Part 16

At nine o'clock the next morning, Kallem thought him better in all respects. His mind was clearer, too, now, but was still much taken up about his foot--if only it might be spared. He wished to see his good friend the minister; the wife was there, and she went off at once to beg the minister to come to him a little before church began. Meanwhile his eyes were attended to; they were less swollen, but could not bear the light; atropin was used to them and the compresses changed for a light bandage. Kallem was on the lookout when Andersen's wife came back with the minister; he went to meet them. According to his opinion, Andersen's right leg would undoubtedly have to be exarticulated, that is, the leg taken off at the knee-joint; but the patient was not to know that at present. The wife, who until now had taken the accident with strength of mind and calmness, broke down entirely, so Kallem dared not let her go into the room; the minister went in alone.

It made a deep impression on the latter to stand beside his sick friend in this darkened room, and by degrees distinguish the giant lying there without eyes, with an unrecognizable face, his hands in bags, and to hear him moaning. But soon he was bound to admire his strength and his confident faith. Andersen wished them to pray for him in church to-day; "they all know me," said he. The minister agreed to it, but on the spot he offered up a heartfelt prayer for him and for all who were dependent on him. The sick man was much cheered by this prayer; he whispered: "I have made a covenant with God about my foot," then lay quite quiet whilst the minister pronounced St. Paul's blessing over him. Within an hour from then Dr. Arentz came, and Andersen was carried into the operating-room. They told him that they intended to chloroform him so as thoroughly to examine his injuries; and as he was still suffering such intolerable pain, he agreed to it at once; "but my foot is not to be cut off."

A closer examination proved that the upper extremity of the fibula was splintered up crossways into the knee-joint; unfortunately, too, one of the larger veins lay pressed between the fractured extremities, so that its pouch was filled by a large thrombus, which stretched up a few inches of the thigh.

As a matter of course, the leg had to be amputated; it was done in a quarter of an hour.

All those who were to help in nursing him were strictly enjoined to let him believe that his leg had been spared. All excitement was to be avoided, so that there might be no possibility of his raising himself in bed and changing his position; if a thrombus were started, it would be all over with him. He was laid in a wire bandage from the hip-joint and down to the foot of the bed, the stump was wrapped in a bandage of carbolic gauze and jute, and fastened at the outer side to a block.

When he was in bed again they roused him, but impressed upon him to keep perfectly quiet. They gave him wine, but in tablespoonfuls, so that he need not move; in the same way he had some bouillon (beef-tea) and the yolk of an egg; soon he fell asleep again.

As soon as Kallem had changed his coat, he went down to the deaconesses' room where the wife was waiting, and told her the whole case, together with the danger threatening if Andersen were in any way agitated. He grew quite fond of her broad, intelligent face with the eagle's nose; seldom had he come across a purer strength of character. "Should this end badly," said he, "you have still many friends."

"God lives," whispered she.

Between three and four o'clock Andersen woke up, took more spoonfuls of wine, beef-tea, eggs, milk; he assured them that he felt well enough, except that his shin-bone pained him; occasionally too he felt a pain in his heel. Toward evening his vital powers were much stronger, and he wished to see the minister again. Just as his wife was going to fetch him, he came of his own accord. Kallem had impressed on him that he was to pretend that the leg was still on.

It was evident at once that Andersen just lay there and thought of nothing else. "I think now I can say that God has heard my prayer," said he; "therefore must He be thanked in a fitting manner."

The minister was touched by this, and felt called upon to give hearty thanks that the leg had proved to be a pledge of God's mercy to the sick man, and had allied him still more closely with his Saviour. Andersen seemed to be considering the matter; at last he said: "Pray now that He will spare the leg afterwards too."

What could make him think of that?

"Oh, because I have so much pain in it."

But shortly before he thought his prayers had been heard?

"Yes; but it is a good thing to pray without ceasing."

The minister tried to refuse; but the patient at once became restless, and his wife whispered meekly that Andersen must be allowed his way in this. So the minister yielded. But he did it more on her responsibility than on his own, and it passed over. Kallem had just gone home when the minister came to him there, very pale, and told him what had taken place. "I will not do that over again," said he.

"I can assure you, you have done a good deed." The minister stood with his overcoat and hat on, his hand on the door-handle; Kallem's tone and words offended him. "Through truth alone can we draw near the God of truth. Good-bye!"

The doctor followed him out: "You believe, then, that if you now tell Andersen his leg has been cut off, that God can save him?"

"Yes," answered the minister, angrily, without turning round.

It was impossible for Kallem to leave now. He wrote a lengthily detailed letter to Ragni and promised to come as soon as he could.

