PEER GYNT'S STUE.
The next morning all the guests went away. They were packed in their
carioles, gigs, and carriages, and their cake-baskets were returned to
them, etiquette demanding that each guest should take away a portion of
another guest's funeral-cake offering. Ragnhild's sweetheart was the
last to go. Knutty watched with lynx eyes to see if there was going to
be any outward and visible sign of the interest which they felt in each
other; but she detected none.
"Well, they must be very much in love with each other," she said to
Gerda, "for there is not a single flaw in their cloak of sulkiness. Ak,
ak, kjaere, I am glad the funeral is over. I have not borne up as
bravely as Bedstemor; but then, of course, I have not lost a husband.
That makes a difference. Now don't look shocked. I know quite well I
ought not to have said that. All the same, Bedstemor's strength and
spirits and appetite have been something remarkable. I believe she would
like a perpetual funeral going on at the Gaard. And how lustily she sang
last evening! That reminds me, you sang beautifully yesterday, and were
most kind and gracious to the whole company. I think Mor Inga ought to
have made you the godmother of the calf. I was proud of my Gerda. I am
proud of my Gerda, although I do tease her."
"Never mind," said Gerda, "was sich liebt, sich neckt. And I am not
jealous about the calf. I am a little jealous about the Englishwoman
sometimes. Tante loves her."
"Yes," said Tante simply, "I love her, but quite differently from the
way in which I love my botanical specimens. My botanists have their own
private herbarium in my heart."
Gerda smiled.
"I like her too, Tante," she said. "You know I was not very jealous of
her when my Ejnar began to pay her attentions."
"Because you knew they would not last," laughed Knutty. "You need never
be anxious about him. He is not a sensible human being. He won't do
anything worse than elope with a plant. Any way, he cannot elope with
Miss Frensham just now, as he is safe in the Dovre mountains making love
to the Ranunculus glacialis!"
"She told me she was going to Peer Gynt's stue with the Kemiker," Gerda
said after a pause. "I wish I could have gone too. But my ankle is too
bad."
"Ah, what a good thing!" remarked Knutty. "That gives them a chance.
How I wish he would elope with her! But he won't, the silly fellow. I
know him. If you see him, tell him I said he was to elope with her
instantly. I am going off to the cowhouse to have a talk with my
dramatic Mette and to learn the cowhouse gossip about the funeral-feast.
So farewell for the present."
"I cannot think why Mette is such a favourite with you, Tante," Gerda
said. "You know she isn't a respectable girl at all."
"Kjaere, don't wave the banner; for pity's sake, don't wave the banner,"
Tante said. "Who is respectable, I should like to know? I am sure I am
not, and you are not. That is to say, we may be respectable in one
direction; but that does not make up the sum-total. There, go and think
that over, and be sure and keep your ankle bad; and if you see Alan,
tell him to follow me to the cowhouse, for I want him to do something
for me."
And so it came to pass that Clifford and Katharine were able to steal
off alone to Peer Gynt's stue. They had tried several times during the
funeral-feasting to escape from the company; but Mor Inga liked to have
all the guests around her, and it would have seemed uncourteous if any
of them had deliberately withdrawn themselves. But now they were free to
go where they wished without breaking through the strict Norwegian
peasant etiquette. They had long since planned this Peer Gynt
expedition. It was Bedstemor who originally suggested it to Clifford.
She was always saying that he must go to Peer Gynt's stue; and her
persistence led him to believe that there really was some old house in
the district which local tradition claimed to be Peer Gynt's childhood's
home; where, as in Ibsen's wonderful poem, he, a wild, idle, selfish
fellow from early years upwards, lived with his mother Ãse. Clifford had
not been able to find out to his entire satisfaction whether or not this
particular stue had been known as Peer Gynt's house before the
publication of Ibsen's poem. Bedstemor had always known it as such, and
gave most minute instructions for finding it. The old Gaardmand with
whom Knutty had flirted said he had always known it as Peer Gynt's
actual home; and even old Kari, when questioned, said, "Ja, Peer Gynt
lived up over there." Bedstemor had a few vague stories to tell about
Peer Gynt, and she ended up with, "Ja, ja, he was a wild fellow, who did
wild things, and saw and heard wonderful things."
