The Fisher Maiden/Chapter X
Chapter X.
When she awoke she was still in those higher regions; daylight’s thoughts, which soon filled her mind, made an effort to soar up there, too, but they were taken captive and borne by something that filled the whole atmosphere,—it was the ringing of the bells on Sunday morning. She sprang out of bed and dressed herself; then she found a little to eat in the pantry, put on some warm wraps, and hastened away,—she had never before so thirsted for the word of God! When she came to the church, the service had just begun, and the door was closed; it was a cold day, and her fingers smarted when she took hold of the door knob to turn it. The priest was just standing before the altar, and so she waited near the door until he was through saying mass. While the deacon was removing the chasuble she went to the so-called bishop’s pew, which stood in the chancel with curtains around it. The priest’s family had a pew in the gallery; but when a person, for some reason or other, desired to sit alone and hide from the sight of the others, it was customary to resort to the bishop’s pew. When she reached it and stole in, she discovered Signe sitting there already in the inmost corner. She took one step to go out again, but just then the priest turned to leave the altar and pass her as he went to the vestry; she hastened into the pew again and sat down as far as possible from Signe, who had dropped her veil. This hurt Petras feelings. She let her eyes wander over the congregation that filled the high wooden pews, the men on the right and the women on the left side. Their breaths filled the air above their heads like a floating mist; on the windows the frost was an inch thick, the clumsy wooden images, the dragging, heavy singing, the people wrapped in their winter clothes—all corresponded; everything seemed hard and far away—she was reminded of the impression she got on that memorable afternoon when she left Bergen; here, too, she was merely a timid traveler.
The priest appeared in the pulpit. He, also had a severe look. His prayer was: “Lead us not into temptation!” We are conscious, he said, that the faculties which God has given all have in them an element which tempts us to do wrong; but he besought God to be merciful and not to try us beyond our strength. For this we must ever remember to pray; for only when brought in subordination to Him would our talents and faculties work out our salvation.
In the sermon the priest further developed the same theme, discussing our double duty, that of performing our life-work, each in the position where his talents and circumstances have placed him, and that of bringing forth a truly Christian character in ourselves and in those intrusted to our care. We must be careful in the choice of our vocation, for there are vocations that are sinful in themselves, while there are other callings which may prove a source of sin to us, either because they are not suited to our capabilities, or because they suit too well our evil desires. Again: Certain as it is, that we must try to choose our work in accordance with our faculties, it is equally certain that a choice which seems both correct and good, may prove a source of temptation to us, if we, from love of it, permit it to consume all our time and occupy all our thoughts. Our duties as Christians must not be neglected any more than our obligations to our children. We must be able to concentrate our thoughts upon ourselves in order that the spirit of God may be permitted to do its work in our hearts; we must be able to plant and cherish the good seed of Christianity in the hearts of our children. There is no duty, no pretext, that can excuse us here, though the performance may be modified by circumstances.
Thereupon the priest went further, and entered into the vocation of those who sat before him; he entered into their homes, their circumstances, and their opinions. Finally he produced a number of examples, by way of illustration, from other and higher walks in life, thus throwing side-lights on the topic discussed. The moment the priest became animated in his sermon, he seemed a new man to him who knew him only in every-day life. Even his external appearance was changed: his compact, strong face had become transparent, as it were, revealing the thoughts that throbbed within. His eyes grew larger, and in their firm and steadfast gaze was a message to every person in the congregation. His head, with its hairy mane, was magnified and made him look like a lion whose voice rolled out in long thunder tones, or came forth in short, violent phrases, sinking at times into a whisper, but only to rise again to greater heights. He could not in fact speak except before a large audience and under the inspiration of thoughts of eternity; for there was no eloquence in his voice, before it reached a screaming pitch; there was no expression in his countenance and no striking perspicuity in his thought, before it was all ablaze with zeal. Not that he had failed till now to find the theme to kindle it; no, if affliction had gathered rich treasures into his soul, reflection had done no less. He was a hard worker, and devoted himself largely to retirement and reflection. But he was not always in the mood for the ordinary affairs of life; his thoughts lacked the power of expression in conversation; he must be allowed to do all the talking, or, at least, he must be vigorously pacing the floor, while the conversation was in progress. To begin a debate with him was almost like attacking a defenseless man, but still it was dangerous; for his conviction soon made resistance with so much violence that there was no time for arguments. Were he, however, compelled to give reasons, he would do one of two things: he would either pour such a stream of words upon his opponent that the discussion was apt to end unpleasantly, or he would stop short, as if in fear of himself. No one could more easily be silenced than this strong, eloquent man.