The next morning he found everything in the most desirable order; but enforced the greatest quiet in his position in bed, and that he was not to talk so much. In the afternoon Andersen wished to take the sacrament, but the deaconess answered that he could not stand so much agitation. "I wish to renew my covenant with God," replied Andersen.

They could not do otherwise but listen to this; but they dared not consent without first asking the doctor, and he had been sent for in the morning to attend a confinement. The deaconess consulted with the porter, who had been there so long that he was all-powerful. Andersen repeated his wish to him too in the most decided way, and the porter thought it could not be avoided; he would take the responsibility on himself. Shortly after the minister and he were together in the porter's room to take the chill off the wine; the weather had changed and it was a bitterly cold evening. They both went upstairs. Andersen was glad to hear who it was who came; "I knew it," said he.

The minister asked if there were anything special?

"Yes, there was."

The others left the room. Then Andersen said that once, when he was young, he had given a boy a rupture with the same foot that now was injured. It was surely not on that account that he was now punished?

"No."

"No, but for all that he had been thinking so much about it, and had a longing to take the sacrament."

There was nothing else the matter?

"No."

The minister begged him to collect his thoughts, now they would pray together. Andersen was silent while this went on. After the prayer the minister gave him absolution from sins, and said that now he would give him the bread and wine.

"Oh, wait a little! Now I have received absolution from my sins, now there is a clean page. Let us write down the leg on that, that it may be read in heaven. I feel so happy, yes, I am so truly happy!"

"The whole body is included in the covenant, dear Andersen."

"Yes, but this time the Lord is to promise my wife and children that my leg will get quite well. Come now!"

He stretched out his frost-bitten hands.

The perspiration broke out on the minister's face. "I cannot do this," whispered he, quite unconsciously.

Andersen's mouth quivered, his bandaged hands fumbled for something; he raised them to his eyes, but they were met by the bandage. "We cannot question the justice of God," said the minister; "supposing now that what we wish for is impossible?"

Was there something in the minister's voice, or was it the actual opposition that made Andersen suspicious?

Without answering, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and he raised himself up, did it quickly, flung the bedclothes aside and fell back on his pillow, put his hand on his chest, crying out that he was suffocating, his breathing was alarming. A clot of blood (thrombus) had gone up into the lung.

The minister had put down what he was holding in his hands, and hastened to the door where the porter and the others were waiting outside; they ran for Doctor Arentz and Doctor Kent, but before either of them arrived Kallem had come back. The minister had left by then; Andersen died that same night.

VI.

The porter was the first who had to pay for it. He was dismissed that same day.

Then Kallem went down to Andersen's widow. "You are a very clever, capable woman. If you like you shall have the place as porter and steward at the hospital. Accept it and begin at once to-morrow to pack up and move in with the children, you will have less time to think about your sorrow. Have you a good servant-girl?"

"Yes."

"Take her with you. More will not be necessary. Everything else is ready, and the deaconesses will help you."

The upper deaconess got a sound rating; but nothing further. She was to atone for her mistake by doing all that lay in her power to help mother Andersen.

He made no effort to see the minister, nor the minister to see him. He heard from others that he had been ill, which he thought likely enough. A few days later Kallem met Josephine in the street; she pretended not to see him.

The effect produced by this incident is not easily described. The whole town was in a tumult. There must be something peculiar about belief altogether, when belief in a lie could save a man from certain death.

Of course the porter and his large family came down upon the minister and his wife like a heavy beam. Josephine had to provide money for starting them in a bookseller's shop, much more money than she wished to part with.

From that time Kallem had a true and faithful enemy in that man.

Directly after all this Kallem travelled up to the wood district. He gave no notice of his coming; he came driving up from the station to the farm one moonlight evening just as the yard and a good part of the road were filled with sledges; some had people in them, some were empty; old and young, all were going on a sleighing expedition; they were to start from here and come back to the farm to dance.

No one noticed him coming from the station; they thought he belonged to the party. It was only when he stood in the passage where the people of the house and their guests were dressing that several of them saw he was a stranger; but they did not think much about that; many fur-clad figures were tramping out and in. Ragni had just got her fur on when she felt herself embraced from behind. She gave a scream and looked up. What delight that was! And Karl, who stood aside in a corner struggling to pull on his long boots--without a sound or word he pulled them off again, his fur too, flung his legs up in the air and away he went on his hands to greet Kallem; at last he had acquired the art! The father stood by with his thick hair and his melancholy face; he introduced Kallem to his wife, a pale, quiet creature; she spoke in the dialect of that district and had a weak voice--about all that Kallem remarked in her. He had now no time for anything but just to join them.

