“There is no one to help us and give us good advice. On the contrary, they’d gladly see us lose life and fortune if they could only earn a few shillings on that account. Even the authorities won’t help the poor man. He’s only there so that they can all have a cut at him and then each run off with his booty. What do they care that they bring need and misery and ruin upon us? So long as they get their taxes and their interest! I could stick them all in the throat, in cold blood!”
So he continued a while, increasing in bitterness, until he broke down like a little child.
XXVI
They lived with Sort, who had his own little house in the outermost suburb. The little travelling cobbler did not know what to do for them: Lasse was so dejected and so aimless. He could not rest; he did not recover; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. He had grown very frail, and could no longer lift his spoon to his mouth without spilling the contents. If they tried to distract him, he became obstinate.
“Now we must see about fetching your things,” they would both say repeatedly. “There is no sense in giving your furniture to the parish.”
But Lasse would not have them sent for. “They’ve taken everything else from me; they can take that, too,” he said. “And I won’t go out there again—and let myself be pitied by every one.”
“But you’ll beggar yourself,” said Sort.
“They’ve done that already. Let them have their way. But they’ll have to answer for it in the end!”
Then Pelle procured a cart, and drove over himself to fetch them. There was quite a load to bring back. Mother Bengta’s green chest he found upstairs in the attic; it was full of balls of thread. It was so strange to see it again—for many years he had not thought of his mother. “I’ll have that for a travelling trunk,” he thought, and he took it with him.
Lasse was standing before the door when he returned.