Some days before the Sunday on which the struggle between Ole and
Josephine about little Edward's education had taken place, he had had a
cough. That evening he was not quite well, so was kept indoors.
In a few days he was out again and seemed very bright; but one evening
he was feverish and cross, with a dry cough, and so was kept in on the
following days. Accustomed as he was to be in the open air, he grew
fretful and lost his appetite; Josephine had many a fight with him and
at last had to be severe. Then he began whimpering and wanted to go to
his grandmother; that was not allowed. But when his grandmother came to
see him, he was cross and peevish and went off to his father. But he
came back again crying; he had not been allowed to pull out the books
from the lower shelves to build a house with.
So he was put to bed feverish and cross; complained that when he
coughed it hurt him again in the right side of his chest; during the
night he was in a high fever, raving about Kristen Larssen; that he was
chasing all the boys and was going to carry them off to hell in a big
bag.
Josephine doctored him with compresses of turpentine, etc.; but in the
morning, when his father came up to see him, she begged that the doctor
might be sent for.
Kent was their family doctor; he was not able to come before the
evening, and found that the boy had pleurisy in the right side. All
that Josephine had done was quite correct; he himself gave some orders
respecting the necessary diet, and prescribed a mixture to be taken
every other hour, also that if the fever increased so that his
temperature rose higher than 39 degrees Centigrade, he was to be sent
for.
The next few days the boy seemed better, had a little appetite, coughed
less; his temperature in the evening was never higher than 38 degrees.
God be praised!
Though the danger had only been very slight, both Tuft and Josephine
felt it like a gentle pressure on the shoulder by an invisible hand! In
this way they were forced to draw nearer to each other, and they sought
opportunities of talking together--certainly it was only about the
child's state; but something both in voice and manner seemed pleading
for pardon.
His cough and the pain in the side decreased, and by degrees the boy
grew visibly better; but his appetite was not good; he still had a
little fever every day, and he did not gain strength. They bought him
some new toys which he was delighted with the first day; but the next
day he was tired of them; he listened to the fairy tales which his
father and mother told him by turns, without asking a single question;
he took no notice of his grandmother's visits. Sometimes he would grow
quite hot, and directly after felt quite cold. Kent was specially
anxious because the child's temperature rose every evening; he began to
give him quinine, then tried a blister! Josephine would not leave his
bedside and could not bear to hear of anyone taking her place; neither
did the child like anyone else to come near him.
However there was an improvement, and the minister said one evening,
when they were sitting together after having tried the child's
temperature: "We shall escape with a good fright, Josephine." She
looked up at him; he put out his hand; she placed hers in it, but
seemed half ashamed and took it away again.
Dr. Kent had told them that Fru Kallem was very ill; she could no
longer leave her bedroom. Later on they heard from others that she
suffered from decline; they each separately asked Dr. Kent, who told
them that it was galloping consumption.
The minister did not mention it to Josephine; but he said to Kent that
this would doubtless be a blessing for his brother-in-law; possibly he
would now be less burdened and able to work his way higher up.
Josephine took it in quite a different way; he could see it by her
increased reserve; only very rarely would she say a word or two to him.
Some time afterwards, as she was lying on her bed one afternoon
and wondering how it would affect her brother if Ragni were to
die--suddenly she saw him. At first she thought nothing of it; but it
grew so excessively distinct. She saw him stretched at full length on a
sofa in his office; she could see the whole room, curtains,
bookshelves, books, desk, two tables, a large armchair, several
half-opened books, and sheets of paper covered with writing lying side
by side.... She saw each sheet, each little detail, and he himself in a
brown suit of clothes which she did not know. But she had never been in
the office since it was furnished, and had never seen that furniture,
nor the curtains and carpet; but she had no doubt whatever that it was
exactly as she saw it. At any other time this would have produced a
strange impression; but now it was all swallowed up in the fact of her
seeing him; for he was so worn and wasted by grief! The closer she
looked at him, the worse it became. In such despair did he seem to be,
that never before in her life, not even when their father died, had
anything so moved her. She saw him tossing about sobbing bitterly;
she saw him holding his hands clasped before him. At last she saw
nothing but him, the agony of his eyes from under the busy brows and
spectacles, and all around him a great waste.
