Part 4

"Just at this time the road over the ledge had to be altered. Folks in bygone days had a great fancy for going straight onwards; and so the old road ran straight over the ledge; but now-a-days we like to have things smooth and easy; and so the new road was made to run down along the river. While they were making it, there was digging and mining enough to bring down the whole mountain about their ears; and the magistrates and all the officers who have to do with that sort of thing were there. One day while the men were digging deep in the stony ground, one of them took up something which he thought was a stone; but it turned out to be the bones of a man's hand instead; and a wonderfully strong hand it seemed to be, for the man who got it fell flat down directly. That man was Big Lazy-bones. The magistrate was just strolling about round there, and they fetched him to the place; and then all the bones belonging to a whole man were dug out. The Doctor, too, was fetched; and he put them all together so cleverly that nothing was wanting but the flesh. And then it struck some of the people that the skeleton was just about the same size and make as Alf, the pedlar. 'I'll call again,' Alf used to say.

"And then it struck somebody else, that it was a very queer thing a dead hand should have made a great fellow like Big Lazy-bones fall flat down like that: and the magistrate accused him straight of having had more to do with that dead hand than he ought--of course, when nobody else was by. But then Big Lazy-bones foreswore it with such fearful oaths that the magistrate turned quite giddy. 'Well,' said the magistrate, 'if you didn't do it, I dare say you're a fellow, now, who would not mind sleeping with the skeleton to-night?'--'No; I shouldn't mind a bit,--not I,' said Big Lazy-bones. So the Doctor tied the joints of the skeleton together, and laid it in one of the beds in the barracks; and put another bed close by it for Big Lazy-bones. The magistrate wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down close to the door outside. When night came on, and Big Lazy-bones had to go in to his bedfellow, the door shut behind him as though of itself, and he stood in the dark. But then Big Lazy-bones set off singing psalms, for he had a mighty voice. 'Why are you singing psalms?' the magistrate asked from outside the wall. 'May be the bells were never tolled for him,' answered Big Lazy-bones. Then he began praying out loud, as earnestly as ever he could. 'Why are you praying?' asked the magistrate from outside the wall. 'No doubt, he has been a great sinner,' answered Big Lazy-bones. Then a time after, all got so still that the magistrate might have gone to sleep. But then came a shrieking that made the very barracks shake: 'I'll call again!'--Then came a hellish noise and crash: 'Out with that fifty dollars of mine!' roared Big Lazy-bones: and the shrieking and crashing came again. Then the magistrate burst open the door; the people rushed in with poles and firebrands; and there lay Big Lazy-bones on the floor, with the skeleton on the top of him."

There was a deep silence all round the table. At last a man who was lighting his clay-pipe said, "Didn't he go mad from that very time?"

"Yes, he did."

Arne fancied everybody was looking at him, and he dared not raise his eyes. "I say, as I said before," continued the man who had told the tale, "nothing can be buried so deeply that it won't one day be brought to light."

"Well, now I'll tell you about a son who beat his own father," said a fair stout man with a round face. Arne no longer knew where he was sitting.

"This son was a great fellow, almost a giant, belonging to a tall family in Hardanger; and he was always at odds with somebody or other. He and his father were always quarrelling about the yearly allowance; and so he had no peace either at home or out.

"This made him grow more and more wicked; and the father persecuted him. 'I won't be put down by anybody,' the son said. 'Yes, you'll be put down by me so long as I live,' the father answered. 'If you don't hold your tongue,' said the son, rising, 'I'll strike you.'--'Well, do if you dare; and never in this world will you have luck again,' answered the father, rising also.--'Do you mean to say that?' said the son; and he rushed upon him and knocked him down. But the father didn't try to help himself: he folded his arms and let the son do just as he liked with him. Then he knocked him about, rolled him over and over, and dragged him towards the door by his white hair. 'I'll have peace in my own house, at any rate,' said he. But when they had come to the door, the father raised himself a little and cried out, 'Not beyond the door, for so far I dragged my own father.' The son didn't heed it, but dragged the old man's head over the threshold. 'Not beyond the door, I say!' And the old man rose, knocked down the son and beat him as one would beat a child."

