From that time there sat at their table a tall, long-haired individual,
with legs twisted round those of the chair, with long red fingers
always covered with chilblains, and so clammy that Ragni could not
touch them. Nor could she bring herself to speak to him after what
Kallem had told her about him; all the good and prepossessing qualities
that she had seen in him at their first meeting had been effaced by
what she had heard. He entered the room quickly, as if he had practised
it, and then his coat or his sleeve caught in the door handle, or he
did not shut the door the first time he tried, or his legs tripped him
up, or he dragged a chair along with him, or knocked up against the
servant who had just put down something on the table and was leaving
the room. He never looked anyone in the face, his really fine eyes were
sleepy and dull, his cheeks were ashen-gray; he studied the patterns on
the plate, on the Chinese bread-basket which stood in front of him. He
never uttered a word; if anyone spoke to him he was so startled that he
answered "yes" or "no" as if he had hot cinders in his mouth. But he
ate--according to Ragni's way of reckoning--like a carpenter's horse.
And then, when he wiped his clammy hands on his trousers or up in his
thick greasy hair, he was worse than Kristen Larssen.
This disgusting youth at her table every blessed day, and in the
evenings Kristen Larssen! To say nothing of all the old women Kallem
brought in to her so that she might supply them with warm woollen
things; children, too, who sometimes were to be clothed from top to
toe--his tuberculous friends!
Not only did she feel repelled by the actual persons, but every door
was left open; she had not a corner where she could be at liberty, nor
could she call her time her own. There was no use talking to him about
it, as long as that, which was her greatest horror, was his greatest
pleasure. There was a little jealousy, too, mixed up with it: he did
not think enough about her and her doings. He had quite put on one
side that affair with his sister; the minister and his wife had long
since returned to town, Josephine had paid them a flying visit one
morning in their garden, with some flowers from old Kallem's grave; the
brothers-in-law met in the street and by sick-beds; then, too, Kallem
sometimes met his sister, who was very good to the poor; but she did
not come to him, nor he to her; neither was there any party given in
their honor at the minister's house, as everyone had expected; in fact,
there were no more parties at all. Not for a moment did Ragni doubt the
reason of this. Kallem did not understand how this unspoken doubt
worried her; nor could he be made to see that in a way it shut her out
from the town; and she would not worry him with it. He had the
privilege of the busy man, to put everything on one side which did not
seem "clear" to him. In his daily tubercular chase, the old women and
children whom he brought in his train were more to him than "all
religious disputes;" and unfortunately, more too than the comfort and
sense of beauty which for her were an absolute necessity.
At the further end of the large hospital yard was a long provision
store and woodhouse, etc. Kallem had a hall for gymnastics fitted up
there, and he and the ashen-gray young man spent most of their evenings
there after six o'clock. As long as this lasted, he came home very
punctually, did his own exercises, then arranged a class and was
himself the leader. It was a miserable affair to begin with, but with
his accustomed energy he brought order and go into it. The timid youth
had hardly touched his piano since he had been there, he was afraid of
Free Kallem. So Kallem went up to him every evening for half an hour
with his book; he made Karl play whilst he sat there. In his capacity
as doctor he had forced his way to his confidence; he looked after him
with watchful friendliness, and soon the youth came into the room more
at his ease, and did not sneak away so quickly. And at last she took
courage--after earnest entreaties from Kallem--and said to the youth
one Sunday morning: "No, don't go upstairs; come, let us try to play
some duets together! We will take easy pieces," she added. He was in
despair; but as good luck would have it, he nearly overturned the piano
stool as he was going to sit down, and almost upset hers too in trying
to save his own, and at that they both began to laugh; that helped them
through the worst. She sat there fresh and slim, in a red silk dress,
with lace at her neck and wrists, her long, white piano fingers well
away from his long red ones; her intelligent face often turned toward
him, a scent of mignonette from her dress, and the perfume of her hair
... he trembled with shyness. And how ugly he thought himself! And the
smell of his hair! He struggled so to play, that he was soon tired and
made stupid mistakes. "I am sure you are not inclined for it to-day,"
said she, and got up.
