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diff --git a/14273-h/14273-h.htm b/14273-h/14273-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5ff636 --- /dev/null +++ b/14273-h/14273-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9567 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Invisible Links, by Selma Lagerlöf</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14273 ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>Invisible Links</h1> + +<h4><i>Translated from the Swedish of</i></h4> + +<h2 class="no-break">Selma Lagerlöf</h2> + +<h5>Author of “The Story of Gösta Berling,” “The Miracles of +Antichrist,” etc.<br />by</h5> + +<h4>Pauline Bancroft Flach</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">THE SPIRIT OF FASTING AND PETTER NORD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">THE LEGEND OF THE BIRD’S NEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">THE KING’S GRAVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">THE OUTLAWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">THE LEGEND OF REOR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VALDEMAR ATTERDAG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">MAMSELL FREDRIKA</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">THE ROMANCE OF A FISHERMAN’S WIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">MOTHER’S PORTRAIT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">A FALLEN KING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">A CHRISTMAS GUEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">UNCLE REUBEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">DOWNIE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">AMONG THE CLIMBING ROSES</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE SPIRIT OF FASTING AND PETTER NORD</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +I can see before me the little town, friendly as a home. It is so small that I +know its every hole and corner, am friends with all the children and know the +name of every one of its dogs. Who ever walked up the street knew to which +window he must raise his eyes to see a lovely face behind the panes, and who +ever strolled through the town park knew well whither he should turn his steps +to meet the one he wished to meet. +</p> + +<p> +One was as proud of the beautiful roses in the garden of a neighbor, as if they +had grown in one’s own. If anything mean or vulgar was done, it was as +great a shame as if it had happened in one’s own family; but at the +smallest adventure, at a fire or a fight in the market-place, one swelled with +pride and said: “Only see what a community! Do such things ever happen +anywhere else? What a wonderful town!” +</p> + +<p> +In my beloved town nothing ever changes. If I ever come there again, I shall +find the same houses and shops that I knew of old; the same holes in the +pavements will cause my downfall; the same stiff hedges of lindens, the same +clipped lilac bushes will captivate my fascinated gaze. Again shall I see the +old Mayor who rules the whole town walking down the street with elephantine +tread. What a feeling of security there is in knowing that you are walking +there! And deaf old Halfvorson will still be digging in his garden, while his +eyes, clear as water, stare and wander as if they would say: “We have +investigated everything, everything; now, earth, we will bore down to your very +centre.” +</p> + +<p> +But one who will not still be there is little, round Petter Nord: the little +fellow from Värmland, you know, who was in Halfvorson’s shop; he who +amused the customers with his small mechanical inventions and his white mice. +There is a long story about him. There are stories to be told about everything +and everybody in the town. Nowhere else do such wonderful things happen. +</p> + +<p> +He was a peasant boy, little Petter Nord. He was short and round; he was +brown-eyed and smiling. His hair was paler than birch leaves in the autumn; his +cheeks were red and downy. And he was from Värmland. No one, seeing him, could +imagine that he was from any other place. His native land had equipped him with +its excellent qualities. He was quick at his work, nimble with his fingers, +ready with his tongue, clear in his thoughts. And, moreover, full of fun, +good-natured and brave, kind and quarrelsome, inquisitive and a chatterbox. A +madcap, he never could show more respect to a burgomaster than to a beggar! But +he had a heart; he fell in love every other day, and confided in the whole +town. +</p> + +<p> +This child of rich gifts attended to the work in the shop in rather an +extraordinary manner. The customers were waited on while he fed the white mice. +Money was changed and counted while he put wheels on his little automatic +wagons. And while he told the customers of his very last love-affair, he kept +his eye on the quart measure, into which the brown molasses was slowly curling. +It delighted his admiring listeners to see him suddenly leap over the counter +and rush out into the street to have a brush with a passing street-boy; also to +see him calmly return to tie the string on a package or to finish measuring a +piece of cloth. +</p> + +<p> +Was it not quite natural that he should be the favorite of the whole town? We +all felt obliged to trade with Halfvorson, after Petter Nord came there. Even +the old Mayor himself was proud when Petter Nord took him apart into a dark +corner and showed him the cages of the white mice. It was nervous work to show +the mice, for Halfvorson had forbidden him to have them in the shop. +</p> + +<p> +But then in the brightening February there came a few days of warm, misty +weather. Petter Nord became suddenly serious and silent. He let the white mice +nibble the steel bars of their cages without feeding them. He attended to his +duties in the most irreproachable way. He fought with no more street boys. +Could Petter Nord not bear the change in the weather? +</p> + +<p> +Oh no, the matter was that he had found a fifty-crown note on one of the +shelves. He believed that it had got caught in a piece of cloth, and without +any one’s seeing him he had pushed it under a roll of striped cotton +which was out of fashion and was never taken down from the shelf. +</p> + +<p> +The boy was cherishing great anger in his heart against Halfvorson. The latter +had destroyed a whole family of mice for him, and now he meant to be revenged. +Before his eyes he still saw the white mother with her helpless offspring. She +had not made the slightest attempt to escape; she had remained in her place +with steadfast heroism, staring with red, burning eyes on the heartless +murderer. Did he not deserve a short time of anxiety? Petter Nord wished to see +him come out pale as death from his office and begin to look for the fifty +crowns. He wished to see the same despair in his watery eyes as he had seen in +the ruby red ones of the white mouse. The shopkeeper should search, he should +turn the whole shop upside down before Petter Nord would let him find the +bank-note. +</p> + +<p> +But the fifty crowns lay in its hiding-place all day without any one’s +asking about it. It was a new note, many-colored and bright, and had big +numbers in all the corners. When Petter Nord was alone in the shop, he put a +step-ladder against the shelves and climbed up to the roll of cotton. Then he +took out the fifty crowns, unfolded it and admired its beauties. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of the most eager trade he would grow anxious lest something +should have happened to the fifty crowns. Then he pretended to look for +something on the shelf, and groped about under the roll of cotton till he felt +the smooth bank-note rustle under his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +The note had suddenly acquired a supernatural power over him. Might there not +be something living in it? The figures surrounded by wide rings were like +magnetic eyes. The boy kissed them all and whispered: “I should like to +have many, very many like you.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to have all sorts of thoughts about the note, and why Halfvorson did +not inquire for it. Perhaps it was not Halfvorson’s? Perhaps it had lain +in the shop for a long time? Perhaps it no longer had any owner? +</p> + +<p> +Thoughts are contagious.—At supper Halfvorson had begun to speak of money +and moneyed-men. He told Petter Nord about all the poor boys who had amassed +riches. He began with Whittington and ended with Astor and Jay Gould. +Halfvorson knew all their histories; he knew how they had striven and denied +themselves; what they had discovered and ventured. He grew eloquent when he +began on such tales. He lived through the sufferings of those young people; he +followed them in their successes; he rejoiced in their victories. Petter Nord +listened quite fascinated. +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson was stone deaf, but that was no obstacle to conversation, for he +read by the lips everything that was said. On the other hand, he could not hear +his own voice. It rolled out as strangely monotonous as the roar of a distant +waterfall. But his peculiar way of speaking made everything he said sink in, so +that one could not escape from it for many days. Poor Petter Nord! +</p> + +<p> +“What is most needed to become rich,” said Halfvorson, “is +the foundation. But it cannot be earned. Take note that they all have found it +in the street or discovered it between the lining and cloth of a coat which +they had bought at a pawnbroker’s sale; or that it had been won at cards, +or had been given to them in alms by a beautiful and charitable lady. After +they had once found that blessed coin, everything had gone well with them. The +stream of gold welled from it as from a fountain. The first thing that is +necessary, Petter Nord, is the foundation.” +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson’s voice sounded ever fainter and fainter. Young Petter Nord +sat in a kind of trance and saw endless vistas of gold before him. On the +dining table rose great piles of ducats; the floor heaved white with silver, +and the indistinct patterns on the dirty wall-paper changed into banknotes, big +as handkerchiefs. But directly before his eyes fluttered the fifty-crown note, +surrounded by wide rings, luring him like the most beautiful eyes. “Who +can know,” smiled the eyes, “perhaps the fifty crowns up on the +shelf is just such a foundation?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mark my words,” said Halfvorson, “that, after the +foundation, two things are necessary for those who wish to reach the heights. +Work, untiring work, Petter Nord, is one; and the other is renunciation. +Renunciation of play and love, of talk and laughter, of morning sleep and +evening strolls. In truth, in truth, two things are necessary for him who would +win fortune. One is called work, and the other renunciation.” +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord looked as if he would like to weep. Of course he wished to be rich, +naturally he wished to be fortunate, but fortune should not be so anxiously and +sadly won. Fortune ought to come of herself. Just as Petter Nord was fighting +with the street boys, the noble lady should stop her coach at the shop-door, +and invite the Värmland boy to the place at her side. But now +Halfvorson’s voice still rolled in his ears. His brain was full of it. He +thought of nothing else, knew nothing else. Work and renunciation, work and +renunciation, that was life and the object of life. He asked nothing else, +dared not think that he had ever wished anything else. +</p> + +<p> +The next day he did not dare to kiss the fifty-crown note, did not dare even to +look at it. He was silent and low-spirited, orderly and industrious. He +attended to all his duties so irreproachably that any one could see that there +was something wrong with him. The old Mayor was troubled about the boy and did +what he could to cheer him. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think of going to the Mid-Lent ball this evening?” asked +the old man. “So, you did not. Well, then I invite you. And be sure that +you come, or I will tell Halfvorson where you keep your mouse-cages.” +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord sighed and promised to go to the ball. +</p> + +<p> +The Mid-Lent ball, fancy Petter Nord at the Mid-Lent ball! Petter Nord would +see all the beautiful ladies of the town, delicate, dressed in white, adorned +with flowers. But of course Petter Nord would not be allowed to dance with a +single one of them. Well, it did not matter. He was not in the mood to dance. +</p> + +<p> +At the ball he stood in a doorway and made no attempt to dance. Several people +had asked him to take part, but he had been firm and said no. He could not +dance any of those dances. Neither would any of those fine ladies be willing to +dance with him. He was much too humble for them. +</p> + +<p> +But as he stood there, his eyes began to kindle and shine, and he felt joy +creeping through his limbs. It came from the dance music; it came from the +fragrance of the flowers; it came from all the beautiful faces about him. After +a little while he was so sparklingly happy that, if joy had been fire, he would +have been surrounded by bursting flames. And if love were it, as many say it +is, it would have been the same. He was always in love with some pretty girl, +but hitherto with only one at a time. But when he now saw all those beautiful +ladies together, it was no longer a single fire, which laid waste his +sixteen-year-old heart; it was a whole conflagration. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes he looked down at his boots, which were by no means dancing shoes. +But how he could have marked the time with the broad heels and spun round on +the thick soles! Something was dragging and pulling him and trying to hurl him +out on the floor like a whipped ball. He could still resist it, although his +excitement grew stronger as the hours advanced. He grew delirious and hot. +Heigh ho, he was no longer poor Petter Nord! He was the young whirlwind, that +raises the seas and overthrows the forests. +</p> + +<p> +Just then a hambo-polska<a href="#fn-1" name="fnref-1" id="fnref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> +struck up. The peasant boy was quite beside himself. He thought it sounded like +the polska, like the Värmland polska. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-1" id="fn-1"></a> <a href="#fnref-1">[1]</a> +A Swedish national dance of a very lively character +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Petter Nord was out on the floor. All his fine manners dropped off +him. He was no longer at the town-hall ball; he was at home in the barn at the +midsummer dance. He came forward, his knees bent, his head drawn down between +his shoulders. Without stopping to ask, he threw his arms round a lady’s +waist and drew her with him. And then he began to dance the polska. +</p> + +<p> +The girl followed him, half unwillingly, almost dragged. She was not in time; +she did not know what kind of a dance it was, but suddenly it went quite of +itself. The mystery of the dance was revealed to her. The polska bore her, +lifted her; her feet had wings; she felt as light as air. She thought that she +was flying. +</p> + +<p> +For the Värmland polska is the most wonderful dance. It transforms the +heavy-footed sons of earth. Without a sound soles an inch thick float over the +unplaned barn floor. They whirl about, light as leaves in an autumn wind. It is +supple, quick, silent, gliding. Its noble, measured movements set the body free +and let it feel itself light, elastic, floating. +</p> + +<p> +While Petter Nord danced the dance of his native land, there was silence in the +ball-room. At first people laughed, but then they all recognized that this was +dancing. It floated away in even, rapid whirls; it was dancing indeed, if +anything. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of his delirium Petter Nord perceived that round about him reigned +a strange silence. He stopped short and passed his hand over his forehead. +There was no black barn floor, no leafy walls, no light blue summer night, no +merry peasant maiden in the reality he gazed upon. He was ashamed and wished to +steal away. +</p> + +<p> +But he was already surrounded, besieged. The young ladies crowded about the +shop-boy and cried: “Dance with us; dance with us!” +</p> + +<p> +They wished to learn the polska. They all wished to learn to dance the polska. +The ball was turned from its course and became a dancing-school. All said that +they had never known before what it was to dance. And Petter Nord was a great +man for that evening. He had to dance with all the fine ladies, and they were +exceedingly kind to him. He was only a boy, and such a madcap besides. No one +could help making a pet of him. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord felt that this was happiness. To be the favorite of the ladies, to +dare to talk to them, to be in the midst of lights, of movement, to be made +much of, to be petted, surely this was happiness. +</p> + +<p> +When the ball was over, he was too happy to think about it. He needed to come +home to be able to think over quietly what had happened to him that evening. +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson was not married, but he had in his house a niece who worked in the +office. She was poor and dependent on Halfvorson, but she was quite haughty +towards both him and Petter Nord. She had many friends among the more important +people of the town and was invited to families where Halfvorson could never +come. She and Petter Nord went home from the ball together. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Nord,” asked Edith Halfvorson, “that a suit is +soon to be brought against Halfvorson for illicit trading in brandy? You might +tell me how it really is.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing worth making a fuss about,” said Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +Edith sighed. “Of course there is nothing. But there will be a lawsuit +and fines and shame without end. I wish that I really knew how it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is best not to know anything,” said Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to rise in the world, do you see,” continued Edith, +“and I wish to drag Halfvorson up with me, but he always drops back +again. And then he does something so that I become impossible too. He is +scheming something now. Do you not know what it is? It would be good to +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Petter Nord, and not another word would he say. It was +inhuman to talk to him of such things on the way home from his first ball. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond the shop there was a little dark room for the shop-boy. There sat Petter +Nord of to-day and came to an understanding with Petter Nord of yesterday. How +pale and cowardly the churl looked. Now he heard what he really was. A thief +and a miser. Did he know the seventh commandment? By rights he ought to have +forty stripes. That was what he deserved. +</p> + +<p> +God be blessed and praised for having let him go to the ball and get a new view +of it all. Usch! what ugly thoughts he had had; but now it was quite changed. +As if riches were worth sacrificing conscience and the soul’s freedom for +their sake! As if they were worth as much as a white mouse, if the heart could +not be glad at the same time! He clapped his hands and cried out in +joy—that he was free, free, free! There was not even a longing to possess +the fifty crowns in his heart. How good it was to be happy! +</p> + +<p> +When he had gone to bed, he thought that he would show Halfvorson the fifty +crowns early the next morning. Then he became uneasy that the tradesman might +come into the shop before him the next morning, search for the note and find +it. He might easily think that Petter Nord had hidden it to keep it. The +thought gave him no peace. He tried to shake it off, but he could not succeed. +He could not sleep. So he rose, crept into the shop and felt about till he +found the fifty crowns. Then he fell asleep with the note under his pillow. +</p> + +<p> +An hour later he awoke. A light shone sharply in his eyes; a hand was fumbling +under his pillow and a rumbling voice was scolding and swearing. +</p> + +<p> +Before the boy was really awake, Halfvorson had the note in his hand and showed +it to the two women, who stood in the doorway to his room. “You see that +I was right,” said Halfvorson. “You see that it was well worth +while for me to drag you up to bear witness against him! You see that he is a +thief!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” screamed poor Petter Nord. “I did not wish to +steal. I only hid the note.” +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson heard nothing. Both the women stood with their backs turned to the +room, as if determined to neither hear nor see. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord sat up in bed. He looked all of a sudden pitifully weak and small. +His tears were streaming. He wailed aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” said Edith, “he is weeping.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him weep,” said Halfvorson, “let him weep!” And he +walked forward and looked at the boy. “You can weep all you like,” +he said, “but that does not take me in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, oh,” cried Petter Nord, “I am no thief. I hid the note +as a joke—to make you angry. I wanted to pay you back for the mice. I am +not a thief. Will no one listen to me. I am not a thief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” said Edith, “if you have tortured him enough now, +perhaps we may go back to bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, of course, that it sounds terrible,” said Halfvorson, +“but it cannot be helped.” He was gay, in very high spirits. +“I have had my eye on you for a long time,” he said to the boy. +“You have always something you are tucking away when I come into the +shop. But now I have caught you. Now I leave witnesses, and now I am going for +the police.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy gave a piercing scream. “Will no one help me, will no one help +me?” he cried. Halfvorson was gone, and the old woman who managed his +house came up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up and dress yourself, Petter Nord! Halforson has gone for the +police, and while he is away you can escape. The young lady can go out into the +kitchen and get you a little food. I will pack your things.” +</p> + +<p> +The terrible weeping instantly ceased. After a short time of hurry the boy was +ready. He kissed both the women on the hand, humbly, like a whipped dog. And +then off he ran. +</p> + +<p> +They stood in the door and looked after him. When he was gone, they drew a sigh +of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“What will Halfvorson say?” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“He will be glad,” answered the housekeeper. +</p> + +<p> +“He put the money there for the boy, I think. I guess that he wanted to +be rid of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why? The boy was the best one we have had in the shop for many +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“He probably did not want him to give testimony in the affair with the +brandy.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith stood silent and breathed quickly. “It is so base, so base,” +she murmured. She clenched her fist towards the office and towards the little +pane in the door, through which Halfvorson could see into the shop. She would +have liked, she too, to have fled out into the world, away from all this +meanness. She heard a sound far in, in the shop. She listened, went nearer, +followed the noise, and at last found behind a keg of herring the cage of +Petter Nord’s white mice. +</p> + +<p> +She took it up, put it on the counter, and opened the cage door. Mouse after +mouse scampered out and disappeared behind boxes and barrels. +</p> + +<p> +“May you flourish and increase,” said Edith. “May you do +injury and revenge your master!” +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +The little town lay friendly and contented under its red hill. It was so +embedded in green that the church tower only just stuck up out of it. Garden +after garden crowded one another on narrow terraces up the slope, and when they +could go no further in that direction, they leaped with their bushes and trees +across the street and spread themselves out between the scattered farmhouses +and on the narrow strips of earth about them, until they were stopped by the +broad river. +</p> + +<p> +Complete silence and quiet reigned in the town. Not a soul was to be seen; only +trees and bushes, and now and again a house. The only sound to be heard was the +rolling of balls in the bowling-alley, like distant thunder on a summer day. It +belonged to the silence. +</p> + +<p> +But now the uneven stones of the market-place were ground under iron-shod +heels. The noise of coarse voices thundered against the walls of the town-hall +and the church was thrown back from the mountain, and hastened unchecked down +the long street. Four wayfarers disturbed the noonday peace. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, for the sweet silence, the holiday peace of years! How terrified they +were! One could almost see them betaking themselves in flight up the mountain +slopes. +</p> + +<p> +One of the noisy crew who broke into the village was Petter Nord, the Värmland +boy, who six years before had run away, accused of theft. Those who were with +him were three longshoremen from the big commercial town that lies only a few +miles away. +</p> + +<p> +How had little Petter Nord been getting on? He had been getting on well. He had +found one of the most sensible of friends and companions. +</p> + +<p> +As he ran away from the village in the dark, rainy February morning, the polska +tunes seethed and roared in his ears. And one of them was more persistent than +all the others. It was the one they all had sung during the ring dance. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Christmas time has come,<br /> +Christmas time has come,<br /> +And after Christmas time comes Easter.<br /> +That is not true at all,<br /> +That is not true at all,<br /> +For Lent comes after Christmas feasting. +</p> + +<p> +The fugitive heard it so distinctly, so distinctly. And then the wisdom that is +hidden in the old ring dance forced itself upon the little pleasure-loving +Värmland boy, forced itself into his very fibre, blended with every drop of +blood, soaked into his brain and marrow. It is so; that is the meaning. Between +Christmas and Easter, between the festivals of birth and death, comes +life’s fasting. One shall ask nothing of life; it is a poor, miserable +fast. One shall never trust it, however it may appear. The next moment it is +gray and ugly again. It is not its fault, poor thing, it cannot help it! +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord felt almost proud at having cheated life out of its most profound +secret. +</p> + +<p> +He thought he saw the pallid Spirit of Fasting creeping about over the earth in +the shape of a beggar with Lenten twigs<a href="#fn-2" name="fnref-2" id="fnref-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> +in her hand. And he heard how she hissed at him: “You have wished to +celebrate the festival of joy and merry moods in the midst of the time of +fasting, which is called life. Therefore shame and dishonor shall befall you, +until you change your ways.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-2" id="fn-2"></a> <a href="#fnref-2">[2]</a> +In Sweden, just before Easter, bunches of birch twigs with small feathers tied +on the ends, are sold everywhere on the streets. The origin of this custom is +unknown.—T<small>RANS</small>. +</p> + +<p> +He had changed his ways, and the Spirit of Fasting had protected him. He had +never needed to go farther than to the big town, for he was never followed. And +in its working quarter the Spirit of Fasting had her dwelling. Petter Nord +found work in a machine shop. He grew strong and energetic. He became serious +and thrifty. He had fine Sunday clothes; he acquired new knowledge, borrowed +books and went to lectures. There was nothing really left of little Petter Nord +but his white hair and his brown eyes. +</p> + +<p> +That night had broken something in him, and the heavy work at the machine-shop +made the break ever bigger, so that the wild Värmland boy had crept quite out +through it. He no longer talked nonsense, for no one was allowed to speak in +the shop, and he soon learned silent ways. He no longer invented anything new, +for since he had to look after springs and wheels in earnest, he no longer +found them amusing. He never fell in love, for he could not be interested in +the women of the working quarter, after he had learned to know the beauties of +his native town. He had no mice, no squirrels, nothing to play with. He had no +time; he understood that such things were useless, and he thought with horror +of the time when he used to fight with street boys. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord did not believe that life could be anything but gray, gray, gray. +Petter Nord always had a dull time, but he was so used to it that he did not +notice it. Petter Nord was proud of himself because he had become so virtuous. +He dated his good behavior from that night when Joy failed him and Fasting +became his companion and friend. +</p> + +<p> +But how could the virtuous Petter Nord be coming to the village on a work-day, +accompanied by three boon companions, who were loafers and drunken? +</p> + +<p> +He had always been a good boy, poor Petter Nord. And he had always tried to +help those three good-for-nothings as well as he could, although he despised +them. He had come with wood to their miserable hovel, when the winter was most +severe, and he had patched and mended their clothes. The men held together like +brothers, principally because they were all three named Petter. That name +united them much more than if they bad been born brothers. And now they allowed +the boy on account of that name to do them friendly services, and when they had +got their grog ready and settled themselves comfortably on their wooden chairs, +they entertained him, sitting and darning the gaping holes in their stockings, +with gallows humor and adventurous lies. Petter Nord liked it, although he +would not acknowledge it. They were now for him almost what the mice had been +formerly. +</p> + +<p> +Now it happened that these wharf-rats had heard some gossip from the village. +And after the space of six years they brought Petter Nord information that +Halfvorson had put the fifty crowns out for him to disqualify him as a witness. +And in their opinion Petter Nord ought to go back to the town and punish +Halfvorson. +</p> + +<p> +But Petter Nord was sensible and deliberate, and equipped with the wisdom of +this world. He would not have anything to do with such a proposal. +</p> + +<p> +The Petters spread the story about through the whole quarter. Every one said to +Petter Nord: “Go back and punish Halfvorson, then you will be arrested, +and there will be a trial, and the thing will get into the papers, and the +fellow’s shame will be known throughout all the land.” +</p> + +<p> +But Petter Nord would not. It might be amusing, but revenge is a costly +pleasure, and Petter Nord knew that Life is poor. Life cannot afford such +amusements. +</p> + +<p> +One morning the three men had come to him and said that they were going in his +place to beat Halfvorson, “that justice should be done on earth,” +as they said. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord threatened to kill all three of them if they went one step on the +way to the village. +</p> + +<p> +Then one of them who was little and short, and whose name was Long-Petter, made +a speech to Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +“This earth,” he said, is an apple hanging by a string over a fire +to roast. By the fire I mean the kingdom of the evil one, Petter Nord, and the +apple must hang near the fire to be sweet and tender; but if the string breaks +and the apple falls into the fire, it is destroyed. Therefore the string is +very important, Petter Nord. Do you understand what is meant by the +string?” +</p> + +<p> +“I guess it must be a steel wire,” said Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +“By the string I mean justice,” said Long-Petter with deep +seriousness. “If there is no justice on earth, everything falls into the +fire. Therefore the avenger may not refuse to punish, or if he will not do it, +others must.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the last time I will offer any of you any grog,” said +Petter Nord, quite unmoved by the speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it can’t be helped,” said Long-Petter, “justice +must be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“We do not do it to be thanked by you, but in order that the honorable +name of Petter shall not be brought to disrepute,” said one, whose name +was Rulle-Petter, and who was tall and morose. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, is the name so highly esteemed!” said Petter Nord, +contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the worst of it is that they are beginning to say everywhere in +all the saloons that you must have meant to steal the fifty crowns, since you +will not have the shopkeeper punished.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words bit in deep. Petter Nord started up and said that he would go and +beat the shopkeeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and we will go with you and help you,” said the loafers. +</p> + +<p> +And so they started off, four men strong, to the village. At first Petter Nord +was gloomy and surly, and much more angry with his friends than with his enemy. +But when he came to the bridge over the river, he became quite changed. He felt +as if he had met there a little, weeping fugitive, and had crept into him. And +as he became more at home in the old Petter Nord he felt what a grievous wrong +the shopkeeper had done him. Not only because he had tried to tempt him and +ruin him, but, worst of all, because he had driven him away from that town, +where Petter Nord could have remained Petter Nord all the days of his life. Oh, +what fun he had had in those days, how happy and glad he had been, how open his +heart, how beautiful the world! Lord God, if he had only been allowed always to +live here! And he thought of what he was now—silent and stupid, serious +and industrious—quite like a prodigal. +</p> + +<p> +He grew passionately angry with Halfvorson, and instead of, as before, +following his companions, he dashed past them. +</p> + +<p> +But the tramps, who had not come merely to punish Halfvorson, but also to let +their wrath break loose, hardly knew how to begin. There was nothing for an +angry man to do here. There was not a dog to chase, not a street-sweeper to +pick a quarrel with, nor a fine gentleman at whom to throw an insult. +</p> + +<p> +It was early in the year; the spring was just turning into summer. It was the +white time of cherry and hawthorn blossoms, when bunches of lilacs cover the +high, round bushes, and the air is full of the fragrance of the apple-blossoms. +These men who had come direct from paved streets and wharves to this realm of +flowers were strangely affected by it. Three pairs of fists that till now had +been fiercely clenched, relaxed, and three pairs of heels thundered a little +less violently against the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +From the market-place they saw a pathway that wound up the hill. Along it grew +young cherry-trees which formed vaulted arches with their white tops. The arch +was light and floating, and the branches absurdly slender, altogether weak, +delicate and youthful. +</p> + +<p> +The cherry-tree path attracted the eyes of the men against their will. What an +unpractical hole it was, where people planted cherry trees, where any one could +take the cherries. The three Petters had considered it before as a nest of +iniquity, full of cruelty and tyranny. Now they began to laugh at it, and even +to despise it a little. +</p> + +<p> +But the fourth one of the company did not laugh. His longing for revenge was +seething ever more fiercely, for he felt that this was the town where he ought +to have lived and labored. It was his lost paradise. And without paying any +attention to the others he walked quickly up the street. +</p> + +<p> +They followed him; and when they saw that there was only one street, and when +they saw only flowers, and more flowers the whole length of it, their scorn and +their good humor increased. It was perhaps the first time in their lives that +they had ever noticed flowers, but here they could not help it, for the +clusters of lilac blossoms brushed off their caps and the petals of +cherry-blossoms rained down over them. +</p> + +<p> +“What kind of people do you suppose live in this town?” said +Long-Petter, musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Bees,” answered Cobbler-Petter, who had received his name because +he had once lived in the same house as a shoemaker. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, little by little, they perceived a few people. In the windows, +behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young, pretty faces, and they +saw children playing on the terraces. But no noise disturbed the silence. It +seemed to them as if the trump of the Day of Doom itself would not be able to +wake this town. What could they do with themselves in such a town! +</p> + +<p> +They went into a shop and bought some beer. There they asked several questions +of the shopman in a terrible voice. They asked if the fire-brigade had their +engines in order, and wondered if there were clappers in the church bells, if +there should happen to be an alarm. +</p> + +<p> +They drank their beer in the street and threw the bottles away. One, two, +three, all the bottles at the same corner, thunder and crash, and the splinters +flew about their ears. +</p> + +<p> +They heard steps behind them, real steps; voices, loud, distinct voices; +laughter, much laughter, and, moreover, a rattling as if of metal. They were +appalled, and drew back into a doorway. It sounded like a whole company. +</p> + +<p> +It was one, too, but of young girls. All the maids of the town were going out +in a body to the pastures to milk. +</p> + +<p> +It made the deepest impression on these city men, these citizens of the world. +The maids of the town with milk-pails! It was almost touching! +</p> + +<p> +They suddenly jumped out of their doorway and cried “Boo!” +</p> + +<p> +The whole troop of girls scattered instantly. They screamed and ran. Their +skirts fluttered; their head cloths loosened; their milk-pails rolled about the +street. +</p> + +<p> +And at the same time, along the whole street, was heard a deafening sound of +gates and doors slammed to, of hooks and bolts and locks. +</p> + +<p> +Farther down the street stood a big linden tree, and under it sat an old woman +by a table with candies and cakes. She did not move; she did not look round; +she only sat still. She was not asleep either. +</p> + +<p> +“She is made of wood,” said Cobbler-Petter. +</p> + +<p> +“No, of clay,” said Rulle-Petter. +</p> + +<p> +They walked abreast, all three. Just in front of the old woman they began to +reel. They staggered against her table. And the old woman began to scold. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither of wood nor of clay,” they said,—“venom, only +venom.” +</p> + +<p> +During all this time Petter Nord had not spoken to them, but now, at last, they +were directly in front of Halfvorson’s shop, and there he was waiting for +them. +</p> + +<p> +“This is, undeniably, my affair,” he said proudly, and pointed at +the shop. “I wish to go in alone and attend to it. If I do not succeed, +then you may try.” +</p> + +<p> +They nodded. “Go ahead, Petter Nord! We will wait outside.” +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord went in, found a young man alone in the shop, and asked about +Halfvorson. He heard that the latter had gone away. He had quite a talk with +the clerk, and obtained a good deal of information about his master. +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson had never been accused of illicit trade. How he had behaved towards +Petter Nord every one knew, but no one spoke of that affair any more. +Halfvorson had risen in the world, and now he was not at all dangerous. He was +not inhuman to his debtors, and had ceased to spy on his shop-boys. The last +few years he had devoted himself to gardening. He had laid out a garden around +his house in the town, and a kitchen garden near the customhouse. He worked so +eagerly in his gardens that he scarcely thought of amassing money. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord felt a stab in his heart. Of course the man was good. He had +remained in paradise. Of course any one was good who lived there. +</p> + +<p> +Edith Halfvorson was still with her uncle, but she had been ill for a while. +Her lungs were weak, ever since an attack of pneumonia in the winter. +</p> + +<p> +While Petter Nord was listening to all this, and more too, the three men stood +outside and waited. +</p> + +<p> +In Halfvorson’s shadeless garden a bower of birch had been arranged so +that Edith might lie there in the beautiful, warm spring days. She regained her +strength slowly, but her life was no longer in danger. +</p> + +<p> +Some people make one feel that they are not able to live. At their first +illness they lie down and die. Halfvorson’s niece was long since weary of +everything, of the office, of the dim little shop, of money-getting. When she +was seventeen years old, she had the incentive of winning friends and +acquaintances. Then she undertook to try to keep Halfvorson in the path of +virtue, but now everything was accomplished. She saw no prospect of escaping +from the monotony of her life. She might as well die. +</p> + +<p> +She was of an elastic nature, like a steel spring: a bundle of nerves and +vivacity, when anything troubled or tormented her. How she had worked with +strategy and artifice, with womanly goodness and womanly daring, before she had +reached the point with her uncle when she was sure that there was no longer +danger of any Petter Nord affairs! But now that he was tamed and subdued, she +had nothing to interest her. Yes, and yet she would not die! She lay and +thought of what she would do when she was well again. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she started up, hearing some one say in a very loud voice that he +alone wished to settle with Halvorson. And then another voice answered: +“Go ahead, Petter Nord!” +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord was the most terrible, the most fatal name in the world. It meant a +revival of all the old troubles. Edith rose with trembling limbs, and just then +three dreadful creatures came around the corner and stopped to stare at her. +There was only a low rail and a thin hedge between her and the street. +</p> + +<p> +Edith was alone. The maids had gone to milk, and Halfvorson was working in his +garden by the custom-house, although he had told the shop-boy to nay that he +had gone away, for he was ashamed of his passion for gardening. Edith was +terribly frightened at the three men as well as at the one who had gone into +the shop. She was sure that they wished to do her harm. So she turned and ran +up the mountain by the steep, slippery path and the narrow, rotten wooden steps +which led from terrace to terrace. +</p> + +<p> +The strange men thought it too delightfully funny that she ran from them. They +could not resist pretending that they wished to catch her. One of them climbed +up on the railing, and all three shouted with a terrible voice. +</p> + +<p> +Edith ran as one runs in dreams, panting, falling, terrified to death, with a +horrible feeling of not getting away from one spot. All sorts of emotions +stormed through her, and shook her so that she thought she was going to die. +Yes, if one of those men laid his hand on her, she knew that she should die. +When she had reached the highest terrace, and dared to look back, she found +that the men were still in the street, and were no longer looking at her. Then +she threw herself down on the ground, quite powerless. The exertion had been +greater than she could bear. She felt something burst in her. Then blood +streamed from her lips. +</p> + +<p> +She was found by the maids as they went home from the milking. She was then +half dead. For the moment she was brought back to life, but no one dared to +hope that she could live long. +</p> + +<p> +She could not talk that day enough to tell in what way she had been frightened. +Had she done so, it is uncertain if the strange men had come alive from the +town. They fared badly enough as it was. For after Petter Nord had come out to +them again, and had told them that Halfvorson was not at home, all four of them +in good accord went out through the gates, and found a sunny slope where they +could sleep away the time until the shopman returned. +</p> + +<p> +But in the afternoon, when all the men of the town, who had been working in the +fields, came home again, the women told them about the tramps’ visit, +about their threatening questions in the shop where they had bought the beer, +and about all their boisterous behavior. The women exaggerated and magnified +everything, for they had sat at home and frightened one another the whole +afternoon. Their husbands believed that their houses and homes were in danger. +They determined to capture the disturbers of the peace, found a stout-hearted +man to lead them, took thick cudgels with them and started off. +</p> + +<p> +The whole town was alive. The women came out on their doorsteps and frightened +one another. It was both terrible and exciting. +</p> + +<p> +Before long the captors returned with their game. They had them all four. They +had made a ring round them while they slept and captured them. No heroism had +been required for the deed. +</p> + +<p> +Now they came back to the town with them, driving them as if they had been +animals. A mad thirst for revenge had seized upon the conquerors. They struck +for the pleasure of striking. When one of the prisoners clenched his fist at +them, he received a blow on the head which knocked him down, and thereupon +blows hailed upon him, until he got up and went on. The four men were almost +dead. +</p> + +<p> +The old poems are so beautiful. The captured hero sometimes must walk in chains +in the triumphal procession of his victorious enemy. But he is proud and +beautiful still in adversity. And looks follow him as well as the fortunate one +who has conquered him. Beauty’s tears and wreaths belong to him still, +even in misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +But who could be enraptured of poor Petter Nord? His coat was torn and his +tow-colored hair sticky with blood. He received the most blows, for he offered +the most resistance. He looked terrible, as he walked. He roared without +knowing it. Boys caught hold of him, and he dragged them long distances. Once +he stopped and flung off the crowd in the street. Just as he was about to +escape, a blow from a cudgel fell on his head and knocked him down. He rose up +again, half stunned, and staggered on, blows raining upon him, and the boys +hanging like leeches to his arms and legs. +</p> + +<p> +They met the old Mayor, who was on his way home from his game of whist in the +garden of the inn. “Yes,” he said to the advance +guard,—“yes, take them to the prison.” +</p> + +<p> +He placed himself at the head of the procession, shouted and ordered. In a +second everything was in line. Prisoners and guards marched in peace and order. +The villagers’ cheeks flushed; some of them threw down their cudgels; +others put them on their shoulders like muskets. And so the prisoners were +transferred into the keeping of the police, and were taken to the prison in the +market-place. +</p> + +<p> +Those who had saved the town stood a long time in the market-place and told of +their courage and of their great exploit. And in the little room of the inn, +where the smoke is as thick as a cloud, and the great men of the town mix their +midnight toddy, more is heard of the deed, magnified. They grow bigger in their +rocking-chairs; they swell in their sofa corners; they are all heroes. What +force is slumbering in that little town of mighty memories! Thou formidable +inheritance, thou old Viking blood! +</p> + +<p> +The old Mayor did not like the whole affair. He could not quite reconcile +himself to the stirring of the old Viking blood. He could not sleep for +thinking of it, and went out again into the street and strolled slowly towards +the square. +</p> + +<p> +It was a mild spring night. The church clock’s only hand pointed to +eleven. The balls had ceased to roll on the bowling alley. The curtains were +drawn down. The houses seemed to sleep with closed eyelids. The steep hill +behind was black, as if in mourning. But in the midst of all the sleep there +was one thing awake—the fragrance of the flowers did not sleep. It stole +over the linden hedges; poured out from the gardens; rushed up and down the +street; climbed up to every window standing open, to every skylight that sucked +in fresh air. +</p> + +<p> +Every one whom the fragrance reached instantly saw before him his little town, +although the darkness had gently settled down over it. He saw it as a village +of flowers, where it was not house by house, but garden by garden. He saw the +cherry trees that raised their white arches over the steep wood-path, the lilac +clusters, the swelling buds of glorious roses, the proud peonies, and the +drifts of flower-petals on the ground beneath the hawthorns. +</p> + +<p> +The old Mayor was deep in thought. He was so wise and so old. Seventy years had +he reached, and for fifty he had managed the affairs of the town. But that +night be asked himself if he had done right. “I had the town in my +hand,” he thought, “but I have not made it anything great.” +And he thought of its great past, and was the more uncertain if he had done +right. +</p> + +<p> +He stood in the market-place, looking out over the river. A boat came with +oars. A few villagers were coming home from a picnic. Girls in light dresses +held the oars. They steered in under the arch of the bridge, but there the +current was strong and they were drawn back. There was a violent struggle. +Their slender bodies were bent backwards, until they lay even with the edge of +the boat. Their soft arm-muscles tightened. The oars bent like bows. The noise +of laughter and cries filled the air. Again and again the current conquered. +The boat was driven back. And when at last the girls had to land at the market +quay, and leave the boat for men to take home, how red and vexed they were, and +how they laughed! How their laughter echoed down the street! How their broad, +shady hats, their light, fluttering summer dresses enlivened the quiet night. +</p> + +<p> +The old Mayor saw in his mind’s eye, for in the darkness he could not see +them distinctly, their sweet, young faces, their beautiful clear eyes and red +lips. Then he straightened himself proudly up. The little town was not without +all glory. Other communities could boast of other things, but he knew no place +richer in flowers and in the enchanting fairness of its women. +</p> + +<p> +Then the old man thought with new-born courage of his efforts. He need not fear +for the future of the town. Such a town did not need to protect itself with +strict laws. +</p> + +<p> +He felt compassion on the unfortunate prisoners. He went and waked the justice +of the peace, and talked with him. And the two were of one mind. They went +together to the prison and set Petter Nord and his companions free. +</p> + +<p> +And they did right. For the little town is like the Milo Aphrodite. It has +alluring beauty, and it lacks arms to hold fast. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +I shall almost be compelled to leave reality, and turn to the world of saga and +extravagance to be able to relate what now happened. If young Petter Nord had +been Per, the Swineherd, with a gold crown under his hat, it would all have +seemed simple and natural. But no one, of course, will believe me if I say that +Petter Nord also wore a royal crown on his tow hair. No one can ever know how +many wonderful things happen in that little town. No one can guess how many +enchanted princesses are waiting there for the shepherd boy of adventure. +</p> + +<p> +At first it looked as if there were to be no more adventures. For when Petter +Nord had been set free by the old Mayor, and for the second time had to flee in +shame and disgrace from the town, the same thoughts came over him as when he +fled the first time. The polska tunes rang again suddenly in his ears, and +loudest among them all sounded the old ring-dance. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Christmas time has come,<br /> +Christmas time has come,<br /> +And after Christmas time comes Easter.<br /> +That is not true at all,<br /> +That is not true at all,<br /> +For Lent comes after Christmas feasting. +</p> + +<p> +And he saw distinctly the pallid Spirit of Fasting stealing about over the +earth with her bundle of twigs on her arm. And she called to him: +“Spendthrift, spendthrift! You have wished to celebrate the festival of +revenge and reparation during the time of fasting, that is called life. Can you +afford such extravagances, foolish one?” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he had again sworn obedience and become the quiet and thrifty +workman. He again stood peaceful and sensible at his work. No one could believe +that it was he who had roared with rage and flung about the people in the +street, as an elk at bay shakes off the dogs. +</p> + +<p> +A few weeks later Halfvorson came to him at the machine-shop. He looked him up, +at his niece’s desire. She wished, if possible, to speak to him that same +day. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord began to shake and tremble when he saw Halfvorson. It was as if he +had seen a slippery snake. He did not know which he wished most—to strike +him or to run away from him; but he soon perceived that Halfvorson looked much +troubled. +</p> + +<p> +The tradesman looked as one does after having been out in a strong wind. The +muscles of his face were drawn; his mouth was compressed; his eyes red and full +of tears. He struggled visibly with some sorrow. The only thing in him that was +the same was his voice. It was as inhumanly expressionless as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not be afraid of the old story nor of the new one +either,” said Halfvorson. “It is known that you were with those men +who made all the trouble with us the other day. And as we supposed that they +came from here, I could learn where you were. Edith is going to die +soon,” he continued, and his whole face twitched as if it would fall to +pieces. “She wishes to speak to you before she dies. But we wish you no +harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I shall come,” said Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +Soon they were both on board the steamer. Petter Nord was decked out in his +fine Sunday clothes. Under his hat played and smiled all the dreams of his +boyhood in a veritable kingly crown; they encircled his light hair. +Edith’s message made him quite dizzy. Had he not always thought that fine +ladies would love him? And now here was one who wished to see him before she +died. Most wonderful of all things wonderful!—He sat and thought of her +as she had been formerly. How proud, how alive! And now she was going to die. +He was in such sorrow for her sake. But that she had been thinking of him all +these years! A warm, sweet melancholy came over him. +</p> + +<p> +He was really there again, the old, mad Petter Nord. As soon as he approached +the village the Spirit of Fasting went away from him with disgust and contempt. +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson could not keep still for a moment. The heavy gale, which he alone +perceived, swept him forward and back on the deck. As he passed Petter, he +murmured a few words, so that the latter could know by what paths his +despairing thoughts wandered. +</p> + +<p> +“They found her on the ground, half dead—blood everywhere about +her,” he said once. And another time: “Was she not good? Was she +not beautiful? How could such things come to her?” And again: “She +has made me good too. Could not see her sitting in sorrow all day long and +ruining the account-book with her tears.” Then this came: “A clever +child, besides. Won her way with me. Made my home pleasant. Got me +acquaintances among fine people. Understood what she was after, but could not +resist her.” He wandered away to the bow of the boat. When he came back +he said: “I cannot bear to have her die.” +</p> + +<p> +He said it all with that helpless voice, which he could not subdue or control. +Petter Nord had a proud feeling that such a man as he who wore a royal crown on +his brow had no right to be angry with Halfvorson. The latter was separated +from men by his infirmity, and could not win their love. Therefore he had to +treat them all as enemies. He was not to be measured by the same standard as +other people. +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord sank again into his dreams. <i>She</i> had remembered him all these +years, and now she could not die before she had seen him. Oh, fancy that a +young girl for all these years had been thinking of him, loving him, missing +him! +</p> + +<p> +As soon as they landed and reached the tradesman’s house, he was taken to +Edith, who was waiting for him in the arbor. +</p> + +<p> +The happy Petter Nord woke from his dreams when he saw her. She was a fair +vision, this girl, withering away in emulation with the rootless birches around +her. Her big eyes had darkened and grown clearer. Her hands were so thin and +transparent that one feared to touch them for their fragility. +</p> + +<p> +And it was she who loved him. Of course he had to love her instantly in return, +deeply, dearly, ardently! It was bliss, after so many years, to feel his heart +glow at the sight of a fellow-being. +</p> + +<p> +He had stopped motionless at the entrance of the arbor, while eyes, heart and +brain worked most eagerly. When she saw how he stood and stared at her, she +began to smile with that most despairing smile in the world, the smile of the +very ill, that says: “See, this is what I have become, but do not count +on me! I cannot be beautiful and charming any longer. I must die soon.” +</p> + +<p> +It brought him back to reality. He saw that he had to do not with a vision, but +with a spirit which was about to spread its wings, and therefore had made the +walls of its prison so delicate and transparent. It now showed so plainly in +his face and in the way he took Edith’s hand, that he all at once +suffered with her suffering,— that he had forgotten everything but grief, +that she was going to die. The sick girl felt the same pity for herself, and +her eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, what sympathy he felt for her from the first moment. He understood +instantly that she would not wish to show her emotion. Of course it was +agitating for her to see him, whom she had longed for so long, but it was her +weakness that had made her betray herself. She naturally would not like him to +pay any attention to it. And so he began on an innocent subject of +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what happened to my white mice?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with admiration. He seemed to wish to make the way easier for +her. “I let them loose in the shop,” she said. “They have +thriven well.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, really! Are there any of them left?” +</p> + +<p> +“Halfvorson says that he will never be rid of Petter Nord’s mice. +They have revenged you, you understand,” she said with meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a very good race,” answered Petter Nord, proudly. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation lagged for a while. Edith closed her eyes, as if to rest, and +he kept a respectful silence. His last answer she had not understood. He had +not responded to what she had said about revenge. When he began to talk of the +mice, she believed that he understood what she wished to say to him. She knew +that he had come to the town a few weeks before to be revenged. Poor Petter +Nord! Many a time she had wondered what had become of him. Many a night had the +cries of the frightened boy come to her in dreams. It was partly for his sake +that she should never again have to live through such a night, that she had +begun to reform her uncle, had made his house a home for him, had let the +lonely man feel the value of having a sympathetic friend near him. Her lot was +now again bound together with that of Petter Nord. His attempt at revenge had +frightened her to death. As soon as she had regained her strength after that +severe attack, she had begged Halfvorson to look him up. +</p> + +<p> +And Petter Nord sat there and believed that it was for love she had called him. +He could not know that she believed him vindictive, coarse, degraded, a +drunkard and a bully. He who was an example to all his comrades in the working +quarter, he could not guess that she had summoned him, in order to preach +virtue and good habits to him, in order to say to him, if nothing else helped: +“Look at me, Petter Nord! It is your want of judgment, your +vindictiveness, that is the cause of my death. Think of it, and begin another +life!” +</p> + +<p> +He had come filled with love of life and dreams to celebrate love’s +festival, and she lay there and thought of plunging him into the black depths +of remorse. +</p> + +<p> +There must have been something of the glory of the kingly crown shining on her, +which made her hesitate so that she decided to question him first. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Petter Nord, was it really you who were here with those three +terrible men?” +</p> + +<p> +He flushed and looked on the ground. Then he had to tell her the whole story of +the day with all its shame. In the first place, what unmanliness he had shown +in not sooner demanding justice, and how he had only gone because he was forced +to it, and then how he had been beaten and whipped instead of beating some one +himself. He did not dare to look up while he was speaking; he did expect that +even those gentle eyes would judge him with forbearance. He felt that he was +robbing himself of all the glory with which she must have surrounded him in her +dreams. +</p> + +<p> +“But Petter Nord, what would have happened if you had met +Halfvorson?” asked Edith, when he had finished. +</p> + +<p> +He hung his head even lower. “I saw him well enough,” he said. +“He had not gone away. He was working in his garden outside the gates. +The boy in the shop told me everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, why did you not avenge yourself?” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +He was spared nothing.—But he felt the inquiring glance of her eyes on +him and he began obediently: “When the men lay down to sleep on a slope, +I went alone to find Halfvorson, for I wished to have him to myself. He was +working there, staking his peas. It must have rained in torrents the day +before, for the peas had been broken down to the ground; some of the leaves +were whipped to ribbons, others covered with earth. It was like a hospital, and +Halfvorson was the doctor. He raised them up so gently, brushed away the earth +and helped the poor little things to cling to the twigs. I stood and looked on. +He did not hear me, and he had no time to look up. I tried to retain my anger +by force. But what could I do? I could not fly at him while he was busy with +the peas. My time will come afterwards, I thought. +</p> + +<p> +“But then he started up, struck himself on the forehead and rushed away +to the hotbed. He lifted the glass and looked in, and I looked too, for he +seemed to be in the depths of despair. Yes, it was dreadful, of course. He had +forgotten to shade it from the sun, and it must have been terribly hot under +the glass. The cucumbers lay there half-dead and gasped for breath; some of the +leaves were burnt, and others were drooping. I was so overcome, I too, that I +never thought what I was doing, and Halfvorson caught sight of my shadow. +‘Look here, take the watering-pot that is standing in the asparagus bed +and run down to the river for water,’ he said, without looking up. I +suppose he thought it was the gardener’s boy. And I ran.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you, Petter Nord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; you see, the cucumbers ought not to suffer on account of our +enmity. I thought myself that it showed lack of character and so on, but I +could not help it. I wanted to see if they would come to life. When I came +back, he had lifted the glass off and still stood and stared despairingly. I +thrust the watering-pot into his hand, and he began to pour over them. Yes, it +was almost visible what good it did in the hotbed. I thought almost that they +raised themselves, and he must have thought so too, for he began to laugh. Then +I ran away.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ran away, Petter Nord, you ran away?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith had raised herself in the arm-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not strike him,” said Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +Edith felt an ever stronger impression of the glory round poor Petter +Nord’s head. So it was not necessary to plunge him into the depths of +remorse with the heavy burden of sin around his neck. Was he such a man? Such a +tender-hearted, sensitive man! She sank back, closed her eyes and thought. She +did not need to say it to him. She was astonished that she felt such a relief +not to have to cause him pain. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad that you have given up your plans for revenge, Petter +Nord,” she began in friendly tones. “It was about that that I +wished to talk to you. Now I can die in peace.” +</p> + +<p> +He drew along breath. She was not unfriendly. +</p> + +<p> +She did not look as if she had been mistaken in him. She must love him very +much when she could excuse such cowardice.—For when she said that she had +sent for him to ask him to give up his thoughts of revenge, it must have been +from bashfulness not to have to acknowledge the real reason of the summons. She +was so right in it. He who was the man ought to say the first word. +</p> + +<p> +“How can they let you die?” he burst out. “Halfvorson and all +the others, how can they? If I were here, I would refuse to let you die. I +would give you all my strength. I would take all your suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no pain,” she said, smiling at such bold promises. +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking that I would like to carry you away like a frozen bird, +lay you under my vest like a young squirrel. Fancy what it would be to work if +something so warm and soft was waiting for one at home! But if you were well, +there would be so many—” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with weary surprise, prepared to put him back in his proper +place. But she must have seen again something of the magic crown about the +boy’s head, for she had patience with him. He meant nothing. He had to +talk as he did. He was not like others. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she said, indifferently, “there are not so many, Petter +Nord. There has hardly been any one in earnest.” +</p> + +<p> +But now there came another turn to his advantage. In her suddenly awoke the +eager hunger of a sick person for compassion. She longed for the tenderness, +the pity that the poor workman could give her. She felt the need of being near +that deep, disinterested sympathy. The sick cannot have enough of it. She +wished to read it in his glance and his whole being. Words meant nothing to +her. +</p> + +<p> +“I like to see you here,” she said. “Sit here for a while, +and tell me what you have been doing these six years!” +</p> + +<p> +While he talked, she lay and drew in the indescribable something which passed +between them. She heard and yet she did not hear. But by some strange sympathy +she felt herself strengthened and vivified. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless she did get one impression from his story. It took her into the +workman’s quarter, into a new world, full of tumultuous hopes and +strength. How they longed and trusted! How they hated and suffered! +</p> + +<p> +“How happy the oppressed are,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to her, with a longing for life, that there might be something for +her there, she who always needed oppression and compulsion to make life worth +living. +</p> + +<p> +“If I were well,” she said, “perhaps I would have gone there +with you. I should enjoy working my way up with some one I liked.” +</p> + +<p> +Petter Nord started. Here was the confession that he had been waiting for the +whole time. “Oh, can you not live!” he prayed. And he beamed with +happiness. +</p> + +<p> +She became observant. “That is love,” she said to herself. +“And now he believes that I am also in love. What madness, that Värmland +boy!” +</p> + +<p> +She wished to bring him back to reason, but there was something in Petter Nord +on that day of victory that restrained her. She had not the heart to spoil his +happy mood. She felt compassion for his foolishness and let him live in it. +“It does not matter, as I am to die so soon,” she said to herself. +</p> + +<p> +But she sent him away soon after, and when he asked if he might not come again, +she forbade him absolutely. “But,” she said, “do you remember +our graveyard up on the hill, Petter Nord. You can come there in a few weeks +and thank death for that day.” +</p> + +<p> +As Petter Nord came out of the garden, he met Halfvorson. He was walking +forward and back in despair, and his only consolation was the thought that +Edith was laying the burden of remorse on the wrong-doer. To see him +overpowered by pangs of conscience, for that alone had he sought him out. But +when he met the young workman, he saw that Edith had not told him everything. +He was serious, but at the same time he certainly was madly happy. +</p> + +<p> +“Has Edith told you why she is dying?” said Halfvorson. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Petter Nord. +</p> + +<p> +Halfvorson laid his hand on his shoulder as if to keep him from escaping. +</p> + +<p> +“She is dying because of you, because of your damned pranks. She was +slightly ill before, but it was nothing. No one thought that she would die; but +then you came with those three wretched tramps, and they frightened her while +you were in my shop. They chased her, and she ran away from them, ran till she +got a hemorrhage. But that is what you wanted; you wished to be revenged on me +by killing her, wished to leave me lonely and unhappy without a soul near me +who cares for me. All my joy you wished to take from me, all my joy.” +</p> + +<p> +He would have gone on forever, overwhelmed Petter Nord with reproaches, killed +him with curses; but the latter tore himself away and ran, as if an earthquake +had shaken the town and all the houses were tumbling down. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +Behind the town the mountain walls rise perpendicularly, but after one has +climbed up them by steep stone steps and slippery pine paths, one finds that +the mountain spreads out into a wide, undulating plateau. And there lies an +enchanted wood. +</p> + +<p> +Over the whole stretch of the mountain stands a pine wood without pine-needles; +a wood which dies in the spring and grows green in the autumn; a lifeless wood, +which blossoms with the joy of life when other trees are laying aside their +green garments; a wood that grows without any one knowing how, that stands +green in winter frosts and brown in summer dews. +</p> + +<p> +It is a newly-planted wood. Young firs have been forced to take root in the +clefts between the granite blocks. Their tough roots have bored down like sharp +wedges into the fissures and crevices. It was very well for a while; the young +trees shot up like spires, and the roots bored down into the granite. But at +last they could go no further, and then the wood was filled with an +ill-concealed peevishness. It wished to go high, but also deep. After the way +down had been closed to it, it felt that life was not worth living. Every +spring it was ready to throw off the burden of life in its discouragement. +During the summer when Edith was dying, the young wood was quite brown. High +above the town of flowers stood a gloomy row of dying trees. +</p> + +<p> +But up on the mountain it is not all gloom and the agony of death. As one walks +between the brown trees, in such distress that one is ready to die, one catches +glimpses of green trees. The perfume of flowers fills the air; the song of +birds exults and calls. Then thoughts rise of the sleeping forest and of the +paradise of the fairy-tale, encircled by thorny thickets. And when one comes at +last to the green, to the flower fragrance, to the song of the birds, one sees +that it is the hidden graveyard of the little town. +</p> + +<p> +The home of the dead lies in an earth-filled hollow in the mountain plateau. +And there, within the grey stone walls, the knowledge and weariness of life +end. Lilacs stand at the entrance, bending under heavy clusters. Lindens and +beeches spread a lofty arch of luxuriant growth over the whole place. Jasmines +and roses blossom freely in that consecrated earth. Over the big old tombstones +creep vines of ivy and periwinkle. +</p> + +<p> +There is a corner where the pine-trees grow mast-high. Does it not seem as if +the young wood outside ought to be ashamed at the sight of them? And there are +hedges there, quite grown beyond their keeper’s hands, blooming and +sending forth shoots without thought of shears or knife. +</p> + +<p> +The town now has a new burial-place, to which the dead can come without special +trouble. It was a weary way for them to be carried up in winter, when the steep +wood-paths are covered with ice, and the steps slippery and covered with snow. +The coffin creaked; the bearers panted; the old clergyman leaned heavily on the +sexton and the grave-digger. Now no one has to be buried up there who does not +ask it. +</p> + +<p> +The graves are not beautiful. There are few who know how to make the +resting-place of the dead attractive. But the fresh green sheds its peace and +beauty over them all. It is strangely solemn to know that those who are buried +are glad to lie there. The living who go up after a day hot with work, go there +as among friends. Those who sleep have also loved the lofty trees and the +stillness. +</p> + +<p> +If a stranger comes up there, they do not tell him of death and loss; they sit +down on the big slabs of stone, on the broad burgomaster tombs, and tell him +about Petter Nord, the Värmland boy, and of his love. The story seems fitting +to be told up here, where death has lost its terrors. The consecrated earth +seems to rejoice at having also been the scene of awakened happiness and +new-born life. +</p> + +<p> +For it happened that after Petter Nord ran away from Halfvorson, he sought +refuge in the graveyard. +</p> + +<p> +At first he ran towards the bridge over the river and turned his steps towards +the big town. But on the bridge the unfortunate fugitive stopped. The kingly +crown on his brow was quite gone. It had disappeared as if it had been spun of +sunbeams. He was deeply bent with sorrow; his whole body shook; his heart +throbbed; his brain burned like fire. +</p> + +<p> +Then he thought he saw the Spirit of Fasting coming towards him for the third +time. She was much more friendly, much more compassionate than before; but she +seemed to him only so much the more terrible. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, unhappy one,” she said, “surely this must be the last +of your pranks! You have wished to celebrate the festival of love during that +time of fasting which is called life; but you see what happens to you. Come now +and be faithful to me; you have tried everything and have only me to whom to +turn.” +</p> + +<p> +He waved his arm to keep her off. “I know what you wish of me. You wish +to lead me back to work and renunciation, but I cannot. Not now, not +now!” +</p> + +<p> +The pallid Spirit of Fasting smiled ever more mildly. “You are innocent, +Petter Nord. Do not grieve so over what you have not caused! Was not Edith kind +to you? Did you not see that she had forgiven you? Come with me to your work! +Live, as you have lived!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy cried more vehemently. “Is it any better for me, do you think, +that I have killed just her who has been kind to me, her, who cares for me? Had +it not been better if I had murdered some one whom I wished to murder. I must +make amends. I must save her life. I cannot think of work now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you madman,” said the Spirit of Fasting, “the festival +of reparation which you wish to celebrate is the greatest audacity of +all.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Petter Nord rebelled absolutely against his friend of many years. He +scoffed at her. “What have you made me believe?” he said. +“That you were a tiresome and peevish old woman with arms full of small, +harmless twigs. You are a sorceress of life. You are a monster. You are +beautiful, and you are terrible. You yourself know no bounds nor limits; why +should I know them? How can you preach fasting, you, who wish to deluge me with +such an overmeasure of sorrow? What are the festivals I have celebrated +compared to those you are continually preparing for me! Begone with your pallid +moderation! Now I wish to be as mad as yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Not one step could he take towards the big town. Neither could he turn directly +round and again go the length of the one street in the village; he took the +path up the mountain, climbed to the enchanted pine-wood, and wandered about +among the stiff, prickly young trees, until a friendly path led him to the +graveyard. There he found a hiding-place in a corner where the pines grew high +as masts, and there he threw himself weary unto death on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +He almost lost consciousness. He did not know if time passed or if everything +stood still. But after a while steps were heard, and he woke to a feeble +consciousness. He seemed to have been far, far away. He saw a funeral +procession draw near, and instantly a confused thought rose in him. How long +had he lain there? Was Edith dead already? Was she looking for him here? Was +the corpse in the coffin hunting for its murderer? He shook and sweated. He lay +well hidden in the dark pine thicket; but he trembled for what might happen if +the corpse found him. He bent aside the branches and looked out. A hunted +deserter could not have spied more wildly after his pursuers. +</p> + +<p> +The funeral was that of a poor man. The attendance was small. The coffin was +lowered without wreaths into the grave. There was no sign of tears on any of +the faces. Petter Nord had still enough sense to see that this could not be +Edith Halfvorson’s funeral train. +</p> + +<p> +But if this was not she, who knows if it was not a greeting from her. Petter +Nord felt that he had no right to escape. She had said that he was to go up to +the graveyard. She must have meant that he was to wait for her there, so that +she could find him to give him his punishment. The funeral was a greeting, a +token. She wished him to wait for her there. +</p> + +<p> +To his sick brain the low churchyard wall rose as high as a rampart. He stared +despairingly at the frail trellis-gate; it was like the most solid door of oak. +He was imprisoned. He could never get away, until she herself came up and +brought him his punishment. +</p> + +<p> +What she was going to do with him he did not know. Only one thing was distinct +and clear; that he must wait here until she came for him. Perhaps she would +take him with her into the grave; perhaps she would command him to throw +himself from the mountain. He could not know—he must wait for a while +yet. +</p> + +<p> +Reason fought a despairing struggle: “You are innocent, Petter Nord. Do +not grieve over what you have not caused! She has not sent you any messages. Go +down to your work! Lift your foot and you are over the wall; push with one +finger and the gate is open.” +</p> + +<p> +No, he could not. Most of the time he was in a stupor, a trance. His thoughts +were indistinct, as when on the point of falling asleep. He only knew one +thing, that he must stay where he was. +</p> + +<p> +The news came to her lying and fading in emulation with the rootless birches. +“Petter Nord, with whom you played one summer day, is in the graveyard +waiting for you. Petter Nord, whom your uncle has frightened out of his senses, +cannot leave the graveyard until your flower-decked coffin comes to fetch +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl opened her eyes as if to look at the world once more. She sent a +message to Petter Nord. She was angry at his mad pranks. Why could she not die +in peace? She had never wished that he should have any pangs of conscience for +her sake. +</p> + +<p> +The bearer of the message came back without Petter Nord. He could not come. The +wall was too high and the gate too strong. There was only one who could free +him. +</p> + +<p> +During those days they thought of nothing else in the little town. “He is +there; he is there still,” they told one another every day. “Is he +mad?” they asked most often, and some who had talked with him answered +that he certainly would be when “she” came. But they were +exceedingly proud of that martyr to love who gave a glory to the town. The poor +took him food. The rich stole up on the mountain to catch a glimpse of him. +</p> + +<p> +But Edith, who could not move, who lay helpless and dying, she who had so much +time to think, with what was she occupying herself? What thoughts revolved in +her brain day and night? Oh, Petter Nord, Petter Nord! Must she always see +before her the man who loved her, who was losing his mind for her sake, who +really, actually was in the graveyard waiting for her coffin. +</p> + +<p> +See, that was something for the steel-spring in her nature. That was something +for her imagination, something for her benumbed senses. To think what he meant +to do when she should come! To imagine what he would do if she should not come +there as a corpse! +</p> + +<p> +They talked of it in the whole town, talked of it and nothing else. As the +cities of ancient times had loved their martyrs, the little village loved the +unhappy Petter Nord; but no one liked to go into the graveyard and talk to him. +He looked wilder each day. The obscurity of madness sank ever closer about him. +“Why does she not try to get well?” they said of Edith. “It +is unjust of her to die.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith was almost angry. She who was so tired of life, must she be compelled to +take up the heavy burden again? But nevertheless she began an honest effort. +She felt what a work of repairing and mending was going on in her body with +seething force during these weeks. And no material was spared. She consumed +incredible quantities of those things which give strength and life, whatever +they may be: malt extract or codliver oil, fresh air or sunshine, dreams or +love. +</p> + +<p> +And what glorious days they were, long, warm, and sunny! +</p> + +<p> +At last she got the doctor’s permission to be carried up there. The whole +town was in alarm when she undertook the journey. Would she come down with a +madman? Could the misery of those weeks be blotted out of his brain? Would the +exertions she had made to begin life again be profitless? And if it were so, +how would it go with her? +</p> + +<p> +As she passed by, pale with excitement, but still full of hope, there was cause +enough for anxiety. No one concealed from themselves that Petter Nord had taken +quite too large a place in her imagination. She was the most eager of all in +the worship of that strange saint. All restraints had fallen from her when she +had heard what he suffered for her sake. But how would the sight of him affect +her enthusiasm? There is nothing romantic in a madman. +</p> + +<p> +When she had been carried up to the gate of the graveyard, she left her bearers +and walked alone up the broad middle path. Her gaze wandered round the +flowering spot, but she saw no one. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she heard a faint rustle in a clump of fir-trees, and she saw a wild, +distorted face staring from it. Never had she seen terror so plainly stamped on +a face. She was frightened herself at the sight of it, mortally frightened. She +could hardly restrain herself from running away. +</p> + +<p> +Then a great, holy feeling welled up in her. There was no longer any thought of +love or enthusiasm, but only grief that a fellow-being, one of the unhappy ones +who passed through the vale of tears with her, should be destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +The girl remained. She did not give way a single step; she let him slowly +accustom himself to the sight of her. But she put all the strength she +possessed in her gaze. She drew the man to her with the whole force of the will +that had conquered the illness in herself. +</p> + +<p> +He came forward out of his corner, pale, wild and unkempt. He advanced towards +her, but the terror never left his face. He looked as if he were fascinated by +a wild beast, which came to tear him to pieces. When he was quite close to her, +she put both her hands on his shoulders and looked smiling into his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Petter Nord, what is the matter with you? You must go from here! +What do you mean by staying so long up here in the graveyard, Petter +Nord?” +</p> + +<p> +He trembled and sank down. But she felt that she subdued him with her eyes. Her +words, on the other hand, seemed to have absolutely no meaning to him. +</p> + +<p> +She changed her tone a little. “Listen to what I say, Petter Nord. I am +not dead. I am not going to die. I have got well in order to come up here and +save you.” +</p> + +<p> +He still stood in the same dull terror. Again there came a change in her voice. +“You have not caused my death,” she said more tenderly, “you +have given me life.” +</p> + +<p> +She repeated it again and again. And her voice at last was trembling with +emotion, thick with weeping. But he did not understand anything of what she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Petter Nord, I love you so much, so much!” she burst out. +</p> + +<p> +He was just as unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +She knew nothing more to try with him. She would have to take him down with her +to the town and let time and care help. +</p> + +<p> +It is not easy to say what the dreams she had taken up there with her were and +what she had expected from this meeting with the man who loved her. Now, when +she was to give it all up and treat him as a madman only, she felt such pain, +as if she was about to lose the dearest thing life had given her. And in that +bitterness of loss she drew him to her and kissed him on the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +It was meant as a farewell to both happiness and life. She felt her strength +fail her. A mortal weakness came over her. +</p> + +<p> +But then she thought she saw a feeble sign of life in him. He was not quite so +limp and dull. His features were twitching. He trembled more and more +violently. She watched with ever-growing alarm. He was waking, but to what? At +last he began to weep. +</p> + +<p> +She led him away to a tomb. She sat down on it, pulled him down in front of her +and laid his head on her lap. She sat and caressed him, while he wept. +</p> + +<p> +He was like some one waking from a nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +“Why am I weeping?” he asked himself. “Oh, I know; I had such +a terrible dream. But it is not true. She is alive. I have not killed her. So +foolish to weep for a dream.” +</p> + +<p> +Gradually everything grew clear to him; but his tears continued to flow. She +sat and caressed him, but he wept still for a long time. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel such a need of weeping,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then he looked up and smiled. “Is it Easter now?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by now?” +</p> + +<p> +“It can be called Easter, when the dead rise again,” he continued. +Thereupon, as if they had been intimate many years, he began to tell her about +the Spirit of Fasting and of his revolt against her rule. +</p> + +<p> +“It is Easter now, and the end of her reign,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +But when he realized that Edith was sitting there and caressing him, he had to +weep again. He needed so much to weep. All the distrust of life which +misfortunes had brought to the little Värmland boy needed tears to wash it +away. Distrust that love and joy, beauty and strength blossomed on the earth, +distrust in himself, all must go, all did go, for it was Easter; the dead lived +and the Spirit of Fasting would never again <i>come into power</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>THE LEGEND OF THE BIRD’S NEST</h2> + +<p> +Hatto the hermit stood in the wilderness and prayed to God. A storm was raging, +and his long beard and matted hair waved about him like weather-beaten tufts of +grass on the summit of an old ruin. But he did not push his hair out of his +eyes, nor did he tuck his beard into his belt, for his arms were uplifted in +prayer. Ever since sunrise he had raised his gnarled, hairy arms towards +heaven, as untiringly as a tree stretches up its branches, and he meant to +remain standing so till night. He had a great boon to pray for. +</p> + +<p> +He was a man who had suffered much of the world’s anger. He had himself +persecuted and tortured, and persecutions and torture from others had fallen to +his share, more than his heart could bear. So he went out on the great heath, +dug himself a hole in the river bank and became a holy man, whose prayers were +heard at God’s throne. +</p> + +<p> +Hatto the hermit stood there on the river bank by his hole and prayed the great +prayer of his life. He prayed God that He should appoint the day of doom for +this wicked world. He called on the trumpet-blowing angels, who were to +proclaim the end of the reign of sin. He cried out to the waves of the sea of +blood, which were to drown the unrighteous. He called on the pestilence, which +should fill the churchyards with heaps of dead. +</p> + +<p> +Round about stretched a desert plain. But a little higher up on the river bank +stood an old willow with a short trunk, which swelled out at the top in a great +knob like a head, from which new, light-green shoots grew out. Every autumn it +was robbed of these strong, young branches by the inhabitants of that fuel-less +heath. Every spring the tree put forth new, soft shoots, and in stormy weather +these waved and fluttered about it, just as hair and beard fluttered about +Hatto the hermit. +</p> + +<p> +A pair of wagtails, which used to make their nest in the top of the +willow’s trunk among the sprouting branches, had intended to begin their +building that very day. But among the whipping shoots the birds found no quiet. +They came flying with straws and root fibres and dried sedges, but they had to +turn back with their errand unaccomplished. Just then they noticed old Hatto, +who called upon God to make the storm seven times more violent, so that the +nests of the little birds might be swept away and the eagle’s eyrie +destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +Of course no one now living can conceive how mossy and dried-up and gnarled and +black and unlike a human being such an old plain-dweller could be. The skin was +so drawn over brow and cheeks, that he looked almost like a death’s-head, +and one saw only by a faint gleam in the hollows of the eye sockets that he was +alive. And the dried-up muscles of the body gave it no roundness, and the +upstretched, naked arms consisted only of shapeless bones, covered with +shrivelled, hardened, bark-like skin. He wore an old, close-fitting, black +robe. He was tanned by the sun and black with dirt. His hair and beard alone +were light, bleached by the rain and sun, until they had become the same +green-gray color as the under side of the willow leaves. +</p> + +<p> +The birds, flying about, looking for a place to build, took Hatto the hermit +for another old willow-tree, checked in its struggle towards the sky by axe and +saw like the first one. They circled about him many times, flew away and came +again, took their landmarks, considered his position in regard to birds of prey +and winds, found him rather unsatisfactory, but nevertheless decided in his +favor, because he stood so near to the river and to the tufts of sedge, their +larder and storehouse. One of them shot swift as an arrow down into his +upstretched hand and laid his root fibre there. +</p> + +<p> +There was a lull in the storm, so that the root-fibre was not torn instantly +away from the hand; but in the hermit’s prayers there was no pause: +“May the Lord come soon to destroy this world of corruption, so that man +may not have time to heap more sin upon himself! May he save the unborn from +life! For the living there is no salvation.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the storm began again, and the little root-fibre fluttered away out of the +hermit’s big gnarled hand. But the birds came again and tried to wedge +the foundation of the new home in between the fingers. Suddenly a shapeless and +dirty thumb laid itself on the straws and held them fast, and four fingers +arched themselves so that there was a quiet niche to build in. The hermit +continued his prayers. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh Lord, where are the clouds of fire which laid Sodom waste? When wilt +Thou let loose the floods which lifted the ark to Ararat’s top? Are not +the cups of Thy patience emptied and the vials of Thy grace exhausted? Oh Lord, +when wilt Thou rend the heavens and come?” +</p> + +<p> +And feverish visions of the Day of Doom appeared to Hatto the hermit. The +ground trembled, the heavens glowed. Across the flaming sky he saw black clouds +of flying birds, a horde of panic-stricken beasts rushed, roaring and +bellowing, past him. But while his soul was occupied with these fiery visions, +his eyes began to follow the flight of the little birds, as they flashed to and +fro and with a cheery peep of satisfaction wove a new straw into the nest. +</p> + +<p> +The old man had no thought of moving. He had made a vow to pray without moving +with uplifted hands all day in order to force the Lord to grant his request. +The more exhausted his body became, the more vivid visions filled his brain. He +heard the walls of cities fall and the houses crack. Shrieking, terrified +crowds rushed by him, pursued by the angels of vengeance and destruction, +mighty forms with stern, beautiful faces, wearing silver coats of mail, riding +black horses and swinging scourges, woven of white lightning. +</p> + +<p> +The little wagtails built and shaped busily all day, and the work progressed +rapidly. On the tufted heath with its stiff sedges and by the river with its +reeds and rushes, there was no lack of building material. They had no time for +noon siesta nor for evening rest. Glowing with eagerness and delight, they flew +to and fro, and before night came they had almost reached the roof. +</p> + +<p> +But before night came, the hermit had begun to watch them more and more. He +followed them on their journeys; he scolded them when they built foolishly; he +was furious when the wind disturbed their work; and least of all could he +endure that they should take any rest. +</p> + +<p> +Then the sun set, and the birds went to their old sleeping place in among the +rushes. +</p> + +<p> +Let him who crosses the heath at night bend clown until his face comes on a +level with the tufts of grass, and he will see a strange spectacle outline +itself against the western sky. Owls with great, round wings skim over the +ground, invisible to any one standing upright. Snakes glide about there, lithe, +quick, with narrow heads uplifted on swanlike necks. Great turtles crawl slowly +forward, hares and water-rats flee before preying beasts, and a fox bounds +after a bat, which is chasing mosquitos by the river. It seems as if every tuft +has come to life. But through it all the little birds sleep on the waving +rushes, secure from all harm in that resting-place which no enemy can approach, +without the water splashing or the reeds shaking and waking them. +</p> + +<p> +When the morning came, the wagtails believed at first that the events of the +day before had been a beautiful dream. +</p> + +<p> +They had taken their landmarks and flew straight to their nest, but it was +gone. They flew searching over the heath and rose up into the air to spy about. +There was not a trace of nest or tree. At last they lighted on a couple of +stones by the river bank and considered. They wagged their long tails and +cocked their heads on one side. Where had the tree and nest gone? +</p> + +<p> +But hardly had the sun risen a handsbreadth over the belt of trees on the other +bank, before their tree came walking and placed itself on the same spot where +it had been the day before. It was just as black and gnarled as ever and bore +their nest on the top of something, which must be a dry, upright branch. +</p> + +<p> +Then the wagtails began to build again, without troubling themselves any more +about nature’s many wonders. +</p> + +<p> +Hatto the hermit, who drove the little children away from his hole telling them +that it had been best for them if they had never been born, he who rushed out +into the mud to hurl curses after the joyous young people who rowed up the +stream in pleasure-boats, he from whose angry eyes the shepherds on the heath +guarded their flocks, did not return to his place by the river for the sake of +the little birds. He knew that not only has every letter in the holy books its +hidden, mysterious meaning, but so also has everything which God allows to take +place in nature. He had thought out the meaning of the wagtails building in his +hand. God wished him to remain standing with uplifted arms until the birds had +raised their brood; and if he should have the power to do that, he would be +heard. +</p> + +<p> +But during that day he did not see so many visions of the Day of Doom. Instead, +he watched the birds more and more eagerly. He saw the nest soon finished. The +little builders fluttered about it and inspected it. They went after a few bits +of lichen from the real willow-tree and fastened them on the outside, to fill +the place of plaster and paint. They brought the finest cotton-grass, and the +female wagtail took feathers from her own breast and lined the nest. +</p> + +<p> +The peasants, who feared the baleful power that the hermit’s prayers +might have at the throne of God, used to bring him bread and milk to mitigate +his wrath. They came now too and found him standing motionless, with the +bird’s nest in his hand. “See how the holy man loves the little +creatures,” they said, and were no longer afraid of him, but lifted the +bowl of milk to his mouth and put the bread between his lips. When he had eaten +and drunk, he drove away the people with angry words, but they only smiled at +his curses. +</p> + +<p> +His body had long since become the slave of his will. By hunger and blows, by +praying all day, by waking a week at a time, he had taught it obedience. Now +the steel-like muscles held his arms uplifted for days and weeks, and when the +female wagtail began to sit on her eggs and never left the nest, he did not +return to his hole even at night. He learned to sleep sitting, with upstretched +arms. Among the dwellers in the wilderness there are many who have done greater +things. +</p> + +<p> +He grew accustomed to the two little, motionless bird-eyes which stared down at +him over the edge of the nest. He watched for hail and rain, and sheltered the +nest as well as he could. +</p> + +<p> +At last one day the female is freed from her duties. Both the birds sit on the +edge of the nest, wag their tails and consult and look delighted, although the +whole nest seems to be full of an anxious peeping. After a while they set out +on the wildest hunt for midges. +</p> + +<p> +Midge after midge is caught and brought to whatever it is that is peeping up +there in his hand. And when the food comes, the peeping is at its very loudest. +The holy man is disturbed in his prayers by that peeping. +</p> + +<p> +And gently, gently he bends his arm, which has almost lost the power of moving, +and his little fiery eyes stare down into the nest. +</p> + +<p> +Never had he seen anything so helplessly ugly and miserable: small, naked +bodies, with a little thin down, no eyes, no power of flight, nothing really +but six big, gaping mouths. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed very strange to him, but he liked them just as they were. Their +father and mother he had never spared in the general destruction, but when +hereafter he called to God to ask of Him the salvation of the world through its +annihilation, he made a silent exception of those six helpless ones. +</p> + +<p> +When the peasant women now brought him food, he no longer thanked them by +wishing their destruction. Since he was necessary to the little creatures up +there, he was glad that they did not let him starve to death. +</p> + +<p> +Soon six round heads were to be seen the whole day long stretching over the +edge of the nest. Old Hatto’s arm sank more and more often to the level +of his eyes. He saw the feathers push out through the red skin, the eyes open, +the bodies round out. Happy inheritors of the beauty nature has given to flying +creatures, they developed quickly in their loveliness. +</p> + +<p> +And during all this time prayers for the great destruction rose more and more +hesitatingly to old Hatto’s lips. He thought that he had God’s +promise, that it should come when the little birds were fledged. Now he seemed +to be searching for a loop-hole for God the Father. For these six little +creatures, whom he had sheltered and cherished, he could not sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +It was another matter before, when he had not had anything that was his own. +The love for the small and weak, which it has been every little child’s +mission to teach big, dangerous people, came over him and made him doubtful. +</p> + +<p> +He sometimes wanted to hurl the whole nest into the river, for he thought that +they who die without sorrow or sin are the happy ones. Should he not save them +from beasts of prey and cold, from hunger, and from life’s manifold +visitations? But just as he thought this, a sparrow-hawk came swooping down on +the nest. Then Hatto seized the marauder with his left hand, swung him about +his head and hurled him with the strength of wrath out into the stream. +</p> + +<p> +The day came at last when the little birds were ready to fly. One of the +wagtails was working inside the nest to push the young ones out to the edge, +while the other flew about, showing them how easy it was, if they only dared to +try. And when the young ones were obstinate and afraid, both the parents flew +about, showing them all their most beautiful feats of flight. Beating with +their wings, they flew in swooping curves, or rose right up like larks or hung +motionless in the air with vibrating wings. +</p> + +<p> +But as the young ones still persist in their obstinacy, Hatto the hermit cannot +keep from mixing himself up in the matter. He gives them a cautious shove with +his finger and then it is done. Out they go, fluttering and uncertain, beating +the air like bats, sink, but rise again, grasp what the art is and make use of +it to reach the nest again as quickly as possible. Proud and rejoicing, the +parents come to them again and old Hatto smiles. +</p> + +<p> +It was he who gave the final touch after all. +</p> + +<p> +He now considered seriously if there could not be any way out of it for our +Lord. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, when all was said, God the Father held this earth in His right hand +like a big bird’s nest, and perhaps He had come to cherish love for all +those who build and dwell there, for all earth’s defenceless children. +Perhaps He felt pity for those whom He had promised to destroy, just as the +hermit felt pity for the little birds. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the hermit’s birds were much better than our Lord’s +people, but he could quite understand that God the Father nevertheless had love +for them. +</p> + +<p> +The next day the bird’s nest stood empty, and the bitterness of +loneliness filled the heart of the hermit. Slowly his arm sank down to his +side, and it seemed to him as if all nature held its breath to listen for the +thunder of the trumpet of Doom. But just then all the wagtails came again and +lighted on his head and shoulders, for they were not at all afraid of him. Then +a ray of light shot through old Hatto’s confused brain. He had lowered +his arm, lowered it every day to look at the birds. +</p> + +<p> +And standing there with all the six young ones fluttering and playing about +him, he nodded contentedly to some one whom he did not see. “I let you +off,” he said, “I let you off. I have not kept my word, so you need +not keep yours.” +</p> + +<p> +And it seemed to him as if the mountains ceased to tremble and as if the river +laid itself down in easy calm in its bed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE KING’S GRAVE</h2> + +<p> +It was at the time of year when the heather is red. It grew over the sand-hills +in thick clumps. From low tree-like stems close-growing green branches raised +their hardy ever-green leaves and unfading flowers. They seemed not to be made +of ordinary, juicy flower substance, but of dry, hard scales. They were very +insignificant in size and shape; nor was their fragrance of much account. +Children of the open moors, they had not unfolded in the still air where lilies +open their alabaster petals; nor did they grow in the rich soil from which +roses draw nourishment for their swelling crowns. What made them flowers was +really their color, for they were glowing red. They had received the +color-giving sunshine in plenty. They were no pallid cellar growth; the blessed +gaiety and strength of health lay over all the blossoming heath. +</p> + +<p> +The heather covered the bare fields with its red mantle up to the edge of the +wood. There, on a gently sloping ridge, stood some ancient, half ruined stone +cairns; and however closely the heather tried to creep to these, there were +always rents in its web, through which were visible great, flat rocks, folds in +the mountain’s own rough skin. Under the biggest of these piles rested an +old king, Atle by name. Under the others slumbered those of his warriors who +had fallen when the great battle raged on the moor. They had lain there now so +long that the fear and respect of death had departed from their graves. The +path ran between their resting-places. The wanderer by night never thought to +look whether forms wrapped in mist sat at midnight on the tops of the cairns +staring in silent longing at the stars. +</p> + +<p> +It was a glittering morning, dewy and warm. The hunter who had been out since +daybreak had thrown himself down in the heather behind King Atle’s pile. +He lay on his back and slept. He had dragged his hat down over his eyes; and +under his head lay his leather game-bag, out of which protruded a hare’s +long ears and the bent tail-feathers of a black-cock. His bow and arrows lay +beside him. +</p> + +<p> +From out of the wood came a girl with a bundle in her hand. When she reached +the flat rock between the piles of stones, she thought what a good place it +would be to dance. She was seized with an ardent desire to try. She laid her +bundle on the heather and began to dance quite alone. She had no idea that a +man lay asleep behind the king’s cairn. +</p> + +<p> +The hunter still slept. The heather showed burning red against the deep blue of +the sky. An anthill stood close beside the sleeper. On it lay a piece of +quartz, which sparkled as if it had wished to set fire to all the old stubble +of the heath. Above the hunter’s head the black-cock feathers spread out +like a plume, and their iridescence shifted from deep purple to steely blue. On +the unshaded part of his face the burning sunshine glowed. But he did not open +his eyes to look at the glory of the morning. +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile the girl continued to dance, and whirled about so eagerly that +the blackened moss which had collected in the unevennesses of the rocks flew +about her. An old, dry fir root, smooth and gray with age, lay upturned among +the heather. She took it and whirled about with it. Chips flew out from the +mouldering wood. Centipedes and earwigs that had lived in the crevices scurried +out head over heels into the luminous air and bored down among the roots of the +heather. +</p> + +<p> +When the swinging skirts grazed the heather, clouds of small grey butterflies +fluttered up from it. The under side of their wings was white and silvery and +they whirled like dry leaves in a squall. They then seemed quite white, and it +was as if a red sea threw up white foam. The butterflies remained for a short +time in the air. Their fragile wings fluttered so violently that the down +loosened and fell like thin silver white feathers. The air seemed to be filled +with a glorified mist. +</p> + +<p> +On the heath grasshoppers sat and scraped their back legs against their wings, +so that they sounded like harp strings. They kept good time and played so well +together, that to any one passing over the moor it sounded like the same +grasshopper during the whole walk, although it seemed to be first on the right, +then on the left; now in front, now behind. But the dancer was not content with +their playing and began after a little while to hum the measure of a dance +tune. Her voice was shrill and harsh. The hunter was waked by the song. He +turned on his side, raised himself to his elbow, and looked over the pile of +stones at the dancing girl. +</p> + +<p> +He had dreamt that the hare which he had just killed had leaped out of the bag +and had taken his own arrows to shoot at him. He now stared at the girl half +awake, dizzy with his dream, his head burning from sleeping in the sun. +</p> + +<p> +She was tall and coarsely built, not fair of face, nor light in the dance, nor +tuneful in her song. She had broad cheeks, thick lips and a flat nose. She had +very red cheeks, very dark hair. She was exuberant in figure, moving with vigor +and life. Her clothes were shabby but bright in color. Red bands edged the +striped skirt and bright colored worsted fringes outlined the seams of her +bodice. Other young maidens resemble roses and lilies, but she was like the +heather, strong, gay and glowing. +</p> + +<p> +The hunter watched with pleasure as the big, splendid woman danced on the red +heath among the playing grasshoppers and the fluttering butterflies. While he +looked at her he laughed so that his mouth was drawn up towards his ears. But +then she suddenly caught sight of him and stood motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you think I am mad,” was the first thing that occurred +to her to say. At the same time she wondered how she would get him to hold his +tongue about what he had seen. She did not care to hear it told down in the +village that she had danced with a fir root. +</p> + +<p> +He was a man poor in words. Not a syllable could he utter. He was so shy that +he could think of nothing better than to run away, although he longed to stay. +Hastily he got his hat on his head and his leather bag on his back. Then he ran +away through the clumps of heather. +</p> + +<p> +She snatched up her bundle and ran after him. He was small, stiff in his +movements and evidently had very little strength. She soon caught up with him +and knocked his hat off to induce him to stop. He really wished to do so, but +he was confused with shyness and fled with still greater speed. She ran after +him and began to pull at his game-bag. Then he had to stop to defend it. She +fell upon him with all her strength. They fought, and she threw him to the +ground. “Now he will not speak of it to any one,” she thought, and +rejoiced. +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment, however, she grew sick with fright, for the man who lay on +the ground turned livid and his eyes rolled inwards in his head. He was not +hurt in any way, however. He could not bear emotion. Never before had so strong +and conflicting feelings stirred within that lonely forest dweller. He rejoiced +over the girl and was angry and ashamed and yet proud that she was so strong. +He was quite out of his head with it all. +</p> + +<p> +The big, strong girl put her arm under his back and lifted him up. She broke +the heather and whipped his face with the stiff twigs until the blood came back +to it. When his little eyes again turned towards the light of day, they shone +with pleasure at the sight of her. He was still silent; but he drew forward the +hand which she had placed about his waist and caressed it gently. +</p> + +<p> +He was a child of starvation and early toil. He was dry and pallid, thin and +anaemic. She was touched by his faintheartedness; he who nevertheless seemed to +be about thirty years old. She thought that he must live quite alone in the +forest since he was so pitiful and so meanly dressed. He could have no one to +look after him, neither mother nor sister nor sweetheart. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The great compassionate forest spread over the wilderness. Concealing and +protecting, it took to its heart everything which sought its help. With its +lofty trunks it kept watch by the lair of the fox and the bear, and in the +twilight of the thick bushes it hid the egg-filled nests of little birds. +</p> + +<p> +At the time when people still had slaves, many of them escaped to the woods and +found shelter behind its green walls. It became a great prison for them which +they did not dare to leave. The forest held its prisoners in strict discipline. +It forced the dull ones to use their wits and educated those ruined by slavery +to order and honor. Only to the industrious did it give the right to live. +</p> + +<p> +The two who met on the heath were descendants of such prisoners of the forest. +They sometimes went down to the inhabited, cultivated valleys, for they no +longer feared to be reduced to the slavery from which their forefathers had +fled, but they were happiest in the dimness of the forest. The hunter’s +name was Tönne. His real work was to cultivate the earth, but he also could do +other things. He collected herbs, boiled tar, dried punk, and often went +hunting. The dancer was called Jofrid. Her father was a charcoal burner. She +tied brooms, picked juniper berries and brewed ale of the white-flowering +myrtle. They were both very poor. +</p> + +<p> +They had never met before in the big wood, but now they thought that all its +paths wound into a net, in which they ran forward and back and could not +possibly escape one another. They never knew how to choose a way where they did +not meet. +</p> + +<p> +Tönne had once had a great sorrow. He had lived with his mother for a long +while in a miserable, wattled hut, but as soon as he was grown up he was seized +with the idea to build her a warm cabin. During all his leisure moments he went +into the clearing, cut down trees and hewed them into squared pieces. Then he +hid the timber in dark crannies under moss and branches. It was his intention +that his mother should not know anything of all this work before he was ready +to build the house. But his mother died before he could show her what he had +collected; before he had time to tell her what he had wished to do. He, who had +worked with the same zeal as David, King of Israel, when he gathered treasures +for the temple of God, grieved most bitterly over it. He lost all interest in +the building. For him the brushwood shelter was good enough. Yet he was hardly +better off in his home than an animal in its hole. +</p> + +<p> +When he, who had always heretofore crept about alone, was now seized with the +desire to seek Jofrid’s company, it certainly meant that he would like to +have her for his sweetheart and his bride. Jofrid also waited daily for him to +speak to her father or to herself about the matter. But Tönne could not. This +showed that he was of a race of slaves. The thoughts that came into his head +moved as slowly as the sun when he travels across the sky. And it was more +difficult for him to shape those thoughts to connected speech than for a smith +to forge a bracelet out of rolling grains of sand. +</p> + +<p> +One day Tönne took Jofrid to one of the clefts, where he had hidden his timber. +He pulled aside the branches and moss and showed her the squared beams. +“That was to have been mother’s house,” he said. The young +girl was strangely slow in understanding a young man’s thoughts. When he +showed her his mother’s logs she ought to have understood, but she did +not understand. +</p> + +<p> +Then he decided to make his meaning even plainer. A few days later he began to +drag the logs up to the place between the cairns, where he had seen Jofrid for +the first time. She came as usual along the path and saw him at work. +Nevertheless she went on without saying anything. Since they had become friends +she had often given him a good handshake, but she did not seem to want to help +him with the heavy work. Tönne still thought that she ought to have understood +that it was now her house which he meant to build. +</p> + +<p> +She understood it very well, but she had no desire to give herself to such a +man as Tönne. She wished to have a strong and healthy husband. She thought it +would be a poor livelihood to marry any one who was weak and dull. Still, there +was much which drew her to that silent, shy man. She thought how hard he had +worked to gladden his mother and had not enjoyed the happiness of being ready +in time. She could weep for his sake. And now he was building the house just +where he had seen her dance. He had a good heart. And that interested her and +fixed her thoughts on him, but she did not at all wish to marry him. +</p> + +<p> +Every day she went over the heather field and saw the log cabin grow, miserable +and without windows, with the sunlight filtering in through the leaky walls. +</p> + +<p> +Tönne’s work progressed very quickly, but not with care. His timbers were +not bent square, the lark was scarcely taken off. He laid the floor with split +young trees. It was uneven and shaky. The heather, which grew and blossomed +under it,—for at year had passed since the day when Tönne had lain aleep +behind King Atle’s pile,— pushed up bold red clusters through the +cracks, and ants without number wandered out and in, inspecting the fragile +work of man. +</p> + +<p> +Wherever Jofrid went during those days, the thought never left her that a house +was being built for her there. A home was being prepared for her upon the +heath. And she knew that if she did not enter there as mistress, the bear and +the fox would make it their home. For she knew Tönne well enough to understand +that if he found he had worked in vain, he would never move into the new house. +He would weep, poor man, when he heard that she would not live there. It would +be a new sorrow for him, as deep as when his mother died. But he had himself to +blame, because he had not asked her in time. +</p> + +<p> +She thought that she gave him a sufficient hint in not helping him with the +house. She often felt impelled to do so. Every time she saw any soft, white +moss, she wanted to pick it to fill in the leaky walls. She longed, too, to +help Tönne to build the chimney. As he was making it, all the smoke would +gather in the house. But it did not matter how it was. No food would ever be +cooked there, no ale brewed. Still it was odious that the house would never +leave her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +Tönne worked, glowing with eagerness, certain that Jofrid would understand his +meaning, if only the house were ready. He did not wonder much about her; he had +enough to do to hew and shape. The days went quickly for him. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon, when Jofrid came over the moor, she saw that there was a door in +the cottage and a slab of stone for a threshold. Then she understood that +everything must now be ready, and she was much agitated. Tönne had covered the +roof with tufts of flowering heather, and she was seized by an intense longing +to enter under that red roof. He was not at the new house and she decided to go +in. The house was built for her. It was her home. It was not possible to resist +the desire to see it. +</p> + +<p> +Within it was more attractive than she had expected. Rushes were strewed over +the floor. It was full of the fresh fragrance of pine and resin. The sunshine +that played through the windows and cracks made bands of light through the air. +It looked as if she had been expected; in the crannies of the wall green +branches were stuck, and in the fireplace stood a newly cut fir-tree. Tönne had +not moved in his old furniture. There was nothing but a new table and a bench, +over which an elk skin was thrown. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Jofrid had crossed the threshold, she felt the pleasant cosiness of +home surrounding her. She was happy and content while she stood there, but to +leave it seemed to her as hard as to go away and serve strangers. It happened +that Jofrid had expended much hard work in procuring a kind of dower for +herself. With skilful hands she had woven bright colored fabrics, such as are +used to adorn a room, and she wanted to put them up in her own home, when she +got one. Now she wondered how those cloths would look here. She wished she +could try them in the new house. +</p> + +<p> +She hurried quickly home, fetched her roll of weavings and began to fasten the +bright-colored pieces of cloth up under the roof. She threw open the door to +let the big setting sun shine on her and her work. She moved eagerly about the +cottage, brisk, gay, bumming a merry tune. She was perfectly happy. It looked +so fine. The woven roses and stars shone as never before. +</p> + +<p> +While she worked she kept a good look-out over the moor and the graves, for it +seemed to her as if Tönne might now too be lying hidden behind one of the +cairns and laughing at her. The king’s grave lay opposite the door and +behind it she saw the sun setting. Time after time she looked out. She felt as +if some one was sitting there and watching her. +</p> + +<p> +Just as the sun was so low that only a few blood-red beams filtered over the +old stone heap, she saw who it was who was watching her. The whole pile of +stones was no longer stones, but a mighty, old warrior, who was sitting there, +scarred and gray, and staring at her. Round about his head the rays of the sun +made a crown, and his red mantle was so wide that it spread over the whole +moor. His head was big and heavy, his face gray as stone. His clothes and +weapons were also stone-colored, and repeated so exactly the shadings and +mossiness of the rock, that one had to look closely to see that it was a +warrior and not a pile of stones. It was like those insects which resemble +tree-twigs. One can go by them twenty times before one sees that it is a soft +animal body one has taken for hard wood. +</p> + +<p> +But Jofrid could no longer be mistaken. It was the old King Atle himself +sitting there. She stood in the doorway, shaded her eyes with her hand, and +looked right into his stony face. He had very small, oblique eyes under a +dome-like brow, a broad nose and a long beard. And he was alive, that man of +stone. He smiled and winked at her. She was afraid, and what terrified her most +of all were his thick, muscular arms and hairy hands. The longer she looked at +him the broader grew his smile, and at last he lifted one of his mighty arms to +beckon her to him. Then Jofrid took flight towards home. +</p> + +<p> +But when Tönne came home and saw the housc adorned with starry weavings, he +found courage to send a friend to Jofrid’s father. The latter asked +Jofrid what she thought about it and she gave her consent. She was well pleased +with the way it had turned out, even if she had been half forced to give her +hand. She could not say no to the man, to whose house she had already carried +her dower. Still she looked first to see that old King Atle had again become a +pile of stones. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Tönne and Jofrid lived happily for many years. They earned a good reputation. +“They are good,” people said. “See how they stand by one +another, see how they work together, see how one cannot live apart from the +other!” +</p> + +<p> +Tönne grew stronger, more enduring and less heavy-witted every day. Jofrid +seemed to have made a whole man of him. Almost always he let her rule, but he +also understood how to carry out his own will with tenacious obstinacy. +</p> + +<p> +Jests and merriment followed Jofrid wherever she went. Her clothes became more +vivid the older she grew. Her whole face was bright red. But in Tönne’s +eyes she was beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +They were not so poor as many others of their class. They ate butter with their +porridge and mixed neither bran nor bark in their bread. Myrtle ale foamed in +their tankards. Their flocks of sheep and goats increased so quickly that they +could allow themselves meat. +</p> + +<p> +Tönne once worked for a peasant in the valley. The latter, who saw how he and +his wife worked together with great gaiety, thought like many another: +“See, these are good people.” +</p> + +<p> +The peasant had lately lost his wife, and she had left behind her a child six +months old. He asked Tönne and Jofrid to take his son as a foster-child. +</p> + +<p> +“The child is very dear to me,” he said, “therefore I give it +to you, for you are good people.” +</p> + +<p> +They had no children of their own, so that it seemed very fitting for them to +take it. They accepted it too without hesitation. They thought it would be to +their advantage to bring up a peasant’s child, besides which they +expected to be cheered in their old age by their foster-son. +</p> + +<p> +But the child did not live to grow up with them. Before the year was out it was +dead. It was said by many that it was the fault of the foster-parents, for the +child had been unusually strong before it came to them. By that no one meant, +however, that they had killed it intentionally, but rather that they had +undertaken something beyond their powers. They had not had sense or love enough +to give it the care it needed. They were accustomed only to think of themselves +and to look out for themselves. They had no time to care for a child. They +wished to go together to their work every day and to sleep a quiet sleep at +night. They thought that the child drank too much of their good milk and did +not allow him as much as themselves. They had no idea that they were treating +the boy badly. They thought that they were just as tender to him as parents +generally are. It seemed more to them as if their foster-son had been a +punishment and a torment. They did not mourn him when he died. +</p> + +<p> +Women usually enjoy nothing better than to take care of a child; but Jofrid had +a husband, whom she often had to care for like a mother, so that she desired no +one else. They also love to see their children’s quick growth; but Jofrid +had pleasure enough in watching Tönne develop sense and manliness, in adorning +and taking care of her house, in the increase of their flocks, and in the crops +which they were raising below on the moor. +</p> + +<p> +Jofrid went to the peasant’s farm and told him that the child was dead. +Then the man said: “I am like the man who puts cushions in his bed so +soft that he sinks down to the hard bottom. I wished to care too well for my +son, and look, now he is dead!” And he was heart-broken. +</p> + +<p> +At his words Jofrid began to weep bitterly. “Would to God that you had +not left your son with us!” she said. “We were too poor. He could +not get what he needed with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not what I meant,” answered the peasant. “I believe +that you have over-indulged the child. But I will not accuse any one, for over +life and death God alone rules. Now I mean to celebrate the funeral of my only +son with the same expense as if he had been full grown, and to the feast I +invite both Tönne and you. By that you may know that I bear you no +grudge.” +</p> + +<p> +So Tönne and Jofrid went to the funeral banquet. They were well treated, and no +one said anything unfriendly to them. The women who had dressed the +child’s body had related that it had been miserably thin and had borne +marks of great neglect. But that could easily come from sickness. No one wished +to believe anything bad about the foster-parents, for it was known that they +were good people. +</p> + +<p> +Jofrid wept a great deal during those days, especially when she heard the women +tell how they had to wake and toil for their little children. She noticed, too, +that the women at the funeral were continually talking of their children. Some +rejoiced so in them that they never could stop telling of their questions and +games. Jofrid would have liked to have talked about Tönne, but most of them +never spoke of their husbands. +</p> + +<p> +Late one evening Jofrid and Tönne came home from the festivities. They went +straight to bed. But hardly had they fallen asleep before they were waked by a +feeble crying. “It is the child,” they thought, still half asleep, +and were angry at being disturbed. But suddenly both of them sat right up in +the bed. The child was dead. Where did that crying come from? When they were +quite awake, they heard nothing, but as soon as they began to drop off to sleep +they heard it. Little, tottering feet sounded on the stone threshold outside +the house, a little hand groped for the door, and when it could not open it, +the child crept crying and feeling along the wall, until it stopped just +outside where they were sleeping. As soon as they spoke or sat up, they +perceived nothing; but when they tried to sleep, they distinctly heard the +uncertain steps and the suppressed sobbings. +</p> + +<p> +That which they had not wished to believe, but which seemed a possibility +during these last days, now became a certainty. They felt that they had killed +the child. Why otherwise should it have the power to haunt them? +</p> + +<p> +From that night all happiness left them. They lived in constant fear of the +ghost. By day they had some peace, but at night they were so disturbed by the +child’s weeping and choking sobs, that they did not dare to sleep alone. +Jofrid often went long distances to get some one to stop over night in their +house. If there was any stranger there, it was quiet, but as soon as they were +alone, they heard the child. +</p> + +<p> +One night, when they had found no one to keep them company and could not sleep +for the child, Jofrid got up from her bed. +</p> + +<p> +“You sleep, Tönne,” she said. “If I keep awake, we will not +hear anything.” +</p> + +<p> +She went out and sat down on the doorstep, thinking of what they ought to do to +get peace, for they could not go on living as things were. She wondered if +confession and penance and mortification and repentance could relieve them from +this heavy punishment. +</p> + +<p> +Then it happened that she raised her eyes and saw the same vision as once +before from this place. The pile of stones had changed to a warrior. The night +was quite dark, but still she could plainly see that old King Atle sat there +and watched her. She saw him so well that she could distinguish the moss-grown +bracelets on his wrists and could see how his legs were bound with crossed +bands, between which his calf muscles swelled. +</p> + +<p> +This time she was not afraid of the old man. He seemed to be a friend and +consoler in her unhappiness. He looked at her with pity, as if he wished to +give her courage. Then she thought that the mighty warrior had once had his +day, when he had overthrown hundreds of enemies there on the heath and waded +through the streams of blood that had poured between the clumps. What had he +thought of one dead man more or less? How much would the sight of children, +whose fathers he had killed, have moved his heart of stone? Light as air would +the burden of a child’s death have rested on his conscience. +</p> + +<p> +And she heard his whisper, the same which the old stone-cold heathenism had +whispered through all time. “Why repent? The gods rule us. The fates spin +the threads of life. Why shall the children of earth mourn because they have +done what the immortal gods have forced them to do?