious life, and | |
associating with some of the most eminent men in the city. "Those | |
days," said he, "were the best I ever had." Certainly, they were very | |
fruitful ones. In them he produced one complete work, parts of | |
several others, and the first half of "Synnove Solbakken," the tale | |
which was destined to place him in the foremost rank of Scandinavian | |
writers. It is a remarkable fact that shortly before he left | |
Copenhagen with all this heap of wealth, he had passed through a | |
crisis of such miserable depression that he was just about to abandon | |
literary labor for ever, through a sense of utter unfitness to | |
perform it. | |
From Copenhagen, Herr Bjoernson returned to Norway, and was for two | |
years manager of the theatre at Bergen, occupying most of the time in | |
the training of actors. Thence he went, with his young wife, again to | |
Christiana, where he for some months edited _Aftenbladet_, one of | |
the leading Norwegian journals. | |
Relative to Herr Bjoernson's subsequent life and labors, there is but | |
very little available information. | |
* * * * * | |
Of our own part in the following pages, we have but to say we have | |
earnestly endeavored to deal faithfully and reverently with Herr | |
Bjoernson's work, and to render nearly every passage as fully and | |
literally as the construction of the two languages permits. The only | |
exceptions are two very short, and comparatively very unimportant | |
passages, which we have ventured to omit, because we believed they | |
would render the book less acceptable to English readers. | |
London, June, 1866. | |
CONTENTS. | |
CHAPTER PAGE | |
I. How the Cliff was Clad 11 | |
II. A Cloudy Dawn 15 | |
III. Seeing an old Love 24 | |
IV. The Unlamented Death 34 | |
V. "He had in his Mind a Song" 42 | |
VI. Strange Tales 48 | |
VII. The Soliloquy in the Barn 55 | |
VIII. The Shadows on the Water 60 | |
IX. The Nutting-Party 68 | |
X. Loosening the Weather-Vane 83 | |
XI. Eli's Sickness 95 | |
XII. A Glimpse of Spring 104 | |
XIII. Margit Consults the Clergyman 112 | |
XIV. Finding a lost Song 122 | |
XV. Somebody's future Home 131 | |
XVI. The Double Wedding 147 | |
ARNE. | |
I. | |
HOW THE CLIFF WAS CLAD. | |
Between two cliffs lay a deep ravine, with a full stream rolling | |
heavily through it over boulders and rough ground. It was high and | |
steep, and one side was bare, save at the foot, where clustered a | |
thick, fresh wood, so close to the stream that the mist from the | |
water lay upon the foliage in spring and autumn. The trees stood | |
looking upwards and forwards, unable to move either way. | |
"What if we were to clothe the Cliff?" said the Juniper one day to | |
the foreign Oak that stood next him. The Oak looked down to find out | |
who was speaking, and then looked up again without answering a word. | |
The Stream worked so hard that it grew white; the Northwind rushed | |
through the ravine, and shrieked in the fissures; and the bare Cliff | |
hung heavily over and felt cold. "What if we were to clothe the | |
Cliff?" said the Juniper to the Fir on the other side. "Well, if | |
anybody is to do it, I suppose we must," replied the Fir, stroking | |
his beard; "what dost thou think?" he added, looking over to the | |
Birch. "In God's name, let us clothe it," answered the Birch, | |
glancing timidly towards the Cliff, which hung over her so heavily | |
that she felt as if she could scarcely breathe. And thus, although | |
they were but three, they agreed to clothe the Cliff. The Juniper | |
went first. | |
When they had gone a little way they met the Heather. The Juniper | |
seemed as though he meant to pass her by. "Nay, let us take the | |
Heather with us," said the Fir. So on went the Heather. Soon the | |
Juniper began to slip. "Lay hold on me," said the Heather. The | |
Juniper did so, and where there was only a little crevice the Heather | |
put in one finger, and where she had got in one finger the Juniper | |
put in his whole hand. They crawled and climbed, the Fir heavily | |
behind with the Birch. "It is a work of charity," said the Birch. | |
But the Cliff began to ponder what little things these could be that | |
came clambering up it. And when it had thought over this a few | |
hundred years, it sent down a little Brook to see about it. It was | |
just spring flood, and the Brook rushed on till she met the Heather. | |
"Dear, dear Heather, canst thou not let me pass? I am so little," | |
said the Brook. The Heather, being very busy, only raised herself a | |
little, and worked on. The Brook slipped under her, and ran onwards. | |
"Dear, dear Juniper, canst thou not let me pass? I am so little," | |
said the Brook. The Juniper glanced sharply at her; but as the | |
Heather had let her pass, he thought he might do so as well. The | |
Brook slipped under him, and ran on till she came where the Fir stood | |
panting on a crag. "Dear, dear Fir, canst thou not let me pass? I am | |
so little," the Brook said, fondly kissing the Fir on his foot. The | |
Fir felt bashful and let her pass. But the Birch made way before the | |
Brook asked. "He, he, he," laughed the Brook, as she grew larger. | |
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed the Brook again, pushing Heather and Juniper, | |
Fir and Birch, forwards and backwards, up and down on the great | |
crags. The Cliff sat for many hundred years after, pondering whether | |
it did not smile a little that day. | |
It was clear the Cliff did not wish to be clad. The Heather felt so | |
vexed that she turned green again, and then she went on. "Never mind; | |
take courage!" said the Heather. | |
The Juniper sat up to look at the Heather, and at last he rose to his | |
feet. He scratched his head a moment, and then he too went on again, | |
and clutched so firmly, that he thought the Cliff could not help | |
feeling it. "If thou wilt not take me, then I will take thee," said | |
he. The Fir bent his toes a little to feel if they were whole, lifted | |
one foot, which he found all right, then the other, which was all | |
right too, and then both feet. He first examined the path he had | |
come, then where he had been lying, and at last where he had to go. | |
Then he strode onwards, just as though he had never fallen. The Birch | |
had been splashed very badly, but now she got up and made herself | |
tidy. And so they went rapidly on, upwards and sidewards, in sunshine | |
and rain. "But what in the world is all this?" said the Cliff, when | |
the summer sun shone, the dew-drops glittered, the birds sang, the | |
wood-mouse squeaked, the hare bounded, and the weasel hid and | |
screamed among the trees. | |
Then the day came when the Heather could peep over the Cliff's edge. | |
"Oh, dear me!" said she, and over she went. "What is it the Heather | |
sees, dear?" said the Juniper, and came forwards till he, too, could | |
peep over. "Dear me!" he cried, and over he went. "What's the matter | |
with the Juniper to-day?" said the Fir, taking long strides in the | |
hot sun. Soon he, too, by standing on tiptoes could peep over. | |
"Ah!"--every branch and prickle stood on end with astonishment. He | |
strode onwards, and over he went. "What is it they all see, and not | |
I?" said the Birch, lifting up her skirts, and tripping after. "Ah!" | |
said she, putting her head over, "there is a whole forest, both of | |
Fir and Heather, and Juniper and Birch, waiting for us on the plain;" | |
and her leaves trembled in the sunshine till the dew-drops fell. | |
"This comes of reaching forwards," said the Juniper. | |
II. | |
A CLOUDY DAWN. | |
Arne was born upon the mountain plain. | |
His mother's name was Margit, and she was the only child at the farm, | |
Kampen. In her eighteenth year she once stayed too long at a dancing | |
party. The friends she came with had left, and then she thought the | |
way homewards would be just the same whether she stayed over another | |
dance or not. So it came to pass that she was still sitting there | |
when the fiddler, Nils, the tailor, laid aside his violin and asked | |
another man to play. He then took out the prettiest girl to dance, | |
his feet keeping as exact time as the music to a song, while with his | |
bootheel he kicked off the hat of the tallest man there. "Ho!" he | |
said. | |
As Margit walked home that night, the moonbeams played upon the snow | |
with such strange beauty, that after she had gone up to her | |
bedchamber she felt she must look out at them once more. She took off | |
her bodice, but remained standing with it in her hand. Then she felt | |
chilly, undressed herself hastily, and crouched far down beneath the | |
fur coverlet. That night she dreamed of a great red cow which had | |
gone astray in the corn-fields. She wished to drive it out, but | |
however much she tried, she could not move from the spot; and the cow | |
stood quietly, and went on eating till it grew plump and satisfied, | |
from time to time looking over to her with its large, mild eyes. | |
The next time there was a dance in the parish, Margit was there. She | |
sat listening to the music, and cared little for the dancing that | |
night; and she was glad somebody else, too, cared no more for it than | |
she did. But when it grew later the fiddler, Nils, the tailor, rose, | |
and wished to dance. He went straight over and took out Margit, and | |
before she well knew what she was doing she danced with him. | |
Soon the weather turned warmer, and there was no more dancing. That | |
spring Margit took so much care of a little sick lamb, that her | |
mother thought her quite foolish. "It's only a lamb, after all," said | |
the mother. "Yes; but it's sick," answered Margit. | |
It was a long time since Margit had been to church; somebody must | |
stay at home, she used to say, and she would rather let the mother | |
go. One Sunday, however, later in the summer, the weather seemed so | |
fine that the hay might very well be left over that day and night, | |
the mother said, and she thought both of them might go. Margit had | |
nothing to say against it, and she went to dress herself. But when | |
they had gone far enough to hear the church bells, she suddenly burst | |
into tears. The mother grew deadly pale; yet they went on to church, | |
heard the sermon and prayers, sang all the hymns, and let the last | |
sound of the bells die away before they left. But when they were | |
seated at home again, the mother took Margit's face between her | |
hands, and said, "Keep back nothing from me, my child!" | |
When another winter came Margit did not dance. But Nils, the tailor, | |
played and drank more than ever, and always danced with the prettiest | |
girl at every party. People then said, in fact, he might have had any | |
one of the first girls in the parish for his wife if he chose; and | |
some even said that Eli Boeen had himself made an offer for his | |
daughter, Birgit, who had quite fallen in love with him. | |
But just at that time an infant born at Kampen was baptized, and | |
received the name, Arne; but Nils, the tailor, was said to be its | |
father. | |
On the evening of the same day, Nils went to a large wedding-party; | |
and there he got drunk. He would not play, but danced all the time, | |
and seemed as if he could hardly bear to have any one on the floor | |
save himself. But when he asked Birgit Boeen to dance, she refused. He | |
gave a short, forced, laugh, turned on his heel and asked the first | |
girl at hand. She was a little dark girl who had been sitting looking | |
at him, but now when he spoke to her, she turned pale and drew back. | |
He looked down, leaned slightly over her, and whispered, "Won't you | |
dance with _me_, Kari?" She did not answer. He repeated his question, | |
and then she replied, also in a whisper, "That dance might go further | |
than I wished." He drew back slowly; but when he reached the middle | |
of the room, he made a quick turn, and danced the _halling_[1] alone, | |
while the rest looked on in silence. | |
[1] The _halling_ is a Norwegian national dance, of which a | |
description is given on pp. 20, 21.--Translators. | |
Afterwards, he went away into the barn, lay down, and wept. | |
Margit stayed at home with little Arne. When she heard how Nils | |
rushed from dancing-party to dancing-party, she looked at the child | |
and wept, but then she looked at him once more and was happy. The | |
first name she taught him to say was, father; but this she dared not | |
do when the mother, or the grandmother, as she was now called, was | |
near; and so it came to pass that the little one called the | |
grandmother, "Father." Margit took great pains to break him of this, | |
and thus she caused an early thoughtfulness in him. He was but a | |
little fellow when he learned that Nils, the tailor, was his father; | |
and just when he came to the age when children most love strange, | |
romantic things, he also learned what sort of man Nils was. But the | |
grandmother had strictly forbidden the very mention of his name; her | |
mind was set only upon extending Kampen and making it their own | |
property, so that Margit and the boy might be independent. Taking | |
advantage of the landowner's poverty, she bought the place, paid off | |
part of the purchase-money every year, and managed her farm like a | |
man; for she had been a widow fourteen years. Under her care, Kampen | |
had been extended till it could now feed four cows, sixteen sheep, | |
and a horse of which she was joint owner. | |
Meantime, Nils, the tailor, continued to go about working in the | |
parish; but he had less to do than formerly, partly because he was | |
less attentive to his trade, and partly because he was not so well | |
liked. Then he took to going out oftener to play the fiddle at | |
parties; this gave him more opportunities for drinking, and thus came | |
more fighting and miserable days. | |
One winter day, when Arne was about six years old, he was playing on | |
the bed, where he had set up the coverlet for a boat-sail, while he | |
sat steering with a ladle. The grandmother sat in the room spinning, | |
busy with her own thoughts, and every now and then nodding, as though | |
in affirmation of her own conclusions. Then the boy knew she was | |
taking no notice of him; and so he sang, just as he had learned it, a | |
wild, rough song about Nils, the tailor:-- | |
"Unless 'twas only yesterday, hither first you came, | |
You've surely heard already of Nils, the tailor's fame. | |
Unless 'twas but this morning, you came among us first, | |
You've heard how he knocked over tall Johan Knutson Kirst; | |
How in his famous barn-fight with Ola Stor-Johann, | |
He said, 'Bring down your porridge when we two fight again.' | |
That fighting fellow, Bugge, a famous man was he: | |
His name was known all over fiord and fell and sea. | |
'Now, choose the place, you tailor, where I shall knock you down; | |
And then I'll spit upon it, and there I'll lay your crown.' | |
'Ah, only come so near, I may catch your scent, my man: | |
Your bragging hurts nobody; don't dream it ever can.' | |
The first round was a poor one, and neither man could beat; | |
But both kept in their places, and steady on their feet. | |
The second round, poor Bugge was beaten black and blue. | |
'Little Bugge, are you tired? It's going hard with you.' | |
The third round, Bugge tumbled, and bleeding there he lay. | |
'Now, Bugge, where's your bragging?' 'Bad luck to me to-day!'" | |
This was all the boy sang; but there were two verses more which the | |
mother had never taught him. The grandmother knew these last verses | |
only too well; and she remembered them all the better because the boy | |
did not sing them. She said nothing to him, however, but to the | |
mother, she said, "If you think it well to teach him the first | |
verses, don't forget to teach him the last ones, too." | |
Nils, the tailor, was so broken down by his drinking, that he was not | |
like the same man; and people began to say he would soon be utterly | |
ruined. | |
About this time a wedding was celebrated in the neighborhood, and two | |
American gentlemen, who were visiting near, came to witness it, as | |
they wished to see the customs of the country. Nils played; and the | |
two gentlemen each gave a dollar for him, and then asked for the | |
_halling_. But no one came forward to dance it; and several begged | |
Nils himself to come: "After all, he was still the best dancer," they | |
said. He refused; but their request became still more urgent, and at | |
last all in the room joined in it. This was just what he wanted; and | |
at once he handed his fiddle to another man, took off his jacket and | |
cap, and stepped smilingly into the middle of the room. They all came | |
round to look at him, just as they used to do in his better days, and | |
this gave him back his old strength. They crowded closely together, | |
those farthest back standing on tables and benches. Several of the | |
girls stood higher than all the rest; and the foremost of them--a | |
tall girl, with bright auburn hair, blue eyes, deeply set under a | |
high forehead, and thin lips, which often smiled and then drew a | |
little to one side--was Birgit Boeen: Nils caught her eye as he | |
glanced upwards at the beam. The music struck up; a deep silence | |
ensued; and he began. He squatted on the floor, and hopped sidewards | |
in time with the music; swung from one side to another, crossed, and | |
uncrossed his legs under him several times; sprang up again, and | |
stood as though he were going to take a leap; but then shirked it, | |
and went on hopping sidewards as before. The fiddle was skilfully | |
played, and the tune became more and more exciting. Nils gradually | |
threw his head backwarder, and then suddenly kicked the beam, | |
scattering the dust from the ceiling down upon the people below. They | |
laughed and shouted round him, and the girls stood almost breathless. | |
The sound of the violin rose high above the noise, stimulating him by | |
still wilder notes, and he did not resist their influence. He bent | |
forward; hopped in time with the music; stood up as though he were | |
going to take a leap, but shirked it, swung from one side to the | |
other as before; and just when he looked as if he had not the least | |
thought of leaping, leaped up and kicked the beam again and again. | |
Next he turned somersaults forwards and backwards, coming upon his | |
feet firmly, and standing up quite straight each time. Then he | |
suddenly left off; and the tune, after running through some wild | |
variations, died away in one long, deep note on the bass. The crowd | |
dispersed, and an animated conversation in loud tones followed the | |
silence. Nils leaned against the wall; and the American gentlemen, | |
with their interpreter, went over to him, each giving him five | |
dollars. Once more all were silent. | |
The Americans said a few words aside to their interpreter, who then | |
asked Nils whether he would go with them as their servant. "Where?" | |
Nils asked, while the people crowded round as closely as possible. | |
"Out into the world," was the answer. "When?" Nils asked, as he | |
looked round him with a bright face; his eyes fell on Birgit Boeen, | |
and he did not take them off again. "In a week's time when they come | |
back here," answered the interpreter. "Well, perhaps I may then be | |
ready," said Nils, weighing his ten dollars, and trembling so | |
violently, that a man on whose shoulder he was resting one arm, asked | |
him to sit down. | |
"Oh, it's nothing," he answered, and he took a few faltering steps | |
across the floor, then, some firmer ones, turned round, and asked for | |
a springing-dance. | |
The girls stood foremost in the circle. He looked slowly round, and | |
then went straight over to one in a dark skirt: it was Birgit | |
Boeen. He stretched forth his hand, and she gave both hers; but he | |
drew back with a laugh, took out a girl who stood next, and danced | |
off gaily. Birgit's face and neck flushed crimson; and in a moment a | |
tall, mild-looking man, who was standing behind her, took her hand | |
and danced away with her just after Nils. He saw them, and whether | |
purposely or not, pushed against them so violently that they both | |
fell heavily to the floor. Loud cries and laughter were heard all | |
round. Birgit rose, went aside, and cried bitterly. | |
Her partner rose more slowly, and went straight over to Nils, who was | |
still dancing: "You must stop a little," he said. Nils did not hear; | |
so the other man laid hold on his arm. He tore himself away, looked | |
at the man, and said with a smile, "I don't know you." | |
"P'r'aps not; but now I'll let you know who I am," said the man, | |
giving him a blow just over one eye. Nils was quite unprepared for | |
this, and fell heavily on the sharp edge of the fireplace. He tried | |
to rise, but he could not: his spine was broken. | |
At Kampen, a change had taken place. Of late the grandmother had | |
become more infirm, and as she felt her strength failing, she took | |
greater pains than ever to save money to pay off the remaining debt | |
upon the farm. "Then you and the boy," she used to say to Margit, | |
"will be comfortably off. And mind, if ever you bring anybody into | |
the place to ruin it for you, I shall turn in my grave." In | |
harvest-time, she had the great satisfaction of going up to the late | |
landowner's house with the last of the money due to him; and happy | |
she felt when, seated once more in the porch at home, she could at | |
last say, "Now it's done." But in that same hour she was seized with | |
her last illness; she went to bed at once, and rose no more. Margit | |
had her buried in the churchyard, and a nice headstone was set over | |
her, inscribed with her name and age, and a verse from one of | |
Kingo's hymns. A fortnight after her burial, her black Sunday gown | |
was made into a suit of clothes for the boy; and when he was dressed | |
in them he became as grave as even the grandmother herself. He went | |
of his own accord and took up the book with clasps and large print | |
from which she used to read and sing every Sunday; he opened it, and | |
there he found her spectacles. These he had never been allowed to | |
touch while she was living; now he took them out half fearfully, | |
placed them over his nose, and looked down through them into the | |
book. All became hazy. "How strange this is," he thought; "it was | |
through them grandmother could read God's word!" He held them high up | |
against the light to see what was the matter, and--the spectacles | |
dropped on the floor, broken in twenty pieces. | |
He was much frightened, and when at the same moment the door opened, | |
he felt as if it must be the grandmother herself who was coming in. | |
But it was the mother, and behind her came six men, who, with much | |
stamping and noise, brought in a litter which they placed in the | |
middle of the room. The door was left open so long after them, that | |
the room grew quite cold. | |
On the litter lay a man with a pale face and dark hair. The mother | |
walked to and fro and wept. "Be careful how you lay him on the bed," | |
she said imploringly, helping them herself. But all the while the men | |
were moving him, something grated beneath their feet. "Ah, that's | |
only grandmother's spectacles," the boy thought; but he said | |
nothing. | |
III. | |
SEEING AN OLD LOVE. | |
It was, as we have said before, just harvest-time. A week after the | |
day when Nils had been carried into Margit Kampen's house, the | |
American gentlemen sent him word to get ready to go with them. He was | |
just then lying writhing under a violent attack of pain; and, | |
clenching his teeth, he cried, "Let them go to the devil!" Margit | |
remained waiting, as if she had not received any answer; he noticed | |
this, and after a while he repeated, faintly and slowly, "Let | |
them--go." | |
As the winter advanced, he recovered so far as to be able to get up, | |
though his health was broken for life. The first day he could get up | |
he took his fiddle and tuned it; but it excited him so much that he | |
had to go to bed again. He talked very little, but was gentle and | |
kind, and soon he began to read with Arne, and to take in work. Still | |
he never went out; and he did not talk to those who came to see him. | |
At first Margit used to tell him the news of the parish, but it made | |
him gloomy, and so she soon left off. | |
When spring came he and Margit often sat longer than usual talking | |
together after supper, when Arne had been sent to bed. Later in the | |
season the banns of marriage were published for them, and then they | |
were quietly married. | |
He worked on the farm, and managed wisely and steadily; and Margit | |
said to Arne, "He is industrious, as well as pleasant; now you must | |
be obedient and kind, and do your best for him." | |
Margit had even in the midst of her trouble remained tolerably stout. | |
She had rosy cheeks, large eyes, surrounded by dark circles which | |
made them seem still larger, full lips, and a round face; and she | |
looked healthy and strong, although she really had not much strength. | |
Now, she looked better than ever; and she always sang at her work, | |
just as she used to do. | |
Then one Sunday afternoon, the father and son went out to see how | |
things were getting on in the fields. Arne ran about, shooting with a | |
bow and arrows, which the father had himself made for him. Thus, they | |
went on straight towards the road which led past the church, and down | |
to the place which was called the broad valley. When they came there, | |
Nils sat down on a stone and fell into a reverie, while Arne went on | |
shooting, and running for his arrows along the road in the direction | |
of the church. "Only not too far away," Nils said. Just as Arne was | |
at the height of his play, he stopped, listening, and called out, | |
"Father, I hear music." Nils, too, listened; and they heard the sound | |
of violins, sometimes drowned by loud, wild shouts, while above all | |
rose the rattling of wheels, and the trampling of horses' hoofs: it | |
was a bridal train coming home from the church. "Come here, lad," the | |
father said, in a tone which made Arne feel he must come quickly. The | |
father had risen hastily, and now stood hidden behind a large tree. | |
Arne followed till the father called out, "Not here, but go yonder!" | |
Then the boy ran behind an elm-copse. The train of carriages had | |
already turned the corner of the birch-wood; the horses, white with | |
foam, galloping at a furious rate, while drunken people shouted and | |
hallooed. The father and Arne counted the carriages one after | |
another: there were fourteen. In the first, two fiddlers were | |
sitting; and the wedding tune sounded merrily through the clear air: | |
a lad stood behind driving. In the next carriage sat the bride, with | |
her crown and ornaments glittering in the sunshine. She was tall, and | |
when she smiled her mouth drew a little to one side; with her sat a | |
mild-looking man, dressed in blue. Then came the rest of the | |
carriages, the men sitting on the women's laps, and little boys | |
behind; drunken men riding six together in a one-horse carriage; | |
while in the last sat the purveyor of the feast, with a cask of | |
brandy in his arms. They drove rapidly past Nils and Arne, shouting | |
and singing down the hill; while behind them the breeze bore upwards, | |
through a cloud of dust, the sound of the violins, the cries, and the | |
rattling of the wheels, at first loud, then fainter and fainter, till | |
at last it died away in the distance. Nils remained standing | |
motionless till he heard a little rustling behind him; then he turned | |
round: it was Arne stealing forth from his hiding-place. | |
"Who was it, father?" he asked; but then he started back a little, | |
