Anne Lisbeth had lived for many years in the town and was used to being spoken to respectfully. She liked to boast about the time when she had lived in a castle, driven in a carriage, and conversed with baronesses and countesses. She would fall into ecstasy about her little count, who had looked like an angel and who had loved her as much as she had loved him. He had kissed her and put his arms about her neck. Why, he was all her joy, and half her life!
Now he was almost a grownup: fourteen years old and as clever and learned as anyone and handsomer than everyone. Of this she was certain, although she had not seen him since she had carried him in her arms; it was, after all, quite far to the castle, almost a journey.
“But I must go there soon,” said Anne Lisbeth. “I must see my joy once more, my sweet little count. I am sure he longs for me too, and still cares for me and remembers the time when he put his little angelic arms around my neck and whispered, ‘Anne Lis.’ Oh! that sounded as lovely as a violin. Yes, I must go and visit him!”
She drove with a freight wagon as far as the village near the castle; the rest of the way she had to walk.
The castle looked as large and impressive as it had the first time she had seen it. The park around it had not changed either; but all the servants were strangers, not one of them remembered an “Anne Lisbeth.” They did not seem to appreciate her importance, but surely the countess would tell them who she was—and so would her own little count, whom she was at long last to see.
Anne Lisbeth had to wait a long time—and time is always long when you have to wait. Just before dinner she was called in to the countess, who spoke very kindly to her. She would be able to see her little sweet boy after dinner; she would be called in again then.
How tall and thin he had become, but he had the same eyes and the same angelic mouth. He looked at her but didn’t say a word. Maybe he had not recognized her. He turned as if he were going to leave, and Anne Lisbeth grabbed his hand and pressed it to her mouth.
“That is enough,” he said, and left the room.—He whom all her loving thoughts had dwelled upon; he whom she had loved above all else; he who had been all her earthly pride.
Anne Lisbeth walked back along the road toward the village. She was so unhappy. He had acted toward her as though she were a stranger. He had not given her a thought or said a kind word, although she once had carried him in her arms through long nights; and since that time, not one day had passed without her thinking about him.
A big black raven landed on the road in front of her and screeched again and again. “My God!” she cried. “What bird of ill omen are you?”
She was passing the ditch digger’s house, and his wife was standing in the doorway. Anne Lisbeth stopped to talk to her.
“You have done well,” said the ditch digger’s wife. “You look healthy and plump. One can see you have prospered.”
“Oh yes, I can’t complain,” answered Anne Lisbeth.
“The boat went down. Both Lars the skipper and the boy drowned. Well, that was the end of it. I had hoped that the boy might help me in my old age with a few coppers. He won’t cost you any more money, Anne Lisbeth.”
“Are they drowned!” exclaimed Anne Lisbeth, and then they talked no more about it.
Anne Lisbeth was still feeling miserable because her little count whom she loved so much had not even talked to her. It had cost her money to take that journey and what had she gained from it? Not much, but that she was not going to tell the ditch digger’s wife. After all, she did not want her to think that Anne Lisbeth was not welcome in the castle any more. At that moment the raven screeched again.
“You black monster!” shouted Anne Lisbeth. “Why are you trying to scare me?”
She had brought some coffee and chicory with her; it was an act of kindness to give them to the ditch digger’s wife so that she could make some coffee. While the ditch digger’s wife was in the kitchen, Anne Lisbeth sat down in a chair and fell asleep.
She had a strange dream in which appeared a person she had never seen in a dream before. She dreamed about her son: the child who had starved and frozen in this very hut, and now lay at the bottom of the sea—only God knows where. She dreamed that she was sitting right where she was and that the ditch digger’s wife had gone out to make coffee—even in her dream she could smell it brewing. Suddenly a boy, as beautiful as the young count, stood in the door of the hut and said to her: “Now the end of the world is coming, hold onto me, for in spite of everything you are my mother. You have an angel in heaven to guard you, hold onto me!”
He grabbed her by the sleeve, and at that moment she heard a great noise; and Anne Lisbeth guessed that that was the end of the world. The angel lifted her up, but something heavy held onto her shoulders and her legs. It felt as though a hundred women had grabbed hold of her and they were shouting: “If you are to be saved we have a right to be saved too. Hang on! Hang on!”
And they did hold onto her, and that was too much for Anne Lisbeth’s sleeve. “Ritch,” it said, and was torn to pieces; and she fell back down on the ground. So real and so frightening was the dream that she woke and almost fell off the chair. Afterward she felt so dizzy and confused that she couldn’t remember exactly what it was she had dreamed, only that it had been unpleasant.
The coffee was served and drunk. The two women talked and then it was time for Anne Lisbeth to leave. She walked to the nearest village, where she was to meet the freightman and drive in his wagon back to the town where she lived. Unfortunately his wagon had broken and he would not be able to leave before the following evening. Anne Lisbeth speculated upon the cost of a night’s lodging at the inn and then decided that, if she did not walk along the road but followed the beach instead, she would save many a mile and could be home by morning.
