To talk with the mother was more easily thought than done. Arne alluded
to Kristian and the letter that never came; but the mother went away
from him, and for whole days after he thought her eyes looked red. He
had also another indication of her feelings, and that was that she
prepared unusually good meals for him.
He had to go up in the woods to fetch an armful of fuel one day; the
road led through the forest, and just where he was to do his chopping
was the place where people went to pick whortleberries in the autumn. He
had put down his axe in order to take off his jacket, and was just about
beginning, when two girls came walking along with berry pails. It was
his wont to hide himself rather than meet girls, and so he did now.
"O dear, O dear! What a lot of berries! Eli, Eli!"
"Yes, dear, I see them."
"Well, then, do not go any farther; here are many pailfuls!"
"I thought there was a rustling in that bush over there!"
"Oh, you must be mad!" and the girls rushed at each other, and put their
arms about each other's waists. They stood for a long while so still,
that they scarcely breathed.
"It is surely nothing; let us go on picking!"
"Yes, I really think we will."
And so they began to gather berries.
"It was very kind of you, Eli, to come over to the parsonage to-day.
Have you anything to tell me?"
"I have been at godfather's."
"Yes, you told me that; but have you nothing about _him_,--you know
who?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Oh, oh! Eli, is that so? Make haste; tell me!"
"He has been there again!"
"Oh, nonsense!"
"Yes, indeed; both father and mother pretended they did not see it, but
I went up in the garret and hid."
"More, more! Did he follow you there?"
"I think father told him where I was; he is always so provoking."
"And so he came? Sit down, sit down here beside me. Well, so he came?"
"Yes; but he did not say much, for he was so bashful."
"Every word! Do you hear? every word!"
"'Are you afraid of me?' said he. 'Why should I be afraid?' said I. 'You
know what it is I want of you,' said he, and sat down on the chest
beside me."
"Beside you!"
"And then he put his arm round my waist."
"His arm round your waist? Are you wild?"
"I wanted to get away from him, but he would not let me go. 'Dear Eli,'
said he,"--she laughed, and the other girl laughed too.
"Well? well?"
"'Will you be my wife?'"
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!"
And then both--"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Finally, the laughter, too, had to come to an end, and then a long
silence ensued. After a while, the first one asked, but softly,
"Say,--was it not too bad that he put his arm round your waist?"
Either the other one made no reply to this, or else she spoke in such a
low tone that it could not be heard; perhaps, too, she answered only
with a smile. Presently the first one asked:--
"Have neither your father nor your mother said anything since?"
"Father came up and looked at me, but I kept hiding; for he laughed
every time he saw me."
"But your mother?"
"Why, she said nothing; but she was less harsh than usual."
"Well, you certainly refused him?"
"Of course."
Then there was a long silence again.
"Eli!"
"Well?"
"Do you think any one will ever come that way to me?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"How you talk! O--h! say, Eli? What if he should put his arm round my
waist?" She covered her face.
There was much laughter, afterwards whispering and tittering.
The girls soon went away. They had neither seen Arne, nor the axe and
the jacket, and he was glad.
Some days later he put Upland Knut in the houseman's place under Kampen.
"You shall no longer be lonely," said Arne.
Arne himself took to steady work. He had early learned to cut with the
hand-saw, for he had himself added much to the house at home. Now he
wanted to work at his trade, for he knew it was well to have some
definite occupation; it was also good for him to get out among people;
and so changed had he gradually become, that he longed for this whenever
he had kept to himself for a while. Thus it came to pass that he was at
the parsonage for a time that winter doing carpentering, and the two
girls were often together there. Arne wondered, when he saw them, who it
could be that was now courting Eli Boeen.
It so happened one day, when they went out for a ride, that Arne had to
drive for the young lady of the parsonage and Eli; he had good ears, yet
could not hear what they were talking about; sometimes Mathilde spoke to
him, at which Eli laughed and hid her face. Once Mathilde asked if it
was true he could make verses. "No!" he said promptly: then they both
laughed, chattered, and laughed. This made him indignant, and he
pretended not to see them.