for Nils' face had an evil look. The boy stood silently, waiting for | |
an answer; but he got none; and at last, becoming impatient, he | |
ventured to ask, "Are we going now?" Nils was still standing | |
motionless, looking dreamily in the direction where the bridal train | |
had gone; then he collected himself, and walked homewards. Arne | |
followed, and once more began to shoot and to run after his arrows. | |
"Don't trample down the meadow," said Nils abruptly. The boy let the | |
arrow lie and came back; but soon he forgot the warning, and, while | |
the father once more stood still, he lay down to make somersaults. | |
"Don't trample down the meadow, I say," repeated Nils, seizing his | |
arm and snatching him up by it almost violently enough to sprain it. | |
Then the boy went on silently behind him. | |
At the door Margit stood waiting for them. She had just come from the | |
cow-house, where it seemed she had been working hard, for her hair | |
was rough, her linen soiled, and her dress untidy; but she stood in | |
the doorway smiling. "Red-side has calved," she said; "and never in | |
all my life did I see such a great calf." Away rushed Arne. | |
"I think you might make yourself a little tidy of a Sunday," said | |
Nils as he went past her into the room. | |
"Yes, now the work's done, there'll be time for dressing," answered | |
Margit, following him: and she began to dress, singing meanwhile. | |
Margit now sang very well, though sometimes her voice was a little | |
hoarse. | |
"Leave off that screaming," said Nils, throwing himself upon the bed. | |
Margit left off. Then the boy came bustling in, all out of breath. | |
"The calf, the calf's got red marks on each side and a spot on the | |
forehead, just like his mother." | |
"Hold your tongue, boy!" cried Nils, putting down one of his feet | |
from the bed, and stamping on the floor. "The deuce is in that | |
bustling boy," he growled out, drawing up his foot again. | |
"You can see very well father's out of spirits to-day," the mother | |
said to Arne, by way of warning. "Shouldn't you like some strong | |
coffee with treacle?" she then said, turning to Nils, trying to drive | |
away his ill-temper. Coffee with treacle had been a favorite drink | |
with the grandmother and Margit, and Arne liked it too. But Nils | |
never liked it, though he used to take it with the others. "Shouldn't | |
you like some strong coffee with treacle?" Margit asked again, for he | |
did not answer the first time. Now, he raised himself on his elbows, | |
and cried in a loud, harsh voice, "Do you think I'll guzzle that | |
filthy stuff?" | |
Margit was thunder-struck; and she went out, taking the boy with her. | |
They had several things to do out-doors, and they did not come in | |
till supper-time; then Nils had gone. Arne was sent out into the | |
field to call him, but could not find him anywhere. They waited till | |
the supper was nearly cold; but Nils had not come even when it was | |
finished. Then Margit grew fidgety, sent Arne to bed, and sat down, | |
waiting. A little past midnight Nils came home. "Where have you been, | |
dear?" she asked. | |
"That's no business of yours," he answered, seating himself slowly on | |
the bench. He was drunk. | |
From that time he often went out into the parish; and he was always | |
drunk when he came back. "I can't bear stopping at home with you," he | |
once said when he came in. She gently tried to plead her cause; but | |
he stamped on the floor, and bade her be silent. Was he drunk, then | |
it was her fault; was he wicked, that was her fault, too; had he | |
become a <DW36> and an unlucky man for all his life, then, again, | |
she and that cursed boy of hers were the cause of it. "Why were you | |
always dangling after me?" he said, blubbering. "What harm had I done | |
you?" | |
"God help and bless me!" Margit answered, "was it I that ran after | |
you?" | |
"Yes, that you did," he cried, raising himself; and, still | |
blubbering, he continued, "Now, at last, it has turned out just as | |
you would have it: I drag along here day after day--every day looking | |
on my own grave. But I might have lived in splendor with the first | |
girl in the parish; I might have travelled as far as the sun; if you | |
and that cursed boy of yours hadn't put yourselves in my way." | |
Again she tried to defend herself: "It isn't the boy's fault, at any | |
rate." | |
"Hold your tongue, or I'll strike you!" and he did strike her. | |
The next day, when he had slept himself sober, he felt ashamed, and | |
would especially be kind to the boy. But he was soon drunk again; and | |
then he beat Margit. At last he beat her almost every time he was | |
drunk; Arne then cried and fretted, and so he beat him, too; but | |
often he was so miserable afterwards that he felt obliged to go out | |
again and take some more spirits. At this time, too, he began once | |
more to set his mind on going to dancing-parties. He played at them | |
just as he used to do before his illness; and he took Arne with him | |
to carry the fiddle-case. At these parties the child saw and heard | |
much which was not good for him; and the mother often wept because he | |
was taken there: still she dared not say anything to the father about | |
it. But to the child she often imploringly said, with many caresses, | |
"Keep close to God, and don't learn anything wicked." But at the | |
dancing-parties there was very much to amuse him, while at home with | |
the mother there was very little; and so he turned more and more away | |
from her to the father: she saw it, but was silent. He learned many | |
songs at these parties, and he used to sing them to the father, who | |
felt amused, and laughed now and then at them. This flattered the boy | |
so much that he set himself to learn as many songs as he could; and | |
soon he found out what it was that the father liked, and that made | |
him laugh. When there was nothing of this kind in the songs, the boy | |
would himself put something in as well as he could; and thus he early | |
acquired facility in setting words to music. But lampoons and | |
disgusting stories about people who had risen to wealth and | |
influence, were the things which the father liked best, and which the | |
boy sang. | |
The mother always wished him to go with her in the cow-house to tend | |
the cattle in the evening. He used to find all sorts of excuses to | |
avoid going; but it was of no use; she was resolved he should go. | |
There she talked to him about God and good things, and generally | |
ended by pressing him to her heart, imploring him, with many tears, | |
not to become a bad man. | |
She helped him, too, in his reading-lessons. He was extremely | |
quick in learning; and the father felt proud of him, and told | |
him--especially when he was drunk--that he had _his_ cleverness. | |
At dancing-parties, when the father was drunk, he used often to ask | |
Arne to sing to the people; and then he would sing song after song, | |
amidst their loud laughter and applause. This pleased him even more | |
than it pleased his father; and at last he used to sing songs without | |
number. Some anxious mothers who heard this, came to Margit and told | |
her about it, because the subjects of the songs were not such as they | |
ought to have been. Then she called the boy to her side, and forbade | |
him, in the name of God and all that was good, to sing such songs any | |
more. And now it seemed to him that she was always opposed to what | |
gave him pleasure; and, for the first time in his life, he told the | |
father what she had said; and when he was again drunk she had to | |
suffer for it severely: till then he had not spoken of it. Then Arne | |
saw clearly how wrong a thing he had done, and in the depths of his | |
soul he asked God and her to forgive him; but he could not ask it in | |
words. She continued to show him the same kindness as before, and it | |
pierced his heart. Once, however, in spite of all, he again wronged | |
her. He had a talent for mimicking people, especially in their | |
speaking and singing; and one evening, while he was amusing the | |
father in this way, the mother entered, and, when she was going away, | |
the father took it into his head to ask him to mimic her. At first he | |
refused; but the father, who lay on the bed laughing till he shook, | |
insisted upon his doing it. "She's gone," the boy thought, "and can't | |
hear me;" and he mimicked her singing, just as it was when her voice | |
was hoarse and obstructed by tears. The father laughed till the boy | |
grew quite frightened and at once left off. Then the mother came in | |
from the kitchen, looked at Arne long and mournfully, went over to | |
the shelf, took down a milk-dish and carried it away. | |
He felt burning hot all over: she had heard it all. He jumped down | |
from the table where he had been sitting, went out, threw himself on | |
the ground, and wished to hide himself for ever in the earth. He | |
could not rest, and he rose and went farther from the house. Passing | |
by the barn, he there saw his mother sitting, making a new fine shirt | |
for him. It was her usual habit to sing a hymn while sewing: now, | |
however, she was silent. Then Arne could bear it no longer; he threw | |
himself on the grass at her feet, looked up in her face, and wept and | |
sobbed bitterly. Margit let fall her work, and took his head between | |
her hands. | |
"Poor Arne!" she said, putting her face down to his. He did not try | |
to say a word, but wept as he had never wept before. "I knew you were | |
good at heart," she said, stroking his head. | |
"Mother, you mustn't refuse what I am now going to ask," were the | |
first words he was able to utter. | |
"You know I never do refuse you," answered she. | |
He tried to stop his tears, and then, with his face still in her | |
lap, he stammered out, "Do sing a little for me, mother." | |
"You know I can't do it," she said, in a low voice. | |
"Sing something for me, mother," implored the boy; "or I shall never | |
have courage to look you in the face again." She went on stroking his | |
hair, but was silent. "Do sing, mother dear," he implored again; "or | |
I shall go far away, and never come back any more." Though he was now | |
almost fifteen years old, he lay there with his head in his mother's | |
lap, and she began to sing: | |
"Merciful Father, take in thy care | |
The child as he plays by the shore; | |
Send him Thy Holy Spirit there, | |
And leave him alone no more. | |
Slipp'ry's the way, and high is the tide; | |
Still if Thou keepest close by his side | |
He never will drown, but live for Thee, | |
And then at the last Thy heaven will see. | |
Wondering where her child is astray, | |
The mother stands at the cottage door, | |
Calls him a hundred times i' the day, | |
And fears he will come no more. | |
But then she thinks, whatever betide, | |
The Spirit of God will be his Guide, | |
And Christ the blessed, his little Brother, | |
Will carry him back to his longing mother." | |
She sang some more verses. Arne lay still; a blessed peace came over | |
him, and under its soothing influence he slept. The last word he | |
heard distinctly was, "Christ;" it transported him into regions of | |
light; and he fancied that he listened to a chorus of voices, but his | |
mother's voice was clearer than all. Sweeter tones he had never | |
heard, and he prayed to be allowed to sing in like manner; and then | |
at once he began, gently and softly, and still more softly, until | |
his bliss became rapture, and then suddenly all disappeared. He | |
awoke, looked about him, listened attentively, but heard nothing save | |
the little rivulet which flowed past the barn with a low and constant | |
murmur. The mother was gone; but she had placed the half-made shirt | |
and his jacket under his head. | |
IV. | |
THE UNLAMENTED DEATH. | |
When now the time of year came for the cattle to be sent into the | |
wood, Arne wished to go to tend them. But the father opposed him: | |
indeed, he had never gone before, though he was now in his fifteenth | |
year. But he pleaded so well, that his wish was at last complied | |
with; and so during the spring, summer, and autumn, he passed the | |
whole day alone in the wood, and only came home to sleep. | |
He took his books up there, and read, carved letters in the bark of | |
the trees, thought, longed, and sang. But when in the evening he came | |
home and found the father often drunk and beating the mother, cursing | |
her and the whole parish, and saying how once he might have gone far | |
away, then a longing for travelling arose in the lad's mind. There | |
was no comfort for him at home; and his books made his thoughts | |
travel; nay, it seemed sometimes as if the very breeze bore them on | |
its wings far away. | |
Then, about midsummer, he met with Christian, the Captain's eldest | |
son, who one day came to the wood with the servant boy, to catch the | |
horses, and to ride them home. He was a few years older than Arne, | |
light-hearted and jolly, restless in mind, but nevertheless strong in | |
purpose; he spoke fast and abruptly, and generally about two things | |
at once; shot birds in their flight; rode bare-backed horses; | |
went fly-fishing; and altogether seemed to Arne the paragon of | |
perfection. He, too, had set his mind upon travelling, and he talked | |
to Arne about foreign countries till they shone like fairy-lands. He | |
found out Arne's love for reading, and he carried up to him all the | |
books he had read himself; on Sundays he taught him geography from | |
maps: and during the whole of that summer Arne read till he became | |
pale and thin. | |
Even when the winter came, he was permitted to read at home; partly | |
because he was going to be confirmed the next year, and partly | |
because he always knew how to manage with his father. He also began | |
to go to school; but while there it seemed to him he never got on so | |
well as when he shut his eyes and thought over the things in his | |
books at home: and he no longer had any companions among the boys of | |
the parish. | |
The father's bodily infirmity, as well as his passion for drinking, | |
increased with his years; and he treated his wife worse and worse. | |
And while Arne sat at home trying to amuse him, and often, merely to | |
keep peace for the mother, telling things which he now despised, a | |
hatred of his father grew up in his heart. But there he kept it | |
secretly, just as he kept his love for his mother. Even when he | |
happened to meet Christian, he said nothing to him about home | |
affairs; but all their talk ran upon their books and their intended | |
travels. But often when, after those wide roaming conversations, he | |
was returning home alone, thinking of what he perhaps would have to | |
see when he arrived there, he wept and prayed that God would take | |
care he might soon be allowed to go away. | |
In the summer he and Christian were confirmed: and soon afterwards | |
the latter carried out his purpose of travelling. At last, he | |
prevailed upon his father to let him be a sailor; and he went far | |
away; first giving Arne his books, and promising to write often to | |
him. | |
Then Arne was left alone. | |
About this time a wish to make songs awoke again in his mind; and now | |
he no longer patched old songs, but made new ones for himself, and | |
said in them whatever most pained him. | |
But soon his heart became too heavy to let him make songs any more. | |
He lay sleepless whole nights, feeling that he could not bear to stay | |
at home any longer, and that he must go far away, find out Christian, | |
and--not say a word about it to any one. But when he thought of the | |
mother, and what would become of her, he could scarcely look her in | |
the face; and his love made him linger still. | |
One evening when it was growing late, Arne sat reading: indeed, when | |
he felt more sad than usual he always took refuge in his books; | |
little understanding that they only increased his burden. The father | |
had gone to a wedding party, but was expected home that evening; the | |
mother, weary and afraid of him, had gone to bed. Then Arne was | |
startled by the sound of a heavy fall in the passage, and of | |
something hard pushing against the door. It was the father, just | |
coming home. | |
"Is it you, my clever boy?" he muttered; "come and help your father | |
to get up." Arne helped him up, and brought him to the bench; then | |
carried in the violin-case after him, and shut the door. "Well, look | |
at me, you clever boy; I don't look very handsome now; Nils, the | |
tailor's no longer the man he used to be. One thing I--tell--you--you | |
shall never drink spirits; they're--the devil, the world, and the | |
flesh.... 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.' | |
... Oh dear! oh dear!--How far gone I am!" | |
He sat silent for a while, and then sang in a tearful voice, | |
"Merciful Lord, I come to Thee; | |
Help, if there can be help for me; | |
Though by the mire of sin defiled, | |
I'm still Thine own dear ransomed child." | |
"'Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my roof; but | |
speak the word only....'" He threw himself forward, hid his face in | |
his hands, and sobbed violently. Then, after lying thus a long while, | |
he said, word for word out of the Scriptures, just as he had learned | |
it more than twenty years ago, "'But he answered and said, I am not | |
sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel. Then came she | |
and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me. But he answered and said, | |
It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs. | |
And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall | |
from their master's table.'" | |
Then he was silent, and his weeping became subdued and calm. | |
The mother had been long awake, without looking up; but now when she | |
heard him weeping thus like one who is saved, she raised herself on | |
her elbows, and gazed earnestly at him. | |
But scarcely did Nils perceive her before he called out, "Are you | |
looking up, you ugly vixen! I suppose you would like to see what a | |
state you have brought me to. Well, so I look, just so!" ... He rose; | |
and she hid herself under the fur coverlet. "Nay, don't hide, I'm | |
sure to find you," he said, stretching out his right hand and | |
fumbling with his forefinger on the bed-clothes, "Tickle, tickle," he | |
said, turning aside the fur coverlet, and putting his forefinger on | |
her throat. | |
"Father!" cried Arne. | |
"How shrivelled and thin you've become already, there's no depth of | |
flesh here!" She writhed beneath his touch, and seized his hand with | |
both hers, but could not free herself. | |
"Father!" repeated Arne. | |
"Well at last you're roused. How she wriggles, the ugly thing! Can't | |
you scream to make believe I am beating you? Tickle, tickle! I only | |
want to take away your breath." | |
"Father!" Arne said once more, running to the corner of the room, and | |
snatching up an axe which stood there. | |
"Is it only out of perverseness, you don't scream? you had better | |
beware; for I've taken such a strange fancy into my head. Tickle, | |
tickle! Now I think I shall soon get rid of that screaming of yours." | |
"Father!" Arne shouted, rushing towards him with the axe uplifted. | |
But before Arne could reach him, he started up with a piercing cry, | |
laid his hand upon his heart, and fell heavily down. "Jesus Christ!" | |
he muttered, and then lay quite still. | |
Arne stood as if rooted in the ground, and gradually lowered the axe. | |
He grew dizzy and bewildered, and scarcely knew where he was. Then | |
the mother began to move to and fro in the bed, and to breathe | |
heavily, as if oppressed by some great weight lying upon her. Arne | |
saw that she needed help; but yet he felt unable to render it. At | |
last she raised herself a little, and saw the father lying stretched | |
on the floor, and Arne standing beside him with the axe. | |
"Merciful Lord, what have you done?" she cried, springing out of the | |
bed, putting on her skirt and coming nearer. | |
"He fell down himself," said Arne, at last regaining power to speak. | |
"Arne, Arne, I don't believe you," said the mother in a stern | |
reproachful voice: "now Jesus help you!" And she threw herself upon | |
the dead man with loud wailing. | |
But the boy awoke from his stupor, dropped the axe and fell down on | |
his knees: "As true as I hope for mercy from God, I've not done it. I | |
almost thought of doing it; I was so bewildered; but then he fell | |
down himself; and here I've been standing ever since." | |
The mother looked at him, and believed him. "Then our Lord has been | |
here Himself," she said quietly, sitting down on the floor and gazing | |
before her. | |
Nils lay quite stiff, with open eyes and mouth, and hands drawn near | |
together, as though he had at the last moment tried to fold them, but | |
had been unable to do so. The first thing the mother now did was to | |
fold them. "Let us look closer at him," she said then, going over to | |
the fireplace, where the fire was almost out. Arne followed her, for | |
he felt afraid of standing alone. She gave him a lighted fir-splinter | |
to hold; then she once more went over to the dead body and stood by | |
one side of it, while the son stood at the other, letting the light | |
fall upon it. | |
"Yes, he's quite gone," she said; and then, after a little while, she | |
continued, "and gone in an evil hour, I'm afraid." | |
Arne's hands trembled so much that the burning ashes of the splinter | |
fell upon the father's clothes and set them on fire; but the boy did | |
not perceive it, neither did the mother at first, for she was | |
weeping. But soon she became aware of it through the bad smell, and | |
she cried out in fear. When now the boy looked, it seemed to him as | |
though the father himself was burning, and he dropped the splinter | |
upon him, sinking down in a swoon. Up and down, and round and round, | |
the room moved with him; the table moved, the bed moved; the axe | |
hewed; the father rose and came to him; and then all of them came | |
rolling upon him. Then he felt as if a soft cooling breeze passed | |
over his face; and he cried out and awoke. The first thing he did was | |
to look at the father, to assure himself that he still lay quietly. | |
And a feeling of inexpressible happiness came over the boy's mind | |
when he saw that the father was dead--really dead; and he rose as | |
though he were entering upon a new life. | |
The mother had extinguished the burning clothes, and began to lay out | |
the body. She made the bed, and then said to Arne, "Take hold of your | |
father, you're so strong, and help me to lay him nicely." They laid | |
him on the bed, and Margit shut his eyes and mouth, stretched his | |
limbs, and folded his hands once more. | |
Then they both stood looking at him. It was only a little past | |
midnight, and they had to stay there with him till morning. Arne made | |
a good fire, and the mother sat down by it. While sitting there, she | |
looked back upon the many miserable days she had passed with Nils, | |
and she thanked God for taking him away. "But still I had some happy | |
days with him, too," she said after a while. | |
Arne took a seat opposite her; and, turning to him, she went on, "And | |
to think that he should have such an end as this! even if he has not | |
lived as he ought, truly he has suffered for it." She wept, looked | |
over to the dead man, and continued, "But now God grant I may be | |
repaid for all I have gone through with him. Arne, you must remember | |
it was for your sake I suffered it all." The boy began to weep too. | |
"Therefore, you must never leave me," she sobbed; "you are now my | |
only comfort." | |
"I never will leave you; that I promise before God," the boy said, as | |
earnestly as if he had thought of saying it for years. He felt a | |
longing to go over to her; yet he could not. | |
She grew calmer, and, looking kindly over at the dead man, she said, | |
"After all, there was a great deal of good in him; but the world | |
dealt hardly by him.... But now he's gone to our Lord, and He'll be | |
kinder to him, I'm sure." Then, as if she had been following out this | |
thought within herself, she added, "We must pray for him. If I could, | |
I would sing over him; but you, Arne, have such a fine voice, you | |
must go and sing to your father." | |
Arne fetched the hymn-book and lighted a fir-splinter; and, holding | |
it in one hand and the book in the other, he went to the head of the | |
bed and sang in a clear voice Kingo's 127th hymn: | |
"Regard us again in mercy, O God! | |
And turn Thou aside Thy terrible rod, | |
That now in Thy wrath laid on us we see | |
To chasten us sore for sin against Thee." | |
V. | |
"HE HAD IN HIS MIND A SONG." | |
Arne was now in his twentieth year. Yet he continued tending the | |
cattle upon the mountains in the summer, while in the winter he | |
remained at home studying. | |
About this time the clergyman sent a message, asking him to become | |
the parish schoolmaster, and saying his gifts and knowledge might | |
thus be made useful to his neighbors. Arne sent no answer; but the | |
next day, while he was driving his flock, he made the following | |
verses: | |
"O, my pet lamb, lift your head, | |
Though a stony path you tread, | |
Over all the lonely fells, | |
Only follow still your bells. | |
O, my pet lamb, walk with care; | |
Lest you spoil your wool, beware: | |
Mother now must soon be sewing | |
New lamb-skins, for summer's going. | |
O, my pet lamb, try to grow | |
Fat and fine where'er you go: | |
Know you not, my little sweeting, | |
A spring-lamb is dainty eating?" | |
One day he happened to overhear a conversation between his mother and | |
the late owner of the place: they were at odds about the horse of | |
which they were joint-owners. "I must wait and hear what Arne says," | |
interposed the mother. "That sluggard!" the man exclaimed; "he would | |
like the horse to ramble about in the wood, just as he does himself." | |
Then the mother became silent, though before she had been pleading | |
her cause well. | |
Arne flushed crimson. That his mother had to bear people's jeers on | |
his account, never before occurred to him, and, "Perhaps she had | |
borne many," he thought. "But why had she not told him of it?" he | |
thought again. | |
He turned the matter over, and then it came into his mind that the | |
mother scarcely ever talked to him at all. But, then, he scarcely | |
ever talked to her either. But, after all, whom did he talk much to? | |
Often on Sundays, when he was sitting quietly at home, he would have | |
liked to read the sermon to his mother, whose eyes were weak, for she | |
had wept too much in her time. Still, he did not read it. Often, too, | |
on weekdays, when she was sitting down, and he thought the time might | |
hang heavy, he would have liked to offer to read some of his own | |
books to her: still, he did not. | |
"Well, never mind," thought he: "I'll soon leave off tending the | |
cattle on the mountains; and then I'll be more with mother." He let | |
this resolve ripen within him for several days: meanwhile he drove | |
his cattle far about in the wood, and made the following verses: | |
"The vale is full of trouble, but here sweet Peace may reign; | |
Within this quiet forest no bailiffs may distrain; | |
None fight, like all in the vale, in the Blessed Church's name; | |
But still if a church were here, perhaps 'twould be just the same. | |
Here all are at peace--true, the hawk is rather unkind; | |
I fear he is looking now the plumpest sparrow to find; | |
I fear yon eagle is coming to rob the kid of his breath; | |
But still if he lived very long he might be tired to death. | |
The woodman fells one tree, and another rots away: | |
The red fox killed the lambkin at sunset yesterday; | |
