Love and woman were beginning to play a prominent part in his thoughts;
in the ancient ballads and stories of the olden times such themes were
reflected as in a magic mirror, just as the girl had been in the lake.
He constantly brooded over them, and after that evening he found
pleasure in singing about them; for they seemed, as it were, to have
come nearer home to him. But the thought glided away, and floated back
again with a song that was unknown to him; he felt as though another had
made it for him,--
"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,' etc.
"She wove him a chain. 'Oh, keep it with care!
'T is 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,' etc.
"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,' etc.
"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,' etc.
"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,' etc.
"She wove on in haste, as for life and 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."[18]
It was his own intense melancholy that called forth the first image of
love that glided so gloomily through his soul. A twofold longing,--to
have some one to love and to become something great,--blended together
and became one. At this time he was working again at the song, "Over the
lofty mountains," altering it, and all the while singing and thinking
quietly to himself, "Surely I will get 'over' some day; I will sing
until I gain courage." He did not forget his mother in these his
thoughts of roving; indeed, he took comfort in the thought that as soon
as he got firm foothold in the strange land, he would come back after
her, and offer her conditions which he never could be able to provide
for her at home. But in the midst of all these mighty yearnings there
played something calm, cheering, refined, that darted away and came
again, took hold and fled, and, dreamer that he had become, he was more
in the power of these spontaneous thoughts than he himself was aware.
There lived in the parish a jovial man whose name was Ejnar Aasen. When
he was twenty years old he had broken his leg; since then he had walked
with a cane; but wherever he came hobbling along, there was always mirth
afoot. The man was rich. On his property there was a large nut-wood, and
there was sure to be assembled, on one of the brightest, pleasantest
days in autumn, a group of merry girls gathering nuts. At these
nutting-parties he had plenty of feasting for his guests all day, and
dancing in the evening. For most of these girls he had been godfather;
indeed, he was the godfather of half the parish; all the children called
him godfather, and from them every one else, both old and young, learned
to do so.
Godfather and Arne were well acquainted, and he liked the young man
because of the verses he made. Now godfather asked Arne to come to the
nutting-party. Arne blushed and declined; he was not used to being with
girls, he said.
"Then you must get used to it," replied godfather.
Arne could not sleep at night because of this; fear and yearning were at
war within him; but whatever the result might be, he went along, and was
about the only youth among all these girls. He could not deny that he
felt disappointed; they were neither those he had sung about, nor those
he had feared to meet. There was an excitement and merriment, the like
of which he had never known before, and the first thing that struck him
was that they could laugh over nothing in the world; and if three
laughed, why, then, five laughed, simply because those three laughed.
They all acted as though they were members of the same household; and
yet many of them had not met before that day. If they caught the bough
they were jumping after, they laughed at that, and if they did not catch
it, they laughed at that, too. They fought for the hook to draw it down
with; those who got it laughed, and those who did not get it, laughed
also. Godfather hobbled after them with his cane, and offered all the
hindrance in his power. Those whom he caught laughed because he caught
them, and those whom he did not catch laughed because he did not catch
them. But they all laughed at Arne for being sober, and when he tried to
laugh, they laughed, because he was laughing at last.
They seated themselves finally on a large hill, godfather in the centre,
and all the girls around him. The hill commanded a fine outlook; the sun
scorched; but the girls heeded it not, they sat, casting nut-husks and
shells at one another, giving the kernels to godfather. He tried to
quiet them at last, striking at them with his cane, as far as he could
reach; for now he wanted them to tell stories, above all, something
amusing. But to get them started seemed more difficult than to stop a
carriage on a hill-side. Godfather began himself. There were many who
did not want to listen; for they knew already everything he had to tell;
but they all ended by listening attentively. Before they knew what they
were about, they sat in the centre, and each took her turn in following
his example as best she could. Now Arne was much astonished to find that
just in proportion to the noise the girls had made before was the
gravity of the stories they now told. Love was the chief theme of these.
"But you, Aasa, have a good one; I remember that from last year," said
godfather, turning to a plump girl with a round, pleasant face, who sat
braiding the hair of a younger sister, whose head was in her lap.
