“Come, cubby, cubby, cubby! Come on, you silly little chicken, there’s
nothing to be afraid of!” Pelle was enticing his favorite calf with a
wisp of green corn; but it was not quite sure of him to-day, for it had
had a beating for bad behavior.
Pelle felt very much like a father whose child gives him sorrow and
compels him to use severe measures. And now this misunderstanding —that
the calf would have nothing to do with him, although it was for its own
good that he had beaten it! But there was no help for it, and as long
as Pelle had them to mind, he intended to be obeyed.
At last it let him come close up to it, so that he could stroke it. It
stood still for a little and was sulky, but yielded at last, ate the
green food and snuffed in his face by way of thanks.
“Will you be good, then?” said Pelle, shaking it by its stumps of
horns. “Will you, eh?” It tossed its head mischievously. “Very well,
then you shan’t carry my coat to-day.”
The strange thing about this calf was that the first day it was let
out, it would not stir, and at last the boy left it behind for Lasse to
take in again. But no sooner was it behind him than it followed of its
own accord, with its forehead close to his back; and always after that
it walked behind him when they went out and came home, and it carried
his overcoat on its back when it looked as if there would be rain.
Pelle’s years were few in number, but to his animals he was a grown
man. Formerly he had only been able to make them respect him
sufficiently to obey him at close quarters; but this year he could hit
a cow at a distance of a hundred paces with a stone, and that gave him
power over the animals at a distance, especially when he thought of
calling out the animal’s name as he hit it. In this way they realized
that the pain came from him, and learned to obey the mere call.
For punishment to be effectual, it must follow immediately upon the
misdeed. There was therefore no longer any such thing as lying in wait
for an animal that had offended, and coming up behind it when later on
it was grazing peacefully. That only caused confusion. To run an animal
until it was tired out, hanging on to its tail and beating it all round
the meadow only to revenge one’s self, was also stupid; it made the
whole flock restless and difficult to manage for the rest of the day.
Pelle weighed the end and the means against one another; he learned to
quench his thirst for revenge with good practical reasons.
Pelle was a boy, and he was not an idle one. All day, from five in the
morning until nine at night, he was busy with something or other, often
most useless things. For hours he practiced walking on his hands,
turning a somersault, and jumping the stream; he was always in motion.
Hour after hour he would run unflaggingly round in a circle on the
grass, like a tethered foal, leaning toward the center as he ran, so
that his hand could pluck the grass, kicking up behind, and neighing
and snorting. He was pouring forth energy from morning till night with
open-handed profusion.
But minding the cattle was _work_, and here he husbanded his energy.
Every step that could be saved here was like capital acquired; and
Pelle took careful notice of everything, and was always improving his
methods. He learned that punishment worked best when it only hung as a
threat; for much beating made an animal callous. He also learned to see
when it was absolutely necessary to interfere. If this could not be
done in the very act, he controlled himself and endeavored upon the
strength of his experience to bring about exactly the same situation
once more, and then to be prepared. The little fellow, unknown to
himself, was always engaged in adding cubits unto his stature.
He had obtained good results. The driving out and home again no longer
gave him any difficulty; he had succeeded for a whole week in driving
the flock along a narrow field road, with growing corn on both sides,
without their having bitten off so much as a blade. And there was the
still greater task of keeping them under control on a hot, close day—to
hedge them in in full gallop, so that they stood in the middle of the
meadow stamping on the ground with uplifted tails, in fear of the
gad-flies. If he wanted to, he could make them tear home to the stable
in wild flight, with their tails in the air, on the coldest October
day, only by lying down in the grass and imitating the hum of
gad-flies. But that was a tremendous secret, that even Father Lasse
knew nothing about.
The amusing thing about the buzzing was that calves that were out for
the first time, and had never made the acquaintance of a gad-fly,
instantly set off running, with tail erect, when they heard its angry
buzz.
Pelle had a remote ideal, which was to lie upon some elevated place and
direct the whole flock by the sole means of his voice, and never need
to resort to punishment. Father Lasse never beat either, no matter how
wrong things went.
There were some days—well, what did become of them? Before he had any
idea of it, it was time to drive home. Other days were long enough, but
seemed to sing themselves away, in the ring of scythes, the lowing of
cattle, and people’s voices far away. Then the day itself went singing
over the ground, and Pelle had to stop every now and then to listen.