So apparently Peer Gynt was a real person who had had his home somewhere
in this part of the great Gudbrandsdal; and Ibsen had probably caught up
some of the stories about the real man, and woven them into the network
of his hero's character. But, as Knutty said, the only thing which
really mattered was the indisputable fact that Ibsen had placed the
scene of three acts of his poem in the Gudbrandsdal and the mountains
round about, and that they--herself, Clifford, Katharine, every one of
them--were there in the very atmosphere, mental and physical, of the
great poem itself.
"And the stue stands for an idea if not for a fact," she said, "like
Hamlet's grave in my belovèd Elsinore. Go and enjoy; and forget, for
once, to be accurate."
He thought of Knutty's words as he and Katharine left the Gaard and
began to climb down the steep hillside on their way to the valley; for
Peer Gynt's home was perched on another mountain-ridge, and they had
first to descend from their own heights, gain the valley, walk along by
the glacier-river, and pass by the old brown church before they came to
the steep path which would lead them up to their goal. He said to
himself:
"Yes, Peer Gynt's stue stands for an idea in more senses than one. Day
after day, when I have not been able to open my heart to her, I have
thought that perhaps I should be able to break through my silence on our
pilgrimage to Peer Gynt's stue."
The morning was fair and fresh; summer was passing; there was a touch of
crispness in the air which suggested frost and 'iron nights,' dreaded by
the peasants before the harvest should have been gathered in. Katharine
and Clifford kept to the course of the stream, which was a quick, though
a steep, way down to the saw-mill, beautifully situated near a foss of
the glacier-river, the roar and rush of which they heard up at the Solli
Gaard. There was a bridge across this river, and they stood there
watching the tumbling mass of water, and recalling the morning when they
had passed over to the other side on their way to the Saeters. The
little Landhandleri across the bridge was being besieged by no less than
four customers. Their carioles were fastened to a long rail outside the
queer little shop which contained everything mortal man could want,
from rough butter-boxes and long china pipes to dried cod and overalls.
"I never see these places without thinking of the isolated shops dumped
down in lonely districts out in the west of America," Katharine said.
"Some of them were kept by Norwegians too."
"They have had their training in isolation here, you see," Clifford
said, "and so go out knowing how to cater for isolated people. And they
make a small fortune quickly and return. At least some of them return,
those in whom the love of country outweighs everything else in life."
"I should be one of those," Katharine said. "I should always yearn to
return."
"I remember your saying you would like to bring all the broken-hearted
exiles home," he said.
"Yes," she said, "I would."
"You have a heart of pity," he said, turning to her.
"I am sorry for those who have lost their country," she said. "I have
seen them suffer. If I were a millionaire, I would find out some of the
worst cases, and give them back their country and the means to enjoy it,
or the opportunity of dying in it."
So they talked or were silent as the mood seized them. They were happy,
and frankly glad to be together alone. They left the bridge, passed
along the main road, through fragrant fir-woods, and came to a most
picturesque spot where two rivers, one of them the glacier-river, met
and rushed on together as one. They crossed this long bridge, and found
themselves on the other side of the main valley. Here they looked back
and could discern the big Solli Gaard, perched proudly on the opposite
mountain-ridge. Then their way lay along the easy road by the winding
river. It retreated from them, returned, retreated. The sun jewelled the
clear part of it with diamonds, and the strange milky glacier part of it
with opals. Finally it left them, and they could scarcely reconcile
themselves to its departure, but strolled back once more to enjoy its
gracious company. But at last they said farewell to it, and went on to
the old brown church, at the back of which they expected, from
Bedstemor's instructions, to find the steep path leading up to Peer
Gynt's stue. They halted, to see the sunburnt old church, and to rest.