She awoke bathed in cold perspiration and so exhausted that she could
hardly lift a finger. From that time she seemed weighed down by a vague
fear: it deprived her of sleep. Had this to do with her brother, or her
boy? Little Edward lay there beside her, with laboured breathing and a
cough that seemed to come from a distance. His high forehead seemed
empty, his eye restless; his hands were no longer a small boy's rough
little fists, they were ethereal. At times she would hasten up to him,
just to be sure he was there. Ah me! it had come to that; but merciful
heavens--surely she was not going to lose him? She seemed to recognize
her brother's suffering in this of her own, and each time felt as
though they were drawn together in it. Her boy's fate grew to be one
with Ragni's. In wakeful nights and during anxious days, both these
destinies became so entangled and interwoven that to her mind they
seemed to depend on one decision.
Until now her religion had chiefly been a desire for freedom and an
unflinching love of truth. In her great anxiety this became fatalism,
unbending, mystical fate. Everything startled her; she was always
seeing signs and warnings. It seemed as though the boy could only lie
on the side that was affected, otherwise it pained him so that he cried
out ... and each time she helped him, she could not make this out at
all. She propped him up with air-cushions; he replied by heartrending
entreaties to be left in peace. She no longer knew what was right or
wrong. He would not even let her come near his legs; he always wanted
to have his knees bent and the one knee in a certain position over the
other, ... and she had to yield to these inexplicable fancies and let
herself be set aside as superfluous and troublesome. Was this to show
her that she must accustom herself to the idea that she was always in
the way?
In the end this would quite wear her out. Her fright from the last time
she had moved him till the next time she would have to do it, would
have been more than enough. But all the fancies and ideas she took into
her head nearly drove her mad; she spoke to no one about it. This new
phase with the legs seemed to her so hopelessly mystical in its
unreasonableness, that it made her afraid of the boy; he was no longer
her boy. Just by chance later on she discovered a good deal of swelling
round the ankles. She had always heard that this was the beginning of
the end; she could scarcely drag herself down the stairs to the study,
where the minister sat in a cloud of smoke. He saw her enter pale and
terrified in her white night-dress.
"My dear, what is the matter?" He listened to her, went up with her,
and looked at the swelling, fell on his knees by the bedside, burying
his face in his hands; he was praying. Across his father's head she
heard the short hurried breathing of the little fellow, saw the shining
yet indifferent look he turned on him. She, too, would have prayed; but
at that moment the boy pushed his father away with his hand; he could
not bear the smell of tobacco. In that way he pushed her away from a
possible prayer.
Dr. Kent's kind smile, his quiet, comforting assurance that the illness
was the same as when he first had discovered the inflammation, that no
worse symptom had set in, and that the swelling probably came from the
strained position of the knees, relieved them so that Josephine cried
for joy. He examined various matters, thereby confirming what he had
already said.
That night Josephine slept better than she had done for long, but still
she felt weaker than ever before.
Some time passed; one evening the minister and Dr. Kent came up-stairs;
there was a certain solemnity about them. Josephine lay dressed on the
bed, raised herself so as to get up, but both Kent and the minister
begged her to lie down again. Dr. Kent told her that Fru Kallem had
died the day before. Both the men looked at Josephine; she closed her
eyes. For a while there was complete silence. But seeing repeated
twitchings in her face, Tuft hastened to say:
"Under these circumstances, Josephine, it can only be for Edward's
good. Of course he will feel it deeply now, but he will get over it. It
will but benefit him." Josephine turned away her head. Her eyes
remained closed; then the tears gushed forth.
He felt at that moment that he had said something studied; indeed,
that he had been guilty of brutality. He had changed much during their
boy's illness and that time of mutual anxiety. These words from former
days--coming as they did just then in her smarting grief; uttered by
the bed of their own sick child--became his silent companions, full of
independent life: "they were messages from God."
Until he let fall those words, Josephine had always prayed silently
whenever her husband prayed; since then she could do it no longer. She
felt as she did in the beginning of their married life, when he had
always expected her to join in all his overweening wishes and desires.
In those days he had noticed nothing, but now he felt it at once. But
just on that account, he felt he must have support, must have it
chiefly in prayers for his sick child. So he turned to his friends at
the meeting-house; he was sure of them. The painful events of those
days; his fear for his boy's life; his joyless, wounded love, all
collected into one violent outburst: he begged them to pray with him,
he besought God's mercy. Could he but be found worthy of higher
communion with God, then the trial would not be too hard.
He was radiant with the strength of his faith, as he went home and told
about it. There were few like him when he was thus powerfully moved;
but it happened so seldom.
