I.
Canute Aakre belonged to an ancient family of the parish, where it
had always been distinguished for its intelligence and care for
the public good. His father through self-exertion had attained to
the ministry, but had died early, and his widow being by birth a
peasant, the children were brought up as farmers. Consequently,
Canute’s education was only of the kind afforded by the public
school; but his father’s library had early inspired him with a
desire for knowledge, which was increased by association with his
friend Henrik Wergeland, who often visited him or sent him books,
seeds for his farm, and much good counsel. Agreeably to his
advice, Canute early got up a club for practice in debating and
study of the constitution, but which finally became a practical
agricultural society, for this and the surrounding parishes. He
also established a parish library, giving his father’s books as
its first endowment, and organized in his own house a Sunday-
school for persons wishing to learn penmanship, arithmetic, and
history. In this way the attention of the public was fixed upon
him, and he was chosen a member of the board of parish-
commissioners, of which he soon became chairman. Here he continued
his endeavors to advance the school interests, which he succeeded
in placing in an admirable condition.
Canute Aakre was a short-built, active man, with small sharp eyes
and disorderly hair. He had large lips which seemed constantly
working, and a row of excellent teeth which had the same
appearance, for they shone when he spoke his clear sharp words,
which came out with a snap, as when the sparks are emitted from a
great fire.
Among the many he had helped to an education, his neighbor Lars
Hogstad stood foremost. Lars was not much younger than Canute, but
had developed more slowly. Being in the habit of talking much of
what he read and thought, Canute found in Lars–who bore a quiet,
earnest manner–a good listener, and step by step a sensible
judge. The result was, that he went reluctantly to the meetings of
the board, unless first furnished with Lars Hogstad’s advice,
concerning whatever matter of importance was before it, which
matter was thus most likely to result in practical improvement.
Canute’s influence, therefore, brought his neighbor in as a member
of the board, and finally into everything with which he himself
was connected. They always rode together to the meetings, where
Lars never spoke, and only on the road to and from, could Canute
learn his opinion. They were looked upon as inseparable.
One fine autumn day, the parish-commissioners were convened, for
the purpose of considering, among other matters, a proposal made
by the Foged, to sell the public grain-magazine, and with the
proceeds establish a savings-bank. Canute Aakre, the chairman,
would certainly have approved this, had he been guided by his
better judgment; but, in the first place, the motion was made by
the Foged, whom Wergeland did not like, consequently, neither did
Canute; secondly, the grain-magazine had been erected by his
powerful paternal grandfather, by whom it was presented to the
parish. To him the proposal was not free from an appearance of
personal offence; therefore, he had not spoken of it to any one,
not even to Lars, who never himself introduced a subject.
As chairman, Canute read the proposal without comment, but,
according to his habit, looked over to Lars, who sat as usual a
little to one side, holding a straw between his teeth; this he
always did when entering upon a subject, using it as he would a
toothpick, letting it hang loosely in one corner of his mouth, or
turning it more quickly or slowly, according to the humor he was
in. Canute now saw with surprise, that the straw moved very fast.
He asked quickly, “Do you think we ought to agree to this?”
Lars answered dryly, “Yes, I do.”
The whole assembly, feeling that Canute was of quite a different
opinion, seemed struck, and looked at Lars, who said nothing
further, nor was further questioned. Canute turned to another
subject, as if nothing had happened, and did not again resume the
question till toward the close of the meeting, when he asked with
an air of indifference if they should send it back to the Foged
for closer consideration, as it certainly was contrary to the mind
of the people of the parish, by whom the grain-magazine was highly
valued; also, if he should put upon the record, “Proposal deemed
inexpedient.”
“Against one vote,” said Lars.
“Against two,” said another instantly.
“Against three,” said a third, and before the chairman had
recovered from his surprise, a majority had declared in favor of
the proposal.
He wrote; then read in a low tone, “Referred for acceptance, and
the meeting adjourned.” Canute, rising and closing the “Records,”
blushed deeply, but resolved to have this vote defeated in the
parish meeting. In the yard he hitched his horse to the wagon, and
Lars came and seated himself by his side. On the way home they
spoke upon various subjects, but not upon this.
On the following day Canute’s wife started for Lars’ house, to
inquire of his wife if anything had happened between their
husbands; Canute had appeared so queerly when he returned home the
evening previous. A little beyond the house she met Lars’ wife,
who came to make the same inquiry on account of a similar peculiar
behavior in her husband. Lars’ wife was a quiet, timid thing,
easily frightened, not by hard words, but by silence; for Lars
never spoke to her unless she had done wrong, or he feared she
would do so. On the contrary, Canute Aakre’s wife spoke much with
her husband, and particularly about the commissioners’ meetings,
for lately they had taken his thoughts, work, and love from her
and the children. She was jealous of it as of a woman, she wept at
night about it, and quarrelled with her husband concerning it in
the day. But now she could say nothing; for once he had returned
home unhappy; she immediately became much more so than he, and for
the life of her she must know what was the matter. So as Lars’
wife could tell her nothing, she had to go for information out in
the parish, where she obtained it, and of course was instantly of
her husband’s opinion, thinking Lars incomprehensible, not to say
bad. But when she let her husband perceive this, she felt that,
notwithstanding what had occurred, no friendship was broken
between them; on the contrary, that he liked Lars very much.