"Several that are here may know that," said she.
"Well, give it to us anyway," they begged.
"I will not have to be urged long," said she, and, still braiding, she
told and sang, as follows:--
"There was a grown-up youth who tended cattle, and he was in the habit
of driving his herds upward, along the banks of a broad stream. High up
on his way, there was a crag which hung out so far over the stream, that
when he stood on it he could call out to any one on the other side. For
on the other side of the stream there was a herd-girl whom he could see
all day long, but he could not come over to her.
'Now, tell me thy name, thou girl that art sitting,
Up there with thy sheep, so busily knitting?'
he asked, over and over again, for many days, until at last one day
there came the answer,--
'My name floats about like a duck in wet weather;--
Come over, thou boy in the cap of brown leather.'
"But this made the youth no wiser than before, and he thought he would
pay no further heed to the girl. This was not so easy, though, for, let
him drive the cattle where he would, he was always drawn back to the
crag. Then the youth grew alarmed, and called over:--
'Well, who is your father, and where are you biding?
On the road to the church I have ne'er seen you riding.'
"The youth more than half believed her, in fact, to be a hulder.[19]
'My house is burned down, and my father is drowned,
And the road to the church-hill I never have found.'
"Now this also made the youth no wiser than before. By day he lingered
on the crag, and by night he dreamed that she was dancing around him,
and gave him a lash with a great cow's-tail each time he tried to take
hold of her. Soon he could not sleep at all, neither could he work, and
the poor youth was in a wretched state. Again he called aloud,--
'If thou art a hulder, then pray do not spell me,--
If thou art a maiden, then hasten to tell me?'
"But there came no answer, and then he was sure that this was a hulder.
He gave up tending cattle, but it was just as bad, for wherever he went,
or whatever he did, he thought of the fair hulder who blew on the horn.
"Then one day, as he stood chopping wood, there came a girl through the
yard who actually looked like the hulder. But when she came nearer, it
was not she. He thought much about this; then the girl came back, and in
the distance it was the hulder, and he ran directly toward her. But the
moment he came near her it was not she.
"After this, let the youth be at church, at a dance, at other social
gatherings, or where he would, the girl was there too; when he was far
from her, she seemed to be the hulder; near to her, she seemed to be
another; he asked her then whether it were she or not; but she laughed
at him. It is just as well to spring into it as to creep into it,
thought the youth, and so he married the girl.
"No sooner was this done than the youth ceased to like the girl. Away
from her, he longed for her; but when with her, he longed for one he did
not see; therefore he was harsh toward his wife; she bore this and was
silent.
"But one day, when he was searching for the horses, he found his way to
the crag, and sitting down, he called out,--
'Like fairy moonlight to me thou seemest,
Like midsummer fires from afar thou gleamest.'
"He thought it did him good to sit there, and he fell into the way of
going thither whenever anything went amiss at home. The wife wept when
she was left alone.
"But one day, while the youth was sitting on the crag, the hulder, her
living self, appeared on the opposite side, and blew her horn. He
eagerly cried,--
'Ah, dear, art thou come! all around thee is shining!
Ah, blow now again! I am sitting here pining.'
"Then she answered,--
'Away from thy mind the dreams I am blowing,--
The rye is all rotting for want of mowing.'
"But the youth was frightened, and went home again. Before long, though,
he was so tired of his wife that he felt compelled to wander off to the
wood and take his seat on the crag. Then a voice sang,--
'I dreamed thou wast here; ho, hasten to bind me!
No, not over there, but behind you will find me.'[20]
"The youth started up, looked about him, and espied a green skirt
disappearing through the woods. He pursued. Now there was a chase
through the woods. As fleet of foot as the hulder was, no mortal could
be; he cast steel[21] over her again and again; she ran on the same as
before. By and by she began to grow tired. The youth knew this from her
foot-fall, though her form convinced him that it was the hulder herself,
and none other. 'You shall surely be mine now,' thought the youth, and
suddenly flung his arms about her with such force that both he and she
rolled far down the hill before they could stop. Then the hulder laughed
until the youth thought the mountains fairly rang; he took her on his
knee, and she looked so fair, just as he had once thought his wife
would look.
