The master and mistress of Stone Farm were almost always the subject of
common talk, and were never quite out of the thoughts of the people.
There was as much thought and said about Kongstrup and his wife as
about all the rest of the parish put together; they were bread to so
many, their Providence both in evil and good, that nothing that they
did could be immaterial.
No one ever thought of weighing them by the same standards as they used
for others; they were something apart, beings who were endowed with
great possessions, and could do and be as they liked, disregarding all
considerations and entertaining all passions. All that came from Stone
Farm was too great for ordinary mortals to sit in judgment upon; it was
difficult enough to explain what went on, even when at such close
quarters with it all as were Lasse and Pelle. To them as to the others,
the Stone Farm people were beings apart, who lived their life under
greater conditions, beings, as it were, halfway between the human and
the supernatural, in a world where such things as unquenchable passion
and frenzied love wrought havoc.
What happened, therefore, at Stone Farm supplied more excitement than
the other events of the parish. People listened with open- mouthed
interest to the smallest utterance from the big house, and when the
outbursts came, trembled and went about oppressed and uncomfortable. No
matter how clearly Lasse, in the calm periods, might think he saw it
all, the life up there would suddenly be dragged out of its ordinary
recognized form again, and wrap itself around his and the boy’s world
like a misty sphere in which capricious powers warred—just above their
heads.
It was now Jomfru Köller’s second year at the farm, in spite of all
evil prophecies; and indeed things had turned out in such a way that
every one had to own that his prognostications had been wrong. She was
always fonder of driving with Kongstrup to the town than of staying at
home to cheer Fru Kongstrup up in her loneliness; but such is youth.
She behaved properly enough otherwise, and it was well known that
Kongstrup had returned to his old hotel-sweethearting in the town. Fru
Kongstrup herself, moreover, showed no distrust of her young
relative—if she had ever felt any. She was as kind to her as if she had
been her own daughter; and very often it was she herself who got Jomfru
Köller to go in the carriage to look after her husband.
Otherwise the days passed as usual, and Fru Kongstrup was continually
giving herself up to little drinking-bouts and to grief. At such times
she would weep over her wasted life; and if he were at home would
follow him with her accusations from room to room, until he would order
the carriage and take flight, even in the middle of the night. The
walls were so saturated with her voice that it penetrated through
everything like a sorrowful, dull droning. Those who happened to be up
at night to look after animals or the like, could hear her talking
incessantly up there, even if she were alone.
But then Jomfru Köller began to talk of going away. She suddenly got
the idea that she wanted to go to Copenhagen and learn something, so
that she could earn her own living. It sounded strange, as there was
every prospect of her some day inheriting the farmer’s property. Fru
Kongstrup was quite upset at the thought of losing her, and altogether
forgot her other troubles in continually talking to her about it. Even
when everything was settled, and they were standing in the
mangling-room with the maids, getting Jomfru Köller’s things ready for
her journey, she still kept on—to no earthly purpose. Like all the
Stone Farm family, she could never let go anything she had once got
hold of.
There was something strange about Jomfru Köller’s obstinacy of purpose;
she was not even quite sure what she was going to do over there. “I
suppose she’s going over to learn cooking,” said one and another with a
covert smile.
Fru Kongstrup herself had no suspicion. She, who was always suspecting
something, seemed to be blind here. It must have been because she had
such complete trust in Jomfru Köller, and thought so much of her. She
had not even time to sigh, so busy was she in putting everything into
good order. Much need there was for it, too; Jomfru Köller must have
had her head full of very different things, judging from the condition
her clothes were in.
“I’m glad Kongstrup’s going over with her,” said Fru Kongstrup to Fair
Maria one evening when they were sitting round the big darning-basket,
mending the young lady’s stockings after the wash. “They say
Copenhagen’s a bad town for inexperienced young people to come to. But
Sina’ll get on all right, for she’s got the good stock of the Köllers
in her.” She said it all with such childish simplicity; you could tramp
in and out of her heart with great wooden shoes on, suspicious though
she was. “Perhaps we’ll come over to see you at Christmas, Sina,” she
added in the goodness of her heart.
Jomfru Köller opened her mouth and caught her breath in terror, but did
not answer. She bent over her work and did not look at any one all the
evening. She never looked frankly at any one now. “She’s ashamed of her
deceitfulness!” they said. The judgment would fall upon her; she ought
to have known what she was doing, and not gone between the bark and the
wood, especially here where one of them trusted her entirely.