He went off like a beaten hound; he shrunk from all, he writhed, and
for the ninth or ninetieth time made up his mind to run away. He never
appeared at dinner-time, and was not to be found in all the house, so
Kallem thought he would ask about it; she told him then what a
miserable performance it had been; he had got tired after barely half
an hour; a young man who could not stand more than that disgusted her.
"Oh, you everlasting æsthetic!"--he went to look for the youth, and
sacrificed his delightful Sunday afternoon to it, and came home with
him toward evening. Then she whispered to him, when they were in the
office, that she was going to be very good. Kristen Larssen came, and
more patient than any beaten poodle, she sat herself down to give him
an English lesson.
From the very first she had felt compassion for this peculiar man; but
she froze to an icicle in his society, and in the vicinity of his
breath. Therefore, she herself thought that it was horribly cowardly of
her to go on with it without a complaint; it was certainly not out of
compassion. Punctual to the minute he appeared, in his long brown coat
with the tight sleeves, and with a working-man's unbearable smell of
stale perspiration from clothes and body. His breath reached right
across the table; she felt it too, even if it did not really reach her.
He pulled forward his chair, sat down, and opened his book, and when he
had found his place, he sent his cold, horrible eyes across to her
warm, startled, dove-like ones, startled beyond bounds. His long,
black-smudged fingers, covered with black hair like his whole hand,
took hold, the one hand of the book, the fingers of the other he used
to point with; then he cleared his throat well, and finally began.
Usually he asked about something from the last lesson; always
intelligent, suspecting a mistake on her part, a want of perception or
logic. He made her feel unsafe under the safest circumstances.
When he slowly, and with much deliberation, struggled on, word for
word, and she presumed to interrupt him because he had made a mistake,
he put down his finger still firmer to mark the place where he had been
caught tripping, and looked up at her, vexed and suspicious. Then she
in a most uncertain way reiterated her correction; but never could she
succeed in making it clear enough to him; he had always to ask for
further explanations. She repeated it a third time, and at last he was
gracious enough to let it pass--to her account. Each time she
interrupted him, she knew what would follow--and knew that wave upon
wave of that bad breath would be wafted across to her.
What a piece of work it was for this man to come to her as sure as he
always was; never repeating a mistake that once had been corrected; and
what capacity he had, enabling him to ask all those extraordinary
questions, which sometimes would have done honour to a philologist--all
this she neither overlooked nor undervalued. But to her he was so truly
fearful. He was too painfully like an old monkey she had seen sedately
eating with a silver spoon. This picture hanging grinning over him was
like revenge.
There was one circumstance in her daily life which made it very
pleasant, it was her work together with the servant; they became very
good friends. Both of them got on so well together--Ragni found out
what there was to do, and the other one did it. Ragni liked work and
was quick about it, the servant was intelligent and anxious to learn;
they took a pleasure in each other's society.
A fortnight after the unsuccessful attempt at duet-playing, she said to
Karl Meek:
"What do you think about it? Shall we try once more?"
"No, thank you, it--it won't do!" answered he, horrified.
"Oh, yes, I have looked out a duet which you will be able to manage."
She took it out, he stood at a distance of two ells and looked at
it--grew very red, and passed his hands through his hair.
"Do you know it?" He never answered; it was a piece of his own, he
called it the "Mountain Brook," and he had often played it for Kallem
upstairs; now it had been arranged as a duet; in this way she wished to
make up for the last time.
"Come, now!" In the same red silk dress, with the same lace falling
over her long playing-fingers, there she sat, the same figure, the same
wonderfully dreamy eyes looking at him, sometimes in a way that made
him shiver. But now he was himself in new clothes, and his hair was cut
and well arranged, as was his whole person. And the "mountain brook"
came rushing from under her nimble fingers; if he were not always able
to keep up with her, she waited to take him along. At last, if not
quite perfect, it was at all events not so bad but what she graciously
promised in the future to go on with it.
