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Updated: June 4, 2025
And then they should have driven to the church in a flower-trimmed chaise, followed by a big bridal procession, and she should have sat beside him dressed as a bride, and smiling under her bridal crown." The gate opened several times. First, a chaplain come out, then it was the wife of the governor of the prison, and then some servants who were going to town. Finally Brita came.
It may be God iss not anyvere. So I come back, and I find dat my little Brita iss sick so sick she cannot vork and Brita my vife; she sew all she can, but it iss not enough. I go on de docks once more. 'No vork! no vork! It iss de vord eferyvere.
"Mother needn't have given herself all this bother," Ingmar was thinking, "for no one from this farm is going to fetch Brita. There was no reason for her being so upset at the sight of the arch: that is only one of those things a man does so that he can turn to our Lord and say: 'I wanted to do it. Surely you must see that I meant to do it. But doing it is another matter."
"What is to become of us?" thought Brita, sobbing behind the prayerbook. As soon as the preacher had stepped down from the pulpit they went out. Ingmar hurriedly hitched up the horse, with Brita's help. By the time the benediction was pronounced and the congregation was beginning to file out, Brita and Ingmar were already off.
Moreover, she had the distinction of being the prettiest girl ever born and reared on the Ingmar Farm. Although she bore no outward resemblance to the old Ingmars, she was, nevertheless, quite as conscientious and upright as any of them. When Gunner was absent Brita always ran the business in her own way.
Mr. Taylor's muse has of late become very still-faced, decorous and mindful of the art-proprieties. Cautious is she, and there is perhaps nothing in this pastoral that will cause the grammarian to wince, or make the censorious rhetorician writhe in his judgment-seat with the sense that she is committing herself. Not such were the early attributes of the great itinerant's poetry. When he used to unsling his minstrel harp in the wilds of California or on the sunrise mountains of the Orient, there were plenty of false notes, plenty of youthful vivacities that overbore the strings and were heard as a sudden crack, and, withal, a good deal of young frank fire. Now there is much finish and the least possible suspicion of ennui. But the life-history of Lars is worth reading. It is a calm procession of pictures, without pretence, except the slight pretence of classical correctness. The first part, which reflects Norwegian manners in a way reminding us more or less of the exquisite stories of Bjornsen, tells how two swains of Ulvik, Lars the hunter and Per the fisher, quarrel for love of Brita, and at a public wrestling decide the question by a combat, fighting with knives, in Norse fashion, while hooked to each other at the belt. They strip,
"It is I. Father knows it all, and he has nearly killed me; and mother, too." "Is that what you have come to tell me?" "No, I would like to help you some. I have been trying to see you these many days." And he stepped close up to the boat. "Thank you; I need no help." "But, Brita," implored he, "I have sold my gun and my dog, and everything I had, and this is what I have got for it."
He had kept still, thinking it was not the thing to show at once how pleased he was, but now he began to feel that it would be only right and proper for him to say something. The senator quietly bided his time. He knew that he had to give these old-fashioned people time to consider. Presently Ingmar's mother said: "Brita has paid her penalty; now it's our turn."
"Mother is doing this on purpose," he thought. "She's been wondering about that trip to town to-morrow. Mother fancies I'm going after Brita, to fetch her home. She doesn't suspect that I'm too big a coward to do it." "The next time I saw Brita," the old woman went on, "was after she had come here to you.
Resting on her son's arm, Brita walked slowly up through the flowering meadows; she hardly knew whither her feet bore her, but her heart beat violently, and she often was obliged to pause and press her hands against her bosom, as if to stay the turbulent emotions. "You are not well, mother," said the son. "It was imprudent in me to allow you to exert yourself in this way."
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