For the next few years Peer managed his estate and his workshop, without giving too much of his time to either. He had his bailiff and his works-manager, and the work went on well enough in its accustomed grooves. If anyone had asked him what he actually did himself all the time, he would have found it hard to answer. He seemed to be going round gathering up something not clearly defined. There was something wanting—something missed that now had to be made good. It was not knowledge now, but life—life in his native land, the life of youth, that he reached out to grasp. The youth in him, that had never had free play in the years of early manhood, lay still dammed up, and had to find an outlet.
There were festive gatherings at Loreng. Long rows of sleighs drove in the winter evenings up from the town and back again. Tables were spread and decked with glass and flowers, the rooms were brightly lit, and the wine was good. And sometimes in the long moonlit nights respectable citizens would be awakened by noisy mirth in the streets of the little town, and, going to the window in their night-shirts, would see sleighs come galloping down, with a jangle of bells, full of laughing, singing young people, returning from some excursion far up in the hills, where there had been feasting and dancing. Here a young lawyer—newly married and something of a privileged buffoon—was sitting on the lap of somebody else’s wife, playing a concertina, and singing at the top of his voice. “Some of that Loreng man’s doings again,” people would say. “The place has never been the same since he came here.” And they would get back to bed again, shaking their heads and wondering what things were coming to.
Peer drove out, too, on occasion, to parties at the big country houses round, where they would play cards all night and have champagne sent up to their rooms next morning, the hosts being men who knew how to do things in style. This was glorious. Not mathematics or religion any more—what he needed now was to assimilate something of the country life of his native land. He was not going to be a stranger in his own country. He wanted to take firm root and be able to feel, like others, that he had a spot in the world where he was at home.
Then came the sunny day in June when he stood by Merle’s bed, and she lay there smiling faintly her one-sided smile, with a newborn girl on her arm.
“What are we to call her, Peer?”
“Why, we settled that long ago. After your mother, of course.”
“Of course her name’s to be Louise,” said Merle, turning the tiny red face towards her breast.
This came as a fresh surprise. She had been planning it for weeks perhaps, and now it took him unawares like one of her spontaneous caresses, but this time a caress to his inmost soul.
He made a faint attempt at a joke. “Oh well, I never have any say in my own house. I suppose you must have it your own way.” He stroked her forehead; and when she saw how deeply moved he was, she smiled up at him with her most radiant smile.
On one of the first days of the hay-harvest, Peer lay out on a sunny hillside with his head resting on a haycock, watching his people at work. The mowing machine was buzzing down by the lake, the spreader at work on the hill-slopes, the horses straining in front, the men sitting behind driving. The whole landscape lay around him breathing summer and fruitfulness. And he himself lay there sunk in his own restful quiet.
A woman in a light dress and a yellow straw hat came down the field road, pushing a child’s cart before her. It was Merle, and Merle was looking round her, and humming as she came. Since the birth of her child her mind was at peace; it was clear that she was scarcely dreaming now of conquering the world with her music—there was a tiny being in the little cart that claimed all her dreams. Never before had her skin been so dazzling, her smile so red; it was as if her youth now first blossomed out in all its fullness; her eyes seemed opened wide in a dear surprise.
After a while Peer went down and drove the mowing machine himself. He felt as if he must get to work somehow or other to provide for his wife and child.
But suddenly he stopped, got down, and began to walk round the machine and examine it closely. His face was all alert now, his eyes keen and piercing. He stared at the mechanism of the blades, and stood awhile thinking.
What was this? A happy idea was beginning to work in his mind. Vague only as yet—there was still time to thrust it aside. Should he?
Warm mild days and luminous nights. Sometimes he could not sleep for thinking how delicious it was to lie awake and see the sun come up.
On one such night he got up and dressed. A few minutes later there was a trampling of hoofs in the stable-yard and the chestnut stallion appeared, with Peer leading him. He swung himself into the saddle, and trotted off down the road, a white figure in his drill suit and cork helmet.
Where was he going? Nowhere. It was a change, to be up at an unusual hour and see the day break on a July morning.
He trotted along at an easy pace, rising lightly in the stirrups, and enjoying the pleasant warmth the rider feels. All was quiet around him, the homesteads still asleep. The sky was a pearly white, with here and there a few golden clouds, reflected in the lake below. And the broad meadows still spread their many-coloured flower-carpet abroad; there was a scent in the air of leaf and meadow-grass and pine, he drew in deep breaths of it and could have sung aloud.
He turned into the by-road up the hill, dismounting now and again to open a gate; past farms and little cottages, ever higher and higher, till at last he reached the topmost ridge, and halted in a clearing. The chestnut threw up his head and sniffed the air; horse and rider were wet with the dew-drip from the trees, that were now just flushing in the first glow of the coming sun. Far below was the lake, reflecting sky and hills and farmsteads, all asleep. And there in the east were the red flames—the sun—the day.
The horse pawed impatiently at the ground, eager to go on, but Peer held him back. He sat there gazing under the brim of his helmet at the sunrise, and felt a wave of strange feeling passing through his mind.
It seemed to him impossible that he should ever reach a higher pitch of sheer delight in life. He was still young and strong; all the organs of his body worked together in happy harmony. No cares to weigh upon his mind, no crushing responsibilities; the future lying calm and clear in the light of day, free from dizzy dreams. His hunger after knowledge was appeased; he felt that what he had learned and seen and gathered was beginning to take living organic form in his mind.
But then—what then?
The great human type of which you dreamed—have you succeeded in giving it life in yourself?
You know what is common knowledge about the progress of humanity; its struggle towards higher forms, its gropings up by many ways toward the infinite which it calls God.
You know something of the life of plants; the nest of a bird is a mystery before which you could kneel in worship. A rock shows you the marks of a glacier that scraped over it thousands of years ago, and looking on it you have a glimpse of the gigantic workings of the solar system. And on autumn evenings you look up at the stars, and the light and the death and the dizzy abysses of space above you send a solemn thrill through your soul.
And this has become a part of yourself. The joy of life for you is to grasp all you can compass of the universe, and let it permeate your thought and sense on every side.
But what then? Is this enough? Is it enough to rest thus in yourself?
Have you as yet raised one stepping-stone upon which other men can climb and say: Now we can see farther than before?
What is your inner being worth, unless it be mirrored in action?
If the world one day came to be peopled with none but supermen—what profit in that, as long as they must die?
What is your faith?
Ah, this sense of exile, of religious homelessness! How many times have you and Merle lain clasping each other’s hands, your thoughts wandering together hand in hand, seeking over earth or among the stars for some being to whom you might send up a prayer; no slavish begging cry for grace and favour, but a jubilant thanksgiving for the gift of life.
But where was He?
He is not. And yet—He is.
But the ascetic on the cross is a God for the sick and aged. What of us others? When shall the modern man, strong, scientifically schooled, find a temple for the sacred music, the anthem of eternity in his soul?
The sun rose up from behind a distant hill-crest, scattering gold over the million spires of the pine-forest. Peer bent forward, with red-gleaming dewdrops on his hand and his white sleeve, and patted the neck of his restless beast.
It was two o’clock. The fires of morning were lit in the clouds and in all the waters over the earth. The dew in the meadows and the pearls on the wings of butterflies began to glisten.
“Now then, Bijou!—now for home!”
And he dashed off down the grass-grown forest paths, the chestnut snorting as he galloped.
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