Up on the hill-top it was that Arne was born. His mother's name was
Margit, and she was the only child at the houseman's place,--Kampen.[2]
Once, in her eighteenth year, she stayed too long at a dance; her
companions had left her, and so Margit thought that the way home would
be just as long whether she waited until the dancing was over or not.
And thus it happened that she kept her seat until the fiddler, known as
Nils the tailor, suddenly laid aside his fiddle, as was his wont when
drink took possession of him, let others troll the tune, seized the
prettiest girl, moved his foot as evenly as the rhythm of a song, and
with his boot-heel took the hat from the head of the tallest person
present. "Ho!" said he. When Margit went home that evening, the
moon-beams played on the snow with most wondrous beauty. After she had
reached her bed-chamber she was moved to look out once more. She took
off her boddice, but remained standing with it in her hand. Then she
felt that she was cold, closed the door hastily, undressed, and nestled
in under the robe. That night Margit dreamed about a great red cow that
had wandered into the field. She went to drive it out, but though she
tried hard, she could not stir from the spot; the cow stood calmly
grazing there until it grew plump and well fed, and every now and then
it looked at her, with large, heavy eyes.
The next time there was a dance in the parish Margit was present. She
cared little for dancing that evening; she kept her seat to listen to
the music, and it seemed strange to her that there were not others also
who preferred this. But when the evening had worn on, the fiddler arose
and wanted to dance. All at once he went directly to Margit Kampen. She
scarcely knew what she was about, but she danced with Nils the tailor.
Soon the weather grew warm, and there was no more dancing. That spring
Margit took such interest in a little lamb that had fallen ill, that her
mother almost thought she was overdoing it.
"It is only a little lamb," said the mother.
"Yes, but it is ill," replied Margit.
It was some time since she had been to church; she wished to have her
mother go, she said, and some one must be at home. One Sunday, later in
the summer, the weather was so fine that the hay could well be left out
for twenty-four hours, and the mother said that now they surely might
both go. Margit could not reasonably object to this, and got ready for
church; but when they were so far on their way that they could hear the
church-bells, she burst into tears. The mother grew deathly pale: but
they went on, the mother in advance, Margit following, listened to the
sermon, joined in all the hymns to the very last, followed the prayer,
and heard the bell ring before they left. But when they were seated in
the family-room at home again, the mother took Margit's face between her
hands and said:--
"Hide nothing from me, my child."
There came another winter when Margit did not dance. But Nils the tailor
fiddled, took more strong drink than ever, and always, toward the close
of the evening, swung the prettiest girl at the party. In those days, it
was told as a certain fact that he could marry whom he pleased among the
daughters of the first gard-owners in the parish; some added that Eli
Boeen herself had courted him for her daughter Birgit, who was madly in
love with him.
But just at that time an infant of the houseman's daughter at Kampen was
brought to baptism; it was christened Arne, and tailor Nils was spoken
of as its father.
The evening of the same day Nils was at a large wedding; there he got
drunk. He would not play, but danced all the time, and scarcely brooked
having others on the floor. But when he crossed to Birgit Boeen and asked
her to dance, she declined. He gave a short laugh, turned on his heel,
and caught hold of the first girl he encountered. She resisted. He
looked down; it was a little dark maiden who had been sitting gazing
fixedly at him, and who was now pale. Bowing lightly over her, he
whispered,--
"Will you not dance with _me_, Karen?"
She made no reply. He asked once more. Then she answered in a whisper,
as he had asked,--
"_That_ dance might go farther than I wished."
He drew slowly back, but once in the middle of the floor, he made a
spring and danced the halling[3] alone. No one else was dancing; the
others stood looking on in silence.
Afterwards he went out in the barn, and there he lay down and wept.
