Part 24

He gave up tending the cattle, and stayed at home, looking after the farm. He was near his mother all day now, and she would give him dainty meals. In his heart was a song with the refrain "Over the mountains high!" Somehow, Arne could never finish this song.

There was a field labourer named Upland Knut, at whose side Arne often worked. This man had neither parents nor friends, and when Arne said to him, "Have you no one at all, then, to love you?" he answered, "Ah, no! I have no one."

Arne thought of his own mother, and his heart was full of love to her. What if he were to lose her because he had not sufficiently prized her, he thought; and he rushed home, to find his mother sleeping gently like a child.

Mother and son were much together in those days, and once they agreed to go to a wedding at a neighbouring farm.

For the first time in his life Arne drank too much, and all next day he lay in the barn. He was full of self-reproach, and it seemed to him that cowardice was his besetting sin.

Cowardice had been his failing as a boy. It had prevented him taking his mother's part against his father, from leaving home, from mixing with people. Cowardice had made him drunk, and, but for his fear and timidity, his verses would be better.

After searching everywhere for him, Margit eventually found him in the barn. He tried to soothe her, and vowed that he would join his life more closely to his mother's in future. What moved him was that his loving, patient mother said that she had done a grievous wrong against him, and implored his forgiveness.

"Of course, I forgive you," he said.

"God bless you, my dear, dear Arne."

From that day, Arne was not only happier at home, but he began to look at other people more kindly, more with his mother's gentle eyes. But he still went about alone, and a strange longing often possessed his soul.

One summer evening Arne had gone out to sit by the Black Lake, a piece of water very dark and deep. He sat behind some bushes and looked out over the water, and at the hills opposite, and at the homesteads in the valley.

Presently he heard voices close beside him. A young girl, he made out, was grumbling because she had got to leave the parsonage, where she had been staying with Mathilde, the parson's daughter, and it was her father who was taking her home. A third voice, sharp and strident, was heard.

"Hurry up, now, Baard; push off the boat, or we sha'n't be home to-night."

The rattle of cart-wheels followed, and Baard fetched a box out of the cart, and carried it down to the boat.

Then Mathilde, the parson's daughter, came running up calling, "Eli! Eli!"

The two girls wept in each other's arms.

"You must take this," said Mathilde, giving her friend a bird-cage. "Mother wants you to. Yes, you must take Narrifas, and then you'll often think of me."

"Eli! Come, come, Eli!" came the summons from the boat.

A moment after, and Arne saw the boat out in the water, Eli standing up in the stern, holding the bird-cage and waving her hand to Mathilde. His eyes followed the boat, and he watched it draw near to the land. He could see the three forms mirrored in the water, and continued gazing until they had left the boat and gone indoors at the biggest house on the opposite side of the lake.

Mathilde had sat for some time by the landing stage, but she had left now, and Arne was alone when Eli came out again for a last look across the water. Arne could see her image in the lake. "Perhaps she sees me now," he thought. Then, when the sun had set, he got up and went home, feeling that all things were at peace.

Arne's fancies for some time now were of dreams of love and fair maidens. Old ballads and romances mirrored them for him, as the water had mirrored the young girl.

A two-fold longing--the yearning to have someone to love, and a desire to do something great--sprang up together in his soul, and melted into one. Again he began to work at the song, "Over the mountains high," altering it, and thinking each time, "One day it will carry me off." But he never forgot his mother in his thoughts of travel, and decided that he would send for her as soon as he had got a footing abroad.

There was in the parish a merry old fellow of the name of Ejnar Aasen. He was well off, and, in spite of a lameness that made him use a crutch, was fond of organising parties of children to go nutting. All the young people called him "godfather."

Aasen liked Arne, and invited him to join in the next nutting party, and though Arne blushed, and made excuses, he decided to go. He found himself the only young man among many girls. They were not the maidens of whom he had made songs, nor yet was he afraid of them. They were more full of life than anything he had seen, and they could make merry over anything. All of them laughed at Arne, as they caught at the branches, because he was serious, so that he could not help laughing himself.

After a while they all sat on a large knoll, old Aasen in the middle, and told stories. And then they were anxious to tell their dreams, but this could be done only to one person, and Arne was trusted to hear the dreams. The last of the girls to tell her dreams was called Eli, and she was the girl he had seen in the boat.