When the priest began the prayer, Petra trembled, for she understood whence the text was taken. The farther he progressed the nearer she felt he came to herself. She shrank back, and observed that Signe did the same. But the vigorous man cut his way without mercy; the lion was out seeking for prey,—Petra felt herself pursued on every side, hemmed in, and captured; but what was seized so harshly, was held gently in the hand of mercy. Without a word of condemnation she seemed to be laid captive in the arms of Him who is infinite love. And there she prayed, and wept, and she heard Signe do the same, and she loved her for it!
When the priest descended from the pulpit and passed Petra and Signe on his way to the vestry, his countenance still beamed from his communion with the Lord. His searching glance fell on Petra, but as she turned her open face toward him, a ray of gentleness met her. He looked hastily in the corner at his daughter, as he proceeded.
Shortly after Signe rose: her face was veiled, and so Petra did not dare go with her. She therefore lingered behind until later. Noon found all three together at the same table; the priest talked a little, but Signe was shy. As soon as the priest, who evidently desired to talk about what had happened, made the faintest allusion to it, Signe turned the conversation in so modest and delicate a manner, that the priest was reminded of her mother; he grew silent and gradually became sad. It took but little to make him so.
Nothing is more painful than an unsuccessful attempt at reconciliation. The family rose without being able to look at one another, much less to exchange the usual thanks for the repast. In the sitting-room the silence at length grew so oppressive that all three would fain have gone away, but no one wanted to be first to go. As for Petra, she felt that if she went, it would be never to return. She could not meet Signe again, if she could not be permitted to love her; she could not endure to see the priest sad for her sake. But if she must leave, she must go without saying farewell, for how could she take leave of these people! Only the thought of it produced an emotion which she could scarcely control.
Every minute which prolongs a situation so oppressive, when each waits for the other to speak, makes it more insufferable. No one dares to stir from fear of attracting attention; every sigh is heard, the stillness itself is audible, for it seems like harshness. Suspense is felt, because no word is spoken, and there is a dread lest somebody may say something.
Each one realized that this moment would never return. The walls that are built between heart and heart grow; our own guilt increases, as does that of the others, with every breath we draw. We are by turns despondent and indignant; for the person treating us thus is without compassion, is hard; we will not bear it, we cannot forgive him. Petra could endure it no longer, she must either cry aloud or take flight!
Then sleigh-bells were heard in the road. Soon a man clad in a wolf-skin coat and seated in a sledge, with a driver behind on the box, was seen dashing past the garden and turning into the court-yard. All three now breathed more freely and waited for the relief which was coming! They heard the stranger in the hall; he was removing his traveling boots and coat and talking with the servant-girl who assisted him. The priest rose to meet the stranger, but turned again so as not to leave the two girls alone. Again the stranger’s voice was heard in the hall, and now nearer, so that it made all three look up. But Petra rose and fixed her eyes on the door.
A knock was heard.
“Come in!” said the priest, much agitated. A man with a light complexion and spectacles stood in the door. Petra uttered a shriek and fell back in her chair. It was Ödegaard.
To the priest and Signe he did not come unexpected. He was to spend Christmas at the parsonage; but no one had said a word to Petra of this. That he came just at this moment, however, was a direct interposition of Providence, and this they all felt.
When Petra recovered her consciousness Ödegaard was standing before her and holding her hand. He continued to hold it, but said nothing; nor did she speak, she could not even rise. But a couple of tears rolled down her cheek, while she continued to fix her eyes on him. He was very pale, but his manner was perfectly calm and kind. He withdrew his hand, crossed the floor, and then went to Signe, who had stolen into the farthest window, behind her mother’s flowers.
