The next day Kallem was coming away from Sissel Aune, the washerwoman.
He had been annoyed with her husband, who, in the abundance of his joy,
had got his violin strung again, played at all the merry-makings and
feasts, and made himself quite drunk. He wished to try with him what he
had tried with Sören Pedersen, and he went round there in order, with
their help, to get hold of the lyrical Aune. But he found "wife Aase"
alone in the shop, occupied in helping one of Sissel's children up into
a saddle; four of them were in the shop, the fifth was lying in the
next room. Sören Pedersen was not at home; he was with Kristen Larssen,
who was ill. Kristen Larssen? Yes, he had had dreadful vomitings, at
last nothing but blood came up; but he would not see or speak to the
doctor. Kallem determined to go there at once, but first of all he
would have given a little help toward the keep of the children here,
but it was refused. That very day Aase had sold two sets of harness and
a bed with a spring mattress; they now had in the workshop a niece of
Aase's, a woman who was also called Aase; to distinguish them from one
another, Sören called the latter "Aase's Aase."
Kallem found Kristen Larssen in bed; he had some work in his hairy
hands, and Sören Pedersen was reading aloud to him. In the corner
between the window and the table, pressed closely to the wall, sat his
wife, knitting; her kerchief was pulled so far forward that the face
was darkened. There was a very bad smell in the room. Kallem was much
alarmed when he saw the sick man, he seemed thinner and more ashen gray
than usual.
"Have you been eating many rich things this Christmas?"
"Well, we had some brawn."
"Have you been ill in this way before?"
"Oh, yes, now and then."
"Never as bad as this time," said she who was knitting.
"Do you feel any pain now?"
"Not just now. But it comes and goes."
"Is it in the chest and stomach?"
"Yes."
"And does the pain come often?"
"Oh, yes."
"Oftener and oftener every day," was heard coming from the corner.
Kallem examined him and found a swelling the size of a walnut in the
pit of the stomach; Kristen Larssen knew of its existence too.
"Has this grown larger?"
"Oh, yes."
"It has grown very quickly," remarked she in the corner.
Kallem felt himself grow hotter and hotter. Why had he let himself be
put off by the other's refusal of his help? The wife's eyes followed
him about, her knitting-pins moved more slowly, she seemed to grow
quite stiff; the doctor tried to keep a quiet countenance, but she was
not to be taken in. Kristen Larssen's cold eyes also followed him about
inquiringly. Kallem told them to open the register on the hearth and
leave it open the whole time, day and night; their fire-wood would
suffer, but that could not be helped.
Sören Pedersen got up and opened it with great eagerness. Both Kristen
Larssen and his wife looked disapprovingly at him; the fire-wood did
not belong to him.
To gain time and calmness Kallem took up the books that lay there; they
were some of his own English ones, and there was also a work on
mechanics; then he began staring at the little toy the sick man had in
his hands.
"What is that?"
Sören Pedersen explained that it was an improvement on the
knitting-machine that Kristen Larssen had invented. As he went on with
the explanation little by little, Larssen's fingers touched the wheels
and the pins with so dexterous and soft a touch that it was easy to see
the power of his mind and his love for his work.
All over the room, on the tool-chest, on the floor, up on the
table, were piled up things for mending, from watches and guns to
sewing-machines, coffee-mills, locks, and broken tools. Kallem's
revolver had been taken out of its case, and he heard now that it was
the only thing that Larssen had repaired since Christmas. All this talk
of Sören's was a respite for Kallem; he knew now how he would manage.
He spoke about diet and about medicine to relieve the pain, and asked
Sören Pedersen to go with him to fetch the latter.
Hardly were they out in the street before Kallem said that there was no
hope for Kristen Larssen; this was undoubtedly cancer in the stomach,
and very far advanced too.
The self-sufficient cunning in Sören Pedersen's round shining face
disappeared by all sorts of back ways, his face was a blank whose doors
and windows all were open.
"I shall soon be able to give a decided opinion and then you, who know
him better than I do, will have to tell him." Kallem quite forgot to
speak about Aune.