Josephine's state of health became alarming. The want of fresh air and
regular sleep week after week, the loss of appetite and the constant
anxiety, all began to tell upon this strong and healthy nature. Tuft
spoke to Kent about it secretly; but there was nothing to be done as
long as she would do nothing herself.
Whilst he was carefully watching her every movement, he was obliged one
day, against his will, to tell her that Ragni was not to be buried
there, but at the nearest country church. Thereupon his brother-in-law
made known his indignation and loathing in the strongest possible way.
Undoubtedly it was aimed at the community at large, but mostly at them.
Tuft never knew what Josephine felt about it; it hurt him deeply. Once
only she showed how impatient she had become. He had bent down over the
boy, but came rather too near; Edward began to whimper and push him
away with his hand.
"Why can't you give up smoking?" she said, bitterly.
He turned to her and answered, meekly: "I will give it up." When he got
up afterwards he added, sorrowfully: "He is not well to-day."
"No," she answered, quietly; his way of taking it made her feel
ashamed.
The doctor was sent for; he was used to these sudden messages, so he
took it quietly, and possessed that most excellent faculty of
communicating his calm to others. The parents thought at first that the
child ate with a better appetite, and took more notice of his
grandmother. She came four times a day, and the way in which she was
received was always their barometer.
The old grandmother had been up to the hospital and had seen Kallem and
Karl Meek drive away from there with Ragni's body. The coffin was
white, and was on a sledge draped with black; Sigrid sat in front,
beside the coachman; Kallem and Karl Meek followed after in a sledge
with a seat for two. That was the whole procession.
This account of Ragni's last journey came unawares on them. And that
Karl Meek was there, and alone! Did that mean that Kallem did not
suspect him? Or, which was more likely, that he had forgiven him?
Wishing perhaps to gloss it over and thus do her a last service? Ah, if
one could be as good as that!
The following night Josephine went down-stairs to her husband who was
asleep. Her hair was let down; she looked like one bewitched, or
walking in her sleep, with her great hollow-eyed face surrounded by the
long black hair, with eyes staring fixedly over the lamp she held in
her hand. He sat up and would have got out of bed. She stayed him with
her hand, and said, in a monotonous voice:
"I wish to speak to you, Ole; I cannot sleep. My brother's wife wants
to take away our boy."
He felt all the blood rush to his heart.
"What do you say?" he whispered.
"We have been too hard, we two. Now we shall have to pay for it; and
she will not be satisfied with less."
"Dear Josephine, you are not yourself. Let us fetch help!" He started
up.
"Yes, I am going to get help. All who can pray must come now! Do you
hear, Ole?"
"But, dearest"
"Or do you not think that you all are stronger than she is; do
you not think so? The other day you came home so happy from the
prayer-meeting--oh, you know them, make them come, do make them come,
Ole, do you hear?" She began sobbing and crying: "It is but a Christian's
duty to bring help here. They cannot look on and see her take him from us!"
Her voice died away in a long wailing sound. He was sitting on the edge
of the bed, and had put on his under-garments, but stopped now with his
trousers in his hand.
"My dear, my dear, only believe that it is God who has the power and
none other. Josephine, you are ill!"
He was much distressed, and hastened to get on his clothes.
"Will you really go and fetch them?" she asked, much pleased, and put
down the lamp. "Thank you, I knew you would. I assure you solemnly,
Ole, that it is urgent!"
He did make haste, but said:
"You know, Josephine, we must be careful when we pray for non-spiritual
things."
This made her uneasy; she stretched out her hands to him. Everything
she had on was loose and open, the sleeves slipped from her
shoulders--she had grown so fearfully thin--a great fear came over him.
Her wild countenance, delirious words, emaciated form....
"God bless you, Josephine, do not exert yourself too much in prayer,
you might break down completely, you have grown so weak!"
"Do you not believe, then, Ole?" flashed from her like lightning.
"Yes, yes! But suppose God's will be not our will, dear child?" There
arose in him the painful recollection of Andersen's death-bed scene.
"You would pray for a miracle!"
"Yes, yes! of course! Certainly! What else should we pray for?"
"We pray to be granted communion with God, Josephine; at all events
that is what I do. For then all is well, my soul is strengthened, and
often I am in such sore need of it."
"It is written, 'Soften the heart of the Lord.' Is that not right?