"'Oh, dear, who are you that are so fair?' asked the youth, and as he
caressed her, he felt that her cheeks were warm and glowing.
"'Why, good gracious, I am your wife,' said she."
The girls laughed, and thought the youth was very foolish. But godfather
asked Arne if he had been listening.
"Well, now, I will tell you something," said a little girl, with a
little round face, and such a very little nose.
"There was a little youth who wanted very much to woo a little maiden;
they were both grown up, yet were both very small indeed. But the youth
could not muster up courage enough to begin his wooing. He always joined
her after church, but they did not then get beyond the weather in their
talk; he sought her at the dances, and he danced her almost to death,
but talk with her he could not. 'You must learn to write, and then you
will not have to,' said he to himself, and so the youth took to writing;
but he never thought he could do well enough, and so he wrote a whole
year before he dared think of a letter. Then the trouble was how to
deliver it so that no one should see, and he waited until once they
chanced to meet alone behind the church.
"'I have a letter for you,' said the youth.
"'But I cannot read writing,' answered the maiden.
"And the youth got no further.
"Then he took service at her father's house, and hung round her the
whole day long. Once he came very near speaking to her; he had already
opened his mouth, when there flew into it a large fly. 'If only no one
comes and takes her from me,' thought the youth. But there came no one
to take her from him, because she was so small.
"Some one did come along, though, at last, for he was small too. The
youth well knew what he was after, and when he and the girl went
up-stairs together, the youth made his way to the key-hole. Now he who
was within offered himself. 'Alas, dunce that I am, not to have made
more haste!' thought the youth. He who was inside kissed the girl right
on the lips. 'That must have tasted good,' thought the youth. But he
who was inside had drawn the girl down on his knee. 'What a world we
live in!' said the youth, and wept. This the girl heard, and went to the
door.
"'What do you want of me, you ugly boy, that you never give me any
peace?'
"'I?--I only wanted to ask you if I might be your groomsman.'
"'No; my brothers are to be the groomsmen,' answered the girl,--and
slammed the door in his face.
"And the youth got no further."
The girls laughed a great deal at this story, and sent a shower of husks
flying round after it.
Godfather now wanted Eli Boeen to tell something.
What should it be?
Why, she might tell what she had told over on the hill, when he was with
them, the time she gave him the new garters. It was a good while before
Eli was ready, for she laughed so hard, but at last she told:--
"A girl and a boy were walking together on the same road. 'Why, see the
thrush that is following us,' said the girl. 'It is I whom it is
following,' said the boy. 'It is just as likely to be me,' answered the
girl. 'That we can soon see,' remarked the boy; 'now you take the lower
road, and I will take the upper one, and we will meet at the top of the
hill.' They did so. 'Was it not following me?' asked the boy, when they
met. 'No, it was following me,' answered the girl. 'Then there must be
two.' They walked together again a little way, but then there was only
one thrush; the boy thought it flew on his side; but the girl thought it
flew on hers. 'The deuce! I'll not bother my head any more about that
thrush,' said the boy. 'Nor I either,' replied the girl.
"But no sooner had they said this than the thrush was gone. 'It was on
_your_ side,' said the boy. 'No, I thank you; I saw plainly it was on
_yours_. But there! There it comes again!' called out the girl. 'Yes, it
is on _my_ side!' cried the boy. But now the girl became angry. 'May all
the plagues take me if I walk with you any longer!' and she went her own
way. Then the thrush left the boy, and the way became so tedious that he
began to call out. She answered. 'Is the thrush with you?' shouted the
boy. 'No, it is with you.' 'Oh, dear! You must come here again, then
perhaps it will come too.' And the girl came again; they took each other
by the hand and walked together. 'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on
the girl's side. 'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on the boy's side.
'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on both
sides, and when they came to look, there were a thousand million
thrushes round about them. 'Why, how strange!' said the girl, and looked
up at the boy. 'Bless you!' said the boy, and caressed the girl."
This story all the girls thought fine.
Then godfather suggested that they should tell what they had dreamed the
night before, and he would decide who had had the finest dream.