Hark! there was music! And he would run up on to the sandbanks and gaze
out over the sea; but it was not there, and inland there was no
merrymaking that he knew of, and there were no birds of passage flying
through the air at this time of year. But hark! there was music again!
far away in the distance, just such a sound of music as reaches the ear
from so far off that one cannot distinguish the melody, or say what
instruments are playing. Could it be the sun itself?
The song of light and life streamed through him, as though he were a
fountain; and he would go about in a dreamy half-consciousness of
melody and happiness.
When the rain poured down, he hung his coat over a briar and lay
sheltered beneath it, carving or drawing with a lead button on
paper—horses, and bulls lying down, but more often ships, ships that
sailed across the sea upon their own soft melody, far away to foreign
lands, to Negroland and China, for rare things. And when he was quite
in the mood, he would bring out a broken knife and a piece of shale
from a secret hiding-place, and set to work. There was a picture
scratched on the stone, and he was now busy carving it in relief. He
had worked at it on and off all through the summer, and now it was
beginning to stand out. It was a bark in full sail, sailing over
rippling water to Spain—yes, it was going to Spain, for grapes and
oranges, and all the other delightful things that Pelle had never
tasted yet.
On rainy days it was a difficult matter to keep count of the time, and
required the utmost exertion. On other days it was easy enough, and
Pelle could tell it best by the feeling. At certain times of the day
there were signs at home on the farm that told him the time, and the
cattle gave him other hours by their habits. At nine the first one lay
down to chew the morning cud, and then all gradually lay down one by
one; and there was always a moment at about ten when they all lay
chewing. At eleven the last of them were upon their legs again. It was
the same in the afternoon between three and five.
Midday was easy to determine when the sun was shining. Pelle could
always feel it when it turned in its path. And there were a hundred
other things in nature that gave him a connection with the times of
day, such as the habits of the birds, and something about the
fir-trees, and much besides that he could not lay his finger upon and
say it was there, because it was only a feeling. The time to drive home
was given by the cattle themselves. When it drew near, they grazed
slowly around until their heads pointed in the direction of the farm;
and there was a visible tension in their bodies, a homeward yearning.
Rud had not shown himself all the week, and no sooner had he come today
than Pelle had to give him a blowing-up for some deceitfulness. Then he
ran home, and Pelle lay down at the edge of the fir-plantation, on his
face with the soles of his feet in the air, and sang. All round him
there were marks of his knife on the tree-stems. On the earliest ships
you saw the keel, the deck was perpendicular to the body. Those had
been carved the first summer. There was also a collection of tiny
fields here on the edge of the stream, properly ploughed, harrowed, and
sown, each field about two feet square.
Pelle was resting now after the exertion with Rud, by making the air
rock with his jubilant bawling. Up at the farm a man came out and went
along the high-road with a bundle under his arm. It was Erik, who had
to appear in court in answer to a summons for fighting. Then the farmer
drove out at a good pace toward the town, so he was evidently off on
the spree. Why couldn’t the man have driven with him, as they were both
going the same way? How quickly he drove, although she never followed
him now. She consoled herself at home instead! Could it be true that he
had spent five hundred krones in drinking and amusement in one evening?
“The war is raging, the red blood streams,
Among the mountains ring shouts and screams!
The Turk advances with cruel rage,
And sparing neither youth nor age.
They go—”
“Ho!” Pelle sprang to his feet and gazed up over the clover field. The
dairy cows up there for the last quarter of an hour had been looking up
at the farm every other moment, and now Aspasia lowed, so his father
must soon be coming out to move them. There he came, waddling round the
corner of the farm. It was not far to the lowest of the cows, so when
his father was there, Pelle could seize the opportunity just to run
across and say good-day to him.
He brought his animals nearer together and drove them slowly over to
the other fence and up the fields. Lasse had moved the upper half, and
was now crossing over diagonally to the bull, which stood a little
apart from the others. The bull was growling and kicking up the earth;
its tongue hung out at one side of its mouth, and it tossed its head
quickly; it was angry. Then it advanced with short steps and all kinds
of antics; and how it stamped! Pelle felt a desire to kick it on the
nose as he had often done before; it had no business to threaten Lasse,
even if it meant nothing by it.