But the wolf killed the fox; and the wolf, too, had to die, | |
For Arne shot him down to-day before the dew was dry. | |
Back I'll go to the valley: the forest is just as bad-- | |
I must take heed, however, or thinking will drive me mad-- | |
I saw a boy in my dreams, though where I cannot tell-- | |
But I know he had killed his father, and I think it was in hell." | |
Then he went home and told the mother she might send for a lad to | |
tend the cattle on the mountains; and that he would himself manage | |
the farm: and so it was arranged. But the mother was constantly | |
hovering about him, warning him not to work too hard. Then, too, she | |
used to get him such nice meals that he often felt quite ashamed to | |
take them; yet he said nothing. | |
He had in his mind a song having for its burden, "Over the mountains | |
high;" but he never could complete it, principally because he always | |
tried to bring the burden in every alternate line; so afterwards he | |
gave this up. | |
But several of his songs became known, and were much liked; and many | |
people, especially those who had known him from his childhood, were | |
fond of talking to him. But he was shy to all whom he did not know, | |
and he thought ill of them, mainly because he fancied they thought | |
ill of him. | |
In the next field to his own worked a middle-aged man named | |
Opplands-Knut, who used sometimes to sing, but always the same song. | |
After Arne had heard him singing it for several months, he thought he | |
would ask him whether he did not know any others. "No," Knut | |
answered. Then after a few more days, when he was again singing his | |
song, Arne asked him, "How came you to learn that one song?" | |
"Ah! it happened thus----" and then he said no more. | |
Arne went away from him straight indoors; and there he found his | |
mother weeping; a thing he had not seen her do ever since the | |
father's death. He turned back again, just as though he did not | |
notice it; but he felt the mother was looking sorrowfully after him, | |
and he was obliged to stop. | |
"What are you crying for, mother?" he asked. She did not answer, and | |
all was silent in the room. Then his words came back to him again, | |
and he felt they had not been spoken so kindly as they ought; and | |
once more, in a gentler tone, he asked, "What are you crying for, | |
mother?" | |
"Ah, I hardly know," she said, weeping still more. He stood silent a | |
while; but at last mustered courage to say, "Still, there must be | |
some reason why you are crying." | |
Again there was silence; but although the mother had not said one | |
word of blame, he felt he was very guilty towards her. "Well it just | |
came over me," she said after a while; and in a few moments she | |
added, "but really, I'm very happy;" and then she began weeping | |
again. | |
Arne hurried out, away to the ravine; and while he sat there looking | |
into it, he, too, began weeping. "If I only knew what I am crying | |
for," he said. | |
Then he heard Opplands-Knut singing in the fields above him: | |
"Ingerid Sletten of Willow-pool | |
Had no costly trinkets to wear; | |
But a cap she had that was far more fair, | |
Although 'twas only of wool. | |
It had no trimming, and now was old; | |
But her mother, who long had gone, | |
Had given it her, and so it shone | |
To Ingerid more than gold. | |
For twenty years she laid it aside, | |
That it might not be worn away: | |
'My cap I'll wear on that blissful day | |
When I shall become a bride.' | |
For thirty years she laid it aside | |
Lest the colors might fade away: | |
'My cap I'll wear when to God I pray, | |
A happy and grateful bride.' | |
For forty years she laid it aside, | |
Still holding her mother as dear: | |
'My little cap, I certainly fear | |
I never shall be a bride.' | |
She went to look for the cap one day | |
In the chest where it long had lain; | |
But, ah! her looking was all in vain: | |
The cap had mouldered away." | |
Arne listened, and the words seemed to him like music playing far | |
away over the mountains. He went up to Knut and asked him, "Have you | |
a mother?" | |
"No." | |
"Have you a father?" | |
"Ah, no; no father." | |
"Is it long since they died?" | |
"Ah, yes; it's long since." | |
"You haven't many, I dare say, who love you?" | |
"Ah, no; not many." | |
"Have you any here at all?" | |
"No; not here." | |
"But away in your own place?" | |
"Ah, no; not there either." | |
"Haven't you any at all then who love you?" | |
"Ah, no; I haven't any." | |
But Arne walked away with his heart so full of love to his mother | |
that it seemed as if it would burst; and all around him grew bright. | |
He felt he must go in again, if only for the sake of looking at her. | |
As he walked on the thought struck him, "What if I were to lose her?" | |
He stopped suddenly. "Almighty God, what would then become of me?" | |
Then he felt as if some dreadful accident was happening at home, and | |
he hurried onwards, cold drops bursting from his brow, and his feet | |
hardly touching the ground. He threw open the outer door, and came at | |
once into an atmosphere of peace. Then he gently opened the door of | |
the inner room. The mother had gone to bed, and lay sleeping as | |
calmly as a child, with the moonbeams shining full on her face. | |
VI. | |
STRANGE TALES. | |
A few days after, the mother and son agreed on going together to the | |
wedding of some relations in one of the neighboring places. The | |
mother had not been to a party ever since she was a girl; and both | |
she and Arne knew but very little of the people living around, save | |
their names. | |
Arne felt uncomfortable at this party, however, for he fancied | |
everybody was staring at him: and once, as he was passing through the | |
passage, he believed he heard something said about him, the mere | |
thought of which made every drop of blood rush into his face. | |
He kept going about looking after the man who had said it, and at | |
last he took a seat next him. | |
When they were at dinner, the man said, "Well, now, I shall tell you | |
a story which proves nothing can be buried so deeply that it won't | |
one day be brought to light;" and Arne fancied he looked at him all | |
the time he was saying this. He was an ugly-looking man, with scanty | |
red hair, hanging about a wide, round forehead, small, deep-set eyes, | |
a little snub-nose, and a large mouth, with pale out-turned lips, | |
which showed both his gums when he laughed. His hands were resting on | |
the table; they were large and coarse, but the wrists were slender. | |
He had a fierce look; and he spoke quickly, but with difficulty. The | |
people called him "Bragger;" and Arne knew that in bygone days, Nils, | |
the tailor, had treated him badly. | |
"Yes," continued the man, "there is indeed, a great deal of sin in | |
the world; and it sits nearer to us than we think.... But never mind; | |
I'll tell you now of a foul deed. Those of you who are old will | |
remember Alf--Alf, the pedlar. 'I'll call again,' Alf used to say: | |
and he has left that saying behind him. When he had struck a | |
bargain--and what a fellow for trade he was!--he would take up his | |
bundle, and say, 'I'll call again.' A devil of a fellow, proud | |
fellow, brave fellow, was he, Alf, the pedlar! | |
"Well he and Big Lazy-bones, Big Lazy-bones--well, you know Big | |
Lazy-bones?--big he was, and lazy he was, too. He took a fancy to a | |
coal-black horse that Alf, the pedlar, used to drive, and had trained | |
to hop like a summer frog. And almost before Big Lazy-bones knew what | |
he was about, he paid fifty dollars for this horse! Then Big | |
Lazy-bones, tall as he was, got into a carriage, meaning to drive | |
about like a king with his fifty-dollar-horse; but, though he whipped | |
and swore like a devil, the horse kept running against all the doors | |
and windows; for it was stone-blind! | |
"Afterwards, whenever Alf and Big Lazy-bones came across each other, | |
they used to quarrel and fight about this horse like two dogs. Big | |
Lazy-bones said he would have his money back; but he could not get a | |
farthing of it: and Alf drubbed him till the bristles flew. 'I'll | |
call again,' said Alf. A devil of a fellow, proud fellow, brave | |
fellow that Alf--Alf, the pedlar! | |
"Well, after that some years passed away without his being seen | |
again. | |
"Then, in about ten years or so, a call for him was published on the | |
church-hill,[2] for a great fortune had been left him. Big | |
Lazy-bones stood listening. 'Ah,' said he, 'I well knew it must be | |
money, and not men, that called out for Alf, the pedlar.' | |
[2] In Norway, certain public announcements are made before the | |
church door on Sundays after service.--Translators. | |
"Now, there was a good deal of talk one way and another about Alf; | |
and at last it seemed to be pretty clearly made out that he had been | |
seen for the last time on _this_ side of the ledge, and not on the | |
other. Well, you remember the road over the ledge--the old road? | |
"Of late, Big Lazy-bones had got quite a great man, and he owned both | |
houses and land. Then, too, he had taken to being religious; and | |
that, everybody knew, he didn't take to for nothing--nobody does. | |
People began to whisper about these things. | |
"Just at this time the road over the ledge had to be altered. Folks | |
in bygone days had a great fancy for going straight onwards; and so | |
the old road ran straight over the ledge; but now-a-days we like to | |
have things smooth and easy; and so the new road was made to run down | |
along the river. While they were making it, there was digging and | |
mining enough to bring down the whole mountain about their ears; and | |
the magistrates and all the officers who have to do with that sort of | |
thing were there. One day while the men were digging deep in the | |
stony ground, one of them took up something which he thought was a | |
stone; but it turned out to be the bones of a man's hand instead; and | |
a wonderfully strong hand it seemed to be, for the man who got it | |
fell flat down directly. That man was Big Lazy-bones. The magistrate | |
was just strolling about round there, and they fetched him to the | |
place; and then all the bones belonging to a whole man were dug out. | |
The Doctor, too, was fetched; and he put them all together so | |
cleverly that nothing was wanting but the flesh. And then it struck | |
some of the people that the skeleton was just about the same size | |
and make as Alf, the pedlar. 'I'll call again,' Alf used to say. | |
"And then it struck somebody else, that it was a very queer thing a | |
dead hand should have made a great fellow like Big Lazy-bones fall | |
flat down like that: and the magistrate accused him straight of | |
having had more to do with that dead hand than he ought--of course, | |
when nobody else was by. But then Big Lazy-bones foreswore it with | |
such fearful oaths that the magistrate turned quite giddy. 'Well,' | |
said the magistrate, 'if you didn't do it, I dare say you're a | |
fellow, now, who would not mind sleeping with the skeleton | |
to-night?'--'No; I shouldn't mind a bit,--not I,' said Big | |
Lazy-bones. So the Doctor tied the joints of the skeleton together, | |
and laid it in one of the beds in the barracks; and put another bed | |
close by it for Big Lazy-bones. The magistrate wrapped himself in his | |
cloak, and lay down close to the door outside. When night came on, | |
and Big Lazy-bones had to go in to his bedfellow, the door shut | |
behind him as though of itself, and he stood in the dark. But then | |
Big Lazy-bones set off singing psalms, for he had a mighty voice. | |
'Why are you singing psalms?' the magistrate asked from outside the | |
wall. 'May be the bells were never tolled for him,' answered Big | |
Lazy-bones. Then he began praying out loud, as earnestly as ever he | |
could. 'Why are you praying?' asked the magistrate from outside the | |
wall. 'No doubt, he has been a great sinner,' answered Big | |
Lazy-bones. Then a time after, all got so still that the magistrate | |
might have gone to sleep. But then came a shrieking that made the | |
very barracks shake: 'I'll call again!'--Then came a hellish noise | |
and crash: 'Out with that fifty dollars of mine!' roared Big | |
Lazy-bones: and the shrieking and crashing came again. Then the | |
magistrate burst open the door; the people rushed in with poles and | |
firebrands; and there lay Big Lazy-bones on the floor, with the | |
skeleton on the top of him." | |
There was a deep silence all round the table. At last a man who was | |
lighting his clay-pipe said, "Didn't he go mad from that very time?" | |
"Yes, he did." | |
Arne fancied everybody was looking at him, and he dared not raise his | |
eyes. "I say, as I said before," continued the man who had told the | |
tale, "nothing can be buried so deeply that it won't one day be | |
brought to light." | |
"Well, now I'll tell you about a son who beat his own father," said a | |
fair stout man with a round face. Arne no longer knew where he was | |
sitting. | |
"This son was a great fellow, almost a giant, belonging to a tall | |
family in Hardanger; and he was always at odds with somebody or | |
other. He and his father were always quarrelling about the yearly | |
allowance; and so he had no peace either at home or out. | |
"This made him grow more and more wicked; and the father persecuted | |
him. 'I won't be put down by anybody,' the son said. 'Yes, you'll be | |
put down by me so long as I live,' the father answered. 'If you don't | |
hold your tongue,' said the son, rising, 'I'll strike you.'--'Well, | |
do if you dare; and never in this world will you have luck again,' | |
answered the father, rising also.--'Do you mean to say that?' said | |
the son; and he rushed upon him and knocked him down. But the father | |
didn't try to help himself: he folded his arms and let the son do | |
just as he liked with him. Then he knocked him about, rolled him over | |
and over, and dragged him towards the door by his white hair. 'I'll | |
have peace in my own house, at any rate,' said he. But when they had | |
come to the door, the father raised himself a little and cried out, | |
'Not beyond the door, for so far I dragged my own father.' The son | |
didn't heed it, but dragged the old man's head over the threshold. | |
'Not beyond the door, I say!' And the old man rose, knocked down the | |
son and beat him as one would beat a child." | |
"Ah, that's a sad story," several said. Then Arne fancied he heard | |
some one saying, "It's a wicked thing to strike one's father;" and he | |
rose, turning deadly pale. | |
"Now I'll tell _you_ something," he said; but he hardly knew what he | |
was going to say: words seemed flying around him like large | |
snowflakes. "I'll catch them at random," he said and began:-- | |
"A troll once met a lad walking along the road weeping. 'Whom are | |
you most afraid of?' asked the troll, 'yourself or others?' Now, | |
the boy was weeping because he had dreamed last night he had killed | |
his wicked father; and so he answered, 'I'm most afraid of | |
myself.'--'Then fear yourself no longer, and never weep again; for | |
henceforward you shall only have strife with others.' And the troll | |
went his way. But the first whom the lad met jeered at him; and so | |
the lad jeered at him again. The second he met beat him; and so he | |
beat him again. The third he met tried to kill him; and so the lad | |
killed him. Then all the people spoke ill of the lad; and so he spoke | |
ill again of all the people. They shut the doors against him, and | |
kept all their things away from him; so he stole what he wanted; and | |
he even took his night's rest by stealth. As now they wouldn't let | |
him come to do anything good, he only did what was bad; and all that | |
was bad in other people, they let him suffer for. And the people in | |
the place wept because of the mischief done by the lad; but he did | |
not weep himself, for he could not. Then all the people met together | |
and said, 'Let's go and drown him, for with him we drown all the | |
evil that is in the place.' So they drowned him forthwith; but | |
afterwards they thought the well where he was drowned gave forth a | |
mighty odor. | |
"The lad himself didn't at all know he had done anything wrong; and | |
so after his death he came drifting in to our Lord. There, sitting on | |
a bench, he saw his father, whom he had not killed, after all; and | |
opposite the father, on another bench, sat the one whom he had jeered | |
at, the one he had beaten, the one he had killed, and all those whom | |
he had stolen from, and those whom he had otherwise wronged. | |
"'Whom are you afraid of,' our Lord asked, 'of your father, or of | |
those on the long bench?' The lad pointed to the long bench. | |
"'Sit down then by your father,' said our Lord; and the lad went to | |
sit down. But then the father fell down from the bench with a large | |
axe-cut in his neck. In his seat, came one in the likeness of the lad | |
himself, but with a thin and ghastly pale face; another with a | |
drunkard's face, matted hair, and drooping limbs; and one more with | |
an insane face, torn clothes, and frightful laughter. | |
"'So it might have happened to you,' said our Lord. | |
"'Do you think so?' said the boy, catching hold of the Lord's coat. | |
"Then both the benches fell down from heaven; but the boy remained | |
standing near the Lord rejoicing. | |
"'Remember this when you awake,' said our Lord; and the boy awoke. | |
"The boy who dreamed so is I; those who tempted him by thinking him | |
bad are you. I am no longer afraid of myself, but I am afraid of you. | |
Do not force me to evil; for it is uncertain if I get hold of the | |
Lord's coat." | |
He ran out: the men looked at each other. | |
VII. | |
THE SOLILOQUY IN THE BARN. | |
On the evening of the day after this, Arne was lying in a barn | |
belonging to the same house. For the first time in his life he had | |
become drunk, and he had been lying there for the last twenty-four | |
hours. Now he sat up, resting upon his elbows, and talked with | |
himself: | |
"... Everything I look at turns to cowardice. It was cowardice that | |
hindered me from running away while a boy; cowardice that made me | |
listen to father more than to mother; cowardice also made me sing | |
the wicked songs to him. I began tending the cattle through | |
cowardice,--to read--well, that, too, was through cowardice: I | |
wished to get away from myself. When, though a grown up lad, yet | |
I didn't help mother against father--cowardice; that I didn't that | |
night--ugh!--cowardice! I might perhaps have waited till she was | |
killed! ... I couldn't bear to stay at home afterwards--cowardice; | |
still I didn't go away--cowardice; I did nothing, I tended cattle ... | |
cowardice. 'Tis true I promised mother to stay at home; still I | |
should have been cowardly enough to break my promise if I hadn't been | |
afraid of mixing among people. For I'm afraid of people, mainly | |
because I think they see how bad I am; and because I'm afraid of | |
them, I speak ill of them--a curse upon my cowardice! I make songs | |
through cowardice. I'm afraid of thinking bravely about my own | |
affairs, and so I turn aside and think about other people's; and | |
making verses is just that. | |
"I've cause enough to weep till the hills turned to lakes, but | |
instead of that I say to myself, 'Hush, hush,' and begin rocking. And | |
even my songs are cowardly; for if they were bold they would be | |
better. I'm afraid of strong thoughts; afraid of anything that's | |
strong; and if ever I rise into it, it's in a passion, and passion is | |
cowardice. I'm more clever and know more than I seem; I'm better than | |
my words, but my cowardice makes me afraid of showing myself in my | |
true colors. Shame upon me! I drank that spirits through cowardice; | |
I wanted to deaden my pain--shame upon me! I felt miserable all | |
the while I was drinking it, yet I drank; drank my father's | |
heart's-blood, and still I drank! In fact there's no end to my | |
cowardice; and the most cowardly thing is, that I can sit and tell | |
myself all this! | |
"... Kill myself? Oh, no! I am a vast deal too cowardly for that. | |
Then, too, I believe a little in God ... yes, I believe in God. I | |
would fain go to Him; but cowardice keeps me from going: it would be | |
such a great change that a coward shrinks from it. But if I were to | |
put forth what power I have? Almighty God, if I tried? Thou wouldst | |
cure me in such a way as my milky spirit can bear; wouldst lead me | |
gently; for I have no bones in me, nor even gristle--nothing but | |
jelly. If I tried ... with good, gentle books,--I'm afraid of the | |
strong ones--; with pleasant tales, stories, all that is mild, and | |
then a sermon every Sunday, and a prayer every evening. If I tried to | |
clear a field within me for religion; and worked in good earnest, for | |
one cannot sow in laziness. If I tried; dear mild God of my | |
childhood, if I tried!" | |
But then the barn-door was opened, and the mother came rushing across | |
the floor. Her face was deadly pale, though the perspiration dropped | |
from it like great tears. For the last twenty-four hours she had | |
been rushing hither and thither, seeking her son, calling his name, | |
and scarcely pausing even to listen, until now when he answered from | |
the barn. Then she gave a loud cry, jumped upon the hay-mow more | |
lightly than a boy, and threw herself upon Arne's breast.... | |
... "Arne, Arne are you here? At last I've found you; I've been | |
looking for you ever since yesterday; I've been looking for you all | |
night long! Poor, poor Arne! I saw they worried you, and I wanted to | |
come to speak to you and comfort you, but really I'm always afraid!" | |
... "Arne, I saw you drinking spirits! Almighty God, may I never see | |
it again! Arne, I saw you drinking spirits." It was some minutes | |
before she was able to speak again. "Christ have mercy upon you, my | |
boy, I saw you drinking spirits! ... You were gone all at once, drunk | |
and crushed by grief as you were! I ran all over the place; I went | |
far into the fields; but I couldn't find you: I looked in every | |
copse; I questioned everybody; I came here, too; but you didn't | |
answer.... Arne, Arne, I went along the river; but it seemed nowhere | |
to be deep enough...." She pressed herself closer to him. | |
"Then it came into my mind all at once that you might have gone home; | |
and I'm sure I was only a quarter of an hour going there. I opened | |
the outer-door and looked in every room; and then, for the first | |
time, I remembered that the house had been locked up, and I myself | |
had the key; and that you could not have come in, after all. Arne, | |
last night I looked all along both sides of the road: I dared not go | |
to the edge of the ravine.... I don't know how it was I came here | |
again; nobody told me; it must have been the Lord himself who put it | |
into my mind that you might be here!" | |
She paused and lay for a while with her head upon his breast. | |
He tried to comfort her. | |
"Arne, you'll never drink spirits again, I'm sure?" | |
"No; you may be sure I never will." | |
"I believe they were very hard upon you? they were, weren't they?" | |
"No; it was I who was _cowardly_," he answered, laying a great stress | |
upon the word. | |
"I can't understand how they could behave badly to you. But, tell me, | |
what did they do? you never will tell me anything;" and once more she | |
began weeping. | |
"But you never tell me anything, either," he said in a low gentle | |
voice. | |
"Yet you're the most in fault, Arne: I've been so long used to | |
be silent through your father; you ought to have led me on a | |
little.--Good Lord! we've only each other; and we've suffered so | |
much together." | |
"Well, we must try to manage better," Arne whispered. | |
... "Next Sunday I'll read the sermon to you." | |
"God bless you for it." ... | |
"Arne!" | |
"Well!" | |
"There's something I must tell you." | |
"Well, mother, tell me it." | |
"I've greatly sinned against you; I've done something very wrong." | |
"You, mother?" | |
"Indeed, I have; but I couldn't help doing it. Arne, you must forgive | |
me." | |
"But I'm sure you've never done anything wrong to me." | |
"Indeed, I have: and my very love to you made me do it. But you must | |
forgive me; will you?" | |
"Yes, I will." | |
"And then another time I'll tell you all about it ... but you must | |
forgive me!" | |
"Yes, mother, yes." | |
"And don't you see the reason why I couldn't talk much to you was, | |
that I had this on my mind? I've sinned against you." | |
"Pray don't talk so, mother!" | |
"Well, I'm glad I've said what I have." | |
"And, mother, we'll talk more together, we two." | |
"Yes, that we will; and then you'll read the sermon to me?" | |
"I will." | |
"Poor Arne; God bless you!" | |
"I think we both had better go home now." | |
"Yes, we'll both go home." | |
"You're looking all round, mother?" | |
"Yes; your father once lay weeping in this barn." | |
"Father?" asked Arne, growing deadly pale. | |
"Poor Nils! It was the day you were christened." | |
"You're looking all round, Arne?" | |
VIII. | |
THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER. | |
"It was such a cheerful, sunny day, | |
No rest indoors could I find; | |
So I strolled to the wood, and down I lay, | |
And rocked what came in my mind: | |
But there the emmets crawled on the ground, | |
And wasps and gnats were stinging around. | |
'Won't you go out-doors this fine day, dear?' said mother, as she sat | |
in the porch, spinning. | |
It was such a cheerful, sunny day, | |
No rest indoors could I find; | |
So I went in the birk, and down I lay, | |
And sang what came in my mind: | |
But snakes crept out to bask in the sun-- | |
Snakes five feet long, so, away I run. | |
'In such beautiful weather one may go barefoot,' said mother, taking | |
off her stockings. | |
It was such a cheerful, sunny day, | |
Indoors I could not abide; | |
So I went in a boat, and down I lay, | |
And floated away with the tide: | |
But the sun-beams burned till my nose was sore; | |
So I turned my boat again to the shore. | |
'This is, indeed, good weather to dry the hay,' said mother, putting | |
her rake into a swath. | |
It was such a cheerful, sunny day, | |
In the house I could not be; | |
And so from the heat I climbed away | |
In the boughs of a shady tree: | |
But caterpillars dropped on my face, | |
So down I jumped and ran from the place. | |
'Well, if the cow doesn't get on to-day, she never will get on,' said | |
mother, glancing up towards the <DW72>. | |
It was such a cheerful, sunny day, | |
Indoors I could not remain: | |
And so for quiet I rowed away | |
To the waterfall amain: | |
But there I drowned while bright was the sky: | |
If you made this, it cannot be I. | |
'Only three more such sunny days, and we shall get in all the hay,' | |
said mother, as she went to make my bed." | |
Arne when a child had not cared much for fairy-tales; but now he | |
began to love them, and they led him to the sagas and old ballads. He | |
also read sermons and other religious books; and he was gentle and | |
kind to all around him. But in his mind arose a strange deep longing: | |
he made no more songs; but walked often alone, not knowing what was | |
within him. | |
Many of the places around, which formerly he had not even noticed, | |
now appeared to him wondrously beautiful. At the time he and his | |
schoolfellows had to go to the Clergyman to be prepared for | |
confirmation, they used to play near a lake lying just below the | |
parsonage, and called the Swart-water because it lay deep and dark | |
between the mountains. He now often thought of this place; and one | |
evening he went thither. | |
He sat down behind a grove close to the parsonage, which was built on | |