Within a very few days the whole of the little town knew that Kristen
Larssen, the jack-of-all-trades, was dying of cancer in the stomach; it
was even in the papers. There they called him "an inventor and
mechanician, well-known in our districts." Not a house did Kallem go
to, nor did he stop to speak to anyone in the street, but they all
asked after Kristen Larssen. When he went to see the sick man for the
first time after Pedersen had told him what was the matter, there was
not a word said about it. Larssen lay there with his invention in his
hand, rather weak after a very severe bout of pain. His beard had been
allowed to grow; he looked awful. His wife was knitting, but rather
nearer to the bed. The English books had been put away, but that was
the only outward sign that all thoughts of the future had been given
up.
From there Kallem went round by Sören Pedersen's, who told Kallem that
the former porter at the hospital had been at Larssen's to try and
convert him; he would not like him to go straight to hell. Larssen had
only answered that he did not wish to be detained; he was occupied with
something which was very near its completion. Then came the minister.
He began in a nicer and more careful way; but perhaps just on that
account did Larssen lose all patience; he gave vent to all his
collected bitterness in words that stung, and the woman with the
knitting-pins and the projecting kerchief placed herself near the door.
The minister understood and went away meekly; he had never been the
same man since that affair with mason Andersen. But among his
congregation this caused a good deal of scandal.
After a meeting of the young men's association their choir assembled
together outside Kristen Larssen's house and began to sing a psalm,
very softly. Others joined them, but all quite quietly. It happened
that it was just during one of the sick man's fits of pain; he said it
was like the constant pricking of thousands of pins--and whilst he was
in such pain the singing only irritated him. So Kallem had to interfere
and forbid all such doings. Two lay-preachers, the former porter and
one other went to the doctor at the hospital to explain to him that it
had all been done in the best intention, and that it would not do to
keep God's word from a dying man. Kallem lost his temper and answered
rudely.
When he was down at Kristen Larssen's at the usual time in the evening
he was certain he saw faces outside at the window. The sick man was
just asking the doctor how long he had to live and if the pain would go
on increasing, so Kallem took no further notice of what was outside
except just asking to have something hung before the window. He was
deliberating whether he should tell Kristen Larssen the whole truth,
and he came to the conclusion that he might do so. He told him that it
might last two or three months longer, and that the pain would become
more frequent, although not every day equally often or equally violent.
Larssen's wife stood by listening.
No one was standing by the window when Kallem came out, but a little
farther up the street a lady was walking about slowly, as if she were
waiting for somebody. When she saw him, she came straight up to him; it
was his sister.
"Was it you looking in at the window down at Kristen Larssen's?"
"I!" said she, and he saw her face turn red under her hood; "it is not
my habit to peep in at other people's windows."
"Excuse me; but I really saw somebody do it."
"Well, yes, I did do it,"
"Do you know them?"
"Yes. But I have come to speak to you, Edward. I knew you generally
came about this time."
"What do you want with me?"
It was only now he noticed how agitated she was.
"Is it true you have said you will take the responsibility on yourself
of Larssen's going to hell?"
"I don't believe in hell one atom."
"No, but did you say that?"
"I don't know. No, I don't think I did."
"Well, you see, others have a different opinion to you. And they feel
indignant when they hear such words. You will lose all you have gained
here by your work if you talk like that, I can tell you that." Kallem
felt this to be so thoroughly like her old self.
"Yes, I daresay it is wrong to say such things. But by heaven, it is
wrong to torment a man like Kristen Larssen, too. As long as he has his
powers of reasoning, no one will get him to believe in hell; so they
may as well leave him alone."
"That is not what they want with him either."
"Indeed, what is it then?"
"You know just as well as I do, Edward, and it is for your own sake I
beg you not to scoff at earnest and loving people."
"I have no wish to scoff; I only say that they can spare themselves the
trouble, and spare him too."
"He is too cold."
"Cold or warm, such things depend on one's disposition and manner of
living."
"But people can live themselves into a state of coldness of the soul,
and that is what he has done."
"May-be; but I know somebody who is warm enough, and who thinks exactly
in the same way as Kristen Larssen. So it is not that."
