Sfv
 
 THE CHILD ANDREA
 
 THE 
 CHILD ANDREA 
 
 By KARIN MICHAELIS 
 
 Translated from the Danish, by 
 
 J. NILSEN LAURVIK 
 
 PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS SAN FRANCISCO
 
 Copyright, 1904, by 
 McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
 
 Published, October, 190& 
 
 RepuUished. April, 1916, by 
 PAUL ELDER & COMPANY
 
 Prefatory Note 
 
 In the eleven years that have elapsed since 
 this book was first introduced to American 
 readers the literature of Scandinavia has 
 become an ever-increasing factor in the world 
 of letters. During this period three Scan- 
 dinavian authors have been awarded the 
 Nobel prize and at least one of these has found 
 a widely interested reading public in America. 
 
 Everywhere are signs of a growing desire 
 on the part of American readers to rid them- 
 selves of the onus of the "happy ending 11 by 
 a marked inclination toward books and plays 
 that deal with life at first hand, and it is in 
 response to this growing appreciation of 
 reality that "Andrea* is now republishedin 
 the hope that it will find that wider audience 
 which its merits deserve. 
 
 Rarely has a more authentic human docu- 
 [in]
 
 PREFATORY NOTE 
 ment been presented with finer tact and ar- 
 tistic discretion, qualities which called forth 
 the unstinted admiration of the late Dr. Weir 
 Mitchell who pronounced it "one of the most 
 subtle studies of adolescence that it has been 
 my privilege to peruse" 
 
 J. NILSEN LAURVIK. 
 
 [IV]
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 This story, giving the spirit process of 
 development by which a girl is changed into 
 a maiden, was written by a Danish novelist 
 and is based upon the study of a real girl. 
 The translator has omitted a chapter relating 
 to the dawn of sex consciousness in order to 
 satisfy American ideas of literary decency. 
 This renders the book incomplete from the 
 psychological point of view, but what remains 
 is the most pathetic, beautiful, and shocking 
 revelation of such a young creature's mind. 
 
 There is nothing so frank as perfect in- 
 nocence, nothing so erect and listening as the 
 waiting heart of a girl. All her instincts 
 hide her, all her affections pray for a dis- 
 coverer. In a subtle way the author recog- 
 nizes these characteristics amid the pressure 
 [V]
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 of many tribulations, which are common to 
 youth and imposed by their elders. But the 
 distinctive features of the study are, first, that 
 we have all the sweetness, treachery, and ten- 
 derness of childhood in a foreign guise. 
 Andrea is neither English nor American, 
 but she manifests well-known traits through a 
 personality that is strange to us. 
 
 Second, we receive a startlingly clear vision 
 of the wicked capacities of her nature with- 
 out connecting her with them. She passes 
 before, a dainty white spirit floating above 
 an abyss of aberrant evils. They belong to 
 her by her powers of total personality, but 
 she is not of them, and we are assured that 
 she remains ignorant to the last of this pit 
 which lies beneath the snowy lightness of her 
 spirit. 
 
 And, third, it is the emotions of maiden 
 adolescence expressed with the art and defi- 
 nition of a mature intelligence. Any young 
 girl might have felt as Andrea did under the 
 
 [VI]
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 same conditions and endowed with the same 
 temperament; but not one could ever have 
 set down so accurately the blue and gold of 
 her own thoughts and sensations. Women 
 during this early period of self-recognition 
 never tell what they know, discover, because 
 they cannot. Reticence is the very youth of 
 virtue. When a woman is able to define it 
 in herself she has already lost the maidenly 
 privacy of personality. Nothing is so delicate, 
 so chaste, so unspeakable to herself as the 
 sex lifejtf a young girl; and the real Andrea 
 never could have put her twos and twos to- 
 gether so shrewdly. 
 
 But the story is a classic differing entirely 
 from the vulgar self-abortions published by 
 some women writers in this country who 
 imagine that they are maidens because of a 
 merely physical integrity. 
 
 CORRA HARRIS. 
 
 Reprinted from the Independent, New York. 
 [VII]
 
 THE CHILD ANDREA
 
 THE CHILD ANDREA 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 The Child was going to die. The Child had 
 to die. They both wished for it now. 
 
 Yes. Now they wished it. 
 
 The Child wished for it also. 
 
 It was as if the rooms round about were 
 dying; as if the home became a cold, speech- 
 less tomb, that was not concerned with life or 
 the living. 
 
 Only one place was inviolate, full of sun- 
 shine, fair with flowers, and cheerful with 
 constant laughter the room where the Child 
 lay, the little Andrea, their tall, grown-up 
 daughter. 
 
 She was such that all people loved her all 
 the people there in the city. 
 
 From the market-women upon the market- 
 [3]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 place, where she used to buy the season's 
 fruit, there now came thick gray cornucopias 
 full of yellow plums. 
 
 " I want to smell, Musser, I want to smell," 
 she laughed ; and smelled of the plums which 
 she was forbidden to eat. 
 
 From the big gardens round about in the 
 city came dew-wet flowers every morning, 
 and in the evening her boy and girl-friends 
 called with budding branches and downy 
 ferns which they brought from the woods, 
 where never more Andrea would go. 
 
 "Let me take them, Musser." And the 
 ferns and flowers were given into her hands 
 and she became wet and laughed gleefully. 
 
 Poor old women in the basements and poor 
 maiden ladies in the Almshouse cut gerani- 
 ums from their flower-pots and came with 
 them. 
 
 For flowers, that was the best they had. 
 
 " Musser, don't forget to give them coffee," 
 cried Andrea, and she wanted to see them 
 
 [4]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 drink it; but the geraniums she crushed, as 
 they did not smell of anything. 
 
 " Do you know what ? I have a dreadfully 
 greedy nose; it can never be satisfied!" And 
 then she and the mother laughed at that little 
 nose, which was so delicate and small and 
 did not look at all greedy. 
 
 In a large jar stood rushes and cattails. 
 They were brought up from the stream, where 
 Andrea every evening used to row in her 
 white boat, while she sang and shouted, so 
 that it was heard far over the hills where the 
 farmers lived ; or she lay flat on her stomach 
 in the bottom of the boat and ate cold pan- 
 cakes and drifted with the stream. 
 
 She had the vanity to drag the oars to and 
 from the boat herself. 
 
 It was only when the moon shone that she 
 did not go out on the stream. 
 
 And every time she looked at the rushes, 
 she thought that now this was all over for 
 her.
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Under the ceiling, flew stuck on pins - 
 a multitude of butterflies. They had been 
 brought from Brazil by a cousin, and she loved 
 to have them around her for the sake of their 
 beautiful colour, which, though she could no 
 longer see, she remembered well enough; 
 and then for all the imaginings that followed 
 with the thoughts of owning something " from 
 deep, deep in the big primeval forests!" 
 
 It grieved her that they were stuck on 
 pins ; they should rather have been alive, she 
 thought. 
 
 In the centre of the ceiling hung a little 
 Cupid finely carved in white wood. It always 
 flapped about and made the pierced butter- 
 flies tremble. 
 
 About these there had been a struggle. By 
 the advice of the physician there had come 
 a nurse with long hard hands and a heavy 
 step. She demanded that the dusty finery 
 be pulled down at once it was out of place 
 in a sick-room. 
 
 [6]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Then Andrea had wept most bitterly and 
 jumped out of bed. Before evening that 
 strict lady was through in that home. 
 
 The mother then nursed her child, and the 
 butterflies flew under the ceiling. 
 
 The bookcase was pitiably empty of books ; 
 for when Andrea wanted new ones she 
 would not borrow, she wanted to own them 
 - she sold the old, but the old were of little 
 value because of the many dog-ears that 
 marked "the lovely places." 
 
 In the bookcase, back of the green silk cur- 
 tain, stood her dance slippers and Eskimo 
 shoes, but in the bottom of the bookcase 
 lay a collection of bones and old iron. 
 
 Andrea got one penny a pound for these at 
 the junkshop. 
 
 And so Andrea found a way in all innocence. 
 
 She lay playing with a couple of heather- 
 tufts that the washerwoman's little boy had 
 brought her. They were from the "Rolling 
 Hill," where Andrea every year picked wortle- 
 
 [7]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 berries in competition with the Poorhouse 
 women, and scrambled round and round 
 alone until dress and petticoats were in 
 tatters. Then she promised her dress to the 
 one who was poorest ; but before she gave it 
 away, the cook must needs weigh it. She 
 could get five cents a pound from "Peter" 
 over at the paper-factory. 
 
 Andrea amused herself by letting the dry 
 earth crumble from the roots down on sheet 
 and night-dress. 
 
 "Now, Musser it is surely soiled, not?" 
 
 And she let it crumble. 
 
 When the besmudged and bedraggled little 
 girls came with a half-eaten candy-stick or a 
 beautiful fragment of glass from the gutter, 
 Andrea wanted to have them lifted up, and 
 they kissed her right on the mouth but 
 afterward her mother had to wash her face. 
 
 Every time the bell rang, she listened and 
 was jubilant over the many gifts that con- 
 tinued to come. 
 
 [8]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 "Musser," said she, "you do not think, do 
 you that it is because of - - , you know ?" 
 
 The mother shook her head and laughed, 
 and the child laughed with her. They al- 
 ways found occasion to laugh, and they both 
 knew that it was the wisest way in which to 
 chase the very sorrowful thoughts from the 
 room. 
 
 " Because for my birthday I received thirty- 
 one congratulations, besides bonbons and 
 gifts!" 
 
 Andrea lay and looked toward the win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Oh bring me the field-glass!" 
 
 " What do you want with that ?" 
 
 "I am going to use it." She pressed her 
 lips together and looked saucily: "Inquis- 
 itive!" 
 
 The mother brought the field-glass, and 
 Andrea slid it under the cover. 
 
 A little later, when the mother was out for 
 water, Andrea stealthily brought it forth. 
 
 [9]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 With a knowing smile she held it before her 
 eyes, pointed it towards the window and 
 screwed it up and down. 
 
 There ought to be a gable with a stork's 
 nest but it was not there. 
 
 No it was not there ! 
 
 Quietly she dropped the field-glass, folded 
 her hands and sighed ; but when the mother 
 came, her eyes were glad again. 
 
 " Do you know I should really like to go 
 to a dance once more; just one little dance!" 
 And she looked sidewise down at the light 
 blue night-gown, that was embroidered with 
 silk flowers on the collar. And she cast a 
 sly glance at the bows in the two dark braids 
 that bound her to the pillow like shining 
 chains. 
 
 "I do not know any one who has light blue 
 night-gowns, eh ? It was droll that we should 
 hit upon that. Ah, yes, the way one has 
 danced, both when one was allowed to, and 
 when father became hot about the ears be- 
 [10]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 cause of it. And how weary those little feet 
 are now!" 
 
 With a great effort she thrust forth one foot. 
 
 "Heavens! Such a lean little thing. It 
 was good that I took my dance in time, else I 
 should have shaken the bed out of joint with 
 my restlessness in these days. Is it not so, 
 Musser ? Don't you agree with me ?" 
 
 "Yes, of course but now try to sleep, 
 dear!" 
 
 " Sleep! So you think I want to sleep ? I 
 want to prattle, I do, and not sleep one single 
 wink. You are surely not tired or peevish, 
 are you ?" 
 
 No, that the mother was not. 
 
 The girl came in with a letter. The mother 
 took it. 
 
 "It is from Josephine shall I read it ?" 
 
 But the Child wanted to keep the letter un- 
 til she became well. 
 
 It was put into her hands. 
 
 " Mother one never knows what lies 
 [11]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 inside of two such white walls. One might 
 become afraid 
 
 The mother laughed. 
 
 "Josephine is not as bad as she appears 
 but shall I not read it ?" 
 
 "No I want to have it for myself. I 
 will read it myself when the eyes are en- 
 tirely well!" 
 
 She lay crumpling it, straining her eyes to 
 distinguish the signature. 
 
 "It is such a living thing, a letter!" 
 
 Then she put it away from her. 
 
 "Little Mother!" 
 
 "Yes" 
 
 "Will you not do everything that I ask 
 for, even though it be stupid, if it is not too 
 shockingly expensive ?" 
 
 The mother nodded. 
 
 " Still if it costs something, eh ?" 
 
 " That you know very well, little child !" 
 
 " Well, all right, then I believe you and take 
 you -at your word. I think we ought to have 
 [12]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 a celebration to-day, we three old folks. What 
 do you say to that ?" 
 
 "A celebration?" 
 
 "Yes, exactly, a celebration. I want to 
 have Grandmother Voldby's gold chain on 
 and all the rings fiddle-faddle, little mother, 
 my fingers are not tired to-day. Then you 
 make afternoon-tea for yourself and father 
 with lady-fingers, and an eggnog for me, real 
 white and rich. You put on your new waist 
 and comb the part straight remember that! 
 And then no, that you shall do first of all 
 send word to old Nikolsen to come at 
 once with his accordion and play two hours 
 down in the garden. Two hours ! Nothing 
 but song and dance. He does it for twenty- 
 five cents an hour. But hasten, my dear 
 Musser, hasten!" 
 
 She laughed, and the mother laughed with 
 her, kissed her on the forehead, and was going. 
 
 " Stop a little there is no one in the whole 
 wide world I think so much of as of you ; no, 
 [13]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 not one; not a single one. Do you hear 
 that?" 
 
 And the mother was hardly out, before the 
 child took the white letter, tore it open, and 
 stared and stared. 
 
 This much she saw, that it was only three 
 lines, a greeting and a name. 
 
 But it disappeared in a mist. 
 
 She rang. The hand that rang the little 
 bell trembled. Very impatiently she rang, 
 and continued, until the girl from the kitchen 
 came storming in. 
 
 " Read, Anne read, quickly, read 
 
 And Anne gaped in astonishment, and Anne 
 read. 
 
 "Once again." 
 
 Anne read it once more. 
 
 "You may go now it was only that." 
 
 Now the words were imprinted in her mem- 
 ory. 
 
 She turned her shoulders so that her head 
 slid out of place. Her neck pained. 
 [14]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Very slowly, very softly she continued to 
 repeat the contents of the letter. 
 
 There was in her soul no thought beyond it. 
 
 The mother went through the lofty rooms, 
 where the plants stood and withered and 
 made the air close and oppressive, for no one 
 remembered to give them water. 
 
 She went to the room where the father sat 
 alone with his sorrow. 
 
 But outside of the door she faltered, as was 
 always her habit outside of his door. 
 
 He dropped the book, but did not look up. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Andrea asked me to call!" She said it 
 softly and humbly. He arose, looked up, but 
 did not look at her. 
 
 "Is there anything else ?" 
 
 " No not now. She is so wonderfully 
 [15]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 well satisfied. But I know but I know - 
 oh, Karsten, I feel a great dread. You must 
 be careful. Andrea sees, as if she read our 
 thoughts!" 
 
