The woman and I lived in good harmony together. Occasionally there were small disputes between Christian and her, but at that time they were of no importance. I quieted his anger with wine and candles. This woman had a son, who died just after she had come to me, and a daughter who is still alive; at that time she was in the service of a tailor, but she is now married to a merchant. The daughter received permission occasionally to come and speak with her mother on the stairs. This annoyed Christian, as he thought that through her all sorts of things were obtained; and he threatened often that he would say what he thought, though he did not know it, and this frequently troubled the woman (she easily weeps and easily laughs). I could soon comfort her. We spent our time very well. I taught her to read, beginning with A B C, for she did not know a single letter. I kept to fixed hours for teaching her. She was at the time sixty years of age. And when she could spell a little,[107] she turned the book one day over and over, and began to rub her eyes and exclaimed, ‘Oh God, how strange it is! I do not know (and she swore by God) a single letter.’ I was standing behind her, and could scarcely keep from laughing. She rubbed her eyes again, and (as she is rather hasty with her words) she pointed quickly to an O, and said, ‘Is not that an O?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and I laughed when she turned to me. She then for the first time perceived that she was holding the book upside down; she threw herself on the bed and laughed till I thought she would burst.
One day when she was to read, and did not like to lay aside her distaff, it did not go smoothly, and she gave it up, and said, ‘Am I not foolish to wish to learn to read in my old age? What good does it do me? I have spent much money on my son to have him taught to read, and see, is he not dead?’ I knew how much she was able to do, and I let her go on speaking. She threw the book on her bed, sat down to her work, and said, ‘What do I need to learn to read in a book? I can, thank God, read my morning and evening prayer.’ (I thought to myself, ‘badly enough.’ She knew very little of her catechism.) I said (gently): ‘That is true, Karen. It is not necessary for you to learn to read a book, as you can read very nicely by heart.’ I had scarcely said this than she jumped up, took her book again, and began to spell. I neither advised her nor dissuaded her, but treated her like a good simple child.[108]
I fell ill during this year,[109] and as the prison governor no longer came in to me and sent the servant up of an evening, I begged the woman to tell him that I was ill, and that I wished a doctor to come to me. The woman told him this (for by this time he understood Danish, and the woman understood a little German), and when she said, ‘I am afraid she will die,’ he answered, ‘Why the d—— let her die!’ I had daily fevers, heat, but no shivering; and as an obstruction was the chief cause of my illness, I desired a remedy. The prison governor ridiculed the idea. When I heard this, I requested he would come to me, which he did. I spoke to him rather seriously; told him that it was not the King’s will that he should take no more care of me than he did, that he had more care for his dog than for me (which was the case). Upon this his manner improved, and he enquired what I wished for, and I said what I desired, and obtained it. I had become rather excited at the conversation, so that I felt weak. The woman cried and said: ‘I am afraid you will die, dear lady! and then the bad maids from the wash-house will wash your feet and hands.’ (One of the maids below had sent very uncivil messages to me.) I replied that I should not say a word against that. ‘What?’ said she angrily, ‘will you suffer that? No,’ she added with an asseveration, ‘I would not! I would not suffer it if I were in your place.’ So I said, like that philosopher, ‘Place the stick with the candlestick at my side, and with that I can keep them away from me when I am dead.’[110] This brought her to reason again, and she talked of the grave and of burial. I assured her that this did not trouble me at all; that when I was dead, it was all one to me; even if they threw my body in the sea, it would, together with my soul, appear before the throne of God at the last day, and might come off better perhaps than many who were lying in coffins mounted with silver and in splendid vaults. But that I would not say, as the prison governor did in his levity, that I should like to be buried on the hill of Valdby, in order to be able to look around me. I desired nothing else than a happy end. We spoke of the prison governor’s coarseness; of various things which he did, on account of which it would go badly with him if the Queen knew it; of his godlessness, how that when he had been to the Lord’s Supper, he said he had passed muster; and other things. There was no fear of God in him.
