Selma Lagerlöf: The Servant-Spirit (Tjänsteanden)

 

Shoemaker's bench

[Image source: https://digitaltmuseum.se/011023860838/disk . Acquired by Upplandsmuseet in 1919. It belonged to the shoemaker K.A. Millberg of Tibble (Björklinge), Uppland. (Just off the E4, about 10 miles north of Uppsala.)]

This week's pan-European celebration continues with Selma Lagerlöf's story The Servant-Spirit  (Tjänsteanden), first published in 1911 and collected in Troll och människor I (Trolls and Men I, 1915). 

*

Krus Erik Ersson, the parish cobbler, and his apprentice, Konstantin Karlsson, had been sitting all week making shoes at the rectory, and now, at nine o'clock on a Saturday evening, they were on their way back to their homes, which were a long way off, out at the edge of the parish.

It was autumn, and the sun had gone down long ago, yet they were not walking in the dark, but rather through clear air and moonlight. It was as lovely as could be. The lake below the rectory lay mirror-bright, with a track of silver down the middle, and in the fields you could see dewdrops on every grass-stem, like white pearls in the moonlight. It was only when they had to pass through one of the groves of trees that it became dark around them. It wasn't particularly late in autumn, so the branches still had their leaves, and the tree-crowns spread out like a vault of the deepest black above their heads.

It felt rather strange to be walking, after six days of sitting bent over the shoemaker's bench. They panted under the weight of their packs, and neither of them said anything.

But the road from the rectory went past the graveyard, and when Krus Erik Ersson caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned grave crosses on the far side of the wall, then thoughts came to him quickly. 

"Hey, Konstantin," he said (and his voice became simultaneously anxious and yearning, as if he was passing a stranger's orchard at night and saying how nice it would be to have some of the apples). 

"It would be a really good thing, if one could only get a little grave-soil."

"Grave-soil!" said the apprentice, and he was so astonished he came to a dead stop. "You can have that all right, as much as you like. But what do you want it for?"

Krus Erik halted too, and now he was so affected by his own thoughts that he spoke as if he'd lost his voice and could only whisper. 

"That is the way that you make a 'spirrtus'. And the man who possesses a spirrtus can have anything he wants. He'd never need to make another pair of shoes. He could build himself a farm as high as the bell-tower. And he could have horses and wagons, and would never have to walk a single step."

The apprentice came from a home where they had pious and god-fearing ways and all superstition was banished. He stood in slow surprise and couldn't grasp that Krus Erik was being serious.

"It surely isn't possible that you believe such a thing, Master Erik," he said. 

"Certainly I believe it," said the other. And right there, where they were standing outside the churchyard, he began to tell about this person and about that person, folk who had got themselves a spirrtus and had been served by it. 

But he wasn't able to convince the apprentice. He was a tall, good-looking boy of seventeen, with a modest but slightly sleepy appearance. He asked in all innocence:

"If you truly believe in it, why don't you obtain one of these servants yourself?"

Krus Erik answered sadly: "I couldn't get one myself. That's beyond my powers."

With that he sighed, hitched his pack higher on his shoulders and resumed walking.

Konstantin remained standing. It seemed as if a faint interest in the matter had begun to stir inside him. 

When Krus Erik had gone a couple of steps further he stopped and turned to the apprentice. 

"You surely aren't suggesting, Konstantin . . ." -- and his voice shook at the mere thought of something so unheard-of -- "You surely aren't suggesting that I should walk into the churchyard and dig up the soil?"

"No," said the apprentice thoughtfully. "If you believe in it, I can quite understand why you can't."

"I never go past a churchyard at night without wishing that I had a spirrtus," said Krus Erik, "but I just can't have one. So there's no point in us standing here any longer, Konstantin."

He began walking again, but slowly, as if in the hope of being stopped. 

The apprentice didn't follow him this time either. The thing was, if there was one person in the world that he really cared for, that person was Krus Erik. His parents at home were so strict that they tolerated neither laughter nor games. The shoemaker, on the other hand, was always full of jokes and stories and was as much fun to be with as if he were a seventeen-year-old himself. And now, when Konstantin saw him walking off down the road, so old and worn out, he longed to do something that would gladden his heart.

He kicked his foot at a tuft of grass, so that the dew-drops flew up into the air. 

"See here, Krus Erik, I'm no more scared of this one bit of earth than of any other, and if you'll just wait for me a minute, then you shall have what you wish for."