a steep hill-side, rising high above till it became a mountain. High | |
mountains rose likewise on the opposite shore, so that broad deep | |
shadows fell upon both sides of the lake, but in the middle ran a | |
stripe of bright silvery water. It was a calm evening near sunset, | |
and not a sound was heard save the tinkling of the cattle-bells from | |
the opposite shore. Arne at first did not look straight before him, | |
but downwards along the lake, where the sun was sprinkling burning | |
red ere it sank to rest. There, at the end, the mountains gave way, | |
and between them lay a long low valley, against which the lake beat; | |
but they seemed to run gradually towards each other, and to hold the | |
valley in a great swing. Houses lay thickly scattered all along, the | |
smoke rose and curled away, the fields lay green and reeking, and | |
boats laden with hay were anchored by the shore. Arne saw many people | |
going to and fro, but he heard no noise. Thence his eye went along | |
the shore towards God's dark wood upon the mountain-sides. Through | |
it, man had made his way, and its course was indicated by a winding | |
stripe of dust. This, Arne's eye followed to opposite where he was | |
sitting: there, the wood ended, the mountains opened, and houses lay | |
scattered all over the valley. They were nearer and looked larger | |
than those in the other valley; and they were red-painted, and their | |
large windows glowed in the sunbeams. The fields and meadows stood in | |
strong light, and the smallest child playing in them was clearly | |
seen; glittering white sands lay dry upon the shore, and some dogs | |
and puppies were running there. But suddenly all became sunless and | |
gloomy: the houses looked dark red, the meadows dull green, the sand | |
greyish white, and the children little clumps: a cloud of mist had | |
risen over the mountains, taking away the sunlight. Arne looked down | |
into the water, and there he found all once more: the fields lay | |
rocking, the wood silently drew near, the houses stood looking down, | |
the doors were open, and children went out and in. Fairy-tales and | |
childish things came rushing into his mind, as little fishes come to | |
a bait, swim away, come once more and play round, and again swim | |
away. | |
"Let's sit down here till your mother comes; I suppose the | |
Clergyman's lady will have finished sometime or other." Arne was | |
startled: some one had been sitting a little way behind him. | |
"If I might but stay this one night more," said an imploring voice, | |
half smothered by tears: it seemed to be that of a girl not quite | |
grown up. | |
"Now don't cry any more; it's wrong to cry because you're going home | |
to your mother," was slowly said by a gentle voice, which was | |
evidently that of a man. | |
"It's not that, I am crying for." | |
"Why, then, are you crying?" | |
"Because I shall not live any longer with Mathilde." | |
This was the name of the Clergyman's only daughter; and Arne | |
remembered that a peasant-girl had been brought up with her. | |
"Still, that couldn't go on for ever." | |
"Well, but only one day more father, dear!" and the girl began | |
sobbing. | |
"No, it's better we take you home now; perhaps, indeed, it's already | |
too late." | |
"Too late! Why too late? did ever anybody hear such a thing?" | |
"You were born a peasant, and a peasant you shall be; we can't afford | |
to keep a lady." | |
"But I might remain a peasant all the same if I stayed there." | |
"Of that you can't judge." | |
"I've always worn my peasant's dress." | |
"Clothes have nothing to do with it." | |
"I've spun, and woven, and done cooking." | |
"Neither is _that_ the thing." | |
"I can speak just as you and mother speak." | |
"It's not that either." | |
"Well, then, I really don't know what it is," the girl said, | |
laughing. | |
"Time will show; but I'm afraid you've already got too many | |
thoughts." | |
"Thoughts, thoughts! so you always say; I have no thoughts;" and she | |
wept. | |
"Ah, you're a wind-mill, that you are." | |
"The Clergyman never said that." | |
"No; but now _I_ say it." | |
"Wind-mill? who ever heard such a thing? I won't be a wind-mill." | |
"What _will_ you be then?" | |
"What will I be? who ever heard of such a thing? nothing, I will be." | |
"Well, be nothing, then." | |
Now the girl laughed; but after a while she said gravely, "It's wrong | |
of you to say I'm nothing." | |
"Dear me, when you said so yourself!" | |
"Nay; I won't be nothing." | |
"Well, then, be everything." | |
Again she laughed; but after a while she said in a sad tone, "The | |
Clergyman never used to make a fool of me in this way." | |
"No; but he _did_ make a fool of you." | |
"The Clergyman? well, you've never been so kind to me as he was." | |
"No; and if I had I should have spoiled you." | |
"Well, sour milk can never become sweet." | |
"It may when it is boiled to whey." | |
She laughed aloud. "Here comes your mother." Then the girl again | |
became grave. | |
"Such a long-winded woman as that Clergyman's lady, I never met with | |
in all my live-long days," interposed a sharp quick voice. "Now, make | |
haste, Baard; get up and push off the boat, or we sha'n't get home | |
to-night. The lady wished me to take care that Eli's feet were kept | |
dry. Dear me, she must attend to that herself! Then she said Eli must | |
take a walk every morning for the sake of her health! Did ever | |
anybody hear such stuff! Well, get up, Baard, and push off the boat; | |
I have to make the dough this evening." | |
"The chest hasn't come yet," he said, without rising. | |
"But the chest isn't to come; it's to be left there till next Sunday. | |
Well, Eli, get up; take your bundle, and come on. Now, get up, | |
Baard." | |
Away she went, followed by the girl. | |
"Come on, come on!" Arne then heard the same voice say from the shore | |
below. | |
"Have you looked after the plug in the boat?" Baard asked, still | |
without rising. | |
"Yes, it's put in;" and then Arne heard her drive it in with a scoop. | |
"But do get up, Baard; I suppose we're not going to stay here all | |
night? Get up, Baard!" | |
"I'm waiting for the chest." | |
"But bless you, dear, haven't I told you it's to be left there till | |
next Sunday?" | |
"Here it comes," Baard said, as the rattling of a cart was heard. | |
"Why, I said it was to be left till next Sunday." | |
"I said we were to take it with us." | |
Away went the wife to the cart, and carried the bundle and other | |
small things down into the boat. Then Baard rose, went up, and took | |
down the chest himself. | |
But a girl with streaming hair, and a straw bonnet came running after | |
the cart: it was the Clergyman's daughter. "Eli, Eli!" she cried | |
while still at a distance. | |
"Mathilde, Mathilde," was answered; and the two girls ran towards | |
each other. They met on the hill, embraced each other and wept. Then | |
Mathilde took out something which she had set down on the grass: it | |
was a bird in a cage. | |
"You shall have Narrifas," she said; "mamma wishes you to have it | |
too; you shall have Narrifas ... you really shall--and then you'll | |
think of me--and very often row over to me;" and again they wept | |
much. | |
"Eli, come, Eli! don't keep standing there!" Arne heard the mother | |
say from the shore below. | |
"But I'll go with you," said Mathilde. | |
"Oh, do, do!" and, with their arms round each other's neck, they ran | |
down to the landing-place. | |
In a few minutes Arne saw the boat on the water, Eli standing high in | |
the stern, holding the bird-cage, and waving her hand; while Mathilde | |
sat alone on the stones of the landing-place weeping. | |
She remained sitting there watching the boat as long as it was on the | |
water; and so did Arne. The distance across the lake to the red | |
houses was but short; the boat soon passed into the dark shadows, and | |
he saw it come ashore. Then he saw in the water the reflections of | |
the three who had just landed, and in it he followed them on their | |
way to the red houses till they reached the finest of them; there he | |
saw them go in; the mother first, next, the father, and last, the | |
daughter. But soon the daughter came out again, and seated herself | |
before the storehouse; perhaps to look across to the parsonage, over | |
which the sun was laying its last rays. But Mathilde had already | |
gone, and it was only Arne who was sitting there looking at Eli in | |
the water. "I wonder whether she sees me," he thought.... | |
He rose and went away. The sun had set, but the summer night was | |
light and the sky clear blue. The mist from the lake and the valleys | |
rose, and lay along the mountain-sides, but their peaks were left | |
clear, and stood looking over to each other. He went higher: the | |
water lay black and deep below; the distant valley shortened and drew | |
nearer the lake; the mountains came nearer the eye and gathered in | |
clumps; the sky itself was lower; and all things became friendly and | |
familiar. | |
IX. | |
THE NUTTING-PARTY. | |
"Fair Venevill bounded on lithesome feet | |
Her lover to meet. | |
He sang till it sounded afar away, | |
'Good-day, good-day,' | |
While blithesome birds were singing on every blooming spray. | |
On Midsummer-day | |
There is dancing and play; | |
But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay. | |
"She wove him a wreath of corn-flowers blue: | |
'Mine eyes so true.' | |
He took it, but soon away it was flung: | |
'Farewell!' he sung; | |
And still with merry singing across the fields he sprung. | |
On Midsummer-day, &c. | |
"She wove him a chain: 'Oh keep it with care; | |
'Tis made of my hair.' | |
She yielded him then, in an hour of bliss, | |
Her pure first kiss; | |
But he blushed as deeply as she the while her lips met his | |
On Midsummer-day, &c. | |
"She wove him a wreath with a lily-band: | |
'My true right hand.' | |
She wove him another with roses aglow: | |
'My left hand now.' | |
He took them gently from her, but blushes dyed his brow. | |
On Midsummer-day, &c. | |
"She wove him a wreath of all flowers round: | |
'All I have found.' | |
She wept, but she gathered and wove on still: | |
'Take all you will.' | |
Without a word he took it, and fled across the hill. | |
On Midsummer-day, &c. | |
"She wove on bewildered and out of breath: | |
'My bridal wreath.' | |
She wove till her fingers aweary had grown: | |
'Now put it on:' | |
But when she turned to see him, she found that he had gone. | |
On Midsummer-day, &c. | |
"She wove on in haste, as for life or death, | |
Her bridal wreath; | |
But the Midsummer sun no longer shone, | |
And the flowers were gone; | |
But though she had no flowers, wild fancy still wove on. | |
On Midsummer-day | |
There is dancing and play; | |
But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay." | |
Arne had of late been happier, both when at home and when out among | |
people. In the winter, when he had not work enough on his own place, | |
he went out in the parish and did carpentry; but every Saturday night | |
he came home to the mother; and went with her to church on Sunday, or | |
read the sermon to her; and then returned in the evening to his place | |
of work. But soon, through going more among people, his wish to | |
travel awoke within him again; and just after his merriest moods, he | |
would often lie trying to finish his song, "Over the mountains high," | |
and altering it for about the twentieth time. He often thought of | |
Christian, who seemed to have so utterly forgotten him, and who, in | |
spite of his promise, had not sent him even a single letter. Once, | |
the remembrance of Christian came upon him so powerfully that he | |
thoughtlessly spoke of him to the mother; she gave no answer, but | |
turned away and went out. | |
There was living in the parish a jolly man named Ejnar Aasen. When he | |
was twenty years old he broke his leg, and from that time he had | |
walked with the support of a stick; but wherever he appeared limping | |
along on that stick, there was always merriment going on. The man was | |
rich, and he used the greater part of his wealth in doing good; but | |
he did it all so quietly that few people knew anything about it. | |
There was a large nut-wood on his property; and on one of the | |
brightest mornings in harvest-time, he always had a nutting-party of | |
merry girls at his house, where he had abundance of good cheer for | |
them all day, and a dance in the evening. He was the godfather of | |
most of the girls; for he was the godfather of half of the parish. | |
All the children called him Godfather, and from them everybody else | |
had learned to call him so, too. | |
He and Arne knew each other well; and he liked Arne for the sake of | |
his songs. Now he invited him to the nutting-party; but Arne | |
declined: he was not used to girls' company, he said. "Then you had | |
better get used to it," answered Godfather. | |
So Arne came to the party, and was nearly the only young man among | |
the many girls. Such fun as was there, Arne had never seen before in | |
all his life; and one thing which especially astonished him was, that | |
the girls laughed for nothing at all: if three laughed, then five | |
would laugh just because those three laughed. Altogether, they | |
behaved as if they had lived with each other all their lives; and yet | |
there were several of them who had never met before that very day. | |
When they caught the bough which they jumped after, they laughed, and | |
when they did not catch it they laughed also; when they did not find | |
any nuts, they laughed because they found none; and when they did | |
find some, they also laughed. They fought for the nutting-hook: those | |
who got it laughed, and those who did not get it laughed also. | |
Godfather limped after them, trying to beat them with his stick, and | |
making all the mischief he was good for; those he hit, laughed | |
because he hit them, and those he missed, laughed because he missed | |
them. But the whole lot laughed at Arne because he was so grave; and | |
when at last he could not help laughing, they all laughed again | |
because he laughed. | |
Then the whole party seated themselves on a large hill; the girls in | |
a circle, and Godfather in the middle. The sun was scorching hot, but | |
they did not care the least for it, but sat cracking nuts, giving | |
Godfather the kernels, and throwing the shells and husks at each | |
other. Godfather 'sh 'shed at them, and, as far as he could reach, | |
beat them with his stick; for he wanted to make them be quiet and | |
tell tales. But to stop their noise seemed just about as easy as to | |
stop a carriage running down a hill. Godfather began to tell a tale, | |
however. At first many of them would not listen; they knew his | |
stories already; but soon they all listened attentively; and before | |
they thought of it, they set off tale-telling themselves at full | |
gallop. Though they had just been so noisy, their tales, to Arne's | |
great surprise, were very earnest: they ran principally upon love. | |
"You, Aasa, know a good tale, I remember from last year," said | |
Godfather, turning to a plump girl with a round, good-natured face, | |
who sat plaiting the hair of a younger sister, whose head lay in her | |
lap. | |
"But perhaps several know it already," answered Aasa. | |
"Never mind, tell it," they begged. | |
"Very well, I'll tell it without any more persuading," she answered; | |
and then, plaiting her sister's hair all the while, she told and | |
sang:-- | |
"There was once a grown-up lad who tended cattle, and who often drove | |
them upwards near a broad stream. On one side was a high steep cliff, | |
jutting out so far over the stream that when he was upon it he could | |
talk to any one on the opposite side; and all day he could see a girl | |
over there tending cattle, but he couldn't go to her. | |
'Now, tell me thy name, thou girl that art sitting | |
Up there with thy sheep, so busily knitting,' | |
he asked over and over for many days, till one day at last there came | |
an answer:-- | |
'My name floats about like a duck in wet weather; | |
Come over, thou boy in the cap of brown leather.' | |
"This left the lad no wiser than he was before; and he thought he | |
wouldn't mind her any further. This, however, was much more easily | |
thought than done, for drive his cattle whichever way he would, it | |
always, somehow or other, led to that same high steep cliff. Then the | |
lad grew frightened; and he called over to her-- | |
'Well, who is your father, and where are you biding? | |
On the road to the church I have ne'er seen you riding.' | |
"The lad asked this because he half believed she was a huldre.[3] | |
[3] "Over the whole of Norway, the tradition is current of a | |
supernatural being that dwells in the forests and mountains, called | |
Huldre or Hulla. She appears like a beautiful woman, and is usually | |
clad in a blue petticoat and a white snood; but unfortunately has a | |
long tail, which she anxiously tries to conceal when she is among | |
people. She is fond of cattle, particularly brindled, of which she | |
possesses a beautiful and thriving stock. They are without horns. | |
She was once at a merrymaking, where every one was desirous of | |
dancing with the handsome, strange damsel; but in the midst of the | |
mirth, a young man, who had just begun a dance with her, happened | |
to cast his eye on her tail. Immediately guessing whom he had got | |
for a partner, he was not a little terrified; but, collecting | |
himself, and unwilling to betray her, he merely said to her when | |
the dance was over, 'Fair maid, you will lose your garter.' She | |
instantly vanished, but afterwards rewarded the silent and | |
considerate youth with beautiful presents and a good breed of | |
cattle. The idea entertained of this being is not everywhere the | |
same, but varies considerably in different parts of Norway. In some | |
places she is described as a handsome female when seen in front, | |
but is hollow behind, or else blue; while in others she is known by | |
the name of Skogmerte, and is said to be blue, but clad in a green | |
petticoat, and probably corresponds to the Swedish Skogsnyfoor. Her | |
song--a sound often heard among the mountains--is said to be hollow | |
and mournful, differing therein from the music of the subterranean | |
beings, which is described by earwitnesses as cheerful and | |
fascinating. But she is not everywhere regarded as a solitary wood | |
nymph. Huldremen and Huldrefolk are also spoken of, who live | |
together in the mountains, and are almost identical with the | |
subterranean people. In Hardanger the Huldre people are always clad | |
in green, but their cattle are blue, and may be taken when a | |
grown-up person casts his belt over them. They give abundance of | |
milk. The Huldres take possession of the forsaken pasture-spots in | |
the mountains, and invite people into their mounds, where | |
delightful music is to be heard."--_Thorpe's Northern Mythology._ | |
'My house is burned down, and my father is drowned, | |
And the road to the church-hill I never have found.' | |
"This again left the lad no wiser than he was before. In the daytime | |
he kept hovering about the cliff; and at night he dreamed she danced | |
with him, and lashed him with a big cow's tail whenever he tried to | |
catch her. Soon he could neither sleep nor work; and altogether the | |
lad got in a very poor way. Then once more he called from the cliff-- | |
'If thou art a huldre, then pray do not spell me; | |
If thou art a maiden, then hasten to tell me.' | |
"But there came no answer; and so he was sure she was a huldre. He | |
gave up tending cattle; but it was all the same; wherever he went, | |
and whatever he did, he was all the while thinking of the beautiful | |
huldre who blew on the horn. Soon he could bear it no longer; and one | |
moonlight evening when all were asleep, he stole away into the | |
forest, which stood there all dark at the bottom, but with its | |
tree-tops bright in the moonbeams. He sat down on the cliff, and | |
called-- | |
'Run forward, my huldre; my love has o'ercome me; | |
My life is a burden; no longer hide from me.' | |
"The lad looked and looked; but she didn't appear. Then he heard | |
something moving behind him; he turned round and saw a big black | |
bear, which came forward, squatted on the ground and looked at him. | |
But he ran away from the cliff and through the forest as fast as his | |
legs could carry him: if the bear followed him, he didn't know, for | |
he didn't turn round till he lay safely in bed. | |
"'It was one of her herd,' the lad thought; 'it isn't worth while to | |
go there any more;' and he didn't go. | |
"Then, one day, while he was chopping wood, a girl came across the | |
yard who was the living picture of the huldre: but when she drew | |
nearer, he saw it wasn't she. Over this he pondered much. Then he saw | |
the girl coming back, and again while she was at a distance she | |
seemed to be the huldre, and he ran to meet her; but as soon as he | |
came near, he saw it wasn't she. | |
"After this, wherever the lad was--at church at dances, or any other | |
parties--the girl was, too; and still when at a distance she seemed | |
to be the huldre, and when near she was somebody else. Then he asked | |
her whether she was the huldre or not, but she only laughed at him. | |
'One may as well leap into it as creep into it,' the lad thought; and | |
so he married the girl. | |
"But the lad had hardly done this before he ceased to like the girl: | |
when he was away from her he longed for her; but when he was with her | |
he yearned for some one he did not see. So the lad behaved very badly | |
to his wife; but she suffered in silence. | |
"Then one day when he was out looking for his horses, he came again | |
to the cliff; and he sat down and called out-- | |
'Like fairy moonlight, to me thou seemest; | |
Like Midsummer-fires, from afar thou gleamest.' | |
"He felt that it did him good to sit there; and afterwards he went | |
whenever things were wrong at home. His wife wept when he was gone. | |
"But one day when he was sitting there, he saw the huldre sitting all | |
alive on the other side blowing her horn. He called over-- | |
'Ah, dear, art thou come! all around thee is shining! | |
Ah, blow now again! I am sitting here pining.' | |
"Then she answered-- | |
'Away from thy mind the dreams I am blowing; | |
Thy rye is all rotting for want of mowing.' | |
"But then the lad felt frightened and went home again. Ere long, | |
however, he grew so tired of his wife that he was obliged to go to | |
the forest again, and he sat down on the cliff. Then was sung over to | |
him-- | |
'I dreamed thou wast here; ho, hasten to bind me! | |
No; not over there, but behind you will find me.' | |
"The lad jumped up and looked around him, and caught a glimpse of a | |
green petticoat just slipping away between the shrubs. He followed, | |
and it came to a hunting all through the forest. So swift-footed as | |
that huldre, no human creature could be: he flung steel over her | |
again and again, but still she ran on just as well as ever. But soon | |
the lad saw, by her pace, that she was beginning to grow tired, | |
though he saw, too, by her shape, that she could be no other than the | |
huldre. 'Now,' he thought, you'll be mine easily;' and he caught hold | |
on her so suddenly and roughly that they both fell, and rolled down | |
the hills a long way before they could stop themselves. Then the | |
huldre laughed till it seemed to the lad the mountains sang again. He | |
took her upon his knee; and so beautiful she was, that never in all | |
his life he had seen any one like her: exactly like her, he thought | |
his wife should have been. 'Ah, who are you who are so beautiful?' he | |
asked, stroking her cheek. She blushed rosy red. 'I'm your wife,' she | |
answered." | |
The girls laughed much at that tale, and ridiculed the lad. But | |
Godfather asked Arne if he had listened well to it. | |
"Well, now I'll tell you something," said a little girl with a little | |
round face, and a very little nose:-- | |
"Once there was a little lad who wished very much to woo a little | |
girl. They were both grown up; but yet they were very little. And the | |
lad couldn't in any way muster courage to ask her to have him. He | |
kept close to her when they came home from church; but, somehow or | |
other, their chat was always about the weather. He went over to her | |
at the dancing-parties, and nearly danced her to death; but still he | |
couldn't bring himself to say what he wanted. 'You must learn to | |
write,' he said to himself; 'then you'll manage matters.' And the lad | |
set to writing; but he thought it could never be done well enough; | |
and so he wrote a whole year round before he dared do his letter. | |
Now, the thing was to get it given to her without anybody seeing. He | |
waited till one day when they were standing all by themselves behind | |
the church. 'I've got a letter for you,' said the lad. 'But I can't | |
read writing,' the girl answered. | |
"And there the lad stood. | |
"Then he went to service at the girl's father's house; and he used to | |
keep hovering round her all day long. Once he had nearly brought | |
himself to speak; in fact, he had already opened his mouth; but then | |
a big fly flew in it. 'Well, I hope, at any rate, nobody else will | |
come to take her away,' the lad thought; but nobody came to take her, | |
because she was so very little. | |
"By-and-by, however, some one _did_ come, and he, too, was little. | |
The lad could see very well what he wanted; and when he and the girl | |
went up-stairs together, the lad placed himself at the key-hole. Then | |
he who was inside made his offer. 'Bad luck to me, I, codfish, who | |
didn't make haste!' the lad thought. He who was inside kissed the | |
girl just on her lips----. 'No doubt that tasted nice,' the lad | |
thought. But he who was inside took the girl on his lap. 'Oh, dear | |
me! what a world this is!' the lad said, and began crying. Then the | |
girl heard him and went to the door. 'What do you want, you nasty | |
boy?' said she, 'why can't you leave me alone?'--'I? I only wanted to | |
ask you to have me for your bridesman.'--'No; that, my brother's | |
going to be,' the girl answered, banging the door to. | |
"And there the lad stood." | |
The girls laughed very much at this tale, and afterwards pelted each | |
other with husks. | |
Then Godfather wished Eli Boeen to tell something. | |
"What, then, must it be?" | |
"Well, she might tell what she had told him on the hill, the last | |
time he came to see her parents, when she gave him the new garters. | |
Eli laughed very much; and it was some time before she would tell it: | |
however, she did at last,-- | |
"A lad and a girl were once walking together on a road. 'Ah, look at | |
that thrush that follows us!' the girl said. 'It follows _me_,' said | |
the lad. 'It's just as likely to be _me_,' the girl answered. 'That, | |
we'll soon find out,' said the lad; 'you go that way, while I go | |
this, and we'll meet up yonder.' They did so. 'Well, didn't it follow | |
me?' the lad asked, when they met. 'No; it followed me,' answered the | |
girl. 'Then, there must be two.' They went together again for some | |
distance, but then there was only one thrush; and the lad thought it | |
flew on his side, but the girl thought it flew on hers. 'Devil a bit, | |
I care for that thrush,' said the lad. 'Nor do I,' answered the girl. | |
"But no sooner had they said this, than the thrush flew away. 'It was | |
on _your_ side, it was,' said the lad. 'Thank you,' answered the | |
girl; 'but I clearly saw it was on _your_ side.--But see! there it | |
comes again!' 'Indeed, it's on _my_ side,' the lad exclaimed. Then | |
the girl got angry: 'Ah, well, I wish I may never stir if I go with | |
