Part 6

It was in the middle of the noonday's rest; the people at Heidegaard were asleep, the hay lay scattered about the field, and the rakes were all stuck in the ground. The hay sledges stood outside the granary, and the horses were grazing a little distance off. Except these, and some hens that had strayed in the corn field, there was not a living thing to be seen.

The road from the farm to the rich grass fields of the Heidegaard S[oe]ters,[2] lay through a mountain pass. Up in the pass a man stood and looked down over the plain, as though expecting something. Behind him lay a tarn, from which the beck flowed down, that had made the cleft in the mountain. On both sides of the lake there were sheep walks leading to the S[oe]ters, which he could see far in the distance. The barking of dogs and the tinkling of bells resounded among the rocks; the cows were rushing madly to the water, while the poor herdsmen and the dogs sought in vain to gather them. The cows appeared in the most wonderful shapes, with their tails in the air, kicking and plunging, roaring and bellowing; making straight for the lake, where, to their delight, they stood quite still, up to their necks in water; their bells tinkling with each move of the head. The dogs drank a little, but kept back on the dry land; the herdsmen came after, and seated themselves on the warm smooth mountain side. Here they took out their provision, exchanged with each other; praised each others' dogs, oxen, and people; finally undressed and sprang in the water. The dogs wouldn't go in, but drawled lazily about, hanging their heads, with their tongues out on one side. There was no bird to be seen, no sound to be heard save the voices of the lads and the tinkling of the bells; the ling was burnt up and withered; the sun scorched the whole mountain side, and the heat was intense.

Ovind sat a long time in the hot sun, close to the beck that flowed from the lake; he waited and waited, but still there was no one to be seen at Heidegaard, and he began to be a little anxious, when suddenly a great dog came panting out from a door, followed by a young girl in summer attire; she sprang over the fields up towards the mountain. Ovind felt a strong desire to halloo but dare not; he kept a look out to see if any one should accidentally come out from the farm and see her, but she escaped unobserved. At last she got near, picking her way by the side of the brook, and helping herself on by the small bushes, the dog a little before her, snuffing in the air. Ovind ran to meet her, the dog growled and was hushed down, and as soon as Marit saw him come, she seated herself on the Great Stone, looking fiery red, and quite overpowered by the heat. He sat down beside her.

"I'm so glad you've come."

"How fearfully hot! Have you been waiting long?"

"No.--As they watch us so in the evenings, we must take the mid-day; but after this, I think we ought not to keep things so secret, and it is just about this I wanted to speak to you."

"Not secret?"

"I know very well that it suits you best to keep everything secret, but to shew courage suits you also. I have come to-day to talk a long time with you, and now you must hear."

"Is it true that you mean to try to be District Agriculturist?"

"Yes, and I hope to succeed too. I have a two-fold object in view,--first, to gain position; and secondly, to do something that your grandfather can both see and understand. It happens most fortunately that most of the farmers about Heidegaard are young people who wish to make improvements and require assistance; they have also means at command. So I shall begin there. I shall improve everything from the smallest things to the greatest. I shall give lectures, and also work; and so to say, lay siege to the old man by good deeds."

"Well done, Ovind! What more?"

"The next concerns ourselves,--you must not go away."

"When he commands it?"

"And keep nothing secret respecting us two."

"When he tortures me?"