Margit kept at home with the little boy. She heard about Nils, how he
went from dance to dance, and she looked at the child and wept,--looked
at him again and was happy. The first thing she taught him was to say
papa; but this she dared not do when the mother, or the grandmother, as
she was henceforth called, chanced to be near. The result of this was
that it was the grandmother whom the boy called papa. It cost Margit
much to break him of this, and thus she fostered in him an early
shrewdness. He was not very large before he knew that Nils the tailor
was his father, and when he reached the age in which the romantic
acquires a flavor, he became also aware what sort of a man tailor Nils
was. The grandmother had strictly forbidden even the mention of his
name; what she mainly strove for was to have the houseman's place,
Kampen, become an independent gard, so that her daughter and her boy
might be free from care. She availed herself of the gard-owner's
poverty, effected the purchase of the place, paid off a portion of the
money each year, and managed the business like a man, for she had been a
widow for fourteen years. Kampen was a large place, and had been
extended until now it fed four cows, sixteen sheep, and a horse in which
she was half owner.
Nils the tailor meanwhile took to roving about the parish; his business
had fallen off, partly because he felt less interest in it, partly also
because he was not liked as before. He gave, therefore, more time to
fiddling; this led oftener to drinking and thence to fighting and evil
days. There were those who had heard him say he was unhappy.
Arne might have been about six years old, when one winter day he was
frolicking in the bed, whose coverlet he had up for a sail, while he was
steering with a ladle. The grandmother sat spinning in the room,
absorbed in her own thoughts, and nodded occasionally as though she
would make a fixed fact of something she was thinking about. The boy
knew that he was unheeded, and he fell to singing, just as he had
learned it, the rough, wild song about tailor Nils:--
"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 fjord 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!'"[4]
More the boy did not sing; but there were two other stanzas which his
mother was not likely to have taught him:--
"Have you seen a tree cast its shadow on yesterday's snow?
Have you seen how Nils does his smiles on the girls bestow?
"Have you looked at Nils when to dance he just commences?
Come, my girl, you must go; it is too late, when you've lost
your senses."
These two stanzas the grandmother knew, and they came all the more
distinctly into her mind because they were not sung. She said nothing to
the boy; but to the mother she said, "Teach the boy well about your own
shame; do not forget the last verses."
Nils the tailor was so broken down by drink that he was no longer the
man he had been, and some people thought his end could not be far
distant.
It so happened that two American gentlemen were visiting in the parish,
and having heard that a wedding was going on in the vicinity, wanted to
attend it, that they might learn the customs of the country. Nils was
playing there. They gave each a dollar to the fiddler, and asked for a
halling; but no one would come forward to dance it, however much it was
urged. Several begged Nils himself to dance. "He was best, after all,"
they said. He refused, but the request became still more urgent, and
finally unanimous. This was what he wanted. He gave his fiddle to
another player, took off his jacket and cap, and stepped smiling into
the middle of the room. He was followed by the same eager attention as
of old, and this gave him his old strength. The people crowded closely
together, those who were farthest back climbing upon tables and benches.
Some of the girls were perched up higher than all the rest, and foremost
among these--a tall girl with sunny brown hair of a varying tint, with
blue eyes deeply set beneath a strong forehead, a large mouth that often
smiled, drawing a little to one side as it did so--was Birgit Boeen. Nils
saw her, as he glanced up at the beam. The music struck up, a deep
silence followed, and he began. He dashed forward along the floor, his
body inclining to one side, half aslant, keeping time to the fiddle.
Crouching down, he balanced himself, now on one foot, now on the other,
flung his legs crosswise under him, sprang up again, stood as though
about to make a fling, and then moved on aslant as before. The fiddle
was handled by skillful fingers, and more and more fire was thrown into
the tune. Nils threw his head farther and farther back, and suddenly his
boot-heel touched the beam, sending the dust from the ceiling in showers
over them all. The people laughed and shouted about him; the girls stood
well-nigh breathless. The tune hurrahed with the rest, stimulating him
anew with more and more strongly-marked accents, nor did he resist the
exciting influences. He bent forward, hopped along in time to the music,
made ready apparently for a fling, but only as a hoax, and then moved
on, his body aslant as before; and when he seemed the least prepared for
it, his boot-heel thundered against the beam again and again, whereupon
he turned summersaults forwards and backwards in the air, landing each
time erect on his feet. He broke off abruptly, and the tune, running
through some wild variations, worked its way down to a deep tone in the
bass, where it quivered and vibrated, and died away with a long-drawn
stroke of the bow. The crowd dispersed, and loud, eager conversation,
mingled with shouts and exclamations, broke the silence. Nils stood
leaning against the wall, and the American gentlemen went over to him,
with their interpreter, and each gave him five dollars.