you any longer!' and she went away. | |
"Then the thrush, too, left the lad; and he felt so dull that he | |
called out to the girl, 'Is the thrush with you?'--'No; isn't it with | |
you?'--'Ah, no; you must come here again, and then perhaps it will | |
follow you.' | |
"The girl came; and she and the lad walked on together, hand in | |
hand. 'Quitt, quitt, quitt, quitt!' sounded on the girl's side; | |
'quitt, quitt, quitt, quitt!' sounded on the lad's side; 'quitt, | |
quitt, quitt, quitt!' sounded on every side; and when they looked | |
there were a hundred thousand million thrushes all round them. 'Ah, | |
how nice this is!' said the girl, looking up at the lad. 'Ah, God | |
bless you!' said he, and kissed her." | |
All the girls thought this was such a nice tale. | |
Then Godfather said they must tell what they had dreamed last night, | |
and he would decide who had dreamed the nicest things. | |
"Tell what they had dreamed! No; impossible!" | |
And then there was no end of tittering and whispering. But soon one | |
after another began to think she had such a nice dream last night; | |
and then others thought it could not possibly be so nice as what they | |
had dreamed; and at last they all got a great mind for telling their | |
dreams. Yet they must not be told aloud, but to one only, and that | |
one must by no means be Godfather. Arne had all this time been | |
sitting quietly a little lower down the hill, and so the girls | |
thought they dared tell their dreams to him. | |
Then Arne seated himself under a hazel-bush; and Aasa, the girl who | |
had told the first tale, came over to him. She hesitated a while, but | |
then began,-- | |
"I dreamed I was standing by a large lake. Then I saw one walking on | |
the water, and it was one whose name I will not say. He stepped into | |
a large water-lily, and sat there singing. But I launched out upon | |
one of the large leaves of the lily which lay floating on the water; | |
for on it I would row over to him. But no sooner had I come upon the | |
leaf than it began to sink with me, and I became much frightened, and | |
I wept. Then he came rowing along in the water-lily, and lifted me | |
up to him; and we rowed all over the whole lake. Wasn't that a nice | |
dream?" | |
Next came the little girl who had told the tale about the little | |
lad,-- | |
"I dreamed I had caught a little bird, and I was so pleased with it, | |
and I thought I wouldn't let it loose till I came home in our room. | |
But there I dared not let it loose, for I was afraid father and | |
mother might tell me to let it go again. So I took it up-stairs; but | |
I could not let it loose there, either, for the cat was lurking | |
about. Then I didn't know what in the world to do; yet I took it into | |
the barn. Dear me, there were so many cracks, I was afraid it might | |
go away! Well, then I went down again into the yard; and there, it | |
seemed to me some one was standing whose name I will not say. He | |
stood playing with a big, big dog. 'I would rather play with that | |
bird of yours,' he said, and drew very near to me. But then it seemed | |
to me I began running away; and both he and the big dog ran after me | |
all round the yard; but then mother opened the front door, pulled me | |
hastily in, and banged the door after me. The lad, however, stood | |
laughing outside, with his face against the window-pane. 'Look, | |
here's the bird,' he said; and, only think, he had my bird out there! | |
Wasn't that a beautiful dream?" | |
Then came the girl who had told about the thrushes--Eli, they called | |
her. She was laughing so much that she could not speak for some time; | |
but at last she began,-- | |
"I had been looking forward with very much pleasure to our nutting in | |
the wood to-day; and so last night I dreamed I was sitting here on | |
the hill. The sun shone brightly; and I had my lap full of nuts. But | |
there came a little squirrel among them, and it sat on its hind-legs | |
and ate them all up. Wasn't that a funny dream?" | |
Afterwards some more dreams were told him; and then the girls would | |
have him say which was the nicest. Of course, he must have plenty of | |
time for consideration; and meanwhile Godfather and the whole flock | |
went down to the house, leaving Arne to follow. They skipped down the | |
hill, and when they came to the plain went all in a row singing | |
towards the house. | |
Arne sat alone on the hill, listening to the singing. Strong sunlight | |
fell on the group of girls, and their white bodices shone bright, as | |
they went dancing over the meadows, every now and then clasping each | |
other round the waist; while Godfather limped behind, threatening | |
them with a stick because they trod down his hay. Arne thought no | |
more of the dreams, and soon he no longer looked after the girls. His | |
thoughts went floating far away beyond the valley, like the fine | |
air-threads, while he remained behind on the hill, spinning; and | |
before he was aware of it he had woven a close web of sadness. More | |
than ever, he longed to go away. | |
"Why stay any longer?" he said to himself; "surely, I've been | |
lingering long enough now!" He promised himself that he would speak | |
to the mother about it as soon as he reached home, however it might | |
turn out. | |
With greater force than ever, his thoughts turned to his song, "Over | |
the mountains high;" and never before had the words come so swiftly, | |
or linked themselves into rhyme so easily; they seemed almost like | |
girls sitting in a circle on the brow of a hill. He had a piece of | |
paper with him, and placing it upon his knee, he wrote down the | |
verses as they came. When he had finished the song, he rose like one | |
freed from a burden. He felt unwilling to see any one, and went | |
homewards by the way through the wood, though he knew he should then | |
have to walk during the night. The first time he stopped to rest on | |
the way, he put his hand to his pocket to take out the song, | |
intending to sing it aloud to himself through the wood; but he found | |
he had left it behind at the place where it was composed. | |
One of the girls went on the hill to look for him; she did not find | |
him, but she found his song. | |
X. | |
LOOSENING THE WEATHER-VANE. | |
To speak to the mother about going away, was more easily thought of | |
than done. He spoke again about Christian, and those letters which | |
had never come; but then the mother went away, and for days | |
afterwards he thought her eyes looked red and swollen. He noticed, | |
too, that she then got nicer food for him than usual; and this gave | |
him another sign of her state of mind with regard to him. | |
One day he went to cut fagots in a wood which bordered upon another | |
belonging to the parsonage, and through which the road ran. Just | |
where he was going to cut his fagots, people used to come in autumn | |
to gather whortleberries. He had laid aside his axe to take off his | |
jacket, and was just going to begin work, when two girls came walking | |
along with a basket to gather berries. He used generally to hide | |
himself rather than meet girls, and he did so now. | |
"Ah! only see what a lot of berries! Eli, Eli!" | |
"Yes, dear, I see!" | |
"Well, but, then, don't go any farther; here are many basketfuls." | |
"I thought I heard a rustling among the trees!" | |
"Oh, nonsense!" | |
The girls rushed towards each other, clasped each other round the | |
waist, and for a little while stood still, scarcely drawing breath. | |
"It's nothing, I dare say; come, let's go on picking." | |
"Well, so we will." | |
And they went on. | |
"It was nice you came to the parsonage to-day, Eli. Haven't you | |
anything to tell me?" | |
"Yes; I've been to see Godfather." | |
"Well, you've told me that; but haven't you anything to tell me about | |
_him_--you know who?" | |
"Yes, indeed I have!" | |
"Oh! Eli, have you! make haste and tell me!" "He has been there | |
again." | |
"Nonsense?" | |
"Indeed, he has: father and mother pretended to know nothing of it; | |
but I went up-stairs and hid myself." | |
"Well, what then? did he come after you?" | |
"Yes; I believe father told him where I was; he's always so tiresome | |
now." | |
"And so he came there?--Sit down, sit down; here, near me. Well, and | |
then he came?" | |
"Yes; but he didn't say much, for he was so bashful." | |
"Tell me what he said, every word; pray, every word!" | |
"'Are you afraid of me?' he said. 'Why should I be afraid?' I | |
answered. 'You know what I want to say to you,' he said, sitting down | |
beside me on the chest." | |
"Beside you!" | |
"And he took me round my waist." | |
"Round your waist; nonsense!" | |
"I wished very much to get loose again; but he wouldn't let me. 'Dear | |
Eli,' he said----" She laughed, and the other one laughed, too. | |
"Well? well?" | |
"'Will you be my wife?' Ha, ha, ha!" | |
"Ha, ha, ha!" | |
And then both laughed together, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" | |
At last the laughing came to an end, and they were both quiet for a | |
while. Then the one who had first spoken asked in a low voice, | |
"Wasn't it strange he took you round your waist?" | |
Either the other girl did not answer that question, or she answered | |
in so low a voice that it could not be heard; perhaps she only | |
answered by a smile. | |
"Didn't your father or your mother say anything afterwards?" asked | |
the first girl, after a pause. | |
"Father came up and looked at me; but I turned away from him because | |
he laughed at me." | |
"And your mother?" | |
"No, she didn't say anything; but she wasn't so strict as usual." | |
"Well, you've done with him, I think?" | |
"Of course!" | |
Then there was again silence awhile. | |
"Was it thus he took you round your waist?" | |
"No; thus." | |
"Well, then;--it was thus...." | |
"Eli?" | |
"Well?" | |
"Do you think there will ever be anybody come in that way to me?" | |
"Of course, there will!" | |
"Nonsense! Ah, Eli? If he took me round the waist?" She hid her face. | |
Then they laughed again; and there was much whispering and tittering. | |
Soon the girls went away; they had not seen either Arne or the axe | |
and jacket, and he was glad of it. | |
A few days after, he gave Opplands-Knut a little farm on Kampen. | |
"You shall not be lonely any longer," Arne said. | |
That winter Arne went to the parsonage for some time to do carpentry; | |
and both the girls were often there together. When Arne saw them, he | |
often wondered who it might be that now came to woo Eli Boeen. | |
One day he had to drive for the clergyman's daughter and Eli; he | |
could not understand a word they said, though he had very quick ears. | |
Sometimes Mathilde spoke to him; and then Eli always laughed and hid | |
her face. Mathilde asked him if it was true that he could make | |
verses. "No," he said quickly; then they both laughed; and chattered | |
and laughed again. He felt vexed; and afterwards when he met them | |
seemed not to take any notice of them. | |
Once he was sitting in the servants' hall while a dance was going on, | |
and Mathilde and Eli both came to see it. They stood together in a | |
corner, disputing about something; Eli would not do it, but Mathilde | |
would, and she at last gained her point. Then they both came over to | |
Arne, courtesied, and asked him if he could dance. He said he could | |
not; and then both turned aside and ran away, laughing. In fact, they | |
were always laughing, Arne thought; and he became brave. But soon | |
after, he got the clergyman's foster-son, a boy of about twelve, to | |
teach him to dance, when no one was by. | |
Eli had a little brother of the same age as the clergyman's | |
foster-son. These two boys were playfellows; and Arne made sledges, | |
snow-shoes and snares for them; and often talked to them about their | |
sisters, especially about Eli. One day Eli's brother brought Arne a | |
message that he ought to make his hair a little smoother. "Who said | |
that?" | |
"Eli did; but she told me not to say it was she." | |
A few days after, Arne sent word that Eli ought to laugh a little | |
less. The boy brought back word that Arne ought by all means to laugh | |
a little more. | |
Eli's brother once asked Arne to give him something that he had | |
written. He complied, without thinking any more about the matter. But | |
in a few days after, the boy, thinking to please Arne, told him that | |
Eli and Mathilde liked his writing very much. | |
"Where, then, have they seen any of it?" | |
"Well, it was for them, I asked for some of it the other day." | |
Then Arne asked the boys to bring him something their sisters had | |
written. They did so; and he corrected the errors in the writing with | |
his carpenter's pencil, and asked the boys to lay it in some place | |
where their sisters might easily find it. Soon after, he found the | |
paper in his jacket pocket; and at the foot was written, "Corrected | |
by a conceited fellow." | |
The next day, Arne completed his work at the parsonage, and returned | |
home. So gentle as he was that winter, the mother had never seen him, | |
since that sad time just after the father's death. He read the sermon | |
to her, accompanied her to church, and was in every way very kind. | |
But she knew only too well that one great reason for his increased | |
kindness was, that he meant to go away when spring came. Then one day | |
a message came from Boeen, asking him to go there to do carpentry. | |
Arne started, and, apparently without thinking of what he said, | |
replied that he would come. But no sooner had the messenger left than | |
the mother said, "You may well be astonished! From Boeen?" | |
"Well, is there anything strange in that?" Arne asked, without | |
looking at her. | |
"From Boeen!" the mother exclaimed once more. | |
"And, why not from Boeen, as well as any other place?" he answered, | |
looking up a little. | |
"From Boeen and Birgit Boeen!--Baard, who made your father a <DW36>, | |
and all only for Birgit's sake!" | |
"What do you say?" exclaimed Arne; "was that Baard Boeen?" | |
Mother and son stood looking at each other. The whole of the father's | |
life seemed unrolled before them, and at that moment they saw the | |
black thread which had always run through it. Then they began talking | |
about those grand days of his, when old Eli Boeen had himself offered | |
him his daughter Birgit, and he had refused her: they passed on | |
through his life till the day when his spine had been broken; and | |
they both agreed that Baard's fault was the less. Still, it was he | |
who had made the father a <DW36>; he, it was. | |
"Have I not even yet done with father?" Arne thought; and determined | |
at the same moment that he would go to Boeen. | |
As he went walking, with his saw on his shoulder, over the ice | |
towards Boeen, it seemed to him a beautiful place. The dwelling-house | |
always seemed as if it was fresh painted; and--perhaps because he | |
felt a little cold--it just then looked to him very sheltered and | |
comfortable. He did not, however, go straight in, but went round by | |
the cattle-house, where a flock of thick-haired goats stood in the | |
snow, gnawing the bark off some fir twigs. A shepherd's dog ran | |
backwards and forwards on the barn steps, barking as if the devil was | |
coming to the house; but when Arne went to him, he wagged his tail | |
and allowed himself to be patted. The kitchen door at the upper end | |
of the house was often opened, and Arne looked over there every time; | |
but he saw no one except the milkmaid, carrying some pails, or the | |
cook, throwing something to the goats. In the barn the threshers | |
were hard at work; and to the left, in front of the woodshed, a lad | |
stood chopping fagots, with many piles of them behind him. | |
Arne laid away his saw and went into the kitchen: the floor was | |
strewed with white sand and chopped juniper leaves; copper kettles | |
shone on the walls; china and earthenware stood in rows upon the | |
shelves; and the servants were preparing the dinner. Arne asked for | |
Baard. "Step into the sitting-room," said one of the servants, | |
pointing to an inner door with a brass knob. He went in: the room was | |
brightly painted--the ceiling, with clusters of roses; the cupboards, | |
with red, and the names of the owners in black letters; the bedstead, | |
also with red, bordered with blue stripes. Beside the stove, a | |
broad-shouldered, mild-looking man, with long light hair, sat hooping | |
some tubs; and at the large table, a slender, tall woman, in a | |
close-fitting dress and linen cap, sat sorting some corn into two | |
heaps: no one else was in the room. | |
"Good day, and a blessing on the work," said Arne, taking off his | |
cap. Both looked up; and the man smiled and asked who it was. "I am | |
he who has come to do carpentry." | |
The man smiled still more, and said, while he leaned forward again to | |
his work, "Oh, all right, Arne Kampen." | |
"Arne Kampen?" exclaimed the wife, staring down at the floor. The man | |
looked up quickly, and said, smiling once more, "A son of Nils, the | |
tailor;" and then he began working again. | |
Soon the wife rose, went to the shelf, turned from it to the | |
cupboard, once more turned away, and, while rummaging for something | |
in the table drawer, she asked, without looking up, "Is _he_ going to | |
work _here_?" | |
"Yes, that he is," the husband answered, also without looking up. | |
"Nobody has asked you to sit down, it seems," he added, turning to | |
Arne, who then took a seat. The wife went out, and the husband | |
continued working: and so Arne asked whether he, too, might begin. | |
"We'll have dinner first." | |
The wife did not return; but next time the door opened, it was Eli | |
who entered. At first, she appeared not to see Arne, but when he | |
rose to meet her she turned half round and gave him her hand; yet | |
she did not look at him. They exchanged a few words, while the | |
father worked on. Eli was slender and upright, her hands were small, | |
with round wrists, her hair was braided, and she wore a dress with a | |
close-fitting bodice. She laid the table for dinner: the laborers | |
dined in the next room; but Arne, with the family. | |
"Isn't your mother coming?" asked the husband. | |
"No; she's up-stairs, weighing wool." | |
"Have you asked her to come?" | |
"Yes; but she says she won't have anything." | |
There was silence for a while. | |
"But it's cold up-stairs." | |
"She wouldn't let me make a fire." | |
After dinner, Arne began to work; and in the evening he again sat | |
with the family. The wife and Eli sewed, while the husband employed | |
himself in some trifling work, and Arne helped him. They worked on in | |
silence above an hour; for Eli, who seemed to be the one who usually | |
did the talking, now said nothing. Arne thought with dismay how often | |
it was just so in his own home; and yet he had never felt it till | |
now. At last, Eli seemed to think she had been silent quite long | |
enough, and, after drawing a deep breath, she burst out laughing. | |
Then the father laughed; and Arne felt it was ridiculous and began, | |
too. Afterwards they talked about several things, soon the | |
conversation was principally between Arne and Eli, the father now and | |
then putting in a word edgewise. But once after Arne had been | |
speaking at some length, he looked up, and his eyes met those of the | |
mother, Birgit, who had laid down her work, and sat gazing at him. | |
Then she went on with her work again; but the next word he spoke made | |
her look up once more. | |
Bedtime drew near, and they all went to their own rooms. Arne thought | |
he would take notice of the dream he had the first night in a fresh | |
place; but he could see no meaning in it. During the whole day he had | |
talked very little with the husband; yet now in the night he dreamed | |
of no one in the house but him. The last thing was, that Baard was | |
sitting playing at cards with Nils, the tailor. The latter looked | |
very pale and angry; but Baard was smiling, and he took all the | |
tricks. | |
Arne stayed at Boeen several days; and a great deal was done, but very | |
little said. Not only the people in the parlor, but also the | |
servants, the housemen, everybody about the place, even the women, | |
were silent. In the yard was an old dog which barked whenever a | |
stranger came near; but if any of the people belonging to the place | |
heard him, they always said "Hush!" and then he went away, growling, | |
and lay down. At Arne's own home was a large weather-vane, and here | |
was one still larger which he particularly noticed because it did not | |
turn. It shook whenever the wind was high, as though it wished to | |
turn; and Arne stood looking at it so long that he felt at last he | |
must climb up to unloose it. It was not frozen fast, as he thought: | |
but a stick was fixed against it to prevent it from turning. He took | |
the stick out and threw it down; Baard was just passing below, and it | |
struck him. | |
"What are you doing?" said he, looking up. | |
"I'm loosening the vane." | |
"Leave it alone; it makes a wailing noise when it turns." | |
"Well, I think even that's better than silence," said Arne, seating | |
himself astride on the ridge of the roof. Baard looked up at Arne, | |
and Arne down at Baard. Then Baard smiled and said, "He who must wail | |
when he speaks had better he silent." | |
Words sometimes haunt us long after they were uttered, especially | |
when they were last words. So Baard's words followed Arne as he came | |
down from the roof in the cold, and they were still with him when he | |
went into the sitting-room in the evening. It was twilight; and Eli | |
stood at the window, looking away over the ice which lay bright in | |
the moonlight. Arne went to the other window, and looked out also. | |
Indoors it was warm and quiet; outdoors it was cold, and a sharp wind | |
swept through the vale, bending the branches of the trees, and making | |
their shadows creep trembling on the snow. A light shone over from | |
the parsonage, then vanished, then appeared again, taking various | |
shapes and colors, as a distant light always seems to do when one | |
looks at it long and intently. Opposite, the mountain stood dark, | |
with deep shadow at its foot, where a thousand fairy tales hovered; | |
but with its snowy upper plains bright in the moonlight. The stars | |
were shining, and northern lights were flickering in one quarter of | |
the sky, but they did not spread. A little way from the window, down | |
towards the water, stood some trees, whose shadows kept stealing over | |
to each other; but the tall ash stood alone, writing on the snow. | |
All was silent, save now and then, when a long wailing sound was | |
heard. "What's that?" asked Arne. | |
"It's the weather-vane," said Eli; and after a little while she added | |
in a lower tone, as if to herself, "it must have come unfastened." | |
But Arne had been like one who wished to speak and could not. Now he | |
said, "Do you remember that tale about the thrushes?" | |
"Yes." | |
"It was you who told it, indeed. It was a nice tale." | |
"I often think there's something that sings when all is still," she | |
said, in a voice so soft and low that he felt as if he heard it now | |
for the first time. | |
"It is the good within our own souls," he said. | |
She looked at him as if she thought that answer meant too much; and | |
they both stood silent a few moments. Then she asked, while she wrote | |
with her finger on the window-pane, "Have you made any songs lately?" | |
He blushed; but she did not see it, and so she asked once more, "How | |
do you manage to make songs?" | |
"Should you like to know?" | |
"Well, yes;--I should." | |
"I store up the thoughts that other people let slip." | |
She was silent for a long while; perhaps thinking she might have had | |
some thoughts fit for songs, but had let them slip. | |
"How strange it is," she said, at last, as though to herself, and | |
beginning to write again on the window-pane. | |
"I made a song the first time I had seen you." | |
"Where was that?" | |
"Behind the parsonage, that evening you went away from there;--I saw | |
you in the water." | |
She laughed, and was quiet for a while. | |
"Let me hear that song." | |
Arne had never done such a thing before, but he repeated the song | |
now: | |
"Fair Venevill bounded on lithesome feet | |
Her lover to meet," &c.[4] | |
[4] As on page 68. | |
Eli listened attentively, and stood silent long after he had | |
finished. At last she exclaimed, "Ah, what a pity for her!" | |
"I feel as if I had not made that song myself," he said; and then | |
stood like her, thinking over it. | |
"But that won't be my fate, I hope," she said, after a pause. | |
"No; I was thinking rather of myself." | |
"Will it be your fate, then?" | |
"I don't know; I felt so then." | |
"How strange." She wrote on the panes again. | |
The next day, when Arne came into the room to dinner, he went over to | |
the window. Outdoors it was dull and foggy, but indoors, warm and | |
comfortable; and on the window-pane was written with a finger, "Arne, | |
Arne, Arne," and nothing but "Arne," over and over again: it was at | |
that window, Eli stood the evening before. | |
XI. | |
ELI'S SICKNESS. | |
Next day, Arne came into the room and said he had heard in the yard | |
that the clergyman's daughter, Mathilde, had just gone to the town; | |
as she thought, for a few days, but as her parents intended, for a | |
year or two. Eli had heard nothing of this before, and now she fell | |
down fainting. Arne had never seen any one faint, and he was much | |
frightened. He ran for the maids; they ran for the parents, who came | |
hurrying in; and there was a disturbance all over the house, and the | |
dog barked on the barn steps. Soon after, when Arne came in again, | |
the mother was kneeling at the bedside, while the father supported | |
Eli's drooping head. The maids were running about--one for water, | |
another for hartshorn which was in the cupboard, while a third | |
unfastened her jacket. | |
"God help you!" the mother said; "I see it was wrong in us not to | |
tell her; it was you, Baard, who would have it so; God help you!" | |
Baard did not answer. "I wished to tell her, indeed; but nothing's to | |
be as I wish; God help you! You're always so harsh with her, Baard; | |
you don't understand her; you don't know what it is to love anybody, | |
you don't." Baard did not answer. "She isn't like some others who can | |
bear sorrow; it quite puts her down, poor slight thing, as she is. | |
Wake up, my child, and we'll be kind to you! wake up, Eli, my own | |
darling, and don't grieve us so." | |
"You always either talk too much or too little," Baard said, at last, | |
looking over to Arne, as though he did not wish him to hear such | |
things, but to leave the room. As, however, the maid-servants stayed, | |
Arne thought he, too, might stay; but he went over to the window. | |
Soon the sick girl revived so far as to be able to look round and | |
recognize those about her; but then also memory returned, and she | |
called wildly for Mathilde, went into hysterics, and sobbed till it | |
was painful to be in the room. The mother tried to soothe her, and | |
the father sat down where she could see him; but she pushed them both | |
from her. | |
"Go away!" she cried; "I don't like you; go away!" | |
"Oh, Eli, how can you say you don't like your own parents?" exclaimed | |
the mother. | |
"No! you're unkind to me, and you take away every pleasure from me!" | |
"Eli, Eli! don't say such hard things," said the mother, imploringly. | |
"Yes, mother," she exclaimed; "now I _must_ say it! Yes, mother; you | |
wish to marry me to that bad man; and I won't have him! You shut me | |
up here, where I'm never happy save when I'm going out! And you take | |
