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"Arne Saknussemm!" cried the Professor of Reykjavik; "you speak of one of the most distinguished scholars of the sixteenth century, of the great naturalist, the great alchemist, the great traveler." "Exactly so." "One of the most distinguished men connected with Icelandic science and literature." "As you say, sir " "A man illustrious above all." "Yes, sir, all this is true, but his works?"
No one at the table raised a bit of food to his mouth, except old Herr Arne himself. They were thinking of the old mistress, how it was she who for so many years had had charge of the household. She had always stayed at home and watched with wise and tender care over children and servants, goods and cattle, so that all had prospered.
"Arne Saknussemm!" he cried in a joyous and triumphant tone, "that is not only an Icelandic name, but of a learned professor of the sixteenth century, a celebrated alchemist." I bowed as a sign of respect. "These alchemists," he continued, "Avicenna, Bacon, Lully, Paracelsus, were the true, the only learned men of the day. They made surprising discoveries.
He feasted his eyes upon M. Fridrikssen's face. "Well," he cried, "where are his works?" "His works, we have them not." "What not in Iceland?" "They are neither in Iceland nor anywhere else." "Why is that?" "Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his books were burned by the hands of the common hangman." "Very good!
She bewailed Herr Arne and his household, and lamented that she had lost all who were dear to her. Most of all she wept for her foster sister, and said she wished she had not hidden herself against the wall, so that she might have shared death with her. Torarin's mother said nothing to this so long as her son was at home.
Many of the melodies in these now forgotten operas have been worked up by modern composers, and so have passed into modern music unrecognized. It is a notorious fact that the celebrated song, "Where the Bee sucks," by Dr. Arne, is taken from a movement in "Rinaldo." Thus the new life of music is ever growing rich with the dead leaves of the past.
Susanne, the one castle which the Conqueror himself could never take, and where the shattered shell of the unconquered donjon, with its foundations raised on a vitrified fort of primitive times, rises on a rocky height, with the stream of the Arne winding in a narrow dell beneath it.
That is enough, he says that is victory; for that he fled away, and killed his love. The two professors come, having learned that Lloyd is dying. But even they cannot divert him. He tells von Arne that his learning will submit itself, and that scientists will be as gardeners, tending the young flowers of faith.
Shall it be 'The Lass with the Delicate Air'? That is my favorite, I think. 'Tis, as you know, Mr. Stuart, by the late Dr. Arne, the prince of song-writers.
She took up her spoon and dipped it in the milk bowl, but in doing it her hand shook so that all could hear the spoon rattle against the edge. She put it down again at once. "How can I eat?" she said. "Do I not hear the whining of the whetstone, do I not hear it grating?" At this Herr Arne thrust the milk bowl away from him and clasped his hands.
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