The day for the parish meeting came. In the morning, Lars Hogstad
drove over for Canute Aakre, who came out and took a seat beside
him. They saluted each other as usual, spoke a little less than
they were wont on the way, but not at all of the proposal. The
meeting was full; some, too, had come in as spectators, which
Canute did not like, for he perceived by this a little excitement
in the parish. Lars had his straw, and stood by the stove, warming
himself, for the autumn had begun to be cold. The chairman read
the proposal in a subdued and careful manner, adding, that it came
from the Foged, who was not habitually fortunate. The building was
a gift, and such things it was not customary to part with, least
of all when there was no necessity for it.
Lars, who never before had spoken in the meetings, to the surprise
of all, took the floor. His voice trembled; whether this was
caused by regard for Canute, or anxiety for the success of the
bill, we cannot say; but his arguments were clear, good, and of
such a comprehensive and compact character as had hardly before
been heard in these meetings. In concluding, he said:
“Of what importance is it that the proposal is from the Foged?–
none,–or who it was that erected the house, or in what way it
became the public property?”
Canute, who blushed easily, turned very red, and moved nervously
as usual when he was impatient; but notwithstanding, he answered
in a low, careful tone, that there were savings banks enough in
the country, he thought, quite near, and almost too near. But if
one was to be instituted, there were other ways of attaining this
end, than by trampling upon the gifts of the dead, and the love of
the living. His voice was a little unsteady when he said this, but
recovered its composure, when he began to speak of the grain
magazine as such, and reason concerning its utility.
Lars answered him ably on this last, adding: “Besides, for many
reasons I would be led to doubt whether the affairs of this parish
are to be conducted for the best interests of the living, or for
the memory of the dead; or further, whether it is the love and
hate of a single family which rules, rather than the welfare of
the whole.”
Canute answered quickly: “I don’t know whether the last speaker
has been the one least benefited not only by the dead of this
family, but also by its still living representative.”
In this remark he aimed first at the fact that his powerful
grandfather had, in his day, managed the farm for Lars’
grandfather, when the latter, on his own account, was on a little
visit to the penitentiary.
The straw, which had been moving quickly for a long time, was now
still:
“I am not in the habit of speaking everywhere of myself and
family,” said he, treating the matter with calm superiority; then
he reviewed the whole matter in question, aiming throughout at a
particular point. Canute was forced to acknowledge to himself,
that he had never looked upon it from that standpoint, or heard
such reasoning; involuntarily he had to turn his eye upon Lars.
There he stood tall and portly, with clearness marked upon the
strongly-built forehead and in the deep eyes. His mouth was
compressed, the straw still hung playing in its corner, but great
strength lay around. He kept his hands behind him, standing erect,
while his low deep intonations seemed as if from the ground in
which he was rooted. Canute saw him for the first time in his
life, and from his inmost soul felt a dread of him; for
unmistakably this man had always been his superior! He had taken
all Canute himself knew or could impart, but retained only what
had nourished this strong hidden growth.
He had loved and cherished Lars, but now that he had become a
giant, he hated him deeply, fearfully; he could not explain to
himself why he thought so, but he felt it instinctively, while
gazing upon him; and in this forgetting all else, he exclaimed:
“But Lars! Lars! what in the Lord’s name ails you?”
He lost all self-control,–”you, whom I have”–”you, who have”–he
couldn’t get out another word, and seated himself, only to
struggle against the excitement which he was unwilling to have
Lars see; he drew himself up, struck the table with his fist, and
his eyes snapped from below the stiff disorderly hair which always
shaded them. Lars appeared as if he had not been interrupted, only
turning his head to the assembly, asking if this should be
considered the decisive blow in the matter, for in such a case
nothing more need be said.
Canute could not endure this calmness.
“What is it that has come among us?” he cried. “Us, who to this
day have never debated but in love and upright zeal? We are
infuriated at each other as if incited by an evil spirit;” and he
looked with fiery eyes upon Lars, who answered:
“You yourself surely bring in this spirit, Canute, for I have
spoken only of the case. But you will look upon it only through
your own self-will; now we shall see if your love and upright zeal
will endure, when once it is decided agreeably to our wish.”
“Have I not, then, taken good care of the interests of the
parish?”
No reply. This grieved Canute, and he continued:
“Really, I did not think otherwise than that I had accomplished
something;–something for the good of the parish;–but may be I
have deceived myself.”
He became excited again, for it was a fiery spirit within him,
which was broken in many ways, and the parting with Lars grieved
him, so he could hardly control himself. Lars answered:
“Yes, I know you give yourself the credit for all that is done
here, and should one judge by much speaking in the meetings, then
surely you have accomplished the most.”
