MY
LITTLE
BOY
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
MY LITTLE BOY
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
THE SPIDER AND OTHER TALES net, $1.00
TWO-LEGS net, $1.00
MY LITTLE BOY net, $1.00
MY LITTLE BOY
BY
CARL EWALD
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH
BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK ::::::: 1915
Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons
Sole Authorized Translation
Published, April, 1906
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
CARL EWALD, the author of this little book,
was born in 1856 in the Duchy of Schleswig,
where his father, himself a writer of historical
and other novels, all widely read in their
time, followed the occupation of a land-sur-
veyor and owned a small farm. After the
iniquitous war of 1864, when Schleswig was
surrendered to Germany, the Ewald family
refused to accept Prussian nationality and
left for Elsinore, in Denmark, whence they
eventually moved to settle at Copenhagen.
The son studied at the University, was for
some years a forester and afterwards a school-
master. His first productions in literature
were a long series of fairy-tales: Two-Legs,
which the present publishers will issue after
this volume, The Quiet Pool, The Four Sea-
sons, and many others, which will now appear
in their English version in rapid succession.
Then came My Little Boy and a number of
I
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
psychological, half-mystical stories, such as
Pastor Jepsen's Christmas Eve and The Old
Room, of which an English translation is
also to be published shortly. All these are
marked by the same bright individuality of
style, combined with a simplicity of expres-
sion and narrative that gives them a charm
which is all their own. And I can but hope
that not too much of this has been lost in the
translating.
The hero of My Little Boy is now a grow-
ing lad of thirteen and has four little sisters
to keep him company. All that Carl Ewald
has written about children in this book and
elsewhere is the fruit of his personal knowl-
edge and observation of his own children and
those of others. So too his experience of
forestry has stood him in the rarest stead
when writing of beasts and birds and fishes^
of trees and flowers, of the seasons and the
wind and the mist.
For the rest, Carl Ewald was educated and
grew up in a household where piety and con-
servatism reigned so supreme that, from
sheer despair, he lapsed gradually into a
radicalism which, perhaps for that very rea-
vi
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
son, became stronger than that of most of his
contemporaries, " and for which," he writes
to me " there is but little room in Denmark."
He does not belong and has never belonged
to any literary school or clique, but he " loves
Georg Brandes," to quote his own words
again, "as the man who brought new life
into Danish literature and whose whole per-
sonality and sphere of activity have meant
so much to me in my career."
A. T. DE M.
LONDON, ENGLAND,
St. Patrick's Day, 1906.
vii
MY LITTLE BOY
CHAPTER I
MY little boy is beginning to live.
Carefully, stumbling now and then
on his little knock-kneed legs, he
makes his way over the paving-stones,
looks at everything that there is to
look at and bites at every apple, both
those which are his due and those
which are forbidden him.
He is not a pretty child and is the
more likely to grow into a fine lad.
But he is charming.
His face can light up suddenly and
become radiant; and he can look at
you with quite cold eyes. He has a
strong intuition and he is incorrupt-
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MY LITTLE BOY
ible. He has never yet bartered a kiss
for barley-sugar. There are people
whom he likes and people whom he
dislikes. There is one who has long
courted his favour indefatigably and
in vain ; and, the other day, he formed
a close friendship with another who
had not so much as said "Good-day"
to him before he had crept into her
lap and nestled there with glowing
resolution.
He has a habit which I love.
When we are walking together and
there is anything that impresses him,
he lets go my hand for a moment.
Then, when he has investigated the
phenomenon and arrived at a result,
I feel his little fist in mine again.
He has bad habits too.
He is apt, for instance, suddenly
and without the slightest reason, to
2
MY LITTLE BOY
go up to people whom he meets in
the street and hit them with his little
stick. What is in his mind, when he
does so, I do not know; and, so long
as he does not hit me, it remains a
matter between himself and the peo-
ple concerned.
He has an odd trick of seizing big
words in a grown-up conversation,
storing them up for a while and then
asking me for an explanation:
"Father," he says, "what is life?"
I give him a tap in his little stomach,
roll him over on the carpet and con-
ceal my emotion under a mighty
romp. Then, when we sit breathless
and tired, I answer, gravely:
"Life is delightful, my little boy.
Don't you be afraid of it!"
CHAPTER II
TO-DAY my little boy gave me my
first lesson.
It was in the garden.
I was writing in the shade of the
big chestnut-tree, close to where the
brook flows past. He was sitting a
little way off, on the grass, in the
sun, with Hans Christian Andersen
in his lap.
Of course, he does not know how
to read, but he lets you read to him,
likes to hear the same tales over and
over again. The better he knows
them, the better he is pleased. He
follows the story page by page,
knows exactly where everything
4
MY LITTLE BOY
comes and catches you up immedi-
ately should you skip a line.
There are two tales which he
loves more than anything in the
world.
These are Grimm's Faithful John
and Andersen's The Little Mermaid.
When any one comes whom he likes,
he fetches the big Grimm, with those
heaps of pictures, and asks for Faith-
ful John. Then, if the reader stops,
because it is so terribly sad, with all
those little dead children, a bright
smile lights up his small, long face
and he says, reassuringly and pleased
at "knowing better:"
"Yes, but they come to life again."
To-day, however, it is The Little
Mermaid.
"Is that the sort of stories you
write?" he asks.
5
MY LITTLE BOY
"Yes," I say, "but I am afraid mine
will not be so pretty."
"You must take pains," he says.
And I promise.
For a time he makes no sound. I
go on writing and forget about him.
"Is there a little mermaid down
there, in the water?" he asks.
"Yes, she swims up to the top in the
summer."
He nods and looks out across the
brook, which ripples so softly and
smoothly that one can hardly see the
water flow. On the opposite side, the
rushes grow green and thick and
there is also a bird, hidden in the
rushes, which sings. The dragon-flies
are whirling and humming. I am sit-
ting with my head in my hand, ab-
sorbed in my work.
Suddenly, I hear a splash.
6
MY LITTLE BOY
I jump from my chair, upset the
table, dart forward and see that my
little boy is gone. The brook is bil-
lowing and foaming; there are wide
circles on the surface.
In a moment, I am in the water and
find him and catch hold of him.
He stands on the grass, dripping
with wet, spluttering and coughing.
His thin clothes are clinging to his
thin body, his face is black with mud.
But out of the mud gleams a pair of
angry eyes:
"There was no mermaid," he says.
I do not at once know what to re-
ply and I have no time to think.
"Do you write that sort of stories?"
he asks.
"Yes," I say, shamefaced.
"I don't like any of you," he says.
"You make fun of a little boy."
7
MY LITTLE BOY
He turns his back on me and, proud
and wet, goes indoors without once
looking round.
This evening, Grimm and Hans
Christian Andersen disappear in a
mysterious manner, which is never
explained. He will miss them greatly,
at first; but he will never be fooled
again, not if I were to give him the
sun and moon in his hand.
CHAPTER III
MY little boy and I have had an
exceedingly interesting walk in the
Frederiksberg Park.
There was a mouse, which was irre-
sistible. There were two chaffinches,
husband and wife, which built their
nest right before our eyes, and a snail,
which had no secrets for us. And
there were flowers, yellow and white,
and there were green leaves, which
told us the oddest adventures : in fact,
as much as we can find room for in
our little head.
Now we are sitting on a bench and
digesting our impressions.
9
MY LITTLE BOY
Suddenly the air is shaken by a tre-
mendous roar:
"What was that?" asks my little boy.
"That was the lion in the Zoological
Gardens," I reply.
No sooner have I said this than I
curse my own stupidity.
I might have said that it was a gun-
shot announcing the birth of a prince ;
or an earthquake ; or a china dish fall-
ing from the sky and breaking into
pieces: anything whatever, rather
than the truth.
