24

Finally he found himself in church, standing in a row of dark-clad boys, a row of new clothes and shoes and stiff faces. Across the aisle was another tense, solemn row: the   [p. 112]   girls they had known through hundreds of schooldays. Now they were standing tensely. You dared not start looking at them one by one, only saw them as a row.

Around them on the chairs sat people staring at them. Small children hung over the backs of the chairs watching them importantly and searchingly. Per did not know what to do with his arms and his feet. You were not supposed to do anything with them.

He stood trying with the best will in the world to feel what he should. He knew he did not feel as he should according to the precepts, and this was bitter, but not unexpected. But he knew, in spite of everything, that something about the day had some meaning for him. He was freed a little from the daily struggle. What passed through him now like a soft wind was holy, and yet. . . .

Outside it was spring. A brook was foaming. If they had been outdoors, they would have smelled the fragrance of the willows along the brook.

Per was the one who came off best in answering the pastor's questions. That was only how it had always been and had to be; it gave him no pleasure. Learned by rote. He rattled off the dry rigmarole with his mouth, trying at the same time to save the splendid day this was supposed to be.

Beside him was Olav Bringa. That was right and proper. Olav's clothes smelled of the pressing iron. How much care and trouble had gone into all these new clothes? wondered Per suddenly. Many a bitter struggle must have taken place before enough money had been saved for so many brand new clothes and shoes. Each one kept the memory of it to himself, hidden behind his stiff confirmation face.

He looked at the worn people sitting in their chairs with folded, worn hands. They had a son or a daughter standing there today. Some sat more quietly than others, as if it had cost them more.

The pastor had said something one day as he sat creaking in the office chair: Your parents have brought you thus far; it has cost them fifteen years of worry and struggle.

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It made you feel guilty. Per looked at these quiet, worn people in their chairs. Fifteen years of worry and struggle. It gave you a guilty conscience. It was not a holy occasion any more, only a bad conscience about something you could not help.

He looked across at Father and Mother. They were sitting with their hands in their laps, like all the rest, looking this way at him and the others. What were they thinking about? Probably about fifteen years of worry and struggle. But it was not his fault. All the same, he had a guilty conscience; it was strange. . . .

Now came the worst part: the pastor's voice calling him out to something unknown, calling loudly and clearly, "Per Eilevson Bufast."^[1*]

The holiness was now. The strangeness was now. Yet he got to his feet again with a bitter knowledge: he was no different from before. Not one person present could have borne what was being enjoined on them that day. Every living soul among the adults sitting there knew it. He understood it all right. All these silent mouths in here could have said so had they wished: that it was no use trying to bear it.

He looked across at Father and Mother when he returned from the altar. He saw at once what they were thinking. It was not about fifteen years of struggle. They were simply thinking: Now we have a son who is confirmed.

It obviously meant more to them than it did to himself.

Per Eilevson Bufast. The name had had a curious ring to it when it was called out. Bufast. He repeated it to himself. It had rung out beneath the church roof and was still here. It drew the whole of Bufast into the crowded church. He saw it in his mind's eye---the color of the house, the tree in the   [p. 114]   farmyard, the glitter from the river below. And the meadow and the field and the animals. It smelled of sunshine mingled with scores of other things. It was warm and heavy and alive, and was a farm. Cows were milked there. Calves were born there. Animals were slaughtered there when the time came, and the man who slaughtered them was good to animals.

He glanced at him quickly. He was tall and capable, with square shoulders.

Per Eilevson Bufast. Per Ingjerdson Bufast. He tried it out to see what it sounded like.

He met a pair of eyes in the row of girls across the aisle. Randi Bratterud. The eyes slid away again. Randi Knutsdotter Bratterud had sounded above her bent head a few minutes ago. She was holding her hymnbook and her handkerchief in her hands.

She had always given brief, straightforward answers, he remembered. And she had never tried to be the best.

There were others here whom he knew better, but he could see only the backs of their necks. Beside him were Aunt Anne and Åsmund.

It was over. They all rose from their chairs at once and lost each other in the crowd. Outside, a brook was roaring in flood; the rushing noise met them at the door. The willows met them with the fragrance of their strong, sweet sap. Outside the door he found Olav again, was pushed right into his face. Olav Aslakson Bringa. Now he was confirmed.

Somebody came up and took his hand. "So now you're grown-up, Per. Good luck to you."

