Chapter I: Boyhood (11)

She was going away to-day, the false wretch who had let herself be drawn into deceiving one who had been a mother to her! Fru Kongstrup must be going with them down to the steamer, as the closed carriage was going.

Lasse went into the bedroom to arrange one or two things so that he could slip out in the evening without Pelle noticing it. He had given Pelle a little paper of sweets for Madam Olsen, and on the paper he had drawn a cross with a lead button; and the cross meant in all secrecy that he would come to her that evening.

While he took out his best clothes and hid them under some hay close to the outer door, he hummed:—

“Love’s longing so strong
It helped me along,
And the way was made short with the nightingales’ song.”

He was looking forward so immensely to the evening; he had not been alone with her now for nearly a quarter of a year. He was proud, moreover, of having taken writing into his service, and that a writing that Pelle, quick reader of writing though he was, would not be able to make out.

While the others were taking their after-dinner nap, Lasse went out and tidied up the dung-heap. The carriage was standing up there with one large trunk strapped on behind, and another standing on one edge on the box. Lasse wondered what such a girl would do when she was alone out in the wide world and had to pay the price of her sin. He supposed there must be places where they took in such girls in return for good payment; everything could be got over there!

Johanna Pihl came waddling in at the gate up there. Lasse started when he saw her; she never came for any good. When she boldly exhibited herself here, she was always drunk, and then she stopped at nothing. It was sad to see how low misfortune could drag a woman. Lasse could not help thinking what a pretty girl she had been in her youth. And now all she thought of was making money out of her shame! He cautiously withdrew into the stable, so as not to be an eye-witness to anything, and peered out from there.

The Sow went up and down in front of the windows, and called in a thick voice, over which she had not full command: “Kongstrup, Kongstrup! Come out and let me speak to you. You must let me have some money, for your son and I haven’t had any food for three days.”

“That’s a wicked lie!” said Lasse to himself indignantly, “for she has a good income. But she wastes God’s gifts, and now she’s out to do some evil.” He would have liked to take the fork and chase her out through the gate, but it was not well to expose one’s self to her venomous tongue.

She had her foot upon the step, but did not dare to mount. Fuddled though she was, there was something that kept her in check. She stood there groping at the handrail and mumbling to herself, and every now and then lifting her fat face and calling Kongstrup.

Jomfru Köller came inadvertently up from the basement, and went toward the steps; her eyes were on the ground, and she did not see the Sow until it was too late, and then she turned quickly. Johanna Pihl stood grinning.

“Come here, miss, and let me wish you good-day!” she cried. “You’re too grand, are you? But the one may be just as good as the other! Perhaps it’s because you can drive away in a carriage and have yours on the other side of the sea, while I had mine in a beet-field! But is that anything to be proud of? I say, just go up and tell my fine gentleman that his eldest’s starving! I daren’t go myself because of the evil eye.”

Long before this Jomfru Köller was down in the basement again, but Johanna Pihl continued to stand and say the same thing over and over again, until the bailiff came dashing out toward her, when she retired, scolding, from the yard.

The men had been aroused before their time by her screaming, and stood drowsily watching behind the barn-doors. Lasse kept excited watch from the stable, and the girls had collected in the wash-house. What would happen now? They all expected some terrible outbreak.

But nothing happened. Now, when Fru Kongstrup had the right to shake heaven and earth—so faithlessly had they treated her—now she was silent. The farm was as peaceful as on the days when they had come to a sort of understanding, and Kongstrup kept himself quiet. Fru Kongstrup passed the windows up there, and looked just like anybody else. Nothing happened!

Something must have been said, however, for the young lady had a very tear-stained face when they got into the carriage, and Kongstrup wore his confused air. Then Karl Johan drove away with the two; and the mistress did not appear. She was probably ashamed for what concerned the others.

Nothing had happened to relieve the suspense; it oppressed every one. She must have accepted her unhappy lot, and given up standing out for her rights, now, just when every one would have supported her. This tranquillity was so unnatural, so unreasonable, that it made one melancholy and low-spirited. It was as though others were suffering on her behalf, and she herself had no heart.

But then it broke down, and the sound of weeping began to ooze out over the farm, quiet and regular like flowing heart’s blood. All the evening it flowed; the weeping had never sounded so despairing; it went to the hearts of all. She had taken in the poor child and treated her as her own, and the poor child had deceived her. Every one felt how she must suffer.

During the night the weeping rose to cries so heart-rending that they awakened even Pelle—wet with perspiration. “It sounds like some one in the last agonies!” said Lasse, and hastily drew on his trousers with trembling, clumsy hands. “She surely hasn’t laid hands upon herself?” He lighted the lantern and went out into the stable, Pelle following naked.

Then suddenly the cries ceased, as abruptly as if the sound had been cut off with an axe, and the silence that followed said dumbly that it was forever. The farm sank into the darkness of night like an extinguished world. “Our mistress is dead!” said Lasse, shivering and moving his fingers over his lips. “May God receive her kindly!” They crept fearfully into bed.