For now my little boy wants to
know what sort of thing the Zoologi-
cal Gardens is.
I tell him.
The Zoological Gardens is a horrid
place, where they lock up wild beasts
who have done no wrong and who are
accustomed to walk about freely in
10
MY LITTLE BOY
the distant foreign countries where
they come from. The lion is there,
whom we have just heard roaring.
He is so strong that he can kill a
policeman with one blow of his paw;
he has great, haughty eyes and
awfully sharp teeth. He lives in
Africa and, at night, when he roars,
all the other beasts tremble in their
holes for fear. He is called the king
of beasts. They caught him one day
in a cunning trap and bound him
and dragged him here and locked him
up in a cage with iron bars to it. The
cage is no more than half as big as
Petrine's room. And there the king
walks up and down, up and down, and
gnashes his teeth with sorrow and
rage and roars so that you can hear
him ever so far away. Outside his
cage stand cowardly people and
11
MY LITTLE BOY
laugh at him, because he can't get
out and eat them up, and poke their
sticks through the rails and tease him.
My little boy stands in front of me
and looks at me with wide-open eyes :
"Would he eat them up, if he got
out?" he asks.
"In a moment."
"But he can't get out, can he?"
"No. That's awfully sad. He can't
get out."
"Father, let us go and look at the
lion."
I pretend not to hear and go on to
tell him of the strange birds there:
great eagles, which used to fly over
every church-steeple and over the
highest trees and mountains and
swoop down upon lambs and hares
and carry them up to their young in
the nest. Xow they are sitting in
MY LITTLE BOY
cages, on a perch, like canaries, with
clipped wings and blind eyes. I tell
him of gulls, which used to fly all day
long over the stormy sea: now they
splash about in a puddle of water,
screaming pitifully. I tell him of
wonderful blue and red birds, which,
in their youth, used to live among
wonderful blue and red flowers, in
balmy forests a thousand times big-
ger than the Frederiksberg Park,
where it was as dark as night under
the trees with the brightest sun shin-
ing down upon the tree-tops: now
they sit there in very small cages and
hang their beaks while they stare at
tiresome boys in dark-blue suits and
black stockings and waterproof boots
and sailor-hats.
"Are those birds really blue?" asks
my little boy.
13
MY LITTLE BOY
"Sky-blue," I answer. "And utterly
broken-hearted. ' '
"Father, can't we go and look at the
birds?"
I take my little boy's hands in mine :
"I don't think we will," I say. "Why
should still more silly boys do so?
You can't imagine how it goes to
one's heart to look at those poor cap-
tive beasts."
"Father, I should so much like to
go."
"Take my advice and don't. The
animals there are not the real ani-
mals, you see. They are ill and ugly
and angry because of their captivity
and their longing and their pain."
"I should so much like to see them."
"Now let me tell you something. To
go to the Zoological Gardens costs
five cents for you and ten cents for
14
MY LITTLE BOY
me. That makes fifteen cents alto-
gether, which is an awful lot of
money. We won't go there now, but
we'll buy the biggest money-box we
can find: one of those money-boxes
shaped like a pig. Then we'll put fif-
teen cents in it. And every Thursday
we'll put fifteen cents in the pig.
By-and-by, that will grow into quite
a fortune: it will make such a lot of
money that, when you are grown up,
you can take a trip to Africa and go
to the desert and hear the wild, the
real lion roaring and tremble just like
the people tremble down there. And
you can go to the great, dark forests
and see the real blue birds flying
proud and free among the flowers.
You can't think how glad you will
be, how beautiful they will look and
how they will sing to you. . . ."
15
MY LITTLE BOY
"Father, I would rather go to the
Zoological Gardens now."
My little boy does not understand
a word of what I say. And I am at
my wits' end.
"Shall we go and have some cakes
at Josty's?" I ask.
"I would rather go to the Zoologi-
cal Gardens."
I can read in his eyes that he is think-
ing of the captive lion. Ugly human
instincts are waking up in his soul.
The mouse is forgotten and the snail ;
and the chaffinches have built their
nest to no purpose.
At last I get up and say, bluntly,
without any further explanation:
"You are not going to the Zoologi-
cal Gardens. Now we'll go home."
And home we go. But we are not in
a good temper.
16
MY LITTLE BOY
Of course, I get over it and I buy an
enormous money-box pig. Also we
put the money into it and he thinks
that most interesting.
But, later in the afternoon, I find
him in the bed-room engaged in a
piteous game.
He has built a cage, in which he has
imprisoned the pig. He is teasing it
and hitting it with his whip, while he
keeps shouting to it :
"You can't get out and bite me, you
stupid pig! You can't get out!"
17
CHAPTER 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
18
MY LITTLE BOY
she eats it with a voluptuous expres-
sion 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 in-
terest 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?"
19
MY LITTLE BOY
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. Mean-
while, 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
20
MY LITTLE BOY
with the beer-soup to the poor boy,
if only he can get his address.
But Aunt Anna does not allow her-
self 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 martyr-
dom. My little boy stands speech-
less, with open mouth and round
eyes.
I push my chair back and say, with
genuine exasperation:
21
MY LITTLE BOY
"Now, look here, Aunt Anna, this
is really too bad 1 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 some one 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 hun-
dreds. 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
22
MY LITTLE BOY
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 im-
proper 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 Satur-
day 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 to-day.
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 :
23
MY LITTLE BOY
"Aunt Anna, where do the boys
live?"
Aunt Anna pinches him and is
shocked and goes off, having- suf-
fered a greater defeat than she can
ever repair.
CHAPTER 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 hor-
rible sight in the world. And then he
would be the mildest of the mild : my
little boy could put his hand in his
25
MY LITTLE BOY
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 remem-
bers 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
20
MY LITTLE BOY
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 chim-
neys:
"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 ap-
pear, 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.
27
MY LITTLE BOY
And, while he is looking out again,
I take the old gentleman to the fur-
ther 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 differ-
ence, I would still be resigned. To-
day 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, per-
haps?"
"Yes," I say. "Jean is dead, a
dog "
28
MY LITTLE BOY
"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.
29
MY LITTLE BOY
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 strict-
ly to talk to my little boy again. I
give up trying to make him under-
stand 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. . . .
30
CHAPTER 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 lit-
tle boy.
"Nor can I," say I. "But our little
31
MY LITTLE BOY
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
32
MY LITTLE BOY
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. Present-
ly, they carry the basket down again
and then the boy is inside. But no-
body 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
33
MY LITTLE BOY
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 any one 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
34
MY LITTLE BOY
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 him-
self 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 him-
self. 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
35
MY LITTLE BOY
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 mistak-
ing 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
36
MY LITTLE BOY
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 no-
thing. 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.
37
MY LITTLE BOY
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 be-
side 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:
38
MY LITTLE BOY
"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. . . ."
39
MY LITTLE BOY
"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?"
"You would not find a living being
to agree with you."
"Except yourself. And that is all I
want. The infection is really only a
side matter. It can come this way or
that way. We can't safeguard him,
come what may. ..."
"But are we to send him straight to
where it is?"
"We're not doing that; it's not we
who are doing that."
She is very much excited. I put my
arm round her waist and we walk up
and down the room together:
40
MY LITTLE BOY
"Darling, to-day our little boy may
meet with a great misfortune. He
may receive a shock from which he
will never recover. ..."
"That is true," she says.
"If he doesn't keep his promise, the
misfortune has occurred. It would
already be a misfortune if he could
ever think that it was possible for him
to break it, if it appeared to him that
there was anything great or remark-
able about keeping it."
"Yes, but. . . ."
"Darling, the world is full of care-
ful persons. One step more and they
become mere paltry people. Shall we
turn that into a likely thing, into a
virtue, for our little boy? His prom-
ise was stupid: let that pass. . . ."