Once he was sitting in the servants' hall, when there was dancing there.
Mathilde and Eli both came in to look on. They were disputing about
something in the corner where they stood. Eli would not, but Mathilde
would, and she won. Then they both crossed the floor to him, courtesied,
and asked whether he could dance. He answered "No," and then they both
turned, laughed, and ran away. "They keep up a perpetual laughter,"
thought Arne, and became sober. But the priest had a little adopted son,
about ten or twelve years old, of whom Arne thought a good deal; from
this boy Arne learned to dance when no one else was present.
Eli had a little brother about the same age as the priest's adopted son.
These two were playmates, and Arne made sleds, skees,[22] and snares for
them; and he often talked with them about their sisters, especially
about Eli. One day Eli's brother brought word that Arne should not be so
careless with his hair.
"Who said so?"
"Eli said so; but I was not to tell that she said so."
Some days after, Arne sent a message to Eli that she should laugh a
little less. The boy came back with the reply that Arne should laugh a
little more.
Once the boy asked for something he had written. Arne let him have it,
and thought no more of it. After a while the boy thought he would please
Arne with the tidings that both the girls liked his writing very much.
"Why, have they seen it?"
"Yes, it was for them I wanted it."
Arne asked the boys to bring him something their sisters had written;
they did so. Arne corrected the mistakes with a carpenter's pencil. He
asked the boys to place the paper where it could easily be found.
Afterwards he found it again in his jacket pocket, but at the bottom was
written, "Corrected by a conceited fellow!"
The next day Arne finished his work at the parsonage, and set out for
home. So gentle as he was this winter, his mother had never seen him
since those sorrowful days after his father's death. He read the sermon
for her, went with her to church, and was very kind to her. But she well
knew it was all to get her consent to journey away from her when spring
came. Then one day he had a message from Boeen to know if he would come
there and do some carpentering.
Arne was quite startled, and answered "Yes," as though he scarcely knew
what he was saying. No sooner had the messenger gone than the mother
said,
"You may well be astonished! From Boeen?"
"Is that so strange?" asked Arne, but did not look at her as he spoke.
"From Boeen?" cried the mother, once more.
"Well, why not as well from there as from another gard?" Arne now looked
up a little.
"From Boeen and Birgit Boeen! Baard, who gave your father the blow that
was his ruin, and that for Birgit Boeen's sake!"
"What do you say?" now cried the youth. "Was that Baard Boeen?"
Son and mother stood and looked at each other. Between the two a whole
life was unfolded, and this was a moment wherein they could see the
black thread which all along had been woven through it. They fell later
to talking about the father's proud days, when old Eli Boeen herself had
courted him for her daughter Birgit, and got a refusal. They went
through his whole life just as far as where he was knocked down, and
both found out that Baard's fault had been the least. Nevertheless, it
was he who had given the father that fatal blow,--he it was.
"Am I not yet done with father?" then thought Arne, and decided at the
same moment to go.
When Arne came walking, with the hand-saw on his shoulder, over the ice
and up toward Boeen, it seemed to him a pretty gard. The house always
looked as though it were newly painted; he was a little chilled, and
that was perhaps why it seemed so cozy to him. He did not go directly
in, but went beyond toward the stable, where a flock of shaggy goats
were standing in the snow, gnawing at the bark of some fir branches. A
shepherd dog walked to and fro on the barn-bridge, and barked as though
the devil himself was coming to the gard; but the moment Arne stood
still, he wagged his tail and let him pat him. The kitchen door on the
farther side of the house was often opened, and Arne looked down there
each time; but it was either the dairy-maid, with tubs and pails, or the
cook, who was throwing something out to the goats. Inside the barn they
were threshing with frequent strokes, and to the left, in front of the
wood-shed, stood a boy chopping wood; behind him there were many layers
of wood piled up.
