V. "HE HAD IN HIS MIND A SONG."
Augusta Plesner translation
Arne was now in his twentieth year. Yet he continued tending the cattle upon the mountains in the summer, while in the winter he remained at home studying.
About this time the clergyman sent a message, asking him to become the parish schoolmaster, and saying his gifts and knowledge might thus be made useful to his neighbors. Arne sent no answer; but the next day, while he was driving his flock, he made the following verses:
"O, my pet lamb, lift your head, Though a stony path you tread, Over all the lonely fells, Only follow still your bells. O, my pet lamb, walk with care; Lest you spoil your wool, beware: Mother now must soon be sewing New lamb-skins, for summer's going. O, my pet lamb, try to grow Fat and fine where'er you go: Know you not, my little sweeting, A spring-lamb is dainty eating?"
One day he happened to overhear a conversation between his mother and the late owner of the place: they were at odds about the horse of which they were joint-owners. "I must wait and hear what Arne says," interposed the mother. "That sluggard!" the man exclaimed; "he would like the horse to ramble about in the wood, just as he does himself." Then the mother became silent, though before she had been pleading her cause well.
Arne flushed crimson. That his mother had to bear people's jeers on his account, never before occurred to him, and, "Perhaps she had borne many," he thought. "But why had she not told him of it?" he thought again.
He turned the matter over, and then it came into his mind that the mother scarcely ever talked to him at all. But, then, he scarcely ever talked to her either. But, after all, whom did he talk much to?
Often on Sundays, when he was sitting quietly at home, he would have liked to read the sermon to his mother, whose eyes were weak, for she had wept too much in her time. Still, he did not read it. Often, too, on weekdays, when she was sitting down, and he thought the time might hang heavy, he would have liked to offer to read some of his own books to her: still, he did not.
"Well, never mind," thought he: "I'll soon leave off tending the cattle on the mountains; and then I'll be more with mother." He let this resolve ripen within him for several days: meanwhile he drove his cattle far about in the wood, and made the following verses:
"The vale is full of trouble, but here sweet Peace may reign; Within this quiet forest no bailiffs may distrain; None fight, like all in the vale, in the Blessèd Church's name; But still if a church were here, perhaps 'twould be just the same. Here all are at peace—true, the hawk is rather unkind; I fear he is looking now the plumpest sparrow to find; I fear yon eagle is coming to rob the kid of his breath; But still if he lived very long he might be tired to death. The woodman fells one tree, and another rots away: The red fox killed the lambkin at sunset yesterday; But the wolf killed the fox; and the wolf, too, had to die, For Arne shot him down to-day before the dew was dry. Back I'll go to the valley: the forest is just as bad— I must take heed, however, or thinking will drive me mad— I saw a boy in my dreams, though where I cannot tell— But I know he had killed his father, and I think it was in hell."
Then he went home and told the mother she might send for a lad to tend the cattle on the mountains; and that he would himself manage the farm: and so it was arranged. But the mother was constantly hovering about him, warning him not to work too hard. Then, too, she used to get him such nice meals that he often felt quite ashamed to take them; yet he said nothing.
He had in his mind a song having for its burden, "Over the mountains high;" but he never could complete it, principally because he always tried to bring the burden in every alternate line; so afterwards he gave this up.
But several of his songs became known, and were much liked; and many people, especially those who had known him from his childhood, were fond of talking to him. But he was shy to all whom he did not know, and he thought ill of them, mainly because he fancied they thought ill of him.
In the next field to his own worked a middle-aged man named Opplands-Knut, who used sometimes to sing, but always the same song. After Arne had heard him singing it for several months, he thought he would ask him whether he did not know any others. "No," Knut answered. Then after a few more days, when he was again singing his song, Arne asked him, "How came you to learn that one song?"
"Ah! it happened thus——" and then he said no more.
Arne went away from him straight indoors; and there he found his mother weeping; a thing he had not seen her do ever since the father's death. He turned back again, just as though he did not notice it; but he felt the mother was looking sorrowfully after him, and he was obliged to stop.
"What are you crying for, mother?" he asked. She did not answer, and all was silent in the room. Then his words came back to him again, and he felt they had not been spoken so kindly as they ought; and once more, in a gentler tone, he asked, "What are you crying for, mother?"
"Ah, I hardly know," she said, weeping still more. He stood silent a while; but at last mustered courage to say, "Still, there must be some reason why you are crying."
Again there was silence; but although the mother had not said one word of blame, he felt he was very guilty towards her. "Well it just came over me," she said after a while; and in a few moments she added, "but really, I'm very happy;" and then she began weeping again.
Arne hurried out, away to the ravine; and while he sat there looking into it, he, too, began weeping. "If I only knew what I am crying for," he said.
Then he heard Opplands-Knut singing in the fields above him:
"Ingerid Sletten of Willow-pool Had no costly trinkets to wear; But a cap she had that was far more fair, Although 'twas only of wool. It had no trimming, and now was old; But her mother, who long had gone, Had given it her, and so it shone To Ingerid more than gold. For twenty years she laid it aside, That it might not be worn away: 'My cap I'll wear on that blissful day When I shall become a bride.' For thirty years she laid it aside Lest the colors might fade away: 'My cap I'll wear when to God I pray, A happy and grateful bride.' For forty years she laid it aside, Still holding her mother as dear: 'My little cap, I certainly fear I never shall be a bride.' She went to look for the cap one day In the chest where it long had lain; But, ah! her looking was all in vain: The cap had mouldered away."
Arne listened, and the words seemed to him like music playing far away over the mountains. He went up to Knut and asked him, "Have you a mother?"
"No."
"Have you a father?"
"Ah, no; no father."
"Is it long since they died?"
"Ah, yes; it's long since."
"You haven't many, I dare say, who love you?"
"Ah, no; not many."
"Have you any here at all?"
"No; not here."
"But away in your own place?"
"Ah, no; not there either."
"Haven't you any at all then who love you?"
"Ah, no; I haven't any."
But Arne walked away with his heart so full of love to his mother that it seemed as if it would burst; and all around him grew bright. He felt he must go in again, if only for the sake of looking at her. As he walked on the thought struck him, "What if I were to lose her?" He stopped suddenly. "Almighty God, what would then become of me?"
Then he felt as if some dreadful accident was happening at home, and he hurried onwards, cold drops bursting from his brow, and his feet hardly touching the ground. He threw open the outer door, and came at once into an atmosphere of peace. Then he gently opened the door of the inner room. The mother had gone to bed, and lay sleeping as calmly as a child, with the moonbeams shining full on her face.