Per looked up, surprised. Grown-up? He didn't feel grownup.

A couple of others came over and congratulated him. But it was really because Olav was standing beside him. Olav knew a good many of the people in the district. Per knew practically nobody. They came and told him he was grown-up.

Platitudes. Boring, that was what people were! Full of empty platitudes.

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As they were standing there together, Åsne came over to them. She pushed her way across and stood in front of them, familiar and good to see. She stretched out her hands to them with a big smile. They took a hand each. Åsne Torleivsdotter Bakken. They must have returned her smile; they could not tell.

For a second he looked into her eyes, remembering scores of things about her.

"What's to become of us now?" she said, and then released them and went over to the other girls. She would stay at home, and at home circumstances were narrow. Her father had been killed driving the horses soon after she was born.

Olav and Per could not very well stand together any longer. They turned towards each other at the same moment, flushed and generous.

"Well---" said Per.

"Well---" said Olav.

So they parted. They had meant to say a great deal to each other. So they said nothing.

Father and Mother were waiting. We have a son who has been confirmed, was written in their faces. Aunt Anne busied herself looking after Åsmund. A man hurried past her. It was that man. Nothing happened.

Mother nodded and smiled at Per. It was a relief that he did not have to dread admonitions and speeches and solemn talk from his family, bless them. They did not say a word about what had happened as they walked home.

What's to become of us now? Åsne had asked, perplexed.

It occurred to him that she had been holding her hymnbook in the hand she had given Olav. That meant that Olav had had to squeeze the hymnbook as well as her hand. It couldn't have been as good as the handshake Per got. He tried it out as he walked along, squeezing the hand that was holding his own book. No, it was nowhere near the same.

What's to become of us now? Åsne had asked. As he walked along he gradually realized how boundlessly perplexed her eyes had been. Even hers. In spite of the smile in them.

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Åsne's words began swelling, like a piece of food too dry to swallow.

He would be staying at Bufast, wouldn't he? There went the man who had the power to make assertions that were as much in force now as the day they were spoken, assertions that he had struggled against in every way since. He did not know.

The wish to get away was still there, but he doubted more and more whether there was anything in it. He had fooled himself with all that struggle to be the best. He did not put so much faith in it any more. How could he know! Wait and see! he thought hastily, and pushed it all aside.

Olav would stay at Bringa to the end of his days. And he talked about it as if it were right and self-evident and good. Why didn't Per have the same feeling?

"Åsne Bakken will have to find a job with her aunt now," said Aunt Anne, finding herself beside Per on the way home.

Per was startled. He could tell that this was no chance remark, but that Auntie wanted to talk to him about Åsne. It was as if she wanted to do him a kindness. He was grateful for the way in which she said it.

"Will she?"

"Yes, I suppose so. There's nothing for her to do at home there, you see. She won't be able to stay there when she's grown-up; it's more than enough for her mother, looking after herself. Åsne's a nice girl."

Her voice was kind and comforting, and quiet so that Father and Mother would not hear her. What did Auntie know? If he had been as strong as a bear, he would have crushed her with gratitude.

They came to Bufast. There was lowing in the barn. That always meant something. Cows didn't stand lowing for nothing.

"What do you bet---?" said Aunt Anne, hurrying down.

She came out again quickly, throwing on her smock. "The calf's lying on the floor!" she announced.

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Then she turned to Per. "That's what happens when you have to confirm young boys."

She and Mother got busy. They had been expecting a calf, but not so soon as today. Now it was all over while they were at church. Per stood remembering the wonderful, well-known feeling: beestings and pancakes. It was not the same as before.

Mother put water on the stove. "You'll have to wait for your dinner," she said, and hurried out again.

Åsmund went with her and stood in the stall beside the calf. If Åsmund put a finger in the calf's mouth, he would smack his lips and suck it.

Per left Åsmund standing there and went to sit in the kitchen beside Father. Dinner was half ready; it had been prepared before they went to church.

It was difficult sitting beside Father like that. Per would have preferred to go out again to Åsmund and the calf. Father was sitting with something unsaid.

Don't ask me about anything, wished Per. Don't ask me. Father turned to him. "Well, well---" he said decisively. Not a word more.

Now that's over and done with, was in his tone of voice. Now we have brought up a son.

Per returned his gaze as frankly as he could. Father would not ask him about anything dangerous.

Mother came in with a frothing bucket full of the first milk.

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