"But we gain more, and protect ourselves better by having everything open. We shall be just so much observed by people, that they will talk of how much we care for each other, and they will the sooner wish us well. You must not leave. There is danger for those who are separated lest slander should come in between them; they believe nothing the first year, but they begin little by little to be influenced the second. We two must meet when we can, and laugh away all the ill report they will set between us. We shall be able to meet at a dance now and then, and swing merrily round while they sit by who calumniate us. We shall meet at church, and talk to each other in the face of those who wish us a hundred miles away. If any one writes a ditty about us, we will see if we cannot write one in reply. No one can harm us if we keep together and let people see it. All the unhappiness in love belongs either to those who are afraid, or to those who are weak, or to those who are ill, or to those calculating people who watch for certain opportunities, or to those cunning people who at last suffer for their own devices, or to those matter-of-fact people who don't care so much for each other, that state and position can disappear; they steal quietly away, and send letters, and tremble at a single word, and at last take that constant restlessness and uneasiness for love; they feel unhappy and dissolve away like sugar. Pooh, pooh! if they really cared for each other they would have no fear, they would be light hearted, they would not care who saw them. I have read about it in books. I have seen it myself also; that is a poor love that goes round about. True love must begin in secrecy because it begins in reserve and modesty, but it must live in openness because its existence is joy. It is as in the spring time, when the leaves begin to shoot, all that is withered and dry falls off from the tree as soon as the new life begins. He who falls in love leaves the useless toys he has held to before, the new life springs, and then can no one see it? Hey, Marit! they will be glad through seeing us glad. Two betrothed, who are true to each other, are a benefit to the public, for they read them a poem which the children learn by heart, to the shame of their calculating parents. I have read of many instances, and there are rumours of such even here in the district, and it is just the children of those who once caused all the misery, that now speak of it and are moved by it. Well, now let us join hands, and promise to be true to each other and we shall succeed."

He was about to embrace her but she turned her head away, and slipped down from the stone. As he remained sitting, she came back again, and with her arms resting on his knees she stood there, and talked to him as she looked up.

"Listen now, Ovind, when he says I must leave, what shall I say?"

"You must say no, straight out."

"Oh dear! will that do?"

"He cannot take and carry you out to the carriage."

"If he doesn't do just that, there are many other ways in which he can force me."

"I do not think so. Obedience is certainly your duty so long as it is not sin; but it is also your duty to let him know fully how hard it is to you to obey in this case. I think when he hears that, he will reconsider the matter; for at present, like most others, he believes it to be only child's play. You must show him it is something more."

"You may think he is not easy to do with; he watches me like a tethered goat."

"But you break the chain again and again in one day."

"That is not true."

"Yes, every time you secretly think of me, you break it."

"Yes, that way, but are you certain that I think of you so often?"

"Were it else, you would not be here now."

"Oh! but you sent me a message to come."

"But you came because your thoughts drove you."

"Rather because it was a fine day."

"You said just now it was too hot."

"To go up the hill, yes; but down again?"

"Then why did you come up?"

"To be able to run down."

"Then why are you not going?"

"Because I wish to rest."

"And talk to me about love?"

"I couldn't deny you that pleasure."

"While the little birds sang,"--

"And all were asleep;"

"And the bells they rang,"--

"O'er the green wood's steep."

Here they both saw Marit's grandfather come limping out on the farm, and go to the bell string to ring the people up. The people came slowly down from the out-houses, drawled sleepily to the horses and rakes, scattered themselves in various parts of the field, and soon all was life and work again. The grandfather only went out of the one house and into the other, and at last up on to the top of the hay loft and looked all round. A little lad came bounding up to him, apparently he had called him. The boy went down in the direction of Pladsen, and the grandfather, in the meantime, went round about the farm, often looking up to the mountain, but little suspecting that the dark spot on the "great stone" was Marit and Ovind. But again Marit's dog brought misfortune, for seeing a strange horse drive into Heidegaard, he seemed to think it part of his business to bark at the top of his voice. They tried to quiet him, but he had got roused, and would not give over; the grandfather stood below and stared straight up. But matters grew still worse, for the sheep dogs hearing the voice of a stranger, ran up, and seeing a great wolf-like champion, these straight-haired Finnish dogs all united against him, and so frightened Marit, that she ran away without even saying good-bye; while Ovind, in the midst of the battle, kicked and struck, but only succeeded in driving the dogs further away, for they soon found themselves another battle field; he after them again, and so on, till at last they were close to the edge of the beck; here Ovind rushed on them again, and got them all into the water, just where it was really deep; and they crawled out, looking quite ashamed, and going each his own way; so ended the fray.