"Well, what is it, then?"
"Thousands of things. She whom I allude to always puts her thoughts
into pictures, and from the time she saw a very old drawing of the
Trinity, a large body with three heads, and heard that the head in the
middle was son to the two at the sides, the father and mother (for you
know that the Holy Ghost began by being a woman), from that time she
never could believe in the Trinity; she laughed at it. And as I said
before, she is warm enough."
"Fie!" hissed out Josephine, in all the strength of her indignation;
"she may be warm, but she cannot be pure!" Kallem felt a stab at his
heart; she was aiming at Ragni! His sister was cruel, and looked cruel
like in her school-girl days, and he too became again the boy of those
days; bang! he gave her a box on the ear. It hit the hood, but it was
heartily meant.
With flaming eyes she flew at him like in the days when they used to
fight. She whispered: "I think you----!" she trembled with rage and
scorn, then she turned full of contempt and left him.
Had anyone seen them? They were alone in the street. He felt an
indescribable fear; this might perhaps be visited on Ragni.
Kallem thought that the words "not pure," coming from Josephine's
mouth, were a hit at what had happened in former years; that was why he
was so indignant. But what would he not have felt if he had known that
she was rather aiming at their present life? When the minister and his
wife came home and kept away from them, the reason was partly that
Kristen Larssen, the scoffer and blasphemer, was received in Kallem's
house, that Ragni gave him English lessons, and that Kallem had long
conversations with him. For the majority of the congregation Kristen
Larssen appeared to be a regular devil, and when any new arrivals, both
men and women, sought his company (like the Sören Pedersens), it was a
great offence. Soon after Karl Meek came to live with them, and from
that time Ragni was never seen anywhere except in his society. To
crown all, they travelled up together to the wood district; this was
too much when it a was a question of a divorced wife, who was both a
free-thinker and might be accused of breaking her marriage bonds.
Josephine had come with the well-meant intention of warning her
brother. If she had been allowed to talk to him quietly, she would have
told him all this; she was not afraid, and she was sincerely fond of
him. But now she went back branded by his scorn.
Then all her pent-up passion burst forth! First and foremost, in
bitterest hatred of her who separated brother from sister; but by
degrees it turned to hatred of everything that caused it. The death of
Andersen, the mason--the more her husband was upset by it, the more
noticeable was the contrast between them--and at a particularly
unfortunate time. All that Tuft complained of in himself was like
making so many concessions to her, and now he intended to put an end to
it. It could not have happened at a worse time.
In the house next to theirs lived a dried up old woman, the minister's
mother; she was always protesting against the other house. She never
put her foot inside it at any party, and seldom otherwise except for
family prayers, and when she dined there on church festival days. Her
daughter-in-law's manner, her dancing, her dressing, and her friends
were an abomination to her, and the minister's perpetual love-making
she thought ungodly. The little boy became her spy. Josephine was
sitting one summer day on the other side of the open door, and heard
her questioning him as to who had been there the day before, what they
had had for dinner, and if they had drunk much wine, and how many
different kinds. "Grandmother asks me if mother is going out to-day,
too," said he one day. "And she asks me what father says to mother when
she comes home, and if father slept upstairs with us."
Josephine took it very quietly. But the knowledge that her
mother-in-law was at the bottom of all the minister's religious
admonitions, did not make her more inclined to give in. She intended to
live as she thought fit; he might do the same.
For him, it was the struggle of his youth, from the time that he for
her sake had given up the idea of being a missionary and there was
always the same result; he was so much in love that he was not master
of himself. But not because she enticed him--just the contrary! When
she sometimes became tired of him as of everything else--for there were
sudden changes in her moods--it was then that she appeared to him most
lovely and most to be desired, like the women of the old legends. He
could make no resistance then.
But the great task that God had imposed on him by the sick-bed of his
friend, that showed him what he had neglected in his life; now he would
feel the fruits of remission.
Whilst he had, after much self-examination, made up his mind that he
could speak to his wife, she had been keeping all her struggles secret.