There was much neighing of horses, and shouting, and little screams, and laughter until "Ready!" was sung out down all the line and the first sledge with a lady in it and a fur-man standing behind dashed off; then sledge upon sledge, broad ones and narrow ones, sledges with one horse and sledges with two horses. All along the snowy field in the moonlight there was a long waving line with blackish-gray dots on it wending toward the wood, while soon re-echoed through the trees the sound of bells, dogs, laughing and talking. Some began to sing, others joined in; but it was impossible to keep time, so they gave it up. Kallem sat in a broad sledge with his wife. She looked so sweet wrapped in all her furs that he several times tried to kiss her--a very difficult task. What a lot she had experienced! As he listened to her it became clear to him that it was only now she was enjoying her youth. He had never seen anyone so happy, had never known that she had such a longing for enjoyment in her. The same thing struck him later in the evening, as they danced, played games, chattered, played, ate; she was enjoying herself now for many past years. Whether it was a ponderous wood-owner who took her round her slim waist and carried her off so that she barely touched the floor with the tips of her toes, or whether she caught hold of one of the children and waltzed away with it, or of Karl, or some other youth from school or university whirled her round the reverse way like a top--there was always the same delighted face, the same zealous eagerness. The dancing and games went on in a corner room reaching right across the house; but many kept streaming out from there and into the other rooms, yes, even into the kitchen over in the other corner; the door into it was open. A few elderly gentleman tried to have a game of cards in a corner, but had to give it up; they were perpetually being called away to dance, they too. Old and young, all were equally happy.

At eleven o'clock the next day Ragni was still asleep, and when she came downstairs about noon, rather tired and confused and much astonished that Kallem had got up without her hearing him, she was informed that he had gone away! A telegram from Dr. Kent, who was ill again, made it impossible for him to remain longer. A few hasty lines, scribbled while he ate his breakfast, comforted her a little. He wrote that he would not wake her as she had been up so late the night before, still less would he have her with him; but never had he felt a greater pleasure than in seeing her so happy.

The first thing Kallem found when he got home was an invitation to a ball from the "club." And he decided to accept it. The invitation was in his sister's hand-writing (she was one of the patronesses) and it was to "Dr. and Mrs. Kallem." Dear me!

Should he telegraph for Ragni? He decided to let her stay where she was; she could not be better off.

Meanwhile he had to do with a very serious matter. His first visit the same evening was to a poor woman down in the town, Sissel Aune, a washerwoman and mother of a large family; she was in bed with inflammation of the lungs. It was particularly on her account that Kent had telegraphed. The seventh day had passed without any crisis, and when this night was half through, the ninth day would be over too. Would she survive it? Both upper and lower tips of the lung were affected. The heart was weak, the pulse very feeble, and there were other bad symptoms. Should he try to brace up the heart with atropin for the last struggle? He had never tried that remedy in a similar case, but it seemed reasonable enough. Wherever he went and whatever he did, this question haunted him. The five children were over with Sören Pedersen and his wife Aase; those two were capital in such emergencies.

The second time he went there he stayed; it was a wrestling match with death.

It was a small but clean room with three beds. A miserable geranium in the window and a portrait of King Charles XV. on horseback, in frame and glass, hanging on the wall, a few photographs fastened up with pins, and beside them a violin with three strings, the fourth hanging down loose. The poor creature who lay there had once been a good-looking woman, should she recover she would still be hard-working and active. But now she was wasted away to skin and bone, her worn-out hard-working hands resting on the ragged sheet. But the man who sat beside her was not strong like she was; no, he was indeed a poor weak thing! A good-natured face, so far in keeping with the violin on the wall that perhaps a string had cracked in himself before the one now hanging there had given way. Tired and worn out by night-watching, he sat there quite by himself, not because the neighbours were chary with their help, but because the one who had last sat there was resting now until the last struggle should begin. It had touched Kallem to see that the neighbours kept watch on each side of the house, wishing to prevent Christmas merry-makers from passing that way; they relieved guard the whole night through. He heard this from the woman who came again about eleven o'clock to help. There was not much to be done except for the doctor, and he did not know whether he dare do anything.

After the first injection of one-third of a milligramme the pulse was raised. Kallem felt some hope, but dare not send it on to the imploring eyes of the husband; it might deceive him. The pulse kept steady for a couple of hours, then it fell; a fresh dose and it rose again. He sat there watching her in great anxiety. He had a book with him and tried to hold it under the lamp, now and again he took in a little of it, but it was speedily forgotten. Not a word was spoken, but there were groans and sighs. The last shouts outside in the distance, the last sound of bells died away, the last door had long since been shut, the night was gray and still. Five children, the eldest not more than ten years old, were about to lose their provider, and the man who sat there, sometimes tapping his knees, then stroking them, or resting his elbows on them and clasping his hands together, and staring first at her, then at the doctor, alas, he too would lose his provider.