Soften the heart of God? Speak, Ole. Soften the heart of God? Answer
me!"
He was kneeling down in front of the stove with a piece of firewood in
one hand and a knife in the other, he would have lighted the fire; she
was so thinly clad; but he stopped now and looked up at her
sorrowfully. "I dare not pray for a miracle, Josephine; I am not
worth." As he was saying this his agitation increased, and he was so
overcome that he had to put down what he had in his hands and cover his
face. But when he looked up again he started to his feet; if she had
had her arms full of the most costly china and had let it fall so that
it was shivered to a thousand pieces ... she could not possibly have
looked different, more paralysed, more horror-struck. Her hands were
outstretched as though over what she had let fall, her eyes were
fastened on him, her senses gone; it seemed as though the next instant
she must fall. Not so however; for when he seized hold of her, she woke
up, collected her thoughts and without further warning said quickly:
"Then we must send for my brother! He only can make her leave our boy
alone." The words proceeding from that strange train of thought were
like a suggestion to him. A thousand times he had thought the same,
Colonel Baier's case had called forth the desire, and many had advised
him to it; but until now he had been ashamed.
A few minutes later, he was on his way to Dr. Kent; who must be
consulted first.
It was a sharp, clear night. By day the roads were in a state of thaw,
but frozen again at night, so he had to be careful; it was not easy,
pursued as he was by his thoughts. What became of the Bible's dogmas of
the creation, the deluge, and all the rest--what was it all worth, when
death was at the door? What then was number one, what number twenty?
None would wake up at Kent's house; he rang and rang without hearing
any sound himself; the bell must have been removed. Then he began to
knock, it sounded hollow and hard, and to him it seemed as though death
were knocking; it was so, too. At last a servant appeared rather
grumbling, but as it was the minister she went to rouse the doctor.
Patient Dr. Kent came down, brought him into his room and listened to
him. He would with pleasure go to Kallem; had he thought they would
have allowed it, he would have done it long since.
When Tuft got back Josephine was up-stairs with the child; she
misunderstood him, she thought her brother was coming at once, and as
he had not appeared by seven o'clock, by eight, by nine, she was afraid
he would not come and became much agitated; her husband was obliged to
go again to fetch her brother and the doctor. Kent was not to be found
at once; but sent to say that Kallem and he would come at eleven
o'clock precisely. They came, too, at that hour; but the minister had
been called away, so there was no one to receive them, Kallem had not
put his foot inside their door since the day he had arrived in the
town. Since the preceding night Josephine had not had her brother out
of her thoughts, which is always the case when one longs for anyone;
but when at last Kent and he came up the thickly-carpeted stairs she
was not thinking of him; she stood bending over the boy giving him a
drink; when their knock came at the door she started up and could not
utter a sound. The door opened nevertheless. Kent let Kallem go in
first.
He was met by a slight scream. She nearly dropped what she was holding;
for what did he look like! It was death himself who came, bony and
mowing all around with sharp scythe. It was not to help her, but to
take the boy from her; she felt it directly.
Shortly and mercilessly he looked at her, without a spark of
compassion, although she too was worn with grief. As he advanced
further in he looked at the boy, and from that moment she ceased to
exist for him, she slipped on one side. Kent went up and greeted her
kindly, then went back to Kallem. And now the usual thing happened--the
same that had happened to Kallem himself when he was together with Dr.
Meek--namely, Dr. Kent accepted all Kallem's impressions, the child's
appearance seemed new to him and frightened him considerably. All
that he had formerly put away from him, showed itself of its own
accord--"Empyème?" he whispered in French to Kallem who did not answer,
but drew nearer, felt the boy's faint, weak pulse, tapped him lightly
here and there, listened to the quick short breathing, looked at the
temperature list and at what he had last coughed up. Then followed a
short consultation between the doctors; Josephine heard every scrap of
it, although she stood a little way from them, on the other side of the
bed--the child's bed now stood where his father's used to stand; but
she did not understand the technical terms, therefore could not seize
the meaning. She felt that some evil was hanging over her; her hands
were pressed together on her bosom while her eyes wandered from one to
the other. At last Kent approached a few steps; he wished to ask if
they might be allowed to insert the point of a syringe, fine as a
needle, in the cavity of the chest.
"Is it an operation?" she whispered as she sought support.