Petra longed to be alone, and so she left the room. Signe found plenty of household duties to keep her busy. The priest and Ödegaard, therefore, seated themselves in the study to drink a glass of wine, of which the traveler stood in need. Ödegaard was here briefly told of what the last days had brought forth. It made him thoughtful, but he said nothing. Their conversation was interrupted in a singular manner.
Past the windows went two women and three men, one after the other, and the priest no sooner caught sight of them than he sprang to his feet and exclaimed,—
“There we have them again! Now we must arm ourselves with patience!”
Slowly and silently the women entered, followed by the men. They placed themselves in a line along the wall beneath the book-shelves and opposite the sofa where Ödegaard was sitting. The priest placed chairs before them, brought out others from the next room, and they all sat down, with the exception of a young city-dressed man, who refused and remained standing near the door. He had a defiant air, and kept both hands in his pockets.
After a long pause, during which the priest filled his pipe, and Ödegaard, who never smoked, carefully observed the visitors, a fair-complexioned, pale woman of about forty winters began the conversation. Her forehead was rather narrow, her eyes large, but restless; they did not seem to know which way to look. Finally she said,—
“That was a fine sermon you preached to-day, father. It suited well what has been in our minds of late; for we at the Öygards have of late often had occasion to speak of temptation.”
And she sighed.
A man with a short, thick, double chin and a large broad face, also sighed, saying,—
“Lord, teach us Thy ways! Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity!”
And Else, the woman who had first spoken, again sighed, as she said,—
“Lord, wherewithal shall the young cleanse their ways so that they may heed Thy word?”
The words sounded strange in her mouth, for she was no longer young. But a middle-aged man, who sat swaying back and forth with his head on one side, while his eyes were never really open, drawled out as if half asleep, the following lines:—
The priest knew these people too well not to understand that this was merely the introduction, so he waited as if nothing had been said, although there was again a long pause, broken only by repeated sighs.
A little woman, who seemed still smaller because she stooped, and who was wrapped up in such a lot of shawls that she looked like a bundle of merchandise,—her face was, indeed, quite invisible,—now began to move about uneasily in her chair, and at length gave two faint coughs.
This at once aroused Else, who said,—
“There is no more playing or dancing at the Öygards now; but”—she paused again, while Lars, the man with the broad face and short double chin, interposed,—
“But there is one man, and that is Hans, the fiddler, who will not give it up.”
As Lars, too, seemed to hesitate as to whether he should say the rest or not, the young man spoke:—
“For he knows that the priest, too, has an instrument, to which they both dance and sing here at the parsonage.”
“It can’t be a greater sin for him than it is for the priest,” said Lars.
“The fact is the priest’s instrument serves as a temptation,” said Else, cautiously, by way of helping on the conversation to the point in view.
But the young man added, with more emphasis,—
“It is a stumbling-block to the young. As it is written, ‘Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.’”
Here Lars came to his relief.
“And so we come to request you to send away that instrument of yours, or burn it, so that it may no longer be a stumbling-block”—
“To the young of your parish,” added the young man.
The priest kept smoking his pipe most vigorously, and finally, making a visible effort to compose himself, he said:—
“To me there is no temptation in this instrument; on the contrary, it affords me recreation and relief. Now you know that whatever is able to divert our minds makes it easier for us to receive and understand good things; consequently I firmly believe that such things as this instrument are a help to me.”
“And I know there are priests who, in accordance with the words of Paul, would rather make a sacrifice of such pleasures than offend the children of the parish,” said the young man.
“It may be that I, too, formerly interpreted his words in that way,” answered the priest, “but I do not do so now. A person may give up a habit or a comfort; but he should avoid being narrow-minded and stupid for the sake of gratifying narrow-minded and stupid people. I would be wronging not only myself, but also those to whom I am to be an example, and I would be setting a bad example, an example contrary to my conviction.”