"Ah, that's a sad story," several said. Then Arne fancied he heard some one saying, "It's a wicked thing to strike one's father;" and he rose, turning deadly pale.

"Now I'll tell _you_ something," he said; but he hardly knew what he was going to say: words seemed flying around him like large snowflakes. "I'll catch them at random," he said and began:--

"A troll once met a lad walking along the road weeping. 'Whom are you most afraid of?' asked the troll, 'yourself or others?' Now, the boy was weeping because he had dreamed last night he had killed his wicked father; and so he answered, 'I'm most afraid of myself.'--'Then fear yourself no longer, and never weep again; for henceforward you shall only have strife with others.' And the troll went his way. But the first whom the lad met jeered at him; and so the lad jeered at him again. The second he met beat him; and so he beat him again. The third he met tried to kill him; and so the lad killed him. Then all the people spoke ill of the lad; and so he spoke ill again of all the people. They shut the doors against him, and kept all their things away from him; so he stole what he wanted; and he even took his night's rest by stealth. As now they wouldn't let him come to do anything good, he only did what was bad; and all that was bad in other people, they let him suffer for. And the people in the place wept because of the mischief done by the lad; but he did not weep himself, for he could not. Then all the people met together and said, 'Let's go and drown him, for with him we drown all the evil that is in the place.' So they drowned him forthwith; but afterwards they thought the well where he was drowned gave forth a mighty odor.

"The lad himself didn't at all know he had done anything wrong; and so after his death he came drifting in to our Lord. There, sitting on a bench, he saw his father, whom he had not killed, after all; and opposite the father, on another bench, sat the one whom he had jeered at, the one he had beaten, the one he had killed, and all those whom he had stolen from, and those whom he had otherwise wronged.

"'Whom are you afraid of,' our Lord asked, 'of your father, or of those on the long bench?' The lad pointed to the long bench.

"'Sit down then by your father,' said our Lord; and the lad went to sit down. But then the father fell down from the bench with a large axe-cut in his neck. In his seat, came one in the likeness of the lad himself, but with a thin and ghastly pale face; another with a drunkard's face, matted hair, and drooping limbs; and one more with an insane face, torn clothes, and frightful laughter.

"'So it might have happened to you,' said our Lord.

"'Do you think so?' said the boy, catching hold of the Lord's coat.

"Then both the benches fell down from heaven; but the boy remained standing near the Lord rejoicing.

"'Remember this when you awake,' said our Lord; and the boy awoke.

"The boy who dreamed so is I; those who tempted him by thinking him bad are you. I am no longer afraid of myself, but I am afraid of you. Do not force me to evil; for it is uncertain if I get hold of the Lord's coat."

He ran out: the men looked at each other.

VII.

THE SOLILOQUY IN THE BARN.

On the evening of the day after this, Arne was lying in a barn belonging to the same house. For the first time in his life he had become drunk, and he had been lying there for the last twenty-four hours. Now he sat up, resting upon his elbows, and talked with himself:

"... Everything I look at turns to cowardice. It was cowardice that hindered me from running away while a boy; cowardice that made me listen to father more than to mother; cowardice also made me sing the wicked songs to him. I began tending the cattle through cowardice,--to read--well, that, too, was through cowardice: I wished to get away from myself. When, though a grown up lad, yet I didn't help mother against father--cowardice; that I didn't that night--ugh!--cowardice! I might perhaps have waited till she was killed! ... I couldn't bear to stay at home afterwards--cowardice; still I didn't go away--cowardice; I did nothing, I tended cattle ... cowardice. 'Tis true I promised mother to stay at home; still I should have been cowardly enough to break my promise if I hadn't been afraid of mixing among people. For I'm afraid of people, mainly because I think they see how bad I am; and because I'm afraid of them, I speak ill of them--a curse upon my cowardice! I make songs through cowardice. I'm afraid of thinking bravely about my own affairs, and so I turn aside and think about other people's; and making verses is just that.

