Arne; Early Tales and Sketches

When people talk in the dark, they are always more truthful than when they see each other face to face; they can say more, too.

"It is good to hear your words," replied Arne; he was thinking of what she had said when she was taken ill.

She knew what he meant; and so she remarked, "Had not this happened to me, God only knows how long it might have been before I had found my mother."

"She has been talking with you now?"

"Every day; she has done nothing else."

"Then, I dare say, you have heard many things."

"You may well say so."

"I suppose she talked about my father?"

"Yes."

"Does she still think of him?"

"She does."

"He was not kind to her."

"Poor mother!"

"He was worst of all, though, to himself."

Thoughts now arose that neither liked to express to the other. Eli was the first to break the silence.

"They say you are like your father."

"So I have heard," he answered, evasively.

She paid no heed to the tone of his voice; and so, after a while, she continued, "Could he, too, make songs?"

"No."

"Sing a song for me, – one you have made yourself."

But Arne was not in the habit of confessing that the songs he sang were his own. "I have none," said he.

"Indeed you have, and I am sure you will sing them for me if I ask it."

What he had never done for others, he now did for her. He sang the following song: —

"The tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown:'Shall I take them away?' said the frost, sweeping down.'No, dear; leave them aloneTill blossoms here have grown,'Prayed the tree, while it trembled from rootlet to crown."The tree bore its blossoms, and all the birds sung:'Shall I take them away?' said the wind, as it swung.'No, dear; leave them aloneTill berries here have grown,'Said the tree, while its leaflets all quivering hung."The tree bore its fruit in the midsummer glow:Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?''Yes, dear, all thou canst see;Take them; all are for thee,'Said the tree, while it bent down its laden boughs low."23

This song almost took her breath away. He, too, sat there silent, after he was through, as though he had sung more than he cared to say to her.

Darkness has great power over those who are sitting in it and dare not speak; they are never so near each other as then. If Eli only turned, only moved her hand on the bed-cover, only breathed a little more heavily than usual, Arne heard it. "Arne, could not you teach me to make songs?"

"Have you never tried?"

"Yes, these last few days I have; but I have not succeeded."

"Why, what did you want to have in them?"

"Something about my mother, who cared so much for your father."

"That is a sad theme."

"I have cried over it, too."

"You must not think of what you are going to put in your songs; it comes of itself."

"How does it come?"

"As other precious things, when you least expect it."

They were both silent.

"I wonder, Arne, that you are longing to go away when you have so much that is beautiful within yourself."

"Do you know that I am longing?"

She made no reply to this, but lay still a few moments, as though in thought.

"Arne, you must not go away!" said she, and this sent a glow through him.

"Well, sometimes I have less desire to go."

"Your mother must be very fond of you. I should like to see your mother."

"Come over to Kampen when you are well."

And now all at once he pictured her sitting in the cheerful room at Kampen, looking out on the mountains; his chest began to heave, the blood rushed to his head. "It is warm in here," said he, getting up.

She heard this. "Are you going, Arne?" asked she, and he sat down again.

"You must come over to us often; mother likes you so much."

"I should be glad to come myself; but I must have some errand, though."

Eli was silent for a while, as if she were considering something. "I believe," said she, "that mother has something she wants to ask of you."

He heard her turn in bed. There was no sound to be heard, either in the room or outside, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. At last she burst out, —

"How I wish it were summer!"

"That it were summer?" and there rose up in his mind, blended with fragrant foliage and the tinkling of cattle bells, shouts from the mountains, singing from the valleys, Black Water glittering in the sunshine, the gards rocking in it, and Eli coming out and sitting down, as she had done that evening long ago.

"If it were summer," said she, "and I were sitting on the hill, I really believe I could sing a song."

He laughed and asked: "What would it be about?"

"Oh, something easy, about – I do not know myself – "

"Tell me, Eli!" and he sprang up in delight; then, recollecting himself, he sat down again.

"No; not for all the world!" She laughed.

