_Sunday, March twentieth_.
Once there was a boy. He was--let us say--something like fourteen years
old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded. He wasn't good for much, that
boy. His chief delight was to eat and sleep; and after that--he liked
best to make mischief.
It was a Sunday morning and the boy's parents were getting ready to go
to church. The boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves,
and thought how lucky it was that both father and mother were going
away, and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours. "Good! Now I
can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling
interference," he said to himself.
But it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts,
for just as he was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short,
and turned toward the boy. "Since you won't come to church with mother
and me," he said, "the least you can do, is to read the service at home.
Will you promise to do so?" "Yes," said the boy, "that I can do easy
enough." And he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than
he felt like reading.
The boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent. In a
second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down
Luther's Commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the
window--opened at the service for the day. She also opened the New
Testament, and placed it beside the Commentary. Finally, she drew up the
big arm-chair, which was bought at the parish auction the year before,
and which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to occupy.
The boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself altogether too
much trouble with this spread; for he had no intention of reading more
than a page or so. But now, for the second time, it was almost as if his
father were able to see right through him. He walked up to the boy, and
said in a severe tone: "Now, remember, that you are to read carefully!
For when we come back, I shall question you thoroughly; and if you have
skipped a single page, it will not go well with you."
"The service is fourteen and a half pages long," said his mother, just
as if she wanted to heap up the measure of his misfortune. "You'll have
to sit down and begin the reading at once, if you expect to get through
with it."
With that they departed. And as the boy stood in the doorway watching
them, he thought that he had been caught in a trap. "There they go
congratulating themselves, I suppose, in the belief that they've hit
upon something so good that I'll be forced to sit and hang over the
sermon the whole time that they are away," thought he.
But his father and mother were certainly not congratulating themselves
upon anything of the sort; but, on the contrary, they were very much
distressed. They were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger
than a garden-plot. When they first moved there, the place couldn't feed
more than one pig and a pair of chickens; but they were uncommonly
industrious and capable folk--and now they had both cows and geese.
Things had turned out very well for them; and they would have gone to
church that beautiful morning--satisfied and happy--if they hadn't had
their son to think of. Father complained that he was dull and lazy; he
had not cared to learn anything at school, and he was such an all-round
good-for-nothing, that he could barely be made to tend geese. Mother did
not deny that this was true; but she was most distressed because he was
wild and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward human beings. "May
God soften his hard heart, and give him a better disposition!" said the
mother, "or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to us."
The boy stood for a long time and pondered whether he should read the
service or not. Finally, he came to the conclusion that, this time, it
was best to be obedient. He seated himself in the easy chair, and began
to read. But when he had been rattling away in an undertone for a little
while, this mumbling seemed to have a soothing effect upon him--and he
began to nod.
It was the most beautiful weather outside! It was only the twentieth of
March; but the boy lived in West Vemminghög Township, down in Southern
Skane, where the spring was already in full swing. It was not as yet
green, but it was fresh and budding. There was water in all the
trenches, and the colt's-foot on the edge of the ditch was in bloom. All
the weeds that grew in among the stones were brown and shiny. The
beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow thicker with every
second. The skies were high--and a clear blue. The cottage door stood
ajar, and the lark's trill could be heard in the room. The hens and
geese pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the spring air
away in their stalls, lowed their approval every now and then.
The boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness. "No! I don't want
to fall asleep," thought he, "for then I'll not get through with this
thing the whole forenoon."
But--somehow--he fell asleep.
He did not know whether he had slept a short while, or a long while; but
he was awakened by hearing a slight noise back of him.
On the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small looking-glass; and
almost the entire cottage could be seen in this. As the boy raised his
head, he happened to look in the glass; and then he saw that the cover
to his mother's chest had been opened.
His mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest, which she
permitted no one but herself to open. Here she treasured all the things
she had inherited from her mother, and of these she was especially
careful. Here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red homespun
cloth, with short bodice and plaited shirt, and a pearl-bedecked breast
pin. There were starched white-linen head-dresses, and heavy silver
ornaments and chains. Folks don't care to go about dressed like that in
these days, and several times his mother had thought of getting rid of
the old things; but somehow, she hadn't had the heart to do it.
Now the boy saw distinctly--in the glass--that the chest-lid was open.
He could not understand how this had happened, for his mother had closed
the chest before she went away. She never would have left that precious
chest open when he was at home, alone.
He became low-spirited and apprehensive. He was afraid that a thief had
sneaked his way into the cottage. He didn't dare to move; but sat still
and stared into the looking-glass.
