The porter was the first who had to pay for it. He was dismissed that
same day.
Then Kallem went down to Andersen's widow. "You are a very clever,
capable woman. If you like you shall have the place as porter and
steward at the hospital. Accept it and begin at once to-morrow to pack
up and move in with the children, you will have less time to think
about your sorrow. Have you a good servant-girl?"
"Yes."
"Take her with you. More will not be necessary. Everything else is
ready, and the deaconesses will help you."
The upper deaconess got a sound rating; but nothing further. She was to
atone for her mistake by doing all that lay in her power to help mother
Andersen.
He made no effort to see the minister, nor the minister to see him. He
heard from others that he had been ill, which he thought likely enough.
A few days later Kallem met Josephine in the street; she pretended not
to see him.
The effect produced by this incident is not easily described. The whole
town was in a tumult. There must be something peculiar about belief
altogether, when belief in a lie could save a man from certain death.
Of course the porter and his large family came down upon the minister
and his wife like a heavy beam. Josephine had to provide money for
starting them in a bookseller's shop, much more money than she wished
to part with.
From that time Kallem had a true and faithful enemy in that man.
Directly after all this Kallem travelled up to the wood district. He
gave no notice of his coming; he came driving up from the station to
the farm one moonlight evening just as the yard and a good part of the
road were filled with sledges; some had people in them, some were
empty; old and young, all were going on a sleighing expedition; they
were to start from here and come back to the farm to dance.
No one noticed him coming from the station; they thought he belonged to
the party. It was only when he stood in the passage where the people of
the house and their guests were dressing that several of them saw he
was a stranger; but they did not think much about that; many fur-clad
figures were tramping out and in. Ragni had just got her fur on when
she felt herself embraced from behind. She gave a scream and looked up.
What delight that was! And Karl, who stood aside in a corner struggling
to pull on his long boots--without a sound or word he pulled them off
again, his fur too, flung his legs up in the air and away he went on
his hands to greet Kallem; at last he had acquired the art! The father
stood by with his thick hair and his melancholy face; he introduced
Kallem to his wife, a pale, quiet creature; she spoke in the dialect of
that district and had a weak voice--about all that Kallem remarked in
her. He had now no time for anything but just to join them.
There was much neighing of horses, and shouting, and little screams,
and laughter until "Ready!" was sung out down all the line and the
first sledge with a lady in it and a fur-man standing behind dashed
off; then sledge upon sledge, broad ones and narrow ones, sledges with
one horse and sledges with two horses. All along the snowy field in the
moonlight there was a long waving line with blackish-gray dots on it
wending toward the wood, while soon re-echoed through the trees the
sound of bells, dogs, laughing and talking. Some began to sing, others
joined in; but it was impossible to keep time, so they gave it up.
Kallem sat in a broad sledge with his wife. She looked so sweet wrapped
in all her furs that he several times tried to kiss her--a very
difficult task. What a lot she had experienced! As he listened to her
it became clear to him that it was only now she was enjoying her youth.
He had never seen anyone so happy, had never known that she had such a
longing for enjoyment in her. The same thing struck him later in the
evening, as they danced, played games, chattered, played, ate; she was
enjoying herself now for many past years. Whether it was a ponderous
wood-owner who took her round her slim waist and carried her off so
that she barely touched the floor with the tips of her toes, or whether
she caught hold of one of the children and waltzed away with it, or of
Karl, or some other youth from school or university whirled her round
the reverse way like a top--there was always the same delighted face,
the same zealous eagerness. The dancing and games went on in a corner
room reaching right across the house; but many kept streaming out from
there and into the other rooms, yes, even into the kitchen over in the
other corner; the door into it was open. A few elderly gentleman tried
to have a game of cards in a corner, but had to give it up; they were
perpetually being called away to dance, they too. Old and young, all
were equally happy.
At eleven o'clock the next day Ragni was still asleep, and when she
came downstairs about noon, rather tired and confused and much
astonished that Kallem had got up without her hearing him, she was
informed that he had gone away! A telegram from Dr. Kent, who was ill
again, made it impossible for him to remain longer. A few hasty lines,
scribbled while he ate his breakfast, comforted her a little. He wrote
that he would not wake her as she had been up so late the night before,
still less would he have her with him; but never had he felt a greater
pleasure than in seeing her so happy.
The first thing Kallem found when he got home was an invitation to a
ball from the "club." And he decided to accept it. The invitation was
in his sister's hand-writing (she was one of the patronesses) and it
was to "Dr. and Mrs. Kallem." Dear me!
Should he telegraph for Ragni? He decided to let her stay where she
was; she could not be better off.