"I sang for you when you asked me."

"Yes, you did; but – no! no!"

"Eli, do you think I would make sport of your little verse?"

"No; I do not think so, Arne; but it is not anything I have made myself."

"It is by some one else, then."

"Yes, it just came floating of itself."

"Then you can surely repeat it to me."

"No, no; it is not altogether that either, Arne. Do not ask me any more." She must have hid her face in the bedclothes, for the last words seemed to come out of them.

"You are not as kind to me now, Eli, as I was to you!" he said, and rose.

"Arne, there is a difference – you do not understand me – but it was – I do not know myself – another time – do not be angry with me, Arne! Do not go away from me!" She began to weep.

"Eli, what is the matter?" He listened. "Are you feeling ill?" He did not think she was. She still wept; he thought that he must either go forward or backward.

"Eli!"

"Yes!"

They both spoke in whispers.

"Give me your hand!"

She did not answer; he listened intently, eagerly, felt about on the coverlid, and clasped a warm little hand that lay outside.

They heard steps on the stairs, and let go of each other's hands. It was Eli's mother, who was bringing in a light. "You are sitting quite too long in the dark," said she, and put the candlestick on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned toward the pillow, he held his hand up before his eyes. "Oh, yes; it hurts the eyes a little at first," said her mother; "but that will soon pass off."

Arne searched on the floor for the cap he did not have with him, and then he left the room.

The next day he heard that Eli was coming down-stairs for a little while after dinner. He gathered together his tools, and said good-by. When she came down he was gone.

CHAPTER XIII

Spring comes late in the mountains. The mail that passed along the highway during the winter three times a week, in April only passes once, and the inhabitants know then that in the outside world the snow is thawed, the ice broken; that the steamers are running, and the plow put into the earth. Here, the snow still lies three ells deep; the cattle low in the stalls, and the birds come, but hide themselves, shivering with the cold. Occasionally some traveler arrives, saying he has left his cart down in the valley, and he has flowers with him, which he shows, – he has gathered them by the wayside. Then the people become restless, go about talking together, look at the sky and down in the valley, wondering how much the sun gains each day. They strew ashes on the snow, and think of those who are now gathering flowers.

It was at such a time that old Margit Kampen came walking up to the parsonage and asked to speak with "father."24 She was invited into the study, where the priest, a slender, fair-haired, gentle-looking man with large eyes and spectacles, received her kindly, knew who she was, and asked her to sit down.

"Is it now something about Arne again?" he inquired, as though they had often talked together about him.

"Heaven help me!" said Margit; "it is never anything but good I have to say of him, and yet my heart is so heavy." She looked very sad as she spoke.

"Has that longing come back again?" asked the priest.

"Worse than ever," said the mother. "I do not even believe he will stay with me until spring comes to us here."

"And yet he has promised never to leave you."

"True enough; but, dear me, he must manage for himself now; when the mind is set upon going, go one must, I suppose. But what will become of me?"

"Still I will believe, as long as possible, that he will not leave you," said the priest.

"Certainly not; but what if he should never be content at home? I would then have it on my conscience that I stood in his way. There are times when I think I ought to ask him myself to go away."

"How do you know that he is longing now more than ever?"

"Oh, from many things. Since midwinter he has not worked out in the parish a single day. On the other hand, he has made three trips to town, and has stayed away a long while each time. He scarcely ever talks now when he is working, as he often used to do. He sits for hours by the little window up-stairs, and looks out over the mountains in the direction of the Kamp gorge; he sometimes stays there a whole Sunday afternoon, and often when it is moonlight, he sits there far into the night."

"Does he never read to you?"

"Of course he reads and sings to me every Sunday; but he always seems in a hurry, except now and then, when he overdoes it."

"Does he never come and talk with you?"

"He often lets so long a time pass without saying a word, that I cannot help crying when I sit alone. Then, I suppose, he sees this, for he begins to talk with me, but it is always about trifles, never about anything serious."