 "Sees" 
 
 "I cannot endure it!" 
 
 ' You must accustom yourself to it, Jutta. 
 It must be endured!" 
 
 He shook off the hand that she had laid 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "Karsten!" 
 
 " Could you not spare me these scenes if 
 only during this time!" 
 
 Then she was silent. 
 
 Outside of the door she took his hand. 
 
 "For her sake!" 
 
 Hand in hand, and smiling, they went in - 
 where the child received them with a smile, 
 that came from the depths of her sorrow like 
 their own. 
 
 "You come so sweetly;" she looked from 
 the one to the other. " You come so sweetly, 
 [16]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 you two. But then you have not been here 
 for over three hours, father!" 
 
 He sat down by her bed, and the mother 
 went out again. 
 
 "Real rich and white, do you hear, Mus- 
 ser," cried the child. 
 
 The father asked how things were. 
 
 "Are you the doctor?" 
 
 "No, but then " 
 
 "No, but then you should let the doctors 
 take care of that, and look after your boys 
 with their Greek and Latin. But as for that, 
 it goes indifferently well. That is to say, for 
 the moment it goes so remarkably lovely that 
 we are going to have a celebration. But, 
 then, tell me something!" 
 
 He told her a little about the school. 
 
 "The pudden-heads oh, oh! Will you 
 have a chocolate pastille as large as a dollar ? 
 There in the drawer. But give me half!" 
 
 The father put it in between her lips, and 
 she snapped it with a smile. 
 [17]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " It is very tempting, I am going to eat all 
 of it you take another. But then what will 
 our mother say to that; she has not had any 
 at all, and she has been here the whole day. 
 She is so awfully good to me, indeed she is, 
 so awfully, absurdly good, that it pains me to 
 think of it. She surely sleeps with her eyes 
 ajar, just to watch over me. And she is so 
 sad, so sad. We should really give her some- 
 thing for all her goodness to us, should we 
 not ? A silk waist ? When she does not stoop 
 over she has a very charming figure. Blue it 
 must be, of course, like all the others. Shall 
 we?" 
 
 The father promised it, and played with 
 her hand. 
 
 " Have you seen how we have dressed up ?" 
 She showed him her rings. "Do you remember 
 that one ? That was an uncomfortable time, 
 indeed. What a hubbub you made ! and the 
 way the doctors gaped at me ! I can remember 
 I thought, " if only they do not cut_me open 
 [18]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 like a fish to see what there is inside of me." 
 But then you gave me the ring so as to lie 
 mouse-quiet. They were so sure that I was 
 done for, but they were certainly fooled that 
 time!" She laughed quietly. 
 " That time' 
 The father saw the changed expression. 
 
 ' You got that one with the pearls for your 
 confirmation!" 
 
 'Yes, thank you, my dear master, we re- 
 member. Only girl in white silk with train. 
 And then we had forgotten the garters at 
 home, ha, ha! And the stockings slipped 
 down. I threatened Goldsmith Larsen with 
 all manner of torture. ' If you do not induce 
 father to buy that ring, you will never get 
 brooches to repair for either Agnes, Jeannette, 
 Edith, or me ; so now you know it.' And Lar- 
 sen was obliging enough, and you were a dear, 
 stupid father, who jumped right into the trap !" 
 
 'Yes, because he had such an awfully art- 
 ful daughter !" 
 
 [19]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " Well yes, you may say that, if you will; 
 but then I have done worse things than that. 
 Shall I confide the worst to you ? It cost one 
 hundred and fifty. That was because of the 
 stone, you understand. But you must not 
 dare to tell Musser, for she has such scruples. 
 She says that I must neither lie nor steal. 
 Now do you know any one who neither lies nor 
 steals ? Of course you don't, certainly not ! 
 * Larsen, mark the ring down to fifty crowns ; 
 then we buy it.' And Larsen, he was a sly 
 fellow. ' Why, father, have you ever in your 
 life seen anything so disgracefully cheap the 
 one who could own such a ring ! ' Father went 
 into the trap, and I got the ring on the 
 Christmas tree ; but for eleven months Larsen 
 shared half of my pocket-money." 
 
 "But, what is this I hear? Then that 
 must have been the time you sold bones and 
 rags and old iron ? " 
 
 "That was it, father. Heaven knows, one 
 had to find a way out of it. How I begged 
 [20]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Musserfor soup, which is so disgusting, merely 
 for the sake of the bones. You are not cross 
 on account of the ring I tell you, I love 
 it at least as much as my long nail!" 
 
 "Droll little girl with the nail!" 
 
 'Yes, why not? But can you remember 
 Lavinia Fink, the beautiful, - - she who had 
 no husband ? She wore either raven-black or 
 snow-white with green shoes and red stock- 
 ings, and she was so inexpressibly lovely and 
 Bohemian. Her nails, however, were ever so 
 much finer than mine. But then I let one 
 grow out on my big toe as well, and that was 
 extra! Look, father, here it is; see how it 
 glistens. It becomes more shiny and quaint- 
 looking, the weaker I myself grow." 
 
 The father tried to jest, and promised her 
 small silk cases for the nail. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Have you noticed the way everything 
 fades ? It's the sun ; but Anne insists that the 
 [21]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 night-dress here is not faded ; and you can see, 
 can't you, that it is nearly lavender ? That's 
 so listen! there was something 
 
 "That" 
 
 " That you must help me with. Oh, father, 
 won't you teach me the Danish letters, but 
 in an awful hurry ?" 
 
 " But tell me, what do you want with them ?" 
 
 " Father, you must teach me them !" 
 
 'Yes, yes, as soon as you are better, you 
 can learn them in two hours, surely!" 
 
 "Father, you have promised it every day 
 ... if you do not teach them to me ... I 
 cannot die peacefully." 
 
 She said it very quietly, and held her fa- 
 ther's eyes the while ; then she repeated : 
 
 "Not peacefully, then!" 
 
 Perceiving that there was a feeling of dread 
 and apprehension over the child, he gave his 
 word that he would teach her the Danish 
 letters the next day. 
 
 "Father you must not forget it, you 
 [22]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 must not, you must not, both the large and 
 small letters; just as they wrote in the olden 
 days!" 
 
 He promised to remember the old-fash- 
 ioned characters. 
 
 "But then there was a note I wanted to 
 write . . . will you help me with it, father ? 
 I want so very much to write it myself, only 
 two lines. That I can do, I am sure, with 
 big, big letters, can't I ? " 
 
 "Andrea, little girl the doctor says 
 
 "If you will not, then you will not. I can 
 count the spots on the curtain and the butter- 
 flies from here. I am not altogether blind yet. 
 But then we'll talk no more about that. If 
 only I were up; if only I were up!" 
 
 Suddenly she threw the cover about her 
 and said in a voice that bubbled over with 
 laughter: " Then I would surely amuse you ! " 
 
 The maid came in with a coarse paper bag 
 for Andrea. 
 
 " Now what can it be ?" She stretched out 
 [23]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 her hands. The father took the bag, opened 
 it, and began to laugh. 
 
 " Who is it from, Anne ?" 
 
 "It was a sailor, or some one of that kind, 
 who said that it was for our sick lady." 
 
 The father emptied the bag ship's-crack- 
 ers as big as soup plates. They smelled 
 mouldy. 
 
 But Andrea said, coyly: "Let me taste - 
 they are from my sweetheart!" 
 
 "Oh, so that is it; yes, I suppose you have 
 many sweethearts ?" 
 
 "Only one and a half, father, one and a 
 half; and then you: but this is from the one!" 
 
 "Not from the half?" 
 
 " No from my real sweetheart!" 
 
 "Which one is that?" 
 
 " The one with the crackers. He is a sailor 
 and has curly hair, and only one ear, and a 
 red-muffler around his neck." 
 
 "How my little girl talks!" 
 
 " Why, father, it is true. I will tell you all. 
 [24]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 But you must not laugh, nor become grieved, 
 nor get angry, will you ? It is a great secret !" 
 
 "I am all ears!" 
 
 "Then put your ear close down to me, and 
 I'll whisper it to you. It was last year, when 
 I was out rowing. He sat and played the ac- 
 cordion up on the deck of the ship. And one 
 evening he did not play, but stood and munch- 
 ed crackers, and I was very flippant, you 
 know. 'Give me one, too/ I cried; and he 
 threw one down to me, and then we became 
 good friends. I saw his sleeping-room, and 
 I assure you, father, that it was no larger than 
 a bed and there lay two, one above the 
 other, on shelves; upon my word they did. 
 Ugh! He certainly is not handsome. But 
 this year he came back ; and he had broken his 
 leg over in England, and was so sad. You 
 are not angry, are you, father ? " 
 
 "No, no what else ?" 
 
 'Yes then I promised to marry him, 
 when I am twenty years old, and he is captain 
 [25]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 of a vessel. I do not care the least bit more 
 for him than for the man without a nose down 
 on the wharf but then he has no one who 
 cares for him. And all that he has seen in 
 foreign countries! You should just hear! 
 To be sure Pierre Loti's little sailor was in- 
 deed a different and nicer fellow. He has 
 kissed me seven times but not on the mouth, 
 of course; and he has given me his word, that 
 when we are married, he will still refrain from 
 kissing me on the mouth. It is only you and 
 Musser, who may do that. Now then, what 
 do you say ?" 
 
 The father kissed her. 
 
 "Father has nothing at all to say when his 
 little girl takes sweethearts on her own ac- 
 count." 
 
 "Well, now . . . was it . . . was it shab- 
 by of me to deceive him, when I knew, that 
 . . . that I, ... you know ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Andrea, it was not at all . . . 
 shabby!" 
 
 [86]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " I have not told it to you before, for sup- 
 pose you had thought I should get well, you 
 might have give him a raking over the coals ! 
 He would be very happy, I can tell you, if you 
 gave him my Chinese-silk mufflers; for he 
 thinks them most beautiful. You need not 
 say anything about it to Musser, for she will 
 tell it to all the other ladies, and that we 
 cannot have, can we ?" 
 
 "No, it shall be between us two!" 
 
 "Father, if you whimper, then I'll cry. 
 You must laugh. Kiss me, little father, my 
 lovely, lovely father. My very loveliest fa- 
 ther. Lay your hand here on my forehead, 
 then we will keep quiet for two minutes. 
 So now look at your watch. Sh ! . . . . Sh ! !" 
 
 He took his watch out, and Andrea fol- 
 lowed the hands. 
 
 "Ugh, now I can stand it no longer. Fa- 
 ther, if now I should become quite blind, it 
 would not matter so much after all ; because 
 you can tell me everything can you not ?
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Cannot we two also agree upon one pair of 
 eyes, we two ?" 
 
 The father could not find words to answer. 
 
 Suddenly she pressed her lips together and 
 became ashen pale. 
 
 " What was it ? What was it ? I was so 
 frightened. I am so afraid. It is in here, 
 little father . . . feel . . . help me!" 
 
 He laid his hand on her chest, and noticed 
 the uneasy beating of her heart. 
 
 " And what will you do, when you are alone ? 
 what will you do ... you two ?" 
 
 "Andrea!" 
 
 He could not bear to hear those words. 
 
 "If I keep quiet, I shall burst. ... If I 
 only knew one thing, - - that you were happy 
 together, with love and little gifts, and five- 
 o'clock tea every day. Musser is so good, so 
 good; but happy, - - that she certainly is not. 
 It is just as if her eyes continually ask for 
 pardon ; as if she had done something wrong. 
 If you only kissed each other every morning, 
 [28]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 and . . . yes, you should both sleep in here 
 and think of me. Then, I can tell you, she 
 would never take morphine to make her sleep. 
 She could squeeze herself into my bed, and 
 you could have hers, for it seems so poor and 
 forlorn now. You could lie together, hand in 
 hand ... if only I were sure of it, I should 
 almost not be the least bit afraid of . . . ' 
 
 "Andrea ... we will do everything that 
 you ask!" 
 
 "Will you? Will you? Inhere . . . you 
 and Musser ? Do you dare say * honour bright* 
 on that ? Father, father, how I love you ! I 
 can notice it far out in my ribs, and there the 
 heart is not, I am sure! If only now I could 
 be with you -- we three, all alone! May I - 
 may I tell her about it? Gracious, how 
 glad she'll be! It is not a fib, is it? You 
 are not deceiving me ? You surely would 
 not, eh ? No, certainly not. Thank you for 
 that, father. Oh, now I am as light as a 
 feather!" 
 
 [29]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 "Tell me, Andrea, is there anything you 
 wish for very much ?" 
 
 " Wish for, wish for ? Yes, God bless you, 
 to be sure there is. First, a pair of awfully 
 strong spectacles, awfully, awfully strong, so 
 that I myself can read my letters ; and then a 
 red skating cap with a tiny gold bell in the tas- 
 sel that is surely something I have gotten 
 from a fairy tale . . . but here in the city one 
 cannot get them, do you think so ? And then 
 a thick, very, very thick, raw, red carrot to 
 munch you do not know how I love such 
 carrots ! Then there is nothing more, unless 
 . . . yes . . . lift me a little, carry me a little ! 
 Oh, father, carry me a little, I am so tired of 
 lying down. We'll shut the door, eh ?" 
 
 "I dare not you can't stand it!" 
 
 " Lift me, lift me a little ... it will prob- 
 ably be the last time. Now that I ask you!" 
 
 Then the father lifted her carefully and 
 tenderly, and carried her in his arms up and 
 down the floor, up and down. She nestled 
 [30]
 
 ANDREA 
 up to him, and looked closely at everything. 
 
 " This is lovely ... we fly, we two. It re- 
 lieves me somewhat, when you walk with me 
 like this. It is as if I were covered with 
 feathers. We two, father dear, we know best ! 
 
 Father . . . there is so much I want to 
 have on my own little stone, but we will not 
 speak of that now. In the drawer over there 
 under the astrologer's card, it lies. You will 
 see to it, will you not ?" 
 
 He nodded and kissed her on the eyes. She 
 became heavy in his arms, and fell into a light 
 slumber. He could not relax his hold on her, 
 and not until she shivered from the cold did 
 he lay her down ; and then she awoke at once. 
 
 "Father if Josephine sends a wreath, it 
 must not come on my grave!" 
 
 "Are you angry with Josephine?" 
 
 She nodded and her eyes became big. 
 
 "Father she has done me harm. Now, 
 remember, even though it were the most beau- 
 tiful of them all !" 
 
 [31]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 The father promised to remember all that 
 she said, and never to forget it. 
 
 " Father, tell me is it entirely impossible ? 
 Yes, or no ? Then afterwards I will tell you 
 what it is!" 
 
 "What shall I answer?" 
 
 "I -- no, of course!" 
 
 " Very well, then no, it is not impossible !" 
 
 "Now there we have caught a wise old 
 rat ! That was the best that could ever hap- 
 pen ... a little bit of a fat lassie, just as 
 greedy as a puppy; and her name must be 
 Andrea. Andrea shall be her name! 
 