He'd shaken off his rucksack and flung it down on the road as he was speaking. Now he made a spring over the roadside ditch and the wall, and he was standing within the churchyard before Krus Erik had time to order him to lay off. 

And actually it needed to come as a surprise to the master, for Krus Erik was as tender of his apprentice as of himself. He would never have let Konstantin go into a churchyard at night, if he'd been asked. 

Konstantin could easily have gathered a little soil from a grave that lay close to the wall of the churchyard, but this he didn't want to do. It wasn't often that he was in a position to distinguish himself in any way, but he had plenty of courage, and he wasn't averse to Krus Erik seeing it. 

He stopped finally at a grave mound that lay right in the middle of the churchyard, kicked away a bit of turf, and then dug out the topmost layer of earth with his hands. 

When he reckoned that he was far enough down into the ground, he took a couple of fistfuls of soil and filled the pockets of his jacket. How much soil was needed for an effective spirrtus, he didn't rightly know, but he thought that two full pockets ought to be enough. 

All this time he concentrated only on the matter in hand and felt no fear. His thoughts were busy with Krus Erik. He wondered what he would do, once he had a spirrtus to order about?

Everything around him was silent and still. It was almost a pity that he had neither seen nor heard any of those things that people usually see and hear in churchyards, and would have no adventure to brag about when he got back to his master.

He scraped the excavated soil back into the hole and laid the turf in place. He did it slowly, so as to use up some time. Krus Erik mustn't suppose that he'd been in a hurry. 

In the middle of the task he stopped and became completely still. It was not that a ghost had scared him, only a strange little thought.

It occurred to him suddenly that he was being very stupid, taking so much trouble to obtain a spirrtus for Krus Erik. Why shouldn't he keep it for himself? He was in just as much need of it as his master. 

In a flash he saw in front of him a little grey cottage with a single room, which was his home; a tall, gloomy and terminally ill man, who was his father; a thin and careworn woman, who was his mother. Truly, truly, he needed a spirrtus more than anyone else did. 

A leaf fell from a tree, just as he reached this point in his thoughts. It rustled as it went past his head, and he stood up in a great hurry. 

He looked around him with wild eyes. Had something happened, while he was bent over the grave? Were the dead awaking? There was a distinct whisper from grave to grave. There was a glimpse of something white in among the black shadows of the trees. The dead were standing there in massed groups. They had been there all the time. In the next minute he would see them.

He was frightened for a moment, but he stood still and didn't run. He fixed his gaze straight ahead. He mustn't start looking in all directions for ghosts. He didn't want to become terrified, didn't want to return to Krus Erik all out of breath and shaking. 

And with the steady gaze everything went away. The air became as if purified from ghosts and noisome creatures and he was able to walk back calmly. 

That notion of keeping the grave-soil for himself was something he thought no more about. 

What would be the point? It was only earth. 

It was really odd, that so wise a man as Krus Erik should have yearned for such a childish thing all his life.  

It was quite something to yearn for! Konstantin stuck his hands into his well-filled pockets. Just a bit of soil. 

But in that very moment Konstantin gave a loud, piercing scream, both wild and anguished, as if a ghost had shown itself to him. 

When his hands dug down into his pockets he knew that it was not soil that filled them, but the remains of dead men. It was fingers, toes, slippery eyeballs, shrunken skin, tangled hair, flesh, fragments of bone, tendons.

And all of it was sticky, cold, clammy, half-dissolved. He tore out his hands and set off in a mad flight towards the wall and the road, all the while trying to turn his pockets out and in so as to get himself free of the dreadful stuff. And the whole time he screamed, not so much from fear as from disgust. 

When he stood on the road once more and looked around for Krus Erik, he spotted him moving quickly away from the church. 

He hurriedly grabbed his bag and slung it on his back. He would have liked to run just as fast as his legs would carry him, but he didn't want to make himself look ridiculous. He clenched his teeth together and stuck to his normal jogging pace until he caught up with his master, who stood waiting for him at the corner of the assembly-house. 

"How is it with you?" asked Krus Erik, and when Konstantin said he was fine he asked no more questions. You see, Krus Erik knew that when someone suspects that someone else has seen a strange sight, it's not good to speak of it until a little time has passed. 

As for collecting the grave-soil, well, he could see how that had gone, from the state of Konstantin's in- and out-turned jacket pockets. 

In the summer, and as far into the autumn as possible, Konstantin slept up in the loft, where he'd placed some boards around a corner that he called his bedroom. It wasn't large, a narrow little bed took up nearly all the space, but the good thing about it was that he could lie in on Sunday mornings. When he slept downstairs in his parents' cottage he had to get up early so that his mother could make the bed before going to church. 