Each time the pulse grew weaker a fresh dose was administered, and it invariably strengthened the pulse so that it certainly seemed as though he were doing the right thing. But the crisis would not end; it was past midnight, and according to what they said the ninth day was over, and still the same wearing struggle was going on. He got up from his seat in hope and fear, and sat down again, took his book, held it up, laid it down--and went to take her temperature. Her strength was fast ebbing away; the husband saw it in his face and he struggled to keep back his tears; the doctor warned him to be quiet. One more trial, and soon after she fell asleep. But was that really sleep? He listened. The others looked at him and he at them. He left the bedside for a little while to return to it with fresh powers of judging; it was genuine, quiet sleep! He turned round to the husband, who read it in his face and a reflection of the light of life flitted over from the doctor's to his face. He got up, again his feelings overcame him--it must break out now. "Go to bed!" whispered the doctor. The man flung himself down on one of the beds with his face buried in the pillow--then he gave way completely.

Whispered injunctions to the woman who sat by the stove and who now got up. Kallem promised to be there again later on in the morning; she helped him on with his overcoat, he quietly opened the door for himself and shut it again as quietly. The dull, gray weather had turned to a heavy fall of snow. Not a single light was to be seen in any window, with the exception of that one watching over the newly-kindled spark of life. As Kallem went past the saddler's shop he could not resist knocking at the door; but they were sound asleep in there. He knocked again, for he felt sure that they had given up both their bed and the warm room to the children, and were lying down themselves in the shop. He was quite right. "Who's there?" was asked, with Sören Pedersen's Funen accent. "When the children awake, tell them that their mother will get better."

"That is delightful," returned the man from Funen, and behind him could be heard Aase's north country voice: "What is that he is saying?"

Kallem replied: "Come to dinner with me and bring the children with you!"

VII.

The whole of that night and the next day there was a tremendous fall of snow, and toward evening the wind rose to a perfect storm; it drifted and piled up the newly fallen snow in great heaps. The storm passed away; but the snow fell on with equal violence. People from the country who were going to the ball got the snow-plough to drive right down to the town; in the town itself they were driving it about for the second time that day. To the ball! to the ball! The first large ball at Christmas-tide.

To the ball! to the ball! In those larger towns, where dancing is a business kept up by the young people in turn at different houses and assemblies, no one there can have any idea of the upset caused in a small town by the prospect of the first Christmas ball, and especially amongst those young people from the country who drive in, ready-dressed for the ball underneath their furs. But just as the snow-plough good-naturedly pushes the superfluous snow to both sides, so does this old-established custom and their natural shyness do away with more than the half of all they had been romancing about together. A nice, well-behaved flock appears, who at first seem hardly to know each other.

Kallem was lying on the sofa, and was in capital spirits. That excellent woman, Sissel Aune, was recovering, the husband was going about to-day drunk with happiness, and with brandy, which the neighbours forced on him. The children had been there to dinner, although the servant did not approve of it; in that respect she was like Ragni, those two were like each other in many ways.

The children were not quite so shy as Andersen's children, who were also of the party. Kallem had played the piano for them, indifferently enough, but he had walked on his hands to perfection, and the saddler had had much to say about the mason Andersen's death. It was truth had killed Andersen; so many there are who live by lying that it is necessary some should be killed by truth, and more of such like rubbish, which Aase thought wonderful.

A long and very cheery letter from Ragni lay spread out on Kallem's stomach; he had been reading it through for the second time. Karl had enclosed a report of her state after the doctor's departure, and that was amusing too, especially a description of her first attempt at using snow-skates (which also proved to be the last). Through it all one could see her innate cowardice.

Now he was going to a ball where a minister's wife was to be patroness! She and her smart friend, Lilli Bing. Was Josephine doing this against her husband's wishes? It was a public secret that such was the case; Lilli Bing had betrayed it to him. The minister's wife was the first ball-room lady in the town! The gentlemen fought for the chance of merely whirling her once round in a cotillon tour. He could see her in fancy, tall, bare-necked, dark-eyed, warm and glowing from dancing. Yes, he would have a dance with her too. He felt a longing to see her, he could not conceal the fact. He put Ragni's letter on one side, Karl's too, and the book he had been reading, then he got up, turned down the lamp, told the servant he meant to go out, then went up to dress.