“Oh, is it this!” shouted Canute, looking sharply upon Lars: “it
is you who have the honor of it!”
“Since we necessarily talk of ourselves,” replied Lars, “I will
say that all matters have been carefully considered by us before
they were introduced here.”
Here little Canute Aakre resumed his quick way of speaking:
“In God’s name take the honor, I am content to live without it;
there are other things harder to lose!”
Involuntarily Lars turned his eye from Canute, but said, the straw
moving very quickly: “If I were to speak my mind, I should say
there is not much to take honor for;–of course ministers and
teachers may be satisfied with what has been done; but, certainly,
the common men say only that up to this time the taxes have become
heavier and heavier.”
A murmur arose in the assembly, which now became restless. Lars
continued:
“Finally, to-day, a proposition is made which, if carried, would
recompense the parish for all it has laid out; perhaps, for this
reason, it meets such opposition. It is the affair of the parish,
for the benefit of all its inhabitants, and ought to be rescued
from being a family matter.” The audience exchanged glances, and
spoke half audibly, when one threw out a remark as he rose to go
to his dinner-pail, that these were “the truest words he had heard
in the meetings for many years.” Now all arose, and the
conversation became general. Canute Aakre felt as he sat there
that the case was lost, fearfully lost; and tried no more to save
it. He had somewhat of the character attributed to Frenchmen, in
that he was good for first, second, and third attacks, but poor
for self-defence–his sensibilities overpowering his thoughts.
He could not comprehend it, nor could he sit quietly any longer;
so, yielding his place to the vice-chairman, he left,–and the
audience smiled.
He had come to the meeting accompanied by Lars, but returned home
alone, though the road was long. It was a cold autumn day; the way
looked jagged and bare, the meadow gray and yellow; while frost
had begun to appear here and there on the roadside. Disappointment
is a dreadful companion. He felt himself so small and desolate,
walking there; but Lars was everywhere before him, like a giant,
his head towering, in the dusk of evening, to the sky. It was his
own fault that this had been the decisive battle, and the thought
grieved him sorely: he had staked too much upon a single little
affair. But surprise, pain, anger, had mastered him; his heart
still burned, shrieked, and moaned within him. He heard the
rattling of a wagon behind; it was Lars, who came driving his
superb horse past him at a brisk trot, so that the hard road gave
a sound of thunder. Canute gazed after him, as he sat there so
broad-shouldered in the wagon, while the horse, impatient for
home, hurried on unurged by Lars, who only gave loose rein. It was
a picture of his power; this man drove toward the mark! He,
Canute, felt as if thrown out of his wagon to stagger along there
in the autumn cold.
Canute’s wife was waiting for him at home. She knew there would be
a battle; she had never in her life believed in Lars, and lately
had felt a dread of him. It had been no comfort to her that they
had ridden away together, nor would it have comforted her if they
had returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen, and they
had not yet come. She stood in the doorway, went down the road and
home again; but no wagon appeared. At last she hears a rattling on
the road, her heart beats as violently as the wheels revolve; she
clings to the doorpost, looking out; the wagon is coming; only one
sits there; she recognizes Lars, who sees and recognizes her, but
is driving past without stopping. Now she is thoroughly alarmed!
Her limbs fail her; she staggers in, sinking on the bench by the
window. The children, alarmed, gather around, the youngest asking
for papa, for the mother never spoke with them but of him. She
loved him because he had such a good heart, and now this good
heart was not with them; but, on the contrary, away on all kinds
of business, which brought him only unhappiness; consequently,
they were unhappy too.
“Oh, that no harm had come to him to-day! Canute was so excitable!
Why did Lars come home alone? why didn’t he stop?”
Should she run after him, or, in the opposite direction, toward
her husband? She felt faint, and the children pressed around her,
asking what was the matter; but this could not be told to them, so
she said they must take supper alone, and, rising, arranged it and
helped them. She was constantly glancing out upon the road. He did
not come. She undressed and put them to bed, and the youngest
repeated the evening prayer, while she bowed over him, praying so
fervently in the words which the tiny mouth first uttered, that
she did not perceive the steps outside.
Canute stood in the doorway, gazing upon his little congregation
at prayer. She rose; all the children shouted “Papa!” but he
seated himself, and said gently:
“Oh! let him repeat it.”
The mother turned again to the bedside, that meantime he might not
see her face; otherwise, it would have been like intermeddling
with his grief before he felt a necessity of revealing it. The
child folded its hands,–the rest followed the example,–and it
said:
“I am now a little lad, But soon shall grow up tall, And make papa
and mamma glad, I’ll be so good to all! When in Thy true and holy
ways, Thou dear, dear God wilt help me keep;–Remember now Thy
name to praise And so we’ll try to go to sleep!”
What a peace now fell! Not a minute more had passed ere the
children all slept in it as in the lap of God; but the mother went
quietly to work arranging supper for the father, who as yet could
not eat. But after he had gone to bed, he said:
“Now, after this, I shall be at home.”