Katharine was struck by its beautiful proportions. Rough and without any
features of special architectural interest, it presented a harmony in
itself which was arresting. She made the remark; and Clifford, who knew
many things about the North, was able to tell her that this was
characteristic of the Norwegian churches of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. The date of this church was the middle of the
eighteenth century. It was rather a rich, well-cared-for church from a
Norwegian point of view, and it was full of interest for strangers. The
painted and decorated pews, with the rich peasants' names in floriated
design, attracted Katharine. The Sollis' pew was, of course, one of
them. The pulpit was elaborately carved, and was painted and gilded in
generous fashion. There was a rood-screen which bore the arms of Norway,
painted also in flamboyant style; and a shelf on the top supported eight
or ten figures of personages in Scripture lore, with their symbols.
Some of these figures were almost grotesque. It was difficult to believe
that they were of the same recent date as the church. The altarpiece,
the Last Supper, carved and painted, bore the date 1740; yet in
conception it looked like a piece of work from the Middle Ages, and
Dutch in character. Quainter still were the weird pictures hanging on
the walls, all of them gifts of pious people. The subjects were of
course religious ones: Jacob wrestling with the Angel, the Passage of
the Red Sea, the Garden of Gethsemane. They all dated back to the early
part of the eighteenth century, and were most primitive in idea and
execution, testifying silently, not only to the piety of the donors, but
to the uninfluenced isolation of the interior of Norway. One of them had
the inscription, "To the honour of God and for the ornament of the
church is this picture given by a rich and pious girl at a cost of three
dollars of the realm!"
Katharine and Clifford examined these queer things, and finally sat down
in the Sollis' grand pew. The world was beginning to be even as this old
brown church--empty, save for them. He was thinking, as he sat by her
side, how little she, with her free, open-hearted nature, could guess at
the grim and almost insurmountable difficulties of a prisoner of silence
like himself. She would never know how many times he had tried to begin
the story which he wished passionately to tell her. But each time that
he had failed, he at least knew that he was gaining courage. He did not
realise that Katharine had retreated into herself since that anxious day
at the Skyds-station; for Mrs Stanhope's words up at the Saeter had been
echoing in her ears. She was not the woman to allow her own impulses to
be checked by the opinion of Mrs Stanhope. Her most accentuated feeling
about Mrs Stanhope was indignation; nevertheless, the malignant words of
that bigot had engendered a vague shyness in Katharine's mind, which
held her back from helping Clifford. And also, she was passing through a
phase of emotional passiveness, which Nature, in her wisdom, insists on,
after any great and generous giving out of sympathy, love, and anxious
concern. At such moments even the most reckless spendthrifts of self can
give nothing. They wait. And if no one ministers to them, they pass out
into the darkness of the night to find recovery. So Katharine waited;
and they sat on together in the Sollis' decorated pew, cut off from the
outside world, and silent. The moment of liberty did not come to the
prisoner then in the old brown church. It almost came, but not quite.
When they left the church, they took the steep path accurately described
by Bedstemor. It was steep and rough, and Clifford turned to help
Katharine over some of the difficult bits; but she was as active as he,
and not at all breathless. She was astonished that there should be no
easier road than this one up to several old Gaards which they skirted in
their ascent. It seemed impossible for the farm-people to bring any
heavy loads up or down such a rough path. Clifford told her that it was
characteristic of the Norwegians of a previous generation.
"In former days," he said, "they made a road, any kind of road, straight
to their goal, over and through any difficulties. The Sorenskriver
thinks it a bad sign that they now make easy and circuitous ones. He
would like this uncompromising one. He would think that there still
remained some of the old rugged stubbornness in the Norwegian character,
and some of its simple hardihood."
"We can tell him about it," Katharine said, smiling at the thought of
the Sorenskriver. She was thinking what great good luck they had had in
getting off without him!