 "What do you mean now, child ?" 
 
 " Have I your word, or have I not ? It was 
 not impossible, you said yourself. How I 
 have wished for it ! She would surely become 
 a paragon of strength and beauty, who could 
 both dance and get married, and all the rest. 
 For I know very well all the rest : I know much 
 more than you think!" 
 
 The father hid his face in his hands. An- 
 [32]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 drea drew a little sigh, but laughed right after, 
 so that no one should notice it. 
 
 "What has become of Nikolsen and the 
 eggnog ? I am sleepy. It whirls and throbs 
 inside of my head!" 
 
 And shortly after: "Haven't you a cold 
 hand, father, an ice cold hand ? The way it 
 swells, the way it burns ... an ice cold hand 
 . . . Father, that is the only thing I care for. 
 Dear God, you ought not to refuse me that!" 
 
 The cramps were upon her. The mother 
 came, running. She nearly drove her hus- 
 band from the child's bed. He went toward 
 the door; this was almost unendurable. 
 
 But he would not allow himself to be forced 
 by the pain of it to leave his child now that the 
 end was approaching. 
 
 But he had to go. 
 
 Down in the garden, old Nikolsen had be- 
 gun to play a merry waltz ; and the mother 
 forgot to tell him to stop. 
 
 She knelt by the side of her child and 
 [33]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 thought: Is this, then, at last the merciful 
 death! 
 
 For she had watched the child's sufferings, 
 had seen the dread in her eyes, had heard her 
 pitiful moaning night and day. 
 
 But it was not death. 
 
 Darkness fell, and night came on. 
 
 In a room in the farthest corner of the house, 
 the father walked up and down. He let his 
 fingers stray along the high rows of the book- 
 shelves, but the book that could draw his 
 thoughts to it was not there. 
 
 And he knew that the heart-suffering he 
 now experienced was as nothing to the empti- 
 ness that soon would envelop him whereso- 
 ever he was, and wheresoever he went. 
 
 For Andrea was in the whole world the only 
 person who had a part in his heart. And the 
 thought of the promise he had given regarding 
 her mother, now came to him. 
 
 It had come to this, Jutta, in his thoughts, 
 was only Andrea's mother. 
 [34]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 He lighted a cigar and marvelled that it 
 would not keep alight. He also marvelled 
 that although his child was soon to leave him, 
 he was not sitting by her bed. 
 
 He was alone. 
 
 The child's mother was there. She clung 
 to her right ... as if by Andrea's bed there 
 was not room for two. When the one came, 
 the other went out. 
 
 He turned the key in both doors, seated 
 himself by the writing table, and hid his face 
 in his hands. 
 
 Andrea could not speak ; she never could 
 after these attacks. It was as if the tongue 
 stuck fast and became heavy in her mouth. 
 She could not speak ; but when she moved her 
 lips, the mother moistened them with a sponge 
 dipped in wine. She lay with clear, express- 
 [35]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 ionless eyes. But there was an apprehensive 
 dread over her. The mother noticed it by the 
 helpless despair with which she wrote and 
 wrote on the counterpane wrote with those 
 thin fingers. 
 
 The mother lit a number of candles, and 
 placed them close about the bed. Andrea's 
 pupils contracted. 
 
 Then the mother knew that this time she 
 was not blind after the attack. She held a 
 rose over to her, and she received the fragrance 
 with astonishment, but evidently did not see 
 the flower. 
 
 The mother began to sing little songs with 
 many verses her voice was broken with 
 sorrow. 
 
 Now the hands became quiet; they lay flat 
 on the sheet as if they belonged together, and 
 had died together. 
 
 And the mother did not take her eyes away 
 from those hands, now that they were at rest. 
 
 "Go ... to bed ... Musser!" 
 [36]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 A softer sound was not to be heard ; it was 
 more subdued than the lamp's quiet song and 
 the feeble sigh of the breathing, but with her 
 heart the mother felt every word. Obediently 
 she undressed herself for the night, and crept 
 into the bed that stood close to the child's. 
 
 Her eyes needed the solace of tears. 
 
 For a very long time there was a sorrowful 
 silence. 
 
 " Aren't you sleeping ? Are you afraid of 
 that .... you know .... to-night?" 
 
 She did not wait for the mother's answer. 
 
 "I have called over a hundred times, and 
 called and called. You did not hear it. I 
 could not see, but my eyes became cold, and 
 they were open, and I could not speak a word. 
 It swelled inside of me, and crawled so dis- 
 gustingly on my tongue. You do not know 
 how dreadful it was. But then I remembered 
 that I was still here . . . with you. Now, 
 isn't it odd that you can't hear how it cries out 
 within me? . . . Oh dear, Musser, do you 
 [37]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 burn Christmas candles now ? Such an idea ! 
 Have you no money ? You might, at least, af- 
 ford a real candle. It is so horribly dark here!" 
 
 The mother let her believe that it was 
 Christmas candles, but asked her to lie per- 
 fectly quiet, and began a lullaby to bring her 
 into a slumber. 
 
 'Yes but, yes but-- I must needs talk 
 while yet I can ... so that I may be empty. 
 Mother afterwards, what then, if I am not 
 empty ? When even one's own mother cannot 
 hear anything!" 
 
 Now there were tears in the voice, and the 
 mother hastened to comfort her. She assured 
 her, and insisted that a mother is one with her 
 child, and that nothing can separate them. 
 
 'Yes, such things are said, but they are not 
 borne out. Have you ever heard of a father 
 or mother who died because their child died ? 
 No, they eat every blessed day, and sleep and 
 talk. That about being "one" is all nonsense. 
 You do not know, for instance, what I lay 
 [38]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 here meditating about but then it would 
 not be pleasant, either, if you did . . . No 
 . . . but tell me, just for fun, how long you 
 will be with me every day one hour, two 
 hours ? Because I know for a certainty that 
 one's thoughts do not cease, and I shall be 
 longing so awfully for you much, much 
 more, than you for me. For you have the 
 streets and books and the food and all that. 
 Now . . . how long ? In the beginning, three 
 hours, perhaps ?" 
 
 The mother would not leave her child either 
 by night or day. 
 
 " Musser, you always make such rash prom- 
 ises ; one should never promise more than one 
 can keep. And eat, you surely must, and 
 sleep. . . I am only afraid that I shall starve; 
 it is so awful to think of : to starve . . . But I 
 know something about you, Musser, and it is 
 good ... if only it is true." 
 
 She was tired and began to whisper. 
 
 " Father has said it himself - - it was he 
 [39]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 who thought of it ... he will stay here at 
 night, with you, every single night. Then 
 you surely can go to sleep, can you not ? And 
 do you think he lies ?" 
 
 For a moment the mother forgot everything 
 else in the thought of herself and weighed 
 word for word what the child was saying. 
 
 But Andrea noticed the doubt, and repeated 
 the promise time and again, embellished it, 
 coloured the words, laid her own heart's 
 meaning in it - - the mother must believe, 
 must be made happy. 
 
 "And then you will surely get something 
 else to do than to sit by me ! But of that I will 
 not say anything, father will tell you that him- 
 self. And oh! how often I have run off 
 from you, even though you were alone!" 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 "Little mother, would that there were a 
 shop where they sold cold, cold, hands. 
 Thank you . . . no, yours are warm, too." 
 
 The tower clock struck two. Andrea was 
 [40]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 silent, and the mother was silent with her; but 
 at the stroke of the half hour she moaned. 
 
 " Mother . . . that was only a half-hour. 
 Oh, how long it was ! If one could only pluck 
 this thought out of the head as one pulls out a 
 tooth - - if only one could ! Think of it ; you 
 are my mother, and you cannot take one of 
 these gruesome thoughts! You should only 
 know how they steal about inside of me. If 
 we were rich, then you could build a marble 
 tomb; and there I should like to be. But, 
 mother . . . mother ... I shall lie down 
 there many, many, many hours, while you go 
 up here and forget me! How can you have 
 the heart to do it! . . . Nonsense, Musser, I 
 am really not so much afraid, but lonely, yes, 
 that it surely will be ... lonely. Can you re- 
 member what we had on the day I became ten 
 years old ? Bread pudding with whipped 
 cream, pan cakes with currant jelly, and, best 
 of all apple compote. For those were my 
 favourite dishes. Don't you think it is because 
 [41]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 I always ate mustard with a teaspoon that I 
 have such a sharp memory ?" 
 
 There was silence, but Andrea began again : 
 ;< Why does not father come? You surely 
 have not quarrelled? Mother, have you 
 quarrelled ?" 
 
 The mother told her that he had gone to 
 bed. 
 
 "Now, you know that is not true. He 
 goes up in his room and waits, and waits for 
 something . . . that he is afraid of. Mother, 
 is he not a little bit cowardly, just a little ?" 
 
 The mother answered "No," and the child 
 whimpered: "Mother . . . you are so far 
 away! If I make myself real little and thin, 
 may I not come over to you, eh ? My bed is 
 so cold!" 
 
 The mother took her over to herself, as 
 when she was a little child and lay on her 
 breast. 
 
 They wept so inaudibly, that the one was 
 not aware of the other's weeping. 
 [42]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " Hold me real tight, it matters not if you 
 squeeze ... In a little while it will hurt ; it 
 comes from deep, deep inside of me . . . Be- 
 fore, I used to dream that some one twisted 
 a corkscrew down into my head, and wanted 
 to wrench it off now, it is just as if it were 
 sticking there . . . Musser, little Musser, I 
 really never would have married, but always 
 have remained with you and earned money 
 besides, so that when you became old . . . 
 Even though you were as deaf and cross 
 as Mistress Hansen . . . You shall have all 
 the things in my bureau drawer, then you will 
 have something to adorn yourself with, not ? 
 But then you must also dress every day . . . 
 When we haven't me, then you can get so 
 many more dresses . . . but tell Madame 
 Berg that she must by all means see to it 
 that you do not allow your right side to 
 sag!" 
 
 She laughed that little, embarrassed laugh 
 that reminded one strongly of the mother's. 
 [43] "
 
 ANDREA 
 
 "And you must never eat goose-fat . . . 
 on account of the complexion!" 
 
 She nestled close to the mother, and her 
 hands were cold. 
 
 "As soon ... as soon, as, you know 
 what I mean . . . Josephine shall have my 
 sapphire ring. The same day . . . but not 
 before. It is not necessary before!" 
 
 " Do you care so much for Josephine, then ?" 
 'Yes . . . so much do I care for Jose- 
 phine!" 
 
 [44]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Toward the morning Andrea died. The 
 parents sat by her bed, torn with anguish and 
 fear by her death-struggle. 
 
 What was it that they should "burn, for 
 God's sake, burn ? " 
 
 What was the wager that Josephine had 
 won ? What was the remorse that cried 
 forth from the child's lips ? 
 
 And so imploringly she continued to ask: 
 "Father, little father, teach me the Danish 
 letters, teach me them soon, teach me them 
 
 now: 
 
 But the last words were followed by a smile : 
 "Musser, your dress sags: what will father 
 say to that ? " 
 
 And now it was over, all over. 
 [45]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 The little clock continued to run, to run, to 
 hasten now, when there was nothing more 
 to hasten after. 
 
 The father looked at his hands, that but a 
 little while ago had carried Andrea to free her 
 from the fear of death that had oppressed her 
 as she struggled between the white pillows 
 which she mistook for a coffin ; but she did 
 not know him. 
 
 He looked at those hands. 
 
 Again it was night. There were three in 
 the room, but the one did not breathe. 
 
 The father sat by Andrea's bed and held 
 her hand in his; but every time he became 
 aware that the hand was cold and without life, 
 he shuddered and looked fearfully aside. 
 
 Over there, by the lamp, the mother sat and 
 sewed, stitch after stitch, stitch after stitch, 
 [46]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 the long white silk dress for Andrea. Thus 
 she had wished to have it. "But Musser 
 shall sew it afterwards what if it does get a 
 little wrinkled ? And you surely need not sew 
 the buttonholes ; that is something no one will 
 notice, eh, Musser?" 
 
 It was one of the promises that must be 
 kept. 
 
 The mother pricked her finger; the mother 
 thrust the needle through the silk, and her 
 tears were mingled with the many stitches. 
 But he who sat over there by the child, he said 
 not a word - - he did not comfort her with the 
 slightest sign. And only when he shuddered 
 did she tremble; and she also was reminded 
 that there was one in the room whom they 
 feared -- Death was there. 
 
 That night was long, so long that the mother 
 forgot her tears. And then the white silk 
 dress was finished, and he and she carefully 
 drew the light-blue nightgown from the child's 
 shoulders and dressed her for the coffin. Still 
 [47]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 they did not speak to each other. The 
 father lifted her up for the last time in his 
 arms, while the mother arranged the bier as 
 it should be. There fell a little sheet of paper 
 on the floor, which he picked up and kept. He 
 recognized it. He had seen Andrea crumple 
 it up, smooth it out, and crumple it up again. 
 He hid this little sheet of white paper. 
 
 "Do you remain here, Jutta?" Now he 
 spoke for the first time. 
 
 " Shall I go away from my child?" 
 she said. Then he turned about and went 
 out. 
 
 The mother had fallen deep into her abyss 
 of sorrow, and she cried out to all the winds 
 for help. She was near to losing her reason. 
 
 She felt as only a mother can feel that 
 overpowering agony because the child, who 
 [48]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 had once by force been taken from her very 
 heart, now again, with ten-fold greater force, 
 was torn from her. 
 
 They all saw that her grief was greater than 
 she could bear; and they tried, as best they 
 could, to share it with her, for they also had 
 loved Andrea. 
 
 They also had loved Andrea all those 
 who knew her. And that which, with large, 
 uneven pencil marks she had written on 
 back of the prescriptions, was preserved with 
 the utmost care, as if it were her legal will and 
 testament. 
 
 From the time she was brought into the 
 chapel the father kept watch over her every 
 night. He perceived from her death-struggle 
 that this lay on her mind. 
 
 No, he did not keep watch over the empty 
 churchyard; he stood there leaning against 
 the wall of the chapel with his eyes open, 
 awake and thinking. 
 
 In there she lay, his little soul, "The child 
 [49]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 with the warm, warm heart," as Stephen had 
 called her. 
 
 As he stood there, he wondered that his 
 brother's words should keep running through 
 his mind. 
 
 But the whole night long it sang in his 
 thoughts, and welled over in his eyes: "The 
 child with the warm, warm heart! " 
 
 [50]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 And thus she was buried, as she had desired 
 it, entirely so. Old Nikolsen was the only 
 one omitted, as the sexton declared it would 
 be sacrilege if one permitted accordion music 
 in a holy churchyard. 
 
 Inside of the coffin, between myrtle crosses 
 and wreaths as small as necklaces, lay long 
 rolls of chocolate pastilles those that were 
 "like dollars." These last were brought by 
 the little children who had so often received 
 small gifts from Andrea. 
 
