A Happy Boy by Bjornstjerne Bjornson - HTML preview

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.

 

[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