Father Lasse took no notice of it, either. He stood hammering away at
the big tether-peg, to loosen it. “Good-day!” shouted Pelle. Lasse
turned his head and nodded, then bent down and hammered the peg into
the ground. The bull was just behind him, stamping quickly, with open
mouth and tongue hanging out; it looked as if it were vomiting, and the
sound it made answered exactly to that. Pelle laughed as he slackened
his pace. He was close by.
But suddenly Father Lasse turned a somersault, fell, and was in the air
again, and then fell a little way off. Again the bull was about to toss
him, but Pelle was at its head. He was not wearing wooden shoes, but he
kicked it with his bare feet until he was giddy. The bull knew him and
tried to go round him, but Pelle sprang at its head, shouting and
kicking and almost beside himself, seized it by the horns. But it put
him gently on one side and went forward toward Lasse, blowing along the
ground so that the grass waved.
It took hold of him by the blouse and shook him a little, and then
tried to get both his horns under him to send him up into the air; but
Pelle was on his feet again, and as quick as lightning had drawn his
knife and plunged it in between the bull’s hind legs. The bull uttered
a short roar, turned Lasse over on one side, and dashed off over the
fields at a gallop, tossing its head as it ran, and bellowing. Down by
the stream it began to tear up the bank, filling the air with earth and
grass.
Lasse lay groaning with his eyes closed, and Pelle stood pulling in
vain at his arm to help him up, crying: “Father, little Father Lasse!”
At last Lasse sat up.
“Who’s that singing?” he asked. “Oh, it’s you, is it, laddie? And
you’re crying! Has any one done anything to you? Ah, yes, of course, it
was the bull! It was just going to play fandango with me. But what did
you do to it, that the devil took it so quickly? You saved your
father’s life, little though you are. Oh, hang it! I think I’m going to
be sick! Ah me!” he went on, when the sickness was past, as he wiped
the perspiration from his forehead. “If only I could have had a dram.
Oh, yes, he knew me, the fellow, or I shouldn’t have got off so easily.
He only wanted to play with me a little, you know. He was a wee bit
spiteful because I drove him away from a cow this morning; I’d noticed
that. But who’d have thought he’d have turned on me? He wouldn’t have
done so, either, if I hadn’t been so silly as to wear somebody else’s
clothes. This is Mons’s blouse; I borrowed it of him while I washed my
own. And Mr. Bull didn’t like the strange smell about me. Well, we’ll
see what Mons’ll say to this here slit. I’m afraid he won’t be best
pleased.”
Lasse talked on for a good while until he tried to rise, and stood up
with Pelle’s assistance. As he stood leaning on the boy’s shoulder, he
swayed backward and forward. “I should almost have said I was drunk, if
it hadn’t been for the pains!” he said, laughing feebly. “Well, well, I
suppose I must thank God for you, laddie. You always gladden my heart,
and now you’ve saved my life, too.”
Lasse then stumbled homeward, and Pelle moved the rest of the cows on
the road down to join his own. He was both proud and affected, but most
proud. He had saved Father Lasse’s life, and from the big, angry bull
that no one else on the farm dared have anything to do with. The next
time Henry Bodker came out to see him, he should hear all about it.
He was a little vexed with himself for having drawn his knife. Every
one here looked down upon that, and said it was Swedish. He wouldn’t
have needed to do it either if there’d been time, or if only he had had
on his wooden shoes to kick the bull in the eyes with. He had very
often gone at it with the toes of his wooden shoes, when it had to be
driven into its stall again after a covering; and it always took good
care not to do anything to him. Perhaps he would put his finger in its
eye and make it blind, or take it by the horns and twist its head
round, like the man in the story, until its neck was wrung.
Pelle grew and swelled up until he overshadowed everything. There was
no limit to his strength while he ran about bringing his animals
together again. He passed like a storm over everything, tossed strong
Erik and the bailiff about, and lifted—yes, lifted the whole of Stone
Farm merely by putting his hand under the beam. It was quite a fit of
berserker rage!
In the very middle of it all, it occurred to him how awkward it would
be if the bailiff got to know that the bull was loose. It might mean a
thrashing both for him and Lasse. He must go and look for it; and for
safety’s sake he took his long whip with him and put on his wooden
shoes.
The bull had made a terrible mess down on the bank of the stream, and
had ploughed up a good piece of the meadow. It had left bloody traces
along the bed of the stream and across the fields. Pelle followed these
out toward the headland, where he found the bull. The huge animal had
gone right in under the bushes, and was standing licking its wound.
