CHAPTER X
One afternoon later in the summer, as his mother and a girl were raking hay, while Oyvind and his father were carrying it in, there came a little barefooted and bareheaded boy, skipping down the hill-side and across the meadows to Oyvind, and gave him a note.
“You run well, my boy,” said Oyvind.
“I am paid for it,” answered the boy.
On being asked if he was to have an answer, the reply was No; and the boy took his way home over the cliff, for some one was coming after him up on the road, he said. Oyvind opened the note with some difficulty, for it was folded in a strip, then tied in a knot, then sealed and stamped; and the note ran thus:—
“He is now on the march; but he moves slowly. Run into the woods and hide yourself! THE ONE YOU KNOW.”
“I will do no such thing,” thought Oyvind; and gazed defiantly up the hills. Nor did he wait long before an old man appeared on the hill-top, paused to rest, walked on a little, rested again. Both Thore and his wife stopped to look. Thore soon smiled, however; his wife, on the other hand, changed color.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, it is not very easy to make a mistake here.”
Father and son again began to carry hay; but the latter took care that they were always together. The old man on the hill slowly drew near, like a heavy western storm. He was very tall and rather corpulent; he was lame and walked with a labored gait, leaning on a staff. Soon he came so near that they could see him distinctly; he paused, removed his cap and wiped away the perspiration with a handkerchief. He was quite bald far back on the head; he had a round, wrinkled face, small, glittering, blinking eyes, bushy eyebrows, and had lost none of his teeth. When he spoke it was in a sharp, shrill voice, that seemed to be hopping over gravel and stones; but it lingered on an “r” here and there with great satisfaction, rolling it over for several yards, and at the same time making a tremendous leap in pitch. He had been known in his younger days as a lively but quick-tempered man; in his old age, through much adversity, he had become irritable and suspicious.
Thore and his son came and went many times before Ole could make his way to them; they both knew that he did not come for any good purpose, therefore it was all the more comical that he never got there. Both had to walk very serious, and talk in a whisper; but as this did not come to an end it became ludicrous. Only half a word that is to the point can kindle laughter under such circumstances, and especially when it is dangerous to laugh. When at last Ole was only a few rods distant, but which seemed never to grow less, Oyvind said, dryly, in a low tone,—
“He must carry a heavy load, that man,”—and more was not required.
“I think you are not very wise,” whispered the father, although he was laughing himself.
“Hem, hem!” said Ole, coughing on the hill.
“He is getting his throat ready,” whispered Thore.
Oyvind fell on his knees in front of the haycock, buried his head in the hay, and laughed. His father also bowed down.
“Suppose we go into the barn,” whispered he, and taking an armful of hay he trotted off. Oyvind picked up a little tuft, rushed after him, bent crooked with laughter, and dropped down as soon as he was inside the barn. His father was a grave man, but if he once got to laughing, there first began within him a low chuckling, with an occasional ha-ha-ha, gradually growing longer and longer, until all blended in a single loud peal, after which came wave after wave with a longer gasp between each. Now he was under way. The son lay on the floor, the father stood beside him, both laughing with all their might. Occasionally they had such fits of laughter.
“But this is inconvenient,” said the father.
Finally they were at a loss to know how this would end, for the old man must surely have reached the gard.
“I will not go out,” said the father; “I have no business with him.”
“Well, then, I will not go out either,” replied Oyvind.
“Hem, hem!” was heard just outside of the barn wall.
The father held up a threatening finger to his boy.
“Come, out with you!”
“Yes; you go first!”
“No, you be off at once.”
“Well, go you first.”
And they brushed the dust off each other, and advanced very seriously. When they came below the barn-bridge they saw Ole standing with his face towards the kitchen door, as if he were reflecting. He held his cap in the same hand as his staff, and with his handkerchief was wiping the sweat from his bald head, at the same time pulling at the bushy tufts behind his ears and about his neck until they stuck out like spikes. Oyvind hung behind his father, so the latter was obliged to stand still, and in order to put an end to this he said with excessive gravity,—
“Is the old gentleman out for a walk?”
Ole turned, looked sharply at him, and put on his cap before he replied,—
“Yes, so it seems.”
“Perhaps you are tired; will you not walk in?”
“Oh! I can rest very well here; my errand will not take long.”
Some one set the kitchen door ajar and looked out; between it and Thore stood old Ole, with his cap-visor down over his eyes, for the cap was too large now that he had lost his hair. In order to be able to see he threw his head pretty far back; he held his staff in his right hand, while the left was firmly pressed against his side when he was not gesticulating; and this he never did more vigorously than by stretching the hand half way out and holding it passive a moment, as a guard for his dignity.
“Is that your son who is standing behind you?” he began, abruptly.
“So they say.”
“Oyvind is his name, is it not?”
“Yes; they call him Oyvind.”
“He has been at one of those agricultural schools down south, I believe?”
“There was something of the kind; yes.”
“Well, my girl—she—my granddaughter—Marit, you know—she has gone mad of late.”