The sun had set, but the church bells seemed still to be ringing—no, it wasn’t bells, it was the big frogs down in the lake that were croaking. But at last they grew silent too. And now the whole world was still, not a bird was heard; they had gone to sleep, and the owl, who is usually up at this time, was not home. So still was the mirror of the sea that not even the tiniest ripples lapped on the shore. The only sound that Anne Lisbeth heard was that of her own footsteps in the sand. No splash from leaping fish broke the silence, everything under the water, both living and dead, was mute.
Anne Lisbeth did not think about anything while she walked, but that did not mean that no thoughts were in her mind. They lie asleep within our heads and never leave us, old thoughts that we have had before, as well as new ones that we have still to encounter.
“Virtue is its own reward,” so it is written; and it is also written, “The wages of sin is death.” So much has been written, so much has been said, and one does not remember it all. So it was with Anne Lisbeth, but one can be made to remember!
Within our hearts are all virtues and vices—in yours and in mine! They lie there like grains, so small that they are invisible; then, from outside a sun ray or an evil hand touches them. You turn a corner, whether to the right or to the left may be of supreme importance. And the little seed grows till it suddenly bursts and enters your blood. From then on it directs where you will go. When you are walking along drowsily, such fearful thoughts do not come to your mind, but that does not mean that they are not there.
Anne Lisbeth was tired. She felt as if she were about to doze, but her thoughts were aroused. From one midsummer to the next, our hearts have a whole year to account for: How many sinful thoughts have we had? How many words have we spoken against God, our neighbors, and our own conscience? But we forget, we do not think about them, and neither did Anne Lisbeth. She had not broken any laws of the land; she knew that others considered her a decent, upright woman.
As she walked along the beach she saw something lying in the sand. What was it? She stopped. It was a man’s hat that the waves had thrown up on land. She wondered when and from what ship it had fallen overboard. She took a few steps toward it. But what was that lying over there? She got very
frightened, but there was nothing to be frightened of. What had scared her was merely a large stone covered by broken reeds and seaweed. It looked like the body of a human being, but it was only a stone and some seaweed. Yet her fear stayed with her as she walked on; and now so many thoughts came to her. She remembered all the old tales and superstitions she had heard, when she was a child, about the ghosts of those who had drowned. How these specters attacked the lonesome wanderer and demanded that they carry them to the churchyard and bury them there.
“Hang on, hang on!” the ghosts had cried in the stories she had heard. And as Anne Lisbeth repeated these words to herself, she suddenly remembered the dream she had had in the ditch digger’s cottage. So real did it become to her that again she felt the weight of the other mothers clinging to her, while they screamed: “Hang on! Hang on!”
And she remembered how the world had come to an end, and how the sleeves of her blouse had ripped, so that her child, who on the Day of Judgment had tried to save her, could no longer hold onto her. Her own child, the one she had borne but never loved, and had never even given a thought to. Now that child rested on the bottom of the sea, and his ghost could come and demand of her, “Bury me in Christian soil. Hang on! Hang on!”
As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear bit her heels and she hurried on. Dread like a cold hand squeezed her heart so that it hurt. She looked out over the sea. A mist came rolling in; it obscured and changed the shapes of bushes and trees. She looked up at the moon. It appeared as a pale, pale disk. Her body felt heavy, as if she were carrying a great weight. “Hang on! hang on!” the words echoed in her mind.
Again she turned to look at the moon, and now its white face seemed very close to her and the fog hung like a winding sheet from her shoulders. “Hang on, hang on, bring me to my grave!” She expected to hear those words any moment.
There was a sound! What was it? It could not be frogs or the cry of a raven or a crow. A hollow voice said, “Bury me, bury me.” She had heard it plainly. It was the voice of her child, the one who now rested on the bottom of the sea. He would never find peace until he was carried to the churchyard and there buried in hallowed ground. She would dig his grave. She walked in the direction where she thought a church stood, and now it seemed to her that her body felt lighter, that the burden was gone.
Hurriedly she turned and walked instead toward her home, but then the weight returned. “Hang on, hang on!” The cry sounded again like the deep voice of some monstrous frog or frightened bird.
“Bury me, bury me.”
The fog was cold and wet, and her face and hands were cold and damp from fear. The world outside was pressing on her and she herself had become an empty void in which thoughts she had never had before were free to fly.
In the north, in one warm spring night, the whole beech forest can put forth leaves, and when the sun rises it stands in all its tender green glory. In one second within us, when our conscience awakes, all the evil, all the sins committed throughout a lifetime, can unfold before us. At this moment no excuses, no mitigating circumstances, help; our deeds bear witness against us and our thoughts are formed into words that shout the truth to the world. We are horrified at what we see, at the evil that has been inside us, which we have not even tried to destroy—the harm we have done in arrogance and thoughtlessness. Inside our hearts are all virtues and all vices; but vices thrive in the poorest soil.
What we have said in words, Anne Lisbeth felt, and her feelings so overpowered her that she fell to the ground and crawled on all fours like an animal.