The mother lay there, trembling with joy, not daring to speak,
lest she should reveal it; and she thanked God for all that had
happened, for, whatever it was, it had resulted in good.
II.
In the course of a year, Lars was chosen head Justice of the
Peace, chairman of the board of commissioners, president of the
savings-bank, and, in short, was placed in every office of parish
trust to which his election was possible. In the county
legislature, during the first year, he remained silent, but
afterward made himself as conspicuous as in the parish council;
for here, too, stepping up to the contest with him who had always
borne sway, he was victorious over the whole line, and afterward
himself manager. From this he was elected to the Congress, where
his fame had preceded him, and he found no lack of challenge. But
here, although steady and independent, he was always retiring,
never venturing beyond his depth, lest his post as leader at home
should be endangered by a possible defeat abroad.
It was pleasant to him now in his own town. When he stood by the
church-wall on Sundays, and the community glided past, saluting
and glancing sideways at him,–now and then one stepping up for
the honor of exchanging a couple of words with him,–it could
almost be said that, standing there, he controlled the whole
parish with a straw, which, of course, hung in the corner of his
mouth.
He deserved his popularity; for he had opened a new road which led
to the church; all this and much more resulted from the savings-
bank, which he had instituted and now managed; and the parish, in
its self-management and good order, was held up as an example to
all others.
Canute, of his own accord, quite withdrew,–not entirely at first,
for he had promised himself not thus to yield to pride. In the
first proposal he made before the parish board, he became
entangled by Lars, who would have it represented in all its
details; and, somewhat hurt, he replied: “When Columbus discovered
America he did not have it divided into counties and towns,–this
came by degrees afterward;” upon which, Lars compared Canute’s
proposition (relating to stable improvements) to the discovery of
America, and afterward by the commissioners he was called by no
other name than “Discovery of America.” Canute thought since his
influence had ceased there, so, also, had his duty to work; and
afterwards declined re-election.
But he was industrious, and, in order still to do something for
the public good, he enlarged his Sunday-school, and put it, by
means of small contributions from the pupils, in connection with
the mission cause, of which he soon became the centre and leader
in his own and surrounding counties. At this, Lars remarked that,
if Canute ever wished to collect money for any purpose, he must
first know that its benefit was only to be realized some thousands
of miles away.
There was no strife between them now. True, they associated with
each other no longer, but saluted and exchanged a few words
whenever they met. Canute always felt a little pain in remembering
Lars, but struggled to overcome it, by saying to himself that it
must have been so. Many years afterward at a large wedding-party,
where both were present and a little gay, Canute stepped upon a
chair and proposed a toast to the chairman of the parish council,
and the county’s first congressman. He spoke until he manifested
emotion, and, as usual, in an exceedingly handsome way. It was
honorably done, and Lars came to him, saying, with an unsteady
eye, that for much of what he knew and was, he had to thank him.
At the next election, Canute was again elected chairman.
But if Lars Hogstad had foreseen what was to follow, he would not
have influenced this. It is a saying that “all events happen in
their time,” and just as Canute appeared again in the council, the
ablest men in the parish were threatened with bankruptcy, the
result of a speculative fever which had been raging long, but now
first began to react. They said that Lars Hogstad had caused this
great epidemic, for it was he who had brought the spirit of
speculation into the parish. This penny malady had originated in
the parish board; for this body itself had acted as leading
speculator. Down to the youth of twenty years, all were
endeavoring by sharp bargains to make the one dollar, ten; extreme
parsimony, in order to lay up in the beginning, was followed by an
exceeding lavishness in the end: and as the thoughts of all were
directed to money only, a disposition to selfishness, suspicion,
and disunion had developed itself, which at last turned to
prosecutions and hatred. It was said that the parish board had set
the example in this also; for one of the first acts, performed by
Lars as chairman, was a prosecution against the minister,
concerning doubtful prerogatives. The venerable pastor had lost,
but had also immediately resigned. At the time some had praised,
others denounced, this act of Lars; but it had proved a bad
example. Now came the effects of his management in the form of
loss to all the leading men of the parish; and consequently, the
public opinion quickly changed. The opposite party immediately
found a champion; for Canute Aakre had come into the parish
board,–introduced there by Lars himself.
The struggle at once began. All those youths, who, in their time,
had been under Canute Aakre’s instruction, were now grown-up men,
the best educated, conversant with all the business and public
transactions in the parish; Lars had now to contend against these
and others like them, who had disliked him from their childhood.
One evening after a stormy debate, as he stood on the platform
outside his door, looking over the parish, a sound of distant
threatening thunder came toward him from the large farms, lying in
the storm. He knew that that day their owners had become
insolvent, that he himself and the savings-bank were going the
same way: and his whole long work would culminate in condemnation
against him.
In these days of struggle and despair, a company of surveyors came
one evening to Hogstad, which was the first farm at the entrance
of the parish to mark out the line of a new railroad. In the
course of conversation, Lars perceived it was still a question
with them whether the road should run through this valley, or
another parallel one.