When it heard Pelle’s voice, it came out. “Turn round!” he cried,
flicking its nose with the whip. It put its head to the ground,
bellowed, and moved heavily backward. Pelle continued flicking it on
the nose while he advanced step by step, shouting determinedly: “Turn
round! Will you turn round!” At last it turned and set off at a run,
Pelle seizing the tether-peg and running after. He kept it going with
the whip, so that it should have no time for evil thoughts.
When this was accomplished, he was ready to drop with fatigue, and lay
crouched up at the edge of the fir-plantation, thinking sadly of Father
Lasse, who must be going about up there ill and with nobody to give him
a helping hand with his work. At last the situation became unbearable:
he had to go home!
_Zzzz! Zzzz!_ Lying flat on the ground, Pelle crept over the grass,
imitating the maddening buzz of the gad-fly. He forced the sound out
between his teeth, rising and falling, as if it were flying hither and
thither over the grass. The cattle stopped grazing and stood perfectly
still with attentive ears. Then they began to grow nervous, kicking up
their legs under their bodies, turning their heads to one side in
little curves, and starting; and then up went their tails. He made the
sound more persistently angry, and the whole flock, infecting one
another, turned and began to stamp round in wild panic. Two calves
broke out of the tumult, and made a bee-line for the farm, and the
whole flock followed, over stock and stone. All Pelle had to do now was
to run after them, making plenty of fuss, and craftily keep the buzzing
going, so that the mood should last till they reached home.
The bailiff himself came running to open the gate into the enclosure,
and helped to get the animals in. Pelle expected a box on the ears, and
stood still; but the bailiff only looked at him with a peculiar smile,
and said: “They’re beginning to get the upper hand of you, I think.
Well, well,” he went on, “it’s all right as long as you can manage the
bull!” He was making fun of him, and Pelle blushed up to the roots of
his hair.
Father Lasse had crept into bed. “What a good thing you came!” he said.
“I was just lying here and wondering how I was going to get the cows
moved. I can scarcely move at all, much less get up.”
It was a week before Lasse was on his feet again, and during that time
the field-cattle remained in the enclosure, and Pelle stayed at home
and did his father’s work. He had his meals with the others, and slept
his midday sleep in the barn as they did.
One day, in the middle of the day, the Sow came into the yard, drunk.
She took her stand in the upper yard, where she was forbidden to go,
and stood there calling for Kongstrup. The farmer was at home, but did
not show himself, and not a soul was to be seen behind the high
windows. “Kongstrup, Kongstrup! Come here for a little!” she called,
with her eyes on the pavement, for she could not lift her head. The
bailiff was not at home, and the men remained in hiding in the barn,
hoping to see some fun. “I say, Kongstrup, come out a moment! I want to
speak to you!” said the Sow indistinctly—and then went up the steps and
tried to open the door. She hammered upon it a few times, and stood
talking with her face close to the door; and when nobody came, she
reeled down the steps and went away talking to herself and not looking
round.
A little while after the sound of weeping began up there, and just as
the men were going out to the fields, the farmer came rushing out and
gave orders that the horse should be harnessed to the chaise. While it
was being done, he walked about nervously, and then set off at full
speed. As he turned the corner of the house, a window opened and a
voice called to him imploringly: “Kongstrup, Kongstrup!” But he drove
quickly on, the window closed, and the weeping began afresh.
In the afternoon Pelle was busying himself about the lower yard when
Karna came to him and told him to go up to mistress. Pelle went up
hesitatingly. He was not sure of her and all the men were out in the
fields.
Fru Kongstrup lay upon the sofa in her husband’s study, which she
always occupied, day or night, when her husband was out. She had a wet
towel over her forehead, and her whole face was red with weeping.
“Come here!” she said, in a low voice. “You aren’t afraid of me, are
you?”
Pelle had to go up to her and sit on the chair beside her. He did not
know what to do with his eyes; and his nose began to run with the
excitement, and he had no pocket-handkerchief.
“Are you afraid of me?” she asked again, and a bitter smile crossed her
lips.
He had to look at her to show that he was not afraid, and to tell the
truth, she was not like a witch at all, but only like a human being who
cried and was unhappy.