Arne had to say which was the best dream, and as he said he wanted time to think, they left him sitting on the knoll and trooped off with godfather. Arne sat for some time, and the old yearnings to travel came back, and drove him to his song, "Over the mountains high." Now, at last, he had got the words; and taking paper out of his pocket, he wrote the song through to the end. When he had finished he rose, and left the paper on the knoll; and later, when he found he had forgotten it, he went back. But the paper was gone.

One of the girls, who had returned to seek him, had found--not Arne, but his song.

_III.--Love's Awakening_

Whenever Arne mentioned his friend Kristen, and wondered why he never heard from him, his mother left the room, and seemed unhappy for days afterwards. He noticed, too, that she would get specially nice meals for him at such times.

He had never been so gentle since his father's death as he was that winter. On Sundays he would read a sermon to his mother, and go to church with her; but she knew this was only to win her consent to his going abroad in the spring. Upland Knut, who had always been alone, now came to live at Kampen. Arne had become very skilful with axe and saw, and that winter he was often busy at the parsonage as well as Kampen.

One day a messenger came from Böen to ask him if he would go over there for some carpentry work. He answered "Yes," without thinking about the matter. As soon as the man had gone, his mother told him that it was Baard Böen who had injured his father; but Arne decided to go all the same.

It was a fine homestead, and Baard and Arne soon became on friendly terms. He had many talks, too, with Eli, and at times would sing his own songs to her, and afterwards feel ashamed.

Then Eli fell ill, and Birgit blamed Baard because Mathilde had gone away from the parsonage on a visit to town without bidding good-bye to Eli. It seemed to Baard that whatever he did was wrong.

"You either keep silent too much, or you talk too much," said his wife.

During Eli's illness Baard would often sit and talk with Arne, and one day he told him how he had been driven to attack Nils, and then how he had courted and won Birgit.

"She was very melancholy at first," said Baard, "and I had nothing to say; and then she got into bustling, domineering ways, and I had nothing to say to that. But one day of real happiness I've not had the twenty years we've been married."

When Eli was getting better, her mother came down one evening and asked Arne, in her daughter's name, to go up and sing to her. Eli had heard him singing. Arne was confused, but gave in and went upstairs.

The room was in darkness, and he had not seen Eli since the day she had fallen ill, and he had helped to carry her to her room. Arne sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed. When people talk in the dark they are generally more truthful than when they see one another's faces.

Eli made Arne sing to her, first a hymn, and then a song of his own. For some time there was silence between them, and then Eli said, "I wonder, Arne, that you, who have so much that is beautiful within, should want to go away. You must not go away."

"There are times when I seem not to want to so much," he answered.

Presently Arne could hear her weeping, and he felt that he must move--either forward or back.

"Eli!"

"Yes." Both voices were at a whisper.

"Give me your hand."

She made no answer. He listened, quickly, closely, stretched out his own hand, and grasped a warm little hand that lay bare.

There was a step on the stairs; they let go of one another, and Birgit entered with a light. "You've been sitting too long in the dark," she said, putting the candle on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned to the pillow, and he shaded his face with his hands.

"Ah, yes; it's a bit dazzling at first," said the mother, "but the feeling soon passes away."

Next day Arne heard that Eli was better and going to come down for a time after dinner. He at once put his tools together, and bade farewell to the farm. And when Eli came downstairs he was gone.

_IV.--After Many Years_

It was springtime when Margit went up to the parsonage. There was something heavy on her heart. Letters had come from Kristen for Arne, and she had been afraid to give them to her son lest he should go away and join his friend. Kristen had even sent money, and this Margit had given to Arne, pretending it had been left him by his grandmother. All this Margit poured out to the old pastor, and also her fears that Arne would go travelling.

"Ah!" he said, smiling, "if only there was some little lassie who could get hold of him. Eli Böen, eh? And if he could manage so that they could meet sometimes at the parsonage."

Margit looked up anxiously.

"Well, we'll see what we can do," he went on; "for, to tell you the truth, my wife and daughter have long been of the same mind."

Then came the summer, and one day, when the heavens were clear, Arne walked out and threw himself down on the grass. He meant to go to the parsonage and borrow a newspaper. He had not been to Böen since that night in the sick-room, and now he glanced towards the house, and then turned away his eyes. Presently he heard someone singing his song, the song he had lost the very day he made it.