It was not often that the priest could make so full an explanation when he was out of the pulpit. He added,—
“I will not give up my piano, I will not burn it,—I will listen to it frequently, for I often feel the need of it, and I cannot but wish that you, too, might occasionally, in an innocent manner, divert your minds with singing, playing, and dancing for I regard these things as good and proper.”
“Fy!” said the young man, tossing his head and spitting on the floor.
The priest’s face turned red as blood, and perfect silence ensued. The man who sat swaying back and forth, struck up at the top of his voice the following hymn:—
And then Lars remarked, in a low tone,—
“You say, then, that playing and singing and dancing are proper, do you? It is right to stir up Satan for sensual gratification, is it? That is what our priest says. Well, it is a good thing we have found it out!—Ah, he really says, that everything connected with idleness and sensuality tends to relieve and aid the mind; that what leads us into temptation is right and proper!”
But now Ödegaard made haste to interpose, for he saw by the priest’s countenance that matters were coming to a bad pass.
“But tell me, my good friend, what is there which does not lead us into temptation?” he asked.
All looked at him from whom these well-considered words came. The question was in itself so unexpected that neither Lars nor the others could make an immediate answer. Then a voice came as from a deep well or out of the cellar,—
“Work does not.”
The words came from the bundle of shawls; it was Randi, who, for the first time, opened her lips. A triumphant smile lighted up Lars’ broad face; the light-complexioned woman looked with a believer’s eyes at the speaker, and even the young man, who stood near the door, lost for a moment the sneering expression of his lips. Ödegaard understood that Randi was the chief person, though her head was not visible. He therefore addressed himself to her.
“Of what kind must work be, if it is not to lead us into temptation?”
She was unwilling to make a reply to this question, but the young man answered for her.
“The curse reads: ‘In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread!’ It is, then, such work as gives us toil and trouble.”
“And nothing but toil and trouble? May not work bring profit?”
Now he, too, was at a loss what to answer; but the man with the broad face and double chin felt moved to come to his relief.
“Yes,” said he, “we may make all we can.”
“Well, then work, too, may lead us into temptation; we may be tempted to make too much.”
In this dilemma relief came from the sepulchre of shawls.
“Then it is the profit and not the work that leads us into temptation.”
“Certainly; but what do you say if the work is carried to excess for the sake of the profit?”
The bundle of shawls lapsed into silence again, but Lars took the floor.
“What do you mean by carrying work to excess?”
“I mean when it makes you a brute, when it makes a slave of you.”
“There should be slavery,” said the young man, who had been quoting the curse.
“But can work when looked upon as slavery lead us to heaven?”
“To work is to serve God,” cried Lars.
“Are you able to say that of all your work?”
Lars was silent.
“No; be reasonable, and admit that work can be carried to excess for the sake of profit, as if it were the one object of our life. Consequently, labor, too, has its temptations.”
“Yes, my children, there is temptation in everything; nothing is free from it;” the priest now decided, as he rose and emptied his pipe as if to close the interview. A sigh was heard from the bundle of shawls, but no reply was made.
“Listen!” Ödegaard began again, and the priest filled his pipe once more,—“if our labor becomes profitable, that is to say, if it bears fruit, I suppose we are permitted to enjoy this fruit, are we not? If it gives us wealth, is it not proper for us to enjoy this wealth?”
His questions awakened grave doubts, and the visitors looked at one another.
“While you are reflecting I will answer,” said Ödegaard. “God must have given us permission to try to turn his curse into a blessing, for He himself guided his patriarchs; He led all his chosen people to the enjoyment of wealth.”
“The Apostles were forbidden to possess wealth,” the young man interposed, in a tone of certain victory.
“Yes, that is true; for God wanted to place them above and beyond all human circumstances, that He might be to them all in all,—they were called by the Lord.”
“We are all called.”
“But not in the same sense; are you called to be an apostle?”
The young man’s face turned pale as a corpse; his eyes grew dark under his heavy forehead; he must have had some special reason for taking the remark so much to heart.
“But the rich man must work, too,” remarked Lars; “for work is commanded.”