“That is too bad.”
“She refuses to marry.”
“Well, really?”
“She will not have any of the gard boys who offer themselves.”
“Ah, indeed.”
“But people say he is to blame; he who is standing there.”
“Is that so?”
“He is said to have turned her head—yes; he there, your son Oyvind.”
“The deuce he has!”
“See you, I do not like to have any one take my horses when I let them loose on the mountains, neither do I choose to have any one take my daughters when I allow them to go to a dance. I will not have it.”
“No, of course not.”
“I cannot go with them; I am old, I cannot be forever on the lookout.”
“No, no! no, no!”
“Yes, you see, I will have order and propriety; there the block must stand, and there the axe must lie, and there the knife, and there they must sweep, and there throw rubbish out,—not outside the door, but yonder in the corner, just there—yes; and nowhere else. So, when I say to her: ‘not this one but that one!’ I expect it to be that one, and not this one!”
“Certainly.”
“But it is not so. For three years she has persisted in thwarting me, and for three years we have not been happy together. This is bad; and if he is at the bottom of it, I will tell him so that you may hear it, you, his father, that it will not do him any good. He may as well give it up.”
“Yes, yes.”
Ole looked a moment at Thore, then he said,—
“Your answers are short.”
“A sausage is no longer.”
Here Oyvind had to laugh, although he was in no mood to do so. But with daring persons fear always borders on laughter, and now it inclined to the latter.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Ole, shortly and sharply.
“I?”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“The Lord forbid!” but his own answer increased his desire to laugh.
Ole saw this, and grew absolutely furious. Both Thore and Oyvind tried to make amends with serious faces and entreaties to walk in; but it was the pent-up wrath of three years that was now seeking vent, and there was no checking it.
“You need not think you can make a fool of me,” he began; “I am on a lawful errand: I am protecting my grandchild’s happiness, as I understand it, and puppy laughter shall not hinder me. One does not bring up girls to toss them down into the first houseman’s place that opens its doors, and one does not manage an estate for forty years only to hand the whole over to the first one who makes a fool of the girl. My daughter made herself ridiculous until she was allowed to marry a vagabond. He drank them both into the grave, and I had to take the child and pay for the fun; but, by my troth! it shall not be the same with my granddaughter, and now you know that! I tell you, as sure as my name is Ole Nordistuen of the Heidegards, the priest shall sooner publish the bans of the hulder-folks up in the Nordal forest than give out such names from the pulpit as Marit’s and yours, you Christmas clown! Do you think you are going to drive respectable suitors away from the gard, forsooth? Well; you just try to come there, and you shall have such a journey down the hills that your shoes will come after you like smoke. You snickering fox! I suppose you have a notion that I do not know what you are thinking of, both you and she. Yes, you think that old Ole Nordistuen will turn his nose to the skies yonder, in the churchyard, and then you will trip forward to the altar. No; I have lived now sixty-six years, and I will prove to you, boy, that I shall live until you waste away over it, both of you! I can tell you this, too, that you may cling to the house like new-fallen snow, yet not so much as see the soles of her feet; for I mean to send her from the parish. I am going to send her where she will be safe; so you may flutter about here like a chattering jay all you please, and marry the rain and the north wind. This is all I have to say to you; but now you, who are his father, know my sentiments, and if you desire the welfare of him whom this concerns, you had better advise him to lead the stream where it can find its course; across my possessions it is forbidden.”
He turned away with short, hasty steps, lifting his right foot rather higher than the left, and grumbling to himself.
Those left behind were completely sobered; a foreboding of evil had become blended with their jesting and laughter, and the house seemed, for a while, as empty as after a great fright. The mother who, from the kitchen door had heard everything, anxiously sought Oyvind’s eyes, scarcely able to keep back her tears, but she would not make it harder for him by saying a single word. After they had all silently entered the house, the father sat down by the window, and gazed out after Ole, with much earnestness in his face; Oyvind’s eyes hung on the slightest change of countenance; for on his father’s first words almost depended the future of the two young people. If Thore united his refusal with Ole’s, it could scarcely be overcome. Oyvind’s thoughts flew, terrified, from obstacle to obstacle; for a time he saw only poverty, opposition, misunderstanding, and a sense of wounded honor, and every prop he tried to grasp seemed to glide away from him. It increased his uneasiness that his mother was standing with her hand on the latch of the kitchen-door, uncertain whether she had the courage to remain inside and await the issue, and that she at last lost heart entirely and stole out. Oyvind gazed fixedly at his father, who never took his eyes from the window; the son did not dare speak, for the other must have time to think the matter over fully. But at the same moment his soul had fully run its course of anxiety, and regained its poise once more. “No one but God can part us in the end,” he thought to himself, as he looked at his father’s wrinkled brow. Soon after this something occurred. Thore drew a long sigh, rose, glanced round the room, and met his son’s gaze. He paused, and looked long at him.