Meanwhile he had to do with a very serious matter. His first visit the
same evening was to a poor woman down in the town, Sissel Aune, a
washerwoman and mother of a large family; she was in bed with
inflammation of the lungs. It was particularly on her account that Kent
had telegraphed. The seventh day had passed without any crisis, and
when this night was half through, the ninth day would be over too.
Would she survive it? Both upper and lower tips of the lung were
affected. The heart was weak, the pulse very feeble, and there were
other bad symptoms. Should he try to brace up the heart with atropin
for the last struggle? He had never tried that remedy in a similar
case, but it seemed reasonable enough. Wherever he went and whatever he
did, this question haunted him. The five children were over with Sören
Pedersen and his wife Aase; those two were capital in such emergencies.
The second time he went there he stayed; it was a wrestling match with
death.
It was a small but clean room with three beds. A miserable geranium
in the window and a portrait of King Charles XV. on horseback, in
frame and glass, hanging on the wall, a few photographs fastened up
with pins, and beside them a violin with three strings, the fourth
hanging down loose. The poor creature who lay there had once been a
good-looking woman, should she recover she would still be hard-working
and active. But now she was wasted away to skin and bone, her worn-out
hard-working hands resting on the ragged sheet. But the man who sat
beside her was not strong like she was; no, he was indeed a poor weak
thing! A good-natured face, so far in keeping with the violin on the
wall that perhaps a string had cracked in himself before the one now
hanging there had given way. Tired and worn out by night-watching, he
sat there quite by himself, not because the neighbours were chary with
their help, but because the one who had last sat there was resting now
until the last struggle should begin. It had touched Kallem to see that
the neighbours kept watch on each side of the house, wishing to prevent
Christmas merry-makers from passing that way; they relieved guard the
whole night through. He heard this from the woman who came again about
eleven o'clock to help. There was not much to be done except for the
doctor, and he did not know whether he dare do anything.
After the first injection of one-third of a milligramme the pulse was
raised. Kallem felt some hope, but dare not send it on to the imploring
eyes of the husband; it might deceive him. The pulse kept steady for a
couple of hours, then it fell; a fresh dose and it rose again. He sat
there watching her in great anxiety. He had a book with him and tried
to hold it under the lamp, now and again he took in a little of it, but
it was speedily forgotten. Not a word was spoken, but there were groans
and sighs. The last shouts outside in the distance, the last sound of
bells died away, the last door had long since been shut, the night was
gray and still. Five children, the eldest not more than ten years old,
were about to lose their provider, and the man who sat there, sometimes
tapping his knees, then stroking them, or resting his elbows on them
and clasping his hands together, and staring first at her, then at the
doctor, alas, he too would lose his provider.
Each time the pulse grew weaker a fresh dose was administered, and it
invariably strengthened the pulse so that it certainly seemed as though
he were doing the right thing. But the crisis would not end; it was
past midnight, and according to what they said the ninth day was over,
and still the same wearing struggle was going on. He got up from his
seat in hope and fear, and sat down again, took his book, held it up,
laid it down--and went to take her temperature. Her strength was fast
ebbing away; the husband saw it in his face and he struggled to keep
back his tears; the doctor warned him to be quiet. One more trial, and
soon after she fell asleep. But was that really sleep? He listened. The
others looked at him and he at them. He left the bedside for a little
while to return to it with fresh powers of judging; it was genuine,
quiet sleep! He turned round to the husband, who read it in his face
and a reflection of the light of life flitted over from the doctor's to
his face. He got up, again his feelings overcame him--it must break out
now. "Go to bed!" whispered the doctor. The man flung himself down on
one of the beds with his face buried in the pillow--then he gave way
completely.
Whispered injunctions to the woman who sat by the stove and who now got
up. Kallem promised to be there again later on in the morning; she
helped him on with his overcoat, he quietly opened the door for himself
and shut it again as quietly. The dull, gray weather had turned to a
heavy fall of snow. Not a single light was to be seen in any window,
with the exception of that one watching over the newly-kindled spark of
life. As Kallem went past the saddler's shop he could not resist
knocking at the door; but they were sound asleep in there. He knocked
again, for he felt sure that they had given up both their bed and the
warm room to the children, and were lying down themselves in the shop.
He was quite right. "Who's there?" was asked, with Sören Pedersen's
Funen accent. "When the children awake, tell them that their mother
will get better."
"That is delightful," returned the man from Funen, and behind him could
be heard Aase's north country voice: "What is that he is saying?"
Kallem replied: "Come to dinner with me and bring the children with
you!"