“Certainly, he must, although in other ways and for different purposes. Each one of us has his own peculiar task to perform. But tell me, must we work all the time?”
“We must also pray!” chimed in the fair-complexioned woman, folding her hands, as if recollecting that she long had neglected to pray.
“Ah, I see; we must pray whenever we do not work; is that it? Can any man do that? Must we not also rest.”
“We ought not to rest before we are tired; then no wicked thoughts would tempt us; ah, no, then we would not be led into temptation,” sighed Else again, and the psalm-singer once more fell in with a verse from the hymn-book:
“Please be still, Erik!” said the priest, “and pay attention to what this man is saying.”
And now Ödegaard began to sum up the conclusions:—
“You see: Work brings forth its fruit and requires rest. But my opinion about social intercourse, singing, playing, and the like is, that they, on the one hand, are the sweet fruits of labor, and that they, on the other hand, furnish the mind refreshing rest.”
There was now great commotion in the camp; all eyes were fixed on Randi, for now the main body of the army must take the field; she swayed to and fro in her seat for a while, and then she began slowly and quietly,—
“There is no rest to be found in worldly singing and in playing and dancing; for such things excite the flesh to sinful lusts. Nor can that be a fruit of labor which destroys our work and makes us weak.”
“Ah, these things are full of temptation,” said the fair-complexioned woman, with a sigh.
This sentiment was reëchoed by Erik in a verse from the hymn-book:—
“Be silent, Erik!” said the priest; “you only confuse us.”
“Oh, yes; that is very likely,” answered Erik, beginning anew:—
“Will you not hold your tongue, Erik! the hymn is good enough; but there is time and place for everything.”
“Yes, yes, pastor, that is so,—time and place for everything, and so—
“No, no, Erik; then the prayer would also become a source of temptation; you would have to turn Roman Catholic and enter a monastery.”
“The Lord forbid!” exclaimed Erik, opening his eyes wide, then shutting them again and beginning,—
“Hear me now, Erik; if you cannot be silent, I beg you to leave the room. Where did we leave the discussion?”
But Ödegaard had been listening to Erik with great amusement, and did not remember where the conversation had been interrupted. Then a peaceful voice was heard from beneath the bundle of shawls.
“I remarked that there can be no rest or fruit of labor in that, which”—
“Now I remember: in that which leads us into temptation,—and then Erik came and demonstrated to us that prayer can also be a source of temptation. Now let us look and see what these things may lead to. Have you observed that happy people work better than those who are sad? Why?”
Lars perceived whither this was aiming, and so he said,—
“It is faith that makes us happy.”
“Yes, if our religion is a cheerful one; but have you not observed that one’s religion may be so gloomy that it turns the whole world into a penitentiary?”
The fair-complexioned woman kept sighing so incessantly that the bundle of shawls could not refrain from stirring again; but Lars gave her such a sharp look that she was silenced. Ödegaard continued,—
“The same occupation constantly, whether it be work, prayer, or amusement, would make us stupid and gloomy. You can dig in the dirt until you become a brute; pray until the habit makes you a monk; and play until you become a mere puppet. But combine the three! The change will strengthen the heart and soul; thus your work will be made more fruitful and your religion more cheerful.”
“You would then have us cultivate cheerfulness,” said the young man, with a sneer.
“To be sure! and as for yourself, you would in that way get friends in the world; for it is only when we are happy that we are able to see and love what is good in others. And you cannot love God unless you love your fellow-men.”
No one venturing to contradict this statement, Ödegaard tried a second time to sum up the conclusions and put an end to the interview, saying,—
“The things which disenthrall our minds, so that the Spirit of God can do its work in our hearts (for it does not work in the hearts of slaves); the things that do this must be a blessing, and amusements must therefore be right and proper.”
The priest rose; he again had a pipe to clear.
In the stillness which now followed, and which was not broken by sighs, the bundle of shawls was again seen stirring, and finally Randi said, gently,—
“It is written, ‘Whatsoever ye do all to the glory of God;’ but can worldly singing and playing and dancing be to the glory of God?”