Like a flash of lightning it darted through his mind, that, if he
could manage to get it through here, all real estate would rise in
value, and not only he himself be saved, but his popularity handed
down to future generations. He could not sleep that night, for his
eyes were dazzled with visions; sometimes he seemed to hear the
noise of an engine. The next day he accompanied the surveyors in
their examination of the locality; his horses carried them, and to
his farm they returned. The following day they drove through the
other valley, he still with them, and again carrying them back
home. The whole house was illuminated, the first men of the parish
having been invited to a party made for the surveyors, which
terminated in a carouse that lasted until morning. But to no
avail; for the nearer they came to the decision, the clearer it
was to be seen that the road could not be built through here
without great extra expense. The entrance to the valley was
narrow, through a rocky chasm, and the moment it swung into the
parish the river made a curve in its way, so that the road would
either have to make the same–crossing the river twice–or go
straight forward through the old, now unused, churchyard. But it
was not long since the last burials there, for the church had been
but recently moved.
Did it only depend upon a strip of an old churchyard, thought
Lars, whether the parish should have this great blessing or not?–
then he would use his name and energy for the removal of the
obstacle. So immediately he made a visit to minister and bishop,
from them to county legislature and Department of the
Interior; he reasoned and negotiated; for he had possessed
himself of all possible information concerning the vast profits
that would accrue on the one side, and the feelings of the parish
on the other, and had really succeeded in gaining over all
parties. It was promised him that by the reinterment of some
bodies in the new churchyard, the only objection to this line
might be considered as removed, and the king’s approbation
guaranteed. It was told him that he need only make the motion in
the county meeting.
The parish had become as excited on the question as himself. The
spirit of speculation, which had been prevalent so many years, now
became jubilant. No one spoke or thought of anything but Lars’
journey and its probable result. Consequently, when he returned
with the most splendid promises, they made much ado about him;
songs were sung to his praise,–yes, if at that time one after
another of the largest farms had toppled over, not a soul would
have given it any attention; the former speculation fever had been
succeeded by the new one of the railroad.
The county board met; an humble petition that the old churchyard
might be used for the railroad was drawn up to be presented to the
king. This was unanimously voted; yes, there was even talk of
voting thanks to Lars, and a gift of a coffee-pot, in the model of
a locomotive. But finally, it was thought best to wait until
everything was accomplished. The petition from the parish to the
county board was sent back, with a requirement of a list of the
names of all bodies which must necessarily be removed. The
minister made out this, but instead of sending it directly to the
county board, had his reasons for communicating it first to the
parish. One of the members brought it to the next meeting. Here,
Lars opened the envelope, and as chairman read the names.
Now it happened that the first body to be removed was that of
Lars’ own grandfather. A Hide shudder passed through the assembly;
Lars himself was taken by surprise; but continued. Secondly, came
the name of Canute Aakre’s grandfather; for the two had died at
nearly the same time. Canute Aakre sprang from his seat; Lars
stopped; all looked up with dread; for the name of the elder
Canute Aakre had been the one most beloved in the parish for
generations. There was a pause of some minutes. At last Lars
hemmed, and continued. But the matter became worse, for the
further he proceeded, the nearer it approached their own day, and
the dearer the dead became. When he ceased, Canute Aakre asked
quietly if others did not think as he, that spirits were around
them. It had begun to grow dusk in the room, and although they
were mature men sitting in company, they almost felt themselves
frightened. Lars took a bundle of matches from his pocket and lit
a candle, somewhat dryly remarking that this was no more than they
had known beforehand.
“No,” replied Canute, pacing the floor, “this is more than I knew
beforehand. Now I begin to think that even railroads can be bought
too dearly.”
This electrified the audience, and Canute continued that the whole
affair must be reconsidered, and made a motion to that effect. In
the excitement which had prevailed, he said it was also true that
the benefit to be derived from the road had been considerably
overrated; for if it did not pass through the parish, there would
have to be a depot at each extremity; true, it would be a little
more trouble to drive there, than to a station within; yet not so
great as that for this reason they should dishonor the rest of the
dead. Canute was one of those who, when his thoughts were excited,
could extemporize and present most sound reasons; he had not a
moment previously thought of what he now said; but the truth of it
struck all. Lars, seeing the danger of his position, thought best
to be careful, and so apparently acquiesced in Canute’s
proposition to reconsider; for such emotions, thought he, are
always strongest in the beginning; one must temporize with them.
But here he had miscalculated. In constantly increasing the dread
of touching their dead overswept the parish; what no one had
thought of as long as the matter existed only in talk became a
serious question when it came to touch themselves. The
women particularly were excited, and at the parish house, on the day
of the next meeting, the road was black with the gathered
multitude. It was a warm summer day, the windows were taken out,
and as many stood without as within. All felt that that day would
witness a great battle.
Lars came, driving his handsome horse, saluted by all; he looked
quietly and confidently around, not seeming surprised at the
throng. He seated himself, straw in mouth, near the window, and
not without a smile saw Canute rise to speak, as he thought, for
all the dead lying over there in the old churchyard.
