Old Mattsson told his wife, every day while he lay ill, the story of the portrait.
“You must take it when I am dead, just as you must take everything of mine,” he said.
“Do not speak of such things.”
“And you must listen to my mother’s portrait when the young men propose to you. Truly there is no one in the whole fishing-village who understands getting married better than that picture.”
A FALLEN KING
Mine was the kingdom of fancy, now I am a fallen king.
SNOILSKY.
The wooden shoes clattered in uneasy measure on the pavements. The street boys hurried by. They shouted, they whistled. The houses shook, and from the courts the echo rushed out like a chained dog from his kennel.
Faces appeared behind the window-panes. Had anything happened? Was anything going on? The noise passed on towards the suburbs. The servant girls hastened after, following the street boys. They clasped their hands and screamed: “Preserve us, preserve us! Is it murder, is it fire?” No one answered. The clattering was heard far away.
After the maids came hurrying wise matrons of the town. They asked: “What is it? What is disturbing the morning calm? Is it a wedding? Is it a funeral? Is it a conflagration? What is the watchman doing? Shall the town burn up before he begins to sound the alarm?”