The Father
A Story by Björnson
[This dramatic little tale by the late Björnstjerne Björnson is so simply told that it seems almost destitute of art, which is to say its art is of the highest kind, for the art of simplicity, as every writer knows, is the hardest to achieve. It was translated into English a few weeks ago, for the first time, for the Boston Transcript, from which we reprint it.]
The man about whom this story is told was the mightiest in his parish. His name was Thord Overaas. He stood one day in the pastor's study, tall and serious. "I have been given a son," he said, "and wish to have him christened."
"What shall he be called?"
"Finn, after my father."
"And the sponsors?"
They were named, and were the best men and women in the community of the father's family.
"Is there anything further?" asked the minister, looking up.
The peasant hesitated a little. "I prefer to have him christened alone," he said.
"That is, on a week day?"
"On next Saturday, twelve, noon."
"Is there anything further?" asked the pastor.
"There is nothing further."
The peasant fumbled his cap, as if he were about to go. Then the pastor rose.
"This much further," he said, and walked over to Thord, took his hand and looked him in the eyes. "God grant that the child may be a blessing to you."
Sixteen years after that day Thord stood again in the pastor's study.
"You carry the years well, Thord," said the minister, seeing no change in him.
"Neither have I any cares," answered Thord.
To this the pastor remained silent, but after a while he asked:
"What is your errand this evening?"
"This evening I come to see about my son, who is to be confirmed tomorrow."
"He is a bright boy."
"I did not wish to pay the pastor before I knew what number he is to have on the floor."
"He shall stand number 1."
"So I heard—and here is ten dollars for the pastor."
"Is there anything further?" asked the minister looking up at Thord.
"There is nothing further." Thord went away.
Again eight years passed, then a noise was heard one day outside the pastor's study, for many men came and Thord first. The pastor looked up and recognized him: "You come strong in numbers this evening."
"I wish to ask to have the banns pronounced for my son; he is to be married to Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here."
"She is the richest girl in the parish."
"They say so," answered the peasant, smoothing back his hair with one hand.
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The minister sat for a time as if in thought. He said nothing, but registered the names in his books and the men signed accordingly.
Thord laid three dollars on the table.
"I should have only one," said the pastor.
"I know it, too, but he is my only child—I wish to do well by you." The pastor took the money. "It is the third time now you stand here in behalf of your son, Thord."
"But now I am through with him," said Thord. He folded his pocketbook together, said good-by and went. The men followed slowly after.
A fortnight after that day the father and son rowed in calm weather across the water to Storliden to confer about the wedding. "This board does not lie securely under me," said the son, and got up to lay it aright. Just then the plank on which he stood slipped; he threw out his arms, gave a cry and fell in the water. "Take hold of the oar!" called the father, rising and holding it toward him. But when the son had made a few strokes he stiffened. "Wait a little!" cried the father, and rowed nearer. Then the son turned over backwards, gave a long look at the father—and sank.
Thord would not believe it. He held the boat still and stared at the spot where his son had sunk down as if he were to come up again. Some bubbles rose to the surface, then a few more, then just one large one that burst—and the sea lay again like a mirror.
For three days and three nights they saw the father rowing about that spot without food or sleep; he was searching for his son. On the third day in the morning he found him, and came carrying him up over the hills to his farm.
A year perhaps had passed since that day. Then the pastor, late one autumn evening, heard something in the hallway outside his door fumbling cautiously for the latch. The minister opened the door and in stepped a tall, bent man, thin and white-haired. The minister looked long at him before he recognized him; it was Thord.
"Do you come so late?" said the pastor and stood still before him.
"O, yes, I come late," said Thord, seating himself.
The pastor also sat down as if waiting. There was a long silence, then Thord said: "I have something with me that I wish to give to the poor; it shall be in the form of a legacy and carry my son's name." He got up, laid money on the table and sat down again.
The pastor counted the money. "That is a great deal," he said.
"It is half of my farm; I sold it today."
The minister remained sitting a long time in silence; finally he asked gently, "What are you now going to do, Thord?"
"Something better."
They sat for a time, Thord with his eyes upon the floor, and the pastor with his eyes upon Thord. Finally the pastor said slowly: "Now I believe your son has finally become a blessing to you."
"Yes, now I also think so myself," said Thord.
He looked up and two tears rolled heavily down over his face.—Current Literature.
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