But Canute Aakre did not begin with the churchyard. He made a
stricter investigation into the profits likely to accrue from
carrying the road through the parish, showing that in all this
excitement they had been over-estimated. He had calculated the
distance of each farm from the nearest station, should the road be
taken through the neighboring valley, and finally asked:
“Why has such a hurrah been made about this railroad, when it
would not be for the good of the parish after all?”
This he could explain; there were those who had brought about such
a previous disturbance, that a greater was necessary in order that
the first might be forgotten. Then, too, there were those who,
while the thing was new, could sell their farms and lands to
strangers, foolish enough to buy; it was a shameful speculation,
which not the living only but the dead also must be made to
promote!
The effect produced by his address was very considerable. But Lars
had firmly resolved, come what would, to keep cool, and smilingly
replied that he supposed Canute Aakre himself had been anxious for
the railroad, and surely no one would accuse him of understanding
speculation. (A little laugh ensued.) Canute had had no objection
to the removal of bodies of common people for the sake of the
railroad, but when it came to that of his own grandfather, the
question became suddenly of vital importance to the whole parish.
He said no more, but looked smilingly at Canute, as did also
several others. Meanwhile, Canute Aakre surprised both him and
them by replying:
“I confess it; I did not realize what was at stake until it
touched my own dead; possibly this is a shame, but really it would
have been a greater one not even then to have realized it, as is
the case with Lars! Never, I think, could Lars’ raillery have been
more out of place; for folks with common feelings the thing is
really revolting.”
“This feeling has come up quite recently,” answered Lars, “and so
we will hope for its speedy disappearance also. It may be well to
think upon what minister, bishop, county officers, engineers, and
Department will say, if we first unanimously set the ball in
motion and then come asking to have it stopped; if we first are
jubilant and sing songs, then weep and chant requiems. If they do
not say that we have run mad here in the parish, at least they may
say that we have grown a little queer lately.”
“Yes, God knows, they can say so,” answered Canute; “we have been
acting strangely enough during the last few days,–it is time for
us to retract. It has really gone far when we can dig up, each his
own grandfather, to make way for a railroad; when in order that
our loads may be carried more easily forward, we can violate the
resting-place of the dead. For is not overhauling our churchyard
the same as making it yield us food? What has been buried there in
Jesus’ name, shall we take up in the name of Mammon? It is but
little better than eating our progenitors’ bones.”
“That is according to the order of nature,” said Lars dryly.
“Yes, the nature of plants and animals,” replied Canute.
“Are we not then animals?” asked Lars.
“Yes, but also the children of the living God, who have buried our
dead in faith upon Him; it is He who shall raise them, and not
we.”
“Oh, you prate! Are not the graves dug over at certain fixed
periods anyway? What evil is there in that it happens some years
earlier?” asked Lars.
“I will tell you! What was born of them yet lives; what they built
yet remains; what they loved, taught, and suffered for is all
around us and within us; and shall we not, then, let their bodies
rest in peace?”
“I see by your warmth that you are thinking of your grandfather
again,” replied Lars; “and will say it is high time you ceased to
bother the parish about him, for he monopolized space enough in
his lifetime; it isn’t worth while to have him lie in the way now
he is dead. Should his corpse prevent a blessing to the parish
that would reach to a hundred generations, we surely would have
reason to say, that of all born here he has done us most harm.”
Canute Aakre tossed back his disorderly hair, his eyes darted
fire, his whole frame appeared like a drawn bow.
“What sort of a blessing this is that you speak of, I have already
proved. It is of the same character as all the others which you
have brought to the parish, namely, a doubtful one. True enough
you have provided us with a new church; but, too, you have filled
it with a new spirit,–and not that of love. True, you have made
us new roads,–but also new roads to destruction, as is now
plainly evident in the misfortunes of many. True, you have
lessened our taxes to the public; but, too, you have increased
those to ourselves;–prosecutions, protests, and failures are no
blessing to a community. And you dare scoff at the man in his
grave whom the whole parish blesses! You dare say he lies in our
way,–yes, very likely he lies in your way. This is plainly to be
seen; but over this grave you shall fall! The spirit which has
reigned over you, and at the same time until now over us, was not
born to rule, only to serve. The churchyard shall surely remain
undisturbed; but to-day it numbers one more grave, namely, that of
your popularity, which shall now be interred in it.”
Lars Hogstad rose, white as a sheet; he opened his mouth, but was
unable to speak a word, and the straw fell. After three or four
vain attempts to recover it and to find utterance, he belched
forth like a volcano:
“Are these the thanks I get for all my toils and struggles? Shall
such a woman-preacher be able to direct? Ah, then, the devil be
your chairman if ever more I set my foot here! I have
kept your petty business in order until to-day; and after me
it will fall into a thousand pieces; but let it go now. Here are
the ‘Records!’ (and he flung them across the table). Out on such a
company of wenches and brats! (striking the table with his fist).
Out on the whole parish, that it can see a man recompensed as I
now am!”