“It was my will that you should give her up, for one should hesitate about succeeding through entreaties or threats. But if you are determined not to give her up, you may let me know when the opportunity comes, and perhaps I can help you.”
He started off to his work, and the son followed.
But that evening Oyvind had his plan formed: he would endeavor to become agriculturist for the district, and ask the inspector and the school-master to aid him. “If she only remains firm, with God’s help, I shall win her through my work.”
He waited in vain for Marit that evening, but as he walked about he sang his favorite song:—
“Hold thy head up, thou eager boy!
Time a hope or two may destroy,
Soon in thy eye though is beaming,
Light that above thee is beaming!
“Hold thy head up, and gaze about!
Something thou’lt find that “Come!” does shout;
Thousands of tongues it has bringing
Tidings of peace with their singing.
“Hold thy head up; within thee, too,
Rises a mighty vault of blue,
Wherein are harp tones sounding,
Swinging, exulting, rebounding.
“Hold thy head up, and loudly sing!
Keep not back what would sprout in spring;
Powers fermenting, glowing,
Must find a time for growing.
“Hold thy head up; baptism take,
From the hope that on high does break,
Arches of light o’er us throwing,
And in each life-spark glowing.”[1]
[Footnote 1: Auber Forestier’s translation.]
CHAPTER XI
It was during the noonday rest; the people at the great Heidegards were sleeping, the hay was scattered over the meadows, the rakes were staked in the ground. Below the barn-bridge stood the hay sleds, the harness lay, taken off, beside them, and the horses were tethered at a little distance. With the exception of the latter and some hens that had strayed across the fields, not a living creature was visible on the whole plain.
There was a notch in the mountains above the gards, and through it the road led to the Heidegard saeters,—large, fertile mountain plains. A man was standing in this notch, taking a survey of the plain below, just as if he were watching for some one. Behind him lay a little mountain lake, from which flowed the brook which made this mountain pass; on either side of this lake ran cattle-paths, leading to the saeters, which could be seen in the distance. There floated toward him a shouting and a barking, cattle-bells tinkled among the mountain ridges; for the cows had straggled apart in search of water, and the dogs and herd-boys were vainly striving to drive them together. The cows came galloping along with the most absurd antics and involuntary plunges, and with short, mad bellowing, their tails held aloft, they rushed down into the water, where they came to a stand; every time they moved their heads the tinkling of their bells was heard across the lake. The dogs drank a little, but stayed behind on firm land; the herd-boys followed, and seated themselves on the warm, smooth hill-side. Here they drew forth their lunch boxes, exchanged with one another, bragged about their dogs, oxen, and the family they lived with, then undressed, and sprang into the water with the cows. The dogs persisted in not going in; but loitered lazily around, their heads hanging, with hot eyes and lolling tongues. Round about on the slopes not a bird was to be seen, not a sound was heard, save the prattling of children and the tinkling of bells; the heather was parched and dry, the sun blazed on the hill-sides, so that everything was scorched by its heat.
It was Oyvind who was sitting up there in the mid-day sun, waiting. He sat in his shirt-sleeves, close by the brook which flowed from the lake. No one yet appeared on the Heidegard plain, and he was gradually beginning to grow anxious when suddenly a large dog came walking with heavy steps out of a door in Nordistuen, followed by a girl in white sleeves. She tripped across the meadow toward the cliff; he felt a strong desire to shout down to her, but dared not. He took a careful survey of the gard to see if any one might come out and notice her, but there seemed to be no danger of detection, and several times he rose from impatience.
She arrived at last, following a path by the side of the brook, the dog a little in advance of her, snuffing the air, she catching hold of the low shrubs, and walking with more and more weary gait. Oyvind sprang downward; the dog growled and was hushed; but as soon as Marit saw Oyvind coming she sat down on a large stone, as red as blood, tired and overcome by the heat. He flung himself down on the stone by her side.
“Thank you for coming.”
“What heat and what a distance! Have you been here long?”
“No. Since we are watched in the evening, we must make use of the noon. But after this I think we will not act so secretly, nor take so much trouble; it was just about this I wanted to speak to you.”
“Not so secretly?”
“I know very well that all that is done secretly pleases you best; but to show courage pleases you also. To-day I have come to have a long talk with you, and now you must listen.”
“Is it true that you are trying to be agriculturist for the district?”
“Yes, and I expect to succeed. In this I have a double purpose: first, to win a position for myself; but secondly, and chiefly, to accomplish something which your grandfather can see and understand. Luckily it chances that most of the Heidegard freeholders are young people who wish for improvements and desire help; they have money, too. So I shall begin among them. I shall regulate everything from their stables to their water-pipes; I shall give lectures and work; I shall fairly besiege the old man with good deeds.”
“Those are brave words. What more, Oyvind?”
“Why, the rest simply concerns us two. You must not go away.”
“Not if he orders it?”
“And keep nothing secret that concerns us two.”
“Even if he torments me?”