“Bury me, bury me,” whispered the voice, and gladly would she have buried herself, if that would have meant the end of all memories.
It was her day of reckoning, and it brought her only fear and dread. All the superstitions she knew mixed as heat and icy coldness with her blood, and tales she had not remembered for years came back to her. As soundlessly as the clouds that pass by the pale moon, a specter rushed by her. Four dark horses with fire coming from their nostrils drew a carriage in which sat the evil count who, more than a hundred years before, had lived and ruled in this district. Now at midnight he drove from the churchyard to his castle and back again. He was not pale as ghosts usually are described. No, his face was as black as burned-out coals. He nodded to Anne Lisbeth and waved.
“Hang on, hang on!” he shouted. “Then you can again drive in a count’s carriage and forget your own child!”
She ran and at last she reached the churchyard. The black crosses on the graves and the black ravens that lived in the church tower became one. All the crosses became ravens that cried and screamed at her. She remembered that unnatural mothers are called “raven mothers,” for that bird is known, to its shame, for not taking good care of its young. Would she become a black bird when she died: a raven?
She threw herself down on the ground and with her fingers dug in the hard earth until blood ran from her nails. And all the time she heard the voice saying, “Bury me, bury me!” She feared that the cock would crow and the eastern sky grow red before she had finished her work; and then all would be lost.
The cock crowed and the sun rose. The grave was but half finished! A cold hand caressed her face and a voice sighed, “Only half a grave.” It was the spirit of her son, who now had to return to the bottom of the sea. Anne Lisbeth sank to the ground and all thoughts and feelings left her.
It was almost noon when she awoke. Two young men had found her. She was not lying in the churchyard but on the beach. In front of her was the big hole she had dug. She had cut her hands on a broken glass, the stem of which had been forced down into a little square piece of wood that was painted blue.
Anne Lisbeth was sick. Her conscience had dealt the cards of superstition, and she had read them. She now believed that she had only half a soul; the ghost of her son had taken the other half with him, down to the bottom of the sea. She would not be able to enter heaven unless she could get back that part of her soul that lay beneath the deep waters of the ocean.
Anne Lisbeth was brought home, but she was no longer the woman she had been. Her thoughts were like threads, all tangled up in knots; only one idea was clear to her: that she must find again the ghost of her child, carry him to the churchyard, and bury him there, so that she could win back her soul.
Many a night she was missed at home, but they knew where they could find her: down on the beach, waiting for the ghost of her son to come. A year went by and then one night she disappeared, and this time they could not find her; all day they searched in vain.
Toward evening the bell ringer who had come to ring the bells for vespers saw her. In front of the altar lay Anne Lisbeth. She had been there since morning. She had no strength left but the light in her eyes was one of joy. The last of the sun’s rays fell on her face and gave it the pink color of health. The sun rays were reflected in the brass clasps of the old Bible that lay upon the altar. It had been opened upon the page of the prophet Joel, where it is written: “Rend your heart and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God.” This, they said, was quite by chance, as so much is in this world.
In Anne Lisbeth’s sun-filled face one could see that she had found peace. She whispered that she was well, that she was not afraid any more. The ghost had come at last. Her son had been with her and said: “You dug only a half a grave for me, but for a whole year and a day you have buried me in your heart, and that is the right place for a mother to keep her child.” Then he had given her back the half of her soul that he had taken with him and led her up here to the church.
“Now I am in God’s house,” she said, “and here one is blessed.”
When the sun finally went down, Anne Lisbeth’s soul went up to where fear is unknown and all struggles cease. And Anne Lisbeth had striven.
94
Children’s Prattle
At the merchant’s they were having a children’s party; all the children who were attending it had parents who were either rich or distinguished. The merchant himself
was wealthy and not without learning. He had graduated from the university. His father had insisted upon it. That decent and honest gentleman had started out in life as a cattle dealer; he had made money and his son had understood how to turn it into a fortune. The younger man had both intelligence and a kind heart, but people did not mention these attributes as often as they did his great wealth.
People of distinction gathered in his house. Some had noble blood, others noble spirits; and a few had both, and a number had neither. But now there was a children’s party, and children have a habit of saying what they think.
There was a very beautiful little girl who was terribly proud; the servants had kissed that pride into her, for her parents were really very sensible people. Her father was a Knight of the Royal Bedchamber and that, the little girl knew, was something extraordinarily important. “I am a chamber child,” she declared, although she could just as easily have been a “cellar child,” for, after all, we can’t choose our parents. She explained to the other children that she was “wellborn” and that if one was not wellborn, then one couldn’t become anything. It didn’t matter how hard one studied, it was being properly “born” that counted.
“And as for those whose names end in sen, there is no hope for them. Nothing can ever become of them,” she explained. “One has to put one’s hands on one’s waist and keep these common people with their sen, sen names at elbow’s length.” And to illustrate what she meant, she put her pretty little hands on her waist so that her elbows stuck out sharply. She looked very charming.
The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories Page 71