“No, not directly; but may we not ask the same question in regard to our eating, sleeping, and clothing ourselves? And yet we must do these things. The inference, therefore, is inevitable that you must refrain from that which is sinful.”
“Yes, but are not these things sinful?”
For the first time Ödegaard became somewhat impatient; he therefore merely answered:
“We read in the Bible that both singing and playing and dancing were common in ancient times.”
“Yes, to the glory of God.”
“Very well—to the glory of God. But why did the Jews always name God in connection with everything? Because they were children and had not yet learned to make distinctions. To children all strangers are ‘the man.’ To the child’s question, ‘Where does this or that come from,’ we always give the same answer, ‘from God.’ But as grown men, when we speak to grown men we also name the intermediate cause; we name not only the giver, God, but also the person to whom we are indebted. Thus it is possible that a beautiful song may treat of God or lead us to God, although the name of God is not mentioned in it; for many things lead to Him, though indirectly. Our dancing, when we do it for our health and for innocent amusement, is a way, though it be an indirect one, of praising Him, who gave us health, and loves to preserve in us the hearts of children.”
“Bear that in mind! think of that!” said the priest. He was conscious that he for a long time had misunderstood these things, and that he had misinterpreted them to others.
But Lars had long been occupied in silent reflection. Now he was ready. The grain had gradually been sinking from the broad brow down into the short, crabbed, lower part of the face; it had been crushed and ground, and the grist was now brought forth.
“Are, then, all kinds of fables, stories, and tales, all kinds of poetry and fiction, with which books are filled nowadays,—I say, are they, too, allowable? Is it not written, ‘Keep thy lips from speaking guile.’”
“I am very much obliged to you for speaking of this. Your mind, you see, is like the house you live in. If it were so small that you scarcely could walk erect or stretch your limbs in it, you would have to go to the trouble of enlarging it. And just so poetry elevates and expands the mind! Should all our thoughts and ideas that are beyond our actual necessities be false, then the most necessary ones would also soon become so. They would so contract you in your earthly tenement that you would never reach eternal life, the very goal for which you are striving, and it is these very thoughts, which by faith should bear you heavenward.”
“But poetry, is not that something which has no foundation in fact; is it not falsehood?” inquired Randi, thoughtfully.
“No, there is often more truth in it than there is in what we actually see before our eyes,” answered Ödegaard.
They all looked at him with skeptic eyes, and the young man remarked,—
“I never knew before that the stories about Cinderella had more of truth in them than there is in what I see with my own eyes.”
They all tittered a little.
“Then tell me whether you always comprehend the things that you see around you.”
“I suppose I am not sufficiently learned.”
“Ah, the learned are even more at a loss to understand them than you are! I refer to such things in our every-day life as bring sorrow and pain and which make us worry ourselves gray, as the saying is. Do not such things happen to us?”
He did not answer, but from the depths of the bundle of shawls was heard,—
“Yes, very often.”
“But supposing you read a fictitious story which resembled your own experience in such a manner that it made you understand yourself; would you not say of that story which gave you the key to your own life, and which gave you the comfort and courage gained by knowledge, that you found more truth in it than in your own life?”
The light-complexioned woman said,—
“I once read a story which so aided me in my sorrow, that it almost turned my affliction into joy.”
The bundle of shawls coughed faintly, adding, in a timid voice,—
“Yes, that is true.”
But the young man would not give his consent to this concession, and so he asked,—
“Can anybody find comfort in the stories about Cinderella?”
“To be sure, everything has its use. That which is ludicrous has great influence over us, and the story of Cinderella shows in a humorous manner how one whom the world regards as most insignificant, may still be of great importance. It shows how everything is made to serve one who has a stout heart, and how there is a way where there is a will. Do you not think it might be well for both children and grown people to remember that story?”
“But to believe in witchcraft and trolls is superstition, is it not?”
“Who has said that you shall believe in them? They are mere figures of speech!”
“But we are forbidden to use images and figures; they are all devices of the devil.”
“Is that so? Where do you find that?”
“In the Bible.”
