IV
We have beer-soup and Aunt Anna to dinner. Now beer-soup is a nasty dish and Aunt Anna is not very nice either.
She has yellow teeth and a little hump and very severe eyes, which are not even both equally severe. She is nearly always scolding us and, when she sees a chance, she pinches us.
The worst of all, however, is that she is constantly setting us a good example, which can easily end by gradually and inevitably driving us to embrace wickedness.
Aunt Anna does not like beer-soup any more than we do. But of course she eats it with a voluptuous expression on her face and looks angrily at my little boy, who does not even make an attempt to behave nicely:
"Why doesn't the little boy eat his delicious beer-soup?" she asks.
A scornful silence.
"Such delicious beer-soup! I know a poor, wretched boy who would be awfully glad to have such delicious beer-soup."
My little boy looks with great interest at Auntie, who is swallowing her soup with eyes full of ecstatic bliss:
"Where is he?" he asks.
Aunt Anna pretends not to hear.
"Where is the poor boy?" he asks again.
"Yes, where is he?" I ask. "What's his name?"
Aunt Anna gives me a furious glance.
"What's his name, Aunt Anna?" asks my little boy. "Where does he live? He can have my beer-soup with pleasure."
"Mine too," I say, resolutely, and I push my plate from me.
My little boy never takes his great eyes off Aunt Anna's face. Meanwhile, she has recovered herself:
"There are many poor boys who would thank God if they could get such delicious beer-soup," she says. "Very many. Everywhere."
"Yes, but tell us of one, Auntie," I say.
My little boy has slipped down from his chair. He stands with his chin just above the table and both his hands round his plate, ready to march off with the beer-soup to the poor boy, if only he can get his address.
But Aunt Anna does not allow herself to be played with:
"Heaps of poor boys," she says again. "Hun-dreds! And therefore another little boy, whom I will not name, but who is in this room, ought to be ashamed that he is not thankful for his beer-soup."
My little boy stares at Aunt Anna like the bird fascinated by the snake.
"Such delicious beer-soup!" she says. "I must really ask for another little helping."
Aunt Anna revels in her martyrdom. My little boy stands speechless, with open mouth and round eyes.
I push my chair back and say, with genuine exasperation:
"Now, look here, Aunt Anna, this is really too bad! Here we are, with a whole lot of beer-soup, which we don't care about in the least and which we would be very glad to get rid of, if we only knew someone who would have it. You are the only one that knows of anybody. You know a poor boy who would dance for joy if he got some beer-soup. You know hundreds. But you won't tell us their names or where they live."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"And you yourself sit quite calmly eating two whole helpings, though you know quite well that you're going to have an omelette to follow. That's really very naughty of you, Aunt Anna."
Aunt Anna chokes with annoyance. My little boy locks his teeth with a snap and looks with every mark of disgust at that wicked old woman.
And I turn with calm earnestness to his mother and say:
"After this, it would be most improper for us ever to have beer-soup here again. We don't care for it and there are hundreds of little boys who love it. If it must be made, then Aunt Anna must come every Saturday and fetch it. She knows where the boys live."
The omelette is eaten in silence, after which Aunt Anna shakes the dust from her shoes. She won't have any coffee today.
While she is standing in the hall and putting on her endless wraps, a last doubt arises in my little boy's soul. He opens his green eyes wide before her face and whispers:
"Aunt Anna, where do the boys live?"
Aunt Anna pinches him and is shocked and goes off, having suffered a greater defeat than she can ever repair.
V
My little boy comes into my room and tells me, with a very long face, that Jean is dead. And we put all nonsense on one side and hurry away to the Klampenborg train, to go where Jean is.
For Jean is the biggest dog that has lived for some time.
He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame. He once bit his own master. He could give such a look out of his eyes and open such a mouth that there was no more horrible sight in the world. And then he would be the mildest of the mild: my little boy could put his hand in his mouth and ride on his back and pull his tail.
When we get there, we hear that Jean is already buried.
We look at each other in dismay, to think how quickly that happens! And we go to the grave, which is in the grounds of the factory, where the tall chimneys stand.
We sit down and can't understand it.
We tell each other all the stories that we know of Jean's wonderful size and strength. The one remembers this, the other that. And, as each story is told, the whole thing becomes only more awful and obscure.
At last we go home by train.
Besides ourselves, there is a kind old gentleman in the compartment, who would like to make friends with my little boy. But the boy has nothing to talk about to the kind old gentleman. He stands at the window, which comes just under his chin, and stares out.
His eyes light upon some tall chimneys:
"That's where Jean is buried," he says.
"Yes."
The landscape flies past. He can think only of that and see only that and, when some more chimneys appear, he says again:
"That's where Jean is buried."
"No, my little friend," says the kind old gentleman. "That was over there."
The boy looks at him with surprise. I hasten to reassure him:
"Those are Jean's chimneys," I say.
And, while he is looking out again, I take the old gentleman to the further corner of the compartment and tell him the state of the case.
I tell him that, if I live, I hope, in years to come, to explain to the boy the difference between Petersen's and Hansen's factories and, should I die, I will confidently leave that part of his education to others. Yes, even if he should never learn this difference, I would still be resigned. Today it is a question of other and more important matters. The strongest, the most living thing he knew is dead..
"Really?" says the old gentleman, sympathetically. "A relation, perhaps?"
"Yes," I say. "Jean is dead, a dog.."
"A dog?"
"It is not because of the dog– don't you understand? – but of death, which he sees for the first time: death, with all its might, its mystery.."
"Father," says my little boy and turns his head towards us. "When do we die?"
"When we grow old," says the kind old gentleman.