"We shall be able to tell then," he answered, equally softly. She sank
down on a chair. Her brother did not wait for her answer, but pulled
out his instrument case and took out of it something shiny, long and
thin, bending down with it over the boy. She saw nothing more; nor
could she think of anything either--she only tried not to give way; she
heard the boy whimper and call repeatedly "Mother" in a frightened
voice; she had not the strength to rise up, dared not move. She heard
Kent say: "Now it is over, my boy;" but could not see what was over.
Little Edward whimpered and cried, and insisted on having his mother up
to his bed. So she tried once or twice, but it was quite impossible;
her brother acted like a weight on her, although he never even looked
her way.
The door opened and shut; he had gone, and she breathed more freely.
Kent went up to her at once, kind and sympathetic.
"There must be an operation," he whispered.
"What for?" She knew it would be of no use; she had seen it written in
her brother's face.
"Because everything must be tried," answered Kent.
With the most miserable little voice, the boy begged his mother to come
to him.
"I am coming." She knelt down beside him and began to cry.
"They hurt me," the boy said, complaining.
Ah, if she could have answered: "It was to make you well that you may
get out again." But even Kent dared not say that. She struggled to find
courage to forbid the operation, but she dared not, she was afraid of
her brother. Kent stood there waiting; she became conscious of that at
last, and looked despairingly at him. He stooped down to her.
"Your brother generally sends some of the hospital people to disinfect
and arrange everything," he said, gently.
"Is it to be to-day?" whispered she, weeping bitterly.
"No; but the cleaning and airing must be begun today. The adjoining
rooms must be used, too." She had laid her head down again beside the
boy, she made no answer; then she heard him go.
When the minister came home he rushed up at once to the sick room and
was not a little surprised to find his mother there and--Sissel Aune!
The latter was keeping watch, the boy was cross, and did not want
anyone near him but his mother; not even his father, for he could still
smell tobacco about him, although he had given up smoking. Tuft found
Josephine lying on his sofa in the study, overcome with despair, and
talking quite incoherently; "Doomed to death!" she would answer to
nearly all his questions.
One of the deaconesses came over in the afternoon and assumed the
management of affairs; she brought strange servants with her; their
home seemed broken up, and the scouring and cleaning sounded like the
planing of a coffin. Their own servants all sorrowful, poor old
grandmother in tears; and when they heard the noise caused by moving
the boy's bed into another room, they sat trembling hand in hand.
Fancy, now, if anyone were to say: "It is a good thing for the parents,
that their boy is dying. Of course they can't think so now, but they
will come to see it in that light;" fancy if anyone were brutal enough
to say such a thing to them? Tuft felt bound to speak to Josephine
about it, and confessed that these words would have wounded him deeply.
She pressed his hand in silence.
When the evening came and all was quiet, they were both up-stairs with
the boy and they fancied he already bore the mark of death! He fell
asleep holding his mother's hand, and then Tuft gently led her away.
She consented to be led now; an extra bed had been put up in the spare
room, it was part of all the moving and arranging that had gone on.
The next day from early morning the parents were in with the little
boy. As soon as they left, he was to be moved back to his old room
where all was ready for the operation.
At ten o'clock the doctors came. Josephine was lying on the sofa in the
study. She stopped her ears as soon as she heard them; the carpets were
taken up so that the slightest creak of a boot was heard. She would not
be comforted, nor let herself be reasoned with, and fell into that
half-unconscious state she had before been in; she wanted to go up to
the boy, he might die on their hands.
The minister was anxious to speak to the doctors; but she hung round
him, she would go, too; so he could not leave. If anyone just moved a
foot upstairs, she knew who it was, and if the doctors moved at the
same time, there must be something going on, she doubled herself up and
sat crouching there with her hands to her ears. She would not let
herself be taken to another room, she would stay there and be tortured;
at times she went up to Tuft seeking a haven, she had worn herself out,
was tired to death. "Help me!" she whispered, assuring him that her
reason and her life were at stake, and that she had always known that
the time would come when she would be thus miserable.
Tuft persuaded her to lie down with wet bandages on her forehead, he
prayed aloud, and his love for her was so powerful that it quieted her.
"Thank you, Ole, thank you!" she grew calmer.
All at once. "He is screaming!" she exclaimed; and, raising herself,
would have got up. The minister assured her he heard nothing; but at
the same instant they both heard it. "Yes, yes," she said, and tried to
go. Tuft put both his arms round her, praying for her and blessing her.
Again she calmed down. And now all was silent.