Ovind went straight over till he reached the high road, but Marit met her grandfather a little above the farm, and the dog was to blame for this.

"Where have you been?"

"Into the wood."

"What have you been doing there?"

"Gathering berries."

"That is not true."

"No, it isn't."

"What did you do then?"

"I was talking to some one."

"Was it the peasant lad?"

"Yes."

"Listen now, Marit, you are going away tomorrow."

"No."

"Well, Marit, I will only say one single thing, you SHALL go."

"You can't lift me into the carriage."

"No? Can't I?"

"No, because you won't do it."

"Won't I? Listen, Marit, only for pleasure you see, only for pleasure, I will give that raggamuffin a real good thrashing."

"No, you daren't do that."

"Don't dare? Do you say I dare not? Who could do anything to me, who?"

"The schoolmaster."

"The schoo--school--schoolmaster? Do you think he cares for him?"

"Yes, it was he who sent him to the Agricultural School."

"The schoolmaster?"

"The schoolmaster!"

"Listen now Marit, I will not have any more of this nonsense, you must leave, you give me only sorrow and trouble, it was just the same with your mother, only sorrow and trouble. I am an old man, and I wish to see you well provided for, and I will not be talked about as a fool in this matter; it is your own good that I have at heart, you may be sure of that, Marit. I may soon be gone, and then you would stand there alone; what would have become of your mother if it had not been for me? Come now, Marit, be a good girl, and listen to what I say, I seek only your own good."

"No, you don't."

"How? What do I seek then?"

"To have your own way without any regard to mine."

"You have a will of your own, have you, you young sea-bird? You think you know your own good, do you, little fool? I shall let you taste the birch rod, so tall and big you are. Now listen Marit, let me speak a little kindly with you. You are not so bad at the bottom, but you are deluded. You must attend to what I say, I am old and experienced. I am not so well off as people think, a poor cageless bird could soon fly away with the little I have; your father dived hard into it. No, let us take care of ourselves in this world, it is not better worth. It is all very well for the schoolmaster to talk, for he has money himself, and the priest too, they can afford to preach; but with us, who must work for our living, it is quite a different thing. I am old, and have gone through much; I can tell you, love is nice enough to talk about, and may do very well for the clergy and such, but it won't do for the peasantry, they must look at it in another light. First subsistence you see, then religion, then a little schooling, then a little love if it so falls in; but I tell you it is no use to begin with love and end with victuals. What have you to say now Marit?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Yes, but I do."

"What then?"

"Must I say?"

"Yes, of course you must."

"I am bound up in this love."

He stood a moment amazed, then, remembering the many similar conversations leading only to the same end, he shook his head, turned his back and went.

He vented his wrath on the men, abused the girls, beat the great dog, and nearly frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed in the field, but to Marit he said nothing.

That evening Marit was so happy when she went up stairs to bed, that she opened her window, looked out, and sang. She had got a fine little book from Ovind, and in it was a fine little love song,--this she sang:--

Do you love me true, E'en as I love you, All the livelong happy day;-- The summer quickly flies, The leaf and blossom dies, But to come again we say.

What you said before, Comes to me o'er and o'er, Like a small bird in a tree,-- Flutters his tiny wings, Nestles himself and sings, Merrily chirping, happy and free.

Litli, litli, lu, Do you hear me, you, Laddie from the birch hedge under? Darkness falleth fast, Daylight soon is past, Who's to guide me home I wonder!

Garry, garry, giss, Sang I of a kiss? Nay, my love, that ne'er can be,-- Do you say you doubt it? Think no more about it, I shall slip away you see.

Oh, goodnight, goodnight, Dreamland seems so bright, Whispering of your blue eyes true,-- Of the little silent word, Once, you know, I overheard, Oh, it was so rash of you!