He brought down his fist once more with such force, that the leaf
of the great table sprang upward, and the inkstand with all its
contents downward upon the floor, marking for coming generations
the spot where Lars Hogstad, in spite of all his prudence, lost
his patience and his rule.
He sprang for the door, and soon after was away from the house.
The whole audience stood fixed,–for the power of his voice and
his wrath had frightened them,–until Canute Aakre, remembering
the taunt he had received at the time of his fall, with beaming
countenance, and assuming Lars’ voice, exclaimed:
“Is this the decisive blow in the matter?”
The assembly burst into uproarious merriment. The grave meeting
closed amid laughter, talk, and high glee; only few left the
place, those remaining called for drink, and made a night of
thunder succeed a day of lightning. They felt happy and
independent as in old days, before the time in which the
commanding spirit of Lars had cowed their souls into silent
obedience. They drank toasts to their liberty, they sang, yes,
finally they danced, Canute Aakre with the vice-chairman taking
lead, and all the members of the council following, and boys and
girls too, while the young ones outside shouted, “hurrah!” for
such a spectacle they had never before witnessed.
III.
Lars moved around in the large rooms at Hogstad without uttering a
word. His wife who loved him, but always with fear and trembling,
dared not so much as show herself in his presence. The management
of the farm and house had to go on as it would, while a multitude
of letters were passing to and fro between Hogstad and the parish,
Hogstad and the capital; for he had charges against the county
board which were not acknowledged, and a prosecution ensued;
against the savings-bank, which were also unacknowledged, and so
came another prosecution. He took offence at articles in the
Christiania Correspondence, and prosecuted again, first the
chairman of the county board, and then the directors of the
savings-bank. At the same time there were bitter articles in the
papers, which according to report were by him, and were the cause
of great strife in the parish, setting neighbor against neighbor.
Sometimes he was absent whole weeks at once, nobody knowing where,
and after returning lived secluded as before. At church he was not
seen after the grand scene in the representatives’ meeting.
Then, one Saturday night, the mail brought news that the railroad
was to go through the parish after all, and through the old
churchyard. It struck like lightning into every home. The
unanimous veto of the county board had been in vain; Lars
Hogstad’s influence had proved stronger. This was what his absence
meant, this was his work! It was involuntary on the part of the
people that admiration of the man and his dogged persistency
should lessen dissatisfaction at their own defeat; and the more
they talked of the matter the more reconciled they seemed to
become: for whatever has once been settled beyond all change
develops in itself, little by little, reasons why it is so, which
we are accordingly brought to acknowledge.
In going to church next day, as they encountered each other they
could not help laughing; and before the service, just as nearly
all were convened outside,–young and old, men and women, yes,
even children,–talking about Lars Hogstad, his talents, his
strong will, and his great influence, he himself with his
household came driving up in four carriages. Two years had passed
since he was last there. He alighted and walked through the crowd,
when involuntarily all lifted their hats to him like one man; but
he looked neither to the right nor the left, nor returned a single
salutation. His little wife, pale as death, walked behind him. In
the house, the surprise became so great that, one after another,
noticing him, stopped singing and stared. Canute Aakre, who sat in
his pew in front of Lars’, perceiving the unusual appearance and
no cause for it in front, turned around and saw Lars sitting bowed
over his hymn-book, looking for the place.
He had not seen him until now since the day of the
representatives’ meeting, and such a change in a man he never
could have imagined. This was no victor. His head was becoming
bald, his face was lean and contracted, his eyes hollow and
bloodshot, and the giant neck presented wrinkles and cords. At a
glance he perceived what this man had endured, and was as suddenly
seized with a feeling of strong pity, yes, even with a touch of
the old love. In his heart he prayed for him, and promised himself
surely to seek him after service; but, ere he had opportunity,
Lars had gone. Canute resolved he would call upon him at his home
that night, but his wife kept him back.
“Lars is one of the kind,” said she, “who cannot endure a debt of
gratitude: keep away from him until possibly he can in some way do
you a favor, and then perhaps he will come to you.”
However, he did not come. He appeared now and then at church, but
nowhere else, and associated with no one. On the contrary, he
devoted himself to his farm and other business with an earnestness
which showed a determination to make up in one year for the
neglect of many; and, too, there were those who said it was
necessary.
Railroad operations in the valley began very soon. As the line was
to go directly past his house, Lars remodelled the side facing the
road, connecting with it an elegant verandah, for of course his
residence must attract attention. They were just engaged in this
work when the rails were laid for the conveyance of gravel and
timber, and a small locomotive was brought up. It was a fine
autumn evening when the first gravel train was to come down. Lars
stood on the platform of his house to hear the first signal, and
see the first column of smoke; all the hands on the farm were
gathered around him. He looked out over the parish, lying in the
setting sun, and felt that he was to be remembered so long as a
train should roar through the fruitful valley. A feeling of
forgiveness crept into his soul. He looked toward the churchyard,
of which a part remained, with crosses bowing toward the earth,
but a part had become railroad. He was just trying to define his
feelings, when, whistle went the first signal, and a while after
the train came slowly along, puffing out smoke mingled with
sparks, for wood was used instead of coal; the wind blew toward
the house, and standing there they soon found themselves enveloped
in a dense smoke; but by and by, as it cleared away, Lars saw the
train working through the valley like a strong will.