“We gain more and defend ourselves better by allowing everything to be open. We must manage to be so constantly before the eyes of people, that they are constantly forced to talk about how fond we are of each other; so much the sooner will they wish that all may go well with us. You must not leave home. There is danger of gossip forcing its way between those who are parted. We pay no heed to any idle talk the first year, but we begin by degrees to believe in it the second. We two will meet once a week and laugh away the mischief people would like to make between us; we shall be able to meet occasionally at a dance, and keep step together until everything sings about us, while those who backbite us are sitting around. We shall meet at church and greet each other so that it may attract the attention of all those who wish us a hundred miles apart. If any one makes a song about us we will sit down together and try to get up one in answer to it; we must succeed if we assist each other. No one can harm us if we keep together, and thus show people that we keep together. All unhappy love belongs either to timid people, or weak people, or sick people, or calculating people, who keep waiting for some special opportunity, or cunning people, who, in the end, smart for their own cunning; or to sensuous people that do not care enough for each other to forget rank and distinction; they go and hide from sight, they send letters, they tremble at a word, and finally they mistake fear, that constant uneasiness and irritation in the blood, for love, become wretched and dissolve like sugar. Oh pshaw! if they truly loved each other they would have no fear; they would laugh, and would openly march to the church door, in the face of every smile and every word. I have read about it in books, and I have seen it for myself. That is a pitiful love which chooses a secret course. Love naturally begins in secresy because it begins in shyness; but it must live openly because it lives in joy. It is as when the leaves are changing; that which is to grow cannot conceal itself, and in every instance you see that all which is dry falls from the tree the moment the new leaves begin to sprout. He who gains love casts off all the old, dead rubbish he formerly clung to, the sap wells up and rushes onward; and should no one notice it then? Hey, my girl! they shall become happy at seeing us happy; two who are betrothed and remain true to each other confer a benefit on people, for they give them a poem which their children learn by heart to the shame of their unbelieving parents. I have read of many such cases; and some still live in the memory of the people of this parish, and those who relate these stories, and are moved by them, are the children of the very persons who once caused all the mischief. Yes, Marit, now we two will join hands, so; yes, and we will promise each other to cling together, so; yes, and now it will all come right. Hurrah!”
He was about to take hold of her head, but she turned it away and glided down off the stone.
He kept his seat; she came back, and leaning her arms on his knee, stood talking with him, looking up into his face.
“Listen, Oyvind; what if he is determined I shall leave home, how then?”
“Then you must say No, right out.”
“Oh, dear! how would that be possible?”
“He cannot carry you out to the carriage.”
“If he does not quite do that, he can force me in many other ways.”
“That I do not believe; you owe obedience, to be sure, as long as it is not a sin; but it is also your duty to let him fully understand how hard it is for you to be obedient this time. I am sure he will change his mind when he sees this; now he thinks, like most people, that it is only childish nonsense. Prove to him that it is something more.”
“He is not to be trifled with, I can assure you. He watches me like a tethered goat.”
“But you tug at the tether several times a day.”
“That is not true.”
“Yes, you do; every time you think of me in secret you tug at it.”
“Yes, in that way. But are you so very sure that I think often of you?”
“You would not be sitting here if you did not.”
“Why, dear me! did you not send word for me to come?”
“But you came because your thoughts drove you here.”
“Rather because the weather was so fine.”
“You said a while ago that it was too warm.”
“To go up hill, yes; but down again?”
“Why did you come up, then?”
“That I might run down again.”
“Why did you not run down before this?”
“Because I had to rest.”
“And talk with me about love?”
“It was an easy matter to give you the pleasure of listening.”
“While the birds sang.”
“And the others were sleeping.”
“And the bells rang.”
“In the shady grove.”
Here they both saw Marit’s grandfather come sauntering out into the yard, and go to the bell-rope to ring the farm people up. The people came slowly forth from the barns, sheds, and houses, moved sleepily toward their horses and rakes, scattered themselves over the meadow, and presently all was life and work again. Only the grandfather went in and out of the houses, and finally up on the highest barn-bridge and looked out. There came running up to him a little boy, whom he must have called. The boy, sure enough, started off in the direction of Pladsen. The grandfather, meanwhile, moved about the gard, often looking upward and having a suspicion, at least, that the black spot on the “giant rock” was Marit and Oyvind. Now for the second time Marit’s great dog was the cause of trouble. He saw a strange horse drive in to the Heidegards, and believing himself to be only doing his duty, began to bark with all his might. They hushed the dog, but he had grown angry and would not be quiet; the grandfather stood below staring up. But matters grew still worse, for all the herd-boys’ dogs heard with surprise the strange voice and came running up. When they saw that it was a large, wolf-like giant, all the stiff-haired Lapp-dogs gathered about him. Marit became so terrified that she ran away without saying farewell. Oyvind rushed into the midst of the fray, kicked and fought; but the dogs merely changed the field of battle, and then flew at one another again, with hideous howls and kicks; Oyvind after them again, and so it kept on until they had rolled over to the edge of the brook, when he once more came running up. The result of this was that they all tumbled together into the water, just at a place where it was quite deep, and there they parted, shame-faced. Thus ended this forest battle. Oyvind walked through the forest until he reached the parish road; but Marit met her grandfather up by the fence. This was the dog’s fault.