"He is so little."
"Yes, that he is ; and God be praised
41
MY LITTLE BOY
for it ! Think what good luck it is that
he did not know the danger, when he
made his promise, that he does not
understand it now, when he is keep-
ing it. What a lucky beggar! He is
learning to keep his word, just as he
has learnt to be clean. By the time
that he is big enough to know his
danger, it will be an indispensable
habit with him. And he gains all that
at the risk of a little scarlatina."
She lays her head on my shoulder
and says nothing more.
That afternoon, she takes our little
boy by the hand and goes up with him
to Einar. They stand on the thresh-
old of his room, bid him good-day
and ask him how he is.
Einar is not at all well and does not
look up and does not answer.
But that does not matter in the least.
42
CHAPTER VII
MY little boy is given a cent by
Petrine with instructions to go to the
baker's and buy some biscuits.
By that which fools call an accident,
but which is really a divine miracle,
if miracles there be, I overhear this
instruction. Then I stand at my
window and see him cross the street
in his slow way and with bent head;
only, he goes slower than usual and
with his head bent more deeply be-
tween his small shoulders.
He stands long outside the baker's
window, where there is a confused
heap of lollipops and chocolates and
sugar-sticks and other things created
for a small boy's delight. Then he
43
MY LITTLE BOY
lifts his young hand, opens the door,
disappears and presently returns with
a great paper bag, eating with all his
might.
And I, who, Heaven be praised,
have myself been a thief in my time,
run all over the house and give my
orders.
My little boy enters the kitchen.
"Put the biscuits on the table," says
Petrine.
He stands still for a moment and
looks at her and at the table and at
the floor. Then he goes silently to his
mother.
"You're quite a big boy now, that
you can buy biscuits for Petrine,"
says she, without looking up from
her work.
His face is very long, but he says
nothing. He comes quietly in to me
44
MY LITTLE BOY
and sits down on the edge of a
chair.
"You have been over the way, at the
baker's."
He comes up to me, where I am sit-
ting and reading, and presses himself
against me. I do not look at him, but
I can perceive what is going on inside
him.
"What did you buy at the baker's?"
"Lollipops."
"Well, I never! What fun! Why,
you had some lollipops this morning.
Who gave you the money this time?"
"Petrine."
"Really! Well, Petrine is certainly
very fond of you. Do you remember
the lovely ball she gave you on your
birthday?"
"Father, Petrine told me to buy a
cent's worth of biscuits."
45
MY LITTLE EOT
"Oh dear!"
It is very quiet in the room. My lit-
tle boy cries bitterly and I look anx-
iously before me, stroking his hair the
while.
"Now you have fooled Petrine
badly. She wants those biscuits, of
course, for her cooking. She thinks
they're on the kitchen-table and,
when she goes to look, she won't find
any. Mother gave her a cent for bis-
cuits. Petrine gave you a cent for
biscuits and you go and spend it on
lollipops. What are we to do?"
He looks at me in despair, holds me
tight, says a thousand things without
speaking a word.
"If only we had a cent," I say.
"Then you could rush over the way
and fetch the biscuits."
"Father. . . ." His eyes open very
46
MY LITTLE BOY
wide and he speaks so softly that
I can hardly hear him. "There
is a cent on mother's writing-
table."
"Is there?" I cry with delight. But,
at the same moment, I shake my head
and my face is overcast again. "That
is no use to us, my little boy. That
cent belongs to mother. The other
was Petrine's. People are so terribly
fond of their money and get so
angry when you take it from them.
I can understand that, for you can
buy such an awful lot of things with
money. You can get biscuits and lolli-
pops and clothes and toys and half
the things in the world. And it is not
so easy either to make money. Most
people have to drudge all day long
to earn as much as they want. So it is
no wonder that they get angry when
47
MY LITTLE BOY
you take it. Especially when it is only
for lollipops. Now Petrine . . . she
has to spend the whole day cleaning
rooms and cooking dinner and wash-
ing up before she gets her wages.
And out of that she has to buy clothes
and shoes . . . and you know that
she has a little girl whom she has to
pay for at Madam Olsen's. She must
certainly have saved very cleverly
before she managed to buy you that
ball."
We walk up and down the room,
hand in hand. He keeps on falling
over his legs, for he can't take his
eyes from my face.
"Father . . . haven't you got a
cent?"
I shake my head and give him my
purse :
"Look for yourself," I say. "There's
48
MY LITTLE BOY
not a cent in it. 1 spent the last this
morning."
We walk up and down. We sit down
and get up and walk about again.
We are very gloomy. We are bowed
down with sorrow and look at each
other in great perplexity.
"There might be one hidden away
in a drawer somewhere," I say.
We fly to the drawers.
We pull out thirty drawers and
rummage through them. We fling
papers in disorder, higgledy-pig-
gledy, on the floor: what do we care?
If only, if only we find a cent. . . .
Hurrah !
We both, at last, grasp at a cent,
as though we would fight for it ...
we have found a beautiful, large
cent. Our eyes gleam and we laugh
through our tears.
49
MY LITTLE BOY
"Hurry now," I whisper. "You can
go this way . . . through my door.
Then run back quickly up the kitchen
stairs, with the biscuits, and put them
on the table. I shall call Petrine, so
that she doesn't see. And we won't
tell anybody."
He is down the stairs before I have
done speaking. I run after him and
call to him:
"Wasn't it a splendid thing that we
found that cent?" I say.
"Yes," he answers, earnestly.
And he laughs for happiness and I
laugh too and his legs go like drum-
sticks across to the baker's.
From my window, I see him come
back, at the same pace, with red
cheeks and glad eyes. He has com-
mitted his first crime. He has under-
stood it. And he has not the sting of
50
MY LITTLE BOY
remorse in his soul nor the black
cockade of forgiveness in his cap.
The mother of my little boy and I
sit until late at night talking about
money, which seems to us the most
difficult matter of all.
For our little boy must learn to
know the power of money and the
glamour of money and the joy of
money. He must earn much money
and spend much money. . . .
Yet there were two people, yes-
terday, who killed a man to rob
him of four dollars and thirty-seven
cents.
61
CHAPTER VIII
IT has been decreed in the privy
council that my little boy shall have
a weekly income of one cent. Every
Sunday morning, that sum shall be
paid to him, free of income-tax, out
of the treasury and he has leave to
dispose of it entirely at his own
pleasure.
He receives this announcement with
composure and sits apart for a while
and ponders on it.
"Every Sunday?" he asks.
"Every Sunday."
"All the time till the summer holi-
days?"
"All the time till the summer holi-
days."
52
MY LITTLE BOY
In the summer holidays, he is to go
to the country, to stay with his god-
mother, in whose house he was
pleased to allow himself to be born.
The summer holidays are, conse-
quently, the limits of his calculation
of time: beyond them lies, for the
moment, his Nirvana.
And we employ this restricted hori-
zon of ours to further our true happi-
ness.
That is to say, we calculate, with
the aid of the almanac, that, if every-
thing goes as heretofore, there will
be fifteen Sundays before the sum-
mer holidays. We arrange a drawer
with fifteen compartments and in
each compartment we put one cent.
Thus we know exactly what we have
and are able at any time to survey
our financial status.
53
MY LITTLE BOY
And, when he sees that great lot of
cents lying there, my little boy's
breast is filled with mad delight. He
feels endlessly rich, safe for a long
time. The courtyard rings with his
bragging, with all that he is going to
do with his money. His special favour-
ites are invited to come up and view
his treasure.
The first Sunday passes in a normal
fashion, as was to be expected.
