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 slope.
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.