It was a genuine Christmas Eve--still and clear. White, fleecy clouds
swept like angels’ wings past the bright stars and the moon which,
risen late, gleamed upon the fresh snow and out across the dark blue
fjord toward the sea.
Over the whole town floated a faint odor of roast goose and punch; and
like distant psalms sounded the light snores of all who were sleeping
near with overloaded stomachs.
The little folks slept soundly, tired out with good fortune, and
dreamed of tin soldiers and candy toys.
The grown folks slept uneasily--tossed here and there, and thought a
fat goose was sitting on their breasts and was rubbing lard under their
noses.
But Loppen slept best of all.
* * * * *
“I think I might be left in peace Christmas Eve,” said Dr. Bentzen,
testily, as he came out of the prison. “It was only what I could have
told you in advance, that she would drink herself to death; and then
any child could see that she was dead. Another time you can wait till
morning, Hansen.”
“Pardon, doctor! but I have orders to have the death certified without
delay,” answered the jailer, humbly, standing yet at the door. “Merry
Christmas, doctor!”
The doctor snarled, and hurried through the empty streets to his warm
bed. It was biting cold, a keen blast from the north came in from the
sea.
Meanwhile the moon took possession, bit by bit, of the town and the
country, scrutinized it all with her cold, indifferent eye, first on
one side and then on the other; and when she had done, she laid a dark
shadow over it and took hold upon the next.
In this way she came also to the prison, stole in aslant through a
grated window, and there found Loppen on a cot by the wall.
Her gown stood open at the breast, because the doctor had listened for
the beating of her heart, and one arm hung down toward the floor.
Her mouth was half open and the blood on her lips made it look black
and large. She was ugly--hideously ugly--as she lay there withered and
limp in the cold light of the moon.
She had lost her beauty and the rest with it. Beside it, she had not
much to lose in life; and now when she went away, neither was she
any loss to life. To be sure, there was somewhere a dish of scorched
rice-porridge for her; but beyond that there was not a thing nor a
place in life that belonged to her; so she could go away without
disturbing anything.
It was very still in the big, cold, stone building. Only now and then,
during the night, there was a slamming of doors, rattling of keys,
steps and voices which lost themselves through the long halls, every
time one of “the gang” was caught and brought in. For the chief of
police had in a spasm of energy decided to seize the whole gang which
had so long been a disgrace to the righteous town.
However, they did not get hold of those they most wished to have. The
mechanic to whom the police had a clue, was and remained as if sunk in
the earth. And Puppelena they could get no excuse to lock up; for at
seven o’clock she was found already sleeping, the sleep of the just in
her bed.
When Svend was brought in, he asked about Elsie.
But when they told him, his gypsy blood flamed out in a wild struggle
with the jailer and policeman; so they had to put irons on him.
After that, it was again very still in the big, cold, stone building,
and the moon proceeded on her round. She had dwelt long upon Elsie, for
there was much to see. It was fairly an epitome of a whole human life
that lay there, a whole story--an old, old story, too.
There was nothing missing; it was all there. She had her shawl, her
gown, her old shoes, and the rags she used for underclothing--yes, in
her pocket she had her brown baby hat, too, with the rose-red band.
Else she owned nothing; from her baby hat to her last rags they had
faithfully followed her; what life had brought her from fall to fall,
the current had washed together in one corner of the prison; yes, even
to the roses--they were there too! The frost limned them on the glass
back of the grating and they shivered upon her hand as if it froze
them--or it might be from sympathy.
A couple of mice gnawed and piped beneath the cot; one ran across the
floor and was gone. The clock in the church tower struck five; the
sound shivered long in the glistening, cold morning air. But the moon
slowly withdrew her light up the wall and out through the window;
and, as she went, she spread a thick and soft mantle of darkness and
oblivion over Elsie asleep.
And the moon went on, letting her cold, impassive eye glide over the
earth; and the night crept together into the shadows, ashamed of her
evil secrets.
But at last the ponderous, frozen earth turned herself as if in pain
away from the moon; and the sun began to shine upon the church spires
which were gilded to the honor of God.
And all the city’s church-bells rang and chimed Christmas morning’s
festive jubilee out over the whole parish. And the children sprang up
in their night-gowns to play with their new toys, or to eat something
sweet which it had not been possible for them to find room for
yesterday.