In the upper yard the new man Pær was busy getting the closed carriage
ready. Erik stood beside him idle. He looked unhappy and troubled, poor
fellow, as he always did when he was not near the bailiff. Each time a
wheel had to come off or be put on, he had to put his giant’s back
under the big carriage and lift it. Every now and then Lasse came to
the stable-door to get an idea of what was going on. Pelle was at
school, it being the first day of the new half-year.
She was going away to-day, the false wretch who had let herself be
drawn into deceiving one who had been a mother to her! Fru Kongstrup
must be going with them down to the steamer, as the closed carriage was
going.
Lasse went into the bedroom to arrange one or two things so that he
could slip out in the evening without Pelle noticing it. He had given
Pelle a little paper of sweets for Madam Olsen, and on the paper he had
drawn a cross with a lead button; and the cross meant in all secrecy
that he would come to her that evening.
While he took out his best clothes and hid them under some hay close to
the outer door, he hummed:—
“Love’s longing so strong
It helped me along,
And the way was made short with the nightingales’ song.”
He was looking forward so immensely to the evening; he had not been
alone with her now for nearly a quarter of a year. He was proud,
moreover, of having taken writing into his service, and that a writing
that Pelle, quick reader of writing though he was, would not be able to
make out.
While the others were taking their after-dinner nap, Lasse went out and
tidied up the dung-heap. The carriage was standing up there with one
large trunk strapped on behind, and another standing on one edge on the
box. Lasse wondered what such a girl would do when she was alone out in
the wide world and had to pay the price of her sin. He supposed there
must be places where they took in such girls in return for good
payment; everything could be got over there!
Johanna Pihl came waddling in at the gate up there. Lasse started when
he saw her; she never came for any good. When she boldly exhibited
herself here, she was always drunk, and then she stopped at nothing. It
was sad to see how low misfortune could drag a woman. Lasse could not
help thinking what a pretty girl she had been in her youth. And now all
she thought of was making money out of her shame! He cautiously
withdrew into the stable, so as not to be an eye-witness to anything,
and peered out from there.
The Sow went up and down in front of the windows, and called in a thick
voice, over which she had not full command: “Kongstrup, Kongstrup! Come
out and let me speak to you. You must let me have some money, for your
son and I haven’t had any food for three days.”
“That’s a wicked lie!” said Lasse to himself indignantly, “for she has
a good income. But she wastes God’s gifts, and now she’s out to do some
evil.” He would have liked to take the fork and chase her out through
the gate, but it was not well to expose one’s self to her venomous
tongue.
She had her foot upon the step, but did not dare to mount. Fuddled
though she was, there was something that kept her in check. She stood
there groping at the handrail and mumbling to herself, and every now
and then lifting her fat face and calling Kongstrup.
Jomfru Köller came inadvertently up from the basement, and went toward
the steps; her eyes were on the ground, and she did not see the Sow
until it was too late, and then she turned quickly. Johanna Pihl stood
grinning.
“Come here, miss, and let me wish you good-day!” she cried. “You’re too
grand, are you? But the one may be just as good as the other! Perhaps
it’s because you can drive away in a carriage and have yours on the
other side of the sea, while I had mine in a beet-field! But is that
anything to be proud of? I say, just go up and tell my fine gentleman
that his eldest’s starving! I daren’t go myself because of the evil
eye.”
Long before this Jomfru Köller was down in the basement again, but
Johanna Pihl continued to stand and say the same thing over and over
again, until the bailiff came dashing out toward her, when she retired,
scolding, from the yard.
The men had been aroused before their time by her screaming, and stood
drowsily watching behind the barn-doors. Lasse kept excited watch from
the stable, and the girls had collected in the wash-house. What would
happen now? They all expected some terrible outbreak.
But nothing happened. Now, when Fru Kongstrup had the right to shake
heaven and earth—so faithlessly had they treated her—now she was
silent. The farm was as peaceful as on the days when they had come to a
sort of understanding, and Kongstrup kept himself quiet. Fru Kongstrup
passed the windows up there, and looked just like anybody else. Nothing
happened!
Something must have been said, however, for the young lady had a very
tear-stained face when they got into the carriage, and Kongstrup wore
his confused air. Then Karl Johan drove away with the two; and the
mistress did not appear. She was probably ashamed for what concerned
the others.
Nothing had happened to relieve the suspense; it oppressed every one.
She must have accepted her unhappy lot, and given up standing out for
her rights, now, just when every one would have supported her. This
tranquillity was so unnatural, so unreasonable, that it made one
melancholy and low-spirited. It was as though others were suffering on
her behalf, and she herself had no heart.
