Chapter III
Meanwhile another little sister had arrived, and (I believe it was for that reason) our lodging grew too small. The furniture-van stopped once more in front of our door, and two men carried everything away. Our new lodging was most beautiful. At least I thought so. It consisted of four rooms and a large kitchen. My mother took a maid to help her with the house-work, and my father employed a young fellow in his shop. The business did well, better than it had done in the beginning, and my parents began to be regarded as "well-to-do" people.
The house we now occupied stood almost next to the house of my friend Hilda, a circumstance deeply appreciated by me. Once when she came to see me, I showed her all over the place, and directed her special attention to a few new pieces of furniture which my mother had bought in order to furnish all the rooms. There was one room that my mother called the "drawing-room," and of which I was extremely proud, although it had nothing in it but a table, a few pictures and a cheap flower-stand.
Whenever I went into this "drawing-room" I felt as if I was entering a church. The same sensation took hold of me when I showed Hilda in, and I was not surprised that she left the room immediately, believing her to be dazzled and overwhelmed.
There was also a courtyard belonging to the house; it was a very large one with chestnut-trees growing in it. The trees were old and had wide-spreading branches. We children loved the place and enjoyed it with all our hearts. In one of the corners there stood a carriage, or rather a manure-cart, which attracted us greatly. One day we pretended to have a wedding. Leopoldine's brother was the bridegroom and I the bride. I twisted a bunch of buttercups into a wreath and took a towel for a veil. After that we took our seats in the cart and pretended to drive to church. With the assistance of the bridegroom I got out again, and the priest (one of the children) performed the ceremony. We had seen many weddings in the village church and did everything in the proper way. When the decisive question was put at last, we both looked very solemn and said gravely, "I will."
On another day I quarrelled with Hilda, I must have said or done something that she did not like, and it was evident that she wanted to make me cross. It happened towards sunset. Hilda stood with her back against the wall of the house opposite to ours and looked at me scornfully. Her mouth was twisted contemptuously, her whole attitude expressed deliberate challenge. For one brief moment we looked at each other like two embittered opponents, but all at once I felt confounded by her words:
"Your drawing-room looks ridiculous."
Never, never before did I feel so utterly unhappy, and I turned away with burning cheeks. My mother was about to call me in, so I hastened towards her. "Mother," I cried, half choked with tears, "Hilda said our drawing-room looks ridiculous." My mother smiled, and as she took me up the stairs into the little parlour, she said: "That does not matter, dear."
Like a child I soon forgot that incident, but afterwards whenever I entered the room in question, I was struck with its emptiness, and tried hard to understand how it was that I had ever found it beautiful; and although my mother had bought a green cover for the table, the reverential feeling that I had experienced so often returned no more.