He bowed, and would have gone. "It is Sunday," said she, "you can't
have anything to do?"
"No."
"Shall we go for a walk?"
"Yes, if you.... Oh, yes!"
Quick as an arrow he came down in overcoat and fur cap, and she
appeared in her pretty cloak and the coquettish American hat with
feathers.
"Let us go up the hill and meet the doctor."
They went off. She felt she would have to talk the whole time, so she
began to describe the snow-storms on the American prairies, and what
the consequences could be for both man and beast. He saw how little by
little the colour came to her cheeks, and how her small feet could
hurry along the road. There was no sun that October day, but it was not
cold; the fields were dark and dull, and the foliage was just beginning
to turn; but he saw nothing of all that, he was overcome by the thought
that she had wished to walk with him, she, the most refined, the most
musical woman he knew. For her sake he would so gladly roll in the
dust, shoot himself with a pistol, or jump into the lake. This was no
imaginary woman, it was Ragni Kallem in the red silk dress under the
soft cloak, and the American hat with feathers--the one that all his
companions admired so much. Those eyes gazed at him; and he dared not
go down to their very depths. She walked and talked with him before
everybody. Then he too began to talk, as they went from winter in
America to winter in the forest districts. His father, Pastor Meek's
son Otto, was a doctor and had married a farmer's daughter from a large
farm in the forest district, and lived there like any other peasant.
Together with him Karl had been across the river-bed, away up in the
solitude of the wooded mountains; he had helped at the felling of
timber, the netting of deer, and shooting; he talked of scenery and
impressions of which she had not the slightest idea. He described the
appearance of a black-cock, its courtship, habits, the flapping of its
wings, and its cry so vividly, that she ever after called him the
"black-cock."
They did not meet Kallem, and went back therefore by the same road.
They played their duet over again, and much better than at first; they
wished to practise it well so as to play it some evening when Kallem
was sitting in his office! To him Kallem was the greatest and highest
he knew.
Little by little she gained influence over the "blackcock," and got
accustomed to his oval face, his variable moods, one moment radiant and
beaming, the next down in the depths, hasty and impetuous, then humbly
submissive, with short spells of industry and long ones of "dolce far
niente," very much got up, but at the same time very slovenly; she
began to think him quite good-looking, and had no objection to take him
by the hand. She helped him with his lessons; especially with his
English. His learning was very scrappy, so Kallem proposed that he
should leave school and study privately those things that he was so far
behind in, and he wrote to Karl's father about it at once. After this
Karl often sat in the large room with his books and exercises, played
and read, and read and played--alone and together with her.
In the afternoons they were seen out taking long walks together. As
soon as the snow lay firm on the ground--it had come the beginning of
November--they would go and meet Kallem and drive home with him, each
standing on one of the runners of his sledge. As soon as ever the bay
was frozen they were out on the ice, the quickest and most agile of
all. One sport alone had Kallem and he reserved for themselves, and
that was to get Karl to walk on his hands. With the greatest solemnity
the doctor would lift up his long legs and hold them up, while the
other tried till he could try no longer. At first this went on only in
the gymnasium, but soon they began in the room, in the passage, even on
the stairs, just before dinner, just before supper too: "Up with your
legs, lad!" How Ragni laughed every time he tumbled down again. At last
she too became anxious that he should succeed; but he never could
manage it; he was "too limp." Then it became a matter of honour for
him; and the same for her too. She took a great interest in trying to
make a "man" of him; his limp appearance, his tendency to dream and
idle away his time, annoyed her greatly; she told him so. But he could
not stand much, and soon became cross. Then she punished him by being
very reserved. It was of no use his being altogether crushed and that
he made hundreds of advances, even that he cried; she allowed him to
live in mortal terror of her complaining to Kallem; she helped him with
his work, but without either a word or a look but what belonged to the
subject; she refused to go out with him; she never saw him--until in
Kallem's presence she could again talk as though nothing had happened.