Since he'd started work at Krus Erik's it wasn't uncommon for him to sleep in on Sunday until the wall clock down in the cottage struck twelve, but this didn't happen on the day after the adventure in the churchyard, for he was already awake before ten. He instantly remembered everything. There was still a sensation of disgust in his fingers. It crept through them at the mere thought of what they had touched. 

It had all been his imagination, of course, just fright. He knew that it was nothing more than earth that he'd stuffed in his pockets. 

But Krus Erik had been right, after all. It was no small thing to go into the churchyard at night and to take grave-soil. 

Suddenly he shot out of bed. What if mother and Krus Erik should meet on the way to church, and what if the master should say that yesterday evening Konstantin had gone into the churchyard to obtain a spirrtus! He had to talk to the shoemaker right away, beg him to keep quiet. Mother would be beside herself.

Hurried as he was he could not bring himself to put on his shoes, they were so dusty and dirty. He took the polish and brush out of his rucksack and set the shoe on his hand. At the same time a whole mass of earth came pouring out of it. 

Konstantin drew in a sharp breath and exhaled again with a whistling sound. He saw how it had come about, this soil in his shoes. Most likely it had fallen in when he emptied his pockets in the churchyard. The shoes were so wide at the top. It couldn't have happened any other way. 

He looked at the grains of soil. It was like any other earth. Yes, that other thing had only been his imagination. 

He emptied both shoes and drew the earth together with his foot.

There wasn't much, but . . . Perhaps it was still enough for a spirrtus? 

He opened his pack again and took out a little tin box that he used for keeping tacks and sole-pegs, emptied it and swept the grave-soil into it. 

Krus Erik would have his spirrtus. And he would see that Konstantin had been the man to bring it home.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Although Konstantin barely gave himself time to taste the milk and bread that mother had left out for him, he didn't get to Krus Erik's cottage in time, for his master had already set off to church. Konstantin hurried after him to try and catch him up on the way, and he would have done it too, if it hadn't been for the shoes. 

He didn't know what had happened to them. They slipped at every step, which they had never done before, and they scraped at his feet. They began to chafe his skin, so that he had to stop walking. 

He took off his shoes and placed them by the roadside. He couldn't bring himself to walk barefoot, but with the shoes on he couldn't move from the spot. He already had sores on both feet from the rubbing. While he was sitting on the ground, at a loss what to do, a cart came along, and in it sat Öst Samuel Andersson with a stranger, who looked like a gentleman. They were driving very slowly, which seemed odd, because Öst Samuel was a horse-dealer and normally he drove so his horse was flat on the ground afterwards.

Öst Samuel was also an old friend of Konstantin's parents. Their cottage lay on outlying land below Öst's farm, and many were the times he had stood by them with support and advice, especially since father caught the severe disease that nearly always confined him to bed. 

When Öst Samuel came up to Konstantin he drew in the reins and asked him where he was headed. 

Well, he'd been going to the church, but now he'd got these rubbing sores, so he was going to have to go back home. 

Then Öst Samuel invited him to travel in the back of the cart. He wasn't going to the church, he was on the way to the churchwarden's in Aspnäs, but at least Konstantin could get a lift half way. 

Konstantin climbed up into the back of the cart. It was something, anyway.

At the front of the cart they were talking about Konstantin. First the stranger said something, but in such a low voice that Konstantin didn't catch it. Öst Samuel, however, had a louder voice and didn't know how to keep it down. So Konstantin heard him say that Yes, he agreed the boy looked all right and was obliging enough, but there was no go in him, and that was what they very much needed. The father was still ill, the mother was working herself to death, but the lad would rather just idle about. Now they had apprenticed him to learn shoe-making, and the master thought him good-natured and willing, but he didn't think he'd be able to make a proper shoe-maker out of him. He had a poor touch and was too slow. 

The stranger said something in return, in his low voice. He must have suggested that perhaps Konstantin could hear what they were saying.

Öst Samuel responded unconcernedly that the boy never heard anything. He always went about as if he were half-asleep. 

But for whatever reason Konstantin wasn't half-asleep that day. He heard all of this, and he heard everything else that the two travellers spoke of. 

Öst Samuel reined in the horse at the turn-off that went up to Aspnäs. Konstantin had to get down now, while the others drove up towards the farm.