After the last battle, she had at once decided what was the fairest
thing to do--revenge was what she always called justice--but soon, too,
it became clear to her that her brother had seen through her own
dubious conduct. From the moment she had danced with him, she felt that
no one thought so much of her as he; but since their last meeting, she
had discovered that he despised her religious transactions. Indeed, he
had every right to do so. She had never really counted the cost; she
had always been content if her husband's faith and works were
appreciated, if only she might be left in peace. Things could not
continue like this; her brother's contempt was unbearable to her.
There were morning and evening prayers in the minister's house;
grandmamma always came in, after her the maid-servants, and then the
minister. Josephine did not always appear at morning prayers, and if
they had any guests, evening prayers were given up. The minister always
either began or ended with a prayer suitable to the occasion. At this
period these prayers were lengthy and earnest, so Josephine stayed away
altogether.
These solemn unctuous debates were her detestation, in public even more
so than in private. The latter generally took place near bed-time, when
their little boy was asleep and family worship was over; if she knew it
was coming, she went to bed; he then seldom followed her; it was
slippery ground to tread on up there. But this evening he did come. She
had heard him moving in the study, and she now heard him on the
staircase. She did not lock her door, and she left the big lamp
burning. But when he took hold of the handle, she exclaimed: "You must
not come in."
"Why not?"
"Not as long as I am undressing."
"I will wait."
He went down again, and she began to undress slowly. Their bed-room lay
over the study and looked out to the garden; to the right, through a
curtain, was her dressing-room, just over the spare-room; to the left a
door that led to another dressing room. Beside this was a staircase
leading from the passage by the study. She could hear him coming up for
the second time; she was now in bed. The door was in the middle of the
room, just opposite the windows; their beds stood to the right of the
door, hers nearest to it. The little boy slept at the other side, near
the dressing-room.
He did not inquire again whether he might come in, but just opened the
door. She lay in her white nightdress, her black hair done up in the
usual knot; her head was propped by her left hand as if she were about
to raise herself.
He sat down on the edge of her bed; she at once moved slightly
backwards, as if she did not like to come in contact with him. He
looked very black. "Josephine, you avoid me; it is not right of you; I
require comfort and advice. The old trouble is upon me, Josephine, the
day of reckoning cannot be postponed." He looked at her sorrowfully;
she looked back silently at him. "You know what is the matter with me.
I live here at your side in affluence and comfort, and amongst my
congregation in earnest worship. But a Christian does not grow in grace
in this way. The other day I was weighed in the balance and found
wanting." He hid his face in his hands and sat silently for some
time, as though he were praying. "Dearest Josephine!"--he raised his
head--"help me! I must make an entire change in everything around me; I
must live and work in a different way."
"How so?"
"I am not a true minister, and you are not truly a minister's wife; the
following of our own wills leads us astray!"
"All these attempts of yours, Ole, to lead a different life commence
with me and my house. Pray begin with yourself! I am as I wish to be;
you can act as you think rightly yourself. As to our home, we only live
as people of our means and tastes should do; if this does not suit you,
well, you have your own private apartment to be in; you can arrange
things as you like there. Should you prefer living separately, pray do
so!"
"Yes," he answered, "I mean there must be a change in everything, even
down to the household and the very bill of fare."
"I have not the slightest regard for these everlasting complaints of
yours."
"That is because you do not understand the spiritual meaning."
She became quite pale. "I only know one thing," she answered him,
harshly, "that is, I refused to be as sensual as you were, and that was
the beginning of it all."
"You never will let me hear the last of that. But I am not ashamed to
confess that the first crisis arose from the cravings of nature and
your resistance; that opened my eyes. I am not ashamed to confess this.
For when I proposed a total reformation----"
"And pray, did I forbid this?" she said, interrupting him. "Yes, I
forbade you to begin trying your reformations on me; try them on
yourself, Ole!"
He got up. "You don't understand me, nor do you understand God's will
with regard to us. I still hold that there is a want of spirituality
about you, Josephine; you have never given yourself up entirely to
repentance and prayer, you never consecrated your life to all absorbing
worship; your heart is not set on things above, only on the things of
this world. You wish to be a Christian, but you do nothing to attain
thereto. Why do you not answer? Won't you try? Now, together with me?