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Jofrid took courage and said to herself: “How am I to blame because +the child died? It is God alone who decides. Nothing takes place without his +will.” And she thought that she could lay the ghost by putting all +repentance from her. +</p> + +<p> +But now the door opened and Tönne came out to her. “Jofrid,” he +said, “it is in the house now. It came up and knocked on the edge of the +bed and woke me. What shall we do, Jofrid?” +</p> + +<p> +“The child is dead,” said Jofrid. “You know that it is lying +deep under ground. All this is only dreams and imagination.” She spoke +hardly and coldly, for she feared that Tönne would do something reckless, and +thereby cause them misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +“We must put an end to it,” said Tönne. +</p> + +<p> +Jofrid laughed dismally. “What do you wish to do? God has sent this to +us. Could He not have kept the child alive if He had chosen? He did not wish +it, and now He persecutes us for its death. Tell me by what right He persecutes +us?” +</p> + +<p> +She got her words from the old stone warrior, who sat dark and high on his +pile. It seemed as if he suggested to her everything she answered Tönne. +</p> + +<p> +“We must acknowledge that we have neglected the child, and do +penance,” said Tönne. +</p> + +<p> +“Never will I suffer for what is not my fault,” said Jofrid. +“Who wanted the child to die? Not I, not I. What kind of a penance will +you do? You need all your strength for work.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have already tried with scourging,” said Tönne. “It is of +no avail.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” she said, and laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“We must try something else,” Tönne went on with persistent +determination. “We must confess.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want to tell God, that He does not know?” mocked +Jofrid. “Does He not guide your thoughts, Tönne? What will you tell +Him?” She thought that Tönne was stupid and obstinate. She had found him +so in the beginning of their acquaintance, but since then she had not thought +of it, but had loved him for his good heart. +</p> + +<p> +“We will confess to the father, Jofrid, and offer him +compensation.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you offer him?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The house and the goats.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will certainly demand an enormous compensation for his only son. All +that we possess would not be enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will give ourselves as slaves into his power, if he is not content +with less.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words Jofrid was seized by cold despair, and she hated Tönne from the +depths of her soul. Everything she would lose appeared so plainly to +her,—freedom, for which her ancestors had ventured their lives, the +house, her comforts, honor and happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Mark my words, Tönne,” she said hoarsely, half choked with pain, +“that the day you do that thing will be the day of my death.” +</p> + +<p> +After that no more words were exchanged between them, but they remained sitting +on the doorstep until the day came. Neither found a word to appease or to +conciliate; each felt fear and scorn of the other. The one measured the other +by the standard of his own anger, and they found each other narrow-minded and +bad-tempered. +</p> + +<p> +After that night Jofrid could not refrain from letting Tönne feel that he was +her inferior. She let him understand in the presence of others that he was +stupid, and helped him with his work so that he had to think how much stronger +she was. She evidently wished to take away from him all rights as master of the +house. Sometimes she pretended to be very lively, to distract him and to +prevent him from brooding. He had not done anything to carry out his plan, but +she did not believe that he had given it up. +</p> + +<p> +During this time Tönne became more and more as he was before his marriage. He +grew thin and pale, silent and slow-witted. Jofrid’s despair increased +each day, for it seemed as if everything was to be taken from her. Her love for +Tönne came back, however, when she saw him unhappy. “What is any of it +worth to me if Tönne is ruined?” she thought. “It is better to go +into slavery with him than to see him die in freedom.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Jofrid, however, could not at once decide to obey Tönne. She fought a long and +severe fight. But one morning she awoke in an unusually calm and gentle mood. +Then she thought that she could now do what he demanded. And she waked him, +saying that it should be as he wished. Only that one day he should grant her to +say farewell to everything. +</p> + +<p> +The whole forenoon she went about strangely gentle. Tears rose easily to her +eyes. The heath was beautiful that day for her sake, she thought. Frost had +passed over it, the flowers were gone, and the whole moor had turned brown. But +when it was lighted by the slanting rays of the autumn sun, it looked as if the +heather glowed red once more. And she remembered the day when she saw Tönne for +the first time. +</p> + +<p> +She wished that she might see the old king once more, for he had helped her to +find her happiness. She had been seriously afraid of him of late. She felt as +if he were lying in wait to seize her. But now she thought he could no longer +have any power over her. She would remember to look for him towards night when +the moon rose. +</p> + +<p> +It happened that a couple of wandering musicians came by about noon. Jofrid had +the idea to ask them to stop at her house the whole afternoon, for she wished +to have a dance. Tönne had to hasten to her parents and ask them to come. And +her small brothers and sisters ran down to the village for the other guests. +Soon many people had collected. +</p> + +<p> +There was great gaiety. Tönne kept apart in a corner of the house, as was his +habit when they had guests, but Jofrid was quite wild in her fun. With shrill +voice she led the dance and was eager in offering her guests the foaming ale. +There was not much room in the cottage, but the fiddlers were untiring, and the +dance went on with life and spirit. It grew suffocatingly warm. The door was +thrown open, and all at once Jofrid saw that night had come and that the moon +had risen. Then she went to the door and looked out into the white world of the +moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +A heavy dew had fallen. The whole heath was white, as the moon was reflected in +all the little drops, which had collected on every twig. There Tönne and she +would go to-morrow hand in hand to meet the most terrible dishonor. For, +however the meeting with the peasant should turn out, whatever he might take or +whatever he might let them keep, dishonor would certainly be their lot. They, +who that evening possessed a good cottage and many friends, to-morrow would be +despised and detested by all, perhaps they would also be robbed of everything +they had earned, perhaps, too, be dishonored slaves. She said to herself: +“It is the way of death.” And now she could not understand how she +would ever have the strength to walk in it. It seemed to her as if she were of +stone, a heavy stone image like old King Atle. Although she was alive, she felt +as if she would not be able to lift her heavy stone limbs to walk that way. +</p> + +<p> +She turned her eyes towards the king’s grave and distinctly saw the old +warrior sitting there. But now he was adorned as for a feast. He no longer wore +the gray, moss-grown stone attire, but white, glittering silver. Now again he +wore a crown of beams, as when she first saw him, but this one was white. And +white shone his breastplate and armlets, shining white were sword, hilt, and +shield. He sat and watched her with silent indifference. The unfathomable +mystery which great stone faces wear had now sunk down over him. There he sat +dark and mighty, and Jofrid had a faint, indistinct idea that he was an image +of something which was in herself and in all men, of something which was buried +in far-away centuries, covered by many stones, and still not dead. She saw him, +the old king, sitting deep in the human heart. Over its barren field he spread +his wide king’s mantle. There pleasure danced, there love of display +flaunted. He was the great stone warrior who saw famine and poverty pass by +without his stone heart being moved. “It is the will of the gods,” +he said. He was the strong man of stone, who could bear unatoned-for sin +without yielding. He always said: “Why grieve for what you have done, +compelled by the immortal gods?” +</p> + +<p> +Jofrid’s breast was shaken by a sigh deep as a sob. She had a feeling +which she could not explain, a feeling that she ought to struggle with the man +of stone, if she was to be happy. But at the same time she felt helplessly +weak. +</p> + +<p> +Her impenitence and the struggle out on the heath seemed to her to be one and +the same thing, and if she could not conquer the first by some means or other, +the last would gain power over her. +</p> + +<p> +She looked back towards the cottage, where the weavings glowed under the roof +timbers, where the musicians spread merriment, and where everything she loved +was, then she felt that she could not go into slavery. Not even for +Tönne’s sake could she do it. She saw his pale face within in the house, +and she asked herself with a contraction of the heart if he was worth the +sacrifice of everything for his sake. +</p> + +<p> +In the cottage the people had started a new dance. They arranged themselves in +a long line, took each other by the hand, and with a wild, strong young man at +the head, they rushed forward at dizzy speed. The leader drew them through the +open door out cm to the moonlit heath. They stormed by Jofrid, panting and +wild, stumbling against stones, falling into the heather, making wide rings +round the house, circling about the heaps of stones. The last of the line +called to Jofrid and stretched out his hand to her. She seized it and ran too. +</p> + +<p> +It was not a dance, only a mad rush; but there was pleasure in it, audacity and +the joy of living. The rings became bolder, the cries sounded louder, the +laughter more boisterous. From cairn to cairn, as they lay scattered over the +heath, wound the line of dancers. If any one fell in the wild swinging, he was +dragged up, the slow ones were driven onward; the musicians stood in the +doorway and played the faster. There was no time to rest, to think, nor to look +about. The dance went on at always madder speed over the yielding moss and +slippery rocks. +</p> + +<p> +During all this Jofrid felt more and more clearly that she wished to keep her +freedom, that she would rather die than lose it. She saw that she could not +follow Tönne. She thought of running away, of hurrying into the wood and never +coming back. +</p> + +<p> +They had circled about all the cairns except that of King Atle. Jofrid saw that +they were now turning towards it and she kept her eyes fixed on the stone man. +Then she saw how his giant arms were stretched towards the rushing dancers. She +screamed aloud, but she was answered by loud laughter. She wished to stop, but +a strong grasp drew her on. She saw him snatch at those hurrying by, but they +were so quick that the heavy arms could not reach any of them. It was +incomprehensible to her that no one saw him. The agony of death came over her. +She thought that he would reach her. It was for her that he had lain in wait +for many years. With the others it was only play. It was she whom he would +seize at last. +</p> + +<p> +Her turn came to rush by King Atle. She saw how he raised himself and bent for +a spring to be sure of the matter and catch her. In her extreme need she felt +that if she only could decide to give in the next day, he would not have the +power to catch her, but she could not.—She came last, and she was swung +so violently that she was more dragged and jerked forward than running herself, +and it was hard for her to keep from falling. And although she passed at +lightning speed, the old warrior was too quick for her. The heavy arms sank +down over her, the stone hands seized her, she was drawn into the silvery +harness of that breast. The agony of death took more and more hold of her, but +she knew to the very last that it was because she had not been able to conquer +the stone king in her own heart that Atle had power over her. +</p> + +<p> +It was the end of the dancing and merriment. Jofrid lay dying. In the violence +of their mad rout, she had been thrown against the king’s cairn and +received her death-blow on its stones. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>THE OUTLAWS</h2> + +<p> +A peasant who had murdered a monk took to the woods and was made an outlaw. He +found there before him in the wilderness another outlaw, a fisherman from the +outermost islands, who had been accused of stealing a herring net. They joined +together, lived in a cave, set snares, sharpened darts, baked bread on a +granite rock and guarded one another’s lives. The peasant never left the +woods, but the fisherman, who had not committed such an abominable crime, +sometimes loaded game on his shoulders and stole down among men. There he got +in exchange for black-cocks, for long-eared hares and fine-limbed red deer, +milk and butter, arrow-heads and clothes. These helped the outlaws to sustain +life. +</p> + +<p> +The cave where they lived was dug in the side of a hill. Broad stones and +thorny sloe-bushes hid the entrance. Above it stood a thick growing pine-tree. +At its roots was the vent-hole of the cave. The rising smoke filtered through +the tree’s thick branches and vanished into space. The men used to go to +and from their dwelling-place, wading in the mountain stream, which ran down +the hill. No-one looked for their tracks under the merry, bubbling water. +</p> + +<p> +At first they were hunted like wild beasts. The peasants gathered as if for a +chase of bear or wolf. The wood was surrounded by men with bows and arrows. Men +with spears went through it and left no dark crevice, no bushy thicket +unexplored. While the noisy battue hunted through the wood, the outlaws lay in +their dark hole, listening breathlessly, panting with terror. The fisherman +held out a whole day, but he who had murdered was driven by unbearable fear out +into the open, where he could see his enemy. He was seen and hunted, but it +seemed to him seven times better than to lie still in helpless inactivity. He +fled from his pursuers, slid down precipices, sprang over streams, climbed up +perpendicular mountain walls. All latent strength and dexterity in him was +called forth by the excitement of danger. His body became elastic like a steel +spring, his foot made no false step, his hand never lost its hold, eye and ear +were twice as sharp as usual. He understood what the leaves whispered and the +rocks warned. When he had climbed up a precipice, he turned towards his +pursuers, sending them gibes in biting rhyme. When the whistling darts whizzed +by him, he caught them, swift as lightning, and hurled them down on his +enemies. As he forced his way through whipping branches, something within him +sang a song of triumph. +</p> + +<p> +The bald mountain ridge ran through the wood and alone on its summit stood a +lofty fir. The red-brown trunk was bare, but in the branching top rocked an +eagle’s nest. The fugitive was now so audaciously bold that he climbed up +there, while his pursuers looked for him on the wooded slopes. There he sat +twisting the young eaglets’ necks, while the hunt passed by far below +him. The male and female eagle, longing for revenge, swooped down on the +ravisher. They fluttered before his face, they struck with their beaks at his +eyes, they beat him with their wings and tore with their claws bleeding weals +in his weather-beaten skin. Laughing, he fought with them. Standing upright in +the shaking nest, he cut at them with his sharp knife and forgot in the +pleasure of the play his danger and his pursuers. When he found time to look +for them, they had gone by to some other part of the forest. No one had thought +to look for their prey on the bald mountain-ridge. No one had raised his eyes +to the clouds to see him practising boyish tricks and sleep-walking feats while +his life was in the greatest danger. +</p> + +<p> +The man trembled when he found that he was saved. With shaking hands he caught +at a support, giddy he measured the height to which he had climbed. And moaning +with the fear of falling, afraid of the birds, afraid of being seen, afraid of +everything, he slid down the trunk. He laid himself down on the ground, so as +not to be seen, and dragged himself forward over the rocks until the underbrush +covered him. There he hid himself under the young pine-tree’s tangled +branches. Weak and powerless, he sank down on the moss. A single man could have +captured him. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Tord was the fisherman’s name. He was not more than sixteen years old, +but strong and bold. He had already lived a year in the woods. +</p> + +<p> +The peasant’s name was Berg, with the surname Rese. He was the tallest +and the strongest man in the whole district, and moreover handsome and +well-built. He was broad in the shoulders and slender in the waist. His hands +were as well shaped as if he had never done any hard work. His hair was brown +and his skin fair. After he had been some time in the woods he acquired in all +ways a more formidable appearance. His eyes became piercing, his eyebrows grew +bushy, and the muscles which knitted them lay finger thick above his nose. It +showed now more plainly than before how the upper part of his athlete’s +brow projected over the lower. His lips closed more firmly than of old, his +whole face was thinner, the hollows at the temples grew very deep, and his +powerful jaw was much more prominent. His body was less well filled out but his +muscles were as hard as steel. His hair grew suddenly gray. +</p> + +<p> +Young Tord could never weary of looking at this man. He had never before seen +anything so beautiful and powerful. In his imagination he stood high as the +forest, strong as the sea. He served him as a master and worshipped him as a +god. It was a matter of course that Tord should carry the hunting spears, drag +home the game, fetch the water and build the fire. Berg Rese accepted all his +services, but almost never gave him a friendly word. He despised him because he +was a thief. +</p> + +<p> +The outlaws did not lead a robber’s or brigand’s life; they +supported themselves by hunting and fishing. If Berg Rese had not murdered a +holy man, the peasants would soon have ceased to pursue him and have left him +in peace in the mountains. But they feared great disaster to the district, +because he who had raised his hand against the servant of God was still +unpunished. When Tord came down to the valley with game, they offered him +riches and pardon for his own crime if he would show them the way to Berg +Rese’s hole, so that they might take him while he slept. But the boy +always refused; and if any one tried to sneak after him up to the wood, he led +him so cleverly astray that he gave up the pursuit. +</p> + +<p> +Once Berg asked him if the peasants had not tried to tempt him to betray him, +and when he heard what they had offered him as a reward, he said scornfully +that Tord had been foolish not to accept such a proposal. +</p> + +<p> +Then Tord looked at him with a glance, the like of which Berg Rese had never +before seen. Never had any beautiful woman in his youth, never had his wife or +child looked so at him. “You are my lord, my elected master,” said +the glance. “Know that you may strike me and abuse me as you will, I am +faithful notwithstanding.” +</p> + +<p> +After that Berg Rese paid more attention to the boy and noticed that he was +bold to act but timid to speak. He had no fear of death. When the ponds were +first frozen, or when the bogs were most dangerous in the spring, when the +quagmires were hidden under richly flowering grasses and cloudberry, he took +his way over them by choice. He seemed to feel the need of exposing himself to +danger as a compensation for the storms and terrors of the ocean, which he had +no longer to meet. At night he was afraid in the woods, and even in the middle +of the day the darkest thickets or the wide-stretching roots of a fallen pine +could frighten him. But when Berg Rese asked him about it, he was too shy to +even answer. +</p> + +<p> +Tord did not sleep near the fire, far in in the cave, on the bed which was made +soft with moss and warm with skins, but every night, when Berg had fallen +asleep, he crept out to the entrance and lay there on a rock. Berg discovered +this, and although he well understood the reason, he asked what it meant. Tord +would not explain. To escape any more questions, he did not lie at the door for +two nights, but then he returned to his post. +</p> + +<p> +One night, when the drifting snow whirled about the forest tops and drove into +the thickest underbrush, the driving snowflakes found their way into the +outlaws’ cave. Tord, who lay just inside the entrance, was, when he waked +in the morning, covered by a melting snowdrift. A few days later he fell ill. +His lungs wheezed, and when they were expanded to take in air, he felt +excruciating pain. He kept up as long as his strength held out, but when one +evening he leaned down to blow the fire, he fell over and remained lying. +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese came to him and told him to go to his bed. Tord moaned with pain and +could not raise himself. Berg then thrust his arms under him and carried him +there. But he felt as if he had got hold of a slimy snake; he had a taste in +the mouth as if he had eaten the unholy horseflesh, it was so odious to him to +touch the miserable thief. +</p> + +<p> +He laid his own big bearskin over him and gave him water, more he could not do. +Nor was it anything dangerous. Tord was soon well again. But through +Berg’s being obliged to do his tasks and to be his servant, they had come +nearer to one another. Tord dared to talk to him when he sat in the cave in the +evening and cut arrow shafts. +</p> + +<p> +“You are of a good race, Berg,” said Tord. “Your kinsmen are +the richest in the valley. Your ancestors have served with kings and fought in +their castles.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have oftener fought with bands of rebels and done the kings great +injury,” replied Berg Rese. +</p> + +<p> +“Your ancestors gave great feasts at Christmas, and so did you, when you +were at home. Hundreds of men and women could find a place to sit in your big +house, which was already built before Saint Olof first gave the baptism here in +Viken. You owned old silver vessels and great drinking-horns, which passed from +man to man, filled with mead.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Berg Rese had to look at the boy. He sat up with his legs hanging out of +the bed and his head resting on his hands, with which he at the same time held +back the wild masses of hair which would fall over his eyes. His face had +become pale and delicate from the ravages of sickness. In his eyes fever still +burned. He smiled at the pictures he conjured up: at the adorned house, at the +silver vessels, at the guests in gala array and at Berg Rese, sitting in the +seat of honor in the hall of his ancestors. The peasant thought that no one had +ever looked at him with such shining, admiring eyes, or thought him so +magnificent, arrayed in his festival clothes, as that boy thought him in the +torn skin dress. +</p> + +<p> +He was both touched and provoked. That miserable thief had no right to admire +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Were there no feasts in your house?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Tord laughed. “Out there on the rocks with father and mother! Father is a +wrecker and mother is a witch. No one will come to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your mother a witch?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is,” answered Tord, quite untroubled. “In stormy weather +she rides out on a seal to meet the ships over which the waves are washing, and +those who are carried overboard are hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does she do with them?” asked Berg. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, a witch always needs corpses. She makes ointments out of them, or +perhaps she eats them. On moonlight nights she sits in the surf, where it is +whitest, and the spray dashes over her. They say that she sits and searches for +shipwrecked children’s fingers and eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is awful,” said Berg. +</p> + +<p> +The boy answered with infinite assurance: “That would be awful in others, +but not in witches. They have to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese found that he had here come upon a new way of regarding the world and +things. +</p> + +<p> +“Do thieves have to steal, as witches have to use witchcraft?” he +asked sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course,” answered the boy; “every one has to do what +he is destined to do.” But then he added, with a cautious smile: +“There are thieves also who have never stolen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say out what you mean,” said Berg. +</p> + +<p> +The boy continued with his mysterious smile, proud at being an unsolvable +riddle: “It is like speaking of birds who do not fly, to talk of thieves +who do not steal.” +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese pretended to be stupid in order to find out what he wanted. “No +one can be called a thief without having stolen,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No; but,” said the boy, and pressed his lips together as if to +keep in the words, “but if some one had a father who stole,” he +hinted after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“One inherits money and lands,” replied Berg Rese, “but no +one bears the name of thief if he has not himself earned it.” +</p> + +<p> +Tord laughed quietly. “But if somebody has a mother who begs and prays +him to take his father’s crime on him. But if such a one cheats the +hangman and escapes to the woods. But if some one is made an outlaw for a +fish-net which he has never seen.” +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese struck the stone table with his clenched fist. He was angry. This +fair young man had thrown away his whole life. He could never win love, nor +riches, nor esteem after that. The wretched striving for food and clothes was +all which was left him. And the fool had let him, Berg Rese, go on despising +one who was innocent. He rebuked him with stern words, but Tord was not even as +afraid as a sick child is of its mother, when she chides it because it has +caught cold by wading in the spring brooks. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +On one of the broad, wooded mountains lay a dark tarn. It was square, with as +straight shores and as sharp corners as if it had been cut by the hand of man. +On three sides it was surrounded by steep cliffs, on which pines clung with +roots as thick as a man’s arm. Down by the pool, where the earth had been +gradually washed away, their roots stood up out of the water, bare and crooked +and wonderfully twisted about one another. It was like an infinite number of +serpents which had wanted all at the same time to crawl up out of the pool but +had got entangled in one another and been held fast. Or it was like a mass of +blackened skeletons of drowned giants which the pool wanted to throw up on the +land. Arms and legs writhed about one another, the long fingers dug deep into +the very cliff to get a hold, the mighty ribs formed arches, which held up +primeval trees. It had happened, however, that the iron arms, the steel-like +fingers with which the pines held themselves fast, had given way, and a pine +had been borne by a mighty north wind from the top of the cliff down into the +pool. It had burrowed deep down into the muddy bottom with its top and now +stood there. The smaller fish had a good place of refuge among its branches, +but the roots stuck up above the water like a many-armed monster and +contributed to make the pool awful and terrifying. +</p> + +<p> +On the tarn’s fourth side the cliff sank down. There a little foaming +stream carried away its waters. Before this stream could find the only possible +way, it had tried to get out between stones and tufts, and had by so doing made +a little world of islands, some no bigger than a little hillock, others covered +with trees. +</p> + +<p> +Here where the encircling cliffs did not shut out all the sun, leafy trees +flourished. Here stood thirsty, gray-green alders and smooth-leaved willows. +The birch-tree grew there as it does everywhere where it is trying to crowd out +the pine woods, and the wild cherry and the mountain ash, those two which edge +the forest pastures, filling them with fragrance and adorning them with beauty. +Here at the outlet there was a forest of reeds as high as a man, which made the +sunlight fall green on the water just as it falls on the moss in the real +forest. Among the reeds there were open places; small, round pools, and +water-lilies were floating there. The tall stalks looked down with mild +seriousness on those sensitive beauties, who discontentedly shut their white +petals and yellow stamens in a hard, leather-like sheath as soon as the sun +ceased to show itself. +</p> + +<p> +One sunshiny day the outlaws came to this tarn to fish. They waded out to a +couple of big stones in the midst of the reed forest and sat there and threw +out bait for the big, green-striped pickerel that lay and slept near the +surface of the water. +</p> + +<p> +These men, who were always wandering in the woods and the mountains, had, +without their knowing it themselves, come under nature’s rule as much as +the plants and the animals. When the sun shone, they were open-hearted and +brave, but in the evening, as soon as the sun had disappeared, they became +silent; and the night, which seemed to them much greater and more powerful than +the day, made them anxious and helpless. Now the green light, which slanted in +between the rushes and colored the water with brown and dark-green streaked +with gold, affected their mood until they were ready for any miracle. Every +outlook was shut off. Sometimes the reeds rocked in an imperceptible wind, +their stalks rustled, and the long, ribbon-like leaves fluttered against their +faces. They sat in gray skins on the gray stones. The shadows in the skins +repeated the shadows of the weather-beaten, mossy stone. Each saw his companion +in his silence and immovability change into a stone image. But in among the +rushes swam mighty fishes with rainbow-colored backs. When the men threw out +their hooks and saw the circles spreading among the reeds, it seemed as if the +motion grew stronger and stronger, until they perceived that it was not caused +only by their cast. A sea-nymph, half human, half a shining fish, lay and slept +on the surface of the water. She lay on her back with her whole body under +water. The waves so nearly covered her that they had not noticed her before. It +was her breathing that caused the motion of the waves. But there was nothing +strange in her lying there, and when the next instant she was gone, they were +not sure that she had not been only an illusion. +</p> + +<p> +The green light entered through the eyes into the brain like a gentle +intoxication. The men sat and stared with dulled thoughts, seeing visions among +the reeds, of which they did not dare to tell one another. Their catch was +poor. The day was devoted to dreams and apparitions. +</p> + +<p> +The stroke of oars was heard among the rushes, and they started up as from +sleep. The next moment a flat-bottomed boat appeared, heavy, hollowed out with +no skill and with oars as small as sticks. A young girl, who had been picking +water-lilies, rowed it. She had dark-brown hair, gathered in great braids, and +big dark eyes; otherwise she was strangely pale. But her paleness toned to pink +and not to gray. Her cheeks had no higher color than the rest of her face, the +lips had hardly enough. She wore a white linen shirt and a leather belt with a +gold buckle. Her skirt was blue with a red hem. She rowed by the outlaws +without seeing them. They kept breathlessly still, but not for fear of being +seen, but only to be able to really see her. As soon as she had gone they were +as if changed from stone images to living beings. Smiling, they looked at one +another. +</p> + +<p> +“She was white like the water-lilies,” said one. “Her eyes +were as dark as the water there under the pine-roots.” +</p> + +<p> +They were so excited that they wanted to laugh, really laugh as no one had ever +laughed by that pool, till the cliffs thundered with echoes and the roots of +the pines loosened with fright. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think she was pretty?” asked Berg Rese. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I do not know, I saw her for such a short time. Perhaps she +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe you dared to look at her. You thought that it was a +mermaid.” +</p> + +<p> +And they were again shaken by the same extravagant merriment. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Tord had once as a child seen a drowned man. He had found the body on the shore +on a summer day and had not been at all afraid, but at night he had dreamed +terrible dreams. He saw a sea, where every wave rolled a dead man to his feet. +He saw, too, that all the islands were covered with drowned men, who were dead +and belonged to the sea, but who still could speak and move and threaten him +with withered white hands. +</p> + +<p> +It was so with him now. The girl whom he had seen among the rushes came back in +his dreams. He met her out in the open pool, where the sunlight fell even +greener than among the rushes, and he had time to see that she was beautiful. +He dreamed that he had crept up on the big pine root in the middle of the dark +tarn, but the pine swayed and rocked so that sometimes he was quite under +water. Then she came forward on the little islands. She stood under the red +mountain ashes and laughed at him. In the last dream-vision he had come so far +that she kissed him. It was already morning, and he heard that Berg Rese had +got up, but he obstinately shut his eyes to be able to go on with his dream. +When he awoke, he was as though dizzy and stunned by what had happened to him +in the night. He thought much more now of the girl than he had done the day +before. +</p> + +<p> +Towards night he happened to ask Berg Rese if he knew her name. +</p> + +<p> +Berg looked at him inquiringly. “Perhaps it is best for you to hear +it,” he said. “She is Unn. We are cousins.” +</p> + +<p> +Tord then knew that it was for that pale girl’s sake Berg Rese wandered +an outlaw in forest and mountain. Tord tried to remember what he knew of her. +Unn was the daughter of a rich peasant. Her mother was dead, so that she +managed her father’s house. This she liked, for she was fond of her own +way and she had no wish to be married. +</p> + +<p> +Unn and Berg Rese were the children of brothers, and it had long been said that +Berg preferred to sit with Unn and her maids and jest with them than to work on +his own lands. When the great Christmas feast was celebrated at his house, his +wife had invited a monk from Draksmark, for she wanted him to remonstrate with +Berg, because he was forgetting her for another woman. This monk was hateful to +Berg and to many on account of his appearance. He was very fat and quite white. +The ring of hair about his bald head, the eyebrows above his watery eyes, his +face, his hands and his whole cloak, everything was white. Many found it hard +to endure his looks. +</p> + +<p> +At the banquet table, in the hearing of all the guests, this monk now said, for +he was fearless and thought that his words would have more effect if they were +heard by many, “People are in the habit of saying that the cuckoo is the +worst of birds because he does not rear his young in his own nest, but here +sits a man who does not provide for his home and his children, but seeks his +pleasure with a strange woman. Him will I call the worst of +men.”—Unn then rose up. “That, Berg, is said to you and +me,” she said. “Never have I been so insulted, and my father is not +here either.” She had wished to go, but Berg sprang after her. “Do +not move!” she said. “I will never see you again.” He caught +up with her in the hall and asked her what he should do to make her stay. She +had answered with flashing eyes that he must know that best himself. Then Berg +went in and killed the monk. +</p> + +<p> +Berg and Tord were busy with the same thoughts, for after a while Berg said: +“You should have seen her, Unn, when the white monk fell. The mistress of +the house gathered the small children about her and cursed her. She turned +their faces towards her, that they might forever remember her who had made +their father a murderer. But Unn stood calm and so beautiful that the men +trembled. She thanked me for the deed and told me to fly to the woods. She bade +me not to be robber, and not to use the knife until I could do it for an +equally just cause.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your deed had been to her honor,” said Tord. +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese noticed again what had astonished him before in the boy. He was like +a heathen, worse than a heathen; he never condemned what was wrong. He felt no +responsibility. That which must be, was. He knew of God and Christ and the +saints, but only by name, as one knows the gods of foreign lands. The ghosts of +the rocks were his gods. His mother, wise in witchcraft, had taught him to +believe in the spirits of the dead. +</p> + +<p> +Then Berg Rese undertook a task which was as foolish as to twist a rope about +his own neck. He set before those ignorant eyes the great God, the Lord of +justice, the Avenger of misdeeds, who casts the wicked into places of +everlasting torment. And he taught him to love Christ and his mother and the +holy men and women, who with lifted hands kneeled before God’s throne to +avert the wrath of the great Avenger from the hosts of sinners. He taught him +all that men do to appease God’s wrath. He showed him the crowds of +pilgrims making pilgrimages to holy places, the flight of self-torturing +penitents and monks from a worldly life. +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, the boy became more eager and more pale, his eyes grew large as if +for terrible visions. Berg Rese wished to stop, but thoughts streamed to him, +and he went on speaking. The night sank down over them, the black forest night, +when the owls hoot. God came so near to them that they saw his throne darken +the stars, and the chastising angels sank down to the tops of the trees. And +under them the fires of Hell flamed up to the earth’s crust, eagerly +licking that shaking place of refuge for the sorrowing races of men. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The autumn had come with a heavy storm. Tord went alone in the woods to see +after the snares and traps. Berg Rese sat at home to mend his clothes. +Tord’s way led in a broad path up a wooded height. +</p> + +<p> +Every gust carried the dry leaves in a rustling whirl up the path. Time after +time Tord thought that some one went behind him. He often looked round. +Sometimes he stopped to listen, but he understood that it was the leaves and +the wind, and went on. As soon as he started on again, he heard some one come +dancing on silken foot up the slope. Small feet came tripping. Elves and +fairies played behind him. When he turned round, there was no one, always no +one. He shook his fists at the rustling leaves and went on. +</p> + +<p> +They did not grow silent for that, but they took another tone. They began to +hiss and to pant behind him. A big viper came gliding. Its tongue dripping +venom hung far out of its mouth, and its bright body shone against the withered +leaves. Beside the snake pattered a wolf, a big, gaunt monster, who was ready +to seize fast in his throat when the snake had twisted about his feet and +bitten him in the heel. Sometimes they were both silent, as if to approach him +unperceived, but they soon betrayed themselves by hissing and panting, and +sometimes the wolf’s claws rung against a stone. Involuntarily Tord +walked quicker and quicker, but the creatures hastened after him. When he felt +that they were only two steps distant and were preparing to strike, he turned. +There was nothing there, and he had known it the whole time. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down on a stone to rest. Then the dry leaves played about his feet as if +to amuse him. All the leaves of the forest were there: small, light yellow +birch leaves, red speckled mountain ash, the elm’s dry, dark-brown +leaves, the aspen’s tough light red, and the willow’s yellow green. +Transformed and withered, scarred and torn were they, and much unlike the +downy, light green, delicately shaped leaves, which a few months ago had rolled +out of their buds. +</p> + +<p> +“Sinners,” said the boy, “sinners, nothing is pure in +God’s eyes. The flame of his wrath has already reached you.” +</p> + +<p> +When he resumed his wandering, he saw the forest under him bend before the +storm like a heaving sea, but in the path it was calm. But he heard what he did +not feel. The woods were full of voices. +</p> + +<p> +He heard whisperings, wailing songs, coarse threats, thundering oaths. There +was laughter and laments, there was the noise of many people. That which +hounded and pursued, which rustled and hissed, which seemed to be something and +still was nothing, gave him wild thoughts. He felt again the anguish of death, +as when he lay on the floor in his den and the peasants hunted him through the +wood. He heard again the crashing of branches, the people’s heavy tread, +the ring of weapons, the resounding cries, the wild, bloodthirsty noise, which +followed the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not only that which he heard in the storm. There was something else, +something still more terrible, voices which he could not interpret, a confusion +of voices, which seemed to him to speak in foreign tongues. He had heard +mightier storms than this whistle through the rigging, but never before had he +heard the wind play on such a many-voiced harp. Each tree had its own voice; +the pine did not murmur like the aspen nor the poplar like the mountain ash. +Every hole had its note, every cliff’s sounding echo its own ring. And +the noise of the brooks and the cry of foxes mingled with the marvellous forest +storm. But all that he could interpret; there were other strange sounds. It was +those which made him begin to scream and scoff and groan in emulation with the +storm. +</p> + +<p> +He had always been afraid when he was alone in the darkness of the forest. He +liked the open sea and the bare rocks. Spirits and phantoms crept about among +the trees. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he heard who it was who spoke in the storm. It was God, the great +Avenger, the God of justice. He was hunting him for the sake of his comrade. He +demanded that he should deliver up the murderer to His vengeance. +</p> + +<p> +Then Tord began to speak in the midst of the storm. He told God what he had +wished to do, but had not been able. He had wished to speak to Berg Rese and to +beg him to make his peace with God, but he had been too shy. Bashfulness had +made him dumb. “When I heard that the earth was ruled by a just +God,” he cried, “I understood that he was a lost man. I have lain +and wept for my friend many long nights. I knew that God would find him out, +wherever he might hide. But I could not speak, nor teach him to understand. I +was speechless, because I loved him so much. Ask not that I shall speak to him, +ask not that the sea shall rise up against the mountain.” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and in the storm the deep voice, which had been the voice of God +for him, ceased. It was suddenly calm, with a sharp sun and a splashing as of +oars and a gentle rustle as of stiff rushes. These sounds brought Unn’s +image before him.—The outlaw cannot have anything, not riches, nor women, +nor the esteem of men. —If he should betray Berg, he would be taken under +the protection of the law.—But Unn must love Berg, after what he had done +for her. There was no way out of it all. +</p> + +<p> +When the storm increased, he heard again steps behind him and sometimes a +breathless panting. Now he did not dare to look back, for he knew that the +white monk went behind him. He came from the feast at Berg Rese’s house, +drenched with blood, with a gaping axe-wound in his forehead. And he whispered: +“Denounce him, betray him, save his soul. Leave his body to the pyre, +that his soul may be spared. Leave him to the slow torture of the rack, that +his soul may have time to repent.” +</p> + +<p> +Tord ran. All this fright of what was nothing in itself grew, when it so +continually played on the soul, to an unspeakable terror. He wished to escape +from it all. As he began to run, again thundered that deep, terrible voice, +which was God’s. God himself hunted him with alarms, that he should give +up the murderer. Berg Rese’s crime seemed more detestable than ever to +him. An unarmed man had been murdered, a man of God pierced with shining steel. +It was like a defiance of the Lord of the world. And the murderer dared to +live! He rejoiced in the sun’s light and in the fruits of the earth as if +the Almighty’s arm were too short to reach him. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, clenched his fists and howled out a threat. Then he ran like a +madman from the wood down to the valley. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Tord hardly needed to tell his errand; instantly ten peasants were ready to +follow him. It was decided that Tord should go alone up to the cave, so that +Berg’s suspicions should not be aroused. But where he went he should +scatter peas, so that the peasants could find the way. +</p> + +<p> +When Tord came to the cave, the outlaw sat on the stone bench and sewed. The +fire gave hardly any light, and the work seemed to go badly. The boy’s +heart swelled with pity. The splendid Berg Rese seemed to him poor and unhappy. +And the only thing he possessed, his life, should be taken from him. Tord began +to weep. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Berg. “Are you ill? Have you been +frightened?” +</p> + +<p> +Then for the first time Tord spoke of his fear. “It was terrible in the +wood. I heard ghosts and raw spectres. I saw white monks.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Sdeath, boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“They crowded round me all the way up Broad mountain. I ran, but they +followed after and sang. Can I never be rid of the sound? What have I to do +with them? I think that they could go to one who needed it more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you mad to-night, Tord?” +</p> + +<p> +Tord talked, hardly knowing what words he used. He was free from all shyness. +The words streamed from his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“They are all white monks, white, pale as death. They all have blood on +their cloaks. They drag their hoods down over their brows, but still the wound +shines from under; the big, red, gaping wound from the blow of the axe.” +</p> + +<p> +“The big, red, gaping wound from the blow of the axe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it I who perhaps have struck it? Why shall I see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The saints only know, Tord,” said Berg Rese, pale and with +terrible earnestness, “what it means that you see a wound from an axe. I +killed the monk with a couple of knife-thrusts.” +</p> + +<p> +Tord stood trembling before Berg and wrung his hands. “They demand you of +me! They want to force me to betray you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who? The monks?” +</p> + +<p> +“They, yes, the monks. They show me visions. They show me her, Unn. They +show me the shining, sunny sea. They show me the fishermen’s +camping-ground, where there is dancing and merrymaking. I close my eyes, but +still I see. ‘Leave me in peace,’ I say. ‘My friend has +murdered, but he is not bad. Let me be, and I will talk to him, so that he +repents and atones. He shall confess his sin and go to Christ’s grave. We +will both go together to the places which are so holy that all sin is taken +away from him who draws near them.’” +</p> + +<p> +“What do the monks answer?” asked Berg. “They want to have me +saved. They want to have me on the rack and wheel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I betray my dearest friend, I ask them,” continued Tord. +“He is my world. He has saved me from the bear that had his paw on my +throat. We have been cold together and suffered every want together. He has +spread his bear-skin over me when I was sick. I have carried wood and water for +him; I have watched over him while he slept; I have fooled his enemies. Why do +they think that I am one who will betray a friend? My friend will soon of his +own accord go to the priest and confess, then we will go together to the land +of atonement.” +</p> + +<p> +Berg listened earnestly, his eyes sharply searching Tord’s face. +“You shall go to the priest and tell him the truth,” he said. +“You need to be among people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does that help me if I go alone? For your sin, Death and all his +spectres follow me. Do you not see how I shudder at you? You have lifted your +hand against God himself. No crime is like yours. I think that I must rejoice +when I see you on rack and wheel. It is well for him who can receive his +punishment in this world and escapes the wrath to come. Why did you tell me of +the just God? You compel me to betray you. Save me from that sin. Go to the +priest.” And he fell on his knees before Berg. +</p> + +<p> +The murderer laid his hand on his head and looked at him. He was measuring his +sin against his friend’s anguish, and it grew big and terrible before his +soul. He saw himself at variance with the Will which rules the world. +Repentance entered his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Woe to me that I have done what I have done,” he said. “That +which awaits me is too hard to meet voluntarily. If I give myself up to the +priests, they will torture me for hours; they will roast me with slow fires. +And is not this life of misery, which we lead in fear and want, penance enough? +Have I not lost lands and home? Do I not live parted from friends and +everything which makes a man’s happiness? What more is required?” +</p> + +<p> +When he spoke so, Tord sprang up wild with terror. “Can you +repent?” he cried. “Can my words move your heart? Then come +instantly! How could I believe that! Let us escape! There is still time.” +</p> + +<p> +Berg Rese sprang up, he too. “You have done it, then—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, yes! I have betrayed you! But come quickly! Come, as you can +repent! They will let us go. We shall escape them!” +</p> + +<p> +The murderer bent down to the floor, where the battle-axe of his ancestors lay +at his feet. “You son of a thief!” he said, hissing out the words, +“I have trusted you and loved you.” +</p> + +<p> +But when Tord saw him bend for the axe, he knew that it was now a question of +his own life. He snatched his own axe from his belt and struck at Berg before +he had time to raise himself. The edge cut through the whistling air and sank +in the bent head. Berg Rese fell head foremost to the floor, his body rolled +after. Blood and brains spouted out, the axe fell from the wound. In the matted +hair Tord saw a big, red, gaping hole from the blow of an axe. +</p> + +<p> +The peasants came rushing in. They rejoiced and praised the deed. +</p> + +<p> +“You will win by this,” they said to Tord. +</p> + +<p> +Tord looked down at his hands as if he saw there the fetters with which he had +been dragged forward to kill him he loved. They were forged from nothing. Of +the rushes’ green light, of the play of the shadows, of the song of the +storm, of the rustling of the leaves, of dreams were they created. And he said +aloud: “God is great.” +</p> + +<p> +But again the old thought came to him. He fell on his knees beside the body and +put his arm under his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Do him no harm,” he said. “He repents; he is going to the +Holy Sepulchre. He is not dead, he is but a prisoner. We were just ready to go +when he fell. The white monk did not want him to repent, but God, the God of +justice, loves repentance.” +</p> + +<p> +He lay beside the body, talked to it, wept and begged the dead man to awake. +The peasants arranged a bier. They wished to carry the peasant’s body +down to his house. They had respect for the dead and spoke softly in his +presence. When they lifted him up on the bier, Tord rose, shook the hair back +from his face, and said with a voice which shook with sobs,— +</p> + +<p> +“Say to Unn, who made Berg Rese a murderer, that he was killed by Tord +the fisherman, whose father is a wrecker and whose mother is a witch, because +he taught him that the foundation of the world is justice.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>THE LEGEND OF REOR</h2> + +<p> +There was a man called Reor. He was from Fuglekarr in the parish of Svarteborg, +and was considered the best shot in the county. He was baptized when King Olof +rooted out the old belief, and was ever afterwards an eager Christian. He was +freeborn, but poor; handsome, but not tall; strong, but gentle. He tamed young +horses with but a look and a word, and could lure birds to him with a call. He +dwelt mostly in the woods, and nature had great power over him. The growing of +the plants and the budding of the trees, the play of the hares in the +forest’s open places and the fish’s leap in the calm lake at +evening, the conflict of the seasons and the changes of the weather, these were +the chief events in his life. Sorrow and joy he found in such things and not in +that which happened among men. +</p> + +<p> +One day the skilful hunter met deep in the thickest forest an old bear and +killed him with a single shot. The great arrow’s sharp point pierced the +mighty heart, and he fell dead at the hunter’s feet. It was summer, and +the bear’s pelt was neither close nor even, still the archer drew it off, +rolled it together into a hard bundle, and went on with the bear-skin on his +back. +</p> + +<p> +He had not wandered far before he perceived an extraordinarily strong smell of +honey. It came from the little flowering plants that covered the ground. They +grew on slender stalks, had light-green, shiny leaves, which were beautifully +veined, and at the top a little spike, thickly set with white flowers. Their +petals were of the tiniest, but from among them pushed up a little brush of +stamens, whose pollen-filled heads trembled on white filaments. Reor thought, +as he went among them, that those flowers, which stood alone and unnoticed in +the darkness of the forest, were sending out message after message, summons +upon summons. The strong, sweet fragrance of the honey was their cry; it spread +the knowledge of their existence far away among the trees and high up towards +the clouds. But there was something melancholy in the heavy perfume. The +flowers had filled their cups and spread their table in expectation of their +winged guests, but none came. They pined to death in the deep loneliness of the +dark, windless forest thicket. They seemed to wish to cry and lament that the +beautiful butterflies did not come and visit them. Where the flowers grew +thickest, he thought that they sang together a monotonous song. “Come, +fair guests, come to-day, for to-morrow we are dead, to-morrow we lie dead on +the dried leaves.” +</p> + +<p> +Reor was permitted to see the joyous close of the flower adventure. He felt +behind him a flutter as of the lightest wind and saw a white butterfly flitting +about in the dimness between the thick trunks. He flew hither and thither in an +uneasy quest, as if uncertain of the way. Nor was he alone; butterfly after +butterfly glimmered in the darkness, until at last there was a host of +white-winged honey seekers. But the first was the leader, and he found the +flowers, guided by their fragrance. After him the whole butterfly host came +storming. It threw itself down among the longing flowers, as the conqueror +throws himself on his booty. Like a snowfall of white wings it sank down over +them. And there was feasting and drinking on every flower-cluster. The woods +were full of silent rejoicing. +</p> + +<p> +Reor went on, but now the honey-sweet fragrance seemed to follow him wherever +he went. And he felt that in the wood was hidden a longing, stronger than that +of the flowers, that something there drew him to itself, just as the flowers +lured the butterflies. He went forward with a quiet joy in his heart, as if he +was expecting a great, unknown happiness. His only fear was lest he should not +be able to find the way to that which longed for him. +</p> + +<p> +In front of him, on the narrow path, crawled a white snake. He bent down to +pick up the luck-bringing animal, but the snake glided out of his hands and up +the path. There it coiled itself and lay still; but when the huntsman again +tried to catch it, glided slippery as ice between his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +Reor now grew eager to possess the wisest of beasts. He ran after the snake, +but was not able to reach it, and the latter lured him away from the path into +the trackless forest. +</p> + +<p> +It was overgrown with pines, and in such places one seldom finds grassy ground. +But now the dry moss and brown pine-needles suddenly disappeared, the stiff +cranberry bushes vanished, and Reor felt under foot velvet like turf. Over the +green carpet trembled flower clusters, light as down, on bending stems, and +between the long, narrow leaves could he seen the half-opened blossoms of the +red gillyflower. It was only a little spot, and over it spread the gnarled, +red-brown branches of the lofty pines, with bunches of close-growing needles. +Through these the sun’s rays could find many paths to the ground, and +there was suffocating heat. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of the little meadow a cliff rose perpendicularly out of the +ground. It lay in sharp sunshine, and the mossy stones were plainly visible, +and in the fresh fractures, where the winter’s frost had last loosened +some mighty blocks, the long stalks of ferns clung with their brown roots in +the earth-filled cracks, and on the inch-wide projections a grass-green moss +lifted on needle-like stems the little, grey caps, which concealed its spores. +</p> + +<p> +The cliff seemed in all ways like every other cliff, but Reor noticed instantly +that he had come upon the gable-wall of a giant’s house, and he +discovered under moss and lichen the great hinges on which the mountain’s +granite door swung. +</p> + +<p> +He now believed that the snake had crept in, in the grass to hide there, until +it could come in among the rocks unnoticed, and he gave up all hope of catching +it. He perceived now again the honey-sweet fragrance of the longing flowers and +noticed that here under the cliff the heat was suffocating. It was also +marvellously quiet; not a bird moved, not a leaf played in the wind; it was as +if everything held its breath, waiting and listening in unspeakable tension. It +was as if he had come into a room where he was not alone, although he saw no +one. He thought that some one was watching him, he felt as if he had been +expected. He knew no alarm, but was thrilled by a pleasant shiver, as if he +were soon to see something above-the-common beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +In that moment he again became aware of the snake. It had not hidden itself, it +had instead crawled up on one of the blocks which the frost had broken from the +cliff. And just below the white snake he saw the bright body of a girl, who lay +asleep in the soft grass. She lay without any other covering than a light, +web-like veil, just as if she had thrown herself down there after having taken +part the whole night in some elfin dance; but the long blades of grass and the +trembling flower-clusters stood high over the sleeper, so that Reor could +scarcely catch a glimpse of the soft lines of her body. Nor did he go nearer in +order to see better. He drew his good knife from its sheath and threw it +between the girl and the cliff, so that the steel-shy daughter of the giants +should not be able to flee into the mountain when she awoke. +</p> + +<p> +Then he stood still in deep thought. One thing he knew, that he wished to +possess the maiden who lay there; but as yet he had not quite made up his mind +how he would behave towards her. +</p> + +<p> +He, who knew the language of nature better than that of man, listened to the +great, solemn forest and the stern mountain. “See,” they said, +“to you, who love the wilderness, we give our fair daughter. She will +suit you better than the daughters of the plain. Reor, are you worthy of this +most precious of gifts?” +</p> + +<p> +Then he thanked in his heart the great, kind Nature and decided to make the +maiden his wife and not merely a slave. He thought that since she had come to +Christendom and human ways, she would be confused at the thought that she had +lain so uncovered, so he loosened the bearskin from his back, unfolded the +stiff hide, and threw the old bear’s shaggy, grizzled pelt over her. +</p> + +<p> +And as he did so a laugh, which made the ground shake, thundered behind the +cliff. It did not sound like derision, but as if some one had sat in great fear +and could not help laughing, when suddenly relieved of it. The terrible silence +and oppressive heat were also at an end. Over the grass floated a cooling wind, +and the pine-branches began their murmuring song. The happy huntsman felt that +the whole forest had held its breath, wondering how the daughter of the +wilderness would be treated by the son of man. +</p> + +<p> +The snake now glided down into the high grass; but the sleeper lay bound in a +magic sleep and did not move. Then Reor wrapped her in the coarse bear-skin, so +that only her head showed above the shaggy fur. Although she certainly was a +daughter of the old giant of the mountain, she was slender and delicately made, +and the strong hunter lifted her on his arm and carried her away through the +forest. +</p> + +<p> +After a while he felt that some one lifted his broad-brimmed hat. He looked up +and found that the giant’s daughter was awake. She sat quiet on his arm, +but she wished to see what the man looked like who was carrying her. He let her +do as she pleased. He went on with longer strides, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Then she must have noticed how hot the sun burned on his head, since she had +taken off his hat. She held it out over his head like a parasol, but she did +not put it back, rather held it so, that she could still look down into his +face. Then it seemed to him that he did not need to ask or to speak. He carried +her silently down to his mother’s hut. But his whole being was filled +with happiness, and when he stood on the threshold of his home, he saw the +white snake, which gives good fortune, glide in under its foundation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VALDEMAR ATTERDAG</h2> + +<p> +The spring that Hellqvist’s great picture “Valdemar Atterdag levies +a Contribution on Visby” was exhibited at the Art League, I went in there +one quiet morning not knowing that that work of art was there. The big, richly +colored canvas with its many figures made at the first glance an extraordinary +impression. I could not look at any other picture, but went straight to that +one, took a chair and sank into silent contemplation. For half an hour I lived +in the Middle Ages. +</p> + +<p> +Soon I was within the scene that was passing in the Visby market-place. I saw +the beer vats which began to be filled with the golden brew that King Valdemar +had ordered, and the groups which gathered around them. I saw the rich merchant +with his page bending under his gold and silver dishes; the young burgher who +shakes his fist at the king; the monk with the sharp face who closely watches +His Majesty; the ragged beggar who offers his copper; the woman who has sunk +down beside one of the vats; the king on his throne; the soldiers who come +swarming out of the narrow streets; the high gables, and the scattered groups +of insolent guards and refractory people. +</p> + +<p> +But suddenly I noticed that the chief figure of the picture is not the king, +nor any of the burghers, but one of the king’s steel-clad shield-bearers, +the one with the closed vizor. +</p> + +<p> +Into that figure the artist has put a strange force. There is not a hair of him +to be seen; he is steel and iron, the whole man, and yet he gives the +impression of being the rightful master of the situation. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Violence; I am Rapacity,” he says. “It is I who am +levying contribution on Visby. I am not a human being; I am merely steel and +iron. My pleasure is in suffering and evil. Let them go on and torture one +another. To-day it is I who am lord of Visby.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look,” he says to the beholder, “can you see that it is I +who am master? As far as your eye can reach, there is nothing here but people +who are torturing one another. Groaning the conquered come and leave their +gold. They hate and threaten, but they obey. And the desires of the victors +grow wilder the more gold they can extort. What are Denmark’s king and +his soldiers but my servants, at least for this one day? To-morrow they will go +to church, or sit in peaceful mirth in their inns, or also perhaps be good +fathers in their own homes, but to-day they serve me; to-day they are +evil-doers and ravishers.” +</p> + +<p> +The longer one listens to him, the better one understands what the picture is; +nothing but an illustration of the old story of how people can torture one +another. There is not one redeeming feature, only cruel violence and defiant +hate and hopeless suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Those three beer vats were to be filled that Visby should not be plundered and +burned. Why do they not come, those Hanseaters, with glowing enthusiasm? Why do +the women not hasten with their jewels; the revellers with their cups, the +priest with his relics, eager, burning with enthusiasm for the sacrifice? +“For thee, for thee, our beloved town! It is needless to send soldiers +for us when it concerns thee! Oh, Visby, our mother, our honor! Take back what +thou hast given us!” +</p> + +<p> +But the painter has not wished to see them so, and it was not so either. No +enthusiasm, only constraint, only suppressed defiance, only bewailings. Gold is +everything to them, women and men sigh over that gold which they have to give. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at them!” says the power that stands on the steps of the +throne. “It goes to their very hearts to offer it. May he who will feel +sympathy for them! They are mean, avaricious, arrogant. They are no better than +the covetous brigand whom I have sent against them.” +</p> + +<p> +A woman has sunk down on the ground by the vats. Does it cost her so much pain +to give her gold? Or is she perhaps the guilty one? Is she the cause of the +laments? Is it she who has betrayed the town? Yes, it is she who has been King +Valdemar’s mistress. It is Ung-Hanse’s daughter. +</p> + +<p> +She knows well that she need give no gold. Her father’s house will not be +plundered, but she has collected what she possesses and brings it. In the +market-place she has been overcome by all the misery she has seen and has sunk +down in infinite despair. +</p> + +<p> +He had been active and merry, the young goldsmith’s apprentice who served +the year before in her father’s house. It had been glorious to stroll at +his side through this same market-place, when the moon rose from behind the +gables and illumined the beauties of Visby. She had been proud of him, proud of +her father, proud of her town. And now she is lying there, broken with grief. +Innocent and yet guilty! He who is sitting cold and cruel on the throne and who +has brought all this devastation on the town, is he the same as the one who +whispered sweet words to her? Was it to meet him that she crept, when the night +before she stole her father’s keys and opened the town-gate? And when she +found her goldsmith’s apprentice a knight with sword in hand and a steel +clad host behind him, what did she think? Did she go mad at the sight of that +stream of steel surging in through the gate which she had opened? Too late to +bemoan, maiden! Why did you love the enemy of your town? Visby is fallen, its +glory shall pass away. Why did you not throw yourself down before the gate and +let the steel-shod heels trample you to death? Did you wish to live in order to +see heaven’s thunder-bolts strike the transgressor? +</p> + +<p> +Oh maiden, at his side stands Violence and protects him. He has violated holier +things than a trusting maiden. He does not even spare God’s own temple. +He breaks away the shining carbuncles from the church walls to fill the last +vat. +</p> + +<p> +The bearing of all the figures in the picture changes. Blind terror fills +everything living. The wildest soldier grows pale; the burghers turn their eyes +towards heaven; all await God’s punishment; all tremble except Violence +on the steps of the throne and the king who is his servant. +</p> + +<p> +I wish that the artist had lived long enough to take me down to the harbor of +Visby and let me see those same burghers, when they followed the departing +fleet with their eyes. They cry curses out over the waves. “Destroy +them!” they cry. “Destroy them! Oh sea, our friend, take back our +treasures! Open thy choking depths under the ungodly, under the +faithless!” +</p> + +<p> +And the sea murmurs a faint assent, and Violence, who stands on the royal ship, +nods approvingly. “That is right,” he says. “To persecute and +to be persecuted, that is my law. May storm and sea destroy the pirate fleet +and take to itself the treasures of my royal servant! So much the sooner it +will be our lot to set out on new devastating expeditions.” +</p> + +<p> +The burghers on the shore turn and look up at their town. Fire has raged there; +plunder has passed through it; behind broken panes gape pillaged dwellings. +They see emptied streets, desecrated churches; bloody corpses are lying in the +narrow courts, and women crazed by fright flee through the town. Shall they +stand impotent before such things? Is there no one whom their vengeance can +reach, no one whom they in their turn can torture and destroy? +</p> + +<p> +God in Heaven, see! The goldsmith’s house is not plundered nor burned. +What does it mean? Was he in league with the enemy? Had he not the key to one +of the town gates in his keeping? Oh, you daughter of Ung-Hanse, answer, what +does it mean? +</p> + +<p> +Far away on the royal ship Violence stands and watches his royal servant, +smiling behind his vizor. “Listen to the storm, Sire, listen to the +storm! The gold that you have ravished will soon lie on the bottom of the sea, +inaccessible to you. And look back at Visby, my noble lord! The woman whom you +deceived is being led between the clergy and the soldiers to the town-wall. Can +you hear the crowd following her, cursing, insulting? Look, the masons come +with mortar and trowel! Look, the women come with stones! They are all bringing +stones, all, all! +</p> + +<p> +Oh king, if you cannot see what is passing in Visby, may you yet hear and know +what is happening there. You are not of steel and iron, like Violence at your +side. When the gloomy days of old age come, and you live under the shadow of +death, the image of Ung-Hanse’s daughter will rise in your memory. +</p> + +<p> +You shall see her pale as death sink under the contempt and scorn of her +people. You shall see her dragged along between the priests and the soldiers to +the ringing of bells and the singing of hymns. She is already dead in the eyes +of the people. She feels herself dead in her heart, killed by what she has +loved. You shall see her mount in the tower, see how the stones are inserted, +hear the scraping of the trowels and hear the people who hurry forward with +their stones. “Oh mason, take mine, take mine! Use my stone for the work +of vengeance! Let my stone help to shut Ung-Hanse’s daughter in from +light and air! Visby is fallen, the glorious Visby! God bless your hands, oh +masons! Let me help to complete the vengeance!” +</p> + +<p> +Hymns sound and bells ring as for a burial. +</p> + +<p> +Oh Valdemar, King of Denmark, it will be your fate to meet death also. Then you +will lie on your bed, hear and see much and suffer great pains. You shall hear +that scraping of the trowels, those cries for vengeance. Where are the +consecrated bells that drown the martyrdom of the soul? Where are they, with +their wide, bronze throats, whose tongues cry out to God for grace for you? +Where is that air trembling with harmony, which bears the soul up to +God’s space? +</p> + +<p> +Oh help Esrom, help Soró, and you big bells of Lund! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +What a gloomy story that picture told! It seemed curious and strange to come +out into the park, in glowing sunshine, among living human beings. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>MAMSELL FREDRIKA</h2> + +<p> +It was Christmas night, a real Christmas night. +</p> + +<p> +The goblins raised the mountain roofs on lofty gold pillars and celebrated the +midwinter festival. The brownies danced around the Christmas porridge in new +red caps. Old gods wandered about the heavens in gray storm cloaks, and in the +Österhaninge graveyard stood the horse of Hel.<a href="#fn-3" name="fnref-3" id="fnref-3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> +He pawed with his hoof on the frozen ground; he was marking out the place for a +new grave. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-3" id="fn-3"></a> <a href="#fnref-3">[3]</a> +The goddess of death +</p> + +<p> +Not very far away, at the old manor of Årsta, Mamsell Fredrika was lying +asleep. Årsta is, as every one knows, an old haunted castle, but Mamsell +Fredrika slept a calm, quiet sleep. She was old now and tired out after many +weary days of work and many long journeys,— she had almost traveled round +the world,—therefore she had returned to the home of her childhood to +find rest. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the castle sounded in the night a bold fanfare. Death mounted on a gray +charger had ridden up to the castle gate. His wide scarlet cloak and his +hat’s proud plumes fluttered in the night wind. The stern knight sought +to win an adoring heart, therefore he appeared in unusual magnificence. It is +of no avail, Sir Knight, of no avail! The gate is closed, and the lady of your +heart asleep. You must seek a better occasion and a more suitable hour. Watch +for her when she goes to early mass, stern Sir Knight, watch for her on the +church-road! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Old Mamsell Fredrika sleeps quietly in her beloved home. No one deserves more +than she the sweetness of rest. Like a Christmas angel she sat but now in a +circle of children, and told them of Jesus and the shepherds, told until her +eyes shone, and her withered face became transfigured. Now in her old age no +one noticed what Mamsell Fredrika looked like. Those who saw the little, +slender figure, the tiny, delicate hands and the kind, clever face, instantly +longed to be able to preserve that sight in remembrance as the most beautiful +of memories. +</p> + +<p> +In Mamsell Fredrika’s big room, among many relics and souvenirs, there +was a little, dry bush. It was a Jericho rose, brought back by Mamsell Fredrika +from the far East. Now in the Christmas night it began to blossom quite of +itself. The dry twigs were covered with red buds, which shone like sparks of +fire and lighted the whole room. +</p> + +<p> +By the light of the sparks one saw that a small and slender but quite elderly +lady sat in the big arm-chair and held her court. It could not be Mamsell +Fredrika herself, for she lay sleeping in quiet repose, and yet it was she. She +sat there and held a reception for old memories; the room was full of them. +People and homes and subjects and thoughts and discussions came flying. +Memories of childhood and memories of youth, love and tears, homage and bitter +scorn, all came rushing towards the pale form that sat and looked at everything +with a friendly smile. She had words of jest or of sympathy for them all. +</p> + +<p> +At night everything takes its right size and shape. And just as then for the +first time the stars of heaven are visible, one also sees much on earth that +one never sees by day. Now in the light of the red buds of the Jericho rose one +could see a crowd of strange figures in Mamsell Fredrika’s drawing-room. +The hard “ma chère mère” was there, the goodnatured Beata +Hvardagslag, people from the East and the West, the enthusiastic Nina, the +energetic, struggling Hertha in her white dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Can any one tell me why that person must always be dressed in +white?” jested the little figure in the arm-chair when she caught sight +of her. +</p> + +<p> +All the memories spoke to the old woman and said: “You have seen and +experienced so much; you have worked and earned so much! Are you not tired? +will you not go to rest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” answered the shadow in the yellow arm-chair. “I +have still a book to write. I cannot go to rest before it is finished.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the figures vanished. The Jericho rose went out, and the yellow +arm-chair stood empty. +</p> + +<p> +In the Österhaninge church the dead were celebrating midnight mass. One of them +climbed up to the bell-tower and rang in Christmas; another went about and +lighted the Christmas candles, and a third began with bony fingers to play the +organ. Through the open doors others came swarming in out of the night and +their graves to the bright, glowing House of the Lord. Just as they had been in +life they came, only a little paler. They opened the pew doors with rattling +keys and chatted and whispered as they walked up the aisle. +</p> + +<p> +“They are the candles <i>she</i> has given the poor that are now shining +in God’s house.” +</p> + +<p> +“We lie warm in our graves as long as <i>she</i> gives clothes and wood +to the poor.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has spoken so many noble words that have opened the hearts of men; +those words are the keys of our pews. +</p> + +<p> +“She has thought beautiful thoughts of God’s love. Those thoughts +raise us from our graves.” +</p> + +<p> +So they whispered and murmured before they sat down in the pews and bent their +pale foreheads in prayer in their shrunken hands. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +At Årsta some one came into Mamsell Fredrika’s room and laid her hand +gently on the sleeper’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Up, my Fredrika! It is time to go to the early mass.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mamsell Fredrika opened her eyes and saw Agathe, her beloved sister who was +dead, standing by the bed with a candle in her hand. She recognized her, for +she looked just as she had done on earth. Mamsell Fredrika was not afraid; she +rejoiced only at seeing her loved one, at whose side she longed to sleep the +everlasting sleep. +</p> + +<p> +She rose and dressed herself with all speed. There was no time for +conversation; the carriage stood before the door. The others must have gone +already, for no one but Mamsell Fredrika and her dead sister were moving in the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember, Fredrika,” said the sister, as they sat in the +carriage and drove quickly to the church, “do you remember how you always +in the old days expected some knight to carry you off on the road to +church?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am still expecting it,” said old Mamsell Fredrika, and laughed. +“I never ride in this carriage without looking out for my knight.” +</p> + +<p> +Even though they hurried, they came too late. The priest stepped down from the +pulpit as they entered the church, and the closing hymn began. Never had +Mamsell Fredrika heard such a beautiful song. It was as if both earth and +heaven joined in, in the song; as if every bench and stone and board had sung +too. +</p> + +<p> +She had never seen the church so crowded: on the communion table and on the +pulpit steps sat people; they stood in the aisles, they thronged in the pews, +and outside the whole road was packed with people who could not enter. The +sisters, however, found places; for them the crowd moved aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Fredrika,” said her sister, “look at the people!” +</p> + +<p> +And Mamsell Fredrika looked and looked. +</p> + +<p> +Then she perceived that she, like the woman in the saga, had come to a mass of +the dead. She felt a cold shiver pass down her back, but it happened, as often +before, she felt more curious than frightened. +</p> + +<p> +She saw now who were in the church. There were none but women there: grey, bent +forms, with circular capes and faded mantillas, with hats of faded splendor and +turned or threadbare dresses. She saw an unheard-of number of wrinkled faces, +sunken mouths, dim eyes and shrivelled hands, but not a single hand which wore +a plain gold ring. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Mamsell Fredrika understood it now. It was all the old maids who had +passed away in the land of Sweden who were keeping midnight mass in the +Österhaninge church. +</p> + +<p> +Her dead sister leaned towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“Sister, do you repent of what you have done for these your +sisters?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mamsell Fredrika. “What have I to be glad for if +not that it has been bestowed upon me to work for them? I once sacrificed my +position as an authoress to them. I am glad that I knew what I sacrificed and +yet did it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you may stay and hear more,” said the sister. +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment some one was heard to speak far away in the choir, a mild +but distinct voice. +</p> + +<p> +“My sisters,” said the voice, “our pitiable race, our +ignorant and despised race will soon exist no more. God has willed that we +shall die out from the earth. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friends, we shall soon be only a legend. The old Mamsells’ +measure is full. Death rides about on the road to the church to meet the last +one of us. Before the next midnight mass she will be dead, the last old +Mamsell. +</p> + +<p> +“Sisters, sisters! We are the lonely ones of the earth, the neglected +ones at the feast, the unappreciated workers in the homes. We are met with +scorn and indifference. Our way is weary and our name is ridicule. +</p> + +<p> +“But God has had mercy upon us. +</p> + +<p> +“To <i>one</i> of us He gave power and genius. To one of us He gave +never-failing goodness. To one of us He gave the glorious gift of eloquence. +She was everything we ought to have been. She threw light on our dark fate. She +was the servant of the homes, as we had been, but she offered her gifts to a +thousand homes. She was the caretaker of the sick, as we had been, but she +struggled with the terrible epidemic of habits of former days. She told her +stories to thousands of children. She lead her poor friends in every land. She +gave from fuller hands than we and with a warmer spirit. In her heart dwelt +none of our bitterness, for she has loved it away. Her glory has been that of a +queen’s. She has been offered the treasures of gratitude by millions of +hearts. Her word has weighed heavily in the great questions of mankind. Her +name has sounded through the new and the old world. And yet she is only an old +Mamsell. +</p> + +<p> +“She has transfigured our dark fate. Blessings on her name!” +</p> + +<p> +The dead joined in, in a thousandfold echo: “Blessings on her +name!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sister,” whispered Mamsell Fredrika, “can you not forbid +them to make me, poor, sinful being, proud?” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sisters, sisters,” continued the voice, “she has turned +against our race with all her great power. At her cry for freedom and work for +all, the old, despised livers on charity have died out. She has broken down the +tyranny that fenced in childhood. She has stirred young girls towards the wide +activity of life. She has put an end to loneliness, to ignorance, to +joylessness. No unhappy, despised old Mamsells without aim or purpose in life +will ever exist again; none such as we have been.” +</p> + +<p> +Again resounded the echo of the shades, merry as a hunting-song in the wood +which is sung by a happy throng of children: “Blessed be her +memory!” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the dead swarmed out of the church, and Mamsell Fredrika wiped away a +tear from the corner of her eye. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not go home with you,” said her dead sister. “Will +you not stop here now also?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to, but I cannot. There is a book which I must make ready +first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good-night then, and beware of the knight of the church +road,” said her dead sister, and smiled roguishly in her old way. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mamsell Fredrika drove home. All Årsta still slept, and she went quietly +to her room, lay down and slept again. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +A few hours later she drove to the real early mass. She drove in a closed +carriage, but she let down the window to look at the stars; it is possible too +that she, as of old, was looking for her knight. +</p> + +<p> +And there he was; he sprang forward to the window of the carriage. He sat his +prancing charger magnificently. His scarlet cloak fluttered in the wind. His +pale face was stern, but beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be mine?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +She was transported in her old heart by the lofty figure with the waving +plumes. She forgot that she needed to live a year yet. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will come and fetch you in a week at your father’s +house.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent down and kissed her, and then he vanished; she began to shiver and +tremble under Death’s kiss. +</p> + +<p> +A little later Mamsell Fredrika sat in the church, in the same place where she +had sat as a child. Here she forgot both the knight and the ghosts, and sat +smiling in quiet delight at the thought of the revelation of the glory of God. +</p> + +<p> +But either she was tired because she had not slept the whole night, or the +warmth and the closeness and the smell of the candles had a soporific effect on +her as on many another. +</p> + +<p> +She fell asleep, only for a second; she absolutely could not help it. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, too, God wished to open to her the gates of the land of dreams. +</p> + +<p> +In that single second when she slept, she saw her stern father, her lovely, +beautifully-dressed mother, and the ugly, little Petrea sitting in the church. +And the soul of the child was compressed by an anguish greater than has ever +been felt by a grown person. The priest stood in the pulpit and spoke of the +stern, avenging God, and the child sat pale and trembling, as if the words had +been axe-blows and had gone through its heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a God, what a terrible God!” +</p> + +<p> +In the next second she was awake, but she trembled and shuddered, as after the +kiss of death on the church-road. Her heart was once more caught in the wild +grief of her childhood. +</p> + +<p> +She wished to hurry from the church. She must go home and write her book, her +glorious book on the God of peace and love. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Nothing else that can be deemed worth mentioning happened to Mamsell Fredrika +before New Year’s night. Life and death, like day and night, reigned in +quiet concord over the earth during the last week of the year, but when New +Year’s night came, Death took his sceptre and announced that now old +Mamsell Fredrika should belong to him. +</p> + +<p> +Had they but known it, all the people of Sweden would certainly have prayed a +common prayer to God to be allowed to keep their purest spirit, their warmest +heart. Many homes in many lands where she had left loving hearts would have +watched with despair and grief. The poor, the sick and the needy would have +forgotten their own wants to remember hers, and all the children who had grown +up blessing her work would have clasped their hands to pray for one more year +for their best friend. One year, that she might make all fully clear and put +the finishing-touch on her life’s work. +</p> + +<p> +For Death was too prompt for Mamsell Fredrika. +</p> + +<p> +There was a storm outside on that New Year’s night; there was a storm +within her soul. She felt all the agony of life and death coming to a crisis. +</p> + +<p> +“Anguish!” she sighed, “anguish!” +</p> + +<p> +But the anguish gave way, and peace came, and she whispered softly: “The +love of Christ—the best love—the peace of God—the everlasting +light!” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, that was what she would have written in her book, and perhaps much else as +beautiful and wonderful. Who knows? Only one thing we know, that books are +forgotten, but such a life as hers never is. +</p> + +<p> +The old prophetess’s eyes closed and she sank into visions. +</p> + +<p> +Her body struggled with death, but she did not know it. Her family sat weeping +about her deathbed, but she did not see them. Her spirit had begun its flight. +</p> + +<p> +Dreams became reality to her and reality dreams. Now she stood, as she had +already seen herself in the visions of her youth, waiting at the gates of +heaven with innumerable hosts of the dead round about her. And heaven opened. +He, the only one, the Saviour, stood in its open gates. And his infinite love +woke in the waiting spirits and in her a longing to fly to his embrace, and +their longing lifted them and her, and they floated as if on wings upwards, +upwards. +</p> + +<p> +The next day there was mourning in the land; mourning in wide parts of the +earth. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Fredrika Bremer was dead.</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>THE ROMANCE OF A FISHERMAN’S WIFE</h2> + +<p> +On the outer edge of the fishing-village stood a little cottage on a low mound +of white sea sand. It was not built in line with the even, neat, conventional +houses that enclosed the wide green place where the brown fish-nets were dried, +but seemed as if forced out of the row and pushed on one side to the +sand-hills. The poor widow who had erected it had been her own builder, and she +had made the walls of her cottage lower than those of all the other cottages +and its steep thatched roof higher than any other roof in the fishing-village. +The floor lay deep down in the ground. The window was neither high nor wide, +but nevertheless it reached from the cornice to the level of the earth. There +had been no space for a chimney-breast in the one narrow room and she had been +obliged to add a small, square projection. The cottage had not, like the other +cottages, its fenced-in garden with gooseberry bushes and twining +morning-glories and elder-bushes half suffocated by burdocks. Of all the +vegetation of the fishing-village, only the burdocks had followed the cottage +to the sand-hill. They were fine enough in summer with their fresh, dark-green +leaves and prickly baskets filled with bright, red flowers. But towards the +autumn, when the prickles had hardened and the seeds had ripened, they grew +careless about their looks, and stood hideously ugly and dry with their torn +leaves wrapped in a melancholy shroud of dusty cobwebs. +</p> + +<p> +The cottage never had more than two owners, for it could not hold up that heavy +roof on its walls of reeds and clay for more than two generations. But as long +as it stood, it was owned by poor widows. The second widow who lived there +delighted in watching the burdocks, especially in the autumn, when they were +dried and broken. They recalled her who had built the cottage. She too had been +shrivelled and dry and had had the power to cling fast and adhere, and all her +strength had been used for her child, whom she had needed to help on in the +world. She, who now sat there alone, wished both to weep and to laugh at the +thought of it. If the old woman had not had a burr-like nature, how different +everything would have been! But who knows if it would have been better? +</p> + +<p> +The lonely woman often sat musing on the fate which had brought her to this +spot on the coast of Skone, to the narrow inlet and among these quiet people. +For she was born in a Norwegian seaport which lay on a narrow strip of land +between rushing falls and the open sea, and although her means were small after +the death of her father, a merchant, who left his family in poverty, still she +was used to life and progress. She used to tell her story to herself over and +over again, just as one often reads through an obscure book in order to try to +discover its meaning. +</p> + +<p> +The first thing of note which had happened to her was when, one evening on the +way home from the dressmaker with whom she worked, she had been attacked by two +sailors and rescued by a third. The latter fought for her at peril of his life +and afterwards went home with her. She took him in to her mother and sisters, +and told them excitedly what he had done. It was as if life had acquired a new +value for her, because another had dared so much to defend it. He had been +immediately well received by her family and asked to come again as soon and as +often as he could. +</p> + +<p> +His name was Börje Nilsson, and he was a sailor on the Swedish lugger +“Albertina.” As long as the boat lay in the harbor, he came almost +every day to her home, and they could soon no longer believe that he was only a +common sailor. He shone always in a clean, turned-down collar and wore a sailor +suit of fine cloth. Natural and frank, he showed himself among them, as if he +had been used to move in the same class as they. Without his ever having said +it in so many words, they got the impression that he was from a respectable +home, the only son of a rich widow, but that his unconquerable love for a +sailor’s profession had made him take a place before the mast, so that +his mother should see that he was in earnest. When he had passed his +examination, she would certainly get him his own ship. +</p> + +<p> +The lonely family who had drawn away from all their former friends, received +him without the slightest suspicion. And he described with a light heart and +fluent tongue his home with its high, pointed roof, the great open fireplace in +the dining-room and the little leaded glass panes. He also painted the silent +streets of his native town and the long rows of even houses, built in the same +style, against which his home, with its irregular buttresses and terraces, made +a pleasant contrast. And his listeners believed that he had come from one of +those old burgher houses with carved gables and with overhanging second +stories, which give such a strong impression of wealth and venerable age. +</p> + +<p> +Soon enough she saw that he cared for her. And that gave her mother and sisters +great joy. The young, rich Swede came as if to raise them all up from their +poverty. Even if she had not loved him, which she did, she would never have had +a thought of saying no to his proposal. If she had had a father or a grown-up +brother, he could have found out about the stranger’s extraction and +position, but neither she nor her mother thought of making any inquiries. +Afterwards she saw how they had actually forced him to lie. In the beginning, +he had let them imagine great ideas about his wealth without any evil +intention, but when he understood how glad they were over it, he had not dared +to speak the truth for fear of losing her. +</p> + +<p> +Before he left they were betrothed, and when the lugger came again, they were +married. It was a disappointment for her that he also on his return appeared as +a sailor, but he had been bound by his contract. He had no greetings either +from his mother. She had expected him to make another choice, but she would be +so glad, he said, if she would once see Astrid.