He takes his cent and turns it
straightway into a stick of chocolate
of the best sort, with almonds on it
and sugar, in short, an ideal stick in
every way. The whole performance
is over in five minutes: by that time,
the stick of chocolate is gone, with
the sole exception of a remnant in
the corners of our mouth, which our
ruthless mother wipes away, and a
MY LITTLE BOY
stain on our collar, which annoys
us.
He sits by me, with a vacant little
face, and swings his legs. I open the
drawer and look at the empty space
and at the fourteen others :
"So that's gone," I say.
My accent betrays a certain melan-
choly, which finds an echo in his
breast. But he does not deliver him-
self of it at once.
"Father ... is it long till next
Sunday?"
"Very long, my boy; ever so many
days."
We sit a little, steeped in our
own thoughts. Then I say, pensive-
iy=
"Now, if you had bought a top, you
would perhaps have had more pleas-
ure out of it. I know a place where
MY LITTLE BOY
there is a lovely top : red, with a green
ring" round it. It is just over the way,
in the toy-shop. I saw it yesterday. I
should be greatly mistaken if the toy-
man was not willing to sell it for a
cent. And you've got a whip, you
know."
We go over the way and look at the
top in the shop-window. It is really a
splendid top.
"The shop's shut," says my little
boy, despondently.
I look at him with surprise :
"Yes, but what does that matter to
us? Anyway, we can't buy the top
before next Sunday. You see, you've
spent your cent on chocolate. Give
me your handkerchief: there's still a
bit on your cheek."
There is no more to be said. Crest-
fallen and pensively, we go home.
56
MY LITTLE BOY
We sit a long time at the dining-
room window, from which we can see
the window of the shop.
During the course of the week, we
look at the top daily, for it does not
do to let one's love grow cold. One
might so easily forget it. And the top
shines always more seductively. We
go in and make sure that the price is
really in keeping with our means. We
make the shopkeeper take a solemn
oath to keep the top for us till Sun-
day morning, even if boys should
come and bid him much higher sums
for it.
On Sunday morning, we are on the
spot before nine o'clock and acquire
our treasure with trembling hands.
And we play with it all day and sleep
with it at night, until, on Wednes-
day morning, it disappears without a
57
MY LITTLE BOY
trace, after the nasty manner which
tops have.
When the turn comes of the next
cent, something remarkable hap-
pens.
There is a boy in the courtyard who
has a skipping-rope and my little
boy, therefore, wants to have a skip-
ping-rope too. But this is a difficult
matter. Careful enquiries establish
the fact that a skipping-rope of the
sort used by the upper classes is no-
where to be obtained for less than
five cents.
The business is discussed as early as
Saturday:
"It's the simplest thing in the
world," I say. "You must not spend
your cent to-morrow. Next Sunday
you must do the same and the next
and the next. On the Sunday after
58
MY LITTLE BOY
that, you will have saved your five
cents and can buy your skipping-
rope at once."
"When shall I get my skipping-
rope then?"
"In five Sundays from now."
He says nothing, but I can see that
he does not think my idea very brill-
iant. In the course of the day, he
derives, from sources unknown to me,
an acquaintance with financial cir-
cumstances which he serves up to me
on Sunday morning in the following
words :
"Father, you must lend me five
cents for the skipping-rope. If you
will lend me five cents for the skip-
ping-rope, I'll give you forty cents
back. . . ."
He stands close to me, very red in
the face and quite confused. I per-
59
MY LITTLE BOY
ceive that he is ripe for falling into
the claws of the usurers :
"I don't do that sort of business, my
boy," I say. "It wouldn't do you any
good either. And you're not even in
a position to do it, for you have only
thirteen cents, as you know."
He collapses like one whose last hope
is gone.
"Let us just see," I say.
And we go to our drawer and stare
at it long and deeply.
"We might perhaps manage it this
way, that I give you five cents now.
And then I should have your cent
and the next four cents. . . ."
He interrupts me with a loud shout.
I take out my purse, give him five
cents and take one cent out of the
drawer :
"That won't be pleasant next Sun-
oo
MY LITTLE BOY
day," I say, "and the next and the
next and the next. ..."
But the thoughtless youth is gone.
Of course, the instalments of his
debt are paid off with great cere-
mony. He is always on the spot him-
self when the drawer is opened and
sees how the requisite cent is removed
and finds its way into my pocket in-
stead of his.
The first time, all goes well. It is
simply an amusing thing that I
should have the cent; and the skip-
ping-rope is still fresh in his memory,
because of the pangs which he under-
went before its purchase. Next Sun-
day, already the thing is not quite so
pleasant and, when the fourth instal-
ment falls due, my little boy's face
looks very gloomy:
"Is anything the matter?" I ask.
61
MY LITTLE BOY
"I should so much like a stick of
chocolate," he says, without looking
at me.
"Is that all? You can get one in a
fortnight. By that time, you will
have paid for the skipping-rope
and the cent will be your own
again."
"I should so much like to have the
stick of chocolate now."
Of course, I am full of the sincerest
compassion, but I can't help it.
What's gone is gone. We saw it with
our own eyes and we know exactly
where it has gone to. And, that Sun-
day morning, we part in a dejected
mood.
Later in the day, however, I find
him standing over the drawer with
raised eyebrows and a pursed-up
mouth. I sit down quietly and wait.
62
MY LITTLE BOY
And I do not have to wait long before
I learn that his development as an
economist is taking quite its normal
course.
"Father, suppose we moved the cent
now from here into this Sunday's
place and I took it and bought the
chocolate-stick. ..."
"Why, then you won't have your
cent for the other Sunday."
"I don't mind that, Father. . . ."
We talk about it, and then we do it.
And, with that, as a matter of course,
we enter upon the most reckless pecu-
lations.
The very next Sunday, he is clever
enough to take the furthest cent,
which lies just before the summer
holidays. He pursues the path of vice
without a scruple, until, at last, the
blow falls and five long Sundays come
63
MY LITTLE BOY
in a row without the least chance of
a cent.
Where should they come from?
They were there. We know that.
They are gone. We have spent them
ourselves.
But, during those drab days of pov-
erty, we sit every morning over the
empty drawer and talk long and pro-
foundly about that painful phenom-
enon, which is so simple and so easy
to understand and which one must
needs make the best of.
And we hope and trust that our ex-
perience will do us good, when, after
our trip, we start a new set of cents.
64
CHAPTER IX
MY little boy is engaged to be mar-
ried.
She is a big, large-limbed young
woman, three years his senior, and no
doubt belongs to the minor aristoc-
racy. Her name is Gertie. By a mis-
understanding, however, which is
pardonable at his age and moreover
quite explained by Gertie's appear-
ance, he calls her Dirty — little Dirty
—and by this name she will be handed
down to history.
He met her on the boulevard, where
he was playing, in the fine spring
weather, with other children. His rea-
son for the engagement is good
enough :
65
MY LITTLE BOY
"I wanted a girl for myself," he
says.
Either I know very little of man-
kind or he has made a fortunate
choice. No one is likely to take Dirty
from him.
Like the gentleman that he is, he at
once brings the girl home to us and
introduces her. In consequence of the
formality of the occasion, he does not
go in by the kitchen way, as usual,
but rings the front-door bell. I open
the door myself. There he stands
on the mat, hand in hand with
Dirty, his bride, and, with radiant
eyes:
"Father," he says, "this is little
Dirty. She is my sweetheart. We are
going to be married."
"That is what people usually do
with their sweethearts," I answer,
66
MY LITTLE BOY
philosophically. "Pray, Dirty, come
in and be welcomed by the family."
"Wipe your feet, Dirty," says my
little boy.
The mother of my little boy does
not think much of the match. She has
even spoken of forbidding Dirty the
house.
"We can't do that," I say. "I am
not in ecstasies over it either, but
it is not at all certain that it will
last."
"Yes, but . . ."