But when they got up the next morning, the farm looked as it always did, and the maids were chattering and making as much noise as usual in the wash-house. A little while after, the mistress’s voice was heard up there, giving directions about the work. “I don’t understand it,” said Lasse, shaking his head. “Nothing but death can stop anything so suddenly. She must have a tremendous power over herself!”

It now became apparent what a capable woman she was. She had not wasted anything in the long period of idleness; the maids became brisker and the fare better. One day she came to the cow-stable to see that the milking was done cleanly. She gave every one his due, too. One day they came from the quarry and complained that they had had no wages for three weeks. There was not enough money on the farm. “Then we must get some,” said the mistress, and they had to set about threshing at once. And one day when Karna raised too many objections she received a ringing box on the ear.

“It’s a new nature she’s got,” said Lasse. But the old workpeople recognized several things from their young days. “It’s her family’s nature,” they said. “She’s a regular Köller.”

The time passed without any change; she was as constant in her tranquillity as she had before been constant in her misery. It was not the habit of the Köllers to change their minds once they had made them up about anything. Then Kongstrup came home from his journey. She did not drive out to meet him, but was on the steps to greet him, gentle and kind. Everybody could see how pleased and surprised he was. He must have expected a very different reception.

But during the night, when they were all sound asleep, Karna came knocking at the men’s window. “Get up and fetch the doctor!” she cried, “and be quick!” The call sounded like one of life and death, and they turned out headlong. Lasse, who was in the habit of sleeping with one eye open, like the hens, was the first man on the spot, and had got the horses out of the stable; and in a few minutes Karl Johan was driving out at the gate. He had a man with him to hold the lantern. It was pitch-dark, but they could hear the carriage tearing along until the sound became very distant; then in another moment the sound changed, as the vehicle turned on to the metalled road a couple of miles off. Then it died away altogether.

On the farm they went about shaking themselves and unable to rest, wandering into their rooms and out again to gaze up at the tall windows, where people were running backward and forward with lights. What had happened? Some mishap to the farmer, evidently, for now and again the mistress’s commanding voice could be heard down in the kitchen—but what? The wash-house and the servants’ room were dark and locked.

Toward morning, when the doctor had come and had taken things into his own hands, a greater calm fell upon them all, and the maids took the opportunity of slipping out into the yard. They would not at once say what was the matter, but stood looking in an embarrassed way at one another, and laughing stupidly. At last they gradually got it out by first one telling a little and then another: in a fit of delirium or of madness Kongstrup had done violence to himself. Their faces were contorted with a mixture of fear and smothered laughter; and when Karl Johan said gravely to Fair Maria: “You’re not telling a lie, are you?” she burst into tears. There she stood laughing and crying by turns; and it made no difference that Karl Johan scolded her sharply.

But it was true, although it sounded like the craziest nonsense that a man could do such a thing to himself. It was a truth that struck one dumb!

It was some time before they could make it out at all, but when they did there were one or two things about it that seemed a little unnatural. It could not have happened during intoxication, for the farmer never drank at home, did not drink at all, as far as any one knew, but only took a glass in good company. It was more likely to have been remorse and contrition; it was not impossible considering the life he had led, although it was strange that a man of his nature should behave in such a desperate fashion.

But it was not satisfactory! And gradually, without it being possible to point to any origin, all thoughts turned toward her. She had changed of late, and the Köller blood had come out in her; and in that family they had never let themselves be trodden down unrevenged!

XX

Out in the shelter of the gable-wall of the House sat Kongstrup, well wrapped up, and gazing straight before him with expressionless eyes. The winter sun shone full upon him; it had lured forth signs of spring, and the sparrows were hopping gaily about him. His wife went backward and forward, busying herself about him; she wrapped his feet up better, and came with a shawl to put round his shoulders. She touched his chest and arms affectionately as she spread the shawl over him from behind; and he slowly raised his head and passed his hand over hers. She stood thus for a little while, leaning against his shoulder and looking down upon him like a mother, with eyes that were tranquil with the joy of possession.

Pelle came bounding down across the yard, licking his lips. He had taken advantage of his mistress’s preoccupation to steal down into the dairy and get a drink of sour cream from the girls, and tease them a little. He was glowing with health, and moved along as carelessly happy as if the whole world were his.

It was quite dreadful the way he grew and wore out his things; it was almost impossible to keep him in clothes! His arms and legs stuck far out of every article of clothing he put on, and he wore things out as fast as Lasse could procure them. Something new was always being got for him, and before you could turn round, his arms and legs were out of that too. He was as strong as an oak-tree; and when it was a question of lifting or anything that did not require perseverence, Lasse had to allow himself to be superseded.

The boy had acquired independence, too, and every day it became more difficult for the old man to assert his parental authority; but that would come as soon as Lasse was master of his own house and could bring his fist down on his own table. But when would that be? As matters now stood, it looked as if the magistrate did not want him and Madam Olsen to be decently married. Seaman Olsen had given plain warning of his decease, and Lasse thought there was nothing to do but put up the banns; but the authorities continued to raise difficulties and ferret about, in the true lawyers’ way. Now there was one question that had to be examined into, and now another; there were periods of grace allowed, and summonses to be issued to the dead man to make his appearance within such and such a time, and what not besides! It was all a put-up job, so that the pettifoggers could make something out of it.

