Short Fiction, Selma Lagerlöf [uplifting novels txt] 📗

as if he had met there a little, weeping fugitive, and had crept into him. And as he became more at home in the old Petter Nord he felt what a grievous wrong the shopkeeper had done him. Not only because he had tried to tempt him and ruin him, but, worst of all, because he had driven him away from that town, where Petter Nord could have remained Petter Nord all the days of his life. Oh, what fun he had had in those days, how happy and glad he had been, how open his heart, how beautiful the world! Lord God, if he had only been allowed always to live here! And he thought of what he was now⁠—silent and stupid, serious and industrious⁠—quite like a prodigal.

He grew passionately angry with Halfvorson, and instead of, as before, following his companions, he dashed past them.

But the tramps, who had not come merely to punish Halfvorson, but also to let their wrath break loose, hardly knew how to begin. There was nothing for an angry man to do here. There was not a dog to chase, not a street-sweeper to pick a quarrel with, nor a fine gentleman at whom to throw an insult.

It was early in the year; the spring was just turning into summer. It was the white time of cherry and hawthorn blossoms, when bunches of lilacs cover the high, round bushes, and the air is full of the fragrance of the apple-blossoms. These men who had come direct from paved streets and wharves to this realm of flowers were strangely affected by it. Three pairs of fists that till now had been fiercely clenched, relaxed, and three pairs of heels thundered a little less violently against the pavement.

From the marketplace they saw a pathway that wound up the hill. Along it grew young cherry-trees which formed vaulted arches with their white tops. The arch was light and floating, and the branches absurdly slender, altogether weak, delicate and youthful.

The cherry-tree path attracted the eyes of the men against their will. What an unpractical hole it was, where people planted cherry trees, where anyone could take the cherries. The three Petters had considered it before as a nest of iniquity, full of cruelty and tyranny. Now they began to laugh at it, and even to despise it a little.

But the fourth one of the company did not laugh. His longing for revenge was seething ever more fiercely, for he felt that this was the town where he ought to have lived and labored. It was his lost paradise. And without paying any attention to the others he walked quickly up the street.

They followed him; and when they saw that there was only one street, and when they saw only flowers, and more flowers the whole length of it, their scorn and their good humor increased. It was perhaps the first time in their lives that they had ever noticed flowers, but here they could not help it, for the clusters of lilac blossoms brushed off their caps and the petals of cherry-blossoms rained down over them.

“What kind of people do you suppose live in this town?” said Long-Petter, musingly.

“Bees,” answered Cobbler-Petter, who had received his name because he had once lived in the same house as a shoemaker.

Of course, little by little, they perceived a few people. In the windows, behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young, pretty faces, and they saw children playing on the terraces. But no noise disturbed the silence. It seemed to them as if the trump of the Day of Doom itself would not be able to wake this town. What could they do with themselves in such a town!

They went into a shop and bought some beer. There they asked several questions of the shopman in a terrible voice. They asked if the fire-brigade had their engines in order, and wondered if there were clappers in the church bells, if there should happen to be an alarm.

They drank their beer in the street and threw the bottles away. One, two, three, all the bottles at the same corner, thunder and crash, and the splinters flew about their ears.

They heard steps behind them, real steps; voices, loud, distinct voices; laughter, much laughter, and, moreover, a rattling as if of metal. They were appalled, and drew back into a doorway. It sounded like a whole company.

It was one, too, but of young girls. All the maids of the town were going out in a body to the pastures to milk.

It made the deepest impression on these city men, these citizens of the world. The maids of the town with milk-pails! It was almost touching!

They suddenly jumped out of their doorway and cried “Boo!”

The whole troop of girls scattered instantly. They screamed and ran. Their skirts fluttered; their head cloths loosened; their milk-pails rolled about the street.

And at the same time, along the whole street, was heard a deafening sound of gates and doors slammed to, of hooks and bolts and locks.

Farther down the street stood a big linden tree, and under it sat an old woman by a table with candies and cakes. She did not move; she did not look round; she only sat still. She was not asleep either.

“She is made of wood,” said Cobbler-Petter.

“No, of clay,” said Rulle-Petter.

They walked abreast, all three. Just in front of the old woman they began to reel. They staggered against her table. And the old woman began to scold.

“Neither of wood nor of clay,” they said⁠—“venom, only venom.”

During all this time Petter Nord had not spoken to them, but now, at last, they were directly in front of Halfvorson’s shop, and there he was waiting for them.

“This is, undeniably, my affair,” he said proudly, and pointed at the shop. “I wish to go in alone and attend to it. If I do not succeed, then you may try.”

They nodded. “Go ahead, Petter Nord! We will wait outside.”

Petter Nord went in, found a young man