“Yes, yes; work away and wear yourself out, so that there’s always something for the great fellow to smash if he has a mind to! But now you go to bed and lie down; I’ll wait up for Peter and give him his food, if he comes; you must be half dead with weariness, you poor worm.”
“There’s an old proverb says, ‘A man’s mother is the devil’s pother,’ but it don’t apply to you, grandmother,” said the mother of the boys mildly. “You always take my part, although there’s no need. But now you go to bed! It’s far past your bed-time, and I’ll look after Peter. It’s so easy to manage him if only he knows that you mean well by him.”
The old woman behaved as though she did not hear; she went on knitting. The boys remembered that they had brought something with them; a bag of coffee-beans, some sugar-candy, and a few rolls.
“You waste all your hard-earned shillings on me,” said the mother reproachfully, and put the water to boil for the coffee, while her face beamed with gratitude.
“They’ve no young women to waste it on,” said the old woman dryly.
“Grandmother’s out of humor this evening,” said Morten. He had taken off the old woman’s glasses and looked smilingly into her gray eyes.
“Out of humor—yes, that I am! But time passes, I tell you, and here one sits on the edge of the grave, waiting for her own flesh and blood to get on and do something wonderful, but nothing ever happens! Energies are wasted—they run away like brook-water into the sea— and the years are wasted too—or is it lies I’m telling you? All want to be masters; no one wants to carry the sack; and one man seizes hold of another and clambers over him just to reach an inch higher. And there ought to be plenty in the house—but there’s poverty and filth in every corner. I should think the dear God will soon have had enough of it all! Not an hour goes by but I curse the day when I let myself be wheedled away from the country; there a poor man’s daily bread grows in the field, if he’ll take it as it comes. But here he must go with a shilling in his fist, if it’s only that he wants a scrap of cabbage for his soup. If you’ve money you can have it; if you haven’t, you can leave it. Yes, that’s how it is! But one must live in town in order to have the same luck as Peter! Everything promised splendidly, and I, stupid old woman, have always had a craving to see my own flesh and blood up at the top. And now I sit here like a beggar-princess! Oh, it has been splendid—I’m the mother of the biggest vagabond in town!”
“Grandmother shouldn’t talk like that,” said the mother of the boys.
“Yes, yes; but I’m sick of it all—and yet I can’t think about dying! How can I go and lay me down—who would take a stick to Peter?—the strong man!” she said contemptuously.
“Grandmother had better go quietly and lie down; I can manage Peter best if I’m alone with him,” said the wife, but the old woman did not move.