away Mathilde from me; the only one in the world I love and long for! | |
Oh, God, what will become of me, now Mathilde is gone!" | |
"But you haven't been much with her lately," Baard said. | |
"What did that matter, so long as I could look over to her from that | |
window," the poor girl answered, weeping in a childlike way that Arne | |
had never before seen in any one. | |
"Why, you couldn't see her there," said Baard. | |
"Still, I saw the house," she answered; and the mother added | |
passionately, "You don't understand such things, you don't." Then | |
Baard said nothing more. | |
"Now, I can never again go to the window," said Eli. "When I rose in | |
the morning, I went there; in the evening I sat there in the | |
moonlight: I went there when I could go to no one else. Mathilde! | |
Mathilde?" She writhed in the bed, and went again into hysterics. | |
Baard sat down on a stool a little way from the bed, and continued | |
looking at her. | |
But Eli did not recover so soon as they expected. Towards evening | |
they saw she would have a serious illness, which had probably been | |
coming upon her for some time; and Arne was called to assist in | |
carrying her up-stairs to her room. She lay quiet and unconscious, | |
looking very pale. The mother sat by the side of her bed, the father | |
stood at the foot, looking at her: afterwards he went to his work. So | |
did Arne; but that night before he went to sleep, he prayed for her; | |
prayed that she who was so young and fair might be happy in this | |
world, and that no one might bar away joy from her. | |
The next day when Arne came in, he found the father and mother | |
sitting talking together: the mother had been weeping. Arne asked how | |
Eli was; both expected the other to give an answer, and so for some | |
time none was given, but at last the father said, "Well, she's very | |
bad to-day." | |
Afterwards Arne heard that she had been raving all night, or, as the | |
father said, "talking foolery." She had a violent fever, knew no one, | |
and would not eat, and the parents were deliberating whether they | |
should send for a doctor. When afterwards they both went to the | |
sick-room, leaving Arne behind, he felt as if life and death were | |
struggling together up there, but he was kept outside. | |
In a few days, however, Eli became a little better. But once when the | |
father was tending her, she took it into her head to have Narrifas, | |
the bird which Mathilde had given her, set beside the bed. Then Baard | |
told her that--as was really the case--in the confusion the bird had | |
been forgotten, and was starved. The mother was just coming in as | |
Baard was saying this, and while yet standing in the doorway, she | |
cried out, "Oh, dear me, what a monster you are, Baard, to tell it to | |
that poor little thing! See, she's fainting again; God forgive you!" | |
When Eli revived she again asked for the bird; said its death was a | |
bad omen for Mathilde; and wished to go to her: then she fainted | |
again. Baard stood looking on till she grew so much worse that he | |
wanted to help, too, in tending her; but the mother pushed him away, | |
and said she would do all herself. Then Baard gave a long sad look at | |
both of them, put his cap straight with both hands, turned aside and | |
went out. | |
Soon after, the Clergyman and his wife came; for the fever | |
heightened, and grew so violent that they did not know whether it | |
would turn to life or death. The Clergyman as well as his wife spoke | |
to Baard about Eli, and hinted that he was too harsh with her; but | |
when they heard what he had told her about the bird, the Clergyman | |
plainly told him it was very rough, and said he would have her taken | |
to his own house as soon as she was well enough to be moved. The | |
Clergyman's wife would scarcely look at Baard; she wept, and went to | |
sit with the sick one; then sent for the doctor, and came several | |
times a day to carry out his directions. Baard went wandering | |
restlessly about from one place to another in the yard, going | |
oftenest to those places where he could be alone. There he would | |
stand still by the hour together; then, put his cap straight and work | |
again a little. | |
The mother did not speak to him, and they scarcely looked at each | |
other. He used to go and see Eli several times in the day; he took | |
off his shoes before he went up-stairs, left his cap outside, and | |
opened the door cautiously. When he came in, Birgit would turn her | |
head, but take no notice of him, and then sit just as before, | |
stooping forwards, with her head on her hands, looking at Eli, who | |
lay still and pale, unconscious of all that was passing around her. | |
Baard would stand awhile at the foot of the bed and look at them | |
both, but say nothing: once when Eli moved as though she were waking, | |
he stole away directly as quietly as he had come. | |
Arne often thought words had been exchanged between man and wife and | |
parents and child which had been long gathering, and would be long | |
remembered. He longed to go away, though he wished to know before he | |
went what would be the end of Eli's illness; but then he thought he | |
might always hear about her even after he had left; and so he went to | |
Baard telling him he wished to go home: the work which he came to do | |
was completed. Baard was sitting outdoors on a chopping-block, | |
scratching in the snow with a stick: Arne recognized the stick: it | |
was the one which had fastened the weather-vane. | |
"Well, perhaps it isn't worth your while to stay here now; yet I feel | |
as if I don't like you to go away, either," said Baard, without | |
looking up. He said no more; neither did Arne; but after a while he | |
walked away to do some work, taking for granted that he was to remain | |
at Boeen. | |
Some time after, when he was called to dinner, he saw Baard still | |
sitting on the block. He went over to him, and asked how Eli was. | |
"I think she's very bad to-day," Baard said. | |
"I see the mother's weeping." | |
Arne felt as if somebody asked him to sit down, and he seated himself | |
opposite Baard on the end of a felled tree. | |
"I've often thought of your father lately," Baard said so | |
unexpectedly that Arne did not know how to answer. | |
"You know, I suppose, what was between us?" | |
"Yes, I know." | |
"Well, you know, as may be expected, only one half of the story, and | |
think I'm greatly to blame." | |
"You have, I dare say, settled that affair with your God, as surely | |
as my father has done so," Arne said, after a pause. | |
"Well, some people might think so," Baard answered. "When I found | |
this stick, I felt it was so strange that you should come here and | |
unloose the weather-vane. As well now as later, I thought." He had | |
taken off his cap, and sat silently looking at it. | |
"I was about fourteen years old when I became acquainted with your | |
father, and he was of the same age. He was very wild, and he couldn't | |
bear any one to be above him in anything. So he always had a grudge | |
against me because I stood first, and he, second, when we were | |
confirmed. He often offered to fight me, but we never came to it; | |
most likely because neither of us felt sure who would beat. And a | |
strange thing it is, that although he fought every day, no accident | |
came from it; while the first time I did, it turned out as badly as | |
could be; but, it's true, I had been wanting to fight long enough. | |
"Nils fluttered about all the girls, and they, about him. There was | |
only one I would have, and her he took away from me at every dance, | |
at every wedding, and at every party; it was she who is now my | |
wife.... Often, as I sat there, I felt a great mind to try my | |
strength upon him for this thing; but I was afraid I should lose, and | |
I knew if I did, I should lose her, too. Then, when everybody had | |
gone, I would lift the weights he had lifted, and kick the beam he | |
had kicked; but the next time he took the girl from me, I was afraid | |
to meddle with him, although once, when he was flirting with her just | |
in my face, I went up to a tall fellow who stood by and threw him | |
against the beam, as if in fun. And Nils grew pale, too, when he saw | |
it. | |
"Even if he had been kind to her; but he was false to her again and | |
again. I almost believe, too, she loved him all the more every time. | |
Then the last thing happened. I thought now it must either break or | |
bear. The Lord, too, would not have him going about any longer; and | |
so he fell a little more heavily than I meant him to do. I never saw | |
him afterwards." | |
They sat silent for a while; then Baard went on: | |
"I once more made my offer. She said neither yes nor no; but I | |
thought she would like me better afterwards. So we were married. The | |
wedding was kept down in the valley, at the house of one of her | |
aunts, whose property she inherited. We had plenty when we started, | |
and it has now increased. Our estates lay side by side, and when we | |
married they were thrown into one, as I always, from a boy, thought | |
they might be. But many other things didn't turn out as I expected." | |
He was silent for several minutes; and Arne thought he wept; but he | |
did not. | |
"In the beginning of our married life, she was quiet and very sad. I | |
had nothing to say to comfort her, and so I was silent. Afterwards, | |
she began sometimes to take to these fidgeting ways which you have, I | |
dare say, noticed in her; yet it was a change, and so I said nothing | |
then, either. But one really happy day, I haven't known ever since I | |
was married, and that's now twenty years...." | |
He broke the stick in two pieces; and then sat for a while looking at | |
them. | |
"When Eli grew bigger, I thought she would be happier among strangers | |
than at home. It was seldom I wished to carry out my own will in | |
anything, and whenever I did, it generally turned out badly; so it | |
was in this case. The mother longed after her child, though only the | |
lake lay between them; and afterwards I saw, too, that Eli's training | |
at the parsonage was in some ways not the right thing for her; but | |
then it was too late: now I think she likes neither father nor | |
mother." | |
He had taken off his cap again; and now his long hair hung down over | |
his eyes; he stroked it back with both hands, and put on his cap as | |
if he were going away; but when, as he was about to rise, he turned | |
towards the house, he checked himself and added, while looking up at | |
the bed-room window. | |
"I thought it better that she and Mathilde shouldn't see each other | |
to say good-bye: that, too, was wrong. I told her the wee bird was | |
dead; for it was my fault, and so I thought it better to confess; but | |
that again was wrong. And so it is with everything: I've always meant | |
to do for the best, but it has always turned out for the worst; and | |
now things have come to such a pass that both wife and daughter speak | |
ill of me, and I'm going here lonely." | |
A servant-girl called out to them that the dinner was becoming cold. | |
Baard rose. "I hear the horses neighing; I think somebody has | |
forgotten them," he said, and went away to the stable to give them | |
some hay. | |
Arne rose, too; he felt as if he hardly knew whether Baard had been | |
speaking or not. | |
XII. | |
A GLIMPSE OF SPRING. | |
Eli felt very weak after the illness. The mother watched by her night | |
and day, and never came down-stairs; the father came up as usual, | |
with his boots off, and leaving his cap outside the door. Arne still | |
remained at the house. He and the father used to sit together in | |
the evening; and Arne began to like him much, for Baard was a | |
well-informed, deep-thinking man, though he seemed afraid of saying | |
what he knew. In his own way, he, too, enjoyed Arne's company, for | |
Arne helped his thoughts and told him of things which were new to | |
him. | |
Eli soon began to sit up part of the day, and as she recovered, she | |
often took little fancies into her head. Thus, one evening when Arne | |
was sitting in the room below, singing songs in a clear, loud voice, | |
the mother came down with a message from Eli, asking him if he would | |
go up-stairs and sing to her, that she might also hear the words. It | |
seemed as if he had been singing to Eli all the time, for when the | |
mother spoke he turned red, and rose as if he would deny having done | |
so, though no one charged him with it. He soon collected himself, | |
however, and replied evasively, that he could sing so very little. | |
The mother said it did not seem so when he was alone. | |
Arne yielded and went. He had not seen Eli since the day he helped to | |
carry her up-stairs; he thought she must be much altered, and he | |
felt half afraid to see her. But when he gently opened the door and | |
went in, he found the room quite dark, and he could see no one. He | |
stopped at the door-way. | |
"Who is it?" Eli asked in a clear, low voice. | |
"It's Arne Kampen," he said in a gentle, guarded tone, so that his | |
words might fall softly. | |
"It was very kind of you to come." | |
"How are you, Eli?" | |
"Thanks, I'm much better now." | |
"Won't you sit down, Arne?" she added after a while, and Arne felt | |
his way to a chair at the foot of the bed. "It did me good to hear | |
you singing; won't you sing a little to me up here?" | |
"If I only knew anything you would like." | |
She was silent a while: then she said, "Sing a hymn." And he sang | |
one: it was the confirmation hymn. When he had finished he heard her | |
weeping, and so he was afraid to sing again; but in a little while | |
she said, "Sing one more." And he sang another: it was the one which | |
is generally sung while the catechumens are standing in the aisle. | |
"How many things I've thought over while I've been lying here," Eli | |
said. He did not know what to answer; and he heard her weeping again | |
in the dark. A clock that was ticking on the wall warned for | |
striking, and then struck. Eli breathed deeply several times, as if | |
she would lighten her breast, and then she said, "One knows so | |
little; I knew neither father nor mother. I haven't been kind to | |
them; and now it seems so sad to hear that hymn." | |
When we talk in the darkness, we speak more faithfully than when we | |
see each other's face; and we also say more. | |
"It does one good to hear you talk so," Arne replied, just | |
remembering what she had said when she was taken ill. | |
She understood what he meant. "If now this had not happened to me," | |
she went on, "God only knows how long I might have gone before I | |
found mother." | |
"She has talked matters over with you lately, then?" | |
"Yes, every day; she has done hardly anything else." | |
"Then, I'm sure you've heard many things." | |
"You may well say so." | |
"I think she spoke of my father?" | |
"Yes." | |
"She remembers him still?" | |
"She remembers him." | |
"He wasn't kind to her." | |
"Poor mother!" | |
"Yet he was worst to himself." | |
They were silent; and Arne had thoughts which he could not utter. Eli | |
was the first to link their words again. | |
"You are said to be like your father." | |
"People say so," he replied evasively. | |
She did not notice the tone of his voice, and so, after a while she | |
returned to the subject. "Could he, too, make songs?" | |
"No." | |
"Sing a song to me ... one that you've made yourself." | |
"I have none," he said; for it was not his custom to confess he had | |
himself composed the songs he sang. | |
"I'm sure you have; and I'm sure, too, you'll sing one of them when I | |
ask you." | |
What he had never done for any one else, he now did for her, as he | |
sang the following song,-- | |
"The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown: | |
'Shall I take them away?' said the Frost, sweeping down. | |
'No; leave them alone | |
Till the blossoms have grown,' | |
Prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown. | |
"The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: | |
'Shall I take them away?' said the Wind, as he swung. | |
'No; leave them alone | |
Till the berries have grown,' | |
Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung. | |
"The Tree bore his fruit in the Midsummer glow: | |
Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?' | |
'Yes; all thou canst see; | |
Take them; all are for thee,' | |
Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low." | |
That song nearly took her breath away. He, too, remained silent after | |
it, as though he had sung more than he could say. | |
Darkness has a strong influence over those who are sitting in it and | |
dare not speak: they are never so near each other as then. If she | |
only turned on the pillow, or moved her hand on the blanket, or | |
breathed a little more heavily, he heard it. | |
"Arne, couldn't you teach me to make songs?" | |
"Did you never try?" | |
"Yes, I have, these last few days; but I can't manage it." | |
"What, then, did you wish to have in them?" | |
"Something about my mother, who loved your father so dearly." | |
"That's a sad subject." | |
"Yes, indeed it is; and I have wept over it." | |
"You shouldn't search for subjects; they come of themselves." | |
"How do they come?" | |
"Just as other dear things come--unexpectedly." | |
They were both silent. "I wonder, Arne, you're longing to go away; | |
you who have such a world of beauty within yourself." | |
"Do _you_ know I am longing?" | |
She did not answer, but lay still a few moments as if in thought. | |
"Arne, you mustn't go away," she said; and the words came warm to his | |
heart. | |
"Well, sometimes I have less mind to go." | |
"Your mother must love you much, I'm sure. I must see your mother." | |
"Go over to Kampen, when you're well again." | |
And all at once, he fancied her sitting in the bright room at Kampen, | |
looking out on the mountains; his chest began to heave, and the blood | |
rushed to his face. | |
"It's warm in here," he said, rising. | |
She heard him rise. "Are you going, Arne?" He sat down again. | |
"You must come over to see us oftener; mother's so fond of you." | |
"I should like to come myself, too; ... but still I must have some | |
errand." | |
Eli lay silent for a while, as if she was turning over something in | |
her mind. "I believe," she said, "mother has something to ask you | |
about." ... | |
They both felt the room was becoming very hot; he wiped his brow, and | |
he heard her rise in the bed. No sound could be heard either in the | |
room or down-stairs, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. There | |
was no moon, and the darkness was deep; when he looked through the | |
green window, it seemed to him as if he was looking into a wood; when | |
he looked towards Eli he could see nothing, but his thoughts went | |
over to her, and then his heart throbbed till he could himself hear | |
its beating. Before his eyes flickered bright sparks; in his ears | |
came a rushing sound; still faster throbbed his heart: he felt he | |
must rise or say something. But then she exclaimed, | |
"How I wish it were summer!" | |
"That it were summer?" And he heard again the sound of the | |
cattle-bells, the horn from the mountains, and the singing from the | |
valleys; and saw the fresh green foliage, the Swart-water glittering | |
in the sunbeams, the houses rocking in it, and Eli coming out and | |
sitting on the shore, just as she did that evening. "If it were | |
summer," she said, "and I were sitting on the hill, I think I could | |
sing a song." | |
He smiled gladly, and asked, "What would it be about?" | |
"About something bright; about--well, I hardly know what myself." ... | |
"Tell me, Eli!" He rose in glad excitement; but, on second thoughts, | |
sat down again. | |
"No; not for all the world!" she said, laughing. | |
"I sang to you when you asked me." | |
"Yes, I know you did; but I can't tell you this; no! no!" | |
"Eli, do you think I would laugh at the little verse you have made?" | |
"No, I don't think you would, Arne; but it isn't anything I've made | |
myself." | |
"Oh, it's by somebody else then?" | |
"Yes." | |
"Then, you can surely say it to me." | |
"No, no, I can't; don't ask me again, Arne!" | |
The last words were almost inaudible; it seemed as if she had hidden | |
her head under the bedclothes. | |
"Eli, now you're not kind to me as I was to you," he said, rising. | |
"But, Arne, there's a difference ... you don't understand me ... but | |
it was ... I don't know ... another time ... don't be offended with | |
me, Arne! don't go away from me!" She began to weep. | |
"Eli, what's the matter?" It came over him like sunshine. "Are you | |
ill?" Though he asked, he did not believe she was. She still wept; he | |
felt he must draw nearer or go quite away. "Eli." He listened. "Eli." | |
"Yes." | |
She checked her weeping. But he did not know what to say more, and | |
was silent. | |
"What do you want?" she whispered, half turning towards him. | |
"It's something--" | |
His voice trembled, and he stopped. | |
"What is it?" | |
"You mustn't refuse ... I would ask you...." | |
"Is it the song?" | |
"No ... Eli, I wish so much...." He heard her breathing fast and | |
deeply ... "I wish so much ... to hold one of your hands." | |
She did not answer; he listened intently--drew nearer, and clasped a | |
warm little hand which lay on the coverlet. | |
Then steps were heard coming up-stairs; they came nearer and nearer; | |
the door was opened; and Arne unclasped his hand. It was the mother, | |
who came in with a light. "I think you're sitting too long in the | |
dark," she said, putting the candlestick on the table. But neither | |
Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned her face to the pillow, | |
and he shaded his eyes with his hand. "Well, it pains a little at | |
first, but it soon passes off," said the mother. | |
Arne looked on the floor for something which he had not dropped, and | |
then went down-stairs. | |
The next day, he heard that Eli intended to come down in the | |
afternoon. He put his tools together, and said good-bye. When she | |
came down he had gone. | |
XIII. | |
MARGIT CONSULTS THE CLERGYMAN. | |
Up between the mountains, the spring comes late. The post, who in | |
winter passes along the high-road thrice a week, in April passes only | |
once; and the highlanders know then that outside, the snow is | |
shovelled away, the ice broken, the steamers are running, and the | |
plough is struck into the earth. Here, the snow still lies six feet | |
deep; the cattle low in their stalls; the birds arrive, but feel cold | |
and hide themselves. Occasionally some traveller arrives, saying he | |
has left his carriage down in the valley; he brings flowers, which he | |
examines; he picked them by the wayside. The people watch the advance | |
of the season, talk over their matters, and look up at the sun and | |
round about, to see how much he is able to do each day. They scatter | |
ashes on the snow, and think of those who are now picking flowers. | |
It was at this time of year, old Margit Kampen went one day to the | |
parsonage, and asked whether she might speak to "father." She was | |
invited into the study, where the clergyman,--a slender, fair-haired, | |
gentle-looking man, with large eyes and spectacles,--received her | |
kindly, recognized her, and asked her to sit down. | |
"Is there something the matter with Arne again?" he inquired, as if | |
Arne had often been a subject of conversation between them. | |
"Oh, dear, yes! I haven't anything wrong to say about him; but yet | |
it's so sad," said Margit, looking deeply grieved. | |
"Has that longing come back again!" | |
"Worse than ever. I can hardly think he'll even stay with me till | |
spring comes up here." | |
"But he has promised never to go away from you." | |
"That's true; but, dear me! he must now be his own master; and if his | |
mind's set upon going away, go, he must. But whatever will become of | |
me then?" | |
"Well, after all, I don't think he will leave you." | |
"Well, perhaps not; but still, if he isn't happy at home? am I then | |
to have it upon my conscience that I stand in his way? Sometimes I | |
feel as if I ought even to ask him to leave." | |
"How do you know he is longing now, more than ever?" | |
"Oh,--by many things. Since the middle of the winter, he hasn't | |
worked out in the parish a single day; but he has been to the town | |
three times, and has stayed a long while each time. He scarcely ever | |
talks now while he is at work, but he often used to do. He'll sit for | |
hours alone at the little up-stairs window, looking towards the | |
ravine, and away over the mountains; he'll sit there all Sunday | |
afternoon, and often when it's moonlight he sits there till late in | |
the night." | |
"Does he never read to you?" | |
"Yes, of course, he reads and sings to me every Sunday; but he seems | |
rather in a hurry, save now and then when he gives almost too much of | |
the thing." | |
"Does he never talk over matters with you then?" | |
"Well, yes; but it's so seldom that I sit and weep alone between | |
whiles. Then I dare say he notices it, for he begins talking, but | |
it's only about trifles; never about anything serious." | |
The Clergyman walked up and down the room; then he stopped and asked, | |
"But why, then, don't you talk to him about his matters?" | |
For a long while she gave no answer; she sighed several times, looked | |
downwards and sideways, doubled up her handkerchief, and at last | |
said, "I've come here to speak to you, father, about something that's | |
a great burden on my mind." | |
"Speak freely; it will relieve you." | |
"Yes, I know it will; for I've borne it alone now these many years, | |
and it grows heavier each year." | |
"Well, what is it, my good Margit?" | |
There was a pause, and then she said, "I've greatly sinned against my | |
son." | |
She began weeping. The Clergyman came close to her; "Confess it," he | |
said; "and we will pray together that it may be forgiven." | |
Margit sobbed and wiped her eyes, but began weeping again when she | |
tried to speak. The Clergyman tried to comfort her, saying she could | |
not have done anything very sinful, she doubtless was too hard upon | |
herself, and so on. But Margit continued weeping, and could not begin | |
her confession till the Clergyman seated himself by her side, and | |
spoke still more encouragingly to her. Then after a while she began, | |
"The boy was ill-used when a child; and so he got this mind for | |
travelling. Then he met with Christian--he who has grown so rich over | |
there where they dig gold. Christian gave him so many books that he | |
got quite a scholar; they used to sit together in the long evenings; | |
and when Christian went away Arne wanted to go after him. But just at | |
that time, the father died, and the lad promised never to leave me. | |
But I was like a hen that's got a duck's egg to brood; when my | |
duckling had burst his shell, he would go out on the wide water, and | |
I was left on the bank, calling after him. If he didn't go away | |
himself, yet his heart went away in his songs, and every morning I | |
expected to find his bed empty. | |
"Then a letter from foreign parts came for him, and I felt sure it | |
must be from Christian. God forgive me, but I kept it back! I thought | |
there would be no more, but another came; and, as I had kept the | |
first, I thought I must keep the second, too. But, dear me! it seemed | |
as if they would burn a hole through the box where I had put them; | |
and my thoughts were there from as soon as I opened my eyes in the | |
morning till late at night when I shut them. And then,--did you ever | |
hear of anything worse!--a third letter came. I held it in my hand a | |
quarter of an hour; I kept it in my bosom three days, weighing in my | |
mind whether I should give it to him or put it with the others; but | |
