Once they had a nursemaid at Mårbacka who was called Back-Kaisa. She must have been all of six feet high. She had a large-featured, swarthy, stern-looking face, her hands were hard and full of cracks, in which the children's hair would catch when she combed it, and she was heavy and mournful.
A person of that sort could hardly be said to have been especially created for the nursery, and indeed Fru Lagerlöf had deliberated a long while before engaging her. The girl had never been out to service and knew nothing of the ways of people; she had grown up on a poor backwoods croft, among the wooded hills above Mårbacka, far from any other habitation.
Probably there was no one else available, or Fru Lagerlöf would not have had her come. That the girl did not know how to make up a bed, or build a fire in a tile-stove, or prepare a bath, was understood beforehand; but she was teachable and did not mind sweeping out the nursery every day, or dusting, or washing baby-clothes. What she could not seem to learn, however, was how to get along with the little folk. She never played with them or gave them a pleasant word. She knew no sagas and no songs. It was not that she meant to be unkind, but she was so constituted that romp and frolic and laughter were hateful to her. She would have liked the children to sit quietly, each in his or her little chair, without moving or talking.
Fru Lagerlöf was at all events quite pleased with the nursemaid. As for her not knowing any stories—well, the Mårbacka children had their grandmother, who every morning as soon as she was dressed gathered the youngsters about her, and sang and narrated for them till away up to dinner-time. And they had someone, too, who played with them, for Lieutenant Lagerlöf, whenever he had a spare moment, romped with his children.
Back-Kaisa was strong, patient, and dutiful. She was a person to be depended on. When her master and mistress went off to a party, they could rest assured that she did not run out and leave the children alone in the nursery. If only she'd had a more delicate touch she would have been admirable. But hers were no gentle clutches when little arms had to go into dress-sleeves. When she washed the children the soap always got into their eyes; and when she wielded the comb they felt as if every wisp of hair were being torn from their heads.
The nursery at Mårbacka was a light, warm, spacious room—the best in the whole house. But, unhappily, it was a gable-room, and to get there one had first to go out into the lower front hall, then up a flight of steps and across a big attic. The attic stairs were steep, and difficult for little feet to climb. Now the former nursemaid used to take a child on her arm and carry it up, but Back-Kaisa didn't seem to know enough for that. And it was positively terrifying to walk the length of that attic—above all, after dark! So it seemed almost necessary that little hands should have a large hand to slip into. But Back-Kaisa, who had been accustomed to the dark of the wild forest, probably thought the attic at Mårbacka a nice safe place. She just stalked on and never so much as put out a hand. One was glad if one could even catch hold of a corner of her skirt.
The beds in which the three children slept had been made by the clever old carpenter at Askersby, and they were quite decorative, with a little row of spindles across each headboard; but they were in two sections that pulled out and pushed in like a drawer. Large as the nursery was, the three beds when open took up a lot of space; so it was well they could be folded during the day. Now that in itself was all right, but the clever old carpenter had somehow managed to make the beds in such a way that they sometimes sprang apart in the dead of the night.
When that happened, you were of course startled out of your sweetest slumber. Finding your bed cut off in the middle, you drew yourself into the upper end and tried to catch back sleep again. But somehow it would not come. After a while you stretched out your legs and let them dangle. In that position you lay waiting for the Sandman till you were as wide awake as in broad day. Then at last you decided to get up and try to push the two parts together. When you had apparently succeeded and had got the bedclothes nicely straightened, you crept back into bed as cautiously as possible, and stretched out once more with a feeling of satisfaction. All went well, sleep came stealing on, then a careless turn and—crickety-crash!—the bed was apart again… which put an end to all hope of getting any sleep that night.
But Back-Kaisa slept peacefully through it all. It did not occur to any of the little ones that they might awaken her and ask for help. The former nursemaid had always jumped up the instant a bed broke down, and quickly fixed it without having to be asked.
Just over the nursery there was a little lumber-loft full of discarded looms and spinning-wheels, and amid all that old rubbish lived an owl.
At night that owl made a dreadful racket. To the children's ears it sounded as if someone were rolling big, heavy logs over their heads. The former nursemaid used to laugh at them when they were frightened by the noise, and say there was nothing to be scared about—it was only the owl. But Back-Kaisa, who hailed from the forest, was afraid of all animals, furred and feathered. They were to her like evil spirits. So, whenever she was awakened in the night by the owl she would take out her prayer book and begin to read. Indeed she could not soothe the children; on the contrary, she terrified them so that the poor little owl grew into a huge monster with tiger-claws and eagle-wings. No words can picture how they lay shuddering to the very roots of their being at the thought of having a horrible ogre like that right above them. What if it should tear a hole through the ceiling with its great claws, and come swooping down…!