The priest was walking up and down; now he stopped and asked, "Why do you not speak with him about it?"

It was some time before she made any reply to this; she sighed several times, she looked first downward, then on either side, – she folded the handkerchief she carried.

"I came here to-day to have a talk with father about something that lies heavily on my heart."

"Speak freely, it will lighten the burden."

"I know that; for I have now dragged it along alone these many years, and it grows heavier each year."

"What is it, my good woman?"

There was a brief pause; then she said, "I have sinned greatly against my son," – and she began to cry.

The priest came close up to her. "Confess it to me," said he, "then we will together pray God that you may be forgiven."

Margit sobbed and dried her eyes, but began to weep afresh as soon as she tried to speak, and this was repeated several times. The priest comforted her, and said she surely could not have been guilty of anything very sinful, that she was no doubt too strict with herself, and so on. Margit wept, however, and could not muster the courage to begin until the priest had seated himself by her side and spoken kindly words to her. Then, in broken sentences, she faltered forth her confession: —

"He had a hard time of it when he was a boy, and so his mind became bent on travel. Then he met Kristian, he who has grown so very rich over there where they dig for gold. Kristian gave Arne so many books that he ceased to be like the rest of us; they sat together in the long evenings, and when Kristian went away, my boy longed to follow him. Just at that time, though, his father fell down dead, and Arne promised never to leave me. Yet I was like a hen that had brooded a duck's egg, when the young duckling had burst the shell, he wanted to go out on the great water, and I remained on the bank screaming. If he did not actually go away himself, his heart went in his songs, and every morning I thought I would find his bed empty.

"Then there came a letter for him from a far-off country, and I knew it must be from Kristian. God forgive me, I hid it! I thought that would be the end of the matter, but still another one came, and as I had kept the first from him, I had to keep the second one too. But, indeed, it seemed as though they would burn a hole in the chest where they lay, for my thoughts would go there from the time I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night. And you never have known anything so bad as this, for there came a third! I stood holding it in my hand for a quarter of an hour; I carried it in my bosom for three days, weighing within me whether I should give it to him or lay it away with the others, but perhaps it would have power to lure the boy away from me, and I could not help it, I put the letter away with the others. Now I went about in sorrow every day, both because of those that were in the chest and because of the new ones that might come. I was afraid of every person who came to our house. When we were in the house together, and there came a knock at the door, I trembled, for it might be a letter, and then he would get it. When he was out in the parish, I kept thinking at home that now perhaps he would get a letter while he was away, and that it might have something in it about those that had come before. When he was coming home, I watched his face in the distance, and, dear me! how happy I was when I saw him smiling, for then I knew he had no letter! He had grown so handsome, too, just like his father, but much fairer and more gentle-looking. And then he had such a voice for singing: when he sat outside of the door at sunset, singing toward the mountain ridge and listening for the echo, I felt in my heart that I never could live without him! If I only saw him, or if I knew he was anywhere around, and he looked tolerably happy, and would only give me a word now and then, I wished for nothing more on earth, and would not have had a single tear unshed.

"But just as he seemed to be getting on better, and to be feeling more at ease among people, there came word from the parish post-office that a fourth letter had now come, and that in it there were two hundred dollars! I thought I should drop right down on the spot where I stood. What should I do now? The letter, of course, I could get out of the way; but the money? I could not sleep for several nights on account of this money. I kept it up in the garret for a while, then left it in the cellar behind a barrel, and once I was so beside myself that I laid it in the window so that he might find it. When I heard him coming, I took it away again. At last I found a way, though. I gave him the money and said it had been out at interest since mother's lifetime. He spent it in improving the gard, as had been in my own mind, and there it was not lost. But then it happened that same autumn that he sat one evening wondering why Kristian had so entirely forgotten him.

"Now the wound opened afresh, and the money burned. What I had done as a sin, and the sin had been of no use to me!

