“She must have had right on her side, for he never said a cross word
when she started off with her complaints and reproaches, and them so
loud that you could hear them right through the walls and down in the
servants’ room and all over the farm. But it was stupid of her all the
same, for she only drove him distracted and sent him away. And how will
it go with a farm in the long run, when the farmer spends all his time
on the high-roads because he can’t stay at home? It’s a poor sort of
affection that drives the man away from his home.”
Lasse was standing in the stable on Sunday evening talking to the women
about it while they milked. Pelle was there too, busy with his own
affairs, but listening to what was said.
“But she wasn’t altogether stupid either,” said Thatcher Holm’s wife.
“For instance when she had Fair Maria in to do housemaid’s work, so
that he could have a pretty face to look at at home. She knew that if
you have food at home you don’t go out for it. But of course it all led
to nothing when she couldn’t leave off frightening him out of the house
with her crying and her drinking.”
“I’m sure he drinks too!” said Pelle shortly.
“Yes, of course he gets drunk now and then,” said Lasse in a reproving
tone. “But he’s a man, you see, and may have his reasons besides. But
it’s ill when a woman takes to drinking.” Lasse was cross. The boy was
beginning to have opinions of his own pretty well on everything, and
was always joining in when grown people were talking.
“I maintain”—he went on, turning again to the women—“that he’d be a
good husband, if only he wasn’t worried with crying and a bad
conscience. Things go very well too when he’s away. He’s at home pretty
well every day, and looks after things himself, so that the bailiff’s
quite upset, for _he_ likes to be king of the castle. To all of us, the
master’s like one of ourselves; he’s even forgotten the grudge he had
against Gustav.”
“There can’t be very much to bear him a grudge for, unless it is that
he’ll get a wife with money. They say Bodil’s saved more than a hundred
krones from her two or three months as housemaid. Some people can—they
get paid for what the rest of us have always had to do for nothing.” It
was one of the old women who spoke.
“Well, we’ll just see whether he ever gets her for a wife. I doubt it
myself. One oughtn’t to speak evil of one’s fellow-servant, but Bodil’s
not a faithful girl. That matter with the master must go for what it
was—as I once said to Gustav when he was raging about it; the master
comes before his men! Bengta was a good wife to me in every way, but
she too was very fond of laying herself out for the landlord at home.
The greatest take first; that’s the way of the world! But Bodil’s never
of the same mind for long together. Now she’s carrying on with the
pupil, though he’s not sixteen yet, and takes presents from him. Gustav
should get out of it in time; it always leads to misfortune when love
gets into a person. We’ve got an example of that at the farm here.”
“I was talking to some one the other day who thought that the mistress
hadn’t gone to Copenhagen at all, but was with relations in the south.
She’s run away from him, you’ll see!”
“That’s the genteel thing to do nowadays, it seems!” said Lasse. “If
only she’ll stay away! Things are much better as they are.”
An altogether different atmosphere seemed to fill Stone Farm. The
dismal feeling was gone; no wailing tones came from the house and
settled upon one like horse flies and black care. The change was most
apparent in the farmer. He looked ten or twenty years younger, and
joked good-humoredly like one freed from chains and fetters. He took an
interest in the work of the farm, drove to the quarry two or three
times a day in his gig, was present whenever a new piece of work was
started, and would often throw off his coat and take a hand in it. Fair
Maria laid his table and made his bed, and he was not afraid of showing
his kindness for her. His good humor was infectious and made everything
pleasanter.
But it could not be denied that Lasse had his own burden to bear. His
anxiety to get married grew greater with the arrival of very cold
weather as early as December; he longed to have his feet under his own
table, and have a woman to himself who should be everything to him. He
had not entirely given up thoughts of Karna yet, but he had promised
Thatcher Holm’s wife ten krones down if she could find some one that
would do for him.
He had really put the whole matter out of his head as an impossibility,
and had passed into the land of old age; but what was the use of
shutting yourself in, when you were all the time looking for doors
through which to slip out again? Lasse looked out once more, and as
usual it was Pelle who brought life and joy to the house.