“Where do you come from?”
“From the wood.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Plucking berries.”
“That is not true.”
“No; neither is it.”
“What were you doing, then?”
“I was talking with some one.”
“Was it with the Pladsen boy?”
“Yes.”
“Hear me now, Marit; to-morrow you leave home.”
“No.”
“Listen to me, Marit; I have but one single thing to say, only one: you shall go.”
“You cannot lift me into the carriage.”
“Indeed? Can I not?”
“No; because you will not.”
“Will I not? Listen now, Marit, just for sport, you see, just for sport. I am going to tell you that I will crush the backbone of that worthless fellow of yours.”
“No; you would not dare do so.”
“I would not dare? Do you say I would not dare? Who should interfere?
Who?”
“The school-master.”
“School—school—school-master. Does he trouble his head about that fellow, do you think?”
“Yes; it is he who has kept him at the agricultural school.”
“The school-master?”
“The school-master.”
“Hearken now, Marit; I will have no more of this nonsense; you shall leave the parish. You only cause me sorrow and trouble; that was the way with your mother, too, only sorrow and trouble. I am an old man. I want to see you well provided for. I will not live in people’s talk as a fool just for this matter. I only wish your own good; you should understand this, Marit. Soon I will be gone, and then you will be left alone. What would have become of your mother if it had not been for me? Listen, Marit; be sensible, pay heed to what I have to say. I only desire your own good.”
“No, you do not.”
“Indeed? What do I want, then?”
“To carry out your own will, that is what you want; but you do not ask about mine.”
“And have you a will, you young sea-gull, you? Do you suppose you know what is for your good, you fool? I will give you a taste of the rod, I will, for all you are so big and tall. Listen now, Marit; let me talk kindly with you. You are not so bad at heart, but you have lost your senses. You must listen to me. I am an old and sensible man. We will talk kindly together a little; I have not done so remarkably well in the world as folks think; a poor bird on the wing could easily fly away with the little I have; your father handled it roughly, indeed he did. Let us care for ourselves in this world, it is the best thing we can do. It is all very well for the school-master to talk, for he has money himself; so has the priest;—let them preach. But with us who must slave for our daily bread, it is quite different. I am old. I know much. I have seen many things; love, you see, may do very well to talk about; yes, but it is not worth much. It may answer for priests and such folks, peasants must look at it in a different light. First food, you see, then God’s Word, and then a little writing and arithmetic, and then a little love, if it happens to come in the way; but, by the Eternals! there is no use in beginning with love and ending with food. What can you say, now, Marit?”
“I do not know.”
“You do not know what you ought to answer?”
“Yes, indeed, I know that.”
“Well, then?”
“May I say it?”
“Yes; of course you may say it.”
“I care a great deal for that love of mine.”
He stood aghast for a moment, recalling a hundred similar conversations with similar results, then he shook his head, turned his back, and walked away.
He picked a quarrel with the housemen, abused the girls, beat the large dog, and almost frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed into the field; but to Marit he said nothing.
That evening Marit was so happy when she went up-stairs to bed, that she opened the window, lay in the window-frame, looked out and sang. She had found a pretty little love-song, and it was that she sang.
“Lovest thou but me,
I will e’er love thee,
All my days on earth, so fondly;
Short were summer’s days,
Now the flower decays,—
Comes again with spring, so kindly.
“What you said last year
Still rings in my ear,
As I all alone am sitting,
And your thoughts do try
In my heart to fly,—
Picture life in sunshine flitting.
“Litli—litli—loy,
Well I hear the boy,
Sighs behind the birches heaving.
I am in dismay,
Thou must show the way,
For the night her shroud is weaving.
“Flomma, lomma, hys,
Sang I of a kiss,
No, thou surely art mistaken.
Didst thou hear it, say?
Cast the thought away;
Look on me as one forsaken.
“Oh, good-night! good-night!
Dreams of eyes so bright,
Hold me now in soft embraces,
But that wily word,
Which thou thought’st unheard,
Leaves in me of love no traces.
“I my window close,
But in sweet repose
Songs from thee I hear returning;
Calling me they smile,
And my thoughts beguile,—
Must I e’er for thee be yearning?”
CHAPTER XII
Several years have passed since the last scene.
It is well on in the autumn. The school-master comes walking up to Nordistuen, opens the outer door, finds no one at home, opens another, finds no one at home; and thus he keeps on until he reaches the innermost room in the long building. There Ole Nordistuen is sitting alone, by the side of his bed, his eyes fixed on his hands.
The school-master salutes him, and receives a greeting in return; he finds a stool, and seats himself in front of Ole.
“You have sent for me,” he says.
“I have.”
The school-master takes a fresh quid of tobacco, glances around the room, picks up a book that is lying on the bench, and turns over the leaves.