"You'd better stir yourself now, if you're hoping to get to church before the priest leaves the pulpit," Öst Samuel called after him. 

But truly, it was all very well for Konstantin to stir himself. The shoe-scraping plagued him with each step. He progressed no faster than a snail. Maybe the spirrtus didn't want him to give it away?

The upshot was that the service had come to an end and the congregation were heading home before Konstantin even reached the hamlet around the church.

One of the first people that he met was the churchwarden from Aspnäs, who came striding down the middle of the road, as big and broad as if he wanted to take all of it for himself. 

The shoemaker's apprentice, who had worked in every farm in the parish, knew the churchwarden at once. He placed himself in front of him, held out his hand and said Good-Day.

The churchwarden offered his right hand, which was holding a walking-stick with a big silver knob. He didn't shift the stick into his left hand, but let Konstantin, as best he could, shake hands with the fist holding the head of the walking-stick. 

The lad didn't let it bother him, but said quickly:

"I think I should let you know that you have strangers at home. It's Öst Samuel and a gentleman from town. I know that, because I had a lift on the back of their cart."

"I see, I see, that's big news, certainly. Was it a while ago they dropped you off?"

"It's been a good hour now. But they'll certainly wait till you get home, because they want to buy your grey mare."

It was odd. On this day Konstantin felt no respect for the churchwarden, no shyness. He even ventured to pull his leg a little.

"I also heard how much they swindled you out of when they bought the horse off you last year, and I know how much the mare is worth and how much you could get for it, if you stuck to your guns."

As he flung this out he set off in the direction of the church. He walked quickly, ignoring the scraping shoes. 

The churchwarden called after him, but Konstantin pretended not to hear him and carried on walking. Then the big, heavy man came running after him. 

Konstantin merely increased his speed. It would be a good thing if next time the churchwarden learnt not to shake hands while holding his walking-stick. 

Finally he saw fit to stop. The churchwarden came up with him, out of breath and panting. 

It was surely not possible, that he knew as much as he'd boasted about? He probably just thought it would be a good laugh, to have an old man run himself into the ground trying to catch up with him?

Konstantin's face took on an offended expression. What was the point of him saying what he knew, if the churchwarden thought he was a liar?

The churchwarden sized him up with a sharp look. Then he thrust his hand into his breast pocket, brought out his wallet and proffered a five-kronor note.

"I don't believe you're lying," he said. "Tell me what you've heard, and you can have this."

The shoemaker's apprentice, who was still working without pay, grew hot with excitement when he saw such a large note. Here was a sight for Öst Samuel, who reckoned that Konstantin neither saw nor heard, but only walked and slept!

He told what he knew, of course, and took the promised reward. 

When he walked further along the road with the five-kronor note in his pocket, he finally encountered Krus Erik. 

At once he thought of the spirrtus. It was the perfect opportunity to give it to his master. The two were alone in the road, and no-one saw or heard them.

But Konstantin went past Krus Erik without stopping. He scarcely greeted him or said a word, just that he was going out on the lake to fish for perch. He'd arranged it the day before with the boys at the rectory. The spirrtus lay in his pocket as if it was riveted there. He told himself that he ought to find out if it amounted to anything before giving it away.

*

On Monday morning, when Konstantin sat once more at the low, narrow shoe-maker's table opposite Krus Erik, he was as wretched as he'd ever been before in his whole life. 

He was quite decided that he would give up the spirrtus to Krus Erik. He wanted nothing more to do with it.

The whole of Sunday afternoon during the fishing he'd had remarkable luck. He'd pulled up one big perch after another, while the other boys who were with him in the boat caught nothing. 

It wasn't so easy to say what it was down to. He was conscious of having been attentive and vigilant the whole time, while the others chatted and had their thoughts on other things. 

In the end they became irritated at not catching anything and rowed home right in the middle of his best fishing spell. And since the fishing gear and boat were theirs, they kept all the perch too. If they hadn't been so annoyed with him for being the only lucky one, they would perhaps have given him a couple of fish. As it was he ended up going home empty-handed. 

That was vexing enough, but things grew worse when he got home. Öst Samuel had been at his parents' to complain about him. He'd wanted to help a good friend of his buy a horse like one he'd had before. But now they'd been made to pay far too much for the churchwarden's grey mare, and that was all down to Konstantin. 

It was the churchwarden, who hadn't known to keep quiet, but who told Öst Samuel, once the sale was over, how he'd learnt what price to hold out for. And now his parents knew about the five-kronor note and everything else.