Arne put down his saw and went into the kitchen; there white sand was
spread on the floor, and finely cut juniper leaves strewed over it; on
the walls glittered copper kettles, and crockery stood in rows. They
were cooking dinner. Arne asked to speak with Baard. "Go into the
sitting-room," some one said, pointing to the door. He went; there was
no latch to the door, but a brass handle; it was cheerful in there, and
brightly painted, the ceiling was decorated with many roses, the
cupboards were red, with the owner's name in black, the bed-stead was
also red, but bordered with blue stripes. By the stove sat a
broad-shouldered man, with a mild face, and long, yellow hair; he was
putting hoops about some pails; by the long table sat a tall, slender
woman, with a high linen cap on her head, and dressed in tight-fitting
clothes; she was sorting corn into two heaps. Besides these there were
no others in the room.
"Good day, and bless the work!" said Arne, drawing off his hat. Both
looked up; the man smiled, and asked who it was.
"It is he who is to do carpentering."
The man smiled more, and said, as he nodded his head and began his work
again,--
"Well, then, it is Arne Kampen!"
"Arne Kampen?" cried the wife, and stared fixedly before her.
The man looked up hastily, and smiled again. "The son of tailor Nils,"
he said, and went on once more with his work.
After a while, the wife got up, crossed the floor to the shelf, turned,
went to the cupboard, turned again, and as she at last was rummaging in
a table drawer, she asked, without looking up,--
"Is _he_ to work _here_?"
"Yes, that he is," said the man, also without looking up. "It seems no
one has asked you to sit down," he observed, addressing himself to Arne.
The latter took a seat; the wife left the room, the man continued to
work; and so Arne asked if he too should begin.
"Let us first have dinner."
The wife did not come in again; but the next time the kitchen-door
opened it was Eli who came. She appeared at first not to notice Arne;
when he rose to go to her, she stood still, and half turned to give him
her hand, but she did not look at him. They exchanged a few words; the
father worked on. Eli had her hair braided, wore a tight-sleeved dress,
was slender and straight, had round wrists and small hands. She laid the
table; the working-people dined in the next room, but Arne with the
family in this one; it so happened that they had their meals separately
to-day; usually they all ate at the same table in the large, light
kitchen.
"Is not mother coming?" asked the man.
"No, she is up-stairs weighing wool."
"Have you asked her?"
"Yes; but she says she does not want anything."
There was silence for a while.
"But it is cold up-stairs."
"She did not want me to make a fire."
After dinner Arne began work; in the evening he was again with the
family in the sitting-room. Then the wife, too, was there. The women
were sewing. The husband was busy with some trifles, and Arne helped
him; there was a prolonged silence, for Eli, who usually led in
conversation, was also silent. Arne thought with dismay that it probably
was often thus at his own home; but he realized it now for the first
time. Eli drew a long breath at last, as though she had restrained
herself long enough, and then she fell to laughing. Then the father also
laughed, and Arne, too, thought it was laughable, and joined in. From
this time forth they talked of various things; but it ended in Arne and
Eli doing most of the talking, the father putting in an occasional word.
But once, when Arne had been speaking for some time and happened to look
up, he met the eyes of the mother, Birgit; she had dropped her sewing,
and sat staring fixedly at him. Now she picked up her work again, but at
the first word he spoke she raised her eyes.
Bed-time came, and each one went his way. Arne thought he would notice
the dream he had the first night in a new place; but there seemed to be
no sense in it. The whole day long he had talked little or none with the
master of the gard, but at night it was of him he dreamed. The last
thing was that Baard sat playing cards with tailor Nils. The latter was
very angry and pale in the face; but Baard smiled and won the game.
Arne remained several days, during which time there was scarcely any
talking, but a great deal of work. Not only those in the family room
were silent, but the servants, the tenants, even the women. There was an
old dog on the gard that barked every time strangers came; but the gard
people never heard the dog without saying "hush!" and then he went
growling off and laid down again. At home at Kampen there was a large
weather-vane on the house, which turned with the wind; there was a still
larger vane here, to which Arne's attention was attracted because it did
not turn. When there was a strong current of wind, the vane struggled
to get loose, and Arne looked at it until he felt compelled to go up on
the roof and set the vane free. It was not frozen fast, as he had
supposed, but a pin was stuck through it that it might be kept still.
