# Mårbacka/Part 5, Chapter 4

At six-thirty every morning Nurse made a fire in the children's room, and at seven o'clock the children had to rise and start dressing. When they were ready, say at about half after seven, and the beds had been hurriedly made, a tray was sent up from the kitchen with bowls of gruel and large pieces of buttered knäckebröd. This was the little breakfast. Then, until eight, they sat at a large table by the window and glanced over their lessons. The nursery had to serve as schoolroom, there being no other place available.
On the stroke of eight books were closed. The children then put on their wraps and went out in the half-dark winter morning—whatever the weather. They hurried down to the pond first thing, to see whether there was ice for skating, or, in lieu of that, went sledding on the driveway. If there was nothing else they could do, they ran down to the barn to see the baby rabbits and romp with the sheep-dog.
A little before nine they had big breakfast, which usually consisted of eggs, or griddle-cakes, or fried herring with boiled potatoes, or black pudding with ​salt pork and cream gravy. At breakfast the family did not sit at the big table, but each person, in turn, helped himself and then sat down at one of the side tables.
At nine sharp one had to be through with the meal, for at that hour lessons began. Then it was back to the nursery again to sit at the long table reading, writing, and figuring until noon. The little girls had a governess now—Ida Melanoz, eldest daughter of Sexton Melanoz, who had her father's good brain and teaching ability.
At twelve o'clock dinner was served at the round dining table. One of the little girls said grace before the meal, the other after it. Then, rising from table, they kissed Mother's hand and Father's hand, and said: "Thanks for the food." It was never quiet during the dinner hour. Lieutenant Lagerlöf kept the ball of chatter rolling. He could always find something to talk about. If nothing more thrilling had happened than his meeting an old woman in the lane, he would make a whole story out of the incident.
From one to two the children were again out of doors. But they often went in a few minutes before the play hour was up, so as to run through their lessons for the afternoon session, which was from two to four. Afterwards, they would read the lessons for the next day. They were never allowed to sit at their studies later than five o'clock, when they must go out-doors again. Now they were off to some distant coasting hill. At ​one time they had a big ram to drive, and that, of course, was great sport. When they got back to the house a pleasant hour awaited them. A log fire crackled in the living room and on the folded card table stood a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of unfermented beer. To sit or lie before the fire while munching their sandwiches—that was something the youngsters enjoyed hugely. They chattered and planned all sorts of things. It was the only hour of the day they had to themselves.
When the fire burned low, the lamp on the round table over by the sofa was lit. Fru Lagerlöf now took her little daughters in hand, and taught them to sew, crochet, and knit. She had a volume of Hans Andersen's fairy tales, and when she thought the work had gone well she would reward the children by reading or narrating "The Travelling Companion," or "The Tinder-box," or "The Wild Swans." Besides, there were pretty and amusing illustrations in that book, and to look at those was almost as much fun as to hear the stories.
At eight o'clock supper was served, and then the Lieutenant appeared. Up to that hour he had been at the farm-office poring over his ledgers.
And now, after the long work-filled day, one could at last relax. The children put away their needlework, and the Lieutenant, sitting back in his rocking-chair, began to tell schoolboy yarns like the one about Mamselle Brorström, or else he related his memories of the ​glorious Jenny Lind as Norma or the Daughter of the Regiment, or of Emily Högquist as the Maid of Orleans. When at times he did not feel like talking, he would ask Fru Lagerlöf or Mamselle Lovisa to read aloud from Tegnér. Anything more beautiful than "Fritiof's Saga" he thought had never been written. He would rather have been the Lund professor who sang of Fritiof's and Ingeborg's love, than Emperor of France or Tsar of Russia. He was also an admirer of Runeberg, whose tales of "Surgeon Stål" and epic poems he enjoyed hearing. But he did not like it if any one said the Finnish poet was greater than Tegnér.
Sometimes (and that was the best fun of all) he would sit down at the old piano and strike a few chords, then call out:
"Come, children, let's sing Bellman!"
The girls needed no coaxing, they were over by the piano in a jiffy. Then, with high glee, they let loose on Bellman! They always began with "Old Man Noah" and "Joachim of Babylon," then followed "Father Movitz" and "Mother at Tuppen," and they sang of "Dancing Master Mollberg, and His Misadventures in Rostock Tavern."
The Lieutenant pounded out the accompaniments, and hummed the air, to mark the time and carry the tune. But the children sang at the top of their voices, and could be heard all over the house. Here were indeed life and merriment for them after the day's work! They understood very little of what they sang, ​but the melodies put them in a glow and livened their spirits. Ah, how sweet it sounded when Ulla danced in spangles, veil and fringe! or when Fredman sang: "'Tis as far to Monday as from north to south." And what could be funnier than when the ever-hapless Mollberg jumped into the vat where Grogshop-Mother soaked her stockfish, or when at the great boating-picnic the party-cake came on garnished with sugar, cinnamon, and anchovies!
But what delighted the children above everything was that they might sing as loud as ever they wished. The Lieutenant never corrected them or interrupted to remind them that there were such things as voice modulation and singing in unison. They thought they sang Bellman just as he should be sung.
On the wall above the piano sat Karl Mikael (Bellman) himself, with his lute. Now and then, the Lieutenant looked up at him, as if expecting a smile of approval from that incomparable lyrist and singer.
But once when Lieutenant Lagerlöf and the children were having a Bellman-sing, it happened that Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt was there, sitting in his usual corner, chatting with Mamselle Lovisa.
"Isn't it strange that not one of the children has a voice?" Mamselle Lovisa remarked to the Sergeant in a half-whisper.
"Yes," replied the Sergeant in a low tone. "That they haven't singing voices they can't help, but they might at least make use of their ears!"
​"It seems extraordinary, when both parents are musical, don't you think so, Wachenfeldt? I can't understand how Gustaf endures it!"
"He does not hear it as it sounds to us," said the Sergeant. "He loves those children."
"People are wont to speak of seeing with the eyes of love," observed Mamselle Lovisa, "and there may be such a thing as hearing with the ears of love.…"
"Be sure of that!" responded the Colour-Sergeant, who knew whereof he spoke.
One of the little singers chanced to overhear those remarks, and repeated them to the others, and perhaps it was due to that that the Bellman "concerts" at Mårbacka were suddenly discontinued.
But long afterward—aye, always—the love of the Bellman songs lived in the hearts of the Mårbacka children. They loved them not only for their humour and pathos and their haunting beauty; but the faintest tone from the Bellman lute called up memories of the never-failing love and tenderness that had made their childhood such a happy one!