"Now, look here, Aunt Anna, this is really too bad! Here we are, with a
whole lot of beer-soup, which we don't care about in the least and which
we would be very glad to get rid of, if we only knew someone who would
have it. You are the only one that knows of anybody. You know a poor boy
who would dance for joy if he got some beer-soup. You know hundreds. But
you won't tell us their names or where they live."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"And you yourself sit quite calmly eating two whole helpings, though you
know quite well that you're going to have an omelette to follow. That's
really very naughty of you, Aunt Anna."
Aunt Anna chokes with annoyance. My little boy locks his teeth with a
snap and looks with every mark of disgust at that wicked old woman.
And I turn with calm earnestness to his mother and say:
"After this, it would be most improper for us ever to have beer-soup
here again. We don't care for it and there are hundreds of little boys
who love it. If it must be made, then Aunt Anna must come every Saturday
and fetch it. She knows where the boys live."
The omelette is eaten in silence, after which Aunt Anna shakes the dust
from her shoes. She won't have any coffee today.
While she is standing in the hall and putting on her endless wraps, a
last doubt arises in my little boy's soul. He opens his green eyes wide
before her face and whispers:
"Aunt Anna, where do the boys live?"
Aunt Anna pinches him and is shocked and goes off, having suffered a
greater defeat than she can ever repair.
V
My little boy comes into my room and tells me, with a very long face,
that Jean is dead. And we put all nonsense on one side and hurry away to
the Klampenborg train, to go where Jean is.
For Jean is the biggest dog that has lived for some time.
He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame. He once bit his
own master. He could give such a look out of his eyes and open such a
mouth that there was no more horrible sight in the world. And then he
would be the mildest of the mild: my little boy could put his hand in
his mouth and ride on his back and pull his tail.
When we get there, we hear that Jean is already buried.
We look at each other in dismay, to think how quickly that happens! And
we go to the grave, which is in the grounds of the factory, where the
tall chimneys stand.
We sit down and can't understand it.
We tell each other all the stories that we know of Jean's wonderful size
and strength. The one remembers this, the other that. And, as each story
is told, the whole thing becomes only more awful and obscure.
At last we go home by train.
Besides ourselves, there is a kind old gentleman in the compartment, who
would like to make friends with my little boy. But the boy has nothing
to talk about to the kind old gentleman. He stands at the window, which
comes just under his chin, and stares out.
His eyes light upon some tall chimneys:
"That's where Jean is buried," he says.
"Yes."
The landscape flies past. He can think only of _that_ and see only
_that_ and, when some more chimneys appear, he says again:
"That's where Jean is buried."
"No, my little friend," says the kind old gentleman. "That was over
there."
The boy looks at him with surprise. I hasten to reassure him:
"Those _are_ Jean's chimneys," I say.
And, while he is looking out again, I take the old gentleman to the
further corner of the compartment and tell him the state of the case.
I tell him that, if I live, I hope, in years to come, to explain to the
boy the difference between Petersen's and Hansen's factories and, should
I die, I will confidently leave that part of his education to others.
Yes, even if he should never learn this difference, I would still be
resigned. Today it is a question of other and more important matters.
The strongest, the most living thing he knew is dead. . . .
"Really?" says the old gentleman, sympathetically. "A relation,
perhaps?"
"Yes," I say. "Jean is dead, a dog. . . ."
"A dog?"
"It is not because of the _dog_--don't you understand?--but of _death_,
which he sees for the first time: death, with all its might, its
mystery. . . ."
"Father," says my little boy and turns his head towards us. "When do we
die?"
"When we grow old," says the kind old gentleman.
"No," says the boy. "Einar has a brother, at home, in the courtyard, and
he is dead. And he was only a little boy."
"Then Einar's brother was so good and learnt such a lot that he was
already fit to go to Heaven," says the old gentleman.
"Mind you don't become too good," I say and laugh and tap my little boy
in the stomach.
And my little boy laughs too and goes back to his window, where new
chimneys rise over Jean's grave.
But I take the old gentleman by the shoulders and forbid him most
strictly to talk to my little boy again. I give up trying to make him
understand me. I just shake him. He eyes the communication-cord and,
when we reach the station, hurries away.
I go with my little boy, holding his hand, through the streets full of
live people. In the evening, I sit on the edge of his bed and talk with
him about that incomprehensible thing: Jean, who is dead; Jean, who was
so much alive, so strong, so big. . . .