here ends this book about my little boy.
what more can there be to tell?
he is no longer mine. i have handed him over to society. hr. petersen, candidate in letters, hr. nielsen, student of theology, and fröken hansen, certificated teacher, will now set their distinguished example before him for five hours daily. he will form himself in their likeness. their spirit hovers over him at school: he brings it home with him, it overshadows him when he is learning the lessons which they zealously mete out to him.
i don't know these people. but i pay them.
i, who have had a hard fight to keep my thoughts free and my limbs unrestrained and who have not retired from the fight without deep wounds of which i am reminded when the weather changes, i have, of my own free will, brought him to the institution for maiming human beings. i, who at times have soared to peaks that were my own, because the other birds dared not follow me, have myself brought him to the place where wings are clipped for flying respectably, with the flock.
"there was nothing else to be done," says the mother of my little boy.
"really?" i reply, bitterly. "was there nothing else to be done? but suppose that i had put by some money, so that i could have saved messrs. petersen and nielsen and fröken hansen their trouble and employed my day in myself opening out lands for that little traveller whom i myself have brought into the land? suppose that i had looked round the world for people with small boys who think as i do and that we had taken upon us to bring up these young animals so that they kept sight of horns and tails and fairy-tales?"
"yes," she says.
"small boys have a bad time of it, you know."
"they had a worse time of it in the old days."
"that is a poor comfort. and it can become worse again. the world is full of parents and teachers who shake their foolish heads and turn up their old eyes and cross their flat chests with horror at the depravity of youth: children are so disobedient, so naughty, so self-willed and talk so disrespectfully to their elders! . . . and what do we do, we who know better?"
"we do what we can."
but i walk about the room, more and more indignant and ashamed of the pitiful part which i am playing:
"do you remember, a little while ago, he came to me and said that he longed so for the country and asked if we couldn't go there for a little? there were horses and cows and green fields to be read in his eyes. well, i couldn't leave my work. and i couldn't afford it. so i treated him to a shabby and high-class sermon about the tailor to whom i owed money. don't you understand that i let my little boy do my work, that i let him pay my debt? . . ." i bend down over her and say earnestly, "you must know; do please tell me—god help me, i do not know—if i ought not rather to have paid my debt to the boy and cheated the other?"
"you know quite well," she says.
she says it in such a way and looks at me with two such sensible eyes and is so strong and so true that i suddenly think things look quite well for our little boy; and i become restful and cheerful like herself:
"let petersen and nielsen and hansen look out!" i say. "my little boy, for what i care, may take from them all the english and geography and history that he can. but they shall throw no dust in his eyes. i shall keep him awake and we shall have great fun and find them out."
"and i shall help him with his english and geography and history," says she.
该作者的其它作品
《the pond》
《the old room》
《the spider and other tales》