 The soft, lustrous coverlet from Smyrna, 
 that used to lie on Andrea's bed -- or, when 
 she played Harem, on the floor was now 
 wrapped about the coffin, so that the earth 
 should not penetrate through the seams. 
 [51]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 The grave was chosen towards the south, 
 because she was so susceptible to cold and 
 such a lover of the sun. 
 
 Her friend Edith played the violin ; she cried 
 and played, and the tones became discordant 
 and squeaky, but no one noticed it. 
 f Afterwards Edith had to play in the empty 
 home for all the little children who had left 
 their games to follow Andrea. They were 
 given ginger cakes and lemonade and egg- 
 nogs, as rich and white as the cook was able 
 to make them on such a day. 
 
 There were those among the people of the 
 town who called all this mere mummery, but 
 they had not read Andrea's pencil marks on 
 the old prescriptions. 
 
 The father had removed Josephine's wreath 
 himself - - it was of pure white flowers, and 
 the most beautiful of them all. He sat a long 
 time and turned it about in his hands. 
 
 What was meant by Harm ? 
 
 Andrea wanted to have a cherry tree on her 
 [52]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 grave and many giant strawberries, as many 
 as there was room for. But besides this she 
 also wished that each of her friends would 
 plant a little flowering plant out by her. The 
 weeds must not be taken away, and there 
 should stand fine, large, white benches, so 
 that one might sit comfortably and long by 
 her. 
 
 The grave must not be made into a mound, 
 but should be flat, like a greensward. 
 
 There was raised a little, white stone, and on 
 it was written: 
 
 THE CHILD WITH THE WARM, WARM HEART. 
 
 Three months later the mother, one day, 
 began to look over Andrea's treasures. 
 
 At first she had been unable to bear even the 
 thought of parting with anything that had be- 
 longed to Andrea. 
 
 [53]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 The ring was not sent to Josephine. 
 
 Nothing must be disturbed in the child's 
 room. She cried out in wild wrath when, by 
 the order of the Master,* the bedding was re- 
 moved and the empty bed covered over with 
 a quilt. 
 
 She would not relinquish her claim to any- 
 thing not even to the withered flowers nor 
 the empty medicine bottles not a thing 
 would she part with. 
 
 The mother stood in there; she wanted 
 to give her sorrow new nourishment, new 
 life. 
 
 But when she had emptied the wardrobe of 
 its contents, it was as if she saw Andrea's 
 half-blind, reproachful eyes. 
 
 Terrified, she dropped what she held and 
 went out of the room. Long after she seemed 
 to hear Andrea say, half jestingly, half offend- 
 ed: "But, Musser, what are you about? 
 Keep away from my things! " 
 
 * The husband. 
 
 [54]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 The next time, when she overcame her fear, 
 and went in to continue the arranging of the 
 things, she missed a lavender dress that above 
 all the others was the one most dear to Andrea. 
 
 She did not know of anything else to do 
 than to go to the child's father. The dress 
 must surely be stolen. 
 
 He regarded her with that dark, contemp- 
 tuous smile which, like a cold blast, could fly 
 over his face. 
 
 " Was it worth so much, that dress ?" 
 
 She was silent and timorous, and did not 
 understand what he meant ; but when he gent- 
 ly repeated the question, she answered that 
 it had cost at least forty crowns, even though 
 it was made at home. 
 
 He pulled out the drawer of the writing- 
 table, and counted out four bank-notes: "So 
 now, perhaps, you will do me the kindness not 
 to speak of that theft any more! " 
 
 At the moment she was tired, simply tired. 
 And she needed the money. Since Andrea's 
 [55] '
 
 ANDREA 
 
 death it was more difficult than ever before to 
 ask for money. 
 
 She took them and went out. 
 
 But once inside of Andrea's room she was 
 overpowered with despair and humiliation. 
 
 She pulled out the bureau drawers and run* 
 maged among all the foolish things the child 
 had accumulated. 
 
 And she found a vague comfort in the be- 
 lief that Andrea had, during her last illness, 
 been drawn more to herself than to the father. 
 
 The mother glanced hastily now here, now 
 there, and in everything she could see Andrea, 
 the clever, the capricious. 
 
 The whole of the small top drawer was 
 rilled up with papers, letters, note-books and 
 writing-books. 
 
 She picked up this and that. This was a 
 clear and concise account of bones, rags and 
 old iron, silk stockings and comfits, bathing 
 tickets for dirty little children, whiskey for 
 the inmates of the poor-house asylum. 
 [56]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Andrea had a sense of order only in one 
 thing. In money matters she was inordinate- 
 ly careful. Even "two pennies omitted in 
 the column" was entered. 
 
 There were a number of writing-books half- 
 filled with poor verses, and under the writing- 
 books two blue pamphlets. 
 
 " Must be burnt unread. My father must 
 not read them. Nor my mother. You MUST 
 NOT. Andrea." 
 
 It was the Diary. 
 
 The mother knew that if she remained there 
 any longer she would read every word. And 
 she went out so as not to be tempted. 
 
 But out into the night, when she lay strug- 
 gling with her sick thoughts, she fetched the 
 "Diary." 
 
 She turned over the leaves and saw that 
 the last entries were written with lead pencil 
 and scarcely a month before the child's 
 death. 
 
 She read : 
 
 [57]
 
 FROM THE DIARY
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 From the Diary 
 
 1892. 
 
 I am so lonesome since Helen Simons died. 
 But I could not help it. 
 
 All the others cried so the whole way 
 through the streets while we strewed flowers, 
 and I will always keep the basket as a remem- 
 brance of Helen's death. But I thought it 
 was so amusing to see the people leaning out 
 of their windows and gaping after us. And I 
 had Mistress Page's big hat on, because I 
 must needs have a black one, and I was com- 
 pletely covered up by it and could not cry. 
 
 I tried very hard, but during the whole 
 time we stood at the grave the most funny 
 thoughts came to me - - (that was surely the 
 [61]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 devil whispering to me, said Edith; for she 
 gives herself such airs, now that she takes 
 catechetical instruction). 
 
 And they cried out a lot of gibberish in 
 Hebrew, which sounded like the parish spell- 
 ing class. I had ten pieces of block sugar in 
 my pocket, but I did not dare take a bite, 
 while we were standing there. The coffin 
 was awfully lovely with pure white flowers, 
 and the sun shone. I thought so of pancakes. 
 If only it had rained, I could perhaps have 
 cried a little. But I remember the time when 
 Helen fell into the fountain with all her clothes 
 on, and the Mistress cried: "She drowns, she 
 drowns," and we giggled. 
 
 Jeannette plucked me by the sleeve, and 
 said I ought to be ashamed of myself because 
 I did not cry; but how could I help it ? 
 
 And the rabbi said, that she should greet 
 
 Father Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and all 
 
 the Jewish gentlemen cried: "Also from me, 
 
 also from me." And then it was that I be- 
 
 [62]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 gan to laugh so awfully, for I seemed to see 
 Helen knock on the gate of Heaven and cour- 
 tesy and say : " They all send their greeting 
 from home." 
 
 But they thought I was taken sick, and 
 afterwards I began to cry most dreadfully, but 
 that was because of embarrassment, and not 
 at all on account of Helen. 
 
 Mother thought it was so touching to see us 
 strewing flowers, and she wept; but father 
 said it was nonsense. They can never agree 
 upon anything. 
 
 But the old Jewish gentlemen were all sim- 
 pering and snivelling, and Simons has five 
 girls besides Helen! 
 
 To-night I will read in the Bible about the 
 Jews, for the Christians are so frivolous. 
 
 But when I am going to die, I will scrape 
 together a whole lot of money and buy choco- 
 late to take with me in the coffin. I will beg 
 father's old clothes, for Musser's are of no 
 account when she is through with them. 
 [63]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 It is very odd indeed that I am going to die : 
 I am so much alive; but then it will surely not 
 be before I am twenty, and that leaves six 
 years and one month I really do not care 
 to live any longer than that, for there is so 
 much in the world that is sad and sorrowful. 
 
 Helen was buried above her grandmother, 
 but she was like a witch ugh, I would 
 rather lie by a very young girl. Fiddle-sticks ! 
 they talk about Heaven and Hell. For I can 
 surely come into Heaven with mother : she is 
 so pious and goes to church regularly; but 
 father . . . that is an impossibility. What 
 should he do in Heaven ? 
 
 I want to go with my father. 
 
 Amen ! ! ! 
 
 Father is lovely ! ! ! 
 
 That book called "Ghosts" is a strange 
 one; there is not a single spectre in it; so for 
 that matter father need not have advised me 
 against reading it. 
 
 But then it was a sin that I laughed. 
 [64]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 JAN., 1893. 
 
 As soon as I become real grown-up, I will 
 go to Copenhagen, which is a wicked place for 
 a young lady to live in. 
 
 I should prefer to be an artist or a poet, but 
 rather an artist, and paint the loveliest tapes- 
 tries ; for those here in the city are shockingly 
 hideous ; they look like cotton goods and peas- 
 ant-petticoats. 
 
 First, I will paint a big, green meadow, with 
 the clear water running through it, and steeple- 
 chases for the hunt, and flying swallows that 
 eat insects ; and there shall be big forests and 
 high mountains, snow-topped and crested 
 with castles, like the curtain in the theatre. 
 That tapestry shall be used for a large and 
 lofty hall. Perhaps Jacobsen, the brewer, 
 will buy it, for he has more money than the 
 king. But his statues stand in another house. 
 Father says, they are the best things in Copen- 
 hagen, but I think that the King's Square 
 must be finer. 
 
 [65]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Those houses that have towers shall have 
 another kind of tapestry: a dark blue, just 
 like what you see when you lie in your bed at 
 night and look out upon the heavens and the 
 Milky Way and the stars. It seems to me as 
 if they were crawling away on a multitude of 
 little bits of legs. 
 
 Stars and golden bantams and butterflies 
 are to me the loveliest things in the whole 
 world. But those people must not laugh 
 loud or cry out or click their heels, for then 
 they would be out of keeping with the 
 tapestry. 
 
 Tyra Danebods Hall of Mourning was 
 dark-blue Mother's gowns are always dark- 
 blue; it resembles Sorrow and Night and 
 Sadness the dark-blue. But mother can- 
 not help getting spots on them. 
 
 My office shall be right in the centre of 
 
 Prince Street, and when people come to order 
 
 tapestries from me (for, of course, they will 
 
 hear that mine are the most beautiful), then 
 
 [66]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 I'll look them right in the eyes until I know 
 them by heart, and then I'll know to a dot 
 what kind of tapestry will suit them. 
 
 Every person has his colour, and that I can 
 see by looking at him. Edith shall have pale 
 lavender and Josephine the deepest red, 
 which is redder than jelly and Musser 
 should really have something pale and som- 
 bre, something like hyacinths. 
 
 It is very important to know this, for then 
 the rooms will be in harmony with the people 
 who live in them. 
 
 The poor shall not pay a farthing for them, 
 but the rich shall pay a thousand crowns for 
 one tapestry. Then I'll give Musser money 
 to go to Paris with, and when she comes home 
 she'll be the most beautiful lady in the whole 
 city, so that father will gladly go out arm in 
 arm with her. 
 
 Father's room shall be gray, but of the kind 
 that shines and also looks like velvet. 
 
 He should have a vaulted ceiling. 
 [67]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 FEB., 1893. 
 
 Well, now, I have never heard the like of 
 this! Lynges' cook has one father who is a 
 lieutenant, and one who is a butler, and one 
 who is a police sergeant, and one who is a 
 baker! 
 
 It is written in the church book. 
 
 She has said to Edith that she would swear 
 that it is gospel truth. 
 
 My! but that must be strange I thought 
 it was possible to have only one. 
 
 Edith says that she has the red hair from 
 the butler, and the flat nose from the officer. 
 She is proud of him, but then he is dead. 
 
 Suppose I too had a different father here 
 and there round about in the city ! But that is 
 quite impossible. When I hold my hands 
 around father's brow I can feel that we two 
 belong together just as much as two eyes. He 
 can suffer the same things as I, and neither 
 does he eat beans nor meat-soup. 
 
 And then I could not touch any other man 
 [68]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 so except, perhaps, Uncle Stephen ; but 
 then he is father's brother. 
 
 When he speaks, it is as if a hand were laid 
 gently on my head. Oh, that he would al- 
 ways come when I am sick, but of course he 
 cannot know it beforehand. 
 
 I wonder if it is also possible sometimes to 
 have more than one mother ? That I could 
 believe more readily, for there are many little 
 things about mother which are not like me. 
 She always draws such a deep breath before 
 opening a door, as if she were afraid of some 
 one inside. 
 
 I will look it up in the big dictionary. It 
 seems to me that it is only in books that one 
 has two parents. 
 
 MAY, 1893. 
 
 I would rather have a headache and a nose- 
 bleed every day. I am so awfully afraid. 
 And that is because I am so sick inside. Last 
 night I sat up in bed and dared not sleep, and 
 [69]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 my heart jumped up and down just as it does 
 when I begin to be sick. It is surely one of 
 the big arteries that has burst. And mother 
 is not at all nice to me ; she goes about sulky 
 and indifferent. 
 
 She says that it is just as natural as nose- 
 bleed. Oh, yes, thank you! Perhaps it 
 would also be natural if suddenly a hole 
 should break in my breast and the blood flow 
 out. 
 
 My hands have become so white, and my 
 eyes and heart pain me so. Father has given 
 me a lace fan, but what shall I do with that 
 when I am going to die ? 
 
 I would almost rather have cramps, for 1 
 know what that is. It is queer, but I cannot 
 keep from thinking of giving birth to children. 
 
 I should like to run away from myself, the 
 whole thing is so dreary. 
 
 If only it were the pulse- artery on the wrist, 
 then one could see it. 
 
 I would go with mother to church on Sun- 
 [70]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 day and even dust her room, if it would only 
 stop. Not even father takes any notice of it; 
 he merely says I must be very quiet. 
 
 But that is the way when one is often sick: 
 then there is no one who considers it of any 
 account.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 JUNE, 1893. 
 
 To-day, I read " A Visit" by Brandes, not 
 by Georg, for that is his great brother, but 
 by Edward. Father did not want me to read 
 it, because it was not for children. But I 
 understood it all, and quite agreed with Flo- 
 rizel. I know full well that they kissed each 
 other in that hotel and slept in the same room, 
 but then he was handsome and wonderful, and 
 I think that most likely I should have done 
 the same as Florizel. 
 
 For just think of sleeping entirely alone in 
 a big, strange hotel ! 
 
 I am certain that he talked like Uncle Ste- 
 phen, so sweet and low, like the sound of 
 tinkling sheep bells on a summer's eve.
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Now, no one shall call me a child : why, in 
 olden days one was often married before one 
 was fifteen years old. Ethel is no more 
 grown-up than I, although she is one year 
 and five months older. And she is stupid 
 and poor in reading, but she can play most 
 exquisitely. 
 