The Americans talked a little with the interpreter, whereupon the latter
asked Nils if he would go with them as their servant; he should have
whatever wages he wanted. "Whither?" asked Nils. The people crowded
about them as closely as possible. "Out into the world," was the reply.
"When?" asked Nils, and looking around with a shining face, he caught
Birgit Boeen's eyes, and did not let them go again. "In a week, when we
come back here," was the answer. "It is possible I will be ready,"
replied Nils, weighing his two five-dollar pieces. He had rested one arm
on the shoulder of a man standing near him, and it trembled so that the
man wanted to help him to the bench.
"It is nothing," replied Nils, made some wavering steps across the
floor, then some firm ones, and, turning, asked for a spring-dance.[5]
All the girls had come to the front. Casting a long, lingering look
about him, he went straightway to one of them in a dark skirt; it was
Birgit Boeen. He held out his hand, and she gave him both of hers; then
he laughed, drew back, caught hold of the girl beside her, and danced
away with perfect abandon. The blood coursed up in Birgit's neck and
face. A tall man, with a mild countenance, was standing directly behind
her; he took her by the hand and danced off after Nils. The latter saw
this, and--it might have been only through heedlessness--he danced so
hard against them that the man and Birgit were sent reeling over and
fell heavily on the floor. Shouting and laughter arose about them.
Birgit got up at last, went aside, and wept bitterly.
The man with the mild face rose more slowly and went straight over to
Nils, who was still dancing. "You had better stop a little," said the
man. Nils did not hear, and then the man took him by the arm. Nils tore
himself away and looked at him. "I do not know you," said he, with a
smile. "No; but you shall learn to know me," said the man with the mild
face, and with this he struck Nils a blow over one eye. Nils, who was
wholly unprepared for this, was plunged heavily across the sharp-edged
hearth-stone, and when he promptly tried to rise, he found that he could
not; his back was broken.
At Kampen a change had taken place. The grandmother had been growing
very feeble of late, and when she realized this she strove harder than
ever to save money enough to pay off the last installment on the gard.
"Then you and the boy will have all you need," she said to her daughter.
"And if you let any one come in and waste it for you, I will turn in my
grave." During the autumn, too, she had the pleasure of being able to
stroll up to the former head-gard with the last remaining portion of the
debt, and happy was she when she had taken her seat again, and could
say, "Now that is done!" But at that very time she was attacked by her
last illness; she betook herself forthwith to her bed, and never rose
again. Her daughter buried her in a vacant spot in the churchyard, and
placed over her a handsome cross, whereon was inscribed her name and
age, with a verse from one of Kingo's[6] hymns. A fortnight after the
grandmother was laid in her grave, her Sunday gown was made over into
clothes for the boy, and when he put them on, he became as solemn as
though he were his grandmother come back again. Of his own accord, he
went to the book with big print and large clasps she had read and sung
from every Sunday, opened it, and there inside found her spectacles.
These the boy had never been permitted to touch during his grandmother's
lifetime; now he timidly took them up, put them on his nose, and looked
through them into the book. All was misty. "How strange," thought the
boy, "it was through them grandmother could read the word of God." He
held them high up toward the light to see what the matter was, and--the
spectacles lay on the floor.
He was much alarmed, and when the door at that moment opened, it seemed
to him as though his grandmother must be coming in, but it was his
mother, and behind her, six men, who, with much tramping and noise, were
bearing in a litter, which they placed in the middle of the floor. For a
long time the door was left open, so that it grew cold in the room.
On the litter lay a man with dark hair and pale face; the mother moved
about weeping. "Lay him carefully on the bed," she begged, herself
lending a helping hand. But while the men were moving with him,
something made a noise under their feet. "Oh, it is only grandmother's
spectacles," thought the boy, but he did not say so.