He was thoroughly tired of Stone Farm. Every day he made the same complaint to Pelle: “It’s nothing but toil, toil, from morning till night—one day just like another all the year round, as if you were in a convict-prison! And what you get for it is hardly enough to keep your body decently covered. You can’t put anything by, and one day when you’re worn out and good for nothing more, you can just go on the parish.”

The worst of it all, however, was the desire to work once more for himself. He was always sighing for this, and his hands were sore with longing to feel what it was like to take hold of one’s own. Of late he had meditated cutting the matter short and moving down to his sweetheart’s, without regard to the law. She was quite willing, he knew; she badly needed a man’s hand in the house. And they were being talked about, anyhow; it would not make much difference if he and the boy went as her lodgers, especially when they worked independently.

But the boy was not to be persuaded; he was jealous for his father’s honor. Whenever Lasse touched upon the subject he became strangely sullen. Lasse pretended it was Madam Olsen’s idea, and not his.

“I’m not particularly in favor of it, either,” he said. “People are sure to believe the worst at once. But we can’t go on here wearing ourselves to a thread for nothing. And you can’t breathe freely on this farm—always tied!”

Pelle made no answer to this; he was not strong in reasons, but knew what he wanted.

“If I ran away from here one night, I guess you’d come trotting after me.”

Pelle maintained a refractory silence.

“I think I’ll do it, for this isn’t to be borne. Now you’ve got to have new school-trousers, and where are they coming from?”

“Well, then, do it! Then you’ll do what you say.”

“It’s easy for you to pooh-pooh everything,” said Lasse despondingly, “for you’ve time and years before you. But I’m beginning to get old, and I’ve no one to trouble about me.”

“Why, don’t I help you with everything?” asked Pelle reproachfully.

“Yes, yes, of course you do your very best to make things easier for me, and no one could say you didn’t. But, you see—there are certain things you don’t—there’s something—” Lasse came to a standstill. What was the use of explaining the longings of a man to a boy? “You shouldn’t be so obstinate, you know!” And Lasse stroked the boy’s arm imploringly.

But Pelle _was_ obstinate. He had already put up with plenty of sarcastic remarks from his schoolfellows, and fought a good many battles since it had become known that his father and Madam Olsen were sweethearts. If they now started living together openly, it would become quite unbearable. Pelle was not afraid of fighting, but he needed to have right on his side, if he was to kick out properly.

“Move down to her, then, and I’ll go away!”

“Where’ll you go to?”

“Out into the world and get rich!”

Lasse raised his head, like an old war-horse that hears a signal; but then it dropped again.

“Out into the world and get rich! Yes, yes,” he said slowly; “that’s what I thought, too, when I was your age. But things don’t happen like that—if you aren’t born with a caul.”

Lasse was silent, and thoughtfully kicked the straw in under a cow. He was not altogether sure that the boy was not born with a caul, after all. He was a late-born child, and they were always meant for the worst or the best; and then he had that cow’s-lick on his forehead, which meant good fortune. He was merry and always singing, and neat-handed at everything; and his nature made him generally liked. It was very possible that good fortune lay waiting for him somewhere out there.

“But the very first thing you need for that is to be properly confirmed. You’d better take your books and learn your lesson for the priest, so that you don’t get refused! I’ll do the rest of the foddering.”

Pelle took his books and seated himself in the foddering-passage just in front of the big bull. He read in an undertone, and Lasse passed up and down at his work. For some time each minded his own; but then Lasse came up, drawn by the new lesson-books Pelle had got for his confirmation-classes.

“Is that Bible history, that one there?”

“Yes.”

“Is that about the man who drank himself drunk in there?”

Lasse had long since given up learning to read; he had not the head for it. But he was always interested in what the boy was doing, and the books exerted a peculiar magic effect upon him. “Now what does that stand for?” he would ask wonderingly, pointing to something printed; or “What wonderful thing have you got in your lesson to-day?” Pelle had to keep him informed from day to day. And the same questions often came again, for Lasse had not a good memory.

“You know—the one whose sons pulled off his trousers and shamed their own father?” Lasse continued, when Pelle did not answer.

“Oh, Noah!”

“Yes, of course! Old Noah—the one that Gustav had that song about. I wonder what he made himself drunk on, the old man?”

“Wine.”

“Was it wine?” Lasse raised his eyebrows. “Then that Noah must have been a fine gentleman! The owner of the estate at home drank wine, too, on grand occasions. I’ve heard that it takes a lot of that to make a man tipsy—and it’s expensive! Does the book tell you, too, about him that was such a terrible swindler? What was his name again?”

“Laban, do you mean?”