 It seems to me, after all, that it was better 
 to live when I was quite young, then the 
 thoughts whisked off of themselves. 
 
 Oh! that I were dead and gone. Then 
 they would surely sit by my grave together, 
 hand-in-hand, and become good friends again 
 - which they must have been, for otherwise 
 they could not have begotten me. For that 
 comes of love alone. 
 
 God ! What a stupid child I was last year 
 when I thought that one got children simply 
 by thinking of one another. But Florizel 
 got a child, and Brandes forgets entirely to 
 talk about that, which was the most embar- 
 rassing part of it all. 
 
 [73]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 It is not to be endured. It is as if they 
 were bartering for me : they both want to buy 
 me. 
 
 Edith's father and mother sleep in one 
 room, of course, and Astra's parents also, and 
 Jeannette's ; and my mother does not snore, 
 decidedly not. I have listened three times; 
 she sleeps as quietly as a mouse. And as 
 she does not snore, or walk in her sleep, or 
 scream at night, why, father surely need not 
 sleep alone in his own room. 
 
 It is exceedingly embarrassing for me and 
 for mother, and it looks so poor and forlorn 
 when one has a husband and is married to him. 
 
 Ethel says that is the way one does if one 
 wants to avoid having many children, and 
 that may be true; but, then, we have only me, 
 and two three more would certainly not 
 matter. The riding-master should have moved 
 up into the attic long ago, then he would sure- 
 ly have had five children less, and then they 
 need not eat bare bread. 
 [74]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 If only mother would remember to have her 
 hair parted straight, and to keep her collar 
 from slipping up, and to have the glasses nice- 
 ly polished; for such things vex Ethel's father 
 also. And as for me, my wife might just as 
 well have her hair parted wrong, and I had 
 just as leave wipe the glass with my napkin. 
 The other day I parted my hair outrage- 
 ously crooked on purpose, but father simply 
 laughed, and did not scold in the least. 
 
 Mother is a real popinjay, but father might 
 be a little in love with her, anyway, and kiss 
 her on the hand. That is the most charming 
 thing possible. And she is, I am sure, very 
 much in love with him. 
 
 But I cannot bear always to have her 
 questioning me as to what we talk about on 
 our little excursions, for there really is not 
 anything to tell, especially when we do not 
 speak a word, but only run pell-mell out 
 over the country road. 
 
 Father is distinguished and proud and all 
 [75]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 that, but mother looks like Limping Mary 
 when she begs old clothes. And I will never 
 have confidential friends when I am married, 
 for my husband surely will not like that, and 
 besides it is somewhat common. 
 
 That Edward Brandes must surely resem- 
 ble my father, except that he, of course, has 
 an awiully big nose like the old Jewish gentle- 
 men here in the city; but if father wanted 
 to, he could easily write books like that about 
 remarkable people, the reading of which 
 makes one wise. 
 
 And father has surely experienced a great 
 deal in his youth ; but a father will not speak 
 about that, not even to his own little girl, 
 which is me. 
 
 SEPT., 1893. 
 
 Knud is only a boy, but he is so violent. 
 
 He said in all seriousness that he would kill 
 
 me if I did not marry him in eight years, 
 
 when he becomes a minister. It gave me 
 
 [76]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 such a queer feeling, as if some one had drawn 
 a red hot darning needle up and down my 
 back. Ugh! 
 
 He said I should be a volcano when I am 
 twenty years old ! Now, what can he know 
 about that? 
 
 And besides I do not care about exploding 
 mountains that are black, and smoke like a 
 lamp. No, he should rather compare me 
 to a marble statue or an alabaster statue 
 that came to life. 
 
 I will not marry a minister, for he must be 
 so serious. I will not marry at all it is not 
 necessary. Uncle Stephen is not married, 
 either. 
 
 Now how can it be ? Ordinarily I can only 
 hear what people say; it dribbles along as 
 from the spout of a drain pipe, just so; always 
 the same. But what he says, that I can see 
 the same as if I looked through coloured 
 glass. It resembles a multitude of small rain- 
 bows . . . one would think he had a colour 
 [77]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 box in his mouth. It is sheer nonsense, but 
 it is true, nevertheless. And then he speaks 
 the words so softly, as if they were of velvet. 
 
 If Christ spoke like that to His disciples, I 
 can well understand that they remembered it 
 and could write it down. I also could write 
 everything that he has said to me. That is 
 not so much, of course; for he talks mostly 
 with father, and is here such a short time. 
 
 SEPT., 1893. 
 
 To-day I made the worst blunder possible. 
 For we had gone to the pavilion, and I ordered 
 chocolate with whipped cream and French 
 tarts and sandwiches, and I did not have a 
 cent to pay with. The others thought that I 
 was treating because it was I who proposed it 
 and then we had only seventeen cents alto- 
 gether. The waiter noticed it by our actions, 
 for he continued to hover about our table, and 
 we did not know what we should do for shame. 
 [78]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 We ate and we ate, and the food stuck in our 
 throats, and we were fiery red in the face. They 
 put the blame on me . . . but oh, dear, I was 
 hungry, and the sun shone, and then I thought 
 that the others could lend me the money. 
 
 At last Ethel and Jeannette went off to raise 
 the money, while Agnes and I remained sitting 
 there like hostages ; and we must needs find 
 something to do. So we ordered more sand- 
 wiches ; and for over an hour we continued to 
 eat sandwiches. I began to think they would 
 never come back, and Agnes commenced to 
 whimper so that I had to pinch her in the arm 
 so that she would not cry. 
 
 And then finally they came, and we tipped 
 the waiter a whole crown ; but Ethel was cross 
 because she had been scolded so by her father. 
 And the waiter stood and grinned at us. 
 
 And besides I broke my hour-glass, and 
 Musser had gone to bed, and father did not 
 eat dinner at home. 
 
 It was a day of misfortunes. 
 [79]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 OCT., 1893. 
 
 Knud is an absurd idiot. He came to bor- 
 row my French dictionary, and down in the 
 hall he kissed me on the mouth. I could 
 smell that he had rubbed himself with 
 pomade, or some such servant-girl stuff. 
 
 Ugh! it was disgusting! I would as soon 
 have kissed a rat. But now he knows that I do 
 not care the least bit for him. 
 
 And why does mother always sit gossiping 
 with those stupid ladies ? The way they talk 
 about their husbands! God have mercy on 
 mother if she says one single bad word about 
 father. 
 
 Then she knows she irritates him with 
 those ladies, and he goes out as soon as they 
 come and I have to run in and out with 
 sugar and cream. 
 
 "She resembles a Madonna," they say. I 
 could say, "Hold your tongue," to them. 
 
 They are so vulgar! 
 
 Something is surely wrong. Musser is as 
 [80]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 melancholy as a rainy day, and they glower at 
 each other in a way to make one tremble. But 
 I can get whatever I point at. 
 
 If only I lived with father one day and with 
 mother the other, for they are so pleasant each 
 by themselves, but when they are together they 
 chill me and make me weary of it all. 
 
 They should make a confidant of me. But 
 when father and I are alone I forget every- 
 thing, for he is so wise and wonderful. 
 
 MARCH, 1894. 
 
 Oh! that the moon were entirely burnt out, 
 or that it would crack and explode. It is the 
 only thing in the whole world that I hate, ex- 
 cept rats; and it is just as if it knew it. Even 
 though I put myself far down under the quilt, 
 I can notice it. It is like a wicked spirit; it 
 goes into my head. It is much worse than 
 fever and worse than opium. For I know very 
 well that I am awake and that it cannot reach 
 [81]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 me, but I am so afraid of that horrible 
 light. 
 
 No matter what I think of, I think of some- 
 thing else on top of that, and on top of it all I 
 am so afraid that I would rather die. If it 
 were possible, and I were not fifteen years old, 
 I should be allowed to sleep with Musser and 
 lie in her bed then it would surely pass 
 away. 
 
 In all books they say the moonlight is beau- 
 tifuL No, the night should be still and peace- 
 ful, and it is not so when the moon comes. It 
 is as if it makes a noise that bewitches me. 
 But perhaps that is because I am going to die 
 and am really not fit to live. If father knew 
 it, then I believe he would surely stay with 
 me the whole night, for he cannot endure my 
 being sad. 
 
 That moon is of no earthly use; it only 
 
 makes trouble. And I become so peevish 
 
 when it is full moon, and say so much that is 
 
 not nice. And I dream such awful dreams. 
 
 [82]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Now I will close the shutters and draw the 
 curtain, but as soon as I put out the light the 
 moon will come creeping in. 
 
 It is not good to live when one is sad and 
 afraid. 
 
 JUNE, 1894. 
 
 To-day the riding-master came with jas- 
 mines for mother, and she was near to faint- 
 ing from the fragrance, but she continued to 
 stick her nose down into them and say that 
 they were beautiful. 
 
 And he looked at her with saucer-eyes, like 
 the big dog, and she laughed in that embar- 
 rassed way-- I nearly pitied them. But I 
 could not restrain myself, and ran into father 
 and said that Musser had a tryst, and that we 
 must hit upon something. 
 
 Father was not jealous not in the least. 
 We sent Anne after two huge ginger-cake 
 hearts with verses in the centre; and then I 
 carried in the tea. 
 
 [83]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 But it was near to becoming serious. 
 Oh, God! --they acted as if nothing had 
 happened, and the riding-master began to 
 nibble his heart; but then he read the verses, 
 and he became confused and began to cough, 
 and Musser was very busy smelling the jas- 
 mines again. 
 
 Truly it was spiteful, but it was so laugha- 
 ble. He is as infatuated with her as if he 
 were a young man. And then he has eight 
 chubby children. 
 
 Now I am sorry for it, for afterwards Musser 
 cried and said it was a sin, as the riding-mas- 
 ter is a poor, wretched man. 
 
 But then he should not use his money 
 with which to buy flowers for other men's 
 wives. Father never buys flowers for his 
 wife . . . but neither does he buy any for 
 Musser. And 7 get carnations every day, as 
 long as they are in bloom. But, then, that is 
 not nice, either! 
 
 [84]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 We are not good; we are wicked, all of us. 
 Now I will no longer take carnations from 
 father if he does not also buy flowers for 
 mother. That is decided. 
 
 JUNE, 1894. 
 
 Just to think that I am a moon-baby. So 
 is mother. But not a person knows what a 
 moon-baby is, and one must not tell it to any 
 one, for they only laugh and say that it is all 
 nonsense. 
 
 It is so very unusual! 
 
 Mother used to cry at night, so that Grand- 
 mother Voldby had to get up and light candles 
 all over the house, and make coffee for her. 
 It is only girls; boys cannot be moon-babies. 
 
 Mother also feels the moon shining on her 
 skin, even though she closes her eyes, and 
 she says it is as if poison enters the blood, so 
 that the thoughts become sick. 
 
 And that is perfectly true. I lie and think 
 about death; I can hear it, I can feel it, I 
 [85]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 can see it. I believe Death sits up in the moon, 
 and that is the reason why I am so afraid. 
 
 How wonderful it must be to dare to walk 
 in the moonlight, or to sit at the window and 
 look right out upon it, or to meet it in the 
 woods. When I was a child I surely was not 
 afraid of it. It seems to me that I can remem- 
 ber rowing out on the river, and the whole 
 water became white as a lily. 
 
 Mother's real mother was also like that - 
 so Grandmother Voldby has told me. And 
 when she was going to die, and mother was 
 only three years old, she sprang out of bed and 
 shattered the window-panes with her hands 
 because she wanted to beat the moon to death. 
 But mother says that it is a disease to be a 
 moon-baby. This is just like me, but then 
 mother never has cramps. 
 
 When Josephine has it she becomes so ma- 
 licious, but we never do; and she is not afraid 
 of the moon. It is not so pleasant, after all, 
 to be a girl. 
 
 [86]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 If I could only understand what the moon 
 can be good for ! 
 
 JULY, 1894. 
 
 I want to be a poet. 
 
 I decided upon it last night and did not go 
 to bed, but wrote verses. 
 
 To be sure, it is not so very difficult; it is 
 much harder to keep awake the whole night, 
 and the great poets always wrote best at 
 night. 
 
 That is what Balzac did, but father says he 
 drank a great deal of coffee, one cup after the 
 other, without cream; and I did not get any 
 coffee. 
 
 I stole up to the attic and peeped out at the 
 stars, through the window in the roof. Then 
 I drank water and ate chocolates, but that 
 makes one sleepy. I became very cold tow- 
 ards morning. 
 
 Another night I will go out into the 
 woods, and walk out there all alone entirely 
 [87]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 alone all night. I think out there it must 
 be like a dream. 
 
 Perhaps I may also go out into the church- 
 yard so as to accustom myself to it, but I 
 cannot bear the odour of dead bodies. 
 
 It is best for me to wait four years, until I 
 am twenty ; for a poet must have experienced 
 a great deal. But it seems to me that it 
 might be easier to hit upon something thrill- 
 ing, and so be saved all the trouble of living 
 through so many experiences. And Uncle 
 Stephen says that one only lives to experience 
 sorrow. 
 
 As for that, I could easily write a romance 
 about Josephine, or a play about father and 
 mother, but that would be something to weep 
 over. 
 
 Father has told me that De Maupassant 
 waited ten years before he made a book; 
 and every day he went to school to the 
 man who created Madam Bovary, whom 
 father loves. But he is too difficult for me 
 [88]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 in French. I cannot afford to wait ten 
 years. 
 
 But father and mother shall not suspect 
 that I know I am soon to die. That would be 
 a sin. 
 
 If only I could place the semicolon and ex- 
 clamation mark where they should be ; for that 
 is not easy, and one must needs know that. 
 Father says my commas are good enough. 
 
 In four years, when every one least expects 
 it, there will come a thick, thick book by me. 
 It shall be called : 
 
 THE SORROWS 
 
 OF 
 
 ONE 
 
 WHO IS DEAD. 
 
 For I shall die soon after, and if that is 
 printed on the outside of the book, with, per- 
 haps, a little band of mourning, then every 
 one in the whole kingdom of Denmark, and 
 
 [89]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 also all the poets, will read it, and father and 
 mother. 
 
 It shall be about them, and be so true that, 
 they will love one another the more for 
 the reading of it. Therein I will tell how sad 
 I have been every single day as long as I can 
 remember, because they did not kiss one an- 
 other as one should when one is happy. Then 
 mother will write an anonymous letter and 
 thank the author, but I will not betray myself. 
 
 No, that I will not. 
 
 One does not earn very much money by 
 being a poet, but then perhaps I can paint 
 tapestries besides. The money I get for the 
 book mother shall have for a silk dress; and 
 then her teeth need rilling. 
 
 It is stupid that I should have such strong 
 teeth that the dentist only laughs at me when 
 they are to be looked after, and yet I shall 
 have no use for them ; while mother, who will 
 chew for many years, should have such soft 
 teeth. 
 