"I've cause enough to weep till the hills turned to lakes, but instead of that I say to myself, 'Hush, hush,' and begin rocking. And even my songs are cowardly; for if they were bold they would be better. I'm afraid of strong thoughts; afraid of anything that's strong; and if ever I rise into it, it's in a passion, and passion is cowardice. I'm more clever and know more than I seem; I'm better than my words, but my cowardice makes me afraid of showing myself in my true colors. Shame upon me! I drank that spirits through cowardice; I wanted to deaden my pain--shame upon me! I felt miserable all the while I was drinking it, yet I drank; drank my father's heart's-blood, and still I drank! In fact there's no end to my cowardice; and the most cowardly thing is, that I can sit and tell myself all this!

"... Kill myself? Oh, no! I am a vast deal too cowardly for that. Then, too, I believe a little in God ... yes, I believe in God. I would fain go to Him; but cowardice keeps me from going: it would be such a great change that a coward shrinks from it. But if I were to put forth what power I have? Almighty God, if I tried? Thou wouldst cure me in such a way as my milky spirit can bear; wouldst lead me gently; for I have no bones in me, nor even gristle--nothing but jelly. If I tried ... with good, gentle books,--I'm afraid of the strong ones--; with pleasant tales, stories, all that is mild, and then a sermon every Sunday, and a prayer every evening. If I tried to clear a field within me for religion; and worked in good earnest, for one cannot sow in laziness. If I tried; dear mild God of my childhood, if I tried!"

But then the barn-door was opened, and the mother came rushing across the floor. Her face was deadly pale, though the perspiration dropped from it like great tears. For the last twenty-four hours she had been rushing hither and thither, seeking her son, calling his name, and scarcely pausing even to listen, until now when he answered from the barn. Then she gave a loud cry, jumped upon the hay-mow more lightly than a boy, and threw herself upon Arne's breast....

... "Arne, Arne are you here? At last I've found you; I've been looking for you ever since yesterday; I've been looking for you all night long! Poor, poor Arne! I saw they worried you, and I wanted to come to speak to you and comfort you, but really I'm always afraid!" ... "Arne, I saw you drinking spirits! Almighty God, may I never see it again! Arne, I saw you drinking spirits." It was some minutes before she was able to speak again. "Christ have mercy upon you, my boy, I saw you drinking spirits! ... You were gone all at once, drunk and crushed by grief as you were! I ran all over the place; I went far into the fields; but I couldn't find you: I looked in every copse; I questioned everybody; I came here, too; but you didn't answer.... Arne, Arne, I went along the river; but it seemed nowhere to be deep enough...." She pressed herself closer to him.

"Then it came into my mind all at once that you might have gone home; and I'm sure I was only a quarter of an hour going there. I opened the outer-door and looked in every room; and then, for the first time, I remembered that the house had been locked up, and I myself had the key; and that you could not have come in, after all. Arne, last night I looked all along both sides of the road: I dared not go to the edge of the ravine.... I don't know how it was I came here again; nobody told me; it must have been the Lord himself who put it into my mind that you might be here!"

She paused and lay for a while with her head upon his breast.

He tried to comfort her.

"Arne, you'll never drink spirits again, I'm sure?"

"No; you may be sure I never will."

"I believe they were very hard upon you? they were, weren't they?"

"No; it was I who was _cowardly_," he answered, laying a great stress upon the word.

"I can't understand how they could behave badly to you. But, tell me, what did they do? you never will tell me anything;" and once more she began weeping.

"But you never tell me anything, either," he said in a low gentle voice.

"Yet you're the most in fault, Arne: I've been so long used to be silent through your father; you ought to have led me on a little.--Good Lord! we've only each other; and we've suffered so much together."

"Well, we must try to manage better," Arne whispered.

... "Next Sunday I'll read the sermon to you."

"God bless you for it." ...

"Arne!"

"Well!"

"There's something I must tell you."

"Well, mother, tell me it."

"I've greatly sinned against you; I've done something very wrong."

"You, mother?"

"Indeed, I have; but I couldn't help doing it. Arne, you must forgive me."

"But I'm sure you've never done anything wrong to me."

