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.