See, I shut the door, Do you want me more? Echoes falling on mine ear, Ticing and laughing free, Do you want more with me? The night is so mild and clear.

CHAP. XII.

THE OLD MAN GETS HIS OWN WAY.

A few years have passed since the last scene. It is in the Autumn; the schoolmaster is coming towards Heidegaard; he opens the outside door, finds nobody at home, goes further in, still nobody there, till he comes to the innermost room;--there sits Ole Nordistuen in front of his bed, gazing at his hands.

The schoolmaster salutes him, and is welcomed; takes a stool, and seats himself in front of Ole.

"You have sent for me."

"Yes, I have."

The schoolmaster looks round, takes a book that is lying on the sofa and opens it.

"What was it you wanted with me?"

"I am just thinking it over."

The schoolmaster takes his time, brings out his spectacles to read the title of the book, dries them, and puts them on.

"You are getting old now, Ole."

"Yes, it was just about that I wanted to see you; things go wrong, and I shall soon be gone."

"Then you should see that you are ready to go, Ole;" he shuts the book, and sits looking at the binding.

"It's a good book you have in your hand, there."

"Yes, that's true;--have you often got beyond the fly leaf, Ole?"

"Lately, yes--"

The schoolmaster lays the book aside, and puts his spectacles by.

"Things are not just as you would wish them now, Ole."

"Nor have they been as far back as I can remember."

"Well it was the same with me for a long time. I was not on good terms with a friend of mine, I wanted him to come to me, and I was miserable; at last I bethought me I would go to him, and since then I have been happy."

Ole looks up, but is silent.

The schoolmaster: "How do you think the farm is doing, Ole?"

"It is going backwards like myself."

"Who will take it when you are gone?"

"It is just this I don't know, and it troubles me."

"Your neighbours are doing well, Ole."

"Yes, they have the Agriculturist to help them."

The schoolmaster turns towards the window, saying somewhat carelessly, "You should have help too Ole, you can't walk much, and you know very little of the new method."

"Oh, there's no one who would help me!"

"Have you asked anyone?"

But Ole makes no reply.

The schoolmaster: "It was long thus between myself and God. 'Thou art not good to me,' I said to Him. 'Hast thou asked me to be so?' He replied. No, I had not, then I prayed, and all things went on well."

Ole is still silent, and now the schoolmaster is silent too.

At last Ole says, "I have a grandchild she knows what it would please me to see before I am borne away, but she does not do it."

The schoolmaster smiles: "Perhaps it would not please her? There are many things that trouble you, but so far as I can see, all the difficulties centre at last on the farm."

Ole replies feelingly: "Yes, it has passed from one generation to another, and the soil is good. All that father after father has got together, has been laid out there, and now things don't grow. Neither do I know, when I am taken away, who shall come in my stead. He cannot be of our kindred."

"But there is your granddaughter.--"

"But he who takes her, how will he manage the farm? This I long to know before I die. There is haste Baard, both for me and the farm."

After a pause, the schoolmaster said, "Shall we go out a little and look at the farm, this fine day?"

"Yes, let us go, I have labourers up there; they gather the leaves, but they don't work except they see me."

He hobbled for his great cap and stick, saying as he went, "They don't like working for me, I don't know how it is."

On coming out and turning the corner, he exclaimed, "Here you see, no order; the wood scattered all over, the axe not stuck in the log." He bent over with difficulty, took it up and slashed it in.

"There, do you see that sheep skin fallen down, but has any one hung it up?" He did it himself.

"And there is the ladder out of place." He put it right, and turning to the schoolmaster, said, "The same thing day after day!"

As they went further they heard a lively song from the fields.

"Hark! they are singing at work," said the schoolmaster.

"No, it is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is gathering leaves for his father. It is over there my people are working, they are not singing."

"It is not one of the country songs, that?"