"Do you remember what little use it
was when your mother forbade me the
house? We used to meet in the most
incredible places and kiss each other
terribly. I can quite understand that
you have forgotten, but you ought to
bear it in mind now that your son's
beginning. And you ought to value
67
MY LITTLE BOY
the loyalty of his behaviour towards
his aged parents."
"My dear! . . ."
"And then I must remind you that
it is spring. The trees are budding.
You can't see it, perhaps, from the
kitchen-window or from your work-
table, but I, who go about all day,
have noticed it. You know what
Byron says:
March has its hares, and May must have
its heroine."
And so Dirty is accepted.
But, when she calls, she has first to
undergo a short quarantine, while
the mother of my little boy washes
her and combs her hair thoroughly.
Dirty does not like this, but the boy
does. He looks on with extraordinary
interest and at once complains if there
68
MY LITTLE BOY
is a place that has escaped the sponge.
I can't make out what goes on within
him on these occasions. There is a
good deal of cruelty in love; and he
himself hates to be washed. Perhaps
he is wrapt in fancies and wants to
see his sweetheart rise daily from the
waves, like Venus Anadyomene. Per-
haps it is merely his sense of duty:
last Friday, in cold blood, he allowed
Dirty to wait outside, on the step, for
half an hour, until his mother came
home.
Another of his joys is to see Dirty
eat.
I can quite understand that. Here,
as at her toilet, there is some-
thing worth looking at. The mother
of my little boy and I would be glad
too to watch her, if there were any
chance of giving Dirty her fill. But
69
MY LITTLE BOY
there is none. At least, not with my
income.
When I see all that food disappear,
without as much as a shade of satis-
faction coming into her eyes, I trem-
ble for the young couple's future.
But he is cheerful and unconcerned.
Of course, there are also clouds in
their sky.
A few days ago, they were sitting
quietly together in the dining-room
and talking of their wedding. My
little boy described what the house
would be like and the garden and
the horses. Dirty made no remarks
and she had no grounds for doing
so, for everything was particularly
nice. But, after that, things went
wrong :
"We shall have fourteen children,"
said the boy.
70
MY LITTLE BOY
"No," said Dirty. "We shall only
have two: a boy and a girl."
"I want to have fourteen."
"I won't have more than two."
"Fourteen."
"Two."
There was no coming to an agree-
ment. My little boy was speechless at
Dirty's meanness. And Dirty pinched
her lips together and nodded her
head defiantly. Then he burst into
tears.
I could have explained to him that
Dirty, wrho sits down every day as
the seventh at the children's table at
home, cannot look upon children with
his eyes, as things forming an essen-
tial part of every well-regulated fam-
ily, but must regard them rather as
bandits who eat up other people's
food. But I did not feel entitled to
71
MY LITTLE BOY
discuss the young lady's domestic cir-
cumstances unasked.
One good thing about Dirty is that
she is not dependent upon her family
nor they upon her. It has not yet hap-
pened that any enquiries have heen
made after her, however long she re-
mained with us. We know just where
she lives and what her father's name
is. Nothing more.
However, we notice in another way
that our daughter-in-law is not with-
out relations.
Whenever, for instance, wre give her
a pair of stockings or some other
article of clothing, it is always gone
the next day; and so on until all the
six brothers and sisters have been
supplied. Xot till then do we have the
pleasure of seeing Dirty look neat.
She has been so long accustomed to
72
MY LITTLE BOY
going shares that she does so in every
conceivable circumstance.
And I console the mother of my lit-
tle boy by saying that, should he fall
out with Dirty, he can take one of the
sisters and that, in this way, nothing
would be lost.
CHAPTER X
MY little boy confides to me that he
would like a pear.
Now pears fall within his mother's
province and I am sure that he has
had as many as he is entitled to.
And so we are at once agreed that
what he wants is a wholly irrelevant,
uncalled-for, delightful extra pear.
Unfortunately, it also appears that
the request has already been laid be-
fore Mamma and met with a positive
refusal.
The situation is serious, but not
hopeless. For I am a man who knows
how mean is the supply of pears to
us poor wretched children of men and
how wonderful an extra pear tastes.
74
MY LITTLE BOY
And I am glad that my little boy
did not give up all hope of the pear
at the first obstacle. I can see by the
longing in his green eyes how big the
pear is and I reflect with lawful pa-
ternal pride that he will win his girl
and his position in life when their
time comes.
We now discuss the matter care-
fully.
First comes the prospect of stom-
ach-ache :
"Never mind about that," says he.
I quite agree with his view.
Then perhaps Mother will be angry.
No, Mother is never angry. She is
sorry; and that is not nice. But then
we must see and make it up to her in
another way.
So we slink in and steal the pear.
I put it to him whether, perhaps —
75
MY LITTLE BOY
when we have eaten the pear — we
ought to tell Mother. But that does
not appeal to him:
"Then I shan't get one this even-
ing," he says.
And when I suggest that, possibly,
Mother might be impressed wTith such
audacious candour, he shakes his head
decisively :
"You don't know Mother," he says.
So I, of course, have nothing to say.
Shortly after this, the mother of my
little boy and I are standing at the
window laughing at the story.
We catch sight of him below, in the
courtyard.
He is sitting on the steps with his
arm round little Dirty's neck. They
have shared the pear. Now they are
both singing, marvellously out of
tune and with a disgustingly senti-
76
MY LITTLE BOY
mental expression on their faces, a
song which Dirty knows:
For riches are only a lo-oanjrom Heaven
And poverty is a reward.
And we are overcome with a great
sense of desolation.
We want to make life green and
pleasant for our little boy, to make
his eyes open wide to see it, his hands
strong to grasp it. But we feel power-
less in the face of all the contentment
and patience and resignation that are
preached from cellar to garret, in
church and in school : all those second-
rate virtues, which may lighten an
old man's last few steps as he stum-
bles on towards the grave, but which
are only so many shabby lies for the
young.
77
CHAPTER XI
DlRTY is paying us a visit and my
little boy is sitting at her feet.
She has buried her fingers in her
hair and is reading, reading, read-
ing. . . .
She is learning the Ten Command-
ments by heart. She stammers and re-
peats herself, with eyes fixed in her
head and a despairing mouth:
"Thou shalt . . . Thou shalt not
. . . Thou shalt . . ."
The boy watches her with tender
compassion.
He has already learnt a couple of
the commandments by listening to
her and helps her, now and then, with
78
MY LITTLE BOY
a word. Then he comes to me and
asks, anxiously:
"Father, must Dirty do all that the
Ten Commandments say?"
"Yes."
He sits down by her again. His
heart is overflowing with pity, his
£yes are moist. She does not look at
him, but plods on bravely:
"Thou shalt . . . Thou shalt not . . ."
"Father, when I grow big, must I
also do all that the Ten Command-
ments say?"
"Ye-es."
He looks at me in utter despair.
Then he goes back to Dirty and lis-
tens, but now he keeps his thoughts
to himself.
Suddenly, something seems to flash
across his mind.
He comes to me again, puts his
79
MY LITTLE BOY
arms on my knee and looks with his
green eyes firmly into mine :
"Father, do you do all that the Ten
Commandments say?"
"Ye-e-es."
He looks like a person whose last
hope has escaped him. I would so
much like to help him; but what, in
Heaven's name, can I do?
Then he collects himself, shakes his
head a little and says, with great tears
in his eyes :
"Father, I don't believe that I can
do all those things that the Ten Com-
mandments say."
And I draw him to me and we cry
together because life is so difficult,
while Dirty plods away like a good
girl.
80
CHAPTER XII
THIS we all know, that sin came
into the world by the law.
Dirty's Ten Commandments have
brought it to us.
When she comes, she now always has
Luther's terrible Little Catechism l
and Balslev's equally objectionable
work with her. Her parents evi-
dently look upon it as most natural
that she should also cultivate her soul
at our house.
