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despaired. Such men have always existed and exist
still. I would greet them as heroes and honor them
as long as I live. I could not endure it.”
“I could not,” added the parson.
“The pastor up there,” said Gösta, thoughtfully,
“thinks he must become rich, an immensely rich
man. No poor man can fight the evil there, and he
begins to hoard.”
“If he did not hoard, he would drink,” answered
the old man, “for he sees so much misery.”
“"Or become dull and lazy and lose all his
strength. It is dangerous to live up there if you have
not been born to it.”
“He must harden his heart, if he is to hoard.
He pretends at first—then it becomes a habit.”
“He must be severe both with himself and with
others,” continued Gösta; “it is so difficult to amass
anything. He must endure hatred and scorn; he
must consent to freeze and starve and harden his
heart. It seems, after a time, as if he forgot why he
began to save.”
The Broby parson glanced furtively at Gösta.
He wondered if he sat and made fun of him, but
Gösta was all seriousness and eagerness. He might
have been speaking of his own case.
“So it has gone with me,” the old man said
gently.
“But God protects him,” ejaculated Gösta. “He
awakens within him a thought of his youth. When
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