They were frightened because he had angered Öst Samuel. What would become of them all, if Öst Samuel stopped supporting them? 

Mother couldn't understand what had got into him. He'd never behaved like this before. What made him think of betraying other people's secrets and taking payment for it? He was a real Judas. 

Mother had taken his five-kronor note to give it back to the churchwarden. One couldn't keep such ill-gotten gains. 

Konstantin pretended to himself that he didn't credit the grave-soil with any power. But in his heart he was convinced that it was the cause of everything. 

That morning, when he was leaving home, he'd firmly decided to get rid of the dreadful thing as soon as he met Krus Erik. But the odd thing was, he hadn't been able to do it. Several times already he'd stuck his hand in his pocket and grasped the tin box in order to pass it over, but each time he'd regretted it. For it was such a strange thing to own something like this! And to think about it, and whether it had any real power. Although up to this point it had brought him only misery, yet it was practically impossible for him to part with it. 

He was so taken up with these thoughts that his work was worse than usual, and Krus Erik noticed it. But Krus Erik had a good way with his apprentices. He never had a go at them, but he had some little tricks that he used to get them working. 

"Hey, Konstantin," he said, "I see there are two pairs of shoes we need to finish today. How about if we have a race? You do one pair and I'll do the other, and let's see if we can keep up with each other."

The spirrtus went back in the pocket again. Konstantin took up the challenge with great eagerness. Here was a good way of finding out if the magic stuff really did anything.

They got out knives, hammers, pliers, lasts, leather, shoe-yarn, sole-pegs, every conceivable thing that was needed for shoe-making, and they set it all out before them. Then the master solemnly intoned One, Two, Three, and so the contest began. 

They cut out the uppers, glued the lining with rye-meal porridge, and while it was drying above the stove they twined the yarn together with the hard thread and attached pig bristles to the ends. 

At this point they were neck and neck, but Krus Erik was rather surprised when he saw how handy Konstantin was at twisting the thread and fixing the bristles. It was very different to his normal standard. 

Then it was time to cut out the soles and soak them to make them easier to handle. 

It was astonishing to see how quickly Konstantin's knife went round, cutting through the tough leather.

At the start Erik Ersson had worked a bit slower than usual, so Konstantin wouldn't be discouraged and give up all hope of winning. But he saw that he'd better buck up, if he didn't want to be left behind himself. 

They picked up their punches and their thread to stitch the upper on. The apprentice's hands moved as fast as a bird's wings. Krus Erik asked if he might see his work. He was concerned that Konstantin would get careless, working at such a rate.

Konstantin showed him a seam that was both straight and even, real exhibition work.

Not for a moment had it crossed Krus Erik's mind that he might not win this contest. But now he started to become a bit thoughtful. 

Konstantin was already ahead. And he moved his fingers as swiftly as a conjuror at a market. 

When it rang for the dinner-break Konstantin had already placed the first shoe upon the last and was sitting tapping the sole to make it smooth and hard. Krus Erik was nothing like so far advanced. Neither of them looked up from their work, though it was now their free time. 

Konstantin had the passing thought of how much he usually relished his break, but today it was another matter, today the work went of its own accord. He didn't grow tired, and nothing was difficult for him. He'd never realized before that work could be fun. 

They were called into the kitchen for their dinner. When they'd thrown down a bit of food they raced back to the farm-labourer's cottage they were using as a workshop. 

The other folk on the farm had worked out what was going on. And instead of having a rest after lunch the men gathered to watch the two shoemakers. 

At first they all took it for granted that Krus Erik would finish first. But when they'd looked on for a while they started to change their minds. One after another they said to Krus Erik that he'd surely never had such a lively apprentice as this.  

Krus Erik was sitting now and hammering the pegs into the sole. His blows were uneven and violent, and everyone thought his work was not as good as usual. 

With Konstantin, on the other hand, all went well. The work was done just as it should be done. Every hammer-blow told. 

"They're lovely shoes, they are," the farm-folk said. "You'll soon be able to set up for yourself."

The labourers went away, and the shoemakers heeled and pegged in silence. Then Krus Erik emitted a little cry. He had struck amiss, and hit his thumbnail with the hammer. 

Konstantin cast a hasty glance at Krus Erik. No-one else had ever been so kind to him or had so much patience with him. Now it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps his master would take it hard if it seemed that his apprentice could make shoes faster and better than he could himself.

The old man looked truly miserable, sitting there and forcing himself on. 