 [90]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 AUGUST, 1894. 
 
 Motheropens father's letters and reads them. 
 She holds them over steaming water. I saw it 
 very distinctly, but I did not say anything. 
 
 There is so much that I do not understand. 
 
 There is so much sorrow in the world. 
 
 She probably has a big debt, and father al- 
 ways gets angry over the bills. But even so, I 
 would not open my husband's letters; I would 
 rather sell a few silver spoons, or something of 
 that sort, to pay the debt with. 
 
 I will be ever so economical and never again 
 ask to be taken out driving, and I will gladly 
 wear black gloves, for they last much better 
 than white. 
 
 I will indeed help my poor mother. 
 
 I wonder whether her mother was sad be- 
 cause she was born. For I believe mother 
 was sad on account of me, and that is why I 
 have not the strength to live. 
 
 No one can become strong and healthy 
 where everything is so dull and cheerless. 
 [91]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 And when one's own mother sits still and 
 sighs and cannot sleep at night ! 
 
 But I will ask Dr. Krarup for a great deal 
 of morphine . . . for I will gladly endure 
 pain if only my mother can sleep. 
 
 It burns inside of my head from all my 
 thinking and speculating. I believe they 
 would like to cut me in two . . . but then I 
 suppose they would not agree as to who 
 should have the head, and who the feet. 
 
 [92]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 SEPT., 1894. 
 
 I hate father! I will not see him, I will not 
 kiss him, I will not sit by him in the evenings, 
 nor walk with him, nor anything. 
 
 He might just as well be real common. My 
 poor, dear little Musser ! It is nauseating to 
 think of it those words he uttered. I can 
 hear them repeated constantly again and 
 again, again and again. 
 
 "Mistress . . . with my mistress ... I 
 was, of course, with my mistress." 
 
 Mother asked so softly: "Where were you 
 last evening, you came home so late ? " 
 
 " I was, of course, with my mistress - 
 where else ? " 
 
 Mother flung herself right down on the floor 
 [93]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 and cried as I do when I am attacked with 
 the cramps. 
 
 And then he said: " Why didn't you follow 
 and see where I went to ? I expected that of 
 you!" 
 
 I pretended I was sleeping, but I could not 
 draw a breath, for I feared I should cry. 
 
 But we will run away from him, to another 
 country, Musser and I. I would rather eat a 
 spider than hear father say that. 
 
 He has a mistress, one whom he loves. 
 
 And that is why he has moved out of the 
 sleeping room; and at night, when it is en- 
 tirely quiet, he goes out through the dark 
 streets to her house, while my mother lies here 
 at home and weeps. It is so small and com- 
 mon, and not a word has he confided to me. 
 
 I have not eaten a bite since; I would 
 rather starve to death. I have locked and 
 bolted my door, and though he knocks his 
 hands off, I will not open: I will never 
 open. 
 
 [84]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 We will go far away from him. In a trice 
 I'll write a romance, and it shall be called: 
 The Faithless! and shall be about him and 
 about . . . her. 
 
 In the innermost part of my heart I hate 
 him, but inside of that again I still continue 
 to love him. 
 
 She must surely be beautiful, that lady, 
 more beautiful than all others, even than Jos- 
 ephine. But it is strange that I do not know 
 her. 
 
 Oh! little father, dear, lovable little fa- 
 ther ... if it were only a dream, you might 
 pull out all my teeth. 
 
 It only is wanting that she kisses him on the 
 eyes, that only. Or that he also gives her silk 
 stockings for Lent or Martinsmas. 
 
 But I shall find her. 
 
 I shall smell of all the ladies, and the one 
 
 who has the fragrance of old roses about 
 
 her, like father's clothes, she it is. I will spit 
 
 right in her eyes. No, that I will not. I 
 
 [95]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 will look at her until she sinks down on her 
 knees and falls over in the gutter. Then she 
 can lie there, the . . . 
 
 But happy . . . that I shall never be any 
 more. And never more shall we two sit 
 together in the gloaming and dream aloud, 
 and never again shall we read French to- 
 gether. 
 
 But suppose he loves her so much that he 
 could easily do without me ? And if she were 
 like Josephine ? for Josephine one cannot get 
 angry with! 
 
 I am only a little girl, and I shall soon die; 
 why, then, must I have such a heavy sorrow ? 
 I wish that I might die to-night. 
 
 Mother says that I am lazy and peevish, 
 but I shall never be so any more. 
 
 I should so much like to go into her, but I 
 do not know what I could say. 
 
 For there is nothing so terrible as a mis- 
 tress. 
 
 [96]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 SEPT., 1894. 
 
 We cannot go away, for Musser has no 
 money, and she does not want to, and I haven't 
 any, either. Oh, what shall we do, what shall 
 we do ! Anne is putting the clothes in the 
 wash, and Marie is baking cakes they do 
 not suspect anything. 
 
 Just to think that mother does not believe 
 that he has a mistress -- why, he said it with 
 his own mouth. And now they pretend that 
 they are friends. Father does not cast down 
 his eyes, and he looks the same as before. But 
 when I look in another direction, I notice 
 father furtively glancing over at me. I do not 
 speak to him, and I do not kiss him ; but when 
 we left the table I looked at him so that it 
 pained in my head. 
 
 To-day he has not been with her, that is cer- 
 tain, for I have watched the whole day. And 
 I smell of all his letters; but, of course, she 
 does not dare to write. 
 
 Oh, I could wish that Musser would also 
 [97]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 begin to deceive him, even though it were 
 only with the old riding-master. But if it 
 were mother who had gotten herself a lover 
 whom she kissed it would not be half so 
 dreadful; for mother often does something 
 that is not quite right. She gossips about peo- 
 ple, but father never does that . . . oh, my 
 poor, poor mother, and my dearest, lovely 
 father ! 
 
 I cannot endure it. But I will ferret it out; 
 I'll search all his drawers and take her letters 
 and send them to her in a large, yellow 
 envelope, which signifies falseness, and inside 
 I will simply write: You are a hussy, and 
 we despise you, and if you come up to my 
 father you'll be flung down stairs. 
 
 Last night I became sick, and I thought I 
 should die, but I did not care, for it is all so 
 disagreeable just as if I had my mouth full 
 of dishwater. 
 
 I do not believe a God really exists, and if 
 he does, he is only a wicked old man who 
 [98]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 makes trouble. I have burnt my fine hymn- 
 book. 
 
 Madam Bovary may have deceived her 
 husband, but he was mean and detestable, 
 and then it was in a book, and I admire her, 
 anyway; no, it is much, much worse when a 
 father deceives his wife. 
 
 SEPT., 1894. 
 
 I am so sorry. Now I will never again make 
 fun of the riding-master; he is good, and sure- 
 ly just as unhappy as I. I had never been to 
 see him, for no one evej* goes there, as his wife 
 is paralyzed ; and he is poor because he did not 
 become colonel. But I wanted him to deceive 
 father, and so I went out there. It was so dirty 
 and horrible, and they dried the wash in the 
 dining-room, and that was because the clothes 
 were worn and they were ashamed to hang 
 them out that I could well see. And the 
 riding-master was all alone, busy making 
 [99]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 gruel; and the children were at school, except 
 the two little ones, who were begrimed and 
 untidy. 
 
 He was very embarrassed, and I began to 
 cry. But he would not do it. He said it 
 would be a sin. But then I said that when 
 one was poor, one was allowed to steal. " No, 
 little Andrea, that one is not : I am so poor 
 that my soul and body hungers but to steal 
 and cheat, that I cannot." 
 
 'Yes, but, then, don't you love Musser?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "I sympathize with your mother, and she 
 sympathizes with me ; we are poor, both of us !" 
 
 Mother surely is not as poor as that; we 
 have never starved, and she has many fine 
 dresses; but she does not take care of them, 
 and that is why they get shabby so quickly, 
 which I did not dare say. 
 
 And I told him everything, and he prom- 
 ised that my secret should go with him into 
 the grave. 
 
 [100]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 He had big, grey slippers on, and no collar, 
 and he clutched the soup spoon the whole 
 time, just as if it were a sabre. 
 
 He was surely right in saying that one should 
 not steal. It smelled very badly there, and 
 not at all as it does at Seamstress Hansen's. 
 
 SEPT., 1894. 
 
 Dear little Virgin Mary ! I will thank thee 
 and bless thee and say a prayer to thee every 
 single day in my life. I think I shall become 
 a Catholic, and I have heard them singing so 
 wonderfully in the Catholic Church to-day. 
 And now I have hung a little red, everlasting 
 lamp over my bed, which burns only two 
 cents' worth of oil a day. And in back of 
 it a picture of a Madonna on the wall, and I 
 will have a crucifix on my breast. 
 
 I will be faithful and go to church at least 
 twice a week, both summer and winter. 
 
 For I am so glad that one can say: "I am 
 happy in my faith." Therefore, I will thank 
 [101]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 thee, thou good Virgin Mary. Josephine was 
 also a Catholic when she was in the cloister in 
 France; and that was easy enough, when she 
 talked with nuns every day ; but now she does 
 not care anything more about it. But I will 
 be faithful to it my whole life. 
 
 I really did not think in the bottom of my 
 heart that father was such a one. I have 
 asked his pardon a thousand times, and I have 
 kissed the pillow upon which he sleeps, and I 
 have told him about Knud, and that I wrote 
 a Diary, and that I want to be a poet for it 
 is so expensive to set up a tapestry factory. 
 But it is all far from enough, far from it. 
 
 I could fly with joy. If it were only winter, 
 then I could go skating ; but to-morrow I will 
 go with father out into the woods, and father 
 shall swing me a whole hour in the big swing, 
 under the arbour. I feel to-day as one does 
 when one swings high up in the tree tops ; it 
 makes one shudder, but it is so lovely. 
 
 And I have cried with joy. It is the first 
 [102]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 time I have done it. It often happens in 
 books, but I thought it an invention of the 
 poets : but it is the simple truth. 
 
 Father and I have had a dance in here, we 
 two, entirely alone, and we danced the Minuet 
 (which father does not know at all) and drank 
 Madeira far out into the night. And he surely 
 quite forgot that I must not dance under any 
 considerations. 
 
 It is so wonderful, that I cannot understand 
 that it is really true. I sat in here and was so 
 disconsolate, and then I heard father go up and 
 down, up and down, like a guard on duty. It 
 was my intention not to open my door, not 
 even if I had to die of sorrow. But then it 
 became perfectly quiet, and I had not heard 
 father leave. My heart beat so dreadfully, 
 and it was as if everything became black be- 
 fore my eyes. And then I had to look. And 
 it was dark, but I could hear father draw his 
 breath, so sadly and quiet-like. And then I 
 flew over to him I could guess where he 
 [103]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 sat and he took me up and carried me, and 
 we cried and we laughed, and we cried again, 
 and we hushed each other. 
 
 Father rocked me in his arms as he did when 
 I was a little child. It was wonderful. It was 
 wonderful. For there is something that is much 
 more than love; that is the way it is with us. 
 
 So that was all nothing but stupid talk ! He 
 said it was only something one said when one 
 became angry, and he will never be angry 
 again ; but even if I were very angry, I could 
 not think of saying that I had a mistress, or 
 that I had killed some one. 
 
 But father asked my forgiveness, because 
 he had made me so unhappy. It was almost 
 embarrassing. 
 
 I have lain my ruby ring on his pillow with 
 two red carnations in it, so that he can smell 
 it, and he'll surely guess who it is from. But 
 Goldsmith Larsen shall engrave in it: "From 
 your Beloved." That is me. That is the 
 most delightful of all. 
 
 [104]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 But we entirely forgot Musser. It was a 
 crying shame that we should have forgotten 
 her, but then we did. And then at last, when 
 we thought of her, we peeped in, but she was 
 sleeping; she had probably taken a potion. 
 
 We are agreed that I am to be a Catholic. 
 Father thinks it is beautiful and agreeable - 
 but perhaps it is only to humour me that he 
 says so. And then he would rather have me 
 go to the Catholic Church, which is much 
 warmer in the winter, than trudge with 
 Musser up to the cathedral, where there is a 
 draught. 
 
 Unfortunately, I do not think I am fit to be 
 pious. I have such a desire to kick up a 
 noise and to laugh out loud just when I am 
 most in the mood to think of religion. But I 
 will try to believe it all, even though it does 
 resemble pirate-romances. 
 
 I have father's handkerchief next to my 
 heart. And we presented mother with a fine 
 parasol, and we ate breakfast with her in the 
 [105]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 pavilion, and she was in high spirits. But 
 father and I, we held each other's hands and 
 looked at each other, and now I am certain 
 that he has not deceived us. 
 
 NEW YEAR, 1895. 
 
 Now I have been up three days. But I 
 like it much better in bed. 
 
 Oh, it was so snug and warm! And to 
 think, he travelled a whole night and a day 
 down from Vienna just to be with me during 
 Christmas. With me ! To be with me during 
 Christmas! A whole night and a whole 
 day! 
 
 We can eat just as many gingernuts as 
 mother can bake . . . now ... as for that 
 matter, so can she. 
 
 It is so delightful to live. It is so quiet and 
 delightful. 
 
 Now, I really think that father was jealous 
 of Uncle Stephen because we had so much to 
 talk about. 
 
 [106]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 And, then, he holds my hands while he 
 talks. 
 
 It is as if a hundred thousand little, white 
 bells were ringing round about in the air and 
 in my ears and in my heart. 
 
 I should so very much like to see the houses 
 that he builds. That must be ever so much 
 finer than to be a poet. Made entirely of 
 stone one on top of the other and they can 
 stand for seven hundred years, if they are 
 well built. But his hands are, nevertheless, 
 perfectly white. 
 
 The man who has built all the big 
 houses in Vienna is also Danish, but he 
 is dead. 
 
 I cannot realize that I have been sick for 
 two months. But when one has a fever one 
 does not know anything. Oh, but now . . . 
 now I will live! 
 
 "For when it comes again, then it is all 
 over with the little girl . . . with the warm 
 . . . warm . . . heart!" 
 [107]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 With the warm, warm heart! 
 Why did he say that ? What did he mean 
 by that ? 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1895. 
 
 I must not go skating. 
 
 I must not dance. 
 
 I must not take walks with Lieutenant 
 Dahl. 
 
 I must not drink wine. 
 
 I must not read. 
 
 I must not write letters. 
 
 I must not take gymnastics. 
 
 I must not take shower baths. 
 
 I must not jump. 
 
 I must not go out in the cold. 
 
 I must not wear silk stockings. 
 
 I must not draw, sew, cry, cough, have a 
 pain in the stomach, catch a cold, go to the 
 carnival or to the theatre I must not do 
 anything. 
 
 It is Dr. Krarup, the horrible, nasty, dis- 
 [108]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 gusting animal torturer, Dr. Krarup, who has 
 put it into Musser's head. 
 