But all the grown folks dressed and went to church. So it was crowded
and Pastor Martens had to drag himself into the pulpit. The winter sun
sported gaily with the broken colors which it took from the pictures
in the big choir-window; he shot slanting rays past the altar and sent
tinted light, red, green, and burning gold down over the choir. There
lay, as it were, a festal smile over the whole church--a beaming,
blessed Christmas spirit.
It was on that, too, that Pastor Martens preached.
Christmas was not only a worldly holiday, a heart festival, a
children’s festival, but was besides--yes, first and foremost, a
religious festival, where every joy, every bliss has deeper base and
root. And as he passed on to the text for the day, he dwelt strongly
upon the gentle impressions from the Christmas of their childhood; and
before the eyes of the parish he summoned the charming pictures of the
babe in the manger, of shepherds and angels and offering kings, while
the words fell from the pulpit mildly and tenderly, as if in childlike
ecstasy.
If it were really so that a hard word or two from the thundering
sermons about hell and the judgment had fastened themselves here or
there behind the stone flowers, then were they thoroughly swept away
to-day. All the pictures from the religion of pain and self-sacrifice
were gently pushed aside, and He who hung and was torn to death with
nails through his hands and feet--He became the most charming little
babe, and Him--Him had they laid in a manger!
Tears came to kind Pastor Martens’ eyes and his voice was mournful;
there was something so ineffably touching in that. And thus it was
that what in the world was lowly and despised--that, just that, was
the true nobility, the true majesty; in that, too, there was something
so edifying and consoling. So, then, no one had a right to complain
of his station in life--indeed who would do so when the lowest was
the highest--when the lowly and despised were the elect? How blessed,
oh how blessed, to know that! We have all only to turn with childlike
minds to the babe yonder in the manger at Bethlehem.
Pastor Martens spoke with true inspiration. In his handsome voice
quivered all the strained expectancy of collection day, and when he
came to the benediction and prayer for the church, which he knew
by heart, he scrutinized more closely the individuals among the
congregation below.
He at once lit upon the rich old sailor, Randulf, Consul With’s
father-in-law, who was in the habit of walking at the head of the line
of contributors. For here yet ruled “that gentle and Christ-pleasing
custom”--as Martens called it--that the parish should personally
present their offerings to the spiritual shepherd.
And Pastor Martens thought of the big, flat envelopes in which there
could be nothing but bank-notes, but also of the modest packages of
silver money; for he did not despise even the widow’s mite, and even
that vile copper had a blessed ring when it was deposited with humility
on the table of the Lord.
It was one of the best sermons they had ever had from him; and Parson
Martens occupied a recognized place among the most prominent spiritual
orators in the country.
The congregation felt so ineffably happy, so full of childlike joy, of
Christmas joy. The police-chief’s wife leaned forward and said to Mrs.
Bentzen that far down in the church she could see a hat with Scotch
trimmings which she had made herself and given away at Christmas--and
it made her feel so good to see it.
Mrs. Bentzen nodded back with a smile:
“I feel as if we were all one great family.”
Meanwhile the yellow winter sun kept up his sport with the colored
rays. From St. Luke’s ax he took a brown fleck and glued it on the
bellman’s face as he sat in gala dress back of the modest little table
on which his offering was to be laid.
And farther down the church went the slanting sunbeams and here and
there laid a halo of glory about this and that head down there.
But indeed there were no saints among them, and it was just as well.
All had their frailties, and all knew them.
Perhaps, indeed, there might be one or two who had a good many
frailties; but Lord! who on such a day would find fault with his
neighbor?
Each felt so sure of himself, so pleased with himself, so
overwhelmingly tender and gentle as a child. They smiled to each other,
and pressed close together, so all could get seats; it was pleasant
to see the elegant, distinguished Consul With arise to give his place
to old Madam Speckbom. It was really a lovely Christmas day, and the
church was warmed, so they did not need their foot-bags.
And memory dwelt on the long line of festivals and merry gatherings,
now standing without the door. They were just in the mood to take a
long walk in the gay winter sun, and go home with good appetites to
meet the fragrance of roast beef at the door.
And from the lofty, sunlit arches a holy Christmas feeling, pacifying
like a good conscience, settled down upon the whole congregation.
But the church was filled with roaring tones. The organist played a
festival prelude with broad, triumphant harmonies. And when the song
began, it was sung boldly and joyously by the entire congregation; the
most did not need once to look in the book, for it was the noble old
Christmas song:
“At this, the blest old Christmas-tide,
We rightly look for pleasure.”