Tales from Two Hemispheres

by Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen

Truls knew the voices only too well; it was Syvert Stein and Borghild who were singing a stave. [8]

Syvert—Like brier-roses thy red cheeks blush,
Borghild—And thine are rough like the thorny bush;
Both—An’ a heigho!
Syvert—So fresh and green is the sunny lea;
O heigh ho!
Borghild—The fiddle twangeth so merrily;
O heigh ho!
Syvert—So lightly goeth the lusty reel,
Borghild—And round we whirl like a spinning-wheel;
Both—An’ a heigho!
Syvert—Thine eyes are bright like the sunny fjord;
O heigh ho!
Borghild—And thine do flash like a Viking’s sword;
O heigh ho!
Syvert—So lightly trippeth thy foot along,
Borghild—The air is teeming with joyful song;
Both—An’ a heigh ho!
Syvert—Then fairest maid, while the woods are green,
O heigh ho!
Borghild—And thrushes sing the fresh leaves between;
O heigh ho!
Syvert—Come, let us dance in the gladsome day,
Borghild—Dance hate, and sorrow, and care away;
Both—An’ a heigh ho!

The stave was at an end. The hot and flushed dancers straggled over the floor by twos and threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from hand to hand. Truls sat in his corner hugging his violin tightly to his bosom, only to do something, for he was vaguely afraid of himself—afraid of the thoughts that might rise—afraid of the deed they might prompt. He ran his fingers over his forehead, but he hardly felt the touch of his own hand. It was as if something was dead within him—as if a string had snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and voiceless.

Presently he looked up and saw Borghild standing before him; she held her arms akimbo, her eyes shone with a strange light, and her features wore an air of recklessness mingled with pity.

“Ah, Borghild, is it you?” said he, in a hoarse voice. “What do you want with me? I thought you had done with me now.”

“You are a very unwitty fellow,” answered she, with a forced laugh. “The branch that does not bend must break.”

She turned quickly on her heel and was lost in the crowd. He sat long pondering on her words, but their meaning remained hidden to him. The branch that does not bend must break. Was he the branch, and must he bend or break? By-and-by he put his hands on his knees, rose with a slow, uncertain motion, and stalked heavily toward the door. The fresh night air would do him good. The thought breathes more briskly in God’s free nature, under the broad canopy of heaven. The white mist rose from the fields, and made the valley below appear like a white sea whose nearness you feel, even though you do not see it. And out of the mist the dark pines stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the moon was swimming, large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud. Truls began to beat his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood spreading from his heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not caring whither he went, he struck the path leading upward to the mountains. He took to humming an old air which happened to come into his head, only to try if there was life enough left in him to sing. It was the ballad of Young Kirsten and the Merman:

“The billows fall and the billows swell,
In the night so lone,
In the billows blue doth the merman dwell,
And strangely that harp was sounding.”

He walked on briskly for a while, and, looking back upon the pain he had endured but a moment ago, he found it quite foolish and irrational. An absurd merriment took possession of him; but all the while he did not know where his foot stepped; his head swam, and his pulse beat feverishly. About midway between the forest and the mansion, where the field sloped more steeply, grew a clump of birch-trees, whose slender stems glimmered ghostly white in the moonlight. Something drove Truls to leave the beaten road, and, obeying the impulse, he steered toward the birches. A strange sound fell upon his ear, like the moan of one in distress. It did not startle him; indeed, he was in a mood when nothing could have caused him wonder. If the sky had suddenly tumbled down upon him, with moon and all, he would have taken it as a matter of course. Peering for a moment through the mist, he discerned the outline of a human figure. With three great strides he reached the birch-tree; at his feet sat Borghild rocking herself to and fro and weeping piteously. Without a word he seated himself at her side and tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but she hid it from him and went on sobbing. Still there could be no doubt that it was Borghild—one hour ago so merry, reckless, and defiant, now cowering at his feet and weeping like a broken-hearted child.

“Borghild,” he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist, “you and I, I think, played together when we were children.”