"The mother who has sinned against her own child is the most unhappy of all mothers, – and yet I only did it out of love. So I shall be punished, I dare say, by losing what is dearest to me. For since midwinter he has taken up again the tune he sings when he is longing; he has sung it from boyhood up, and I never hear it without growing pale. Then I feel I could give up all for him, and now you shall see for yourself," – she took a scrap of paper out of her bosom, unfolded it, and gave it to the priest, – "here is something he is writing at from time to time; it certainly belongs to that song. I brought it with me, for I cannot read such fine writing; please see if there is anything in it about his going away."

There was only one stanza on this paper. For the second one there were half and whole lines here and there, as if it were a song he had forgotten, and was now calling to mind again, verse by verse. The first stanza ran, —

"Oh, how I wonder what I should seeOver the lofty mountains!Snow here shuts out the view from me,Round about stands the green pine-tree.Longing to hasten over —Dare it become a rover?"

"Is it about his going away?" asked Margit, her eyes fixed eagerly on the priest's face.

"Yes, it is," answered he, and let the paper drop.

"Was I not sure of it! Ah, me! I know that tune so well!" She looked at the priest, her hands folded, anxious, intent, while tear after tear trickled down her cheek.

But the priest knew as little how to advise as she. "The boy must be left to himself in this matter," said he. "Life cannot be altered for his sake, but it depends on himself whether he shall one day find out its meaning. Now it seems he wants to go away to do so."

"But was it not just so with the old woman?" said Margit.

"With the old woman?" repeated the priest.

"Yes; she who went out to fetch the sunshine into her house, instead of cutting windows in the walls."

The priest was astonished at her shrewdness; but it was not the first time she had surprised him when she was on this theme; for Margit, indeed, had not thought of anything else for seven or eight years.

"Do you think he will leave me? What shall I do? And the money? And the letters?" All this crowded upon her at once.

"Well, it was not right about the letters. You can hardly be justified in withholding from your son what belonged to him. It was still worse, however, to place a fellow Christian in a bad light when it was not deserved, and the worst of all was that it was one whom Arne loved and who was very fond of him in return. But we will pray God to forgive you, we will both pray."

Margit bowed her head; she still sat with her hands folded.

"How earnestly I would pray him for forgiveness, if I only knew he would stay!" She was probably confounding in her mind the Lord and Arne.

The priest pretended he had not noticed this. "Do you mean to confess this to him at once?" he asked.

She looked down and said in a low tone, "If I dared wait a little while I should like to do so."

The priest turned aside to hide a smile, as he asked, "Do you not think your sin becomes greater the longer you delay the confession?"

Both hands were busied with her handkerchief: she folded it into a very small square, and tried to get it into a still smaller one, but that was not possible.

"If I confess about the letters, I am afraid he will leave me."

"You dare not place your reliance on the Lord, then?"

"Why, to be sure I do!" she said hurriedly; then she added softly, "But what if he should go anyway?"

"So, then, you are more afraid of Arne's leaving you than of continuing in sin?"

Margit had unfolded her handkerchief again; she put it now to her eyes, for she was beginning to weep.

The priest watched her for a while, then he continued: "Why did you tell me all this when you did not mean it to lead to anything?" He waited a long time, but she did not answer. "You thought, perhaps, your sin would become less when you had confessed it?"

"I thought that it would," said she, softly, with her head bowed still farther down on her breast.

The priest smiled and got up. "Well, well, my dear Margit, you must act so that you will have joy in your old age."

"If I could only keep what I have!" said she; and the priest thought she dared not imagine any greater happiness than living in her constant state of anxiety. He smiled as he lit his pipe.

"If we only had a little girl who could get hold of him, then you should see that he would stay!"

She looked up quickly, and her eyes followed the priest until he paused in front of her.

"Eli Böen? What" —

She colored and looked down again; but she made no reply.

The priest, who had stood still, waiting, said finally, but this time in quite a low tone "What if we should arrange it so that they should meet oftener at the parsonage?"