“No,” the priest now interposed, “that is a mistake; for the Bible itself makes use of figurative language.”
They all looked at him.
“It makes use of figures on every page,” continued the priest, “for the oriental peoples have a marked tendency to express themselves figuratively. We have imagery in our churches and in our language; we employ it in wood, in stone, and on canvas; and we are unable to conceive the Godhead otherwise than through an image. Nor is this all. Christ makes use of figures of speech; and did not the Almighty Himself assume various forms and disguises when He revealed Himself to the prophets? Was it not in the form of a traveler He came to Abraham in Mamre and ate at his table? And if God can assume various forms and make use of figures, then man certainly can do so.”
They all had to agree; but Ödegaard rose and tapped the priest gently on the shoulder, saying,—
“Thank you, sir! There you presented the most conclusive evidence from the Bible that the drama is allowable!”
The priest started in alarm; the smoke which filled his mouth came forth voluntarily, as it were.
At this point Ödegaard crossed the floor and approached the bundle of shawls, and bent down to catch a glimpse of the face, if it had any; but in vain.
“Are there any other questions you would like to ask?” he inquired; “for you seem to me like a person who has reflected on many things.”
“Oh, the Lord be merciful to me; my thoughts are not always what they should be.”
“It usually is the case that one is, during the first period after the grace of conversion, so filled with joy at the wonders that have been wrought, that everything seems useless and improper. He is like the lover who desires nothing but his beloved.”
“Yes, but look at the first Christians. I should think we might take them for our examples.”
“No, their peculiar circumstances, placed as they were in the midst of heathens, were different from ours, and demanded of them a rigorous life. It is our duty to imbue the life, which we find about us, with a Christian spirit.”
“But,” said the young man, for the first time without bitterness, “there are so many passages in the Old Testament, which are in direct opposition to the spirit in which you speak.”
“Yes, that is true; but those passages are now void. They are ‘done away.’ As Paul says, ‘We are ministers of the New Testament; not of the letter, but of the spirit.’ And again, ‘Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ And still further, ‘All things are lawful unto me, but,’ adds he, ‘all things are not expedient.’ But we are fortunate in having before us the example of the life of a man who demonstrates to us what Paul meant. I refer to that of Luther. You certainly believe that Luther was a good and intelligent Christian, do you not?”
They had no doubt of that.
“Luther’s faith was cheerful. His was the faith of the New Testament! His opinion was that the devil was very apt to be lurking behind a gloomy faith. Luther’s idea in regard to fear of temptation was, that he who fears least is least apt to be tempted. He made use of all the faculties God had given him, including the capacity for enjoyment; of this his whole life is a proof. Would you like to have me cite a few instances? The pious Melancthon was at one time so busy at work upon an essay in defense of the pure doctrine that he did not allow himself time to eat. Then Luther snatched the pen from his hand, saying, ‘We do not serve God by work alone, but also by rest and quiet; and this is why God has given us the fourth commandment and instituted the Sabbath.’ Again, Luther employed figures of speech in his conversation and sermons, the amusing alternating with the serious, and he was full of splendid and witty conceits. He also translated good old folk-lore tales into his mother-tongue, and stated in the preface to them that he scarcely knew of anything better for moral instruction except the Bible. He played the lute, as you perhaps know, and sang with his children and friends, not only hymns, but merry old ballads, too. He was fond of social games, played chess, and he used to invite the young people to dance at his house. All he asked was that it should be done with modesty and propriety. All this an old, simple-hearted disciple of Luther, namely, the priest Johan Mathesius has recorded, and he even preached it to his flock from his pulpit. He urged his hearers to follow Luther’s example. Let us do likewise!”
The priest rose, saying,—
“My dear friends, let this suffice for to-day.”
And they all rose.
“Much has been said for our enlightenment,” continued the priest; “now may the Lord bless the seed that has been sown!”