“Laban, yes of course! To think that I could forget it, too, for he was a regular Laban,[3] so the name suits him just right. It was him that let his son-in-law have both his daughters, and off their price on his daily wage too! If they’d been alive now, they’d have got hard labor, both him and his son-in-law; but in those days the police didn’t look so close at people’s papers. Now I should like to know whether a wife was allowed to have two husbands in those days. Does the book say anything about that?” Lasse moved his head inquisitively.

[3] An ordinary expression in Danish for a mean, deceitful person.

“No, I don’t think it does,” answered Pelle absently.

“Oh, well, I oughtn’t to disturb you,” said Lasse, and went to his work. But in a very short time he was back again. “Those two names have slipped my memory; I can’t think where my head could have been at the moment. But I know the greater prophets well enough, if you like to hear me.”

“Say them, then!” said Pelle, without raising his eyes from his book.

“But you must stop reading while I say them,” said Lasse, “or you might go wrong.” He did not approve of Pelle’s wanting to treat it as food for babes.

“Well, I don’t suppose I could go wrong in the four greater!” said Pelle, with an air of superiority, but nevertheless shutting the book.

Lasse took the quid out from his lower lip with his forefinger, and threw it on the ground so as to have his mouth clear, and then hitched up his trousers and stood for a little while with closed eyes while he moved his lips in inward repetition.

“Are they coming soon?” asked Pelle.

“I must first make sure that they’re there!” answered Lasse, in vexation at the interruption, and beginning to go over them again. “Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel!” he said, dashing them off hastily, so as not to lose any of them on the way.

“Shall we take Jacob’s twelve sons, too?”

“No, not to-day. It might be too much for me all at once. At my age you must go forward gently; I’m not as young as you, you know. But you might go through the twelve lesser prophets with me.”

Pelle went through them slowly, and Lasse repeated them one by one. “What confounded names they did think of in those days!” he exclaimed, quite out of breath. “You can hardly get your tongue round them! But I shall manage them in time.”

“What do you want to know them for, father?” asked Pelle suddenly.

“What do I want to know them for?” Lasse scratched one ear. “Why, of course I—er—what a terrible stupid question! What do _you_ want to know them for? Learning’s as good for the one to have as for the other, and in my youth they wouldn’t let me get at anything fine like that. Do you want to keep it all to yourself?”

“No, for I wouldn’t care a hang about all this prophet business if I didn’t _have_ to.”

Lasse almost fainted with horror.

“Then you’re the most wicked little cub I ever knew, and deserve never to have been born into the world! Is that all the respect you have for learning? You ought to be glad you were born in an age when the poor man’s child shares in it all as well as the rich. It wasn’t so in my time, or else—who knows—perhaps I shouldn’t be going about here cleaning stables if I’d learned something when I was young. Take care you don’t take pride in your own shame!”

Pelle half regretted his words now, and said, to clear himself: “I’m in the top form now!”

“Yes, I know that well enough, but that’s no reason for your putting your hands in your trouser-pockets; while you’re taking breath, the others eat the porridge. I hope you’ve not forgotten anything in the long Christmas holidays?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I haven’t!” said Pelle, with assurance.

Lasse did not doubt it either, but only made believe he did to take the boy in. He knew nothing more splendid than to listen to a rushing torrent of learning, but it was becoming more and more difficult to get the laddie to contribute it. “How can you be sure?” he went on. “Hadn’t you better see? It would be such a comfort to know that you hadn’t forgotten anything—so much as you must have in your head.”

Pelle felt flattered and yielded. He stretched out his legs, closed his eyes, and began to rock backward and forward. And the Ten Commandments, the Patriarchs, the Judges, Joseph and his brethren, the four major and the twelve minor prophets—the whole learning of the world poured from his lips in one long breath. To Lasse it seemed as if the universe itself were whizzing round the white- bearded countenance of the Almighty. He had to bend his head and cross himself in awe at the amount that the boy’s little head could contain.

“I wonder what it costs to be a student?” said Lasse, when he once more felt earth beneath his feet.

“It must be expensive—a thousand krones, I suppose, at least,” Pelle thought. Neither of them connected any definite idea with the number; it merely meant the insurmountably great.

“I wonder if it would be so terrible dear,” said Lasse. “I’ve been thinking that when we have something of our own—I suppose it’ll come to something some day—you might go to Fris and learn the trade of him fairly cheap, and have your meals at home. We ought to be able to manage it that way.”

Pelle did not answer; he felt no desire to be apprenticed to the clerk. He had taken out his knife, and was cutting something on a post of one of the stalls. It represented the big bull with his head down to the ground, and its tongue hanging out of one corner of its mouth. One hoof right forward at its mouth indicated that the animal was pawing up the ground in anger. Lasse could not help stopping, for now it was beginning to be like something. “That’s meant to be a cow, isn’t it?” he said. He had been wondering every day, as it gradually grew.

“It’s Volmer that time he took you on his horns,” said Pelle.

Lasse could see at once that it was that, now that he had been told. “It’s really very like,” he said; “but he wasn’t so angry as you’ve made him! Well, well, you’d better get to work again; that there fooling can’t make a living for a man.”