It can never be said of Back-Kaisa that she neglected the children, or beat them. But was that anything much? True, the former nursemaid had not been so particular about keeping them neat and clean; but she was oh, so good to them!
The children had three little wooden chairs which they regarded as their greatest treasure. These had been presented to them by the clever old carpenter of Askersby. Whether they were meant as compensation for his failure with the beds, they did not know, but they rather thought so. At any rate, the chairs were not failures. They were both light and strong, and could be used as tables and sleds. The children could ride them all around the room, stand upon them and jump to the floor, or lay them down and play they were a cow shed, a stable, or a rabbit hutch. Oh, there was nothing they could not be used for!
Why the children prized those chairs so highly could be seen at a glance by turning them upside down. On the bottom of each chair was the portrait of its owner. On one was Johan, a boy in blue with a long riding whip in his hand; on another posed Anna, a dainty little maid in a red frock and yellow leghorn hat—sniffing at a nosegay; while on the third was Selma, a tiny tot in a blue dress and striped apron, but with nothing in her hand and nothing on her head.
Now these portraits had been painted there to show to whom the chairs belonged, and the children regarded them as their property in quite a different sense from wearing apparel and other things they received from their parents. Their clothes travelled from one to another, and their nice toys were either locked away or set up on the corner bracket in the parlour; but the chairs, which bore their likenesses—who would have thought of depriving them of these?
Therefore, it was awfully mean of Back-Kaisa to put all three chairs on top of the high birch-wood bureau, as she did sometimes, so that the children could not get at them. What if she had but just scrubbed the nursery and the little chairs would leave ugly marks on the wet floor if trailed across it? The former nursemaid never would have had the heart to take the chairs away from them. No, not even for a moment.
Fru Lagerlöf saw, to be sure, that the maid did not understand her little ones and that they were afraid of her. But Back-Kaisa had been hired for a year, and Fru Lagerlöf could not very well send her away before her time was up. She hoped, however, that things would be better in the summer, when the children could play out of doors, and have less to do with the nursemaid.
One forenoon in the early summer, it happened that the youngest child, a little girl, had been left alone, and asleep, in the nursery. On awaking she sat up in bed, half-dazed, and wondered where everyone had gone; at the same time she felt singularly drowsy and uncomfortable. She remembered, as she came to herself somewhat, that earlier in the day she and the other children had been to Äs Springs with their father to bathe. On their return Back-Kaisa had put all three of them to bed—dressed as they were—that they might nap a while before dinner. But the beds on which Johan and Anna had lain now stood empty; so the little girl knew, of course, that they were already up and gone.
They were perhaps out in the garden playing? She felt a bit hurt at their running off like that, leaving her all by herself in the nursery. She had better crawl out of bed, she thought, and hurry down to them.
The little girl was then three and a half years old, and she could easily open the door and walk down the stairs. But to cross the dangerous attic alone… She listened—perhaps someone was coming to fetch her.… No, there were no footsteps on the stair; she would have to venture by herself.
But now that she wanted to rise from her bed she could not. She tried again and again, only to sink back. Her legs did not seem to belong to her; she had lost all control of them.
The child was terror-stricken. The feeling of utter helplessness which came over her when the body refused to obey was something so dreadful she remembered it long, long afterwards—aye, all her life.
Naturally, she began to cry. She was in great trouble, and there was no grown person at hand to help or comfort her. But she had not been alone such a very long while when the door opened and Back-Kaisa appeared.
"Isn't Selma coming down to dinner? The big folk" Back-Kaisa stopped short.
The little girl never thought about its being the cross nursemaid who stood in the doorway. In her desperate plight she only saw a grown person who could help her—and put out her arms to her.
"Come and take me, Back-Kaisa!" she cried. "Come and take me!"
When the nurse came up to the bedside the little girl threw her arms about her neck and clung to her as no child had ever done before. A little tremor went through Back-Kaisa, and her voice was not real steady when she asked:
"What's the matter with Selma? Is her sick?"
"I can't walk, Back-Kaisa," wailed the child.
Then a pair of strong arms lifted her up as easily as if she were just a tiny kitten, and all at once the stern, serious-minded woman knew how to talk to a little child.
"Naa—Selma mustn't cry for that! Back-Kaisa's going to carry Selma."
And with that it seemed as if all the little one's troubles had blown away. She was no longer afraid or unhappy. What did it matter that she herself could not walk when Back-Kaisa would carry her! And nobody had to tell her; she knew that one who had a good strong friend like Back-Kaisa was not so badly off after all.