About this time it dawned upon me in a measure what birth and death
were. Birth was something that came quite unexpectedly, and afterwards
there was one child more in the house. One day, when I was sitting on
the sofa between Grandmamma and Grandpapa at their dining-table in
Klareboderne, having dinner with a fairly large company, the door at
the back of the room just opposite to me opened. My father stood in the
doorway, and, without a good-morning, said: "You have got a little
brother"--and there really was a little one in a cradle when I went
home.
Death I had hitherto been chiefly acquainted with from a large,
handsome painting on Grandfather's wall, the death of the King not
having affected me. The picture represented a garden in which Aunt
Rosette sat on a white-painted bench, while in front of her stood Uncle
Edward with curly hair and a blouse on, holding out a flower to her.
But Uncle Edward was dead, had died when he was a little boy, and as he
had been such a very good boy, everyone was very sorry that they were
not going to see him again. And now they were always talking about
death. So and so many dead, so and so many wounded! And all the trouble
was caused by the Enemy.