Her copies of these two classics were
not published yesterday. They are
probably heirlooms in Dirty's family.
1 Luther's Lille Katckismus, the Lutheran cate-
chism in general use in Denmark. — A. T. de M.
81
MY LI'lTLE BOY
They are covered in thick brown
paper, which again is protected by a
heavy layer of dirt against any touch
of clean fingers. They can be smelt
at a distance.
But my little boy is no snob.
When Dirty has finished her stud-
ies— she always reads out aloud — he
asks her permission to turn over the
pages of the works in which she finds
those strange words. He stares re-
spectfully at the letters which he can-
not read.
And then he asks questions.
He asks Dirty, he asks the servant,
he asks us. Before any one suspects
it, he is at home in the whole field of
theology.
He knows that God is in Heaven,
where all good people go to Him,
while the wicked are put down below
82
MY LITTLE BOY
in Hell. That God created the world
in six days and said that we must not
do anything on Sundays. That God
can do everything and knows every-
thing and sees everything.
He often prays, creeps upstairs as
high as he can go, so as to be nearer
Heaven, and shouts as loud as he can.
The other day I found him at the top
of the folding-steps :
"Dear God! You must please give
us fine weather to-morrow, for we are
going to the wood."
He says Du to everybody except
God and the grocer.
He never compromises.
The servant is laying the table; we
have guests coming and we call her
attention to a little hole in the cloth:
"I must lay it so that no one can
see it," she says.
MY LITTLE BOY
"God will see it."
4 'He is not coming this evening,"
says the blasphemous hussy.
"Yes, He is everywhere," answers
my little boy, severely.
He looks after me in particular:
"You mustn't say 'gad,' Father.
Dirty's governess says that people
who say 'gad' go to Hell."
"I shan't say it again," I reply,
humbly.
One Sunday morning, he finds me
writing and upbraids me seriously.
"My little boy," I say, distressfully,
"I must work every day. If I do no-
thing on Sunday, I do nothing on
Monday either. If I do nothing on
Monday, I am idle on Tuesday too.
And so on."
He ponders; and I continue, with
the courage of despair :
84
MY LITTLE BOY
"You must have noticed that Dirty
wants a new catechism? The one she
has is dirty and old."
He agrees to this.
"She will never have one, you see,"
I say, emphatically. "Her father rests
so tremendously on Sunday that he is
hardly able to do anything on the
other days. He never earns enough
to buy a new catechism."
I have won — this engagement. But
the war is continued without cessation
of hostilities.
The mother of my little boy and I
are sitting in the twilight by his bed-
side and softly talking about this.
"What are we to do?" she asks.
"We can do nothing," I reply.
"Dirty is right: God is everywhere.
We can't keep Him out. And if we
could, for a time: what then? A day
85
MY LITTLE BOY
would come perhaps when our little
boy was ill or sad and the priests
would come to him with their God as
a new and untried miraculous remedy
and bewilder his mind and his senses.
Our little boy too will have to go
through Luther and Balslev and
Assens and confirmation and all the
rest of it. Then this will become a
commonplace to him; and one day he
will form his own views, as we have
done."
But, when he comes and asks how
big God is, whether He is bigger than
the Round Tower, how far it is to
Heaven, why the weather was not
fine on the day when he prayed so
hard for it : then we fly from the face
of the Lord and hide like Adam and
Eve in the Garden of Eden.
And we leave Dirty to explain.
CHAPTER XIII
MY little boy has got a rival, whose
name is Henrik, a popinjay who not
only is six years old, but has an un-
limited supply of liquorice at his dis-
posal. And, to fill the measure of my
little boy's bitterness, Henrik is to go
to the dancing-school; and I am,
therefore, not surprised when my lit-
tle boy asks to be taught to dance,
so that he may not be left quite be-
hind in the contest.
"I don't advise you to do that," I
say. "The dancing which you learn at
school is not pretty and does not play
so great a part in love as you imagine.
I don't know how to dance ; and many
87
MY LITTLE BOY
charming ladies used to prefer me to
the most accomplished ornaments of
the ball-room. Besides, you know,
you are knock-kneed."
And, to cheer him up, I sing a little
song which we composed when we
were small and had a dog and did not
think about women :
See, my son, that little basset,
Running with his knock-kneed legs!
His own puppy, lie cant catch it :
He'll fall down as sure as eggs !
Knock-kneed Billy !
Isn't he silly ?
Silly Bitty!
But poetry fails to comfort him.
Dark is his face and desperate his
glance. And, when I see that the case
is serious, I resolve to resort to seri-
ous measures.
I take him with me to a ball, a real
88
MY LITTLE BOY
ball, where people who have learnt to
dance go to enjoy themselves. It is
difficult to keep him in a more or less
waking condition, but I succeed.
We sit quietly in a corner and watch
the merry throng. I say not a word,
but look at his wide-open eyes.
"Father, why does that man jump
like that, when he is so awfully hot?"
"Yes; can you understand it?"
"Why does that lady with her head
on one side look so tired? . . . Why
does that fat woman hop about so
funnily, Father? . . . Father, what
queer legs that man there has!"
It rains questions and observations.
We make jokes and laugh till the
tears come to our eyes. We whisper
naughty things to each other and go
into a side-room and mimic a pair of
crooked legs till wre can't hold our-
89
MY LITTLE BOY
selves for laughter. We sit and wait
till a steam thrashing-machine on its
round comes past us; and we are fit
to die when we hear it puff and blow.
We enjoy ourselves beyond meas-
ure.
And we make a hit.
The steam thrashing-machine and
the crooked legs and the fat woman
and the hot gentleman and others
crowd round us and admire the dear
little boy. We accept their praises,
for we have agreed not to say what
we think to anybody, except to
Mother, when we come home, and
then, of course, to Dirty.
And we wink our eyes and enjoy
our delightful fun until we fall asleep
and are driven home and put to bed.
And then we have done with the
dancing-school.
90
MY LITTLE BOY
My little boy paints in strong col-
ours, for his Dirty's benefit, what
Henrik will look like when he dances.
It is no use for that young man to
deny all that my little boy says and
to execute different elegant steps. I
was prepared for this ; and my little
boy tells exultantly that this is only
something with which they lure
stupid people at the start and that it
will certainly end with Henrik's get-
ting very hot and hopping round on
crooked legs with a fat woman and a
face of despair.
In the meantime, of course, I do not
forget that, if we pull down without
building up we shall end by landing
ourselves in an unwholesome scepti-
cism.
We therefore invent various dances,
which my little boy executes in the
91
MY LITTLE BOY
courtyard to Dirty 's joy and to Hen-
rik's most jealous envy. We point em-
phatically to the fact that the dances
are our own, that they are composed
only for the woman we love and per-
formed only for her.
There is, for instance, a dance with
a stick, which my little boy wields,
while Henrik draws back. Another
with a pair of new mittens for Dirty.
And, lastly, the liquorice dance, which
expresses an extraordinary contempt
for that foodstuff.
That Dirty should suck a stick of
liquorice, which she has received from
Henrik, while enjoying her other ad-
mirer's satire, naturally staggers my
little boy. But I explain to him that
that is because she is a woman and
that that is a thing which can't be
helped.
92
MY LITTLE BOY
What Bournonville x would say, if
he could look down upon us from his
place in Heaven, I do not know.
But I don't believe that he can.
If he, up there, could see how peo-
ple dance down here, he really would
not stay there.
1 A famous French ballet-master who figured
at the Copenhagen Opera-house in the eight-
eenth century. — A. T. de M.
93
CHAPTER XIV
THERE is a battle royal and a
great hullabaloo among the children
in the court-yard.