She glanced up at the priest to find out whether he was really in earnest. But she did not quite dare believe him.

The priest had begun to walk up and down again, but now he paused. "See here, Margit! When it comes to the point, perhaps this was your whole errand here to-day, hey?"

She bowed her head far down, she thrust two fingers into the folded handkerchief, and brought out a corner of it. "Well, yes, God help me; that was exactly what I wanted."

The priest burst out laughing, and rubbed his hands. "Perhaps that was what you wanted the last time you were here, too?"

She drew the corner of the handkerchief farther out; she stretched it and stretched it. "Since you ask me, yes, it was just that."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah, Margit! Margit! We shall see what we can do; for, to tell the truth, my wife and daughter have for a long time had the same thoughts as you."

"Is it possible?" She looked up, at once so happy and so bashful, that the priest had his own delight in her open, pretty face, in which the childlike expression had been preserved through all sorrow and anxiety.

"Ah, well, Margit, you, whose love is so great, will, I have no doubt, obtain forgiveness, for love's sake, both from your God and from your son, for the wrong you have done. You have probably been punished enough already in the continual, wearing anxiety you have lived in; we shall, if God is willing, bring this to a speedy end, for, if He wishes this, He will help us a little now."

She drew a long sigh, which she repeated again and again; then she arose, gave her thanks, dropped a courtesy, and courtesied again at the door. But she was scarcely well outside before a change came over her. She cast upward a look beaming with gratitude, and she hurried more and more the farther she got away from people, and lightly as she tripped down toward Kampen that day, she had not done for many, many years. When she got so far on her way that she could see the thick smoke curling gayly up from the chimney, she blessed the house, the whole gard, the priest, and Arne, – and then remembered that they were going to have smoked beef for dinner, – her favorite dish!

CHAPTER XIV

Kampen was a beautiful gard. It lay in the midst of a plain, bordered below by the Kamp gorge, and above by the parish road; on the opposite side of the road was a thick wood, a little farther beyond, a rising mountain ridge, and behind this the blue, snow-capped mountains. On the other side of the gorge there was also a broad mountain range, which first entirely surrounded Black Water on the side where Böen lay, then grew higher toward Kampen, but at the same time turned aside to make way for the broad basin called the lower parish, and which began just below, for Kampen was the last gard in the upper parish.

The front door of the dwelling-house was turned toward the road; it was probably about two thousand paces off; a path with leafy birch-trees on either side led thither. The wood lay on both sides of the clearing; the fields and meadows could, therefore, extend as far as the owners themselves wished; it was in all respects a most excellent gard. A little garden lay in front of the house. Arne managed it as his books directed. To the left were the stables and other out-houses. They were nearly all new built, and formed a square opposite the dwelling-house. The latter was painted red, with white window-frames and doors, was two stories high, thatched with turf, and small shrubs grew on the roof; the one gable had a vane staff, on which turned an iron cock, with high, spread tail.

Spring had come to the mountain districts. It was a Sunday morning; there was a little heaviness in the air, but it was calm and without frost; mist hung over the wood, but Margit thought it would lift during the day. Arne had read the sermon for his mother and sung the hymns, which had done him good; now he was in full trim, ready to go up to the parsonage. He opened the door, the fresh perfume of the leaves was wafted toward him, the garden lay dew-covered and bowed by the morning mist, and from the Kamp gorge there came a roaring, mingled at intervals with mighty booms, making everything tremble to the ear and the eye.

Arne walked upward. The farther he got from the force the less awe-inspiring became its roar, which finally spread itself like the deep tones of an organ over the whole landscape.

"The Lord be with him on his way!" said the mother, opening the window and looking after him until the shrubbery closed about him. The fog lifted more and more, the sun cut through it; there was life now about the fields and in the garden; all Arne's work sprouted out in fresh growth, sending fragrance and joy up to the mother. Spring is lovely to those who long have been surrounded by winter.