The house was thus transformed into a nursing home. It was a hard hit
at their careless happiness, but they took it as it came. Neither of
them demanded more of life than it was capable of.
Ellen was with the sick girl day and night until the worst was over;
she neglected both Pelle and the children to give all her care to
Johanna.
“You’ve got far too much to do,” said Pelle anxiously. “It’ll end in
your being ill too. Do let us have help!” And as Ellen would not hear
of it, he took the matter into his own hands, and got “Queen Theresa”
to be out there during the day.
In the course of a few days Morten arranged his affairs, got rid of his
flat, and moved out to them. “You won’t be able to run away from me,
after all,” he said to Johanna, who was sitting up in bed listening to
the carrying upstairs of his things. “When you’re well enough you shall
be moved up into the big attic; and then we two shall live upstairs and
be jolly again, won’t we?”
She made no answer, but flushed with pleasure.
Ellen now received from Morten the amount he usually spent in a month
on food and house-rent. She was quite disconcerted. What was she to do
with all that money? It was far too much! Well, they need no longer be
anxious about their rent.
Johanna was soon so far recovered as to be able to get up for a little.
The country air had a beneficial effect upon her nerves, and Ellen knew
how to keep her in good spirits. Old Brun made her a present of a
beautiful red and yellow reclining chair of basket work; and when the
sun shone she was carried out onto the grass, where she lay and watched
the children’s play, sometimes joining in the game from her chair, and
ordering them hither and thither. Boy Comfort submitted to it good-
naturedly, but Sister was a little more reserved. She did not like this
stranger to call Pelle “father”; and when she was in a teasing mood she
would stand a little way off and repeat again and again: “He’s not your
father, for he’s mine!” until Ellen took her away.
Johanna mostly lay, however, gazing into space with an expression of
the utmost weariness. For a moment her attention would be attracted by
anything new, but then her eyes wandered away again. She was never well
enough to walk about; even when she felt well, her legs would not
support her. Brun came out to “Daybreak” every afternoon to see her.
The old man was deeply affected by her sad fate, and had given up his
usual holiday trip in order to keep himself acquainted with her
condition. “We must do something for her,” he said to the doctor, who
paid a daily visit at his request. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
The doctor shook his head. “She couldn’t be better off anywhere than
she is here,” he said.
They were all fond of her, and did what they could to please her. Brun
always brought something with him, expensive things, such as beautiful
silk blankets that she could have over her when she lay out in the
garden, and a splendid coral necklace. He got her everything that he
could imagine she would like. Her eyes sparkled whenever she received
anything new, and she put everything on. “Now I’m a princess in all her
finery,” she whispered, smiling at him; but a moment after she had
forgotten all about it. She was very fond of the old man, made him sit
beside her, and called him “grandfather” with a mournful attempt at
roguishness. She did not listen to what he told her, however, and when
the little ones crept up and wanted him to come with them to play in
the field, he could quite well go, for she did not notice it.
Alas! nothing could reconcile her child’s soul to her poor, maltreated
body, neither love nor trinkets. It was as though it were weary of its
covering and had soared as far out as possible, held captive by a thin
thread that would easily wear through. She grew more transparent every
day; it could be clearly seen now that she had the other children
beside her. They ate and throve for her as well as themselves! When
Ellen was not on the watch, Boy Comfort would come and eat up Johanna’s
invalid food, though goodness knew he wasn’t starved! Johanna herself
looked on calmly; it was all a matter of such indifference to her.
It was an unusually fine summer, dry and sunny, and they could nearly
always be in the garden. They generally gathered there toward evening;
Ellen and “Queen Theresa” had finished their house work, and sat by
Johanna with their sewing, Brun kept them company with his cheerful
talk, and Johanna lay and dozed with her face toward the garden gate.
They laughed and joked with her to keep her in good spirits. Brun had
promised her a trip to the South if she would make haste to use her
legs, and told her about the sun down there and the delicious grapes
and oranges that she would be allowed to pick herself. She answered
everything with her sad smile, as though she knew all too well what
awaited her. Her thick, dark hair overshadowed more and more her pale
face; it was as if night were closing over her. She seemed to be dozing
slowly out of existence, with her large eyes turned toward the garden
gate.