“You live, my dear friends, in remote and isolated places. Your homes are far up in the mountains, where the grain is cut by the frost oftener than by the scythe. Such barren and deserted mountain regions should never have been built upon. It would be better to turn them over to trolls and to the grazing cattle. Spiritual life does not thrive well up there and it becomes gloomy like the surrounding vegetation. Prejudices hang over life like the rocks beneath which they are developed; they cast a dark shadow upon your hearts and tend to divide you. May the Lord unite and enlighten you! I thank you for your visit, my friends! It has opened my eyes, also, to many new truths.”
He took each one of them by the hand as he bid them good-by, and even the young man extended his with cordiality, although he did not look up.
“You are going over the mountain; when do you get home?” asked the priest, as they were about to leave.
“Oh, some time to-night,” answered Lars; “there has been a heavy fall of snow, and where it has blown off there is a thick layer of ice.”
“Yes, my friends, you deserve great credit for seeking the church under such circumstances. May no harm befall you on your way home.”
Erik replied in a low tone:—
“That is true, Erik. You were right this time,” said the priest.
“Wait a moment!” said Ödegaard, just as they were ready to start. “It is not strange that you do not recognize me; but I think I must have some relatives in your neighborhood.”
They all turned to look at him, even the priest, who, of course, had known this fact, but had doubtless entirely forgotten it.
“My name is Hans Ödegaard, and I am a son of Knud Hansen Ödegaard, the priest, who, many years ago, with his scrip on his back, wandered forth from among you.”
Then was heard from out of the bundle of shawls,—
“Good Heavens! Knud Ödegaard was my brother.”
There was a universal pause, and no one seemed able to say a word. Finally Ödegaard asked,—
“So it was you I visited once when I as a little boy went up there with my father?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And you stayed with me a while,” said Lars. “Your father is my cousin.”
But Randi remarked in a sorrowful tone,—
“So you are that little Hans! How fast time flies!”
“How is Else getting on?” asked Ödegaard.
“This is Else,” said Randi, pointing at the woman with the fair complexion.
“Are you Else,” he exclaimed. “You were in trouble about a love affair at that time. You wanted to marry the fiddler of the parish. Did you get him?”
There was no reply.
In spite of the twilight, which was now rapidly coming on, Ödegaard could see that Else was blushing, and that the men either turned away or looked down, with the exception of the young man, who kept his eyes fixed upon her. Ödegaard discovered that he had touched upon an unpleasant subject, and so the priest came to his aid.
“No, Hans the fiddler is not married. Else married the son of Lars, but she now is free once more; she is a widow.”
She again blushed crimson. The young man observed it, and smiled contemptuously.
But Randi interposed,—
“Yes, you must have traveled a great deal. I can see you have gathered a vast store of knowledge.”
“Yes, up to this time I have done nothing but travel and study; but now I am going to stay at home and set to work.”
“Yes, that is the way of the world! Some people go abroad and get light and wisdom, while others stay at home.”
And Lars added,—
“It is often hard to turn the soil of the homestead, and when we help a man on with a hope of making him useful to us, he deserts us.”
“There are so many vocations in life,” said the priest. “Each one must follow his bent.”
“The Lord knows how to direct our work,” said Ödegaard. “If God so wills, you may yet reap the fruits of my father’s labors.”
“Ah, yes, I have no doubt of that,” said Randi, in a meek voice; “but it is often hard to wait. Time passes so slowly.”
The visitors now took leave. The priest stood by one window and Ödegaard by another, watching them as they proceeded up the mountains. The young man brought up the rear. Ödegaard learned in regard to him that he was from the city, where he had tried various enterprises, but had always become involved in some dispute or other. He believed himself intended for something great, thought that he was destined to be an apostle, but for some unaccountable reason he had stopped up in the Ödegaard neighborhood, as some thought from attachment to Else. He was a very passionate man, who had met with many disappointments and was destined to encounter many more.
The visitors had again become visible on the mountain, as the roof of the stable no longer hid them from view. They would disappear among the trees and then come into sight again as they kept wearily climbing higher and higher. There was no path in the deep snow. The trees served as waymarks, and in the far distance the snow-capped mountains were beacons pointing out to the wanderers their way home.
But from the sitting-room in the parsonage came a couple of charming preludes, and then,—