Upstairs all was going on rapidly. Kallem took the responsibility of
chloroforming the boy, and the screams the parents had heard were on
account of the flannel bag which Kent held over his face; the boy
pushed it away; he was suffocating. "Mother, mother!" he cried; but he
soon became unconscious. The old grandmother in a clean cotton gown sat
by the pillow on the other side and held his hand; the old woman was
trembling; but there she sat and intended to sit until all was over. No
one had asked her to do it; she had herself asked God. But as soon as
the boy was unconscious, Kallem said to her quite politely that now she
would have to go. Slowly and silently she left the room.
Then he began. An incision, eight centimetres in length, was made
between the ribs in the right side. He inserted blunt instruments into
the aperture, got hold of the end of the rib-bone and sawed off a small
piece; the matter streamed out of the wound.
Here they were all startled by a wild shriek behind them. Quick as
lightning Josephine had opened the door and seen these white operating
coats, and Kallem, his hands covered with blood, rummaging in her
child's chest--down she fell onto the floor.
"Was the door not locked?" asked Kallem. Sissel came running from the
inner room, the minister from outside, they carried her out between
them.
"Mind the temperature," was whispered over to the deaconess; "And lock
the door!"
"But Sissel----?"
"She must stay away!"
Presently they heard her at the door, but took no notice. A tube was
inserted in the cavity of the chest which was well syringed, and a tow
bandage carefully put on the side. The tube was to be left there for
several days and the temperature of the room day and night was to be
kept at 15°. Kallem soon retired to the next room with his instruments
and was out of the house before anyone, except those present at the
operation, knew that he had finished.
The old grandmother, poor thing, had just come up again to listen at
the door, when Sissel, who was back in the room, came out, carrying
something under her apron. In passing she told her that it was all
over. So the old woman ventured in; but on seeing the child lying there
pale and quiet, she lost all command over herself, went out again
directly, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she managed
to reach her own house.
In ordinary life it was impossible to make any sort of impression on
this specimen of fossilization from the border of the sea, crushed flat
by her pietistical views and walled at the north side of the house. The
only one she seemed to take any interest in was the boy. Her whole
house was his playroom; he was allowed to drag in there almost anything
he had a fancy to, she put it away again and liked nothing better than
tidying up after he had been there. Now, one would think that he would
have been devoted to her on that account, but strange to say, from the
moment he fell ill, he would hardly look at his grandmother. In spite
of all its severity, his mother's blunt manner had taken his fancy; he
had been greatly worried by his grandmother's devotion, interspersed as
it was with scoldings and threats, full of prayers which he had to
learn by heart, and of Bible stories which he never understood. Now
that he was so ill and weak, she was not allowed to talk to him. But it
was hard on the old grandmother. Her son neglected her too, now that
Josephine was more accessible. Had it not been for the coming of the
deaconess, the operation might have taken place without the old woman's
having heard anything of it.
A few hours later, she crept upstairs again, listened outside, could
hear nothing, thought all was over and ventured to look in. Sissel sat
there nodding; but looked up at once.
"Is he alive?" asked the old woman.
"Yes," answered Sissel in a voice barely audible, but her hope of him
was not much greater either. The old grandmother could not bear more,
she turned away. A couple of hours after she came again, and he was
still alive. This time she had brought her spectacles with her and an
old much-loved book; she meant to sit there till the end. Sissel could
have a sleep. So she was told what there was to do, and Sissel lay down
on Josephine's bed.
It was six o'clock in the evening before the minister put his head into
the room--it was only now that he dared leave Josephine for a moment.
He saw his mother sitting there with her spectacles and her old book of
sermons, he drew nearer searching her face like a book; in it he read:
"he lives!" She nodded as Sissel had done before and conveying the same
meaning. He shuddered as he looked at the boy's deathly pale, worn-out
face, and went away.
The house was quite quiet. In the kitchen which lay some way off, they
all spoke softly, the doors were well oiled and the carpets laid down
in the passages. The minister came in on tiptoe every hour and received
always the same answer; there was still life. Everybody came and went
noiselessly as though spirits were moving about. In the spare room
where Josephine lay, signs took the place of words.