Fain would I know what the world may be Over the mountains high. Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see, And up the steep sides the dark fir-tree, That climbs as if yearning to know. Say, tree, dost thou venture to go?

There were eight verses, and Arne stood listening till the last word had died away. He must see who it was, and presently above him he caught sight of Eli.

The sunlight was falling straight on her, and it seemed to Arne, as he looked at her, that he had never seen or dreamt of anything more beautiful in his life. He watched her get up, without letting himself be seen, and presently she was gone. Arne no longer wanted to go to the parsonage, but he went and sat where she had sat, and his breast was full of gentle feelings.

Eli often went to the parsonage, and one Sunday evening Margit found her there, and persuaded the girl to walk back to Kampen with her. Eli entered the house only when she heard that Arne was not at home. It was the first time she had visited the homestead. Margit took her all over the house, and showed her Arne's room, and opened a little chest full of silk kerchiefs and ribbons.

"He bought something each time he's been to the town," Margit remarked.

Eli would have given anything to go away, but she dared not speak.

In a special compartment in the chest she had seen a buckle, a pair of gold rings, and a hymn-book bound with silver clasps, and wrought on the clasps was:

"Eli Baardsdatter Böen."

The mother put back the things, closed the box, and clasped the girl to her heart; for Eli was weeping.

When they were downstairs again, they heard a man's step in the passage, and Arne entered, and saw Eli.

"You here?" he said, and blushed a fiery red. Then he put his arms around her, and she leant her head on his breast. He whispered something in her ear, and for a long while they stood in silence, her arms around his neck.

As they walked home together in the fair summer evening, they could utter but few words in their strange, new Happiness. Nature interpreted their hearts to one another, and on his way back from that first summer-night's walk, Arne made many new songs.

It was harvest time when the marriage of Eli with Arne was celebrated. The Black Water was full of boats taking people to Böen.

All the doors were open at the house. Eli was in her room with Mathilde and the pastor's wife. Arne was downstairs looking out from the window.

Presently Baard and Birgit, both dressed, for church, met on the stairs, and went up together to a garret where they were alone. Baard had something to say, but it was hard to say it.

"Birgit," he began, "you've been thinking, as I've been, I daresay. _He_ stood between us two, I know, and it's gone on a long time. To-day a son of his has come into our house, and to him we've given our only daughter.... Birgit, can't we, too, join our hearts to-day?"

His voice trembled, but no answer came.

They heard Eli outside, calling gently: "Aren't you coming, mother?"

"Yes, I'm coming now, dear!" said Birgit, in a choking voice. She walked across the room to Baard, took his hand in hers, and broke into violent sobs. The two hands clung tight and it was hand in hand they opened the door and went downstairs. And when the bridal train streamed down to the landing stage, and Arne gave his hand to Eli, Baard, against all custom, took Birgit's hand in his own and followed them calmly, happily, smilingly.

In the boat his eyes rested on the bridal pair and on his wife. "Ah!" he said to himself, "no one would have thought such a thing possible twenty years ago."

* * * * *

In God's Way

"In God's Way" belongs to the second group of Björnson's novels, of which the first group is represented by early peasant tales like "Arne." In this later category the stories are of a more or less didactic nature. Although "In God's Way" lacks something of the freshness and beauty that distinguished "Arne," it is, nevertheless a powerful and vivid picture of Norwegian religious life; and it is, of all Björnson's books, the one by which he is most widely known outside his native country. In this story Björnson has been influenced by the social dramas of his compatriot, Ibsen; but it may be questioned whether he has not brought to his task a higher inspiration and a stronger faith in humanity than the famous dramatist possessed. Published in 1889, the main theme of "In God's Way" was undoubtedly suggested by the religious excitement which then prevailed in Norway.

_I.--A Strange Home-coming_

Pastor Tuft was walking up and down his study, composing his Sunday sermon. He was a handsome man, with a long, fair face, and dreamy eyes; his wife, Josephine, in the days when she thought she was in love with him, used to call him Melanchthon--that was not many years ago, and he still resembled in appearance the poet of the Reformation. But his features had now lost their fine serenity, and he was glad when his bitter and troubled thoughts on the doctrine of justification--a subject he had chosen for its bearing on his brother-in-law's conduct--were interrupted by his wife. Josephine burst into his study in a state of fierce excitement.