Lasse did not like this defect in the boy—making drawings with chalk or his penknife all over; there would soon not be a beam or a wall in the place that did not bear marks of one or the other. It was useless nonsense, and the farmer would probably be angry if he came into the stable and happened to see them. Lasse had every now and then to throw cow-dung over the most conspicuous drawings, so that they should not catch the eye of people for whom they were not intended.

Up at the house, Kongstrup was just going in, leaning on his wife’s arm. He looked pale but by no means thin. “He’s still rather lame,” said Lasse, peeping out; “but it won’t be long before we have him down here, so you’d better not quite destroy the post.”

Pelle went on cutting.

“If you don’t leave off that silly nonsense, I’ll throw dirt over it!” said Lasse angrily.

“Then I’ll draw you and Madam Olsen on the big gate!” answered Pelle roguishly.

“You—you’d better! I should curse you before my face, and get the parson to send you away—if not something worse!” Lasse was quite upset, and went off down to the other end of the cow-stable and began the afternoon’s cleaning, knocking and pulling his implements about. In his anger he loaded the wheelbarrow too full, and then could neither go one way nor the other, as his feet slipped.

Pelle came down with the gentlest of faces. “Mayn’t I wheel the barrow out?” he said. “Your wooden shoes aren’t so firm on the stones.”

Lasse growled some reply, and let him take it. For a very short time he was cross, but it was no good; the boy could be irresistible when he liked.

XXI

Pelle had been to confirmation-class, and was now sitting in the servants’ room eating his dinner—boiled herring and porridge. It was Saturday, and the bailiff had driven into the town, so Erik was sitting over the stove. He never said anything of his own accord, but always sat and stared; and his eyes followed Pelle’s movements backward and forward between his mouth and his plate. He always kept his eyebrows raised, as if everything were new to him; they had almost grown into that position. In front of him stood a mug of beer in a large pool, for he drank constantly and spilt some every time.

Fair Maria was washing up, and looked in every now and then to see if Pelle were finished. When he licked his horn spoon clean and threw it into the drawer, she came in with something on a plate: they had had roast loin of pork for dinner upstairs.

“Here’s a little taste for you,” she said. “I expect you’re still hungry. What’ll you give me for it?” She kept the plate in her hand, and looked at him with a coaxing smile.

Pelle was still very hungry—ravenous; and he looked at the titbit until his mouth watered. Then he dutifully put up his lips and Maria kissed him. She glanced involuntarily at Erik, and a gleam of something passed over his foolish face, like a faint reminiscence.

“There sits that great gaby making a mess!” she said, scolding as she seized the beer-mug from him, held it under the edge of the table, and with her hand swept the spilt beer into it.

Pelle set to work upon the pork without troubling about anything else; but when she had gone out, he carefully spat down between his legs, and went through a small cleansing operation with the sleeve of his blouse.

When he was finished he went into the stable and cleaned out the mangers, while Lasse curried the cows; it was all to look nice for Sunday. While they worked, Pelle gave a full account of the day’s happenings, and repeated all that the parson had said. Lasse listened attentively, with occasional little exclamations. “Think of that!” “Well, I never!” “So David was a buck like that, and yet he walked in the sight of God all the same! Well, God’s long-suffering is great—there’s no mistake about that!”

There was a knock at the outer door. It was one of Kalle’s children with the message that grandmother would like to bid them good-bye before she passed away.

“Then she can’t have long to live,” exclaimed Lasse. “It’ll be a great loss to them all, so happy as they’ve been together. But there’ll be a little more food for the others, of course.”

They agreed to wait until they were quite finished, and then steal away; for if they asked to be let off early, they would not be likely to get leave for the funeral. “And that’ll be a day’s feasting, with plenty of food and drink, if I know anything of Brother Kalle!” said Lasse.

When they had finished their work and had their supper, they stole out through the outside door into the field. Lasse had heaped up the quilt, and put an old woolly cap just sticking out at the pillow-end; in a hurry it could easily be mistaken for the hair of a sleeper, if any one came to see. When they had got a little way, Lasse had to go back once more to take precautions against fire.

It was snowing gently and silently, and the ground was frozen so that they could go straight on over everything. Now that they knew the way, it seemed no distance at all; and before they knew where they were, the fields came to an end and the rock began.

There was a light in the cottage. Kalle was sitting up waiting for them. “Grandmother hasn’t long to live,” he said, more seriously than Lasse ever remembered to have heard him speak before.

Kalle opened the door to grandmother’s room, and whispered something, to which his wife answered softly out of the darkness.

“Oh, I’m awake,” said the old woman, in a slow, monotonous voice. “You can speak out, for I am awake.”

Lasse and Pelle took off their leather shoes and went in in their stockings. “Good evening, grandmother!” they both said solemnly, “and the peace of God!” Lasse added.

“Well, here I am,” said the old woman, feebly patting the quilt. She had big woollen gloves on. “I took the liberty of sending for you for I haven’t long to live now. How are things going on in the parish? Have there been any deaths?”

“No, not that I know of,” answered Lasse. “But you look so well, grandmother, so fat and rosy! We shall see you going about again in two or three days.”