Kallem, of course, knew nothing of all these shadows cast over their
mutual intercourse.
Kallem associated with no one, he had not time. He was obliged to
diminish his practice, so that he took serious steps to come to an
agreement with Dr. Arentz, the young military surgeon, that he should
be his assistant. This was arranged by the end of November, and from
that time he could take more part and interest in the lessons and
mutual occupations which rendered them all the more firmly established.
Karl Meek's father travelled into town on purpose to thank them, and to
invite them to accompany his son up to the forest district for
Christmas. Otto Meek was taller and stouter than his old father; the
face was in more grand style, more truly "Bourbon;" but it was
melancholy, or rather gloomy. Kallem accepted the invitation, and at
once made arrangements with his colleagues to enable him to get away.
But as the time drew near Dr. Kent fell ill, and Ragni was obliged,
however unwillingly, to start alone with Karl; Kallem would follow
them. A fur cloak for driving was bought for her, fur boots, a
foot-muff; a valuable fur cap, too, a present from Karl. She looked
like a Greenlander when she had it on.
Kallem went to the station with them; Ragni had been crying a
little--in honour of its being the first parting since they were
married. As she sat in the train and Kallem stood outside, she was
going to begin again; he had to get in and scold her. As soon as her
tears were checked, he got down again and looked up at Karl, who sat
there happy and healthy. "I say, dear old 'black-cock,' from this time
I shall always say 'thou' to you and call you Karl, for you are a good
fellow!" But Karl jumped right down and threw himself on his neck.
So they departed.
Kallem read a great deal and thought it not altogether unpleasant to be
at peace; latterly they had occupied his time very much. But already
the third day, which was Christmas Eve, it felt lonely; he thought he
would go and take them by surprise; Dr. Kent was better.
On the evening of Christmas Day he was just coming away from Kent and
going up to the hospital, when he saw in the distance a small crowd at
the gate. A horse and sledge were just driving away; the sledge was
full of straw and bed-clothes; some sick person must have been driven
in. He heard also children crying. Who had been hurt? It was Andersen,
the mason--the same man who had greeted Kallem and his wife from up on
the new house, the first day they came to the town. In the winter,
mason Andersen went about and did pedlar business whilst his own trade
was at a stand-still, and in crossing over a forest ridge he had lost
his way, fallen and hurt himself, and had to lie there until, by the
merest chance, he had been found. Kallem found his inconsolable wife
with the deaconesses, and heard from her that her husband, who was an
active man, had made extra haste as it was just before Christmas, and
had wanted to take a short cut so as to reach home for Christmas;
Andersen was always so "fond of his home." But his sight was bad, and
he slipped on his Lapp-shoes and cut and broke his leg, and there he
lay not able to move. That was how he kept Christmas. "We waited and
waited," she said, "and the children too!"
Kallem went up to the patient, who was in bed in a warm room. The big
man with the large brown beard floating over his shirt was altogether
unrecognizable. The eyes were pressed together, the eyelids swollen,
stiff. The mucous membrane of the eye was inflamed, the cornea was
threatened, and as it was painful at the slightest ray of light, there
was probably greater danger at hand. Swollen bluish-red patches on the
face; the fingers of both hands quite white and without feeling; the
backs of the hands twice their usual size and covered with large
blisters full of water. The right leg was broken at the upper end of
the fibula, the fracture went up into the knee-joint; the wound was as
large as a crown-piece, a splinter of bone sticking out like a finger.
Compared with this, all other injury to the foot was of little
consequence.
Andersen could hardly speak, but now and again groaned that his foot
must not be cut off. Kallem answered repeatedly as he helped him, that
the next morning's daylight would decide it. The room was at once
half-darkened, compresses of boron water were laid on his eyes, with
urgent instructions to change constantly; his face was rubbed in with
oil and wrapped in a thin sheet of wadding, the same with the hands;
the wound in the leg was syringed with carbolic water, and a small
bleeding vein was bound up, the wound sprinkled with iodoform and
wrapped round with wadding, and put in a wire bandage. If he should
awake and feel weak, he was to have ether every second hour, and if in
very great pain, then an injection of morphia.