What! tell their dreams? No, indeed! And there was no end to the
laughing and whispering. But then one after another began to remark that
she had had such a fine dream last night; others, again, that, fine as
the ones they had had, it could not by any means be. And finally, they
all were seized with a desire to tell their dreams. But it must not be
out loud, it must only be to _one_, and that must by no means be
godfather. Arne was sitting quietly on the hill, and so he was the one
to whom they dared tell their dreams.
Arne took a seat beneath a hazel, and then she who had told the first
story came to him. She thought a long time, and then told as follows:--
"I dreamed I stood by a great lake. Then I saw some one go on the water,
and it was one whom I will not name. He climbed up in a large pond-lily,
and sat and sang. But I went out on one of those large leaves that the
pond-lily has, and which lie and float; on it I wanted to row over to
him. But no sooner had I stepped on the leaf than it began to sink with
me, and I grew much alarmed and cried. Then he came rowing over to me in
the pond-lily, lifted me up to where he sat, and we rowed all over the
lake. Was not that a nice dream?"
The little maiden who had told the little story now came.
"I dreamed I had caught a little bird, and I was so happy that I did not
want to let it go until I got home. But there I did not dare let go of
it, lest father and mother should tell me I must let it out again. So I
went up in the garret with it, but there the cat was lurking, and so I
could not let go of it there either. Then I did not know what to do, so
I took it up in the hay-loft; but, good gracious! there were so many
cracks there that it could easily fly away! Well, then I went out in the
yard again, and there I thought stood one whom I will not name. He was
playing with a large, black dog. 'I would rather play with that bird of
yours,' said he, and came close up to me. But I thought I started to
run, and he and the large dog after me, and thus I ran all round the
yard; but then mother opened the front door, drew me quickly in, and
slammed the door. Outside, the boy stood laughing, with his face against
the window-pane. 'See, here is the bird!' said he,--and, just think, he
really had the bird! Was not that a funny dream?"
Then she came who had told about all the thrushes,--Eli they had called
her. It was the Eli he had seen that evening in the boat and in the
water. She was the same and yet not the same, so grown-up and pretty she
looked as she sat there, with her delicately cut face and slender form.
She laughed immoderately, and therefore it was long before she could
control herself; but then she told as follows:--
"I had been feeling so glad that I was coming to the nutting-party
to-day that I dreamed last night I was sitting here on the hill. The sun
shone brightly, and I had a whole lapful of nuts. But then there came a
little squirrel, right in among the nuts, and it sat on its hind legs in
my lap and ate them all up. Was not that a funny dream?"
Yet other dreams were told Arne, and then he was to decide which was the
finest. He had to take a long time to consider, and meanwhile godfather
started off with the whole crowd for the gard, and Arne was to follow.
They sprang down the hill, formed in a row when they had reached the
plain, and sang all the way to the house.
Arne still sat there listening to the singing. The sun fell directly on
the group, it shone on their white sleeves; soon they twined their arms
about each other's waists; they went dancing across the meadow,
godfather after them with his cane, because they were treading down his
grass. Arne thought no more about the dreams. Soon he even left off
watching the girls; his thoughts wandered far beyond the valley, as did
the fine sunbeams, and he sat alone there on the hill and spun. Before
he was aware of it, he was entangled in a close web of melancholy; he
yearned to break away, and never in the world before so ardently as now.
He faithfully promised himself that when he got home he would talk with
his mother, come of it what would.
His thoughts grew stronger, and drifted into the song,--
"Over the lofty mountains."
Words had never flowed so readily as now, nor had they ever blended so
surely into verse,--they almost seemed like girls sitting around on a
hill. He had a scrap of paper about him and placing it on his knee, he
wrote. When the song was complete, he arose, like one who was released,
felt that he could not see people, and took the forest road home,
although he knew that the night, too, would be needed for this. The
first time he sat down to rest on the way, he felt for the song, that he
might sing it aloud as he went along, and let it be borne all over the
parish; but he found he had left it in the place where it was written.
One of the girls went up the hill to look for him, did not find him, but
found his song.