He was satisfied, and entered the house as after a long day’s
work. The image of his grandfather stood before him at this
moment. This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to
forehanded circumstances; true, a part of his citizen-honor had
been lost, but forward he had pushed, nevertheless. His faults
were those of his time; they were to be found on the uncertain
borders of the moral conceptions of that period, and are of no
consideration now. Honor to him in his grave, for he suffered and
worked; peace to his ashes. It is good to rest at last. But he
could get no rest because of his grandson’s great ambition. He was
thrown up with stone and gravel. Pshaw! very likely he would only
smile that his grandson’s work passed above his head.
With such thoughts he had undressed and gone to bed. Again his
grandfather’s image glided forth. What did he wish. Surely he
ought to be satisfied now, with the family’s honor sounding forth
above his grave; who else had such a monument? But yet, what mean
these two great eyes of fire? This hissing, roaring, is no longer
the locomotive, for see! it comes from the churchyard directly
toward the house: an immense procession! The eyes of fire are his
grandfather’s, and the train behind are all the dead. It advances
continually toward the house, roaring, crackling, flashing. The
windows burn in the reflection of dead men’s eyes … he made a
mighty effort to collect himself, “For it was a dream, of course,
only a dream; but let me waken! … See: now I am awake; come,
ghosts!”
And behold: they really come from the churchyard, overthrowing
road, rails, locomotive and train with such violence that they
sink in the ground; and then all is still there, covered with sod
and crosses as before. But like giants the spirits advanced, and
the hymn, “Let the dead have rest!” goes before them. He knows it:
for daily in all these years it has sounded through his soul, and
now it becomes his own requiem; for this was death and its
visions. The perspiration started out over his whole body, for
nearer and nearer,–and see there, on the window-pane there, there
they are now; and he heard his name. Overpowered with dread he
struggled to shout, for he was strangling; a dead, cold hand
already clenched his throat, when he regained his voice in a
shrieking “Help me!” and awoke. At that moment the window was
burst in with such force that the pieces flew on to his bed. He
sprang up; a man stood in the opening, around him smoke and
tongues of fire.
“The house is burning, Lars, we’ll help you out!”
It was Canute Aakre.
When again he recovered consciousness, he was lying out in a
piercing wind that chilled his limbs. No one was by him; on the
left he saw his burning house; around him grazed, bellowed,
bleated, and neighed his stock; the sheep huddled together in a
terrified flock; the furniture recklessly scattered: but, on
looking around more carefully, he discovered somebody sitting on a
knoll near him, weeping. It was his wife. He called her name. She
started.
“The Lord Jesus be thanked that you live,” she exclaimed, coming
forward and seating herself, or rather falling down before him: “O
God! O God! now we have enough of that railroad!”
“The railroad?” he asked: but ere he spoke, it had flashed through
his mind how it was; for, of course, the cause of the fire was the
falling of sparks from the locomotive among the shavings by the
new side-wall. He remained sitting, silent and thoughtful; his
wife dared say no more, but was trying to find clothes for him:
the things with which she had covered him, as he lay unconscious,
having fallen off. He received her attentions in silence, but as
she crouched down to cover his feet, he laid a hand upon her head.
She hid her face in his lap, and wept aloud. At last he had
noticed her. Lars understood, and said:
“You are the only friend I have.”
Although to hear these words had cost the house, no matter, they
made her happy; she gathered courage and said, rising and looking
submissively at him:
“That is because no one else understands you.”
Now again they talked of all that had transpired, or rather he
remained silent, while she told about it. Canute Aakre had been
first to perceive the fire, had awakened his people, sent the
girls out through the parish, while he himself hastened with men
and horses to the spot where all were sleeping. He had taken
charge of extinguishing the fire and saving the property; Lars
himself he had dragged from the burning room and brought him here
on the left, to the windward,–here, out on the churchyard.
While they were talking of all this, some one came driving rapidly
up the road and turned off toward them; soon he alighted. It was
Canute, who had been home after his church-wagon; the one in which
so many times they had ridden together to and from the parish
meetings. Now Lars must get in and ride home with him. They took
each other by the hand, one sitting, the other standing.
“You must come with me now,” said Canute, Without reply Lars rose:
they walked side by side to the wagon. Lars was helped in: Canute
seated himself by his side. What they talked about as they rode,
or afterward in the little chamber at Aakre, in which they
remained until morning, has never been known; but from that day
they were again inseparable.
As soon as disaster befalls a man, all seem to understand his
worth. So the parish took upon themselves to rebuild Lars
Hogstad’s houses, larger and handsomer than any others in the
valley. Again he became chairman, but with Canute Aakre at his
side, and from that day all went well.