"No, I hear it is not."

"Ovind Pladsen has been a great deal in Ostistuen; it must be one of those he has introduced; where he is, there is sure to be song."

No reply.

The field they went over was not in good condition, it wanted attention. The schoolmaster remarked it, whereupon Ole stopped.

"I cannot do any more," he said, almost in tears; "but it is hard to go over such a field, you may be sure."

As they began to talk again about the size of the farm, and what most required attention, they concluded to go up the hill side, where they could overlook the whole. When they had reached the place, and could see the farm laid out before them, the old man was quite moved.

"I should not like to leave it as it is. We have worked hard there both I and my parents before me; but now nothing is to be seen of our labour."

Just then, right above their heads, there burst out a song, with that peculiar sharpness that a lad's voice has when it is changing. They were not far from the tree where little Knut Ostistuen was sitting, pulling leaves for his father, and they listened to the song:--

All along by copse and glade Up the rocky mountain, Thro' the pleasant birch wood's shade, By the silver fountain. Chase away each thought of care, Gaily, gladly singing, Through the pure and bracing air Joyful echoes ringing.

The birds salute from every tree, They form a charming choir, The air grows pure, and light, and free, Higher up and higher. So the thought of childhood's hours To the memory rushes, Recollections from the flowers Peep with rosy blushes.

Stay and listen;--it is good, To thy heart appealing-- The grand deep song of solitude, Speaks to every feeling. But a streamlet gurgling on, But a small stone rolling, Calls up forgotten duties gone, Like a death knell tolling.

Tremble, yes, but pray, poor soul 'Midst thy saddest thinking;-- Forward to the blesséd goal,-- Keep thy heart from sinking. There is Christ as once of old, Elias too, and Moses; When their glory ye behold, Faith in joy reposes.

Ole had seated himself, and hid his head in his hands.

"Let us talk together here," said the schoolmaster, and sat down by his side.

* * *

Down at the little farm, Ovind had just returned from a long journey, the chaise was still at the door, while the horses were resting.

Although Ovind had now a good salary as District Agriculturist, he still kept his little room, down at Pladsen, and assisted them in his spare time. Pladsen was now under good cultivation from one end to the other, but it was so small that Ovind called it "Mother's doll's play;" for it was chiefly she who managed the farm.

He had just dressed after his journey, and so had the father who had come home white from the mill, and they were speaking of going out a little before supper, when the mother came in looking quite pale:

"Do look out, pray see the strangers coming to the house!"

They both went to the window, and Ovind was the first to exclaim,--

"It is the schoolmaster, and,----yes, I do believe it is,----yes, it is him!"

"Yes, it is old Ole Nordistuen," said Thore, as he turned from the window to avoid being seen, for they were close at hand.

Ovind got a glance from the schoolmaster, as he retreated from the window; Baard smiled and looked back at old Ole, who was labouring along with his stick, and the small short steps, the one leg always lifted higher than the other. From inside they could hear the schoolmaster saying, "He has only just come home;" and Ole to repeat twice, "Hm-hm."

They waited a long time in the passage, the mother had gone to the pantry where the milk stood, Ovind had his old place, his back leaning against the great table, his face to the door, and the father sat by his side. At last there came a knock, and in walked the schoolmaster, and took his hat off, then old Ole, and took his cap off, but back he turned to shut the door, and stood a long time, manifestly at a loss. Thore rose, and bade them be seated; they sat side by side on the window sill. Thore sat down again.

Now thus was the matter settled.

The schoolmaster: "We have had beautiful weather this Autumn."

Thore: "Yes, it has taken up of late."

"It will be sure to last so long as the wind remains in the same quarter."

"Are you ready with the harvest up there?"

"No, indeed, Ole Nordistuen here, as perhaps you know, would like to have your help, Ovind, if there's nothing in the way?"

Ovind: "When I am requested, I shall be glad to do what I can."