 But now I'll cry until I get permission. 
 Then they can't deny me anything. 
 
 (109J
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 JULY, 1895. 
 
 Josephine is to remain a whole month. It 
 doesn't matter if I get sick afterward. We 
 will amuse ourselves and have fun, and we'll 
 play comedies in the evening. 
 
 Salome must have looked like her, I think. 
 
 If Josephine wanted a head on a silver plat- 
 ter she would get it, I am sure. No one can 
 say no to Josephine. 
 
 She can do everything that she wants to. 
 But she is covetous. She would have all the 
 men who exist infatuated with her. 
 
 But when she says anything like that, 
 such a strange expression comes over her face. 
 It is as if the moon were suddenly shining 
 upon her. 
 
 [110]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Yes, it makes me quite afraid and dizzy. 
 
 She is so very strong. 
 
 Yesterday she bit me in the neck because I 
 said that I thought as much of Uncle Stephen 
 as of her. But afterwards she cried and said 
 that I was the only one in the world who cared 
 for her for her own sake. 
 
 And yet father and mother do, and many 
 others, in fact all those who love her. 
 
 Josephine hates Uncle Stephen. She wishes 
 that he were dead. 
 
 It is too bad that they can not care for one 
 another, the same as I care for them. But 
 Josephine has surely found out that Uncle 
 Stephen called her "A Heartless Flirt." It 
 is a foolish saying, "A Heartless Flirt." 
 
 JULY, 1895. 
 
 After dinner she allowed me to read her 
 letters; she has over two hundred, and they 
 lie all jumbled up in the bottom of her trunk. 
 [Ill]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 It was terribly interesting, but very sad. 
 There were some who were only twenty years 
 old, and one about fifty, and many, many 
 others. They cannot live without her, and 
 they will kneel in the dust at her feet. 
 
 Kneel in the dust at her feet ! 
 
 I have given her two pairs of grey silk stock- 
 ings, for there were big holes in her own. 
 
 And she has kissed every one of them, but 
 one could not guess that from her mouth. It 
 is so little and delicate, and she smiles like a 
 little girl. 
 
 Her father has whipped her many, many 
 times and locked her in and put her to 
 bed. And then they have given her noth- 
 ing but milk and bread, the same as their 
 dog. 
 
 But she also came very near to shooting 
 herself - - and that is what I would have 
 done. 
 
 But even though they beat her to death, she 
 cannot stop. 
 
 [112]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 When she was a little girl she lay at night 
 and cried, and bit her pillow because she did 
 not have any one to kiss. 
 
 She cannot stop. It is just like me when I 
 hear dance music and cannot keep from trip- 
 ping in time to the measure. 
 
 So, it is not her fault. Things like that are 
 inherited ; she says so herself. 
 
 But the worst of it is that she does not care 
 in the least for them, and she will not marry 
 one of them. But she would like to marry all 
 of them. 
 
 She is wonderful ; and, then, she is so lovely ! 
 
 In father's room she is perfectly quiet and 
 sits on a footstool at his feet and kisses him on 
 the hand. But father always says: "Stop 
 those tricks, Josephine: here you are among 
 friends! " 
 
 The other day she read the sermon to Mus- 
 ser and sang psalms; but afterwards she 
 sang a ditty that sounded dreadful, although 
 I do not think I quite understood it. 
 [113]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 JULY, 1895. 
 
 I love Josephine just as she is. 
 
 She has snow-white hands and feet, but 
 otherwise she is sunburnt all over. She re- 
 sembles a yellow cat with white paws. 
 
 It looks so comical. 
 
 When we have company she courtesies and 
 casts down her eyes, and makes her voice so 
 soft and fine the colonel's wife says she re- 
 sembles a lovely nun. But, then, I can't 
 understand why they say so many bad things 
 about her. 
 
 Josephine says that she acts like a magnet 
 on all men. 
 
 When one holds a magnet close to the 
 nose it tickles as if flies were crawling 
 inside. 
 
 But when I have a cold it also tickles in my 
 nose. 
 
 Josephine says that even though they hate 
 her they cannot keep from looking at her and 
 thinking of her. 
 
 [114]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 But I do not believe that Uncle Stephen 
 thinks of her. 
 
 Josephine says that the man she marries 
 shall have a scorpion-whip to beat her with 
 when she does anything wrong. 
 
 Shoemaker Olesen whipped his wife with a 
 strap -- heigh-ho! 
 
 Josephine is different from all the rest. 
 
 Scorpion-whip! That is surely the one 
 from the Bible and the tortures of the ancient 
 Egyptians. 
 
 JULY, 1895. 
 
 Now we have wagered. 
 
 It was not my intention. It was not with my 
 free will. But Josephine is so strong, so strong. 
 
 I would give her the ring if it might be 
 undone, but she does not want to. 
 
 We have wagered on a living heart . . . 
 what shall I do, what shall I do ! 
 
 I have betrayed him. 
 
 She is going up to greet him from me, but I 
 [115]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 must not tell him about our wager. And I 
 cannot break my word. 
 
 Why can't I do that ? 
 
 We talked about him so long, and it was 
 night, and the moon shone, and then I went 
 over to Josephine because I was afraid. 
 
 We discussed all his characteristics. 
 
 And then she said: "He is not like the rest; 
 him I will have." 
 
 If only I had kept quiet. But I could not. 
 I was so certain that Uncle Stephen could 
 never love her. 
 
 And now . . . and now he shall love her. 
 And when she has won, she is going to marry 
 another, for Uncle Stephen shall love her all 
 his life. 
 
 That is Josephine. 
 
 But she is so strong. 
 
 I have said to her that I shall soon die, 
 and that it is so awful to wager on another 
 person. 
 
 But Josephine says that she dares wager 
 [116]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 on Death and on Hell, for she knows that she 
 will win. 
 
 Josephine says that her will is warmer than 
 fire, but I am a pale little thing, because I 
 am sick. 
 
 A pale little thing ... in that she may be 
 right ; but I have so much sorrow. 
 
 Josephine knows everything, she can see 
 everything. She also said, last night: "Your 
 father does not care in the least for your 
 mother." 
 
 But it gives me so much pain to think of 
 this and that. 
 
 We have wagered . . . 
 
 AUGUST, 1895. 
 
 On Monday Uncle Stephen comes to Den- 
 mark. I am so afraid, so afraid of Josephine. 
 I dreamt she bit me in the heart because I 
 cared the most for him. And the blood ran 
 out. But when I was about to die Uncle 
 Stephen came and drove her away. But her 
 [117]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 teeth, all her white, mouse-like teeth, remained 
 and gnawed at my heart. 
 
 I will lie awake to-night and think so in- 
 tently about Uncle Stephen. And then when 
 I can feel that he thinks of me I will tell him 
 all and he will believe it is a dream. 
 
 Father, mother, Uncle Stephen, and Jos- 
 ephine . . . 
 
 I am going to die. 
 
 When she has been up there, he'll surely 
 write a letter: "Yes, I have made a mistake: 
 Josephine is entirely different; she is lovely." 
 
 He will come to love her, but she'll marry 
 the man with the scorpion-whip. 
 
 Then Uncle Stephen will sit and shake his 
 head the same as mother does, and go around 
 in the room looking for nothing, and lie awake 
 at night. 
 
 And that is my fault ; for I have wagered on 
 his heart. 
 
 I have wagered on his heart. 
 
 A thought can be so long that it is without 
 [118]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 an end. I have three thoughts without an 
 end the one twines about the other. They 
 are three snakes that stick and stick their ugly 
 darts into the peace of my days and the dreams 
 of my nights. Three thoughts without an 
 end! 
 
 The one is Death, and the other my wager, 
 and the third . . . the third, my father and 
 mother. 
 
 [119]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 AUGUST, 1895. 
 
 I am not at all afraid of dying here at home. 
 Here it is so snug and warm, and they are 
 constantly around me. I will be brave ; but 
 if father weeps ... if father . . . 
 
 Little, beloved father, I want to ask you 
 for something. Stay with me the first night 
 out there, only the first, only the first. I am 
 such a stranger out there, I am so afraid that 
 they will talk to me, all those down there. It 
 is so gruesome ; they have nothing on but that 
 white garment, like paper. They should 
 lie in a warm, fur cloak, a lovely, warm fur 
 cloak. 
 
 Do that, father; stay with me out there. 
 And if the moon shines, then you must talk to 
 
 risen
 
 ANDREA 
 
 me the whole time, the whole time. I am not 
 afraid to die, but I am afraid of that white 
 moon, and I am afraid of being alone out 
 there. 
 
 It is much worse than being alone in 
 a strange country. I am certain that I can 
 understand all that they are lying think- 
 ing of down in the ground - - all the old 
 and all the young and all the little, 
 little children. We can understand each 
 other, but we cannot make one another 
 happy. 
 
 And then we try to sleep, but we all sigh 
 uneasily, and every time the bells ring we wake 
 up and weep again. It is like a big prison- 
 house, and we are shut in in little bits of cells, 
 much smaller than those the drunken people 
 are put in at night over at the jail: and I can 
 hear that there is some one on the side of me, 
 and in front of me, and in back of me, and 
 all over; but we cannot see one another nor 
 touch each other.
 
 ANDREA 
 
 AUGUST, 1895. 
 
 I dreamt that I was dead, and it was really 
 not so very bad. 
 
 Right on top of my grave there sat an old 
 man and played the accordion. He was 
 blind, and he did not know whether it was 
 night or day, and so he continued to play. 
 
 While lying there I thought of Uncle Ste- 
 phen. 
 
 Oh, that there always were such an old 
 blind man who sat and played for the dead, 
 day and night, summer and winter, always! 
 
 But there is not. They are forgotten, and 
 they cannot forget they remember every- 
 thing, both that which is good and that which 
 is wicked. 
 
 When I am sad, then a day up here is sure- 
 ly as long as one down there. 
 
 I wish that I were able to put the rest of my 
 living days in a bag and bring the bag with 
 me down into the ground so that I might use 
 [122]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 them when it became too lonesome . . . then 
 I would gladly die to-night. 
 
 But I can't save a single hour, not a minute. 
 
 If I only knew that the thoughts die, if I 
 only knew it, or that they sleep. If I only 
 knew that one could not think and that one 
 could not be sad ; but no one knows it, no one, 
 no one. 
 
 No one knows it, neither my father nor my 
 mother. 
 
 No one. 
 
 I was out in the churchyard, but through 
 the rows of flowers, it seemed to me, there 
 came such a disgusting odour from the graves. 
 There were only two people out there with the 
 many hundred dead. They are alone, no one 
 has time to be with them. 
 
 I cannot accustom myself to it. 
 
 Father read aloud, and Musser made an 
 eggnog, and I was mischievous; for I must 
 always be on my guard. 
 
 In two years I may go to Copenhagen and 
 [123]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 live with Uncle Stephen, and learn to build 
 houses. 
 
 It is nice of them to promise it. But it is 
 not nice to lie to those who are going to die. 
 
 How they are deceiving me! They play a 
 comedy right before my very eyes. 
 
 They deceive me, because I am going to die 
 and I die because they are deceiving me. 
 
 But now I have written to my Grandmother 
 Voldby ; she is so old that she has surely for- 
 gotten how to lie. I must know the truth. 
 
 And now I am so tired. 
 
 I have wagered on a living heart a living 
 heart. 
 
 Mother steals my morphine ; every morning 
 she tells me how lovely she has slept. 
 
 It will not be long, I think, before I, too, 
 shall sleep lovely every night. 
 
 I am so sad ! I am so sad ! 
 
 I tell father I am the happiest little girl in 
 [124]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 the world. I laugh and joke with him. We 
 deceive each other so pleasantly. 
 
 My poor, wretched Musser ! And I do not 
 know anything. 
 
 Now, at last, Grandmother Voldby has an- 
 swered -- and I cannot read a syllable. 
 
 There was nothing more, but the letter lay 
 there. 
 
 The mother read : 
 
 FLENSBORG, AUGUST 20, 1895. 
 DEAR CHILD, DEAR LITTLE ANDREA! 
 
 I have had many doubts as to how thy letter should 
 be answered ; whether I am in the right to talk with thee 
 about thy parents behind their back. 
 
 Whether I should try to tell thee everything in a 
 roundabout way, whether I should temper my words 
 half with lies and half with truth, or whether I do not 
 rather owe it to thy pure mind and thy ease of heart 
 to lie altogether. 
 
 But now I have come to the conclusion to tell 
 thee the simple truth as I know it. No more and 
 no less. 
 
 [125]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 I do not know much, nor do I know all, as they did 
 not confide in me for many years. 
 
 But old eyes see better in the dark than young ones, 
 and I have seen so that I have wept. 
 
 The truth thou shalt know, because it lies so heavily 
 on thy mind, as thou thyself writest otherwise, I 
 suppose, thou wouldst not have called upon me now. 
 
 If any one knows thy dear, faithful mother, it is I, 
 with whom she was from her third year to the day 
 she went from here with her husband. 
 
 Jutta, thy mother, has always cared for him, that I 
 saw at once ; but I never suspected that he would trou- 
 ble himself about her. She was not beautiful in the 
 manner of other girls, but he, on the contrary, was so 
 fascinating that ladies made court to him. 
 
 Jutta had now set her heart on it that he cared for 
 her, and she became very lovely indeed from going 
 about with this idea. She tripped about so lightly that 
 I did not notice her coming in or going out of the room. 
 The old women here on the green said that she had eyes 
 like " God's Mother and the Queen of Hearts" this 
 pleased her very much, and she smiled and laughed 
 constantly. She played me many tricks during those 
 days. 
 
 Thou hast surely noticed, my little Andrea, that there 
 is a beautiful tone in thy mother's voice, and that tone 
 was a great pleasure to Karsten. He liked to hear her 
 [126]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 talk, but I do not think he listened so much to what she 
 was saying. 
 
 When they met here in the vacations, they were more 
 like brother and sister than lovers. 
 
 They said out there on the green (now I live inside 
 of the town of Flensborg) that he had met another wo- 
 man to whom he had given his heart. 
 
 I have my own reasons for thinking that it was true. 
 Jutta heard about it and she took it more to heart than 
 she had a right to, as Karsten had made her no 
 promise. 
 
 One evening he came unexpectedly. I saw by his 
 face that something had gone awry with him. We did 
 not talk about what it was, but he wept in my arms. 
 Jutta was out, and when she came home and saw him 
 she began to cry. That evening they became engaged. 
 
 Now I know further, from her own lips, that she 
 questioned Karsten, until he, in his weakness be- 
 cause, I suppose, the wound was still bleeding al- 
 lowed himself to be beguiled into confiding to her every- 
 thing about that other woman. But she made him the 
 promise that her name, and what he had confided to her, 
 should be entirely forgotten and without power between 
 them. 
 
