The Nuts | Page 4

Hell; for which of us can be
happy here, if we do not love and are not loved?
"'There is no chance of a voice being raised in her favour,' I said to
myself. But I was wrong; for at that moment a lovely angel-child flew
past me on its blue and white wings. Without any sign of fear it flew
direct to St. Peter, who looked formidable enough with his long beard
and great keys, and, pointing with its little forefinger to the
hard-hearted woman, cried: 'She once gave me a handful of nuts.'
"'Really,' answered the keeper of Heaven. 'That was not much, and yet I
am surprised; for that woman would not part with so much as a pin,
during her life. But you little one, who were you on earth?'
"'Little Hannele was my name,' answered the angel. 'I died of starvation,
and only once did any one give me anything in my life to make me
happy, and that was that woman yonder.'
"'Marvellous,' answered Peter, stroking his white beard. 'No doubt the
nuts were given as a miserly payment of some service you did her.'
"'No, no,' the angel answered decidedly.
"'Well, tell us how it happened then,' the apostle commanded, and the
dear little soul obeyed:
"'My sick mother and I lived in the city all alone, for father was dead.
Just before Christmas we had nothing more to eat. So mother, though
she lay in bed and her head and hands were burning, made some little
sheep of bits of wood and cotton and I carried them to the Christmas
market. There I sat on some steps and offered them for sale to the
passers-by; but nobody wanted them. Hours passed, and it was very

cold; the open wound in my knee, which no one saw, pained me so, and
the frost in my fingers and toes burned and itched dreadfully. Evening
came, the lamps were lighted, but I dared not go home; for only one
person had thrown a copper into my lap, and I needed more to buy a bit
of bread and a few coals. My own pangs hurt me, but that mother lay at
home alone, with no one to hand her anything, or support her when her
breathing became difficult, hurt me still more. I could hardly bear to sit
on the cold steps any longer, and my eyes were blind with tears. A
barrel was set down in front of the house, and while a clerk was rolling
it over the sidewalk into the shop, the stream of passers was stopped.
That woman there--I remember her well--stood still in front of me. I
offered her one of my sheep, and looked at her through my tears. She
seemed so hard and stern, that I thought: 'She won't give me anything.'
But she did. It seemed suddenly as if her face grew softer, and her eyes
kinder. She glanced at me, and before I knew it, she had put her hand in
the bag which she carried on her arm, and thrown the nuts into my lap.
The cask had been rolled into the shop by this time, and the throng of
people carried her along. She tried to stop. It was not easy, and she only
did it to toss me a second, third, and fourth handful of the most
beautiful walnuts. I can still see it all, as if it were to-day! Then she felt
in her pocket, probably to get some money for me, but the press of
people was too strong for her to stand against it longer. I doubt if she
heard that I thanked her.'
"Here the angel broke off, and threw a kiss to the condemned woman,
and St. Peter asked her how it happened that she, who had been so deaf
to all appeals from the poor, had been so sweetly generous to the child.
"The tormented woman answered amid her loud sobs: 'The tearful eyes
of the little one reminded me of my small sister, who died a painful
death before I had grown to be hard and wicked, and a strange
sensation--I know not how it happened myself--overpowered me. It
seemed as if my heart warmed within me, and something seemed to say
to me that I would never forgive myself as long as I lived, and would
be even unhappier than I was, if I did not give the child something to
rejoice over at Christmas time. I longed to draw her towards me and
kiss her. After I had tossed her half of the nuts, which I had just bought,
I felt happier than I had for many a day, and I would certainly have
given her some money, though only a little . . .