“Oh, I dare say!” said the old woman, smiling indulgently. “I suppose I look like a young bride after her first baby, eh? But thank you for coming; it’s as if you belonged to me. Well, now I’ve been sent for, and I shall depart in peace. I’ve had a good time in this world, and haven’t anything to complain of. I had a good husband and a good daughter, not forgetting Kalle there. And I got my sight back, so that I saw the world once more.”

“But you only saw it with one eye, like the birds, grandmother,” said Kalle, trying to laugh.

“Yes, yes, but that was quite good enough; there was so much that was new since I lost my sight. The wood had grown bigger, and a whole family had grown up without my quite knowing it. Ah! yes, it has been good to live in my old age and have them all about me— Kalle and Maria and the children. And all of my own age have gone before me; it’s been nice to see what became of them all.”

“How old are you now, grandmother?” asked Lasse.

“Kalle has looked it up in the church-book, and from that I ought to be almost eighty; but that can scarcely be right.”

“Yes, it’s right enough,” said Kalle, “for the parson looked it up for me himself.”

“Well, well, then the time’s gone quickly, and I shouldn’t at all mind living a little longer, if it was God’s will. But the grave’s giving warning; I notice it in my eyelids.” The old woman had a little difficulty in breathing, but kept on talking.

“You’re talking far too much, mother!” said Maria.

“Yes, you ought to be resting and sleeping,” said Lasse. “Hadn’t we better say good-bye to you?”

“No, I really must talk, for it’ll be the last time I see you and I shall have plenty of time to rest. My eyes are so light thank God, and I don’t feel the least bit sleepy.”

“Grandmother hasn’t slept for a whole week, I think,” said Kalle doubtfully.

“And why should I sleep away the last of the time I shall have here, when I shall get plenty of time for that afterward? At night when you others are asleep, I lie and listen to your breathing, and feel glad that you’re all so well. Or I look at the heather-broom, and think of Anders and all the fun we had together.”

She lay silent for a little while, getting her breath, while she gazed at a withered bunch of heather hanging from a beam.

“He gathered that for me the first time we lay in the flowering heather. He was so uncommonly fond of the heather, was Anders, and every year when it flowered, he took me out of my bed and carried me out there—every year until he was called away. I was always as new for him as on the first day, and so happiness and joy took up their abode in my heart.”

“Now, mother, you ought to be quiet and not talk so much!” said Maria, smoothing the old woman’s pillow. But she would not be silenced, though her thoughts shifted a little.

“Yes, my teeth were hard to get and hard to lose, and I brought my children into the world with pain, and laid them in the grave with sorrow, one after another. But except for that, I’ve never been ill, and I’ve had a good husband. He had an eye for God’s creations, and we got up with the birds every summer morning, and went out onto the heath and saw the sun rise out of the sea before we set about our days work.”

The old woman’s slow voice died away, and it was as though a song ceased to sound in their ears. They sat up and sighed. “Ah, yes,” said Lasse, “the voice of memory is pleasant!”

“What about you, Lasse?” said the old woman suddenly, “I hear you’re looking about for a wife!”

“Am I?” exclaimed Lasse, in alarm. Pelle saw Kalle wink at Maria, so they knew about it too.

“Aren’t you soon coming to show us your sweetheart?” asked Kalle. “I hear it’s a good match.”

“I don’t in the least know what you’re talking about,” said Lasse, quite confused.

“Well, well, you might do worse than that!” said the grandmother. “She’s good enough—from what I know. I hope you’ll suit one another like Anders and me. It was a happy time—the days when we went about and each did our best, and the nights when the wind blew. It was good then to be two to keep one another warm.”

“You’ve been very happy in everything, grandmother,” exclaimed Lasse.

“Yes, and I’m departing in peace and can lie quiet in my grave. I’ve not been treated unfairly in any way, and I’ve got nothing to haunt any one for. If only Kalle takes care to have me carried out feet first, I don’t expect I shall trouble you.”

“Just you come and visit us now and then if you like! We shan’t be afraid to welcome you, for we’ve been so happy together here,” said Kalle.

“No, you never know what your nature may be in the next life. You must promise to have me carried out feet first! I don’t want to disturb your night’s rest, so hard as you two have to work all day. And, besides, you’ve had to put up with me long enough, and it’ll be nice for you to be by yourselves for once; and there’ll be a bit more for you to eat after this.”

Maria began to cry.

“Now look here!” exclaimed Kalle testily. “I won’t hear any more of that nonsense, for none of us have had to go short because of you. If you aren’t good, I shall give a big party after you, for joy that you’re gone!”

“No, you won’t!” said the old woman quite sharply. “I won’t hear of a three days’ wake! Promise me now, Maria, that you won’t go and ruin yourselves to make a fuss over a poor old soul like me! But you must ask the nearest neighbors in in the afternoon, with Lasse and Pelle, of course. And if you ask Hans Henrik, perhaps he’d bring his concertina with him, and you could have a dance in the barn.”