So they mounted higher and higher, pausing now and then to look down at
the valley, which on this side had a different appearance from that to
which they were now affectionately accustomed from the Solli Gaard. Here
the valley was much narrower, and the view, though beautiful, was less
comprehensive, but more intimate. From the Solli Gaard they saw the
great Gudbrandsdal as a vision. From the hillside behind the old brown
church they saw it as a human reality. They noticed, too, that the land
was more encumbered with rocks and stones in this district than in the
region round about the Solli Gaard; although there also were outward and
visible signs of the patient labour with which the Norwegians struggled
against a hard nature to make their country productive. But here the
battle proclaimed itself even more eloquently; and Katharine, who
noticed everything, spoke of it.
"No wonder they are a melancholy people, if they have had to struggle so
hard to get so little," she said.
"It is not that which has made them melancholy," Clifford replied. "It
is the loneliness."
He was silent for a moment, and then went on:
"Certain nations seem set apart for loneliness, even as certain people.
Nature has willed it so. Have you not seen how in active bustling
communities there are always several detached persons who prefer to go
away into the wilderness? They belong there. It is their native soil,
even if they have been born in crowded cities. I believe my father was
one of those persons."
"I have seen them out in Colorado," Katharine said. And she added
impulsively:
"But you are not one of them."
"No," he said without looking up at her; "I am not one of them. I was
forced into my wilderness."
And again she could not help him. For the very life of her, she could
not have said to him:
"Tell me about your wilderness, and I will tell you about mine."
In a few minutes they came to a Gaard hanging over the hillside, which
Clifford thought, from Bedstemor's description, must be Peer Gynt's
homestead. He hurried on to inquire, and soon came back to the great
rock where Katharine was resting.
"Yes," he said, "we have reached our destination. And that is supposed
to be Peer Gynt's house--that old stue there. The other buildings making
up the Gaard are newer, as you can see. The Gaardmand's wife says many
people come to visit it."
So there they were, at last, at Peer Gynt's home, perched up on high,
looking straight down on the valley and the river--a wild, isolated
spot, fit abode for a wild, restless spirit. The Gaardmand's wife showed
them over the old stue, which was very much like others they had seen,
built of great tree-trunks, and black with age outside, and mouldy with
age within; and when they had looked and looked, each of them
remembering Knutty's injunction to enjoy, believe, and to be seized by
the "spirit of place," she took them into the courtyard, and pointed out
another old building used as stables.
"Peer Gynt was buried here," she said. "He was too wicked to be buried
in the churchyard."
They lingered there for a long time, held in very truth by the spirit of
place. Clifford knew his 'Peer Gynt' well, and Katharine, who had read
it in English, understood a little of its real significance. He, knowing
its whole scope from beginning to end, was able to make the poem real to
her. He told her that Peer Gynt, brought up by his mother Ãse on legends
and fairy tales, was typical to Ibsen's mind of the Norwegian nation,
brought up on Sagas, and at the moment when the poem was written, not
able to put away phantasms, and awake to the realities of life. He
admired the poem intensely, and seemed delighted that she was interested
in all he had to tell her about it. And he was moved at being in its
very atmosphere. He had forgotten his doubts about the genuineness of
the place.
"Cannot you see him coming down from the mountains after one of his
escapades," he said, "his mother standing scolding him, and then
listening entranced to his fantastic stories? Can't you see him seizing
his mother when she was a nuisance to him, carrying her over the river
and putting her on the grass-roof of the corn-house, where she could not
interfere with him? Was there ever such a fellow? And there is the
river--the very river!"
He pointed to it with almost a child's eagerness.
"He must have crossed there, you see, on his way to the wedding at which
he stole the bride and took her away into the mountains," he said. "And
where was it, I wonder, that he used to lie in the woods, dreaming his
dreams of action and achievement which never came to anything? Perhaps
yonder, sometimes, in that little copse over there."
Then he turned once more to the stue.