“Come here!” she said, and she wiped his nose with her own fine
handkerchief, and stroked his hair. “You haven’t even a mother, poor
little thing!” And she smoothed down his clumsily mended blouse.
“It’s three years now since Mother Bengta died, and she’s lying in the
west corner of the churchyard.”
“Do you miss her very much?”
“Oh, well, Father Lasse mends my clothes!”
“I’m sure she can’t have been very good to you.”
“Oh, yes!” said Pelle, nodding earnestly. “But she was so fretful, she
was always ailing; and it’s better they should go when they get like
that. But now we’re soon going to get married again—when Father Lasse’s
found somebody that’ll do.”
“And then I suppose you’ll go away from here? I’m sure you aren’t
comfortable here, are you?”
Pelle had found his tongue, but now feared a trap, and became dumb. He
only nodded. Nobody should come and accuse him afterward of having
complained.
“No, you aren’t comfortable,” she said, in a plaintive tone. “No one is
comfortable at Stone Farm. Everything turns to misfortune here.”
“It’s an old curse, that!” said Pelle.
“Do they say so? Yes, yes, I know they do! And they say of me that I’m
a devil—only because I love a single man—and cannot put up with being
trampled on.” She wept and pressed his hand against her quivering face.
“I’ve got to go out and move the cows,” said Pelle, wriggling about
uneasily in an endeavor to get away.
“Now you’re afraid of me again!” she said, and tried to smile. It was
like a gleam of sunshine after rain.
“No—only I’ve got to go out and move the cows.”
“There’s still a whole hour before that. But why aren’t you herding
to-day? Is your father ill?”
Then Pelle had to tell her about the bull.
“You’re a good boy!” said the mistress, patting his head. “If I had a
son, I should like him to be like you. But now you shall have some jam,
and then you must run to the shop for a bottle of black-currant rum, so
that we can make a hot drink for your father. If you hurry, you can be
back before moving-time.”
Lasse had his hot drink, even before the boy returned; and every day
while he kept his bed he had something strengthening—although there was
no black-currant rum in it.
During this time Pelle went up to the mistress nearly every day.
Kongstrup had gone on business to Copenhagen. She was kind to him and
gave him nice things to eat; and while he ate, she talked without
ceasing about Kongstrup, or asked him what people thought about her.
Pelle had to tell her, and then she was upset and began to cry. There
was no end to her talk about the farmer, but she contradicted herself,
and Pelle gave up trying to make anything of it. Besides, the good
things she gave him were quite enough for him to think about.
Down in their room he repeated everything word for word, and Lasse lay
and listened, and wondered at this little fellow who had the run of
high places, and was in the mistress’s confidence. Still he did not
quite like it.
“… She could scarcely stand, and had to hold on to the table when she
was going to fetch me the biscuits, she was so ill. It was only because
he’d treated her badly, she said. Do you know she hates him, and would
like to kill him, she says; and yet she says that he’s the handsomest
man in the world, and asked me if I’ve seen any one handsomer in all
Sweden. And then she cries as if she was mad.”
“Does she?” said Lasse thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose she knows what
she’s saying, or else she says it for reasons of her own. But all the
same, it’s not true that he beats her! She’s telling a lie, I’m sure.”
“And why should she lie?”
“Because she wants to do him harm, I suppose. But it’s true he’s a fine
man—and cares for everybody except just her; and that’s the misfortune.
I don’t like your being so much up there; I’m so afraid you may come to
some harm.”
“How could I? She’s so good, so very good.”
“How am I to know that? No, she isn’t good—her eyes aren’t good, at any
rate. She’s brought more than one person into misfortune by looking at
them. But there’s nothing to be done about it; the poor man has to risk
things.”
Lasse was silent, and stumbled about for a little while. Then he came
up to Pelle. “Now, see here! Here’s a piece of steel I’ve found, and
you must remember always to have it about you, especially when you go
up _there_! And then—yes, then we must leave the rest in God’s hand.
He’s the only one who perhaps looks after poor little boys.”
Lasse was up for a short while that day. He was getting on quickly,
thank God, and in two days they might be back in their old ways again.
And next winter they must try to get away from it all!
On the last day that Pelle stayed at home, he went up to the mistress
as usual, and ran her errand for her. And that day he saw something
unpleasant that made him glad that this was over. She took her teeth,
palate, and everything out of her mouth, and laid them on the table in
front of her!
So she _was_ a witch!