“What did you want of me?”
“I was just sitting here thinking it over.”
The school-master gives himself plenty of time, searches for his spectacles in order to read the title of the book, wipes them and puts them on.
“You are growing old, now, Ole.”
“Yes, it was about that I wanted to talk with you. I am tottering downward; I will soon rest in the grave.”
“You must see to it that you rest well there, Ole.”
He closes the book and sits looking at the binding.
“That is a good book you are holding in your hands.”
“It is not bad. How often have you gone beyond the cover, Ole?”
“Why, of late, I”—
The school-master lays aside the book and puts away his spectacles.
“Things are not going as you wish to have them, Ole?”
“They have not done so as far back as I can remember.”
“Ah, so it was with me for a long time. I lived at variance with a good friend, and wanted him to come to me, and all the while I was unhappy. At last I took it into my head to go to him, and since then all has been well with me.”
Ole looks up and says nothing.
The school-master: “How do you think the gard is doing, Ole?”
“Failing, like myself.”
“Who shall have it when you are gone?”
“That is what I do not know, and it is that, too, which troubles me.”
“Your neighbors are doing well now, Ole.”
“Yes, they have that agriculturist to help them.”
The school-master turned unconcernedly toward the window: “You should have help,—you, too, Ole. You cannot walk much, and you know very little of the new ways of management.”
Ole: “I do not suppose there is any one who would help me.”
“Have you asked for it?”
Ole is silent.
The school-master: “I myself dealt just so with the Lord for a long time. ‘You are not kind to me,’ I said to Him. ‘Have you prayed me to be so?’ asked He. No; I had not done so. Then I prayed, and since then all has been truly well with me.”
Ole is silent; but now the school-master, too, is silent.
Finally Ole says:—
“I have a grandchild; she knows what would please me before I am taken away, but she does not do it.”
The school-master smiles.
“Possibly it would not please her?”
Ole makes no reply.
The school-master: “There are many things which trouble you; but as far as I can understand they all concern the gard.”
Ole says, quietly,—
“It has been handed down for many generations, and the soil is good. All that father after father has toiled for lies in it; but now it does not thrive. Nor do I know who shall drive in when I am driven out. It will not be one of the family.”
“Your granddaughter will preserve the family.”
“But how can he who takes her take the gard? That is what I want to know before I die. You have no time to lose, Baard, either for me or for the gard.”
They were both silent; at last the school-master says,—
“Shall we walk out and take a look at the gard in this fine weather?”
“Yes; let us do so. I have work-people on the slope; they are gathering leaves, but they do not work except when I am watching them.”
He totters off after his large cap and staff, and says, meanwhile,—
“They do not seem to like to work for me; I cannot understand it.”
When they were once out and turning the corner of the house, he paused.
“Just look here. No order: the wood flung about, the axe not even stuck in the block.”
He stooped with difficulty, picked up the axe, and drove it in fast.
“Here you see a skin that has fallen down; but has any one hung it up again?”
He did it himself.
“And the store-house; do you think the ladder is carried away?”
He set it aside. He paused, and looking at the school-master, said,—
“This is the way it is every single day.”
As they proceeded upward they heard a merry song from the slopes.
“Why, they are singing over their work,” said the school-master.
“That is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is helping his father gather leaves. Over yonder my people are working; you will not find them singing.”
“That is not one of the parish songs, is it?”
“No, it is not.”
“Oyvind Pladsen has been much in Ostistuen; perhaps that is one of the songs he has introduced into the parish, for there is always singing where he is.”
There was no reply to this.
The field they were crossing was not in good condition; it required attention. The school-master commented on this, and then Ole stopped.
“It is not in my power to do more,” said he, quite pathetically. “Hired work-people without attention cost too much. But it is hard to walk over such a field, I can assure you.”
As their conversation now turned on the size of the gard, and what portion of it most needed cultivation, they decided to go up the slope that they might have a view of the whole. When they at length had reached a high elevation, and could take it all in, the old man became moved.
“Indeed, I should not like to leave it so. We have labored hard down there, both I and those who went before me, but there is nothing to show for it.”
A song rang out directly over their heads, but with the peculiar shrilling of a boy’s voice when it is poured out with all its might. They were not far from the tree in whose top was perched little Knut Ostistuen, gathering leaves for his father, and they were compelled to listen to the boy:—
“When on mountain peaks you hie,
‘Mid green slopes to tarry,
In your scrip pray no more tie,
Than you well can carry.
Take no hindrances along
To the crystal fountains;
Drown them in a cheerful song,
Send them down the mountains.
“Birds there greet you from the trees,
Gossip seeks the valley;
Purer, sweeter grows the breeze,
As you upward sally.
Fill your lungs, and onward rove,
Ever gayly singing,
Childhood’s memories, heath and grove,
Rosy-hued, are bringing.
“Pause the shady groves among,
Hear yon mighty roaring,
Solitude’s majestic song
Upward far is soaring.