"And to think that there, actually there, poor Ãse died," he said.
"Don't you remember how, even at her deathbed, he could not face the
reality of the moment, but buoyed her and himself up with pitiful
romancing? I can see the whole scene as I never saw it before."
It was a long time before they tore themselves away, and then they did
not go far. They sat down by some stones outside the Gaard enclosure,
still talking about Peer Gynt.
"The poem always stirs me," said Clifford. "I know nothing in literature
which ever took a greater hold on me. It may be partly because Knutty
taught me to know and understand the Northern mind. But the more I read
it, the more I see that it is not typical of the Northern temperament
only. Peer Gynt stands for us all, whether we hail from the North, the
South, the East, the West; for all of us who cover up realities with
fantasies."
"But do we not all have to help ourselves with make-believe, more or
less?" Katharine said. "If we went through life doing nothing but facing
facts, we should be intolerable to ourselves and other people. Surely
now and then we need to rest on fantasy?"
She was silent a moment, and then went on:
"We make a fantastic picture to ourselves that we are wanted in the
world, that we have work to do, a call to answer, things and people
needing us, and us only. If we did not do that where should we be?"
He turned to her suddenly:
"Have you felt that too?" he said.
"Yes," she answered.
"So have I," he said.
"But you had, and have always had, your work," Katharine said, "your own
definite career, which no one, nothing, could take from you."
And as soon as the words had left her lips, she remembered that Knutty
was always saying that if ever a man had had his career marred and
checked by others, that man was Clifford Thornton. She could have bitten
her tongue out. She did not know that she had helped him by what she had
said.
He drew a little nearer to her.
"There is a passage from 'Peer Gynt' which has always haunted me," he
said:
"'We are thoughts,
Thou shouldst have thought us....'
'We are a riddle,
Thou shouldst have solved us....'
'We are songs,
Thou shouldst have sung us....
A thousand times hast thou
Crushed and choked us.
In thy heart-depths
We have lain and waited
Vainly for thy summons....'
That is the true picture of my career."
"Every humble-hearted person with gifts would think that," Katharine
said impulsively.
It was as though she were defending him from some accuser; as though she
imperiously wished to sweep all regrets and grievings out of his
horizon. He felt her tender sympathy enfolding him, and it gave him
courage. With one tremendous effort he broke down the wall of reserve.
The long-imprisoned thoughts came tumbling out. At first they freed
themselves with effort, and then with natural ease. Katharine listened
wonder-struck. He spoke of the years which had gone, of Marianne, of her
strange attitude to his work, of the battle which he had always been
fighting between bitterness and self-reproach, of the inroad which it
had made on his powers of thought and concentration, of his contempt for
himself that he had not been able to deal more successfully with
difficulties which spoilt her life and his.
Katharine, knowing from Knutty something of the daily difficulties
which had beset him, was touched by his gentle chivalry of heart and
spirit; for he did not say one single ungentle word of Marianne, nor
give expression to one single ungenerous criticism. His criticism was of
himself, not her. He said repeatedly that if he had cared enough to find
the key to a good understanding, it could have been found.
"I can tell you all this so easily now that I have once begun," he said.
"I have been longing to lay it all before you; time after time I have
tried to speak to you of my poor Marianne, of her death, of the boy's
disbelief in me, of my own disbelief in myself, of the secret trouble
which has gnawed at my heart, and which, in spite of reason, will gnaw
at my heart until I have told it to you. You are the only one in all
eternity to whom I could tell it."
"Tell it," Katharine said gently.
Then he told her.
And as he told her Peer Gynt's stue faded from her eyes--the river: the
birch-wood: the distant mountains: the valley: Norway. She was back in
England once more. She saw a lonely man sitting dreaming by his
fireside. She saw him go slowly up the staircase and hasten his step as
he heard Marianne's voice calling to him in alarm. She saw the
expression of shock and pain on Marianne's face. She heard him saying:
"It was only a dream--your dream and my dream--let it go the way of all
dreams."