Kalle scratched the back of his head. “Then, hang it, you must wait until I’ve finished threshing, for I can’t clear the floor now. Couldn’t we borrow Jens Kure’s horse, and take a little drive over the heath in the afternoon?”

“You might do that, too, but the children are to have a share in whatever you settle to do. It’ll be a comfort to think they’ll have a happy day out of it, for they don’t have too many holidays; and there’s money for it, you know.”

“Yes, would you believe it, Lasse—grandmother’s got together fifty krones that none of us knew anything about, to go toward her funeral-party!”

“I’ve been putting by for it for twenty years now, for I’d like to leave the world in a decent way, and without pulling the clothes off my relations’ backs. My grave-clothes are all ready, too, for I’ve got my wedding chemise lying by. It’s only been used once, and more than that and my cap I don’t want to have on.”

“But that’s so little,” objected Maria. “Whatever will the neighbors say if we don’t dress you properly?”

“I don’t care!” answered the old woman decidedly. “That’s how Anders liked me best, and it’s all I’ve worn in bed these sixty years. So there!” And she turned her head to the wall.

“You shall have it all just as you like, mother!” said Maria.

The old woman turned round again, and felt for her daughter’s hand on the quilt. “And you must make rather a soft pillow for my old head, for it’s become so difficult to find rest for it.”

“We can take one of the babies’ pillows and cover it with white,” said Maria.

“Thank you! And then I think you should send to Jacob Kristian’s for the carpenter to-morrow—he’s somewhere about, anyhow—and let him measure me for the coffin; then I could have my say as to what it’s to be like. Kalle’s so free with his money.”

The old woman closed her eyes. She had tired herself out, after all.

“Now I think we’ll creep out into the other room, and let her be quiet,” whispered Kalle, getting up; but at that she opened her eyes.

“Are you going already?” she asked.

“We thought you were asleep, grandmother,” said Lasse.

“No, I don’t suppose I shall sleep any more in this life; my eyes are so light, so light! Well, good-bye to you, Lasse and Pelle! May you be very, very happy, as happy as I’ve been. Maria was the only one death spared, but she’s been a good daughter to me; and Kalle’s been as good and kind to me as if I’d been his sweetheart. I had a good husband, too, who chopped firewood for me on Sundays, and got up in the night to look after the babies when I was lying-in. We were really well off—lead weights in the clock and plenty of firing; and he promised me a trip to Copenhagen. I churned my first butter in a bottle, for we had no churn to begin with; and I had to break the bottle to get it out, and then he laughed, for he always laughed when I did anything wrong. And how glad he was when each baby was born! Many a morning did he wake me up and we went out to see the sun come up out of the sea. ‘Come and see, Anna,’ he would say, ‘the heather’s come into bloom in the night.’ But it was only the sun that shed its red over it! It was more than two miles to our nearest neighbor, but he didn’t care for anything as long as he had me. He found his greatest pleasures in me, poor as I was; and the animals were fond of me too. Everything went well with us on the whole.”

She lay moving her head from side to side, and the tears were running down her cheeks. She no longer had difficulty in breathing, and one thing recalled another, and fell easily in one long tone from her lips. She probably did not now know what she was saying, but could not stop talking. She began at the beginning and repeated the words, evenly and monotonously, like one who is carried away and _must_ talk.

“Mother!” said Maria anxiously, putting her hands on her mother’s shaking head. “Recollect yourself, mother!”

The old woman stopped and looked at her wonderingly. “Ah, yes!” she said. “Memories came upon me so fast! I almost think I could sleep a little now.”

Lasse rose and went up to the bed. “Good-bye, grandmother!” he said, “and a pleasant journey, in case we shouldn’t meet again!” Pelle followed him and repeated the words. The old woman looked at them inquiringly, but did not move. Then Lasse gently took her hand, and then Pelle, and they stole out into the other room.

“Her flame’s burning clear to the end!” said Lasse, when the door was shut. Pelle noticed how freely their voices rang again.

“Yes, she’ll be herself to the very end; there’s been extra good timber in her. The people about here don’t like our not having the doctor to her. What do you think? Shall we go to the expense?”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything more the matter with her than that she can’t live any longer,” said Lasse thoughtfully.

“No, and she herself won’t hear of it. If he could only keep life in her a little while longer!”

“Yes, times are hard!” said Lasse, and went round to look at the children. They were all asleep, and their room seemed heavy with their breathing. “The flock’s getting much smaller.”

“Yes; one or two fly away from the nest pretty well every year,” answered Kalle, “and now I suppose we shan’t have any more. It’s an unfortunate figure we’ve stopped at—a horrid figure; but Maria’s become deaf in that ear, and I can’t do anything alone.” Kalle had got back his roguish look.

“I’m sure we can do very well with what we’ve got,” said Maria. “When we take Anna’s too, it makes fourteen.”

“Oh, yes, count the others too, and you’ll get off all the easier!” said Kalle teasingly.

Lasse was looking at Anna’s child, which lay side by side with Kalle’s thirteenth. “She looks healthier than her aunt,” he said. “You’d scarcely think they were the same age. She’s just as red as the other’s pale.”