"Indeed, I have: and my very love to you made me do it. But you must forgive me; will you?"

"Yes, I will."

"And then another time I'll tell you all about it ... but you must forgive me!"

"Yes, mother, yes."

"And don't you see the reason why I couldn't talk much to you was, that I had this on my mind? I've sinned against you."

"Pray don't talk so, mother!"

"Well, I'm glad I've said what I have."

"And, mother, we'll talk more together, we two."

"Yes, that we will; and then you'll read the sermon to me?"

"I will."

"Poor Arne; God bless you!"

"I think we both had better go home now."

"Yes, we'll both go home."

"You're looking all round, mother?"

"Yes; your father once lay weeping in this barn."

"Father?" asked Arne, growing deadly pale.

"Poor Nils! It was the day you were christened."

"You're looking all round, Arne?"

VIII.

THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER.

"It was such a cheerful, sunny day, No rest indoors could I find; So I strolled to the wood, and down I lay, And rocked what came in my mind: But there the emmets crawled on the ground, And wasps and gnats were stinging around.

'Won't you go out-doors this fine day, dear?' said mother, as she sat in the porch, spinning.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, No rest indoors could I find; So I went in the birk, and down I lay, And sang what came in my mind: But snakes crept out to bask in the sun-- Snakes five feet long, so, away I run.

'In such beautiful weather one may go barefoot,' said mother, taking off her stockings.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, Indoors I could not abide; So I went in a boat, and down I lay, And floated away with the tide: But the sun-beams burned till my nose was sore; So I turned my boat again to the shore.

'This is, indeed, good weather to dry the hay,' said mother, putting her rake into a swath.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, In the house I could not be; And so from the heat I climbed away In the boughs of a shady tree: But caterpillars dropped on my face, So down I jumped and ran from the place.

'Well, if the cow doesn't get on to-day, she never will get on,' said mother, glancing up towards the slope.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, Indoors I could not remain: And so for quiet I rowed away To the waterfall amain: But there I drowned while bright was the sky: If you made this, it cannot be I.

'Only three more such sunny days, and we shall get in all the hay,' said mother, as she went to make my bed."

Arne when a child had not cared much for fairy-tales; but now he began to love them, and they led him to the sagas and old ballads. He also read sermons and other religious books; and he was gentle and kind to all around him. But in his mind arose a strange deep longing: he made no more songs; but walked often alone, not knowing what was within him.

Many of the places around, which formerly he had not even noticed, now appeared to him wondrously beautiful. At the time he and his schoolfellows had to go to the Clergyman to be prepared for confirmation, they used to play near a lake lying just below the parsonage, and called the Swart-water because it lay deep and dark between the mountains. He now often thought of this place; and one evening he went thither.

He sat down behind a grove close to the parsonage, which was built on a steep hill-side, rising high above till it became a mountain. High mountains rose likewise on the opposite shore, so that broad deep shadows fell upon both sides of the lake, but in the middle ran a stripe of bright silvery water. It was a calm evening near sunset, and not a sound was heard save the tinkling of the cattle-bells from the opposite shore. Arne at first did not look straight before him, but downwards along the lake, where the sun was sprinkling burning red ere it sank to rest. There, at the end, the mountains gave way, and between them lay a long low valley, against which the lake beat; but they seemed to run gradually towards each other, and to hold the valley in a great swing. Houses lay thickly scattered all along, the smoke rose and curled away, the fields lay green and reeking, and boats laden with hay were anchored by the shore. Arne saw many people going to and fro, but he heard no noise. Thence his eye went along the shore towards God's dark wood upon the mountain-sides. Through it, man had made his way, and its course was indicated by a winding stripe of dust. This, Arne's eye followed to opposite where he was sitting: there, the wood ended, the mountains opened, and houses lay scattered all over the valley. They were nearer and looked larger than those in the other valley; and they were red-painted, and their large windows glowed in the sunbeams. The fields and meadows stood in strong light, and the smallest child playing in them was clearly seen; glittering white sands lay dry upon the shore, and some dogs and puppies were running there. But suddenly all became sunless and gloomy: the houses looked dark red, the meadows dull green, the sand greyish white, and the children little clumps: a cloud of mist had risen over the mountains, taking away the sunlight. Arne looked down into the water, and there he found all once more: the fields lay rocking, the wood silently drew near, the houses stood looking down, the doors were open, and children went out and in. Fairy-tales and childish things came rushing into his mind, as little fishes come to a bait, swim away, come once more and play round, and again swim away.