But then it broke down, and the sound of weeping began to ooze out over
the farm, quiet and regular like flowing heart’s blood. All the evening
it flowed; the weeping had never sounded so despairing; it went to the
hearts of all. She had taken in the poor child and treated her as her
own, and the poor child had deceived her. Every one felt how she must
suffer.
During the night the weeping rose to cries so heart-rending that they
awakened even Pelle—wet with perspiration. “It sounds like some one in
the last agonies!” said Lasse, and hastily drew on his trousers with
trembling, clumsy hands. “She surely hasn’t laid hands upon herself?”
He lighted the lantern and went out into the stable, Pelle following
naked.
Then suddenly the cries ceased, as abruptly as if the sound had been
cut off with an axe, and the silence that followed said dumbly that it
was forever. The farm sank into the darkness of night like an
extinguished world. “Our mistress is dead!” said Lasse, shivering and
moving his fingers over his lips. “May God receive her kindly!” They
crept fearfully into bed.
But when they got up the next morning, the farm looked as it always
did, and the maids were chattering and making as much noise as usual in
the wash-house. A little while after, the mistress’s voice was heard up
there, giving directions about the work. “I don’t understand it,” said
Lasse, shaking his head. “Nothing but death can stop anything so
suddenly. She must have a tremendous power over herself!”
It now became apparent what a capable woman she was. She had not wasted
anything in the long period of idleness; the maids became brisker and
the fare better. One day she came to the cow-stable to see that the
milking was done cleanly. She gave every one his due, too. One day they
came from the quarry and complained that they had had no wages for
three weeks. There was not enough money on the farm. “Then we must get
some,” said the mistress, and they had to set about threshing at once.
And one day when Karna raised too many objections she received a
ringing box on the ear.
“It’s a new nature she’s got,” said Lasse. But the old workpeople
recognized several things from their young days. “It’s her family’s
nature,” they said. “She’s a regular Köller.”
The time passed without any change; she was as constant in her
tranquillity as she had before been constant in her misery. It was not
the habit of the Köllers to change their minds once they had made them
up about anything. Then Kongstrup came home from his journey. She did
not drive out to meet him, but was on the steps to greet him, gentle
and kind. Everybody could see how pleased and surprised he was. He must
have expected a very different reception.
But during the night, when they were all sound asleep, Karna came
knocking at the men’s window. “Get up and fetch the doctor!” she cried,
“and be quick!” The call sounded like one of life and death, and they
turned out headlong. Lasse, who was in the habit of sleeping with one
eye open, like the hens, was the first man on the spot, and had got the
horses out of the stable; and in a few minutes Karl Johan was driving
out at the gate. He had a man with him to hold the lantern. It was
pitch-dark, but they could hear the carriage tearing along until the
sound became very distant; then in another moment the sound changed, as
the vehicle turned on to the metalled road a couple of miles off. Then
it died away altogether.
On the farm they went about shaking themselves and unable to rest,
wandering into their rooms and out again to gaze up at the tall
windows, where people were running backward and forward with lights.
What had happened? Some mishap to the farmer, evidently, for now and
again the mistress’s commanding voice could be heard down in the
kitchen—but what? The wash-house and the servants’ room were dark and
locked.
Toward morning, when the doctor had come and had taken things into his
own hands, a greater calm fell upon them all, and the maids took the
opportunity of slipping out into the yard. They would not at once say
what was the matter, but stood looking in an embarrassed way at one
another, and laughing stupidly. At last they gradually got it out by
first one telling a little and then another: in a fit of delirium or of
madness Kongstrup had done violence to himself. Their faces were
contorted with a mixture of fear and smothered laughter; and when Karl
Johan said gravely to Fair Maria: “You’re not telling a lie, are you?”
she burst into tears. There she stood laughing and crying by turns; and
it made no difference that Karl Johan scolded her sharply.
But it was true, although it sounded like the craziest nonsense that a
man could do such a thing to himself. It was a truth that struck one
dumb!
It was some time before they could make it out at all, but when they
did there were one or two things about it that seemed a little
unnatural. It could not have happened during intoxication, for the
farmer never drank at home, did not drink at all, as far as any one
knew, but only took a glass in good company. It was more likely to have
been remorse and contrition; it was not impossible considering the life
he had led, although it was strange that a man of his nature should
behave in such a desperate fashion.
But it was not satisfactory! And gradually, without it being possible
to point to any origin, all thoughts turned toward her. She had changed
of late, and the Köller blood had come out in her; and in that family
they had never let themselves be trodden down unrevenged!