While he sat there and waited for the thief to make his appearance, he
began to wonder what that dark shadow was which fell across the edge of
the chest. He looked and looked--and did not want to believe his eyes.
But the thing, which at first seemed shadowy, became more and more
clear to him; and soon he saw that it was something real. It was no less
a thing than an elf who sat there--astride the edge of the chest!
To be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but he had never
dreamed that they were such tiny creatures. He was no taller than a
hand's breadth--this one, who sat on the edge of the chest. He had an
old, wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black frock coat,
knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black hat. He was very trim and smart,
with his white laces about the throat and wrist-bands, his buckled
shoes, and the bows on his garters. He had taken from the chest an
embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the old-fashioned handiwork
with such an air of veneration, that he did not observe the boy had
awakened.
The boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but, on the other hand,
he was not particularly frightened. It was impossible to be afraid of
one who was so little. And since the elf was so absorbed in his own
thoughts that he neither saw nor heard, the boy thought that it would be
great fun to play a trick on him; to push him over into the chest and
shut the lid on him, or something of that kind.
But the boy was not so courageous that he dared to touch the elf with
his hands, instead he looked around the room for something to poke him
with. He let his gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the
leaf-table to the fireplace. He looked at the kettles, then at the
coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near the fireplace; on the water
bucket near the door; and on the spoons and knives and forks and saucers
and plates, which could be seen through the half-open cupboard door. He
looked at his father's gun, which hung on the wall, beside the portrait
of the Danish royal family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which
blossomed in the window. And last, he caught sight of an old
butterfly-snare that hung on the window frame. He had hardly set eyes on
that butterfly-snare, before he reached over and snatched it and jumped
up and swung it alongside the edge of the chest. He was himself
astonished at the luck he had. He hardly knew how he had managed it--but
he had actually snared the elf. The poor little chap lay, head downward,
in the bottom of the long snare, and could not free himself.
The first moment the boy hadn't the least idea what he should do with
his prize. He was only particular to swing the snare backward and
forward; to prevent the elf from getting a foothold and clambering up.
The elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so pitifully, for his freedom.
He had brought them good luck--these many years--he said, and deserved
better treatment. Now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him
an old coin, a silver spoon, and a gold penny, as big as the case on his
father's silver watch.
The boy didn't think that this was much of an offer; but it so
happened--that after he had gotten the elf in his power, he was afraid
of him. He felt that he had entered into an agreement with something
weird and uncanny; something which did not belong to his world, and he
was only too glad to get rid of the horrid thing.
For this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and held the snare
still, so the elf could crawl out of it. But when the elf was almost out
of the snare, the boy happened to think that he ought to have bargained
for large estates, and all sorts of good things. He should at least have
made this stipulation: that the elf must conjure the sermon into his
head. "What a fool I was to let him go!" thought he, and began to shake
the snare violently, so the elf would tumble down again.
But the instant the boy did this, he received such a stinging box on the
ear, that he thought his head would fly in pieces. He was dashed--first
against one wall, then against the other; he sank to the floor, and lay
there--senseless.
When he awoke, he was alone in the cottage. The chest-lid was down, and
the butterfly-snare hung in its usual place by the window. If he had not
felt how the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he would have
been tempted to believe the whole thing had been a dream. "At any rate,
father and mother will be sure to insist that it was nothing else,"
thought he. "They are not likely to make any allowances for that old
sermon, on account of the elf. It's best for me to get at that reading
again," thought he.
But as he walked toward the table, he noticed something remarkable. It
couldn't be possible that the cottage had grown. But why was he obliged
to take so many more steps than usual to get to the table? And what was
the matter with the chair? It looked no bigger than it did a while ago;
but now he had to step on the rung first, and then clamber up in order
to reach the seat. It was the same thing with the table. He could not
look over the top without climbing to the arm of the chair.
"What in all the world is this?" said the boy. "I believe the elf has
bewitched both the armchair and the table--and the whole cottage."
The Commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances, it was not
changed; but there must have been something queer about that too, for he
could not manage to read a single word of it, without actually standing
right in the book itself.
He read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look up. With that,
his glance fell on the looking-glass; and then he cried aloud: "Look!
There's another one!"
For in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature who was
dressed in a hood and leather breeches.
"Why, that one is dressed exactly like me!" said the boy, and clasped
his hands in astonishment. But then he saw that the thing in the mirror
did the same thing. Then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms
and swing round; and instantly he did the same thing after him; he, who
was seen in the mirror.
The boy ran around the glass several times, to see if there wasn't a
little man hidden behind it, but he found no one there; and then he
began to shake with terror. For now he understood that the elf had
bewitched him, and that the creature whose image he saw in the
glass--was he, himself.