"THE EMPTY HOUSE, 6/9/1900."
"Your letter has just come—Kyllikki, you cannot think how I have been longing for it. I would have sent the girl to the station, only I knew you would not write till it was post day here.
"And you are well—that is the main thing; the only thing I care about these days. 'Strong enough to move mountains'—I can't say the same about myself. I have been having a miserable time. I am sorry I let you go—or, rather, that I sent you. I thought I should feel less anxious about you if you were there, but far from it. Why couldn't we have let it take place here? I am only now beginning to understand how completely we have grown together—I feel altogether helpless without you. If only it would come—and have it over, and you could be home again—you and the boy!
"And then I have something to tell you that I would rather not touch on at all, but we must have no secrets from each other now, not even a thought! It is the old uneasiness—it has been coming over me ever since you went away—as if I could not find rest when you are not near. I cannot get away from a feeling that all is not over yet—that things are only waiting for a favourable moment to break loose again. Try to understand me. You know how I suffered those two years when we prayed in vain for that which is granted to the poorest. And you know how I was almost beyond myself with joy when at last our prayers were heard. But now, when it is only a matter of days before it comes in reality—now, I am all overcome with dread. It will go off all right, the thing itself, I know—you are strong and healthy enough. But there is an avenging God, an invisible hand, that writes its mene tekel at the very hour when joy is at its height. Think, if the one we are waiting for—it is horrible to think of!—if it should be wrong somehow, in body or soul—what could I do then? Nothing, only bow my head and acknowledge that the arm of fate had reached me at last. You cannot think what a dreadful time I had all alone here last evening. I cried and prayed that vengeance might not fall on you and him—the innocent—but on me alone—if all I have suffered up to now is not enough. And then a woodpecker came and sat outside under the window, with its eerie tapping. And a little after came a magpie croaking on the roof, like a chuckling fiend. It made me shudder all over. I dare say you will laugh at my weakness. But it might be one of those mysterious threads of fate. I have seen the like before—and you know how ill and nervous I was … at the time…. Now I have read your letter I feel calmer, but I know I shall not get over it altogether till I have seen him with my own eyes. Forgive me for writing about this, but I had to tell you. And I know it will not hurt you.
"But then I have been happy as well. I have been getting everything ready in your room—yours and his! You will see it all when you come, but I must tell you a little about it now. I have put down cork matting all over the floor, to keep out the draught. But when I had done it, I had a sort of guilty feeling. Only a bit of matting—nothing much, after all—but it came into my mind that many children have to run about on bare floors where the cold can nip their feet through the cracks. And I felt almost as if I ought to pull it all up again. But, after all, it was for him—and what could be too good for him! I would lay it double in his room!
"I have some good news for you. The Perakorpi road is already begun. And then some bad news—the drainage business looks like being given up altogether—just when everything was ready, and we were going to start. Just quarrelling and jealousy among the people round—real peasant obstinacy, and of course with Tapola Antti at the head. A miserable lot! I should like to knock some of them down. I have fought as hard as I could for it, thundering like Moses at Sinai, and sacrificing the golden calf. The thing must go through at any cost. If they will not back me up, then I will start the work alone. And there are not many of them, anyway—we are to have a meeting again to-morrow.
"And then, when you come home, I can set to work in earnest. If only he may turn out as I hope—then perhaps one day we might work on it together. I wish I had wings—then I should not need to sit sweating over this wretched paper!
"Keep well and strong, and may all good angels watch over you both!—Your impatient….
"Write soon—at once!"
"8 September 1900.
"DEAR,—Your letter was like a beating of your own heart. Yourself in every word—and it showed me a side of your nature that I care for more than I can tell.
"You are anxious—but there is nothing to be anxious about. How could there ever be anything wrong with our child—in body or soul? Of course we must expect more troubles yet—but that has nothing to do with the child! I know you were in low spirits then, but body and soul were sound enough. And I feel so well and strong and happy now myself that it must be passed on to him—even if he were a stone! And then I am all overflowing with love for you and confidence in the future. And I shall feed him with it too, and then he will be the same. All that about the magpie and the woodpecker—you read it wrongly, that is all. The magpie simply came to give you my love—poor thing, she can't help having an ugly voice! And then the woodpecker—don't you see, it was just pecking out the worms from the timber—there must be no worm-eaten timber in his home! That's what it meant.
"But I am glad you wrote about it all the same. For it showed me that he will be as we hope. Now I understand how terribly you must have suffered these last years. You'd never make a criminal, Olof; even I, a woman, could commit a crime with colder courage. Oh, but I love you for it! And you don't know how glad I am to think my child's father is like that. A wakeful, tender conscience—that is the best thing you can give him, though you give him so much.
"I know it will be a boy—and I can feel in my blood that he will be just the son to work with his father as you said.
"And then about his room—you take my breath away! I can see you are making preparations as if for a queen and an heir to the throne. I ought to tell you to undo it all again; but who could ever tell anyone to undo what was done in love—for it was for love you did it, not for show.
"So you are already fighting for your draining project; it is just as well, it will be worth the more. Anyhow, I know you will win. Fight as hard as you like, fight for me and for him. It is only a pity he can't set to work at once and help you.
"We too are longing to be home again. And perhaps it will not be so long now. But if it has to be, I can be patient as long as I must. We are better than ever now. Do you know, I am so happy these days I have taken to singing, just as I used to do when I was a girl. What do you say to that? Suppose he were to have a voice, and sing in the choir, and leave you to work at your drainage all by yourself!
"My love, my love, I kiss you right in your heart. The warmest love from us both—I know you will be writing to us soon.
"KYLLIKKI (waiting to be a mother)."
"His BIRTHPLACE, 10th Sept., 11 a.m.
"FATHER!—Yes, that is what you are now. I can see your eyes light up. And a son, of course. At six o'clock this morning. All well, both going on finely; he is simply a picture of health, big and strong and full of life. And such a voice! If you want a man to shout out orders to the workmen…. I haven't looked at him properly yet. He is lying here just beside me; I can see his hand sticking out between the clothes. A fine little hand, not just fat and soft and flabby, but big and strong—his father's hand. The very hand to drain a marsh, you wait and see. And his soul—ah, you should see his eyes! His father's eyes. Now they won't let me write any more. I will tell you more next time. I have sent him a kiss with my eyes, from you—and there is a kiss for you in my thoughts.
"KYLLIKKI (the happy mother)."