 I saw very clearly that Karsten was not in love with 
 thy mother; and in order that her life should not be 
 spoiled for a momentary fancy, I talked seriously to 
 [127]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 him and asked him to dissolve the bond before it was 
 too late. Better that she should cry a few months than 
 for her whole life. 
 
 But thy father assured me. He thought a great deal 
 of thy mother, he said ; and her voice he could not pos- 
 sibly be without, so dear had it become to him. 
 
 So it was not love that caused him to take Jutta for a 
 wife; but I always hoped that this, the strongest of all 
 passions, might grow up in him. 
 
 The first time I saw them together it was before 
 thou wert born I understood that Jutta had made a 
 mistake. She was not artful, she did not know the 
 little charms of coquetry, and I dared not give her rules 
 that might serve ten, but which would, perhaps, prove 
 the destruction of the eleventh. 
 
 Thy mother lacked the pride of a wife and was not 
 clever enough to hide this fault. She was obedient 
 to her husband and worshipped him, but she was 
 jealous. She belonged to that class of women who are 
 the most numerous whose only weapons are tears ; 
 but those tears were turned into weapons against her- 
 self. When she murmured, he became tired and angry ; 
 and from that she also learned to talk in anger, she who 
 during all the years that she was with me was the very 
 soul of gentleness. 
 
 In such moments she reopened the subject which she 
 had given her promise never to speak about. 
 [128]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Lovable, so lovable was thy mother when she lived 
 under my roof; lovable was she in her humility and in- 
 nocence when she went away from here; lovable was 
 she in her self-sacrifice to me, to him, and to thee. It 
 is good for thee to know it. 
 
 But he did not comprehend that she was sacrificing 
 anything. His stiff, cold, unbending nature filled her 
 with apprehension; she went about in her own home 
 like one proscribed, without courage and without a will. 
 One moment she begged for his love, and the next she 
 upbraided him with unjust accusations. 
 
 Dear little Andrea, little heart's-child, forgive me if 
 I make the tears come. I think thy father is of so cold 
 a nature that no person will be able to drive him out of 
 that shell of will and pride that surrounds his real ego. 
 That which at one time broke something in his heart 
 has forever extinguished the love-passion in him. Yes, 
 I know very well that towards thee he is different ; but 
 then thou art not a person outside of him ; thou art a 
 part of himself. But now we are talking of thy father 
 and mother's mutual relations. 
 
 She no longer believed in him. How it came about 
 I cannot tell, but I suppose she plagued him with 
 jealous questions, until he, tired of answering, revenged 
 himself simply by keeping quiet. In his silence and 
 in his tranquillity she imagined that which made her 
 like one beside herself. She pondered many worthless 
 [129]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 thoughts and sank far below her womanly dignity. 
 She spied upon his going out and his coming in, cer- 
 tain that he must love another. In her unutterable 
 misery she did that which made him despise her. Thy 
 poor, lovable, broken-hearted mother! 
 
 Thou hast no right to judge her for it, but neither 
 hast thou any right to judge him. He followed the 
 callings of his nature ; she was driven to go contrary to 
 hers no one was more open and single-hearted than 
 she. Thy mother had a duplicate made of the key to 
 his repository and searched all over to find a sign of his 
 faithlessness. 
 
 Had she found something, it would indeed have been 
 better; for then they would each have stood with his 
 great wrong. But she did not find anything, for 
 there was not anything. 
 
 Another woman would probably now have regained 
 her peace of mind and remained silent as to what had 
 happened, but that she could not. 
 
 She confessed what she had done. But he did not 
 forgive her; he became embittered in his heart towards 
 her. 
 
 When I saw what irreparable sorrow there was in 
 thy house I departed, and sacrificed my love for Jutta, 
 for Karsten, and for thee. I have surely shirked my 
 responsibility badly ; I should have given Jutta a knowl- 
 edge of life before I sent her out to live it. Believe me, 
 [130]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 dear child, the years that have passed since last I saw 
 thee, have been long. Every evening and every night, 
 it seems to me, I can hear Jutta's accusing voice; and it 
 is full of tears. Hadst thou not existed, little child, 
 then I would have used all my authority as opposed to 
 Jutta's lack of will, and would have taken her from the 
 place where it was only a degradation and a torture for 
 her to remain. 
 
 But to thee, her only child, I will say : " Thou owest 
 it to thy parents to give them thy life without any res- 
 ervation. Thou canst bring them closer together and 
 altogether near in friendship, in the friendship that 
 grows with the years and lasts throughout all one's life. 
 Without thee thy father's existence would be pitiably 
 barren ; without thee thy mother's life would be a curse. 
 In thee, despite everything, they are rich. 
 
 I saw them together one time beside thy sick-bed, 
 when thou wert a little girl ; then they felt as one, and 
 their wishes were as one. 
 
 If thou hadst passed away then I think the sorrow 
 would have bound them together. But thou became 
 well again, the good God be praised; and thou, little 
 innocent child, helped to separate them again. Thou 
 writest that they both want to have thee; but is there 
 any sin in parents thinking they cannot do enough 
 for their child ? They will give and give constantly. 
 Let it not surprise thee. 
 
 [131]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 Now thou callest thyself big and grown-up and 
 Jutta was not much older when she made her choice 
 but, then, thou hast big responsibilities also. 
 
 Every person thinks most about himself until a cer- 
 tain age, when he feels himself poor in his own posses- 
 sion; and that is Nature's immutable law. But thou 
 art born of a sad and sorrowful mother; her happiness 
 lasted not even to thy birth, and therefore a special law 
 applies to thee, and also because thy life will not be 
 long. 
 
 My Andrea, Jutta's little girl, if I did not know, and 
 if thou hadst not written that thou art reconciled with 
 that thought, I would not mention it ; but thou sayest 
 that it does not pain thee at all and that thou art not 
 afraid. 
 
 The sun has surely cast its brightest rays for thee, 
 wherever thou hast gone I always hear thee laugh 
 with thy sweet laughter, which reminds one of Jutta; 
 yes, will you believe it, even in thy long, sad letter I 
 found laughter I heard thee laugh. 
 
 Thy parents do not know that thou suspectest thy 
 fate : they know not that thou hast heard it sealed by 
 wise physicians out of goodness thou remainest 
 silent. But is it just? I believe it is unjust. 
 
 Thou complainest because thy parents try to keep 
 thee from many of the pleasures which thou particular- 
 ly wantest to have in a full measure because it is denied 
 [132]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 thee to live long. But that has its great reason, and I 
 will confide it to thee, for thy sake and for theirs. 
 Through thy mother's letters to me there runs the same 
 fear and apprehension. They fear that some one may 
 become dear to thee, dear to thy heart. Thou hast 
 thyself discovered it, but think it is from selfishness, 
 because they will not share thee with any one. 
 
 No, my little Andrea, that is not the reason. It is 
 thy life they fear for. Thy long sickness and thy pres- 
 ent illness make them fearful lest anything come to 
 bring thee more pain and suffering than thou already 
 hast. And that is why my little girl must not enter 
 into wedlock with any man. They ought to have told 
 thee long ago, as thou art a wise little girl ; and when, of 
 course, thou flittest about with thy girl friends as free 
 as little girls of thy age, it seems to me there is no 
 danger in making thee acquainted with the truth. And 
 then, moreover, thou writest that thou wilt agree to 
 everything if thou canst only make thy parents perfectly 
 happy. Perfect happiness is not to be theirs, but thou 
 canst do much to help, if thou wilt and hast the strength. 
 
 It may happen that thou wilt come to care for a com- 
 rade of thine own age one of thy ball partners for 
 a week or a month, but when thou knowest what thou 
 now knowest, it will not be so hard for thee to con- 
 quer that feeling and to hide it from thy parents. 
 
 Now the hour is close on twelve, and I, old woman 
 [1331
 
 ANDREA 
 
 that I am, am wont to go to bed when it is nine o'clock, 
 so my letter must needs have an end. We two will 
 never torture one another by probing further into what 
 has here been made clear. 
 
 In thy beloved mother's name and for her sake, so 
 that with all thy heart thou canst be good to her, I will 
 take upon myself the responsibility for the sorrow that 
 I am surely causing thee. 
 
 With my best wishes and thanks for the confidence 
 thou hast shown thy old friend, 
 
 INGER VOLDBY. 
 
 P. S. I hope that, now thou art so big and grown- 
 up, thou canst read my old-fashioned Danish writing. 
 I cannot quite master the new script, it is so foreign 
 to me. 
 
 [134J
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 The mother went through the lofty rooms, 
 where the plants stood dying, to the room 
 where the father sat alone with his sorrow. 
 
 Her white night-dress fell to the ground like 
 a shroud. She groped her way in the dark 
 with outstretched hands. Her hair had fallen 
 down, and her eyes burned. 
 
 As always in the past, she faltered before the 
 door to his room. 
 
 He did not hear her enter. 
 
 And she saw him sitting in the deep chair 
 under the lamp. As if it were a doll or a liv- 
 ing being, as if it were the child herself, there 
 lay in his arms the lavender dress, the one that 
 was dearer to Andrea than all other dresses. 
 
 Now he looked up. 
 
 [135]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 "Jutta." 
 
 She barely recognized the voice. 
 
 " What do you want . . . here ? " 
 
 She answered by asking: 
 
 " Are you tired, Karsten ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " I am tired, that is why I came. I am tired 
 unto death, Karsten. And you must help 
 me." 
 
 He arose, and the lavender dress remained 
 lying in the chair. 
 
 "Jutta, if I could help you, don't you think 
 I should like to very much ? But no one can 
 help you, and no one can help me rather 
 go to bed, my friend, try to sleep. That is 
 what the night is for! " 
 
 His voice had not been so mild since he 
 spoke endearing words to Andrea on her 
 death-bed. 
 
 'You yourself, Karsten, do not go to bed, 
 for you cannot sleep." 
 
 " No, I cannot sleep, I think . . ." 
 [136]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " Karsten, can you forget ? " 
 
 " If I could, then I were not myself. I can- 
 not." 
 
 " Karsten, if I could raise her up from the 
 dead, if only for an hour could you bear to 
 look her in the face, could you bear to hear her 
 voice, could you bear to hear her weep ? " 
 
 He grasped her by the wrist. 
 
 " Jutta, are you sick ? . . . or do you want 
 to torture me ? I only ask for peace . . . here 
 in my loneliness!" 
 
 But she looked him in the eyes, and it was 
 as if he would sink down under that glance. 
 
 " In a little while, in a little while you shall 
 have peace. You shall be as lonely as you 
 wish. In a little while. But you shall see 
 Andrea, hear her laugh, hear her weep. After- 
 wards, I'll go to the one person who has 
 forgiveness for me ... to the only person 
 who knows what I have suffered in those years, 
 in the many, many years! " 
 
 "Jutta . . . say what you mean; do not 
 [137]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 talk like one who walks in her sleep. I can- 
 not wake you ... I cannot make you happy. 
 But what is it ? where will you go to ? " 
 
 " Only away from you, who took my child's 
 love, even though she saw how I struggled. 
 Only away from you ..." 
 
 He had covered his eyes with one hand and 
 he asked, and there was a dread in his voice: 
 
 " Don't you think I am lonesome enough ?" 
 
 But she answered : 
 
 "When two persons are together and are 
 lonesome, they will be less lonesome if each 
 goes his way! " 
 
 "Jutta . . . I am very lonesome, now, but 
 shall be more lonesome if you leave me! " 
 
 But she wrung her hands. 
 
 "Why do you hold me back now now, 
 that I have the courage to leave you ? " 
 
 "Because I am afraid of the loneliness." 
 
 But she did not believe him. 
 
 "Is it the people round about here whom I 
 visit, and on whose account you scorn me, 
 [138]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 those upon whom you always cast your con- 
 tempt? ... is it they that you are afraid 
 of?" 
 
 "People . . . don't you know me better, 
 that you think others are in my thoughts ? " 
 
 " Is it out of pity toward me ? . . . then it is 
 too late!" 
 
 He looked down at the floor; her eyes also 
 were lowered. 
 
 " Jutta, I have pity on you, because your life 
 did not become what it should - - and on my- 
 self, because I allowed my own to become so 
 barren! " 
 
 "Yours was the fault!" 
 
 "Ah, yes that it was, I suppose. But 
 why dispute about that now ? we two have 
 made up our reckoning so often, so cruelly 
 often and what did it profit us ? " 
 
 ; ' Yours was the fault ! Does there exist 
 a guilt so great that one person has a right to 
 refuse another forgiveness ? " 
 
 " Right . . . does one think of that ? " 
 [139]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 "I was a human being of flesh and blood, 
 
 with a thousand desires that cried out to you 
 
 - do you know that ? Did you know that ? " 
 
 "Jutta . . . it is night now ; spare yourself , 
 spare me!" 
 
 ' Yes, in a little while I'll go ; you shall only 
 see Andrea and hear her weep -- you, whom 
 she loved above all ! " 
 
 The mother fetched the blue pamphlets. 
 
 She gave them to him with the words : 
 
 "Unto those who have much, shall much 
 be given from those who have little, shall 
 everything be taken away! " 
 
 The father took the pamphlets and held 
 them between his hands as if it were the child's 
 head he were holding. He asked in an uncer- 
 tain voice: 
 
 " Are you going to remain . . . inhere?" 
 
 "Shall I leave my child?" 
 
 Then he was silent and began to read. 
 
 The mother held his face with her eyes. 
 
 She asked : 
 
 [140]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 " Can you see Andrea ? " 
 
 " Can you hear her laugh ? 9? 
 
 "Can you hear her weep ? " 
 
 At last she only asked : 
 
 " Can you hear her weep ? " 
 
 He did not answer; he did not know she 
 spoke to him. He read. Now and then he 
 stopped, passed his hand over his forehead, 
 sighed, and went on again. 
 
 "So little did I know her .- . ." 
 
 " So poor am I," said the mother. 
 
 "We have tortured her . . ." 
 
 "So poor am I! " 
 
 "So poor are we, Jutta, that we have tor- 
 tured our child in her hour of death! " 
 
 The mother took his hand. 
 
 " Karsten, now it is all over. It seems to 
 me I no longer have any right. The grave is 
 yours, for she loved you above all. Farewell, 
 Karsten ! I do not give you thanks as long 
 back as I remember you have never given me 
 anything that was worthy of thanks. We shall 
 [141]
 
 ANDREA 
 
 be lonesome, but less lonesome each by him- 
 self than together! " 
 
 But the father bent down over her. 
 
 " Remain with me, Jutta in my poverty. 
 Remain with me, Jutta help me in my 
 loneliness!" 
 
 She arose. The white night-dress fell to the 
 ground like a shroud, and her eyes burned. 
 
 "In poverty . . . in loneliness." 
 
 " Jutta, we have the grave . . ." 
 
 "Yes, the grave!" 
 
 [14*
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 PRINTED INU S A
 
 ^SOUTHERNREGONALUBRAYACLTV