"They will be here in a moment," she said. "The steamer has arrived. Oh, that woman, that woman! She has ruined my brother's life!"

"If he wanted to settle again in Norway with her," said the pastor, "couldn't he have chosen some spot where the story of their misconduct was not known? But to come to the very town! Everybody will remember!"

"Yes," said Josephine; "it is only six years since Edward ran off to America with Sören Kule's wife. Surely, he will not expect you, a minister, to receive the woman, especially as Kule is still living."

While she was talking, Tuft stared out of the window. A tall man in light clothes was coming to the house--a tall man, with a clear-cut, sunburnt face, and a lean, curved nose that gave him the air of a bird of prey. By his side was a lady with sweet, delicate features, dressed in a tartan travelling costume. There was a knock at the door. Josephine went down very slowly, and opened it. "Edward!"

There was a glow in her eyes as she welcomed her brother, and his eyes also lighted up. He was about to cross the threshold, when he noticed that she completely disregarded his companion. In the meantime, Tuft had come to the door; he, too, made no advances. There was always something of the keen, wild look of an eagle about Edward Kallem; it became still more striking as he glared at his sister and brother-in-law.

"Are you waiting," he said, "for me to introduce my wife? Well, here she is--Ragni Kallem."

So the pair had married in America! If Tuft and Josephine had not been so eager to impute every sort of misconduct to runaways, they would have foreseen this natural event. Tuft tried to find something to say, but failed, and glanced at Josephine. But she did not look as if she were willing to help him.

For the fact that Edward and Ragni were now married increased rather than diminished Josephine's bitterness. Although she would not admit it to herself, her religious objections were a mere pretence. She was jealous, jealous with the strange jealousy of a sister who wanted to be all in all to her brilliant brother, and hated that another woman should be more to him than she was. All her life had been centred on him. She had married Ole Tuft, a poor peasant's son, because he was the bosom friend of Edward. Her marriage, she thought, would connect them still more closely. She wanted to live by his side, watching him rise into fame as the greatest doctor in Norway. For young Kallem's masters had predicted that he would prove to be a man of genius.

Possessing considerable wealth, he had taken up the study of medicine, not as a means of livelihood, but as a matter of love and duty. Then, six years ago, he had run off with old Sören Kule's young wife, and Josephine's dream had come to an end, leaving her life little more than a dull, empty round of routine housework.

This was why she now gazed with hard, cold eyes at Ragni. Edward Kallem saw her look of wild hatred, and, taking his weeping wife gently by the arm, he turned away, and led her from the house into the road.

Josephine went upstairs, and gazed from the study window at the retreating figures. Her husband followed her, with a curious look in his eyes. Neither of them spoke. In their hearts was raging a storm of passion wilder than the anger which possessed Kallem, and the sorrow which bowed down Ragni.

Josephine left the room without looking-at her husband. He gazed after her still with the same curious look in his eyes. Then, pulling himself together, he went on writing his sermon. "What makes God so merciful to sinners?" he wrote. "His infinite love? Yes, justification is certainly an act of mercy, but it is also an act of judgment. The claims of the law must be first fulfilled. A sinner must believe in order to be saved."

The point in this was that Edward Kallem was a freethinker. There could be no forgiveness for him. At the bottom of his heart, Tuft was glad that there had been no reconciliation. Ever since he had married the wealthy and beautiful sister of his bosom friend, he had been jealous of Josephine's passionate attachment to her brother. Her brother had remained her hero, and the peasant she had married and enriched was little more than her servant.

While, with these bitter thoughts in his head, Tuft was composing his sermon Josephine was writing a dastardly letter. It was to Sören Kule. Edward and Ragni had returned, married. There was an empty house near the one they had bought. Would Sören Kule come and live in it? So the letter ran. The next day, Sunday, Josephine went to church in a very Christianlike frame of mind. She felt she had done her duty, and avenged herself in doing it.

_II.--The Poison of Tongues_

At first things did not go as Josephine expected. With the exception of his sister and brother-in-law, everybody welcomed Edward Kallem and his wife back to his native town. At the house of Pastor Meek, the oldest and most influential of the clergy, Ragni was introduced to a middle- aged lady, who startled her by saying:

"I am Sören Kule's sister. I want to tell you that, in your position, I should have acted just as you did."