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Updated: September 25, 2025
And as he spoke this word his finger pointed at the young maid who was his niece. The young maid rose at once from the bench, and Herr Arne said to her: "You know what you have to do." Then the young maiden lamented and said: "Do not send me upon this errand! It is too heavy a charge to lay upon so tender a maid as I." "You shall assuredly go," said Herr Arne.
The next fifteen years of Bjoernson's life were richly productive. Within a single year he had published "Arne," the second of his peasant idyls and perhaps the most remarkable of them all, and had also published two brief dramas, "Halte-Hulda" and the one already mentioned as the achievement of fourteen feverish days.
All the others did the same, and the curate began to say grace. When this was ended, Herr Arne looked down at those who sat along the table, and when he saw that they were pale and frightened, he was angry. He began to speak to them of the days when he had lately come to Bohuslen to preach the Lutheran doctrine.
Our own Arne tried his hand at them, and no one looking at his would dream that the sonata form was so nearly ripe at the time. Emanuel and Johann Christian Bach wrote them, and from these two Haydn got the hint which he turned to such splendid account. Abel, Stamitz and Wagenseil wrote them, and achieved nothing in particular.
Reminitsky, the teacher who had made Lloyd, and had come to New York with him; and there was the Herr Prof. von Arne, of the University of Berlin, a world-renowned psychiatrist, author of "The Neurosis of Inspiration". The Herr Professor had come to America to make some studies for his forthcoming masterpiece on the religious mania; and he was glad to see his old friend Reminitsky, whose seventeen-year-old musical prodigy was most interesting material for study.
"You are not to go, Torarin," said Herr Arne, "until you have answered me once more whether none of the living can give us vengeance." "Not if all the men in Bohuslen and Norway came together to be revenged upon your murderers would they be able to find them," said Torarin. Then said Herr Arne: "If the living cannot help us, we must help ourselves."
And Torarin, who was so poor that he hardly ever had a silver piece in his pocket, said to himself: "And yet I would not have all that money. They say Herr Arne took it from the great convents that were in the land in former days, and that the old monks foretold that this money would bring him misfortune."
While yet these thoughts were in the mind of Torarin, he saw the old mistress of the house put her hand to her ear to listen. And then she turned to Herr Arne and asked him: "Why are they whetting knives at Branehog?" So deep was the silence in the room that when the old lady asked this question all gave a start and looked up in fright.
With this Herr Arne began in a loud voice to say a paternoster, not in Norse but in Latin, as had been the use of the country before his time. And as he uttered each word of the prayer he pointed with his finger at one of those who sat with him at the table. He went through them all in this way many times, until he came to Amen.
And fully partaking his stupefaction, if not his joy, I read on the eastern side of the huge block of stone, the same characters, half eaten away by the corrosive action of time, the name, to me a thousand times accursed "Arne Saknussemm!" cried my uncle, "now, unbeliever, do you begin to have faith?" It was totally impossible for me to answer a single word.
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