She saw him go down to the stable and saddle his horse. She saw him ride
out into the darkness of the night. She saw him throw himself on the
bed, worn out in body and spirit. She heard Alan calling to his father.
She saw Marianne leaning back, dead, and with that terrible look of
shock and pain on her poor dead face.
The very simplicity and directness of the man's story added to its
significance. That he could tell it at all, showed his terrible need of
telling it. That he could tell it thus unreservedly, showed his entire
trust in her, and his entire freedom from any desire to give the
impression that he had suffered without having inflicted suffering.
The directness was almost more than Katharine could bear. More than once
she could have cried out to him to stop. But she had not the heart to
check him; and on he went, his intensity, his frankness increasing the
whole time.
"Yes," he said, "she left me; she died in that terrible way, and I was
alive to fight with and face the possibility that I had caused her
death. Hundreds of times I said that if I could have tuned myself to be
more in harmony with the best that was in her and in me, my dreaming
thoughts of her would never have broken through the bounds of kindness,
would never have attained to that fierce acuteness which penetrated to
her so ruthlessly in her own defenceless state of dreaming. By what
force, by what process they reached her, I, in my ignorance, cannot
pretend to know. I only know that our minds met each other then as they
had never met in normal life."
He paused a moment. Katharine thought that he had come to the end of his
power of telling. But before she had finished thinking that brief
thought, he had begun again.
He said he had been tortured and puzzled by that dream until his reason
nearly left him. There was no one to whom he could have confided it. He
could not have told it to Knutty, for he never had been able to speak
with her about Marianne. He could not talk it out with any one who might
have given time and serious thought to such phenomena. Perhaps that
might have helped him more than anything at the time: to have talked it
out, analysed it, found the relative meaning of it, and satisfied his
intelligence about it by means of some one else's intelligence. But that
was an impossibility to him; and so it remained locked in his heart,
gnawing at his heart whilst he battled with it alone.
"When the boy began to turn from me, it gnawed more and more," he said.
"When I learned that Marianne's friend was openly condemning my conduct
to her, it gnawed more and more. For I said to myself, 'If the boy knew
the awful thought which is haunting me, if Mrs Stanhope knew it, if they
all knew it, what then?' So I kept my secret to myself. I had the sense
to know that I was justified in doing that. And I turned to my work and
tried to forget. I turned to my work, which had always been a haven when
I was able to keep it uninvaded by--by outside influences. It was
invaded now. I could not forget. I went as usual to my study and
laboratory, and I tried to continue my neglected investigations; but I
failed from the first. Time after time I tried. You would scarcely
believe how often--and always in vain. For my mind was filled with the
one imperious thought from which there was no escape--not even for a
moment: Was I guilty of Marianne's death? Time after time I found myself
saying aloud, 'Have I killed Marianne, or have I not killed Marianne?'"
Katharine had been leaning forward gazing fixedly into the distance, but
she stood up now, and turned to him.
"Don't go on," she said in a stifled voice. "I cannot bear any more."
Then he saw the keen distress on her face.
"Oh," he cried in an agony of remorse, "I have been thinking only of
myself--forgive me----"
"No, no, it isn't that," she said. "But you have suffered so much, and
you are suffering now in telling me, and I cannot bear it."
"Forgive me, forgive me," he pleaded almost inaudibly. "It was my soul's
necessity to tell you--to lay it all before you--so that you might know
me and judge me."
"Judge you!" she cried.
And there was a world of love and understanding in her eyes, in her
voice, and on her face.
She turned to him with outstretched hands; but as she turned, she saw a
vision of Marianne leaning back in the arm-chair, dead, and with that
expression of alarm on her poor dead face.
Katharine's hands fell.
"Let us go home," she said in a voice which was full of pain.
So in silence they descended the steep hillside.
In silence they went along by the river, and over the bridge, through
the fir-woods, and up towards the Solli Gaard.