Morten was often away on lecturing tours, sometimes for several days at
a time. When at last he entered the gate, life flashed into her face.
He was the only one who could recall her spirit to its surroundings; it
was as though it only lingered on for him. She was no longer capricious
with him. When she had the strength for it, she sat up and threw her
arms round his neck; her tears flowed silently, and her longing found
free vent. Ellen understood the child’s feelings, and signed to the
others to leave the two together. Morten would then sit for hours
beside her, telling her all that he had been doing; she never seemed to
grow weary, but lay and listened to him with shining eyes, her
transparent hand resting upon his arm. Every step he took interested
her; sometimes a peculiar expression came into her eyes, and she fell
suspiciously upon some detail or other. Her senses were morbidly keen;
the very scent of strange people about him made her sullen and
suspicious.
“The poor, poor child! She loves him!” said Ellen one day to Pelle, and
suddenly burst into tears. “And there she lies dying!” Her own
happiness made her so fully conscious of the child’s condition.
“But dearest Ellen!” exclaimed Pelle in protest. “Don’t you think I can
see? That’s of course why she’s always been so strange to him. How sad
it is!”
The child’s sad fate cast a shadow over the others, but the sun rose
high in the heavens and became still stronger.
“Pelle,” said Ellen, stroking his hair, “the light nights will soon be
over!”
Morten continued obstinately to believe that little Johanna would
recover, but every one else could see distinctly what the end was to
be. Her life oozed away with the departing summer. She became gentler
and more manageable every day. The hatred in her was extinguished; she
accepted all their kindness with a tired smile. Through her spoiled
being there radiated a strange charm, bearing the stamp of death, which
seemed to unfold itself the more as she drew nearer to the grave.
Later in the autumn her nature changed. Suddenly, when Pelle or Morten
approached, her eyes would fill with horror and she would open her
mouth to cry out; but when she recognized them, she nestled down in
their arms, crying pitifully. She could no longer go into the garden,
but always kept her bed. She could not bear the noise of the children;
it tortured her and carried her thoughts back to the narrow streets:
they had to keep out of doors all day. Delirious attacks became more
frequent, and her thin, languid voice became once more rough and
hoarse. She lay fighting with boys and roughs and high hats, defended
herself with nicknames and abusive epithets, and snarled at every one,
until she at last gave in and asked for brandy, and lay crying softly
to herself. Old Brun never dared show himself at her bedside; she took
him for an old chamberlain that the street-boys had set onto her, and
received him with coarse demands.
This insight into the child’s terrible existence among the
timber-stacks affected them all. It seemed as if the malignity of life
would not relax its hold on this innocent victim, but would persecute
her as long as life remained, and made all their love useless. Morten
stayed with her during the days in which she fought her battle with
death; he sat watching her from a corner, only venturing nearer when
she dozed. Ellen was the only one who had the strength to meet it. She
was with Johanna night and day, and tried to make death easier for her
by her unwearying care; and when the fits came over the child, she held
her in her arms and sought to calm her with a mother’s love.
She had never been in a death-chamber before, but did not quail; and
the child died upon her breast.
Johanna’s death had completely paralyzed Morten. As long as he possibly
could he had clung to the belief that her life might be saved; if not,
it would be so unreasonably unjust; and when her hopeless condition
became apparent to him, he collapsed. He did nothing, but wandered
about dully, spoke to no one and ate very little. It was as though he
had received a blow on the head from a heavy hand.
After the funeral he and Pelle walked home together while the others
drove. Pelle talked of indifferent matters in order to draw Morten’s
thoughts away from the child, but Morten did not listen to him.
“My dear fellow, you can’t go on like this,” said Pelle suddenly,
putting his arm through Morten’s. “You’ve accompanied the poor child
along the road as far as you could, and the living have some claim on
you too.”
Morten raised his head. “What does it matter whether I write a few
pages more or less?” he said wearily.
“Your pen was given you to defend the defenceless with; you mustn’t
give up,” said Pelle.