Josephine? Oh, how I do suffer, also on your account!" He seated
himself humbly beside her again.
"Do you mean that I am to accompany you to the Zulus?" she asked,
coldly.
"I mean that we should perfect ourselves together in all good works,
dear Josephine, and that then God will direct our steps."
"I can't listen to idle talk," she answered; "say right out what you
wish us to do!"
"We are to live amongst and for the poor, through faith in Jesus."
"Listen to me, Ole; I know how to do that better than you do. You have
never watched at night by the sickbed of some poor person; I have
often. And it is I who started the 'mutual association.'" (This was the
name of an association consisting of some of the well-to-do women of
the town, where every member bound themselves to provide work and help
for their own special poor; Josephine was their leader, she distributed
the work.)
"Yes," her husband assented, "you have administrative talent--like your
brother. But living in luxury one's self, and now and then
condescending to visit the poor, it is not that; no, one should live
amongst and entirely for them."
"Shall we sell the house? Shall we move down to the poor part of the
town? Tell me what your wishes are!"
"If God chooses us to do so, yes! But it must be done by and through
faith, for Jesus' sake, Josephine, otherwise it is of no avail."
She answered not a word.
"What do you say to this, Josephine? Do you not wish us to try and lead
a true Christian life?" his eyes were beseeching, his hand sought hers;
"Josephine!"
She withdrew her hand. "No, you know, I cannot see why I should make my
own life unpleasant; it would benefit no one, and only injure me."
"Do not say that! If only we could try! To believe in Jesus, and to
live together only for the good of others."
"What nonsense! I can't help it, if it hurts your feelings; it is
rubbish to say that one requires to believe in Jesus so as to help the
poor. I don't care, I _will_ say what I think."
"If you believed in Jesus, you would understand the reason why."
"I never said I did not believe in Jesus."
"Ah, Josephine, this kind of faith is worthless! You can't even fathom
what real faith is? I am answerable for this shortcoming of yours; I
who live year out and year in with you, and have got no further!" He
bent down toward her; there were tears in his eyes. "How happy we might
be together if you would but humble yourself before God--you who have
such strength--and whom I love so dearly." He tried to put his arm
gently round her.
"Faugh!" she exclaimed, and sat up.
He jumped up as though he were stung. She sat with flaming eyes--soon
laid down again, both arms under her head; her bosom heaved, she was
much agitated. "I do not know whether God will permit us to continue
living together under these circumstances," he said.
"No, do just as you choose."
He turned from her, for he thought it beneath him to answer. The little
boy groaned in his sleep and tossed uneasily. Tuft looked at him; the
little fellow lay with his arm under him and half-open mouth; Tuft knew
the forehead well, it was his father's over again, and was like his own
too, the hair, the shape of the little hands and fingers, even to the
very nails. But the day might come when even the boy would no longer be
his own, if this continued.
"No, Josephine, things shall not continue in this way. God help us
both; the struggle shall not end thus."
Behind the excessive goodness of his heart, all the breadth and
strength of his nature became evident; she felt this. It moved her
deeply. She heard him wandering up and down in his study, restless, but
with a set purpose. She could not sleep.
The day after Kristen Larssen had become aware of the nature of his
disease, he committed suicide. It shocked people dreadfully; he haunted
the place; hardly anyone dare pass the house. A rumor got abroad that
Kallem had lent Larssen his revolver for this purpose; but it was put
an end to by his wife, by Sören Pedersen, and by Kallem's own
testimony.
Kristen Larssen had retired from this world without warning and without
thanks. He had said to his wife that sudden death would be best. But
neither had they come to any mutual agreement or reckoning, nor had
they taken leave of each other. He had begged her to go and fetch Sören
Pedersen, and whilst she was away, had crept out of bed and, with his
usual cold-bloodedness, had done the deed.
