Part 2 (1/2)
”The calf, the calf's got red marks on each side and a spot on the forehead, just like his mother.”
”Hold your tongue, boy!” cried Nils, putting down one of his feet from the bed, and stamping on the floor. ”The deuce is in that bustling boy,” he growled out, drawing up his foot again.
”You can see very well father's out of spirits to-day,” the mother said to Arne, by way of warning. ”Shouldn't you like some strong coffee with treacle?” she then said, turning to Nils, trying to drive away his ill-temper. Coffee with treacle had been a favorite drink with the grandmother and Margit, and Arne liked it too. But Nils never liked it, though he used to take it with the others. ”Shouldn't you like some strong coffee with treacle?” Margit asked again, for he did not answer the first time. Now, he raised himself on his elbows, and cried in a loud, harsh voice, ”Do you think I'll guzzle that filthy stuff?”
Margit was thunder-struck; and she went out, taking the boy with her.
They had several things to do out-doors, and they did not come in till supper-time; then Nils had gone. Arne was sent out into the field to call him, but could not find him anywhere. They waited till the supper was nearly cold; but Nils had not come even when it was finished. Then Margit grew fidgety, sent Arne to bed, and sat down, waiting. A little past midnight Nils came home. ”Where have you been, dear?” she asked.
”That's no business of yours,” he answered, seating himself slowly on the bench. He was drunk.
From that time he often went out into the parish; and he was always drunk when he came back. ”I can't bear stopping at home with you,” he once said when he came in. She gently tried to plead her cause; but he stamped on the floor, and bade her be silent. Was he drunk, then it was her fault; was he wicked, that was her fault, too; had he become a cripple and an unlucky man for all his life, then, again, she and that cursed boy of hers were the cause of it. ”Why were you always dangling after me?” he said, blubbering. ”What harm had I done you?”
”G.o.d help and bless me!” Margit answered, ”was it I that ran after you?”
”Yes, that you did,” he cried, raising himself; and, still blubbering, he continued, ”Now, at last, it has turned out just as you would have it: I drag along here day after day--every day looking on my own grave. But I might have lived in splendor with the first girl in the parish; I might have travelled as far as the sun; if you and that cursed boy of yours hadn't put yourselves in my way.”
Again she tried to defend herself: ”It isn't the boy's fault, at any rate.”
”Hold your tongue, or I'll strike you!” and he did strike her.
The next day, when he had slept himself sober, he felt ashamed, and would especially be kind to the boy. But he was soon drunk again; and then he beat Margit. At last he beat her almost every time he was drunk; Arne then cried and fretted, and so he beat him, too; but often he was so miserable afterwards that he felt obliged to go out again and take some more spirits. At this time, too, he began once more to set his mind on going to dancing-parties. He played at them just as he used to do before his illness; and he took Arne with him to carry the fiddle-case. At these parties the child saw and heard much which was not good for him; and the mother often wept because he was taken there: still she dared not say anything to the father about it. But to the child she often imploringly said, with many caresses, ”Keep close to G.o.d, and don't learn anything wicked.” But at the dancing-parties there was very much to amuse him, while at home with the mother there was very little; and so he turned more and more away from her to the father: she saw it, but was silent. He learned many songs at these parties, and he used to sing them to the father, who felt amused, and laughed now and then at them. This flattered the boy so much that he set himself to learn as many songs as he could; and soon he found out what it was that the father liked, and that made him laugh. When there was nothing of this kind in the songs, the boy would himself put something in as well as he could; and thus he early acquired facility in setting words to music. But lampoons and disgusting stories about people who had risen to wealth and influence, were the things which the father liked best, and which the boy sang.
The mother always wished him to go with her in the cow-house to tend the cattle in the evening. He used to find all sorts of excuses to avoid going; but it was of no use; she was resolved he should go.
There she talked to him about G.o.d and good things, and generally ended by pressing him to her heart, imploring him, with many tears, not to become a bad man.
She helped him, too, in his reading-lessons. He was extremely quick in learning; and the father felt proud of him, and told him--especially when he was drunk--that he had _his_ cleverness.
At dancing-parties, when the father was drunk, he used often to ask Arne to sing to the people; and then he would sing song after song, amidst their loud laughter and applause. This pleased him even more than it pleased his father; and at last he used to sing songs without number. Some anxious mothers who heard this, came to Margit and told her about it, because the subjects of the songs were not such as they ought to have been. Then she called the boy to her side, and forbade him, in the name of G.o.d and all that was good, to sing such songs any more. And now it seemed to him that she was always opposed to what gave him pleasure; and, for the first time in his life, he told the father what she had said; and when he was again drunk she had to suffer for it severely: till then he had not spoken of it. Then Arne saw clearly how wrong a thing he had done, and in the depths of his soul he asked G.o.d and her to forgive him; but he could not ask it in words. She continued to show him the same kindness as before, and it pierced his heart. Once, however, in spite of all, he again wronged her. He had a talent for mimicking people, especially in their speaking and singing; and one evening, while he was amusing the father in this way, the mother entered, and, when she was going away, the father took it into his head to ask him to mimic her. At first he refused; but the father, who lay on the bed laughing till he shook, insisted upon his doing it. ”She's gone,” the boy thought, ”and can't hear me;” and he mimicked her singing, just as it was when her voice was hoa.r.s.e and obstructed by tears. The father laughed till the boy grew quite frightened and at once left off. Then the mother came in from the kitchen, looked at Arne long and mournfully, went over to the shelf, took down a milk-dish and carried it away.
He felt burning hot all over: she had heard it all. He jumped down from the table where he had been sitting, went out, threw himself on the ground, and wished to hide himself for ever in the earth. He could not rest, and he rose and went farther from the house. Pa.s.sing by the barn, he there saw his mother sitting, making a new fine s.h.i.+rt for him. It was her usual habit to sing a hymn while sewing: now, however, she was silent. Then Arne could bear it no longer; he threw himself on the gra.s.s at her feet, looked up in her face, and wept and sobbed bitterly. Margit let fall her work, and took his head between her hands.
”Poor Arne!” she said, putting her face down to his. He did not try to say a word, but wept as he had never wept before. ”I knew you were good at heart,” she said, stroking his head.
”Mother, you mustn't refuse what I am now going to ask,” were the first words he was able to utter.
”You know I never do refuse you,” answered she.
He tried to stop his tears, and then, with his face still in her lap, he stammered out, ”Do sing a little for me, mother.”
”You know I can't do it,” she said, in a low voice.
”Sing something for me, mother,” implored the boy; ”or I shall never have courage to look you in the face again.” She went on stroking his hair, but was silent. ”Do sing, mother dear,” he implored again; ”or I shall go far away, and never come back any more.” Though he was now almost fifteen years old, he lay there with his head in his mother's lap, and she began to sing:
”Merciful Father, take in thy care The child as he plays by the sh.o.r.e; Send him Thy Holy Spirit there, And leave him alone no more.
Slipp'ry's the way, and high is the tide; Still if Thou keepest close by his side He never will drown, but live for Thee, And then at the last Thy heaven will see.
Wondering where her child is astray, The mother stands at the cottage door, Calls him a hundred times i' the day, And fears he will come no more.
But then she thinks, whatever betide, The Spirit of G.o.d will be his Guide, And Christ the blessed, his little Brother, Will carry him back to his longing mother.”