What do you think, Marena?” she called. “What do you think of Gobo?” She did not wait for an answer but just continued. “Can you still remember that time when Mrs. Nettla said he wouldn’t amount to much because he shivered a bit in the cold ... and can you remember how she prophesied I’d never get much joy from him?”
“Gobo certainly gave you enough to worry about,” Marena answered.
“That’s all in the past!” Gobo’s mother declared, and was very surprised that anyone could still be thinking of these things. “Oh, I feel so sorry about poor Mrs. Nettla. It’s such a shame that she’s no longer alive and can’t see what my Gobo has made of himself!”
“Yes, poor Mrs. Nettla,” said Marena gently, “it’s a pity about her.”
Gobo enjoyed hearing his mother praise him like this. It pleased him. He stood there and felt as good as if standing in warm sunshine when he heard these praises.
His mother said to Marena, “Even the old prince came to see Gobo ...” She said it in a way that was secretive, in a whisper and celebratory. “He’s never let any of us catch a glimpse of him ... but when it was Gobo, he came!”
“Why did he call me a poor thing?” asked Gobo, sounding very discontented. “I’d like to know what that was supposed to mean!”
“Don’t you worry about that,” his mother reassured him, “he’s very old and ... a bit odd.”
But now, finally, said what was on his mind. “All this time it’s been going round my head what he meant by that. You poor thing. I’m not poor, I’m not unlucky! I’m very lucky! I’ve seen more, I’ve had more experiences than anyone else! I know more about the world and about life than anyone here in the forest! What do you think, Marena?”
“Yes,” she said, “there’s certainly no-one who can gainsay that.”