This was the burden
of his days. This was the life he was doomed to live.
But up here on the little forest track he harms no one; and no racking
noises come thrusting sharp knives into his spine. Here is a great
peace; a peace that does a man good. Down on the grassy slope below
stands a tumble-down grey barn; it reminds him of an old worn-out horse,
lifting its head from grazing to gaze at you--a lonely forsaken creature
it seems--to-morrow it will sink to the ground and rise no more--yet IT
takes its lot calmly and patiently.
Ugh! how far he has got from Raastad. A cold sweat breaks out over his
body for fear he may not have strength to walk back again uphill. Well,
pull yourself together. Rest a little. And he lies down on his back in a
field of clover, and stares up at the sky.
A stream of clean air, fresh from the snow, flows all day long down the
valley; as if Jotunheim itself, where it lies in there beneath the sky,
were breathing in easy well-being. Peer fills his lungs again and again
with long deep draughts, drinking in the air like a saving potion. "Help
me then, oh air, light, solitude! help me that I may be whole once more
and fit to work, for this is the one and only religion left me to cling
to."
High above, over the two mountain ranges, a blue flood stands immovable,
and in its depths eternal rest is brooding. But is there a will there
too, that is concerned with men on earth? You do not believe in it, and
yet a little prayer mounts up to it as well! Help me--thou too.
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