I hear them shouting "Jew!" and I
go to the window and see my little
boy in the front rank of the bandits,
screaming, fighting with clenched
fists and without his cap.
I sit down quietly to my work again,
certain that he will appear before
long and ease his heart.
And he comes directly after.
He stands still, as is his way, by my
side and says nothing. I steal a glance
at him: he is greatly excited and
94
MY LITTLE BOY
proud and glad, like one who has
fearlessly done his duty.
"What fun you've been having down
there!"
"Oh," he says, modestly, "it was
only a Jew boy whom we were lick-
ing."
I jump up so quickly that I upset
my chair:
"A Jew boy? Were you licking him?
What had he done?"
"Nothing. . . ."
His voice is not very certain, for I
look so queer.
And that is only the beginning. For
now I snatch my hat and run out of
the door as fast as I can and shout :
"Come . . . come ... we must find
him and beg his pardon!"
My little boy hurries after me. He
does not understand a word of it, but
95
MY LITTLE BOY
he is terribly in earnest. We look in
the courtyard, we shout and call. We
rush into the street and round the cor-
ner, so eager are we to come up with
him. Breathlessly, we ask three pass-
ers-by if they have not seen a poor,
ill-used Jew boy.
All in vain: the Jew boy and all
his persecutors are blown away into
space.
So wu go and sit up in my room
again, the laboratory where our soul
is crystallized out of the big events
of our little life. My forehead is
wrinkled and I drum disconsolately
with my fingers on the table. The boy
has both his hands in his pockets and
does not take his eyes from my face.
"Well," I say, decidedly, "there is
nothing more to be done. I hope you
will meet that Jew boy one day, so
90
MY LITTLE BOY
that you can give him your hand and
ask him to forgive you. You must
tell him that you did that only be-
cause you were stupid. But if, an-
other time, any one does him any
harm, I hope you will help him and
lick the other one as long as you can
stir a limb."
I can see by my little boy's face that
he is ready to do what I wish. For he
is still a mercenary, who dcjs not
ask under which flag, so long as there
is a battle and booty to follow. It is
my duty to train him to be a brave
recruit, who will defend his fair
mother-land, and so I continue:
"Let me tell you, the Jews are by
way of being quite wonderful people.
You remember David, about whom
Dirty reads at school: he was a Jew
boy. And the Child Jesus, whom
97
MY LITTLE BOY
everybody worships and loves, al-
though He died two thousand years
ago: He was a little Jew also."
My little boy stands with his arms
on my knee and I go on with my
story.
The old Hebrews rise before our
eyes in all their splendour and power,
quite different from Dirty 's Balslev.
They ride on their camels in coats of
many colours and with long beards:
Moses and Joseph and his brethren
and Samson and David and Saul.
We hear wonderful stories. The walls
of Jericho fall at the sound of the
trumpet.
"And what next?" says my little
boy, using the expression which he
employed when he was much smaller
and which still comes to his lips when-
ever he is carried away.
98
MY LITTLE BOY
,We hear of the destruction of Jeru-
salem and how the Jews took their
little boys by the hand and wandered
from place to place, scoffed at, de-
spised and ill-treated. How they were
allowed to own neither house nor
land, but could only be merchants,
and how the Christian robbers took
all the money which they had got
together. How, nevertheless, they re-
mained true to their God and kept up
their old sacred customs in the midst
of the strangers who hated and per-
secuted them.
The whole day is devoted to the
Jews.
We look at old books on the shelves
which I love best to read and which
are written by a Jew with a wonder-
ful name, which a little boy can't
remember at all. We learn that the
99
MY LITTLE BOY
most famous man now living in Den-
mark is a Jew.
And, when evening comes and
Mother sits down at the piano and
sings the song which Father loves
above all other songs, it appears that
the words were written by one Jew
and the melody composed by another.
My little boy is hot and red when he
falls to sleep that night. He turns
restlessly in bed and talks in his sleep.
"He is a little feverish," says his
mother.
And I bend down and kiss his fore-
head and answer, calmly:
"That is not surprising. To-day I
have vaccinated him against the mean-
est of all mean and vulgar diseases."
100
CHAPTER XV
\VE are staying in the country, a
long way out, where the real coun-
try is.
Cows and horses, pigs and sheep, a
beautiful dog and hens and ducks
form our circle of acquaintances. In
addition to these, there are of course
the two-legged beings who own and
look after the four-legged ones and
who, in my little boy's eyes, belong
to quite the same kind.
The great sea lies at the foot of the
slope. Ships float in the distance and
have nothing to say to us. The sun
burns us and bronzes us. We eat like
thrashers, sleep like guinea-pigs and
wake like larks. The only real sorrow
101
MY LITTLE BOY
that we have suffered is that we were
not allowed to have our breeches made
with a flap at the side, like the old
wood-cutter's.
Presently, it happens that, for bet-
ter or worse, we get neighbours.
They are regular Copenhageners.
They were prepared not to find elec-
tric light in the farm-house; but, if
they had known that there was no
water in the kitchen, God knows they
would not have come. They trudge
through the clover as though it were
mire and are sorry to find so few corn-
flowers in the rye. A cow going loose
along the roads fills them with a ter-
ror which might easily have satisfied
a royal tiger.
The pearl of the family is Erna.
Erna is five years old ; her very small
face is pale green, with watery blue
102
MY LITTLE BOY
eyes and yellow curls. She is richly
and gaily dressed in a broad and slov-
enly sash, daintily-embroidered pan-
talets, short open-work socks and pa-
tent-leather shoes. She falls if she but
moves a foot, for she is used only to
gliding over polished floors or as-
phalt.
I at once perceive that my little
boy's eyes have seen a woman.
He has seen the woman that comes
to us all at one time or another and
turns our heads with her rustling silks
and her glossy hair and wears her soul
in her skirts and our poor hearts under
her heel.
"Now comes the perilous moment
for Dirty," I say to the mother of my
little boy.
This time it is my little boy's turn
to be superior.
103
MY LITTLE BOY
He knows the business thoroughly
and explains it all to Erna. When he
worries the horse, she trembles, im-
pressed with his courage and manli-
ness. When she has a fit of terror at
the sight of a hen, he is charmed with
her delicacy. He knows the way to
the smith's, he dares to roll down the
high slope, he chivalrously carries her
ridiculous little cape.
Altogether, there is no doubt as to
the condition of his heart. And, while
Erna's family apparently favour the
position — for which may the devil
take them! — I must needs wait with
resignation like one who knows that
love is every man's master.
One morning he proposes.
He is sitting with his beloved on the
lawn. Close to them, her aunt is nurs-
ing her chlorosis under a red parasol
104
MY LITTLE BOY
and with a novel in her bony lap. Up
in the balcony above sit I, as Provi-
dence, and see everything, myself un-
seen.
"You shall be my sweetheart," says
my little boy.
"Yes," says Erna.
"I have a sweetheart already in
Copenhagen," he says, proudly.
This communication naturally by no
means lowers Erna's suitor in her
eyes. But it immediately arouses all
Auntie's moral instincts:
"If you have a sweetheart, you must
be true to her."
"Erna shall be my sweetheart."
Auntie turns her eyes up to Heaven :
"Listen, child," she says. "You're a
very naughty boy. If you have given
Dir— Dir— "
"Dirty," says the boy.
105
MY LITTLE BOY
"Well, that's an extraordinary
name! But, if you have given her
your word, you must keep it till
you die. Else you'll never, never be
happy."
My little boy understands not a
word and answers not a word. Erna
begins to cry at the prospect that this
good match may not come off. But
I bend down over the baluster and
raise my hat:
"I beg your pardon, Froken. Was
it not you who jilted Hr. Peter-
sen? . . ."
"Good heavens! . . ."
She packs up her chlorosis and dis-
appears with Erna, mumbling some-
thing about like father, like son, and
goodness knows what.