then I thought perhaps it would lure him away from me, and so I | |
couldn't help putting it with the others. But now I felt miserable | |
every day, not only about the letters in the box, but also for fear | |
another might come. I was afraid of everybody who came to the house; | |
when we were sitting together inside, I trembled whenever I heard the | |
door go, for fear it might be somebody with a letter, and then he | |
might get it. When he was away in the parish, I went about at home | |
thinking he might perhaps get a letter while there, and then it would | |
tell him about those that had already come. When I saw him coming | |
home, I used to look at his face while he was yet a long way off, | |
and, oh, dear! how happy I felt when he smiled; for then I knew he | |
had got no letter. He had grown so handsome; like his father, only | |
fairer, and more gentle-looking. And, then, he had such a voice; when | |
he sat at the door in the evening-sun, singing towards the mountain | |
ridge, and listening to the echo, I felt that live without him. I | |
never could. If I only saw him, or knew he was somewhere near, and he | |
seemed pretty happy, and would only give me a word now and then, I | |
wanted nothing more on earth, and I wouldn't have shed one tear | |
less. | |
"But just when he seemed to be getting on better with people, and | |
felt happier among them, there came a message from the post-office | |
that a fourth letter had come; and in it were two hundred dollars! I | |
thought I should have fell flat down where I stood: what could I do? | |
The letter, I might get rid of, 'twas true; but the money? For two or | |
three nights I couldn't sleep for it; a little while I left it | |
up-stairs, then, in the cellar behind a barrel, and once I was so | |
overdone that I laid it in the window so that he might find it. But | |
when I heard him coming, I took it back again. At last, however, I | |
found a way: I gave him the money and told him it had been put out at | |
interest in my mother's lifetime. He laid it out upon the land, just | |
as I thought he would; and so it wasn't wasted. But that same | |
harvest-time, when he was sitting at home one evening, he began | |
talking about Christian, and wondering why he had so clean forgotten | |
him. | |
"Now again the wound opened, and the money burned me so that I was | |
obliged to go out of the room. I had sinned, and yet my sin had | |
answered no end. Since then, I have hardly dared to look into his | |
eyes, blessed as they are. | |
"The mother who has sinned against her own child is the most | |
miserable of all mothers; ... and yet I did it only out of love.... | |
And so, I dare say, I shall be punished accordingly by the loss of | |
what I love most. For since the middle of the winter, he has again | |
taken to singing the tune that he used to sing when he was longing to | |
go away; he has sung it ever since he was a lad, and whenever I hear | |
it I grow pale. Then I feel I could give up all for him; and only see | |
this." She took from her bosom a piece of paper, unfolded it and gave | |
it to the Clergyman. "He now and then writes something here; I think | |
it's some words to that tune.... I brought it with me; for I can't | |
myself read such small writing ... will you look and see if there | |
isn't something written about his going away...." | |
There was only one whole verse on the paper. For the second verse, | |
there were only a few half-finished lines, as if the song was one he | |
had forgotten, and was now coming into his memory again, line by | |
line. The first verse ran thus,-- | |
"What shall I see if I ever go | |
Over the mountains high? | |
Now I can see but the peaks of snow, | |
Crowning the cliffs where the pine trees grow, | |
Waiting and longing to rise | |
Nearer the beckoning skies." | |
"Is there anything about his going away?" asked Margit. | |
"Yes, it is about that," replied the Clergyman, putting the paper | |
down. | |
"Wasn't I sure of it! Ah me! I knew the tune!" She sat with folded | |
hands, looking intently and anxiously into the Clergyman's face, | |
while tear after tear fell down her cheeks. | |
The Clergyman knew no more what to do in the matter than she did. | |
"Well, I think the lad must be left alone in this case," he said. | |
"Life can't be made different for his sake; but what he will find in | |
it must depend upon himself; now, it seems, he wishes to go away in | |
search of life's good." | |
"But isn't that just what the old crone did?" | |
"The old crone?" | |
"Yes; she who went away to fetch the sunshine, instead of making | |
windows in the wall to let it in." | |
The Clergyman was much astonished at Margit's words, and so he had | |
been before, when she came speak to him on this subject; but, | |
indeed, she had thought of hardly anything else for eight years. | |
"Do you think he'll go away? what am I to do? and the money? and the | |
letters?" All these questions crowded upon her at once. | |
"Well, as to the letters, that wasn't quite right. Keeping back what | |
belonged to your son, can't be justified. But it was still worse to | |
make a fellow Christian appear in a bad light when he didn't deserve | |
it; and especially as he was one whom Arne was so fond of, and who | |
loved him so dearly in return. But we will pray God to forgive you; | |
we will both pray." | |
Margit still sat with her hands folded, and her head bent down. | |
"How I should pray him to forgive me, if I only knew he would stay!" | |
she said: surely, she was confounding our Lord with Arne. The | |
Clergyman, however, appeared as if he did not notice it. | |
"Do you intend to confess it to him directly?" he asked. | |
She looked down, and said in a low voice, "I should much like to wait | |
a little if I dared." | |
The Clergyman turned aside with a smile, and asked, "Don't you | |
believe your sin becomes greater, the longer you delay confessing | |
it?" | |
She pulled her handkerchief about with both hands, folded it into a | |
very small square, and tried to fold it into a still smaller one, but | |
could not. | |
"If I confess about the letters, I'm afraid he'll go away." | |
"Then, you dare not rely upon our Lord?" | |
"Oh, yes, I do, indeed," she said hurriedly; and then she added in a | |
low voice, "but still, if he were to go away from me?" | |
"Then, I see you are more afraid of his going away than of continuing | |
to sin?" | |
Margit had unfolded her handkerchief again; and now she put it to her | |
eyes, for she began weeping. The Clergyman remained for a while | |
looking at her silently; then he went on, "Why, then, did you tell me | |
all this, if it was not to lead to anything?" He waited long, but she | |
did not answer. "Perhaps you thought your sin would become less when | |
you had confessed it?" | |
"Yes, I did," she said, almost in a whisper, while her head bent | |
still lower upon her breast. | |
The Clergyman smiled and rose. "Well, well, my good Margit, take | |
courage; I hope all will yet turn out for the best." | |
"Do you think so?" she asked, looking up; and a sad smile passed over | |
her tear-marked face. | |
"Yes, I do; I believe God will no longer try you. You will have joy | |
in your old age, I am sure." | |
"If I might only keep the joy I have!" she said; and the Clergyman | |
thought she seemed unable to fancy any greater happiness than living | |
in that constant anxiety. He smiled and filled his pipe. | |
"If we had but a little girl, now, who could take hold on him, then | |
I'm sure he would stay." | |
"You may be sure I've thought of that," she said, shaking her head. | |
"Well, there's Eli Boeen; she might be one who would please him." | |
"You may be sure I've thought of that." She rocked the upper part of | |
her body backwards and forwards. | |
"If we could contrive that they might oftener see each other here at | |
the parsonage?" | |
"You may be sure I've thought of that!" She clapped her hands and | |
looked at the Clergyman with a smile all over her face. He stopped | |
while he was lighting his pipe. | |
"Perhaps this, after all, was what brought you here to-day?" | |
She looked down, put two fingers into the folded handkerchief, and | |
pulled out one corner of it. | |
"Ah, well, God help me, perhaps it was this I wanted." | |
The Clergyman walked up and down, and smiled. "Perhaps, too, you came | |
for the same thing the last time you were here?" | |
She pulled out the corner of the handkerchief still farther, and | |
hesitated awhile. "Well, as you ask me, perhaps I did--yes." | |
The Clergyman went on smoking. "Then, too, it was to carry this point | |
that you confessed at last the thing you had on your conscience." | |
She spread out the handkerchief to fold it up smoothly again. "No; | |
ah, no; that weighed so heavily upon me, I felt I must tell it to | |
you, father." | |
"Well, well, my dear Margit, we will talk no more about it." | |
Then, while he was walking up and down, he suddenly added, "Do you | |
think you would of yourself have come out to me with this wish of | |
yours?" | |
"Well,--I had already come out with so much, that I dare say this, | |
too, would have come out at last." | |
The Clergyman laughed, but he did not tell her what he thought. After | |
a while he stood still. "Well, we will manage this matter for you, | |
Margit," he said. | |
"God bless you for it!" She rose to go, for she understood he had now | |
said all he wished to say. | |
"And we will look after them a little." | |
"I don't know how to thank you enough," she said, taking his hand and | |
courtesying. | |
"God be with you!" he replied. | |
She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, went towards the door, | |
courtesied again, and said, "Good bye," while she slowly opened and | |
shut it. But so lightly as she went towards Kampen that day, she had | |
not gone for many, many years. When she had come far enough to see | |
the thick smoke curling up cheerfully from the chimney, she blessed | |
the house, the whole place, the Clergyman and Arne,--and remembered | |
they were going to have her favorite dish, smoked ham, for dinner. | |
XIV. | |
FINDING A LOST SONG. | |
Kampen was a beautiful place. It was situated in the middle of a | |
plain, bordered on the one side by a ravine, and on the other, by the | |
high-road; just beyond the road was a thick wood, with a mountain | |
ridge rising behind it, while high above all stood blue mountains | |
crowned with snow. On the other side of the ravine also was a wide | |
range of mountains, running round the Swart-water on the side where | |
Boeen was situated: it grew higher as it ran towards Kampen, but then | |
turned suddenly sidewards, forming the broad valley called the | |
Lower-tract, which began here, for Kampen was the last place in the | |
Upper-tract. | |
The front door of the dwelling-house opened towards the road, which | |
was about two thousand paces off, and a path with leafy birch-trees | |
on both sides led thither. In front of the house was a little garden, | |
which Arne managed according to the rules given in his books. The | |
cattle-houses and barns were nearly all new-built, and stood to the | |
left hand, forming a square. The house was two stories high, and was | |
painted red, with white window-frames and doors; the roof was of turf | |
with many small plants growing upon it, and on the ridge was a | |
vane-spindle, where turned an iron cock with a high raised tail. | |
Spring had come to the mountain-tracts. It was Sunday morning; the | |
weather was mild and calm, but the air was somewhat heavy, and the | |
mist lay low on the forest, though Margit said it would rise later in | |
the day. Arne had read the sermon, and sung the hymns to his mother, | |
and he felt better for them himself. Now he stood ready dressed to go | |
to the parsonage. When he opened the door the fresh smell of the | |
leaves met him; the garden lay dewy and bright in the morning breeze, | |
but from the ravine sounded the roaring of the waterfall, now in | |
lower, then again in louder booms, till all around seemed to tremble. | |
Arne walked upwards. As he went farther from the fall, its booming | |
became less awful, and soon it lay over the landscape like the deep | |
tones of an organ. | |
"God be with him wherever he goes!" the mother said, opening the | |
window and looking after him till he disappeared behind the shrubs. | |
The mist had gradually risen, the sun shone bright, the fields and | |
garden became full of fresh life, and the things Arne had sown and | |
tended grew and sent up odor and gladness to his mother. "Spring is | |
beautiful to those who have had a long winter," she said, looking | |
away over the fields, as if in thought. | |
Arne had no positive errand at the parsonage, but he thought he might | |
go there to ask about the newspapers which he shared with the | |
Clergyman. Recently he had read the names of several Norwegians who | |
had been successful in gold digging in America, and among them was | |
Christian. His relations had long since left the place, but Arne had | |
lately heard a rumor that they expected him to come home soon. About | |
this, also, Arne thought he might hear at the parsonage; and if | |
Christian had already returned, he would go down and see him between | |
spring and hay-harvest. These thoughts occupied his mind till he came | |
far enough to see the Swart-water and Boeen on the other side. There, | |
too, the mist had risen, but it lay lingering on the mountain-sides, | |
while their peaks rose clear above, and the sunbeams played on the | |
plain; on the right hand, the shadow of the wood darkened the water, | |
but before the houses the lake had strewed its white sand on the flat | |
shore. All at once, Arne fancied himself in the red-painted house | |
with the white doors and windows, which he had taken as a model for | |
his own. He did not think of those first gloomy days he had passed | |
there, but only of that summer they both saw--he and Eli--up beside | |
her sick-bed. He had not been there since; nor would he have gone for | |
the whole world. If his thoughts but touched on that time, he turned | |
crimson; yet he thought of it many times a day; and if anything could | |
have driven him away from the parish, it was this. | |
He strode onwards, as if to flee from his thoughts; but the farther | |
he went, the nearer he came to Boeen, and the more he looked at it. | |
The mist had disappeared, the sky shone bright between the frame of | |
mountains, the birds floated in the sunny air, calling to each other, | |
and the fields laughed with millions of flowers; here no thundering | |
waterfall bowed the gladness to submissive awe, but full of life it | |
gambolled and sang without check or pause. | |
Arne walked till he became glowing hot; then he threw himself down on | |
the grass beneath the shadow of a hill and looked towards Boeen, but | |
he soon turned away again to avoid seeing it. Then he heard a song | |
above him, so wonderfully clear as he had never heard a song before. | |
It came floating over the meadows, mingled with the chattering of the | |
birds, and he had scarcely recognized the tune ere he recognized the | |
words also: the tune was the one he loved better than any; the words | |
were those he had borne in his mind ever since he was a boy, and had | |
forgotten that same day they were brought forth. He sprang up as if | |
he would catch them, but then stopped and listened while verse after | |
verse came streaming down to him:-- | |
"What shall I see if I ever go | |
Over the mountains high? | |
Now, I can see but the peaks of snow, | |
Crowning the cliffs where the pine-trees grow, | |
Waiting and longing to rise | |
Nearer the beckoning skies. | |
"Th' eagle is rising afar away, | |
Over the mountains high, | |
Rowing along in the radiant day | |
With mighty strokes to his distant prey, | |
Where he will, swooping downwards, | |
Where he will, sailing onwards. | |
"Apple-tree, longest thou not to go | |
Over the mountains high? | |
Gladly thou growest in summer's glow, | |
Patiently waitest through winter's snow: | |
Though birds on thy branches swing, | |
Thou knowest not what they sing. | |
"He who has twenty years longed to flee | |
Over the mountains high-- | |
He who beyond them, never will see, | |
Smaller, and smaller, each year must be: | |
He hears what the birds, say | |
While on thy boughs they play. | |
"Birds, with your chattering, why did ye come | |
Over the mountains high? | |
Beyond, in a sunnier land ye could roam, | |
And nearer to heaven could build your home; | |
Why have ye come to bring | |
Longing, without your wing? | |
"Shall I, then, never, never flee | |
Over the mountains high? | |
Rocky walls, will ye always be | |
Prisons until ye are tombs for me?-- | |
Until I lie at your feet | |
Wrapped in my winding-sheet? | |
"Away! I will away, afar away, | |
Over the mountains high! | |
Here, I am sinking lower each day, | |
Though my Spirit has chosen the loftiest way; | |
Let her in freedom fly; | |
Not, beat on the walls and die! | |
"_Once_, I know, I shall journey far | |
Over the mountains high. | |
Lord, is thy door already ajar?-- | |
Dear is the home where thy saved ones are;-- | |
But bar it awhile from me, | |
And help me to long for Thee." | |
Arne stood listening till the sound of the last verse, the last words | |
died away; then he heard the birds sing and play again, but he dared | |
not move. Yet he must find out who had been singing, and he lifted | |
his foot and walked on, so carefully that he did not hear the grass | |
rustle. A little butterfly settled on a flower at his feet, flew up | |
and settled a little way before him, flew up and settled again, and | |
so on all over the hill. But soon he came to a thick bush and | |
stopped; for a bird flew out of it with a frightened "quitt, quitt!" | |
and rushed away over the sloping hill-side. Then she who was sitting | |
there looked up; Arne stooped low down, his heart throbbed till he | |
heard its beats, he held his breath, and was afraid to stir a leaf; | |
for it was Eli whom he saw. | |
After a long while he ventured to look up again; he wished to draw | |
nearer, but he thought the bird perhaps had its nest under the bush, | |
and he was afraid he might tread on it. Then he peeped between the | |
leaves as they blew aside and closed again. The sun shone full upon | |
her. She wore a close-fitting black dress with long white sleeves, | |
and a straw hat like those worn by boys. In her lap a book was lying | |
with a heap of wild flowers upon it; her right hand was listlessly | |
playing with them as if she were in thought, and her left supported | |
her head. She was looking away towards the place where the bird had | |
flown, and she seemed as if she had been weeping. | |
Anything more beautiful, Arne had never seen or dreamed of in all | |
his life; the sun, too, had spread its gold over her and the place; | |
and the song still hovered round her, so that Arne thought, | |
breathed--nay, even his heart beat, in time with it. It seemed so | |
strange that the song which bore all his longing, _he_ had forgotten, | |
but _she_ had found. | |
A tawny wasp flew round her in circles many times, till at last she | |
saw it and frightened it away with a flower-stalk, which she put up | |
as often as it came before her. Then she took up the book and opened | |
it, but she soon closed it again, sat as before, and began to hum | |
another song. He could hear it was "The Tree's early leaf-buds," | |
though she often made mistakes, as if she did not quite remember | |
either the words or the tune. The verse she knew best was the last | |
one, and so she often repeated it; but she sang it thus:-- | |
"The Tree bore his berries, so mellow and red: | |
'May I gather thy berries?' a sweet maiden said. | |
'Yes; all thou canst see; | |
Take them; all are for thee.' | |
Said the Tree--trala--lala, trala, lala--said." | |
Then she suddenly sprang up, scattering all the flowers around her, | |
and sang till the tune trembled through the air, and might have been | |
heard at Boeen. Arne had thought of coming forwards when she began | |
singing; he was just about to do so when she jumped up; then he felt | |
he _must_ come, but she went away. Should he call? No,--yes! | |
No!--There she skipped over the hillocks singing; here her hat fell | |
off, there she took it up again; here she picked a flower, there she | |
stood deep in the highest grass. | |
"Shall I call? She's looking up here!" | |
He stooped down. It was a long while ere he ventured to peep out | |
again; at first he only raised his head; he could not see her: he | |
rose to his knees; still he could not see her: he stood upright; no | |
she was gone. He thought himself a miserable fellow; and some of the | |
tales he had heard at the nutting-party came into his mind. | |
Now he would not go to the parsonage. He would not have the | |
newspapers; would not know anything about Christian. He would not go | |
home; he would go nowhere; he would do nothing. | |
"Oh, God, I am so unhappy!" he said. | |
He sprang up again and sang "The Tree's early leaf-buds" till the | |
mountains resounded. | |
Then he sat down where she had been sitting, and took up the flowers | |
she had picked, but he flung them away again down the hill on every | |
side. Then he wept. It was long since he had done so; this struck | |
him, and made him weep still more. He would go far away, that he | |
would; no, he would not go away! He thought he was very unhappy; but | |
when he asked himself why, he could hardly tell. He looked round. It | |
was a lovely day; and the Sabbath rest lay over all. The lake was | |
without a ripple; from the houses the curling smoke had begun to | |
rise; the partridges one after another had ceased calling, and though | |
the little birds continued their twittering, they went towards the | |
shade of the wood; the dewdrops were gone, and the grass looked | |
grave; not a breath of wind stirred the drooping leaves; and the sun | |
was near the meridian. Almost before he knew, he found himself seated | |
putting together a little song; a sweet tune offered itself for it; | |
and while his heart was strangely full of gentle feelings, the tune | |
went and came till words linked themselves to it and begged to be | |
sung, if only for once. | |
He sang them gently, sitting where Eli had sat: | |
"He went in the forest the whole day long, | |
The whole day long; | |
For there he had heard such a wondrous song, | |
A wondrous song. | |
"He fashioned a flute from a willow spray, | |
A willow spray, | |
To see if within it the sweet tune lay, | |
The sweet tune lay. | |
"It whispered and told him its name at last, | |
Its name at last; | |
But then, while he listened, away it passed, | |
Away it passed. | |
"But oft when he slumbered, again it stole, | |
Again it stole, | |
With touches of love upon his soul, | |
Upon his soul. | |
"Then he tried to catch it, and keep it fast, | |
And keep it fast; | |
But he woke, and away i' the night it passed, | |
I' the night it passed. | |
"'My Lord, let me pass in the night, I pray, | |
In the night, I pray; | |
For the tune has taken my heart away, | |
My heart away.' | |
"Then answered the Lord, 'It is thy friend, | |
It is thy friend, | |
Though not for an hour shall thy longing end, | |
Thy longing end; | |
"'And all the others are nothing to thee, | |
Nothing to thee, | |
To this that thou seekest and never shalt see, | |
Never shalt see.'" | |
XV. | |
SOMEBODY'S FUTURE HOME. | |
"Good bye," said Margit at the Clergyman's door. It was a Sunday | |
evening in advancing summer-time; the Clergyman had returned from | |
church, and Margit had been sitting with him till now, when it was | |
seven o'clock. "Good bye, Margit," said the Clergyman. She hurried | |
down the door-steps and into the yard; for she had seen Eli Boeen | |
playing there with her brother and the Clergyman's son. | |
"Good evening," said Margit, stopping; "and God bless you all." | |
"Good evening," answered Eli. She blushed crimson and wanted to leave | |
off the game; the boys begged her to keep on, but she persuaded them | |
to let her go for that evening. | |
"I almost think I know you," said Margit. | |
"Very likely." | |
"Isn't it Eli Boeen?" | |
Yes, it was. | |
"Dear me! you're Eli Boeen; yes, now I see you're like your mother." | |
Eli's auburn hair had come unfastened, and hung down over her neck | |
and shoulders; she was hot and as red as a cherry, her bosom | |
fluttered up and down, and she could scarcely speak, but laughed | |
because she was so out of breath. | |
"Well, young folks should be merry," said Margit, feeling happy as | |
she looked at her. "P'r'aps you don't know me?" | |
If Margit had not been her senior, Eli would probably have asked her | |
name, but now she only said she did not remember having seen her | |
before. | |
"No; I dare say not: old folks don't go out much. But my son, p'r'aps | |
you know a little--Arne Kampen; I'm his mother," said Margit, with a | |
stolen glance at Eli, who suddenly looked grave and breathed slowly. | |
"I'm pretty sure he worked at Boeen once." | |
Yes, Eli thought he did. | |
"It's a fine evening; we turned our hay this morning, and got it in | |
before I came away; it's good weather indeed for everything." | |
"There will be a good hay-harvest this year," Eli suggested. | |
"Yes, you may well say that; everything's getting on well at Boeen, I | |
suppose?" | |
"We have got in all our hay." | |
"Oh, yes, I dare say you have; your folks work well, and they have | |
plenty of help. Are you going home to-night?" | |
No, she was not. | |
"Couldn't you go a little way with me? I so seldom have anybody to | |
talk to; and it will be all the same to you, I suppose?" | |
Eli excused herself, saying she had not her jacket on. | |
"Well, it's a shame to ask such a thing the first time of seeing | |
anybody; but one must put up with old folks' ways." | |
Eli said she would go; she would only fetch her jacket first. | |
It was a close-fitting jacket, which when fastened looked like a | |
dress with a bodice; but now she fastened only two of the lower | |
hooks, because she was so hot. Her fine linen bodice had a little | |
turned-down collar, and was fastened with a silver stud in the shape | |
of a bird with spread wings. Just such a one, Nils, the tailor, wore | |
the first time Margit danced with him. | |
"A pretty stud," she said, looking at it. | |
"Mother gave it me." | |
"Ah, I thought so," Margit said, helping her with the jacket. | |
They walked onwards over the fields. The hay was lying in heaps; and | |
Margit took up a handful, smelled it, and thought it was very good. | |
She asked about the cattle at the parsonage, and this led her to ask | |
also about the live stock at Boeen, and then she told how much they | |
had at Kampen. "The farm has improved very much these last few years, | |
and it can still be made twice as large. He keeps twelve milch-cows | |
now, and he could keep several more, but he reads so many books and | |
manages according to them, and so he will have the cows fed in such a | |
first-rate way." | |
Eli, as might be expected, said nothing to all this; and Margit then | |
asked her age. She was above twenty. | |
"Have you helped in the house-work? Not much, I dare say--you look so | |
spruce." | |
Yes, she had helped a good deal, especially of late. | |
"Well, it's best to use one's self to do a little of everything; when | |
one gets a large house of one's own, there's a great deal to be done. | |
But, of course, when one finds good help already in the house before | |
her, why, it doesn't matter so much." | |
Now Eli thought she must go back; for they had gone a long way beyond | |
the grounds of the parsonage. | |
"It still wants some hours to sunset; it would be kind it you would | |
chat a little longer with me." And Eli went on. | |