All the world’s distraction comes
When there rolls a pebble;
Each forgotten duty hums
In the brooklet’s treble.
“Pray, while overhead, dear heart,
Anxious mem’ries hover;
Then go on: the better part
You’ll above discover.
Who hath chosen Christ as guide,
Daniel and Moses,
Finds contentment far and wide,
And in peace reposes.”[1]
[Footnote 1: Auber Forestier’s translation.]
Ole had sat down and covered his face with his hands.
“Here I will talk with you,” said the school-master, and seated himself by his side.
Down at Pladsen, Oyvind had just returned home from a somewhat long journey, the post-boy was still at the door, as the horse was resting. Although Oyvind now had a good income as agriculturist of the district, he still lived in his little room down at Pladsen, and helped his parents every spare moment. Pladsen was cultivated from one end to the other, but it was so small that Oyvind called it “mother’s toy-farm,” for it was she, in particular, who saw to the farming.
He had changed his clothes, his father had come in from the mill, white with meal, and had also dressed. They just stood talking about taking a short walk before supper, when the mother came in quite pale.
“Here are singular strangers coming up to the house; oh dear! look out!”
Both men turned to the window, and Oyvind was the first to exclaim:—
“It is the school-master, and—yes, I almost believe—why, certainly it is he!”
“Yes, it is old Ole Nordistuen,” said Thore, moving away from the window that he might not be seen; for the two were already near the door.
Just as Oyvind was leaving the window he caught the school-master’s eye, Baard smiled, and cast a glance back at old Ole, who was laboring along with his staff in small, short steps, one foot being constantly raised higher than the other. Outside the school-master was heard to say, “He has recently returned home, I suppose,” and Ole to exclaim twice over, “Well, well!”
They remained a long time quiet in the passage. The mother had crept up to the corner where the milk-shelf was; Oyvind had assumed his favorite position, that is, he leaned with his back against the large table, with his face toward the door; his father was sitting near him. At length there came a knock at the door, and in stepped the school-master, who drew off his hat, afterward Ole, who pulled off his cap, and then turned to shut the door. It took him a long time to do so; he was evidently embarrassed. Thore rising, asked them to be seated; they sat down, side by side, on the bench in front of the window. Thore took his seat again.
And the wooing proceeded as shall now be told.
The school-master: “We are having fine weather this autumn, after all.”
Thore: “It has been mending of late.”
“It is likely to remain pleasant, now that the wind is over in that quarter.”
“Are you through with your harvesting up yonder?”
“Not yet; Ole Nordistuen here, whom, perhaps, you know, would like very much to have help from you, Oyvind, if there is nothing else in the way.”
Oyvind: “If help is desired, I shall do what I can.”
“Well, there is no great hurry. The gard is not doing well, he thinks, and he believes what is wanting is the right kind of tillage and superintendence.”
Oyvind: “I am so little at home.”
The school-master looks at Ole. The latter feels that he must now rush into the fire; he clears his throat a couple of times, and begins hastily and shortly,—
“It was—it is—yes. What I meant was that you should be in a certain way established—that you should—yes—be the same as at home up yonder with us,—be there, when you were not away.”
“Many thanks for the offer, but I should rather remain where I now live.”
Ole looks at the school-master, who says,—
“Ole’s brain seems to be in a whirl to-day. The fact is he has been here once before, and the recollection of that makes his words get all confused.”
Ole, quickly: “That is it, yes; I ran a madman’s race. I strove against the girl until the tree split. But let by-gones be by-gones; the wind, not the snow, beats down the grain; the rain-brook does not tear up large stones; snow does not lie long on the ground in May; it is not the thunder that kills people.”
They all four laugh; the school-master says:
“Ole means that he does not want you to remember that time any longer; nor you, either, Thore.”
Ole looks at them, uncertain whether he dare begin again.
Then Thore says,—
“The briar takes hold with many teeth, but causes no wound. In me there are certainly no thorns left.”
Ole: “I did not know the boy then. Now I see that what he sows thrives; the harvest answers to the promise of the spring; there is money in his finger-tips, and I should like to get hold of him.”
Oyvind looks at the father, he at the mother, she from them to the school-master, and then all three at the latter.
“Ole thinks that he has a large gard”—
Ole breaks in: “A large gard, but badly managed. I can do no more. I am old, and my legs refuse to run the errands of my head. But it will pay to take hold up yonder.”
“The largest gard in the parish, and that by a great deal,” interrupts the school-master.
“The largest gard in the parish; that is just the misfortune; shoes that are too large fall off; it is a fine thing to have a good gun, but one should be able to lift it.” Then turning quickly towards Oyvind, “Would you be willing to lend a hand to it?”
“Do you mean for me to be gard overseer?”
“Precisely—yes; you should have the gard.”
“I should have the gard?”
“Just so—yes: then you could manage it.”
“But”—
“You will not?”
“Why, of course, I will.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes; then it is decided, as the hen said when she flew into the water.”