Morten laughed bitterly. “And haven’t I pleaded the cause of the
children as well as I could, and been innocent enough to believe that
there, at any rate, it was only necessary to open people’s eyes in
order to touch their hearts? And what has been gained? The addition, at
the most, of one more volume to the so-called good literature. Men are
practical beings; you can with the greatest ease get them to shed
theater tears; they’re quite fond of sitting in the stalls and weeping
with the unfortunate man; but woe to him if they meet him again in the
street! The warmest words that have ever been spoken to me about my
descriptions of children were from an old gentleman whom I afterward
found to be trying to get hold of little children.”
“But what are you going to do?” said Pelle, looking at him with
concern.
“Yes, what am I going to do—tell me that! You’re right in saying I’m
indifferent, but can one go on taking part in a battle that doesn’t
even spare the children? Do you remember my little sister Karen, who
had to drown herself? How many thousand children are there not standing
behind her and Johanna! They call this the children’s century, and the
children’s blood is crying out from the earth! They’re happy when they
can steal away. Fancy if Johanna had lived on with her burden! The
shadows of childhood stretch over the whole of life.”
“Yes, and so does the sunshine of childhood!” exclaimed Pelle. “That’s
why we mustn’t fail the poor little ones. We shall need a race with
warm hearts.”
“That’s just what I’ve thought,” said Morten sadly. “Do you know,
Pelle, I _loved_ that child who came to me from the very lowest depth.
She was everything to me; misery has never come so cruelly near to me
before. It was a beautiful dream of mine—a foolish dream—that she would
live. I was going to coax life and happiness into her again, and then I
would have written a book about all that triumphs. I don’t know whether
you understand me—about misery that becomes health and happiness
beneath the sunshine of kindness. She was that; life could hardly be
brought lower! But did you notice how much beauty and delicacy there
was after all buried beneath the sewer-mud in her? I had looked forward
to bringing it out, freed from all want and ugliness, and showing the
world how beautiful we are down here when the mud is scraped off us.
Perhaps it might have induced them to act justly. That’s what I
dreamed, but it’s a bitter lot to have the unfortunates appointed to be
one’s beloved. My only love is irretrievably dead, and now I cannot
write about anything that triumphs. What have I to do with that?”
“I think it’s Victor Hugo who says that the heart is the only bird that
carries its cage,” said Pelle, “but your heart refuses to take it when
there is most use for it.”
“Oh, no!” said Morten with a little more energy. “I shan’t desert you;
but this has been a hard blow for me. If only I had a little more of
your clear faith! Well, I must be glad that I have you yourself,” he
added, holding out his hand to Pelle with a bright smile.
The librarian came across the fields to meet them. “It’s taken you two
Dioseuri a long time,” he said, looking at them attentively. “Ellen’s
waiting with the dinner.”
The three men walked together up the bare stubblefield toward the
house. “The best of the summer’s over now,” said Brun, looking about
with a sigh. “The wheel has turned on one more cog!”
“Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to one,” answered Morten,
who was still in a morbid mood.
“That’s the sort of thing one says while one’s young and prosperous—and
doesn’t mean seriously. To-morrow life will have taken you and your
sorrow into its service again. But I have never been young until now
that I’ve learned to know you two, so I count every fleeting hour like
a miser—and envy you who can walk so quickly,” he added with a smile.
They walked up more slowly, and as they followed the hedge up toward
the house they heard a faint whimpering in the garden. In a hole in an
empty bed, which the two children had dug with their spades, sat Boy
Comfort, and Sister was busy covering him with earth; it was already up
to his neck. He was making no resistance, but only whimpered a little
when the mould began to get near his mouth.
Pelle gave the alarm and leaped the hedge, and Ellen at the same moment
came running out. “You might have suffocated little brother!” she said
with consternation, taking the boy in her arms.
“I was only planting him,” said Anna, offended at having her work
destroyed. “He wanted to be, and of course he’d come up again in the
spring!” The two children wanted a little brother, and had agreed that
Boy Comfort should sacrifice himself.
“You mustn’t do such things,” said Ellen quietly. “You’ll get a little
brother in the spring anyhow.” And she looked at Pelle with a loving
glance.