After that he fell asleep; but each time he awoke he complained of
unbearable pain--less from the fracture, but more particularly down the
shin-bone to the back of the foot; he was in constant fear that his
foot would be amputated.
At nine o'clock the next morning, Kallem thought him better in all
respects. His mind was clearer, too, now, but was still much taken up
about his foot--if only it might be spared. He wished to see his good
friend the minister; the wife was there, and she went off at once to
beg the minister to come to him a little before church began. Meanwhile
his eyes were attended to; they were less swollen, but could not bear
the light; atropin was used to them and the compresses changed for a
light bandage. Kallem was on the lookout when Andersen's wife came back
with the minister; he went to meet them. According to his opinion,
Andersen's right leg would undoubtedly have to be exarticulated, that
is, the leg taken off at the knee-joint; but the patient was not to
know that at present. The wife, who until now had taken the accident
with strength of mind and calmness, broke down entirely, so Kallem
dared not let her go into the room; the minister went in alone.
It made a deep impression on the latter to stand beside his sick friend
in this darkened room, and by degrees distinguish the giant lying there
without eyes, with an unrecognizable face, his hands in bags, and to
hear him moaning. But soon he was bound to admire his strength and his
confident faith. Andersen wished them to pray for him in church to-day;
"they all know me," said he. The minister agreed to it, but on the spot
he offered up a heartfelt prayer for him and for all who were dependent
on him. The sick man was much cheered by this prayer; he whispered: "I
have made a covenant with God about my foot," then lay quite quiet
whilst the minister pronounced St. Paul's blessing over him. Within an
hour from then Dr. Arentz came, and Andersen was carried into the
operating-room. They told him that they intended to chloroform him so
as thoroughly to examine his injuries; and as he was still suffering
such intolerable pain, he agreed to it at once; "but my foot is not to
be cut off."
A closer examination proved that the upper extremity of the fibula was
splintered up crossways into the knee-joint; unfortunately, too, one of
the larger veins lay pressed between the fractured extremities, so that
its pouch was filled by a large thrombus, which stretched up a few
inches of the thigh.
As a matter of course, the leg had to be amputated; it was done in a
quarter of an hour.
All those who were to help in nursing him were strictly enjoined to let
him believe that his leg had been spared. All excitement was to be
avoided, so that there might be no possibility of his raising himself
in bed and changing his position; if a thrombus were started, it would
be all over with him. He was laid in a wire bandage from the hip-joint
and down to the foot of the bed, the stump was wrapped in a bandage of
carbolic gauze and jute, and fastened at the outer side to a block.
When he was in bed again they roused him, but impressed upon him to
keep perfectly quiet. They gave him wine, but in tablespoonfuls, so
that he need not move; in the same way he had some bouillon (beef-tea)
and the yolk of an egg; soon he fell asleep again.
As soon as Kallem had changed his coat, he went down to the
deaconesses' room where the wife was waiting, and told her the whole
case, together with the danger threatening if Andersen were in any way
agitated. He grew quite fond of her broad, intelligent face with the
eagle's nose; seldom had he come across a purer strength of character.
"Should this end badly," said he, "you have still many friends."
"God lives," whispered she.
Between three and four o'clock Andersen woke up, took more spoonfuls of
wine, beef-tea, eggs, milk; he assured them that he felt well enough,
except that his shin-bone pained him; occasionally too he felt a pain
in his heel. Toward evening his vital powers were much stronger, and he
wished to see the minister again. Just as his wife was going to fetch
him, he came of his own accord. Kallem had impressed on him that he was
to pretend that the leg was still on.
