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Updated: May 24, 2025
People appealed to organized charity; there was Bjerregrav's five thousand kroner in the bank. But no, they were not there. Ship-owner Monsen declared that Bjerregrav had recalled the money during his lifetime. There was no statement in his will to the contrary. The people knew nothing positively; but the matter gave plenty of occasion for discussion.
"That's a work of poetry, Lord alive!" said the master, and he related its contents to Bjerregrav, who took them all for reality. "You should have played some part in the great world, Andres I for my part do best to stay at home here. But you could have managed it I'm sure of it." "The great world!" said the master scornfully. No, he didn't take much stock in the world it wasn't big enough.
Bjerregrav cannot help crossing himself he who has never accomplished anything, except to feel for the poor; but in the young master's eyes everybody travels round and round the world, round and round the world.
Now and again, too, he got a little help from Lasse, but Lasse found it more and more difficult to spare anything. Moreover, he had learned to compose his mind by his work. The crazy Anker was knocking on the workshop door. "Bjerregrav is dead!" he said solemnly. "Now there is only one who can mourn over poverty!" Then he went away and announced the news to Baker Jorgen.
That is quite plainly written. Consequently what you read there is false teaching." "It's at the North Pole, God's truth it is!" said the master, who was inclined to be a free-thinker; "God's truth, I tell you! The other's just a silly superstition." Bjerregrav maintained an angry silence. He sat for some time bending low in his chair, his eyes roaming anywhere so that they did not meet another's.
"Or do you know of anything else that tears everything down and washes it away? And from the sea we get everything back again. Once when I went to Malaga " "Yes, that really is true," said Bjerregrav, "for most people get their living from the sea, and many their death. And the rich people we have get all their money from the sea." Jeppe drew himself up proudly and his glasses began to glitter.
"I can't compare myself with them. A crippled tailor well, even he has got his full strength of body." "A tailor is as fine a fellow as a black-bread baker!" stammered Bjerregrav nervously. "To bake black bread why, every farmer's wife can do that!" "Fine! I believe you! Hell and blazes! If the tailor makes a cap he has enough cloth left over to make himself a pair of breeches.
That's why tailors are always dressed so fine!" The baker was talking to the empty air. "Millers and bakers are always rogues, everybody says." Old Bjerregrav turned to Master Andres, trembling with excitement. But the young master stood there looking gaily from one to the other, his lame leg dangling in the air.
The master took no further notice of him, but went on reading; and Bjerregrav sank into his dumb pondering; his pale hands feeling one thing after another, as though the most everyday objects were unknown to him. He took hold of things just as a newborn child might have done; one had to smile at him and leave him to sit there, grubbing about like the child he really was.
And if the young master was in a good temper they would stay. He was the fire and soul of the party, as old Bjerregrav said; he could, thanks to his reading, give explanations of so many things. When Pelle lifted his eyes from his work he was blind.
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