Maybe it wasn't a fair trial either. Konstantin had to admit that on any other day, without the spirrtus in his pocket, he couldn't have gone to work in this manner. He noticed that Krus Erik didn't even take time to stick his thumb in some water. He was afraid, of course, that Konstantin would get too big a lead.

The apprentice felt that he should spare his master's feelings and go a bit slower, but he couldn't stop himself. There was such a work-fury within him. 

When the bell struck five, both the shoes stood before him, complete. He shot them over to Krus Erik. 

The master laid down the shoe that he held in his hand, with the sole still not finished. He made a long and careful inspection of the apprentice's work. 

"You needn't do any more today. You can go home," he said quietly. 

"Aren't we working here tomorrow too?"

"Yes, I'll be working here," said Krus Erik -- and when he raised his head he threw a sharp, hateful look towards Konstantin -- "but not you. I can't be sitting here with an apprentice who does better work than I do myself."

Konstantin said nothing in reply, but took his cap and went towards the door. On the threshold he turned round. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, but it stayed there and didn't come out again.

"Thanks for everything then. Goodbye," he said, and slowly closed the door after him. 

*

Konstantin was standing in the moonlit yard at home and shooting at a target with his bow and arrows. 

He had done this on his own for years, since he was twelve or thirteen, but he'd never had any success with the shooting. It had certainly never happened that he hit what he was aiming at.

But time and again today he hit the bullseye in the small target he'd drawn on the cowshed wall. 

He looked splendid standing there and shooting, and one of his sisters had come out to look at him. He bragged and boasted of his prowess, as he'd never done before. 

He felt a never-ending need to distinguish himself, to demonstrate how skilful and strong and adaptable he was. He hoped that mother, too, might be standing at the window and watching him. 

But in his heart and soul he was ill-at-ease. He'd only got on to this shooting as a way of not having to think about Krus Erik and the spirrtus and all the horrible things.

He felt he was so wretched that he loved the spirrtus more than anything else in the world. It was just the same with him as with people who drank brännvin. They couldn't leave it alone though they knew it was destroying them. 

The spirrtus hadn't brought him anything but misfortune, but all the same he felt proud and strong and capable of doing anything, as long as he had it in his pocket.

When people drank they too felt bold and successful, just as he did now. But in the eyes of others they were just a mess. 

He would have liked to ask someone if it was wrong, him keeping the spirrtus. But he dared not speak to mother on such a subject, and Krus Erik was furious with him.

He suddenly stopped his shooting and turned to his sister, who stood and watched him. And it all came tumbling out, all the strange things that had happened to him.

She sat quietly while he was talking. She was so like mother, while she sat there and listened with obvious disapproval. 

When he'd finished, she insisted that he should tell it all to mother. 

"You're not thinking of blabbing to her, are you?"

"No, but I'm going to go and ask mother to come out here so you can talk to her."

Highly alarmed, he utterly forbade her, but she stuck to her purpose and turned to go inside.

"Don't! I'll shoot you!" he called out, raising his bow.

She turned around at his call. He'd already laid an arrow in the bow. She laughed at him. The bow was small and feeble and the arrow was a piece of wood without a metal tip. With that weapon he couldn't even bring down a sparrow.

"Go ahead and shoot! I'm still going in to mother," she said stubbornly. 

At that moment the arrow came whistling and struck her right in the eye.

- - - - - - - - - - 

She lay sick for a long time; she  had to stay at the hospital for several months. When she came back home, she had only one eye. 

Konstantin had become like himself again while she was away. He had gone back to apprenticing at Krus Erik's. He was good-natured, a bit clumsy and listless just like in the past.

"You mustn't think I aimed at your eye," he said. "I shot at the roof ridge, but just as the arrow flew off it was as if a hand had struck it, so it came straight towards you."

"Yes, I saw you didn't shoot in my direction," she said. 

"I took it back to the churchyard that night. I became so frightened of it."

She sat and pondered. She had become like an older, wiser person since the accident. She was no longer a child. 

"I wonder what it was,"she said. 

"It was really nothing. But I do long for it. Every day I long for it."

"I think . . ." she said, hesitating. "If you only supposed, if you only imagined, that you had it . . . then you'd be able to shoot and to make shoes just as well as when you carried it in your pocket."

"No," he said. "I've tried, but it doesn't work. That would be like someone saying that if you just imagined you still had your eye you'd see as well as before. That's one of those things that we ourselves don't have any power over."

*

Original Swedish text of Tjänsteanden:

http://runeberg.org/troll1/tjanstan.html