It was evident at once that Andersen just lay there and thought of
nothing else. "I think now I can say that God has heard my prayer,"
said he; "therefore must He be thanked in a fitting manner."
The minister was touched by this, and felt called upon to give hearty
thanks that the leg had proved to be a pledge of God's mercy to the
sick man, and had allied him still more closely with his Saviour.
Andersen seemed to be considering the matter; at last he said: "Pray
now that He will spare the leg afterwards too."
What could make him think of that?
"Oh, because I have so much pain in it."
But shortly before he thought his prayers had been heard?
"Yes; but it is a good thing to pray without ceasing."
The minister tried to refuse; but the patient at once became restless,
and his wife whispered meekly that Andersen must be allowed his way in
this. So the minister yielded. But he did it more on her responsibility
than on his own, and it passed over. Kallem had just gone home when the
minister came to him there, very pale, and told him what had taken
place. "I will not do that over again," said he.
"I can assure you, you have done a good deed." The minister stood with
his overcoat and hat on, his hand on the door-handle; Kallem's tone and
words offended him. "Through truth alone can we draw near the God of
truth. Good-bye!"
The doctor followed him out: "You believe, then, that if you now tell
Andersen his leg has been cut off, that God can save him?"
"Yes," answered the minister, angrily, without turning round.
It was impossible for Kallem to leave now. He wrote a lengthily
detailed letter to Ragni and promised to come as soon as he could.
The next morning he found everything in the most desirable order; but
enforced the greatest quiet in his position in bed, and that he was not
to talk so much. In the afternoon Andersen wished to take the
sacrament, but the deaconess answered that he could not stand so much
agitation. "I wish to renew my covenant with God," replied Andersen.
They could not do otherwise but listen to this; but they dared not
consent without first asking the doctor, and he had been sent for in
the morning to attend a confinement. The deaconess consulted with the
porter, who had been there so long that he was all-powerful. Andersen
repeated his wish to him too in the most decided way, and the porter
thought it could not be avoided; he would take the responsibility on
himself. Shortly after the minister and he were together in the
porter's room to take the chill off the wine; the weather had changed
and it was a bitterly cold evening. They both went upstairs. Andersen
was glad to hear who it was who came; "I knew it," said he.
The minister asked if there were anything special?
"Yes, there was."
The others left the room. Then Andersen said that once, when he was
young, he had given a boy a rupture with the same foot that now was
injured. It was surely not on that account that he was now punished?
"No."
"No, but for all that he had been thinking so much about it, and had a
longing to take the sacrament."
There was nothing else the matter?
"No."
The minister begged him to collect his thoughts, now they would pray
together. Andersen was silent while this went on. After the prayer the
minister gave him absolution from sins, and said that now he would give
him the bread and wine.
"Oh, wait a little! Now I have received absolution from my sins, now
there is a clean page. Let us write down the leg on that, that it may
be read in heaven. I feel so happy, yes, I am so truly happy!"
"The whole body is included in the covenant, dear Andersen."
"Yes, but this time the Lord is to promise my wife and children that my
leg will get quite well. Come now!"
He stretched out his frost-bitten hands.
The perspiration broke out on the minister's face. "I cannot do this,"
whispered he, quite unconsciously.
Andersen's mouth quivered, his bandaged hands fumbled for something; he
raised them to his eyes, but they were met by the bandage. "We cannot
question the justice of God," said the minister; "supposing now that
what we wish for is impossible?"
Was there something in the minister's voice, or was it the actual
opposition that made Andersen suspicious?
Without answering, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and he raised
himself up, did it quickly, flung the bedclothes aside and fell back on
his pillow, put his hand on his chest, crying out that he was
suffocating, his breathing was alarming. A clot of blood (thrombus) had
gone up into the lung.
The minister had put down what he was holding in his hands, and
hastened to the door where the porter and the others were waiting
outside; they ran for Doctor Arentz and Doctor Kent, but before either
of them arrived Kallem had come back. The minister had left by then;
Andersen died that same night.