“But”—
Ole looks puzzled at the school-master.
“Oyvind is asking, I suppose, whether he shall have Marit, to.”
Ole, abruptly: “Marit in the bargain; Marit in the bargain!”
Then Oyvind burst out laughing, and jumped right up; all three laughed with him. Oyvind rubbed his hands, paced the floor, and kept repeating again and again: “Marit in the bargain! Marit in the bargain!” Thore gave a deep chuckle, the mother in the corner kept her eyes fastened on her son until they filled with tears.
Ole, in great excitement: “What do you think of the gard?”
“Magnificent land!”
“Magnificent land; is it not?”
“No pasture equal to it!”
“No pasture equal to it! Something can be done with it?”
“It will become the best gard in the district!”
“It will become the best gard in the district! Do you think so? Do you mean that?”
“As surely as I am standing here!”
“There, is not that just what I have said?”
They both talked equally fast, and fitted together like the cogs of two wheels.
“But money, you see, money? I have no money.”
“We will get on slowly without money; but get on we shall!”
“We shall get on! Of course we will! But if we had money, it would go faster you say?”
“Many times faster.”
“Many times? We ought to have money! Yes, yes; a man can chew who has not all his teeth; he who drives with oxen will get on, too.”
The mother stood blinking at Thore, who gave her many quick side glances as he sat swaying his body to and fro, and stroking his knees with his hands. The school-master also winked at him. Thore’s lips parted, he coughed a little, and made an effort to speak; but Ole and Oyvind both kept on talking in an uninterrupted stream, laughed and kept up such a clatter that no one else could be heard.
“You must be quiet for a little while, Thore has something he wants to say,” puts in the school-master.
They pause and look at Thore, who finally begins, in a low tone:—
“It has so happened that we have had a mill on our place. Of late it has turned out that we have had two. These mills have always brought in a few shillings during the year; but neither my father nor I have used any of these shillings except while Oyvind was away. The school-master has managed them, and he says they have prospered well where they are; but now it is best that Oyvind should take them for Nordistuen.”
The mother stood in a corner, shrinking away into almost nothing, as she gazed with sparkling eyes at Thore, who looked very grave, and had an almost stupid expression on his face. Ole Nordistuen sat nearly opposite him, with wide-gaping mouth. Oyvind was the first to rouse from his astonishment, and burst out,—
“Does it not seem as if good luck went with me!”
With this he crossed the floor to his father, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that rang through the room. “You, father!” cried he, and rubbing his hands together he continued his walk.
“How much money might it be?” finally asked Ole, in a low tone, of the school-master.
“It is not so little.”
“Some hundreds?”
“Rather more.”
“Rather more? Oyvind, rather more! Lord help us, what a gard it will be!”
He got up, laughing aloud.
“I must go with you up to Marit,” says Oyvind. “We can use the conveyance that is standing outside, then it will not take long.”
“Yes, at once! at once! Do you, too, want everything done with haste?”
“Yes, with haste and wrong.”
“With haste and wrong! Just the way it was with me when I was young, precisely.”
“Here is your cap and staff; now I am going to drive you away.”
“You are going to drive me away, ha—ha—ha! But you are coming with me; are you not? You are coming with me? All the rest of you come along, too; we must sit together this evening as long as the coals are alive. Come along!”
They promised that they would come. Oyvind helped Ole into the conveyance, and they drove off to Nordistuen. The large dog was not the only one up there who was surprised when Ole Nordistuen came driving into the gard with Oyvind Pladsen. While Oyvind was helping Ole out of the conveyance, and servants and laborers were gaping at them, Marit came out in the passage to see what the dog kept barking at; but paused, as if suddenly bewitched, turned fiery red, and ran in. Old Ole, meanwhile, shouted so tremendously for her when he got into the house that she had to come forward again.
“Go and make yourself trim, girl; here is the one who is to have the gard!”
“Is that true?” she cries, involuntarily, and so loud that the words rang through the room.
“Yes; it is true!” replies Oyvind, clapping his hands.
At this she swings round on her toe, flings away what she has in her hand, and runs out; but Oyvind follows her.
Soon came the school-master, and Thore and his wife. The old man had ordered candles put on the table, which he had had spread with a white cloth. Wine and beer were offered, and Ole kept going round himself, lifting his feet even higher than usual; but the right foot always higher than the left.
Before this little tale ends, it may be told that five weeks later Oyvind and Marit were united in the parish church. The school-master himself led the singing on the occasion, for the assistant chorister was ill. His voice was broken now, for he was old; but it seemed to Oyvind that it did the heart good to hear him. When the young man had given Marit his hand, and was leading her to the altar, the school-master nodded at him from the chancel, just as Oyvind had seen him do, in fancy, when sitting sorrowfully at that dance long ago. Oyvind nodded back while tears welled up to his eyes.
These tears at the dance were the forerunners of those at the wedding.
Between them lay Oyvind’s faith and his work.
Here endeth the story of A HAPPY BOY.