This Arne took out and threw down; the pin struck Baard, who came
walking along. He glanced up.
"What are you doing there?"
"I am letting loose the vane."
"Do not do so; it makes such a wailing noise when it is in motion."
Arne sat astride the gable.
"That is better than always being quiet."
Baard looked up at Arne, and Arne looked down on Baard; then Baard
smiled.
"He who has to howl when he talks had much better keep silent, I am
sure."
Now it often happens that words haunt us long after they were uttered,
especially when they were the last ones heard. So these words haunted
Arne when he crept down in the cold from the roof, and were still with
him in the evening when he entered the family room. Eli was standing, in
the twilight, by a window, gazing out over the ice which lay glittering
beneath the moon's beams. Arne went to the other window and looked out
as she was doing. Within all was cozy and quiet, without it was cold; a
sharp wind swept across the valley, so shaking the trees that the
shadows they cast in the moonlight did not lie still, but went groping
about in the snow. From the parsonage there glimmered a light, opening
out and closing in, assuming many shapes and colors, as light is apt to
do when one gazes at it too long. The mountain loomed up beyond, dark
and gloomy, with romance in its depths and moonshine on its upper banks
of snow. The sky was aglow with stars, and a little flickering northern
light appeared in one quarter of the horizon, but did not spread. A
short distance from the window, down toward the lake, there were some
trees whose shadows kept prowling from one to the other, but the great
ash stood alone, writing on the snow.
The night was very still,--only now and then something shrieked and
howled with a long, wailing cry.
"What is that?" asked Arne.
"It is the weather-vane," said Eli; and afterwards she continued more
softly, as though to herself: "It must have been let loose."
But Arne had been feeling like one who wanted to speak and could not.
Now he said:--
"Do you remember the story about the thrushes that sang?"
"Yes."
"Why, to be sure, it was you who told that one! It was a pretty story."
She said, in so gentle a voice that it seemed as though it were the
first time he heard it,--
"I often think there is something that sings when it is quite still."
"That is the good within ourselves."
She looked at him as though there were something too much in that
answer; they were both quiet afterward. Then she asked, as she traced
figures with one finger on the window-pane,--
"Have you made any songs lately?"
He blushed; but this she did not see. Therefore she asked again,--
"How do you manage when you make songs?"
"Would you really like to know?"
"Oh, yes."
"I hoard up the thoughts that others are in the habit of letting go," he
answered evasively.
She was long silent, for she had doubtless been making an attempt at a
song or two. What if she had had those thoughts and let them go.
"That is strange," said she, as though to herself, and fell to tracing
figures on the pane again.
"I made a song after I had seen you the first time."
"Where was that?"
"Over by the parsonage, the evening you left there. I saw you in the
lake."
She laughed, then was still a while.
"Let me hear that song."
Arne had never before done such a thing, but now he sang for her the
song,--
"Fair Venevill bounded on lithesome feet,
Her lover to meet," etc.
Eli stood there very attentive; she stood there long after he was
through. At last she burst out,--
"Oh, how I pity her!"
"It seems as though I had not made it myself," said Arne, for he felt
ashamed at having produced it. Nor did he understand how he had come to
do so. He remained standing there as if looking after the song.
Then she said: "But I hope it will not be that way with me!"
"No, no, no! I was only thinking of myself."
"Is that to be your fate, then?"
"I do not know; but I felt so at that time--indeed, I do not understand
it now, but I once had such a heavy heart."
"That was strange." She began to write on the window-pane again.
The next day, when Arne came in to dinner he went over to the window.
Outside it was gray and foggy, within warm and pleasant; but on the
window-pane a finger had traced "Arne, Arne, Arne!" and over again
"Arne." It was the window where Eli had stood the preceding evening.
But Eli did not come down-stairs that day; she was feeling ill. She had
not been well at all of late; she had said so herself, and it was
plainly to be seen.