"No," says the boy. "Einar has a brother, at home, in the courtyard, and he is dead. And he was only a little boy."
"Then Einar's brother was so good and learnt such a lot that he was already fit to go to Heaven," says the old gentleman.
"Mind you don't become too good," I say and laugh and tap my little boy in the stomach.
And my little boy laughs too and goes back to his window, where new chimneys rise over Jean's grave.
But I take the old gentleman by the shoulders and forbid him most strictly to talk to my little boy again. I give up trying to make him understand me. I just shake him. He eyes the communication-cord and, when we reach the station, hurries away.
I go with my little boy, holding his hand, through the streets full of live people. In the evening, I sit on the edge of his bed and talk with him about that incomprehensible thing: Jean, who is dead; Jean, who was so much alive, so strong, so big..
VI
Our courtyard is full of children and my little boy has picked a bosom-friend out of the band: his name is Einar and he can be as good as another.
My little boy admires him and Einar allows himself to be admired, so that the friendship is established on the only proper basis.
"Einar says.. Einar thinks.. Einar does," is the daily refrain; and we arrange our little life accordingly.
"I can't see anything out of the way in Einar," says the mother of my little boy.
"Nor can I," say I. "But our little boy can and that is enough. I once had a friend who could see nothing at all charming in you. And you yourself, if I remember right, had three friends who thought your taste inexcusable. Luckily for our little boy.."
"Luckily!"
"It is the feeling that counts," I go on lecturing, "and not the object."
"Thanks!" she says.
Now something big and unusual takes place in our courtyard and makes an extraordinary impression on the children and gives their small brains heaps to struggle with for many a long day.
The scarlatina comes.
And scarlatina is not like a pain in your stomach, when you have eaten too many pears, or like a cold, when you have forgotten to put on your jacket. Scarlatina is something quite different, something powerful and terrible. It comes at night and takes a little boy who was playing quite happily that same evening. And then the little boy is gone.
Perhaps a funny carriage comes driving in through the gate, with two horses and a coachman and two men with bright brass buttons on their coats. The two men take out of the carriage a basket, with a red blanket and white sheets, and carry it up to where the boy lives. Presently, they carry the basket down again and then the boy is inside. But nobody can see him, because the sheet is over his face. The basket is shoved into the carriage, which is shut with a bang, and away goes the carriage with the boy, while his mother dries her eyes and goes up to the others.
Perhaps no carriage comes. But then the sick boy is shut up in his room and no one may go to him for a long time, because he is infectious. And anyone can understand that this must be terribly sad.
The children in the courtyard talk of nothing else.
They talk with soft voices and faces full of mystery, because they know nothing for certain. They hear that one of them, who rode away in the carriage, is dead; but that makes no more impression on them than when one of them falls ill and disappears.
Day by day, the little band is being thinned out and not one of them has yet come back.
I stand at my open window and look at my little boy, who is sitting on the steps below with his friend. They have their arms around each other's necks and see no one except each other; that is to say, Einar sees himself and my little boy sees Einar.
"If you fall ill, I will come and see you," says my little boy.
"No, you won't!"
"I will come and see you."
His eyes beam at this important promise. Einar cries as though he were already ill.
And the next day he is ill.
He lies in a little room all by himself. No one is allowed to go to him. A red curtain hangs before the window.
My little boy sits alone on the steps outside and stares up at the curtain. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets. He does not care to play and he speaks to nobody.
And I walk up and down the room, uneasy as to what will come next.
"You are anxious about our little boy," says his mother. "And it will be a miracle if he escapes."
"It's not that. We've all had a touch of scarlatina."
But just as I want to talk to her about it, I hear a fumbling with the door-handle which there is no mistaking and then he stands before us in the room.
I know you so well, my little boy, when you come in sideways like that, with a long face, and go and sit in a corner and look at the two people who owe so much happiness to you – look from one to the other. Your eyes are greener than usual. You can't find your words and you sit huddled up and you are ever so good.
"Mother, is Einar ill?"
"Yes. But he will soon be better again. The doctor says that he is not so bad."
"Is he infectious, Mother?"
"Yes, he is. His little sister has been sent to the country, so that she may not fall ill too. No one is allowed to go to him except his mother, who gives him his milk and his medicine and makes his bed."
A silence.
The mother of my little boy looks down at her book and suspects nothing. The father of my little boy looks in great suspense from the window.
"Mother, I want to go to Einar."
"You can't go there, my little man. You hear, he's infectious. Just think, if you should fall ill yourself! Einar isn't bothering at all about chatting with you. He sleeps the whole day long."
"But when he wakes, Mother?"
"You can't go up there."
This tells upon him and he is nearly crying. I see that the time has come for me to come to his rescue:
"Have you promised Einar to go and see him?" I ask.
"Yes, Father.."
He is over his trouble. His eyes beam. He stands erect and glad beside me and puts his little hand in mine.
"Then of course you must do so," I say, calmly. "So soon as he wakes."
Our mother closes her book with a bang:
"Go down to the courtyard and play, while Father and I have a talk."
The boy runs away.
And she comes up to me and lays her hand on my shoulder and says, earnestly:
"I daren't do that, do you hear?"
And I take her hand and kiss it and say, quite as earnestly:
"And I daren't refuse!"
We look at each other, we two, who share the empire, the power and the glory.
"I heard our little boy make his promise," I say, "I saw him. Sir Galahad himself was not more in earnest when swearing his knightly oath. You see, we have no choice here. He can catch the scarlatina in any case and it is not even certain that he will catch it.."
"If it was diphtheria, you wouldn't talk like that!"
"You may be right. But am I to become a thief for the sake of a nickel, because I am not sure that I could resist the temptation to steal a kingdom?"