Emanuel, or Children of the Soil/Book 3, Chapter 5
At this moment the "Viking" came up to him, and introduced himself as Nielsen, the carpenter. With a complacent, but bright and pleasant smile, which showed his white teeth, he said, after Emanuel had thanked him for his remarks:
"Perhaps it would amuse Mr Hansted to go to the shore with us? We generally go there after the meetings, and sing songs and talk to each other, when it's fine enough. To-night it's real summer weather, as we say, so we'd be glad if you'd honour us with your company, sir."
Emanuel accepted the invitation with pleasure. He had no desire to leave his new friends and return to the parsonage. "That will be delightful! What a lot of people there are here to-day," said he, letting his eyes rove over the tightly packed groups. Again he looked about for Hansine. He could not believe that she was not there.
It was soon whispered from group to group that the curate was going with them.
The announcement hastened the movements of those who had children to attend to, or cattle to fodder at home, before they could go. Even "old Erik" might be seen hobbling away with his Sunday crutch, to look after his cat at the other side of the village pond, in which a flaming sunset sky was reflected.
A crowd of young people, girls and youths, had already started for the rendezvous on the north shore; the girls first, arm in arm, singing, and the youths behind in twos and threes, with lighted pipes and cigars. The elders soon followed, mostly in pairs, labouring up the steep path Avhich led over the sandhills.
A couple of elderly men had joined Emanuel—two brisk little figures of the usual Skibberup type, with long arms and short legs. They were both leading persons, and tried their best to get Emanuel to say what he thought the Provst would say to "this here business," and how he thought he would get on in the future.
But Emanuel constantly turned aside from the subject. He felt the need of rest for his spirit and his thoughts for this evening, and of enjoying these few short hours of happiness, and freedom unalloyed. Besides, he thought the evening far too fine for laying plans of war. It was as if nature herself urged an hour's peace and reconciliation. So he often stopped, and compelled the men to silence by looking around him, with outbursts of delight. The pure harmonious colouring of the sky was reflected in the glowing earth! Not a breath of air, not a sound. Yes! high, high up, under the flaming sky, a little lark, invisible, warbled to the setting sun—one sound in the infinite silence, a single quivering note, distant, and yet, at the same time, curiously near—like the twinkling of a solitary star.
When they reached the top of the hill, they saw the young people a couple of hundred paces ahead; they had seated themselves on a flowery strip of meadow by the wayside, but now they started on again singing. Suddenly a little shiver ran through Emanuel. In the rear of the party he caught sight of her for whom he had been looking all the time—Hansine. She was walking arm in arm with a tall, strong, redhaired girl, in whom he recognised the gamekeeper's adopted daughter, Ane, Hansine's dearest friend, whom he had always seen with her in church. A little, thin, shabby figure hung on her other arm, whose black dress, all too long, and boyish stride, plainly marked the newly confirmed.[1] Ane's brick-red hair was covered with a little straw hat trimmed with tartan ribbon, which looked as if it was meant for a child. Her dark green linsey dress was the same as Hansine's, and she had a bright yellow handkerchief round her neck, hanging in a three corner down her back. Hansine had a low, broad-brimmed, brown straw hat, but no handkerchief down her back; her black hat-ribbons reached her waist, which was encircled by the bright leather belt, the distinctive mark of every High School girl.
It looked as if the gamekeeper's daughter had kept the other two back to impart some important piece of news to them.
The little girl in black was bending forward, almost doubled up, to look her friend in the face, as if by so doing she could draw out the words with her eyes. Hansine, on the other hand, appeared only to hear with one ear. She was looking down, or to one side, as if wishing to hide her inattention. When they passed a flower by the wayside, which she could reach without letting go her friend's arm, she stooped and picked it.
Emanuel observed these trifles while absently answering the questions of the two peasants concerning the Provst and the future.
His eyes hardly left Hansine. He could not explain to himself what it was that interested him so strongly in this young girl, whom, in a way, he hardly knew at all. An impenetrable taciturnity always came over her in his presence, and altogether he had only spoken two or three times to her, and then merely on indifferent subjects. On his visits to her home she had always sat silent, half turned away, on the end of the bench under the window, without ever looking up from her work; but there was something in her curiously introspective character—in her glance, shy and defiant at the same time—yes, even in the reserve with which she armed herself in his presence, which impressed him with an almost awe-inspiring sense of her purity of soul, depth of feeling and uprightness.
As soon as he saw her he tried to hurry on his companions. He longed to speak to her, and, if possible, to discover by her face what impression his speech had made upon her. But it was difficult to get the two peasants out of their very leisurely walk, and before they reached the young girls, they had started running down the last steep slope to the shore.
A few minutes later, Emanuel and his companions also reached the meeting-place. This was a sandy spot close to the water, a semicircular widening of the otherwise narrow shore which ran up between two steep cliffs. It was called "the church" by the country people, because they maintained that it was like an apse. An old tarred boat was hauled up on the beach, and the girls had already taken their places in closely packed rows on the thwarts and gunnel; while the youths were encamped on the sands. Hansine and her friends had got seats on the further end of the boat's prow towards the water, which was still rather rough after the wild weather of the previous day. The collection of different-coloured dresses and bright summer hats, looked quite picturesque against the white sand and the deep blue waters touched with sunset tints.
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By degrees all the rest of the company arrived and took their places on the slopes. Last of all—and greeted with acclamations—came old Erik hobbling down the steep path with his crutch, his bad foot in all its wrappings, looking like a baby in swaddling clothes.
Emanuel left his companions and seated himself higher up the slopes, feeling the need of a moment's quiet.
As he sat there, and saw couple after couple slowly wandering down towards the shore—always woman with woman, and man with man, and saw how they all stopped at the foot of the path to look for seats, as if dazzled by the light from sky and sea—he was reminded of the name of "Church," which the people had given to this spot. He had a feeling himself, at this moment, of having been witness to a church-going more solemn than any he had ever before taken part in. At last the whole congregation sat in long rows around him on the terraced slopes—the women lowest down with their skirts gathered round them, and pocket-handkerchiefs in their hands; some wore large black "church hoods," others their gorgeous gold-embroidered caps, which shone round their heads like halos in the fading light. The men sat in rows above them resting their elbows on their knees. Quite at the top, a group of children lay with their hands under their cheeks, peeping down—like the angels' heads in old altar pieces.
The church-like impression was strengthened when a hush came over the people. The girls in the boat began to sing. With their arms round each other's waists, and faces turned to the sea, they sang a pious old evening hymn.
At eve each creature seeks its own retreat,
The birds sit hushed upon the leafy spray,
And Reynard steals away with noiseless feet.
God's portal stands by glowing sunbeams riven,
And thither toil-worn spirits seek their rest
Within the all-embracing lap of Heaven.
Seekest to rest thee till the break of light,
Why dost forbear to enter God's abode,
And there disarm the terrors of the night?
For every little bird hath made a nest
And warmly lined it, shall He not prepare
A home, where homeless souls may safely rest.
Though full of fears, though sinful, though alone,
And they will ease the burden of thy sin,
And lead thee to the Heavenly Father's Throne."
- ↑ Confirmation marks the line between childhood and womanhood very sharply.