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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 colored 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 cripple 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."