Presently, my little boy comes up
to me and stands and hangs about.
10G
MY LITTLE BOY
"Where has Erna gone to?" I ask
my little boy.
"She mustn't go out," he says, de-
jectedly.
He puts his hands in his pockets and
looks straight before him.
"Father," he says, "can't you have
two sweethearts?"
The question comes quite unexpect-
edly and, at the moment, I don't
know what to answer.
"Well?" says the mother of my lit-
tle boy, amiably, and looks up from
her newspaper.
And I pull my waistcoat down and
my collar up :
"Yes," I say, firmly. "You can. But
it is wrong. It leads to more fuss and
unpleasantness than you can possibly
conceive."
A silence.
107
MY LITTLE BOY
"Are you so fond of Erna?" asks
our mother.
"Yes."
"Do you want to marry her?"
"Yes."
I get up and rub my hands:
"Then the thing is settled," I say.
"We'll write to Dirty and give her
notice. There's nothing else to be
done. I will write now and you can
give the letter yourself to the post-
man, when he comes this afternoon.
If you take my advice, you will make
her a present of your ball. Then she
will not be so much upset."
"She can have my gold-fish too, if
she likes," says the boy.
"Excellent, excellent. We will give
her the gold-fish. Then she will really
have nothing in the world to com-
plain of."
108
MY LITTLE BOY
My little boy goes away. But, pres-
ently, he returns:
"Father, have you written the letter
to Dirty?"
"Not yet, my boy. There is time
enough. I sha'n't forget it."
"Father, I am so fond of Dirty."
"She was certainly a dear little girl."
A silence.
"Father, I am also so fond of Erna."
We look at each other. This is no
joke:
"Perhaps we had better wait with
the letter till to-morrow," I say. "Or
perhaps it would be best if we talked
to Dirty ourselves, when we get back
to town."
We both ponder over the matter and
really don't know what to do.
Then my eyes surprise an indescrib-
able smile on our mother's face. All
109
MY LITTLE BOY
a woman's incapacity to understand
man's honesty is contained within that
smile and I resent it greatly:
"Come," I say and give my hand to
my little boy. "Let us go."
And we go to a place we know of,
far away behind the hedge, where we
lie on our backs and look up at the
blue sky and talk together sensibly,
as two gentlemen should.
no
CHAPTER XVI
MY little boy is to go to school.
We can't keep him at home any
longer, says his mother. He himself
is glad to go, of course, because he
does not know what school is.
I know what it is and I know also
that there is no escape for him, that
he must go. But I am sick at heart.
All that is good within me revolts
against the inevitable.
So we go for our last morning walk,
along the road where something won-
derful has always happened to us. It
looks to me as if the trees have crape
wound round their tops and the birds
sing in a minor key and the people
in
MY LITTLE BOY
stare at me with earnest and sympa-
thetic eyes.
But my little boy sees nothing. He
is only excited at the prospect. He
talks and asks questions without stop-
ping.
We sit down by the edge of our
usual ditch — alas, that ditch !
And suddenly my heart triumphs
over my understanding. The voice
of my clear conscience penetrates
through the whole well-trained and
harmonious choir which is to give
the concert; and it sings its solo in the
ears of my little boy :
"I just want to tell you that school
is a horrid place," I say. "You
can have no conception of what
you will have to put up with there.
They will tell you that two and two
are four. . . ."
112
MY LITTLE BOY
"Mother has taught me that al-
ready," says he, blithely.
"Yes, but that is wrong, you poor
wretch!" I cry. "Two and two are
never four, or only very seldom. And
that's not all. They will try to make
you believe that Teheran is the capi-
tal of Persia and that Mont Blanc is
15,781 feet high and you will take
them at their word. But I tell you
that both Teheran and Persia are
nothing at all, an empty sound, a stu-
pid joke. And Mont Blanc is not half
as big as the mound in the tallow-
chandler's back-garden. And listen:
you will never have any more time
to play in the courtyard with Einar.
When he shouts to you to come out,
you'll have to sit and read about a lot
of horrible old kings who have been
dead for hundreds and hundreds of
113
MY LITTLE BOY
years, if they ever existed at all,
which I, for my part, simply don't
believe."
My little boy does not understand
me. But he sees that I am sad and
puts his hand in mine :
"Mother says that you must go to
school to become a clever boy," he
says. "Mother says that Einar is ever
so much too small and stupid to go to
school."
I bow my head and nod and say
nothing.
That is past.
And I take him to school and see
how he storms up the steps without
so much as turning his head to look
back at me.
114
CHAPTER XVII
HERE ends this book about my lit-
tle boy.
What more can there be to tell?
He is no longer mine. I have handed
him over to society. Hr. Petersen,
candidate in letters, Hr. Nielsen, stu-
dent of theology, and Froken Han-
sen, certificated teacher, will now
set their distinguished example be-
fore him for five hours daily. He will
form himself in their likeness. Their
spirit hovers over him at school: he
brings it home with him, it overshad-
ows him when he is learning the les-
sons which they zealously mete out to
him.
115
MY LITTLE BOY
I don't know these people. But I
pay them.
I, who have had a hard fight to keep
my thoughts free and my limbs un-
restrained and who have not retired
from the fight without deep wounds
of which I am reminded when the
weather changes, I have, of my own
free will, brought him to the institu-
tion for maiming human beings. I,
who at times have soared to peaks
that were my own, because the other
birds dared not follow me, have my-
self brought him to the place where
wings are clipped for flying respect-
ably, with the flock.
"There was nothing else to be done,"
says the mother of my little boy.
"Really?" I reply, bitterly. "Was
there nothing else to be done? But
suppose that I had put by some
116
MY LITTLE BOY
money, so that I could have saved
Messrs. Petersen and Nielsen and
Froken Hansen their trouble and em-
ployed my day in myself opening out
lands for that little traveller whom I
myself have brought into the land?
Suppose that I had looked round the
world for people with small boys who
think as I do and that we had taken
upon us to bring up these young ani-
mals so that they kept sight of horns
and tails and fairy-tales?"
"Yes," she says.
"Small boys have a bad time of it,
you know."
"They had a worse time of it in the
old days."
"That is a poor comfort. And it can
become worse again. The world is full
of parents and teachers who shake
their foolish heads and turn up their
117
MY LITTLE BOY
old eyes and cross their flat chests
with horror at the depravity of
youth: children are so disobedient, so
naughty, so self-willed and talk so
disrespectfully to their elders! . . .
And what do we do, we who know
better?"
"We do what we can."
But I walk about the room, more
and more indignant and ashamed of
the pitiful part which I am playing:
"Do you remember, a little while
ago, he came to me and said that he
longed so for the country and asked
if we couldn't go there for a little?
There were horses and cows and green
fields to be read in his eyes. Well, I
couldn't leave my work. And I
couldn't afford it. So I treated him
to a shabby and high-class sermon
about the tailor to whom I owed
118
MY LITTLE BOY
money. Don't you understand that I
let my little boy do my work, that I
let him pay my debt? . . ." I bend
down over her and say earnestly,
"You must know; do please tell me
—God help me, I do not know — if
I ought not rather to have paid my
debt to the boy and cheated the
other?"
"You know quite well," she says.
She says it in such a way and looks
at me with two such sensible eyes and
is so strong and so time that I sud-
denly think things look quite wrell for
our little boy; and I become restful
and cheerful like herself:
"Let Petersen and Nielsen and
Hansen look out!" I say. "My little
boy, for what I care, may take from
them all the English and geography
and history that he can. But they
119
MY LITTLE BOY
shall throw no dust in his eyes. I shall
keep him awake and we shall have
great fun and find them out."
"And I shall help him with his Eng-
lish and geography and history,"
says she.
THE END
120
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