Down in the outskirts of the fishing-village there lived a woman, whose
husband had gone to sea and had not been heard of for a good many
years. Two or three times on his way to and from school, Pelle had
sought shelter from the weather in her porch, and they had gradually
become good friends; he performed little services for her, and received
a cup of hot coffee in return. When the cold was very bitter, she
always called him in; and then she would tell him about the sea and
about her good-for-nothing husband, who kept away and left her to toil
for her living by mending nets for the fishermen. In return Pelle felt
bound to tell her about Father Lasse, and Mother Bengta who lay at home
in the churchyard at Tommelilla. The talk never came to much more, for
she always returned to her husband who had gone away and left her a
widow.
“I suppose he’s drowned,” Pelle would say.
“No, he isn’t, for I’ve had no warning,” she answered decidedly, always
in the same words.
Pelle repeated it all to his father, who was very much interested.
“Well, did you run in to Madam Olsen to-day?” was the first thing he
said when the boy came in from school; and then Pelle had to tell him
every detail several times over. It could never be too circumstantially
told for Lasse.
“You’ve told her, I suppose, that Mother Bengta’s dead? Yes, of course
you have! Well, what did she ask about me to-day? Does she know about
the legacy?” (Lasse had recently had twenty-five krones left him by an
uncle.) “You might very well let fall a word or two about that, so that
she shouldn’t think we’re quite paupers.”
Pelle was the bearer of ambiguous messages backward and forward. From
Lasse he took little things in return for her kindness to himself, such
as embroidered handkerchiefs and a fine silk kerchief, the last
remnants of Mother Bengta’s effects. It would be hard to lose them if
this new chance failed, for then there would be no memories to fall
back upon. But Lasse staked everything upon one card.
One day Pelle brought word that warning had come to Madam Olsen. She
had been awakened in the night by a big black dog that stood gasping at
the head of her bed. Its eyes shone in the darkness, and she heard the
water dripping from its fur. She understood that it must be the ship’s
dog with a message for her, and went to the window; and out in the
moonlight on the sea she saw a ship sailing with all sail set. She
stood high, and you could see the sea and sky right through her. Over
the bulwark hung her husband and the others, and they were transparent;
and the salt water was dripping from their hair and beards and running
down the side of the ship.
In the evening Lasse put on his best clothes.
“Are we going out this evening?” asked Pelle in glad surprise.
“No—well, that’s to say I am, just a little errand. If any one asks
after me, you must say that I’ve gone to the smith about a new
nose-ring for the bull.”
“And mayn’t I go with you?” asked Pelle on the verge of tears.
“No, you must be good and stay at home for this once.” Lasse patted him
on the head.
“Where are you going then?”
“I’m going—” Lasse was about to make up a lie about it, but had not the
heart to do it. “You mustn’t ask me!” he said.
“Shall I know another day, then, without asking?”
“Yes, you shall, for certain—sure!”
Lasse went out, but came back again. Pelle was sitting on the edge of
the bed, crying; it was the first time Father Lasse had gone out
without taking him with him.
“Now you must be a good boy and go to bed,” he said gravely. “Or else I
shall stay at home with you; but if I do, it may spoil things for us
both.”
So Pelle thought better of it and began to undress; and at last Lasse
got off.
When Lasse reached Madam Olsen’s house, it was shut up and in darkness.
He recognized it easily from Pelle’s descriptions, and walked round it
two or three times to see how the walls stood. Both timber and plaster
looked good, and there was a fair-sized piece of ground belonging to
it, just big enough to allow of its being attended to on Sundays, so
that one could work for a daily wage on weekdays.
Lasse knocked at the door, and a little while after a white form
appeared at the window, and asked who was there.
“It’s Pelle’s father, Lasse Karlsson,” said Lasse, stepping out into
the moonlight.
The door was unbolted, and a soft voice said: “Come inside! Don’t stand
out there in the cold!” and Lasse stepped over the threshold. There was
a smell of sleep in the room, and Lasse had an idea where the alcove
was, but could see nothing. He heard the breathing as of a stout person
drawing on stockings. Then she struck a match and lighted the lamp.
They shook hands, and looked at one another as they did so. She wore a
skirt of striped bed-ticking, which kept her night-jacket together, and
had a blue night-cap on her head. She had strong-looking limbs and a
good bust, and her face gave a good impression. She was the kind of
woman that would not hurt a fly if she were not put upon; but she was
not a toiler—she was too soft for that.