I requested to have the sacrament, and asked M. Buck to come to me at seven o’clock in the morning, for at about half-past eight o’clock the fever began. The priest did not come till half-past nine, when the fever heat had set in (for it began now somewhat later). When I had made my confession, he began to preach about murder and homicide; about David, who was guilty of Uriah’s death, although he had not killed him with his own hand. He spoke of sin as behoved him, and of the punishment it brings with it. ‘You,’ he said, ‘have killed General Fux, for you have bribed a servant to kill him.’ I replied, ‘That is not true! I have not done so!’ ‘Yes, truly,’ he said; ‘the servant is in Hamburg, and he says it himself.’ I replied: ‘If he has so said, he has lied, for my son gave Fux his death-blow with a stiletto. I did not know that Fux was in Bruges until I heard of his death. How could the servant, then, say that I had done it? It was not done by my order, but that I should not have rejoiced that God should have punished the villain I am free to confess.’ To this he answered, ‘I should have done so myself.’ I said: ‘God knows how Fux treated us in our imprisonment at Borringholm. That is now past, and I think of it no more.’ ‘There you are right,’ he said, as he proceeded in his office. When all was over, he spoke with the prison governor outside the door of my anteroom, just in front of the door of the Dark Church, and said that I made myself ill; that I was not ill; that my face was red from pure anger; that he had spoken the truth to me, and that I had been angry in consequence. Christian was standing inside the door of the Dark Church, for at this time there were no prisoners there, and he heard the conversation, and related it to me when I began to get up again and spoke with him at the door.
Some time afterwards Christian said to me, quite secretly, ‘If you like, I will convey a message from you to your children in Skaane.’ I enquired how this could be done. He said: ‘Through my girl; she is thoroughly true; she shall go on purpose.’ He knew that I had some ducats left, for Peder the coachman had confided it to him, as he himself told me. I accepted his offer and wrote to my children, and gave him a ducat for the girl’s journey.[111] She executed the commission well, and came back with a letter from them and from my sister.[E40] The woman knew nothing of all this.
By degrees Christian began to be insolent in various ways. When he came with his boy’s pouch, in which the woman was to give him food, he would throw it at her, and he was angry if meat was not kept for himself for the evening; and when he could not at once get the pouch back again, he would curse the day when he had come to my door and had spoken with me or had communicated anything to me. She was sad, but she said nothing to me. This lasted only for a day, and then he knocked again at the door and spoke as usual of what news he had heard. The woman was sitting on the bed, crossing herself fifteen times (he could not see her, nor could he see me). When he was gone, she related how fearfully he had been swearing, &c. I said: ‘You must not regard this; in the time of the other Karen he has done as much.’ His courage daily increased. The dishes were often brought up half-an-hour before the prison-governor came. In the meanwhile Christian cut the meat, and took himself the piece he preferred (formerly at every meal I had sent him out a piece of fish, or anything else he desired). The stupid prison governor allowed it to go on; he was glad, I imagine, that he was spared the trouble, and paid no attention to the fact that there was anything missing in the dish. I let it go on for a time, for it did not happen regularly every day. But when he wanted food for his boy, he would say nothing but ‘Some food in my boy’s pouch!’ We often laughed over this afterwards, when he was away, but not at the time, for it grew worse from day to day. He could not endure that we should laugh and be merry; if he heard anything of the kind outside, he was angry. But if one spoke despondingly, he would procure what was in his power.[112] One day he listened, and heard that we were laughing; for the woman was just relating an amusing story of the mother of a schoolboy in Frederichsborg (she had lived there); how the mother of the boy did not know how to address the schoolmaster, and called him Herr Willas.[E41] He said, ‘I am no Herr.’ ‘Then Master,’ said the woman. ‘I am no Master either,’ he said; ‘I am plain Willas.’ Then the woman said: ‘My good plain Willas! My son always licks the cream from my milk-pans when he comes home. Will you lick him in return, and that with a switch on his back?’ While we were laughing at this, he came to the door and heard the words I was saying: ‘I don’t suppose that it really so happened; one must always add something to make a good story of it.’ He imagined we were speaking of him, and that we were laughing at him. At meal-time he said to the woman, ‘You were very merry to-day.’ She said, ‘Did you not know why? It is because I belong to the “Lætter”’[E42] (that was her family name). ‘It would be a good thing,’ he said, ‘to put a stop to your laughter altogether; you have been laughing at me.’ She protested that we had not, that his name had not been mentioned (which was the case); but he would not regard it. They fell into an altercation. She told me of the conversation, and for some days he did not come to the door, and I sent him nothing; for just at that time a poor old man was my neighbour, and I sent him a drink of wine. Christian came again to the door and knocked. He complained very softly of the woman; begged that I would reprove her for what she had said to him, as he had heard his name mentioned. I protested to him that at the time we were not even thinking of him, and that I could not scold her for the words we had spoken together. I wished to have repose within our closed door. ‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘household peace is good, as the old woman said.’ With this he went away.