Then Margit began to talk about Arne. "I don't know if you know much | |
of him. He could teach you something about everything, he could; dear | |
me, what a deal he has read!" | |
Eli owned she knew he had read a great deal. | |
"Yes; and that's only the least thing that can be said of him; but | |
the way he has behaved to his mother all his days, that's something | |
more, that is. If the old saying is true, that he who's good to his | |
mother is good to his wife, the one Arne chooses won't have much to | |
complain of." | |
Eli asked why they had painted the house before them with grey paint. | |
"Ah, I suppose they had no other; I only wish Arne may sometime be | |
rewarded for all his kindness to his mother. When he has a wife, she | |
ought to be kind-hearted as well as a good scholar. What are you | |
looking for, child?" | |
"I only dropped a little twig I had." | |
"Dear me! I think of a many things, you may be sure, while I sit | |
alone in yonder wood. If ever he takes home a wife who brings | |
blessings to house and man, then I know many a poor soul will be glad | |
that day." | |
They were both silent, and walked on without looking at each other; | |
but soon Eli stopped. | |
"What's the matter?" | |
"One of my shoe-strings has come down." | |
Margit waited a long while till at last the string was tied. | |
"He has such queer ways," she began again; "he got cowed while he was | |
a child, and so he has got into the way of thinking over everything | |
by himself, and those sort of folks haven't courage to come forward." | |
Now Eli must indeed go back, but Margit said that | |
Kampen was only half a mile off; indeed, not so far, and that Eli | |
must see it, as too she was so near. But Eli thought it would be late | |
that day. | |
"There'll be sure to be somebody to bring you home." | |
"No, no," Eli answered quickly, and would go back. | |
"Arne's not at home, it's true," said Margit; "but there's sure to be | |
somebody else about;" and Eli had now less objection to it. | |
"If only I shall not be too late," she said. | |
"Yes, if we stand here much longer talking about it, it may be too | |
late, I dare say." And they went on. "Being brought up at the | |
Clergyman's, you've read a great deal, I dare say?" | |
Yes, she had. | |
"It'll be of good use when you have a husband who knows less." | |
No; that, Eli thought she would never have. | |
"Well, no; p'r'aps, after all, it isn't the best thing; but still | |
folks about here haven't much learning." | |
Eli asked if it was Kampen, she could see straight before her. | |
"No; that's Gransetren, the next place to the wood; when we come | |
farther up you'll see Kampen. It's a pleasant place to live at, is | |
Kampen, you may be sure; it seems a little out of the way, it's true; | |
but that doesn't matter much, after all." | |
Eli asked what made the smoke that rose from the wood. | |
"It comes from a houseman's cottage, belonging to Kampen: a man named | |
Opplands-Knut lives there. He went about lonely till Arne gave him | |
that piece of land to clear. Poor Arne! he knows what it is to be | |
lonely." | |
Soon they came far enough to see Kampen. | |
"Is that Kampen?" asked Eli, standing still and pointing. | |
"Yes, it is," said the mother; and she, too, stood still. The sun | |
shone full in their faces, and they shaded their eyes as they looked | |
down over the plain. In the middle of it stood the red-painted house | |
with its white window-frames; rich green cornfields lay between the | |
pale new-mown meadows, where some of the hay was already set in | |
stacks; near the cow-house, all was life and stir; the cows, sheep | |
and goats were coming home; their bells tinkled, the dogs barked, and | |
the milkmaids called; while high above all, rose the grand tune of | |
the waterfall from the ravine. The farther Eli went, the more this | |
filled her ears, till at last it seemed quite awful to her; it | |
whizzed and roared through her head, her heart throbbed violently, | |
and she became bewildered and dizzy, and then felt so subdued that | |
she unconsciously began to walk with such small timid steps that | |
Margit begged her to come on a little faster. She started. "I never | |
heard anything like that fall," she said; "I'm quite frightened." | |
"You'll soon get used to it; and at last you'll even miss it." | |
"Do you think so?" | |
"Well, you'll see." And Margit smiled. | |
"Come, now, we'll first look at the cattle," she said, turning | |
downwards from the road, into the path. "Those trees on each side, | |
Nils planted; he wanted to have everything nice, did Nils; and so | |
does Arne; look, there's the garden he has laid out." | |
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Eli, going quickly towards the garden | |
fence. | |
"We'll look at that by-and-by," said Margit; "now we must go over to | |
look at the creatures before they're locked in--" But Eli did not | |
hear, for all her mind was turned to the garden. She stood looking | |
at it till Margit called her once more; as she came along, she gave a | |
furtive glance through the windows; but she could see no one inside. | |
They both went upon the barn steps and looked down at the cows, as | |
they passed lowing into the cattle-house. Margit named them one by | |
one to Eli, and told her how much milk each gave, and which would | |
calve in the summer, and which would not. The sheep were counted and | |
penned in; they were of a large foreign breed, raised from two lambs | |
which Arne had got from the South. "He aims at all such things," said | |
Margit, "though one wouldn't think it of him." Then they went into | |
the barn, and looked at some hay which had been brought in, and Eli | |
had to smell it; "for such hay isn't to be found everywhere," Margit | |
said. She pointed from the barn-hatch to the fields, and told what | |
kind of seed was sown on them, and how much of each kind. "No less | |
than three fields are new-cleared, and now, this first year, they're | |
set with potatoes, just for the sake of the ground; over there, too, | |
the land's new-cleared, but I suppose that soil's different, for | |
there he has sown barley; but then he has strewed burnt turf over it | |
for manure, for he attends to all such things. Well, she that comes | |
here will find things in good order, I'm sure." Now they went out | |
towards the dwelling-house; and Eli, who had answered nothing to all | |
that Margit had told her about other things, when they passed the | |
garden asked if she might go into it; and when she got leave to go, | |
she begged to pick a flower or two. Away in one corner was a little | |
garden-seat; she went over and sat down upon it--perhaps only to try | |
it, for she rose directly. | |
"Now we must make haste, else we shall be too late," said Margit, as | |
she stood at the house-door. Then they went in. Margit asked if Eli | |
would not take some refreshment, as this was the first time she had | |
been at Kampen; but Eli turned red and quickly refused. Then they | |
looked round the room, which was the one Arne and the mother | |
generally used in the day-time; it was not very large, but cosy and | |
pleasant, with windows looking out on the road. There were a clock | |
and a stove; and on the wall hung Nils' fiddle, old and dark, but | |
with new strings; beside it hung some guns belonging to Arne, English | |
fishing-tackle and other rare things, which the mother took down and | |
showed to Eli, who looked at them and touched them. The room was | |
without painting, for this Arne did not like; neither was there any | |
in the large pretty room which looked towards the ravine, with the | |
green mountains on the other side, and the blue peaks in the | |
background. But the two smaller rooms in the wing were both painted; | |
for in them the mother would live when she became old, and Arne | |
brought a wife into the house: Margit was very fond of painting, and | |
so in these rooms the ceilings were painted with roses, and her name | |
was painted on the cupboards, the bedsteads, and on all reasonable | |
and unreasonable places; for it was Arne himself who had done it. | |
They went into the kitchen, the store-room, and the bake-house; and | |
now they had only to go into the up-stairs rooms; "all the best | |
things were there," the mother said. | |
These were comfortable rooms, corresponding with those below, but | |
they were new and not yet taken into use, save one which looked | |
towards the ravine. In them hung and stood all sorts of household | |
things not in every-day use. Here hung a lot of fur coverlets and | |
other bedclothes; and the mother took hold of them and lifted them; | |
so did Eli, who looked at all of them with pleasure, examined some of | |
them twice, and asked questions about them, growing all the while | |
more interested. | |
"Now we'll find the key of Arne's room," said the mother, taking it | |
from under a chest where it was hidden. They went into the room; it | |
looked towards the ravine; and once more the awful booming of the | |
waterfall met their ears, for the window was open. They could see the | |
spray rising between the cliffs, but not the fall itself, save in one | |
place farther up, where a huge fragment of rock had fallen into it | |
just where the torrent came in full force to take its last leap into | |
the depths below. The upper side of this fragment was covered with | |
fresh sod; and a few pine-cones had dug themselves into it, and had | |
grown up to trees, rooted into the crevices. The wind had shaken and | |
twisted them; and the fall had dashed against them, so that they had | |
not a sprig lower than eight feet from their roots: they were gnarled | |
and bent; yet they stood, rising high between the rocky walls. When | |
Eli looked out from the window, these trees first caught her eye; | |
next, she saw the snowy peaks rising far beyond behind the green | |
mountains. Then her eyes passed over the quiet fertile fields back to | |
the room; and the first thing she saw there was a large bookshelf. | |
There were so many books on it that she scarcely believed the | |
Clergyman had more. Beneath it was a cupboard, where Arne kept his | |
money. The mother said money had been left to them twice already, and | |
if everything went right they would have some more. "But, after all, | |
money's not the best thing in the world; he may get what's better | |
still," she added. | |
There were many little things in the cupboard which were amusing to | |
see, and Eli looked at them all, happy as a child. Then the mother | |
showed her a large chest where Arne's clothes lay, and they, too, | |
were taken out and looked at. Margit patted Eli on the shoulder. | |
"I've never seen you till to-day, and yet I'm already so fond of you, | |
my child," she said, looking affectionately into her eyes. Eli had | |
scarcely time to feel a little bashful, before Margit pulled her by | |
the hand and said in a low voice, "Look at that little red chest; | |
there's something very choice in that, you may be sure." | |
Eli glanced towards the chest: it was a little square one, which she | |
thought she would very much like to have. | |
"He doesn't want me to know what's in that chest," the mother | |
whispered; "and he always hides the key." She went to some clothes | |
that hung on the wall, took down a velvet waistcoat, looked in the | |
pocket, and there found the key. | |
"Now come and look," she whispered; and they went gently, and knelt | |
down before the chest. As soon as the mother opened it, so sweet an | |
odor met them that Eli clapped her hands even before she had seen | |
anything. On the top was spread a handkerchief, which the mother | |
took away. "Here, look," she whispered, taking out a fine black | |
silk neckerchief such as men do not wear. "It looks just as if it | |
was meant for a girl," the mother said. Eli spread it upon her lap | |
and looked at it, but did not say a word. "Here's one more," the | |
mother said. Eli could not help taking it up; and then the mother | |
insisted upon trying it on her, though Eli drew back and held her | |
head down. She did not know what she would not have given for such a | |
neckerchief; but she thought of something more than that. They | |
folded them up again, but slowly. | |
"Now, look here," the mother said, taking out some handsome ribands. | |
"Everything seems as if it was for a girl." Eli blushed crimson, but | |
she said nothing. "There's some more things yet," said the mother, | |
taking out some fine black cloth for a dress; "it's fine, I dare | |
say," she added, holding it up to the light. Eli's hands trembled, | |
her chest heaved, she felt the blood rushing to her head, and she | |
would fain have turned away, but that she could not well do. | |
"He has bought something every time he has been to town," continued | |
the mother. Eli could scarcely bear it any longer; she looked from | |
one thing to another in the chest, and then again at the cloth, and | |
her face burned. The next thing the mother took out was wrapped in | |
paper; they unwrapped it, and found a small pair of shoes. Anything | |
like them, they had never seen, and the mother wondered how they | |
could be made. Eli said nothing; but when she touched the shoes her | |
fingers left warm marks on them. "I'm hot, I think," she whispered. | |
The mother put all the things carefully together. | |
"Doesn't it seem just as if he had bought them all, one after | |
another, for somebody he was afraid to give them to?" she said, | |
looking at Eli. "He has kept them here in this chest--so long." She | |
laid them all in the chest again, just as they were before. "Now | |
we'll see what's here in the compartment," she said, opening the lid | |
carefully, as if she were now going to show Eli something specially | |
beautiful. | |
When Eli looked she saw first a broad buckle for a waistband, next, | |
two gold rings tied together, and a hymn-book bound in velvet and | |
with silver clasps; but then she saw nothing more, for on the silver | |
of the book she had seen graven in small letters, "Eli Baardsdatter | |
Boeen." | |
The mother wished her to look at something else; she got no answer, | |
but saw tear after tear dropping down upon the silk neckerchief and | |
spreading over it. She put down the _sylgje_[5] which she had in her | |
hand, shut the lid, turned round and drew Eli to her. Then the | |
daughter wept upon her breast, and the mother wept over her, without | |
either of them saying any more. | |
[5] _Sylgje_, a peculiar kind of brooch worn in Norway.--Translators. | |
* * * * * | |
A little while after, Eli walked by herself in the garden, while the | |
mother was in the kitchen preparing something nice for supper; for | |
now Arne would soon be at home. Then she came out in the garden to | |
Eli, who sat tracing names on the sand with a stick. When she saw | |
Margit, she smoothed the sand down over them, looked up and smiled; | |
but she had been weeping. | |
"There's nothing to cry about, my child," said Margit, caressing her; | |
"supper's ready now; and here comes Arne," she added, as a black | |
figure appeared on the road between the shrubs. | |
Eli stole in, and the mother followed her. The supper-table was | |
nicely spread with dried meat, cakes and cream porridge; Eli did not | |
look at it, however, but went away to a corner near the clock and sat | |
down on a chair close to the wall, trembling at every sound. The | |
mother stood by the table. Firm steps were heard on the flagstones, | |
and a short, light step in the passage, the door was gently opened, | |
and Arne came in. | |
The first thing he saw was Eli in the corner; he left hold on the | |
door and stood still. This made Eli feel yet more confused; she rose, | |
but then felt sorry she had done so, and turned aside towards the | |
wall. | |
"Are you here?" said Arne, blushing crimson. | |
She held her hand before her face, as one does when the sun shines | |
into the eyes. | |
"How did you come here?" he asked, advancing a few steps. | |
She put her hand down again, and turned a little towards him, but | |
then bent her head and burst into tears. | |
"Why do you weep, Eli?" he asked, coming to her. She did not answer, | |
but wept still more. | |
"God bless you, Eli!" he said, laying his arm round her. She leant | |
her head upon his breast, and he whispered something down to her; she | |
did not answer, but clasped her hands round his neck. | |
They stood thus for a long while; and not a sound was heard, save | |
that of the fall which still gave its eternal warning, though distant | |
and subdued. Then some one over against the table was heard weeping; | |
Arne looked up: it was the mother; but he had not noticed her till | |
then. "Now, I'm sure you won't go away from me, Arne," she said, | |
coming across the floor to him; and she wept much, but it did her | |
good, she said. | |
* * * * * | |
Later, when they had supped and said good-bye to the mother, Eli and | |
Arne walked together along the road to the parsonage. It was one of | |
those light summer nights when all things seem to whisper and crowd | |
together, as if in fear. Even he who has from childhood been | |
accustomed to such nights, feels strangely influenced by them, and | |
goes about as if expecting something to happen: light is there, but | |
not life. Often the sky is tinged with blood-red, and looks out | |
between the pale clouds like an eye that has watched. One seems to | |
hear a whispering all around, but it comes only from one's own brain, | |
which is over-excited. Man shrinks, feels his own littleness, and | |
thinks of his God. | |
Those two who were walking here also kept close to each other; they | |
felt as if they had too much happiness, and they feared it might be | |
taken from them. | |
"I can hardly believe it," Arne said. | |
"I feel almost the same," said Eli, looking dreamily before her. | |
"_Yet it's true_," he said, laying stress on each word; "now I am no | |
longer going about only thinking; for once I have done something." | |
He paused a few moments, and then laughed, but not gladly. "No, it | |
was not I," he said; "it was mother who did it." | |
He seemed to have continued this thought, for after a while he said, | |
"Up to this day I have done nothing; not taken my part in anything. I | |
have looked on ... and listened." | |
He went on a little farther, and then said warmly, "God be thanked | |
that I have got through in this way; ... now people will not have to | |
see many things which would not have been as they ought...." Then | |
after a while he added, "But if some one had not helped me, perhaps I | |
should have gone on alone for ever." He was silent. | |
"What do you think father will say, dear?" asked Eli, who had been | |
busy with her own thoughts. | |
"I am going over to Boeen early to-morrow morning," said | |
Arne;--"_that_, at any rate, I must do myself," he added, determining | |
he would now be cheerful and brave, and never think of sad things | |
again; no, never! "And, Eli, it was you who found my song in the | |
nut-wood?" She laughed. "And the tune I had made it for, you got hold | |
of, too." | |
"I took the one which suited it," she said, looking down. He smiled | |
joyfully and bent his face down to hers. | |
"But the other song you did not know?" | |
"Which?" she asked looking up.... | |
"Eli ... you mustn't be angry with me ... but one day this spring ... | |
yes, I couldn't help it, I heard you singing on the parsonage-hill." | |
She blushed and looked down, but then she laughed. "Then, after all, | |
you have been served just right," she said. | |
"What do you mean?" | |
"Well--it was; nay, it wasn't my fault; it was your mother ... well | |
... another time...." | |
"Nay; tell it me now." | |
She would not;--then he stopped and exclaimed, "Surely, you haven't | |
been up-stairs?" He was so grave that she felt frightened, and looked | |
down. | |
"Mother has perhaps found the key to that little chest?" he added in | |
a gentle tone. | |
She hesitated, looked up and smiled, but it seemed as if only to keep | |
back her tears; then he laid his arm round her neck and drew her | |
still closer to him. He trembled, lights seemed flickering before his | |
eyes, his head burned, he bent over her and his lips sought hers, but | |
could hardly find them; he staggered, withdrew his arm, and turned | |
aside, afraid to look at her. The clouds had taken such strange | |
shapes; there was one straight before him which looked like a goat | |
with two great horns, and standing on its hind legs; and there was | |
the nose of an old woman with her hair tangled; and there was the | |
picture of a big man, which was set slantwise, and then was suddenly | |
rent.... But just over the mountain the sky was blue and clear; the | |
cliff stood gloomy, while the lake lay quietly beneath it, afraid to | |
move; pale and misty it lay, forsaken both by sun and moon, but the | |
wood went down to it, full of love just as before. Some birds woke | |
and twittered half in sleep; answers came over from one copse and | |
then from another, but there was no danger at hand, and they slept | |
once more ... there was peace all around. Arne felt its blessedness | |
lying over him as it lay over the evening. | |
"Thou great, thou Almighty God!" he said, so that he heard the words | |
himself, and he folded his hands, but went a little before Eli that | |
she might not see it. | |
XVI. | |
THE DOUBLE WEDDING. | |
It was in the end of harvest-time, and the corn was being carried. It | |
was a bright day; there had been rain in the night and earlier in | |
morning, but now the air was clear and mild as in summer-time. It was | |
Saturday; yet many boats were steering over the Swart-water towards | |
the church; the men, in their white shirt-sleeves, sat rowing, while | |
the women, with light- kerchiefs on their heads, sat in the | |
stern and the forepart. But still more boats were steering towards | |
Boeen, in readiness to go out thence in procession; for to-day Baard | |
Boeen kept the wedding of his daughter, Eli, and Arne Nilsson Kampen. | |
The doors were all open, people went in and out, children with pieces | |
of cake in their hands stood in the yard, fidgety about their new | |
clothes, and looking distantly at each other; an old woman sat lonely | |
and weeping on the steps of the storehouse: it was Margit Kampen. She | |
wore a large silver ring, with several small rings fastened to the | |
upper plate; and now and then she looked at it: Nils gave it her on | |
their wedding-day, and she had never worn it since. | |
The purveyor of the feast and the two young brides-men--the | |
Clergyman's son and Eli's brother--went about in the rooms offering | |
refreshments to the wedding-guests as they arrived. Up-stairs in | |
Eli's room, were the Clergyman's lady, the bride and Mathilde, who | |
had come from town only to put on her bridal-dress and ornaments, | |
for this they had promised each other from childhood. Arne was | |
dressed in a fine cloth suit, round jacket, black hat, and a collar | |
that Eli had made; and he was in one of the down-stairs rooms, | |
standing at the window where she wrote "Arne." It was open, and he | |
leant upon the sill, looking away over the calm water towards the | |
distant bight and the church. | |
Outside in the passage, two met as they came from doing their part in | |
the day's duties. The one came from the stepping-stones on the shore, | |
where he had been arranging the church-boats; he wore a round black | |
jacket of fine cloth, and blue frieze trousers, off which the dye | |
came, making his hands blue; his white collar looked well against his | |
fair face and long light hair; his high forehead was calm, and a | |
quiet smile lay round his lips. It was Baard. She whom he met had | |
just come from the kitchen, dressed ready to go to church. She was | |
tall and upright, and came through the door somewhat hurriedly, but | |
with a firm step; when she met Baard she stopped, and her mouth drew | |
to one side. It was Birgit, the wife. Each had something to say to | |
the other, but neither could find words for it. Baard was even more | |
embarrassed than she; he smiled more and more, and at last turned | |
towards the staircase, saying as he began to step up, "Perhaps you'll | |
come too." And she went up after him. Here, up-stairs, was no one but | |
themselves; yet Baard locked the door after them, and he was a long | |
while about it. When at last he turned round, Birgit stood looking | |
out from the window, perhaps to avoid looking in the room. Baard took | |
from his breast-pocket a little silver cup, and a little bottle of | |
wine, and poured out some for her. But she would not take any, though | |
he told her it was wine the Clergyman had sent them. Then he drank | |
some himself, but offered it to her several times while he was | |
drinking. He corked the bottle, put it again into his pocket with the | |
cup, and sat down on a chest. | |
He breathed deeply several times, looked down and said, "I'm so | |
happy-to-day; and I thought I must speak freely with you; it's a long | |
while since I did so." | |
Birgit stood leaning with one hand upon the window-sill. Baard went | |
on, "I've been thinking about Nils, the tailor, to-day; he separated | |
us two; I thought it wouldn't go beyond our wedding, but it has gone | |
farther. To-day, a son of his, well-taught and handsome, is taken | |
into our family, and we have given him our only daughter. What now, | |
if we, Birgit, were to keep our wedding once again, and keep it so | |
that we can never more be separated?" | |
His voice trembled, and he gave a little cough. Birgit laid her head | |
down upon her arm, but said nothing. Baard waited long, but he got no | |
answer, and he had himself nothing more to say. He looked up and grew | |
very pale, for she did not even turn her head. Then he rose. | |
At the same moment came a gentle knock at the door, and a soft voice | |
asked, "Are you coming now, mother?" It was Eli. Birgit raised her | |
head, and, looking towards the door, she saw Baard's pale face. "Are | |
you coming now, mother?" was asked once more. | |
"Yes, now I am coming," said Birgit in a broken voice, while she gave | |
her hand to Baard, and burst into a violent flood of tears. | |
The two hands pressed each other; they were both toilworn now, but | |
they clasped as firmly as if they had sought each other for twenty | |
years. They were still locked together, when Baard and Birgit went to | |
the door; and afterwards when the bridal train went down to the | |
stepping-stones on the shore, and Arne gave his hand to Eli, Baard | |
looked at them, and, against all custom, took Birgit by the hand and | |
followed them with a bright smile. | |
But Margit Kampen went behind them lonely. | |
Baard was quite overjoyed that day. While he was talking with the | |
rowers, one of them, who sat looking at the mountains behind, said | |
how strange it was that even such a steep cliff could be clad. "Ah, | |
whether it wishes to be, or not, it must," said Baard, looking all | |
along the train till his eyes rested on the bridal pair and his wife. | |
"Who could have foretold this twenty years ago?" said he. | |
THE END. | |
Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by John Wilson & Son. | |
THE | |
CHILDREN'S GARLAND | |
FROM THE BEST POETS | |
SELECTED AND ARRANGED | |
BY COVENTRY PATMORE | |
16mo. Red Vellum. Vignette Title engraved by MARSH. | |
Price, $1.75. | |
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THE | |
JEST-BOOK | |
THE CHOICEST ANECDOTES AND SAYINGS | |
SELECTED AND ARRANGED | |
BY MARK LEMON | |
16mo. Green Vellum. Vignette Title. Price, $1.75. | |
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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Arne; A Sketch of Norwegian Country | |
Life, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson | |
*** |