V

But when the lamp was lighted and they sat around the table, each with his own work or book or paper, Martin went off and sat in a corner. For he had suddenly become sad without knowing why. There he sat in the dark, staring in at the circle of yellow light in which the others sat and talked, while he felt himself outside, abandoned and forgotten.

It did not help that Maria hunted out an old volume of Near and Far to show him Garibaldi and the war in Poland and Emperor Napoleon III with his pointed mustaches; he had seen them all many times. Nor did it help that she gave him a piece of paper and taught him to fold it into the shape of a saltcellar, a crow, or a catamaran; for, though he did not know it, Martin only longed for someone to say or do something that would make him cry. It was therefore he sat moody and silent, listening to the rain that whipped against the window, for it had begun to rain again, and the wind shook the glass.

What was that? Did he suddenly hear father say to mother: “Perhaps you’re right that we ought to try to sell the piano and buy a pianino on instalment. It goes out of tune in a couple of weeks, and a pianino would be prettier.”

Martin gave a start at the words “sell the piano.” He had no clear idea of what a pianino was, but he didn’t believe it could be a real piano; he pictured it rather as something that was worked with a handle. He didn’t believe any other instrument could sound as beautiful as their piano. He loved every dent and every crack in the red mahogany frame, for he himself had made most of them, and he remembered almost every key from its special color. Sell the piano! To his ears it sounded like something impossible. It was almost as if he had heard his parents calmly sitting and talking about selling grandmother and buying an aunt instead.

Martin began to cry before he knew it.

“Mamma,” said Maria, “Martin’s crying.”

“What are you crying for, Martin?” his mother asked.

Martin only sobbed.

“He’s tired and sleepy,” declared grandmother. “He’d better go to bed.”

While Martin, still sobbing, made the rounds to say good night, Lotta came in with the tea-tray. She had a very solemn expression as she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Heggbom is dead.”

Everything became silent in the room. Martin stopped crying.

Grandmother clasped her hands together: “Well, and has he really passed away? Has it come that suddenly?⁠ ⁠… Glory be! and has he passed away? Ah, ’twas the brandy!⁠ ⁠… But it was for the best that he should die, though ’twill be hard for the missus; he was the porter, anyway, and maintained his wife and children.”

“He died just at seven,” said Lotta.

But when no one said anything she went out into the kitchen again.

“It might be a good idea to send out a list to the neighbors and start a little subscription,” said mother.

Martin was sent to bed. His mother sat at the side of his bed and said prayers with him. He was let off with “God Who hast us in Thy care,” because he was so tired. Otherwise he used to say “Our Father” and “Lord, let Thy blessing rest upon us” besides.

Martin lay awake a long time listening to the rain as it plashed against the window, for he was not at all sleepy; he had only said so to get out of the long prayers that he didn’t understand. It is impossible for a little child to associate any idea with such expressions as “hallowed be Thy name” or “Thy kingdom come.” He lay thinking about Heggbom and wondering if he could get to heaven. He always smelled of brandy.

Martin was afraid of the dark. When Lotta came in with a lighted candle to fix something in the room, he asked her to let the candle stay.

“You must sleep, Martin,” said Lotta. “Heggbom will come and bite you if you don’t.”

With that she went out and took the candle.

Martin began to cry afresh. The wind whistled in the window chinks, every now and then a gate was shut with a bang, and a dog howled outside. Before mother drew the curtains Martin thought there was a red glow in the sky. Perhaps there was a fire in South Stockholm.⁠ ⁠…

There was turmoil and clamor down on the street. Drunken men coming out of the tavern⁠—blows and screams. Heavy steps on the pavement, someone running and someone pursuing⁠—and a cry of “Police, police!”

Martin drew the covers over his head and cried himself to sleep.