“So this is Pelle’s father!” she said. “It’s a young son you’ve got.
But do sit down!”
Lasse blinked his eyes a little. He had been afraid that she would
think him old.
“Yes, he’s what you’d call a late-born child; but I’m still able to do
a man’s work in more ways than one.”
She laughed while she busied herself in placing on the table cold bacon
and pork sausage, a dram, bread and a saucer of dripping. “But now you
must eat!” she said. “That’s what a man’s known by. And you’ve come a
long way.”
It only now occurred to Lasse that he must give some excuse for his
visit. “I ought really to be going again at once. I only wanted to come
down and thank you for your kindness to the boy.” He even got up as if
to go.
“Oh, but what nonsense!” she exclaimed, pushing him down into his chair
again. “It’s very plain, but do take some.” She pressed the knife into
his hand, and eagerly pushed the food in front of him. Her whole person
radiated warmth and kind-heartedness as she stood close to him and
attended to his wants; and Lasse enjoyed it all.
“You must have been a good wife to your husband,” he said.
“Yes, that’s true enough!” she said, as she sat down and looked frankly
at him. “He got all that he could want, and almost more, when he was on
shore. He stayed in bed until dinner, and I looked after him like a
little child; but he never gave me a hand’s turn for it, and at last
one gets tired.”
“That was wrong of him,” said Lasse; “for one good action deserves
another. I don’t think Bengta would have anything like that to say of
me if she was asked.”
“Well, there’s certainly plenty to do in a house, when there’s a man
that has the will to help. I’ve only one cow, of course, for I can’t
manage more; but two might very well be kept, and there’s no debt on
the place.”
“I’m only a poor devil compared to you!” said Lasse despondently.
“Altogether I’ve got fifty krones, and we both have decent clothes to
put on; but beyond that I’ve only got a pair of good hands.”
“And I’m sure that’s worth a good deal! And I should fancy you’re not
afraid of fetching a pail of water or that sort of thing, are you?”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not afraid of a cup of coffee in bed on a Sunday
morning, either.”
She laughed. “Then I suppose I ought to have a kiss!” she said.
“Yes, I suppose you ought,” said Lasse delighted, and kissed her. “And
now we may hope for happiness and a blessing for all three of us. I
know you’re fond of the laddie.”
There still remained several things to discuss, there was coffee to be
drunk, and Lasse had to see the cow and the way the house was arranged.
In the meantime it had grown late.
“You’d better stay here for the night,” said Madam Olsen.
Lasse stood wavering. There was the boy sleeping alone, and he had to
be at the farm by four o’clock; but it was cold outside, and here it
was so warm and comfortable in every way.
“Yes, perhaps I’d better,” he said, laying down his hat and coat again.
When at about four he crept into the cow-stable from the back, the
lantern was still burning in the herdsman’s room. Lasse thought he was
discovered, and began to tremble; it was a criminal and unjustifiable
action to be away from the herd a whole night. But it was only Pelle,
who lay huddled up upon the chest asleep, with his clothes on. His face
was black and swollen with crying.
All that day there was something reserved, almost hostile, about
Pelle’s behavior, and Lasse suffered under it. There was nothing for
it; he must speak out.
“It’s all settled now, Pelle,” he said at last. “We’re going to have a
house and home, and a nice-looking mother into the bargain. It’s Madam
Olsen. Are you satisfied now?”
Pelle had nothing against it. “Then may I come with you next time?” he
asked, still a little sullen.
“Yes, next time you shall go with me. I think it’ll be on Sunday. We’ll
ask leave to go out early, and pay her a visit.” Lasse said this with a
peculiar flourish; he had become more erect.
Pelle went with him on Sunday; they were free from the middle of the
afternoon. But after that it would not have done to ask for leave very
soon again. Pelle saw his future mother nearly every day, but it was
more difficult for Lasse. When the longing to see his sweetheart came
over him too strongly, he fussed over Pelle until the boy fell asleep,
and then changed his clothes and stole out.
After a wakeful night such as one of these, he was not up to his work,
and went about stumbling over his own feet; but his eyes shone with a
youthful light, as if he had concluded a secret treaty with life’s most
powerful forces.