The regular funeral rites were refused to him; a corner by the north
wall was selected, and three men worked hard to get a grave dug. The
funeral day was unusually cold; some there were who fancied they saw
the finger of God in that too. At quite an unusual hour, namely in the
afternoon, Kristen Larssen was lowered into his grave without the toll
of a bell, without priest or psalm. The most remarkable among the few
people who were present was Aune, for he was drunk and fussing about
everywhere--so thinly clad that it made one shiver to look at the poor
wretch, blue with cold. Sören Pedersen told him several times to keep
quiet; but to no avail. The only visible part of Sören's shining face
was his nose, eyes, and a bit of the cheeks; all the rest was covered
by a huge woollen comforter, wound round and round, and by a fur cap
drawn well down to the eyes; his great big hands were in a pair of huge
woollen gloves, of the kind that fishermen use for rowing; and his feet
were in fur boots. Sören Pedersen had grown rather stout, his greatcoat
was somewhat too tight; he looked like a lobster with all these
excrescences; Aase, in a little cloak and hood, kept by the side of the
widow, who stood there tall and thin, in Laplander shoes and loose
ample dress, as wide at the top as at the bottom; she wore a heavy
woollen shawl over her head; she evidently wished to conceal her face.
Aune slouched round to tell her that he had been "to the station with
her luggage." And now "he had shut up the house; he had the key in his
pocket;" he took it out and showed it. The poor widow was to go direct
from here to the station, and stay with some of her relations who lived
at a few miles distance; and later, go on to her native town. Besides
these four there were two of the sextons present; one of them stood
with short coat and mittens, leaning on his spade, incessantly chewing
tobacco; the other was almost covered by a brown beard, crook-backed,
and dim-eyed.
There was a tightly packed snow-drift under the wall; Karl Meek and
Ragni came along together and got up on to the snow-drift. They were
all waiting for Kallem, who had been detained, but now came along at
full speed. He took off his cap to the widow, and was greeted by the
others as he went up to the grave. He wished to say a few words, but
waited to see if nothing else would happen. As nothing did happen, he
said:
"I am not acquainted with the past life of the man we are about to
bury; neither did I know him well personally. He had different
religious convictions to those of the people he lived amongst, and he
has been punished for them. His and his wife's object in life was to be
able to go to free America." (At the word America there was a general
movement amongst the handkerchiefs.) "He tried to teach himself
English; for him it would have been like getting wings.
"But having said this much, and when I add that he was the cleverest
man I have met with here, I have said about all I know of him.
"Therefore I cannot join in judging him. I often had the impression,
whilst we sat together, that he was always cold. The cold around him
had chilled him to the bone.
"It so happens that only we five or six people are here to take a last
farewell of him. Yet all those who benefited by his ingenious work,
most particularly those whose life has been eased by his clever
inventions, thereby affording them greater enjoyment--all those owe him
thanks, which I am here to express."
A deep stillness ensued; one could hear the snow creak when anyone
moved; but no one attempted to leave. At last Aune reeled forwards to
the edge of the grave. "Well, at least I will thank you for the violin!
Oh--and the forgiveness of sins, oh, oh, fare thee well!"--within an
ace he had fallen into the grave. In great disgust Sören Pedersen
seized him by the arm, turned to his wife, and said: "Dearest Aase, you
say the Lord's Prayer so beautifully; let us have it!" And she stepped
forward, pulled off her mittens, and folded her hands. The men took off
their caps and bowed their heads; and then Aase repeated the Lord's
Prayer.
The first heavy lumps of earth were then thrown on to the coffin; it
sounded as though it were being crushed.
Kristen Larssen's wife came up to Kallem. He could now observe her
close by, suffused in tears, worn out by want of sleep; she had lost
nearly all her strength, and her last hope; but she took his hand with
a firm grasp, gazing at him with sorrow-stricken eyes, she nodded with
suppressed feeling, she could not speak. No one could have received
warmer thanks. Ragni was much startled when she likewise took her hand,
for she knew she did not deserve it. The widow hurried past the others
and went down toward the town, Sören Pedersen and Aase had much
difficulty in keeping up with her. But Ragni clung to Kallem's arm, she
would have liked to have hung round his neck, and wept bitterly.