The night was if possible more silent; grandmother had gone away, but
Sissel was there; fire was burning in the kitchen and a watch was kept
in case there should be anything to fetch; the minister was up and
awake and went about backwards and forwards. But toward three o'clock
both he and the watch fell asleep. When grandmother came in at four
o'clock, Sissel was asleep too; she sat down in her seat; there was not
a sound of any kind till near seven o'clock. Grandmother looked after
the stove and attended to the medicine--surely little Edward breathed
more easily, or was she deceiving herself?
A little before seven the door was opened slowly. She expected to see
her son; but it was Josephine who came. Her large face under the
disordered hair, and her wild eyes looked worse than ever in the dim
light, she alarmed the old woman, who for long had been afraid for her
mind. But Josephine stood still by the door, she heard Sissel's steady
breathing but not the boy's; she dared not go further in. The old
grandmother saw this and nodded encouragingly. A few steps forward and
the mother saw her boy--fearfully pale and without a sign of life. But
grandmother nodded again, so she ventured further forward. The curtains
were still drawn, so she did not see well; but then she thought he
breathed. She knelt down ... was he breathing easier, or ...? She was
so sure in her belief that he was doomed to death, that she could not
hear what she really did hear. She listened in the greatest anxiety,
wondering, considering, holding her own breath the while, and only when
she was quite sure that his breathing was easier, did she herself
unconsciously breathe strongly and rapidly full in the boy's face. The
warm whiff awoke him, he opened his eyes and looked at his mother,
trying to collect his thoughts. Yes, it was mother who had come back
again. His eyes grew more lively, and brighter than she had seen them
for weeks past, they gazed at her until her own filled with tears. Not
a word did he say, nor moved a limb from fear of the old pain; and to
her it seemed as though his spirit would fly away if he moved or if she
touched him or uttered a sound. Indeed she thought her breathing was
too loud, so she smothered it, and neither moved her hands nor turned
her head; in this immovable stillness it was as though they were under
the shadow of gathering wings. The hour was like the one in which she
had given birth to him, when she heard the first gurgling sound of his
living voice. And now life was beginning a second time with trembling
breath. His eyes were as light in the snow. She could never weary of
their fresh brightness, they floated together, his and hers, she wished
it would never end.
But the boy was overcome by the power of her eyes and gave himself up
to the safe feeling of her presence, so he shut his eyes again, opened
them once or twice just to try ... yes, she was there, and so fell
asleep.
Soon after she was down in the study. Outside was bright day; in it
should come! She drew up the blinds, the daylight filled the high
room with the life of life, filled her own soul to its innermost
recesses--she pushed open the door to the spare room and placed herself
in the doorway.
Tuft lay there broad and strong with outstretched arms, a bushy head of
hair, his high forehead still shining with yesterday's perspiration,
and a smile about his mouth. The light half wakened him. "Ole!" she
said, he opened his eyes wide, but shut them again; he strove to settle
in his memory what he had just had a glimpse of, and at the same
instant from out of all this light came the words of Josephine's voice:
"He lives!"
Thus, on Sunday, a man spoke from the church pulpit, taking his text
from his own experiences.
He spoke of what is highest and greatest for us all.
One man forgets it in the midst of his hard struggles, a second because
of his zeal, a third on account of stubbornness, a fourth in his own
wisdom, a fifth from sheer force of habit, and we have all more or less
been wrongly taught on the subject. "For were I now to ask those who
are listening to me, just because I ask in this place, from this
pulpit, you would all unthinkingly answer: 'Faith is greatest!' Nay,
but in truth it is not. Watch by thy child lying gasping for breath
and on the brink of death; or see thy wife slipping gradually after
the child away to that outermost edge, worn out by fear and many
night-watches, then love will teach thee this, that life is first. And
from this day, never again will I first seek God or God's will in any
form of speech, in any sacrament, or in any book or at any place, as
though He were there present; no, rather let me seek His presence in
life--in life won back from the depths of the fear of death, in the
victory of light, in the beauty of devotion, in the community of the
living. God's most important words to us are those of life; our truest
worship of him is love for all living things. However much it be a
matter of course, this doctrine was what I needed more than anyone.
That it is which I have put from me in different ways and from various
reasons--and oftenest just latterly. But never again shall either words
or signs be for me the most important; but, contrariwise, the
everlasting revelation of life. Never again will I let myself be
immured in any doctrine; but will let my will be set free by the warmth
of life. Never again will I judge mankind by the codes of an old-world
justice, if the justice of our day cannot use the language of love.
Before God, never! And this because I believe in Him, the God of life,
and His incessant revelation in life."