As it happened I still kept thinking of Svältbacka Matti and his two barrels of tar. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I compared his life and surroundings with that of the pastor. There was a great difference between them. But as human beings they were equal.
Business kept me several days in the little village. When I traveled on again, I went into a more remote part of the parish. Here the roads were so poor and confusing that I was forced to hire a guide. He was a young man and wholly untouched by the responsibilities and cares of this world. We scarcely exchanged two words on the trip.
About a mile and a half from the church, on the left at a little distance there was a farm, where a lot of people were assembled.
“What sort of farm is that?” I inquired of my guide.
“That is Svältbacka,” replied the young man carelessly. I started.
“What are all those people doing there?” I ventured, confused.
“O—that’s an auction sale—an execution. It’s because of a debt to the pastor,” he explained indifferently.
“Is the owner’s name Matti?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” replied the young man with increasing indifference.
“I met him on the way to your village. He was going to the city. We went along together. How is this sale possible? I surely should have met him again.”