Afterwards he caused us all sorts of annoyance, and was again pacified. Then he wished again that I should write to Skaane.[113] I said I was satisfied to know that some of my children were with my sister; where my sons were, and how it fared with them, I did not know: I left them in God’s care. This did not satisfy him, and he spoke as if he thought I had no more money; but he did not at that time exactly say so. But one day, when he had one of his mad fits, he came to the door and had a can with wine (which I gave him at almost every meal) in his hand, and he said: ‘Can you see me?’ (for there was a cleft in the outermost door, but at such a distance one could not clearly see through). ‘Here I am with my cup of wine, and I am going to drink your health for the last time.’ I asked: ‘Why for the last time?’ ‘Yes,’ he swore, coming nearer to the door and saying: ‘I will do no more service for you; so I know well that I shall get no more wine.’ I said, ‘I thank you for the services you have rendered me; I desire no more from you, but nevertheless you may still get your wine.’ ‘No!’ he said; ‘no more service! there is nothing more to be fetched.’ ‘That is true,’ I answered. ‘You do not know me,’ said he; ‘I am not what you think; it is easy to start with me, but it is not easy to get rid of me.’ I laughed a little, and said: ‘You are far better than you make yourself out to be. To-morrow you will be of another mind.’
He continued to describe himself as very wicked (it was, however, far from as bad as he really is). I could do nothing else but laugh at him. He drank from the can, and sat himself down on the stool outside. I called him and begged him to come to the door, as I wanted to speak with him. There he sat like a fool, saying to himself: ‘Should I go to the door? No,’ and he swore with a terrible oath, ‘that I will not do! Oh yes, to the door! No, Christian, no!’ laughing from time to time immoderately, and shouting out that the devil might take him and tear him in pieces the day on which he should go to my door or render me a service. I went away from the door and sat down horrified at the man’s madness and audacity. Some days passed in silence, and he would accept no wine. No food was offered to him, for he continued, in the same way as before, to cut the meat before the prison governor came up. As the prison governor at this time occasionally again came in to me and talked with me, I requested him that Christian, as a prisoner, should not have the liberty of messing my food. This was, therefore, forbidden him in future.
Some days afterwards he threw the pouch to the woman on the stairs, and said: ‘Give me some food for to-night in my lad’s pouch.’[114] This was complied with with the utmost obedience, and a piece of meat was placed in the pouch. This somewhat appeased him, so that at noon he spoke with the woman, and even asked for a drink of wine; but he threatened the woman that he would put an end to the laughing. I did not fear the evil he could do to me, but this vexatious life was wearisome. I allowed no wine to be offered to him, unless he asked for some. He was in the habit every week of procuring me the newspapers[E43] for candles, and as he did not bring me the newspapers for the candles of the first week, I sent him no more. He continued to come every Saturday with the perfuming-pan, and to lock my door. When he came in with the fumigating stuff, he fixed his eyes upon the wall, and would not look at me. I spoke to him once and asked after the doctor, and he made no reply.
Thus it went on for some weeks; then he became appeased, and brought the woman the papers from the time that he had withheld them, all rolled up together and fastened with a thread. When the prison governor came in during the evening and sat and talked (he was slightly intoxicated), and Chresten had gone to the cellar, the woman gave him back the papers, thanking him in my name, and saying that the papers were of no interest to me; I had done without them for so many weeks, and could continue to do so. He was so angry that he tore the papers in two with his teeth, tore open his coat so that the buttons fell on the floor, threw some of the papers into the fire, howled, screamed, and gnashed with his teeth. I tried to find something over which I could laugh with the prison governor, and I spoke as loud as I could, in order to drown Christian’s voice.[115] The woman came in as pale as a corpse, and looked at me. I signed to her that she should go out again. Then Christian came close to my door and howled, throwing his slippers up into the air, and then against my door, repeating this frequently. When he heard Chresten coming up with the cups, he threw himself on the seat on which the prison governor was accustomed to lie, and again struck his slippers against the wall. Chresten gazed at him with astonishment, as he stood with the cups in his hand. He saw well that there was something amiss between the woman and Christian, and that the woman was afraid; he could not, however, guess the cause, nor could he find it out; he thought, moreover, that it had nothing to do with me, since I was laughing and talking with the prison governor. When the doors were closed, the lamentations found free vent. The woman said that he had threatened her; he would forbid her daughter coming on the stairs and carrying on her talk, and doing other things that she ought not. I begged her to be calm; told her he was now in one of his mad fits, but that it would pass away; that he would hesitate before he said anything of it, for that he would be afraid that what he had brought up to her would also come to light, and then he would himself get into misfortune for his trouble; that the prison governor had given her daughter leave to come to her, and to whom therefore should he complain? (I thought indeed in my own mind that if he adhered to his threat, he would probably find some one else to whom he could complain, as he had so much liberty; he could bring in and out what he chose, and could speak with whom he desired in the watchman’s gallery.) She wept, was very much affected, and talked with but little sense, and said: ‘If I have no peace for him, I will—yes, I will—.’ She got no further, and could not get out what she would do. I smiled, and said at last: ‘Christian is mad. I will put a stop to it to-morrow: let me deal with him! Sleep now quietly!’