"Let's sit down here till your mother comes; I suppose the Clergyman's lady will have finished sometime or other." Arne was startled: some one had been sitting a little way behind him.

"If I might but stay this one night more," said an imploring voice, half smothered by tears: it seemed to be that of a girl not quite grown up.

"Now don't cry any more; it's wrong to cry because you're going home to your mother," was slowly said by a gentle voice, which was evidently that of a man.

"It's not that, I am crying for."

"Why, then, are you crying?"

"Because I shall not live any longer with Mathilde."

This was the name of the Clergyman's only daughter; and Arne remembered that a peasant-girl had been brought up with her.

"Still, that couldn't go on for ever."

"Well, but only one day more father, dear!" and the girl began sobbing.

"No, it's better we take you home now; perhaps, indeed, it's already too late."

"Too late! Why too late? did ever anybody hear such a thing?"

"You were born a peasant, and a peasant you shall be; we can't afford to keep a lady."

"But I might remain a peasant all the same if I stayed there."

"Of that you can't judge."

"I've always worn my peasant's dress."

"Clothes have nothing to do with it."

"I've spun, and woven, and done cooking."

"Neither is _that_ the thing."

"I can speak just as you and mother speak."

"It's not that either."

"Well, then, I really don't know what it is," the girl said, laughing.

"Time will show; but I'm afraid you've already got too many thoughts."

"Thoughts, thoughts! so you always say; I have no thoughts;" and she wept.

"Ah, you're a wind-mill, that you are."

"The Clergyman never said that."

"No; but now _I_ say it."

"Wind-mill? who ever heard such a thing? I won't be a wind-mill."

"What _will_ you be then?"

"What will I be? who ever heard of such a thing? nothing, I will be."

"Well, be nothing, then."

Now the girl laughed; but after a while she said gravely, "It's wrong of you to say I'm nothing."

"Dear me, when you said so yourself!"

"Nay; I won't be nothing."

"Well, then, be everything."

Again she laughed; but after a while she said in a sad tone, "The Clergyman never used to make a fool of me in this way."

"No; but he _did_ make a fool of you."

"The Clergyman? well, you've never been so kind to me as he was."

"No; and if I had I should have spoiled you."

"Well, sour milk can never become sweet."

"It may when it is boiled to whey."

She laughed aloud. "Here comes your mother." Then the girl again became grave.

"Such a long-winded woman as that Clergyman's lady, I never met with in all my live-long days," interposed a sharp quick voice. "Now, make haste, Baard; get up and push off the boat, or we sha'n't get home to-night. The lady wished me to take care that Eli's feet were kept dry. Dear me, she must attend to that herself! Then she said Eli must take a walk every morning for the sake of her health! Did ever anybody hear such stuff! Well, get up, Baard, and push off the boat; I have to make the dough this evening."

"The chest hasn't come yet," he said, without rising.

"But the chest isn't to come; it's to be left there till next Sunday. Well, Eli, get up; take your bundle, and come on. Now, get up, Baard."

Away she went, followed by the girl.

"Come on, come on!" Arne then heard the same voice say from the shore below.

"Have you looked after the plug in the boat?" Baard asked, still without rising.

"Yes, it's put in;" and then Arne heard her drive it in with a scoop.

"But do get up, Baard; I suppose we're not going to stay here all night? Get up, Baard!"

"I'm waiting for the chest."

"But bless you, dear, haven't I told you it's to be left there till next Sunday?"

"Here it comes," Baard said, as the rattling of a cart was heard.

"Why, I said it was to be left till next Sunday."

"I said we were to take it with us."

Away went the wife to the cart, and carried the bundle and other small things down into the boat. Then Baard rose, went up, and took down the chest himself.