“Yes, there is a difference,” Kalle admitted, looking affectionately at the children. “It must be that Anna’s has come from young people, while _our_ blood’s beginning to get old. And then the ones that come the wrong side of the blanket always thrive best—like our Albert, for instance. He carries himself quite differently from the others. Did you know, by-the-by, that he’s to get a ship of his own next spring?”

“No, surely not! Is he really going to be a captain?” said Lasse, in the utmost astonishment.

“It’s Kongstrup that’s at the back of that—that’s between ourselves, of course!”

“Does the father of Anna’s child still pay what he’s bound to?” asked Lasse.

“Yes, he’s honest enough! We get five krones a month for having the child, and that’s a good help toward expenses.”

Maria had placed a dram, bread and a saucer of dripping on the table, and invited them to take their places at it.

“You’re holding out a long time at Stone Farm,” said Kalle, when they were seated. “Are you going to stay there all your life?” he asked, with a mischievous wink.

“It’s not such a simple matter to strike out into the deep!” said Lasse evasively.

“Oh, we shall soon be hearing news from you, shan’t we?” asked Maria.

Lasse did not answer; he was struggling with a crust.

“Oh, but do cut off the crust if it’s too much for your teeth!” said Maria. Every now and then she listened at her mother’s door. “She’s dropped off, after all, poor old soul!” she said.

Kalle pretended to discover the bottle for the first time. “What! Why, we’ve got gin on the table, too, and not one of us has smelt it!” he exclaimed, and filled their glasses for the third time. Then Maria corked the bottle. “Do you even grudge us our food?” he said, making great eyes at her—what a rogue he was! And Maria stared at him with eyes that were just as big, and said: “Yah! you want to fight, do you?” It quite warmed Lasse’s heart to see their happiness.

“How’s the farmer at Stone Farm? I suppose he’s got over the worst now, hasn’t he?” said Kalle.

“Well, I think he’s as much a man as he’ll ever be. A thing like that leaves its mark upon any one,” answered Lasse. Maria was smiling, and as soon as they looked at her, she looked away.

“Yes, you may grin!” said Lasse; “but I think it’s sad!” Upon which Maria had to go out into the kitchen to have her laugh out.

“That’s what all the women do at the mere mention of his name,” said Kalle. “It’s a sad change. To-day red, to-morrow dead. Well, she’s got her own way in one thing, and that is that she keeps him to herself—in a way. But to think that he can live with her after that!”

“They seem fonder of one another than they ever were before; he can’t do without her for a single minute. But of course he wouldn’t find any one else to love him now. What a queer sort of devilment love is! But we must see about getting home.”

“Well, I’ll send you word when she’s to be buried,” said Kalle, when they got outside the house.

“Yes, do! And if you should be in want of a ten-krone note for the funeral, let me know. Good-bye, then!”

XXII

Grandmother’s funeral was still like a bright light behind everything that one thought and did. It was like certain kinds of food, that leave a pleasant taste in the mouth long after they have been eaten and done with. Kalle had certainly done everything to make it a festive day; there was an abundance of good things to eat and drink, and no end to his comical tricks. And, sly dog that he was, he had found an excuse for asking Madam Olsen; it was really a nice way of making the relation a legitimate one.

It gave Lasse and Pelle enough to talk about for a whole month, and after the subject was quite talked out and laid on one side for other things, it remained in the background as a sense of well-being of which no one quite knew the origin.

But now spring was advancing, and with it came troubles—not the daily trifles that could be bad enough, but great troubles that darkened everything, even when one was not thinking about them. Pelle was to be confirmed at Easter, and Lasse was at his wits’ end to know how he was going to get him all that he would need—new clothes, new cap, new shoes! The boy often spoke about it; he must have been afraid of being put to shame before the others that day in church.

“It’ll be all right,” said Lasse; but he himself saw no way at all out of the difficulty. At all the farms where the good old customs prevailed, the master and mistress provided it all; out here everything was so confoundedly new-fangled, with prompt payments that slipped away between one’s fingers. A hundred krones a year in wages seemed a tremendous amount when one thought of it all in one; but you only got them gradually, a few öres at a time, without your being able to put your finger anywhere and say: You got a good round sum there! “Yes, yes, it’ll be all right!” said Lasse aloud, when he had got himself entangled in absurd speculations; and Pelle had to be satisfied with this. There was only one way out of the difficulty—to borrow the money from Madam Olsen; and that Lasse would have to come to in the end, loth as he was to do it. But Pelle must not know anything about it.

Lasse refrained as long as he possibly could, hoping that something or other would turn up to free him from the necessity of so disgraceful a proceeding as borrowing from his sweetheart. But nothing happened, and time was passing. One morning he cut the matter short; Pelle was just setting out for school. “Will you run in to Madam Olsen’s and give her this?” he said, handing the boy a packet. “It’s something she’s promised to mend for us.” Inside on the paper, was the large cross that announced Lasse’s coming in the evening.