—In spite of all his lies, +it would have been an easy matter to see that he was a poor man, if they had +only chosen to use their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The captain offered her his cabin if she would like to make the journey in his +vessel, and the offer was accepted with delight. Börje was almost exempt from +all work, and sat most of the time on the deck, talking to his wife. And now he +gave her the happiness of fancy, such as he himself had lived on all his life. +The more he thought of that little house which lay half buried in the sand, so +much the higher he raised that palace which he would have liked to offer her. +He let her in thought glide into a harbor which was adorned with flags and +flowers in honor of Börje Nilsson’s bride. He let her hear the +mayor’s speech of greeting. He let her drive under a triumphal arch, +while the eyes of men followed her and the women grew pale with envy. And he +led her into the stately home, where bowing, silvery-haired servants stood +drawn up along the side of the broad stairway and where the table laden for the +feast groaned under the old family silver. +</p> + +<p> +When she discovered the truth, she supposed at first that the captain had been +in league with Börje to deceive her, but afterwards she found that it was not +so. They were accustomed on board the boat to speak of Börje as of a great man. +It was their greatest joke to talk quite seriously of his riches and his fine +family. They thought that Börje had told her the truth, but that she joked with +him, as they all did, when she talked about his big house. So it happened that +when the lugger cast anchor in the harbor which lay nearest to Börje’s +home, she still did not know but that she was the wife of a rich man. +</p> + +<p> +Börje got a day’s leave to conduct his wife to her future home and to +start her in her new life. When they were landed on the quay, where the flags +were to have fluttered and the crowds to have rejoiced in honor of the +newly-married couple, only emptiness and calm reigned there, and Börje noticed +that his wife looked about her with a certain disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +“We have come too soon,” he had said. “The journey was such +an unusually quick one in this fine weather. So we have no carriage here +either, and we have far to go, for the house lies outside the town.” +</p> + +<p> +“That makes no difference, Börje,” she had answered. “It will +do us good to walk, after having been quiet so long on board.” +</p> + +<p> +And so they began their walk, that walk of horror, of which she could not think +even in her old age without moaning in agony and wringing her hands in pain. +They went along the broad, empty streets, which she instantly recognized from +his description. She felt as if she met with old friends both in the dark +church and in the even houses of timber and brick; but where were the carved +gables and marble steps with the high railing? +</p> + +<p> +Börje had nodded to her as if he had guessed her thoughts. “It is a long +way still,” he had said. +</p> + +<p> +If he had only been merciful and at once killed her hope. She loved him so +then. If he of his own accord had told her everything, there would never have +been any sting in her soul against him. But when he saw her pain at being +deceived, and yet went on misleading her, that had hurt her too bitterly. She +had never really forgiven him that. She could of course say to herself that he +had wanted to take her with him as far as possible so that she would not be +able to run away from him, but his deceit created such a deadly coldness in her +that no love could entirely thaw it. +</p> + +<p> +They went through the town and came out on the adjoining plain. There stretched +several rows of dark moats and high, green ramparts, remains from the time when +the town had been fortified, and at the point where they all gathered around a +fort, she saw some ancient buildings and big, round towers. She cast a shy look +towards them, but Börje turned off to the mounds which followed the shore. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a shorter way,” he said, for she seemed to be surprised +that there was only a narrow path to follow. +</p> + +<p> +He had become very taciturn. She understood afterwards that he had not found it +so merry as he had fancied, to come with a wife to the miserable little house +in the fishing village. It did not seem so fine now to bring home a better +man’s child. He was anxious about what she would do when she should know +the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Börje,” she said at last, when they had followed the shelving, +sandy hillocks for a long while, “where are we going?” +</p> + +<p> +He lifted his band and pointed towards the fishing-village, where his mother +lived in the house on the sand-hill. But she believed that he meant one of the +beautiful country-seats which lay on the edge of the plain, and was again glad. +</p> + +<p> +They climbed down into the empty cow-pastures, and there all her uneasiness +returned. There, where every tuft, if one can only see it, is clothed with +beauty and variety, she saw merely an ugly field. And the wind, which is ever +shifting there, swept whistling by them and whispered of misfortune and +treachery. +</p> + +<p> +Börje walked faster and faster, and at last they reached the end of the pasture +and entered the fishing village. She, who at the last had not dared to ask +herself any questions, took courage again. Here again was a uniform row of +houses, and this one she recognized even better than that in the town. Perhaps, +perhaps he had not lied. +</p> + +<p> +Her expectations were so reduced that she would have been glad from the heart +if she could have stopped at any of the neat little houses, where flowers and +white curtains showed behind shining window-panes. She grieved that she had to +go by them. +</p> + +<p> +Then she saw suddenly, just at the outer edge of the fishing-village, one of +the most wretched of hovels, and it seemed to her as if she had already seen it +with her mind’s eye before she actually had a glimpse of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it here?” he said, and stopped just at the foot of the little +sand-hill. +</p> + +<p> +He bent his head imperceptibly and went on towards the little cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait,” she called after him, “we must talk this over before +I go into your home. You have lied,” she went on, threateningly, when he +turned to her. “You have deceived me worse than if you were my worst +enemy. Why have you done it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted you for my wife,” he answered, with a low, trembling +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had only deceived me within bounds! Why did you make everything +so fine and rich? What did you have to do with man-servants and triumphal +arches and all the other magnificence? Did you think that I was so devoted to +money? Did you not see that I cared enough for you to go anywhere with you? +That you could believe you needed to deceive me! That you could have the heart +to keep up your lies to the very last!” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not come in and speak to my mother?” he said, helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not intend to go in there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going home?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I go home? How could I cause them there at home such sorrow as +to return, when they believe me happy and rich? But with you I will not stay +either. For one who is willing to work there is always a livelihood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” he begged. “I did it only to win you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had told me the truth, I would have stayed.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had been a rich man, who had pretended to be poor, then you would +have stayed.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders and turned to go, when the door of the cottage +opened and Börje’s mother came out. She was a little, dried-up old woman +with few teeth and many wrinkles, but not so old in years or in feelings as in +looks. +</p> + +<p> +She had heard a part and guessed a part, for she knew what they were +quarrelling about. “Well,” she said, “that is a fine +daughter-in-law you have got me, Börje. And you have been deceiving again, I +can hear.” But to Astrid she came and patted her kindly on the cheek. +“Come in with me, you poor child! I know that you are tired and worn out. +This is my house. He is not allowed to come in here. But you come. Now you are +my daughter, and I cannot let you go to strangers, do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +She caressed her daughter-in-law and chatted to her and drew and pushed her +quite imperceptibly forward to the door. Step by step she lured her on, and at +last got her inside the house; but Börje she shut out. And there, within, the +old woman began to ask who she was and how it had all happened. And she wept +over her and made her weep over herself. The old woman was merciless about her +son. She, Astrid, did right; she could not stay with such a man. It was true +that he was in the habit of lying, it was really true. +</p> + +<p> +She told her how it had been with her son. He had been so fair in face and +limbs, even when he was small, that she had always marvelled that he was a poor +man’s child. He was like a little prince gone astray. And ever after it +had always seemed as if he had not been in his right place. He saw everything +on such a large scale. He could not see things as they were, when it concerned +himself. His mother had wept many a time on that account. But never before had +he done any harm with his lies. Here, where he was known, they only laughed at +him.—But now he must have been so terribly tempted. Did she really not +think, she, Astrid, that it was wonderful how the fisher boy had been able to +deceive them? He had always known so much about wealth, as if he had been born +to it. It must be that he had come into the world in the wrong place. See, that +was another proof,—he had never thought of choosing a wife in his own +station. +</p> + +<p> +“Where will he sleep to-night?” asked Astrid, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“I imagine he will lie outside on the sand. He will be too anxious to go +away from here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is best for him to come in,” said Astrid. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest child, you cannot want to see him. He can get along out there if +I give him a blanket.” +</p> + +<p> +She let him actually sleep out on the sand that night, thinking it best for +Astrid not to see him. And with her she talked and talked, and kept her, not by +force, but by cleverness, not by persuasion, but by real goodness. +</p> + +<p> +But when she had at last succeeded in keeping her daughter-in-law for her son, +and had got the young people reconciled, and had taught Astrid that her +vocation in life was just to be Börje Nilsson’s wife and to make him as +happy as she could,—and that had not been the work of one evening, but of +many days,—then the old woman had laid herself down to die. +</p> + +<p> +And in that life, with its faithful solicitude for her son, there was some +meaning, thought Börje Nilsson’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +But in her own life she saw no meaning. Her husband was drowned after a few +years of married life, and her one child died young. She had not been able to +make any change in her husband. She had not been able to teach him earnestness +and truth. It was rather in her the change showed, after she had been more and +more with the fishing people. She would never see any of her own family, for +she was ashamed that she now resembled in everything a fisherman’s wife. +If it had only been of any use! If she, who lived by mending the +fishermen’s nets, knew why she clung so to life! If she had made any one +happy or had improved anybody! +</p> + +<p> +It never occurred to her to think that she who considers her life a failure +because she has done no good to others, perhaps by that thought of humility has +saved her own soul. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT</h2> + +<p> +In one of the hundred houses of the fishing-village, where each is exactly like +the other in size and shape, where all have just as many windows and as high +chimneys, lived old Mattsson, the pilot. +</p> + +<p> +In all the rooms of the fishing-village there is the same sort of furniture, on +all the window-sills stand the same kinds of flowers, in all the +corner-cupboards are the same collections of sea-shells and coral, on all the +walls hang the same pictures. And it is a fixed old custom that all the +inhabitants of the fishing-village live the same life. Since Mattsson, the +pilot, had grown old, he had conformed carefully to the conditions and customs; +his house, his rooms and his mode of living were like everybody else’s. +</p> + +<p> +On the wall over the bed old Mattsson had a picture of his mother. One night he +dreamed that the portrait stepped down from its frame, placed itself in front +of him and said with a loud voice: “You must marry, Mattson.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mattsson then began to make clear to his mother that it was impossible. He +was seventy years old.—But his mother’s portrait merely repeated +with even greater emphasis: “You must marry, Mattsson.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mattsson had great respect for his mother’s portrait. It had been his +adviser on many debatable occasions, and he had always done well by obeying it. +But this time he did not quite understand its behavior. It seemed to him as if +the picture was acting in opposition to its already acknowledged opinions. +Although he was lying there and dreaming, he remembered distinctly and clearly +what had happened the first time he wished to be married. Just as he was +dressing as a bridegroom, the nail gave way on which the picture hung and it +fell to the floor. He understood then that the portrait wished to warn him +against the marriage, but he did not obey it. He soon found that the portrait +had been right. His short married life was very unhappy. +</p> + +<p> +The second time he dressed as a bridegroom the same thing happened. The +portrait fell to the ground as before, and he did not dare again to disobey it. +He ran away from bride and wedding and travelled round the world several times +before he dared come home again.—And now the picture stepped down from +the wall and commanded him to marry! However good and obedient he was, he +allowed himself to think that it was making a fool of him. +</p> + +<p> +But his mother’s portrait, which looked out with the grimmest face that +sharp winds and salt sea-foam could carve, stood solemnly as before. And with a +voice which had been exercised and strengthened for many years by offering fish +in the town marketplace, it repeated: “You must marry, Mattsson.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mattsson then asked his mother’s portrait to consider what kind of a +community it was they lived in. +</p> + +<p> +All the hundred houses of the fishing-village had pointed roofs and whitewashed +walls; all the boats of the fishing-village were of the same build and rig. No +one there ever did anything unusual. His mother would have been the first to +oppose such a marriage if she had been alive. His mother had held by habits and +customs. And it was not the habit and custom of the fishing-village for old men +of seventy years to marry. +</p> + +<p> +His mother’s picture stretched out her beringed hand and positively +commanded him to obey. There had always been something excessively +awe-inspiring in his mother when she came in her black silk dress with many +flounces. The big, shining gold brooch, the heavy, rattling gold chain had +always frightened him. If she had worn her market-clothes, in a striped +head-cloth and with an oil-cloth apron, covered with fish-scales and fish eyes, +he would not have been quite so overawed by her. The end of it was that he +promised to get married. And then his mother’s portrait crept up into the +frame again. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning old Mattsson woke in great trouble. It never occurred to him +to disobey his mother’s portrait; it knew of course what was best for +him. But he shuddered nevertheless at the time that was now coming. +</p> + +<p> +The same day he made an offer of marriage to the plainest daughter of the +poorest fisherman, a little creature, whose head was drawn down between her +shoulders and who had a projecting under-jaw. The parents said yes, and the day +when he was to go to the town and publish the bans was appointed. +</p> + +<p> +The road from the fishing-village to the town passes over windy marshes and +swampy cow-pastures. It is two miles long, and there is a tradition that the +inhabitants of the fishing-village are so rich that they could pave it with +shining silver coins. It would give the road a strange attraction. Glimmering +like a fish’s belly, it would wind with its white scales through clumps +of sedge and pools filled with water-bugs and melancholy bullfrogs. The daisies +and almond-blossoms which adorn that forsaken ground would be mirrored in the +shining silver coins; thistles would stretch out protecting thorns over them, +and the wind would find a ringing sounding-board when it played on the thatched +roof of the cow-barns and on telephone-wires. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps old Mattsson would have found some comfort if he could have set his +heavy sea boots on ringing silver, for it is certain that he for a time had to +go that way oftener than he liked. +</p> + +<p> +He had not had “clean papers.” The bans could not be published. It +came from his having run away from his bride the last time. Some time passed +before the clergyman could write to the consistory about him and get permission +for him to contract a new marriage. +</p> + +<p> +As long as this time of waiting lasted, old Mattsson came to the town every +week. He sat by the door of the pastor’s room and remained there in +silent expectation until all had spoken in turn. Then he rose and asked if the +clergyman had anything for him. No, he had nothing. +</p> + +<p> +The pastor was amazed at the power that all-conquering love had acquired over +that old man. There he sat in a thick, knitted jersey, high sea-boots and +weather-beaten sou’wester with a sharp, clever face and long, gray hair, +and waited for permission to get married. The clergyman thought it strange that +the old fisherman should have been seized by so eager a longing. +</p> + +<p> +“You are in a hurry with this marriage, Mattsson,” said the +clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, it is best to get it done soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Could you not just as well give up the whole thing? You are no longer +young, Mattsson.” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman must not be too surprised. He knew well enough that he was too +old, but he was obliged to be married. There was no help for it. +</p> + +<p> +So he came again week after week for a half year, until at last the permission +came. +</p> + +<p> +During all that time old Mattsson was a persecuted man. Round the green +drying-place, where the brown fish-nets were hung out, along the cemented walls +by the harbor, at the fish-tables in the market, where cod and crabs were sold, +and far out in the sound among the shoals of herring, raged a storm of wonder +and laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“So he is going to be married, he, Mattsson, who ran away from his own +wedding!” +</p> + +<p> +Neither bride nor groom were spared. +</p> + +<p> +But the worst thing for him was that no one could laugh more at the whole thing +than he himself. No one could find it more ridiculous. His mother’s +portrait was driving him mad. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +It was the afternoon of the first time of asking. Old Mattsson, still pursued +by talk and wonderings, went out on the long breakwater as far as the +whitewashed lighthouse, in order to be alone. He found his betrothed there. She +sat and wept. +</p> + +<p> +He asked her whether she would have liked some one else better. She sat and +pried little bits of mortar from the lighthouse wall and threw them into the +water, answering nothing at first. +</p> + +<p> +“Was there nobody you liked?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, of course not.” +</p> + +<p> +It is very beautiful out by the lighthouse. The clear water of the sound laps +about it. The low-lying shore, the little uniform houses of the +fishing-village, and the distant town are all shining in wonderful beauty. Out +of the soft mist that hovers on the western horizon a fishing-boat comes +gliding now and again. Tacking boldly, it steers towards the harbor. The water +roars gaily past its bow as it shoots in through the narrow harbor entrance. +The sail drops silently at the same moment. The fishermen swing their hats in +joyous greeting, and on the bottom of the boat lies the glittering spoil. +</p> + +<p> +A boat came into the harbor while old Mattsson stood out by the lighthouse. A +young man sitting at the tiller lifted his hat and nodded to the girl. The old +man saw that her eyes were shining. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he thought, “have you fallen in love with the +handsomest young fellow in the fishing-village? Yes, you will never get him. +You may just as well marry me as wait for him.” +</p> + +<p> +He saw that he could not escape his mother’s picture. If the girl had +cared for any one whom there was any possibility of getting, he would have had +a good motive to be rid of the whole business. But now it was useless to set +her free. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +A fortnight later was the wedding, and a few days after came the big November +gale. One of the boats of the fishing-village was swept out into the sound. It +had neither rudder nor masts, so that it was quite unmanageable. Old Mattsson +and five others were on board, and they drifted about without food for two +days. When they were rescued, they were in a state of exhaustion from hunger +and cold. Everything in the boat was covered with ice, and their wet clothes +were stiff. Old Mattsson was so chilled that he never was well again. He lay +ill for two years; then death came. +</p> + +<p> +Many thought that it was strange that his idea of marrying came just before the +unlucky adventure, for the little woman he had got took good care of him. What +would he have done if he had been alone when lying so helpless? The whole +fishing-village acknowledged that he had never done anything more sensible than +marrying, and the little woman won great consideration for the tenderness with +which she took care of her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“She will have no trouble in marrying again,” people said. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mattsson told his wife, every day while he lay ill, the story of the +portrait. +</p> + +<p> +“You must take it when I am dead, just as you must take everything of +mine,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak of such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you must listen to my mother’s portrait when the young men +propose to you. Truly there is no one in the whole fishing-village who +understands getting married better than that picture.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>A FALLEN KING</h2> + +<p class="letter"> +Mine was the kingdom of fancy, now I am a fallen king. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +S<small>NOILSKY</small>. +</p> + +<p> +The wooden shoes clattered in uneasy measure on the pavements. The street boys +hurried by. They shouted, they whistled. The houses shook, and from the courts +the echo rushed out like a chained dog from his kennel. +</p> + +<p> +Faces appeared behind the window-panes. Had anything happened? Was anything +going on? The noise passed on towards the suburbs. The servant girls hastened +after, following the street boys. They clasped their hands and screamed: +“Preserve us, preserve us! Is it murder, is it fire?” No one +answered. The clattering was heard far away. +</p> + +<p> +After the maids came hurrying wise matrons of the town. They asked: “What +is it? What is disturbing the morning calm? Is it a wedding? Is it a funeral? +Is it a conflagration? What is the watchman doing? Shall the town burn up +before he begins to sound the alarm?” +</p> + +<p> +The whole crowd stopped before the shoemaker’s little house in the +suburbs, the little house that had vines climbing about the doors and windows, +and in front, between street and house, a yard-wide garden. Summer-houses of +straw, arbors fit for a mouse, paths for a kitten. Everything in the best of +order! Peas and beans, roses and lavender, a mouthful of grass, three +gooseberry bushes and an apple-tree. +</p> + +<p> +The street boys who stood nearest stared and consulted. Through the shining, +black window-panes their glances penetrated no further than to the white lace +curtains. One of the boys climbed up on the vines and pressed his face against +the pane. “What do you see?” whispered the others. “What do +you see?” The shoemaker’s shop and the shoemaker’s bench, +grease-pots and bundles of leather, lasts and pegs, rings and straps. +“Don’t you see anybody?” He sees the apprentice, who is +repairing a shoe. Nobody else, nobody else? Big, black flies crawl over the +pane and make his sight uncertain. “Do you see nobody except the +apprentice?” Nobody. The master’s chair is empty. He looked once, +twice, three times; the master’s chair was empty. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd stood still, guessing and wondering. So it was true; the old +shoemaker had absconded. Nobody would believe it. They stood and waited for a +sign. The cat came out on the steep roof. He stretched out his claws and slid +down to the gutter. Yes, the master was away, the cat could hunt as he pleased. +The sparrows fluttered and chirped, quite helpless. +</p> + +<p> +A white chicken looked round the corner of the house. He was almost full-grown. +His comb shone red as wine. He peered and spied, crowed and called. The hens +came, a row of white hens at full speed, bodies rocking, wings fluttering, +yellow legs like drumsticks. The hens hopped among the stacked peas. Battles +began. Envy broke out. A hen fled with a full pea-pod. Two cocks pecked her in +the neck. The cat left the sparrow nests to look on. Plump, there he fell down +in the midst of the flock. The hens fled in a long, scurrying line. The crowd +thought: “It must be true that the shoemaker has run away. One can see by +the cat and the hens that the master is away.” +</p> + +<p> +The uneven street, muddy from the autumn rains, resounded with talk. Doors +stood open, windows swung. Heads were put together in wondering whisperings. +“He has run off.” The people whispered, the sparrows chirped, the +wooden shoes clattered: “He has run away. The old shoemaker has run away. +The owner of the little house, the young wife’s husband, the father of +the beautiful child, he has run away. Who can understand it? who can explain +it?” +</p> + +<p> +There is an old song: “Old husband in the cottage; young lover in the +wood; wife, who runs away, child who cries; home without a mistress.” The +song is old. It is often sung. Everybody understands it. +</p> + +<p> +This was a new song. The old man was gone. On the workshop table lay his +explanation, that he never meant to come back. Beside it a letter had also +lain. The wife had read it, but no one else. +</p> + +<p> +The young wife was in the kitchen. She was doing nothing. The neighbors went +backwards and forwards, arranging busily, set out the cups, made up the fire, +boiled the coffee, wept a little and wiped away the tears with the dish-towel. +</p> + +<p> +The good women of the quarter sat stiffly about the walls. They knew what was +suitable in a house of mourning. They kept silent by force, mourned by force. +They celebrated their holiday by supporting the forsaken wife in her grief. +Coarse hands lay quiet in their laps, weather-beaten skin lay in deep wrinkles, +thin lips were pressed together over toothless jaws. +</p> + +<p> +The wife sat among the bronze-hued women, gently blonde, with a sweet face like +a dove. She did not weep, but she trembled. She was so afraid, that the fear +was almost killing her. She bit her teeth together, so that no one should hear +how they chattered. When steps were heard, when the clattering sounded, when +some one spoke to her, she started up. +</p> + +<p> +She sat with her husband’s letter in her pocket. She thought of now one +line in it and now another. There stood: “I can bear no longer to see you +both.” And in another place: “I know now that you and Erikson mean +to elope.” And again: “You shall not do that, for people’s +evil talk would make you unhappy. I shall disappear, so that you can get a +divorce and be properly married. Erikson is a good workman and can support you +well.” Then farther down: “Let people say what they will about me. +I am content if only they do not think any evil of you, for you could not bear +it.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not understand it. She had not meant to deceive him. Even if she had +liked to chat with the young apprentice, what had her husband to do with that? +Love is an illness, but it is not mortal. She had meant to bear it through life +with patience. How had her husband discovered her most secret thoughts? +</p> + +<p> +She was tortured at the thought of him! He must have grieved and brooded. He +had wept over his years. He had raged over the young man’s strength and +spirits. He had trembled at the whisperings, at the smiles, at the hand +pressures. In burning madness, in glowing jealousy, he had made it into a whole +elopement history, of which there was as yet nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She thought how old he must have been that night when he went. His back was +bent, his hands shook. The agony of many long nights had made him so. He had +gone to escape that existence of passionate doubting. +</p> + +<p> +She remembered other lines in the letter: “It is not my intention to +destroy your character. I have always been too old for you.” And then +another: “You shall always be respected and honored. Only be silent, and +all the shame will fall on me!” +</p> + +<p> +The wife felt deeper and deeper remorse. Was it possible that people would be +deceived? Would it do to lie so too before God? Why did she sit in the cottage, +pitied like a mourning mother, honored like a bride on her wedding day? Why was +it not she who was homeless, friendless, despised? How can such things be? How +can God let himself be so deceived? +</p> + +<p> +Over the great dresser hung a little bookcase. On the top shelf stood a big +book with brass clasps. Behind those clasps was hidden the story of a man and a +woman who lied before God and men. “Who has suggested to you, woman, to +do such things? Look, young men stand outside to lead you away.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman stared at the book, listened for the young men’s footsteps. She +trembled at every knock, shuddered at every step. She was ready to stand up and +confess, ready to fall down and die. +</p> + +<p> +The coffee was ready. The women glided sedately forward to the table. They +filled their cups, took a lump of sugar in their mouths and began to sip their +boiling coffee, silently and decently, the wives of mechanics first, the +scrub-women last. But the wife did not see what was going on. Remorse made her +quite beside herself. She had a vision. She sat at night out in a freshly +ploughed field. Round about her sat great birds with mighty wings and pointed +beaks. They were gray, scarcely perceptible against the gray ground, but they +held watch over her. They were passing sentence upon her. Suddenly they flew up +and sank down over her head. She saw their sharp claws, their pointed beaks, +their beating wings coming nearer and nearer. It was like a deadly rain of +steel. She bent her head and knew that she must die. But when they came near, +quite near to her, she had to look up. Then she saw that the gray birds were +all these old women. +</p> + +<p> +One of them began to speak. She knew what was proper, what was fitting in a +house of mourning. They had now been silent long enough. But the wife started +up as from a blow. What did the woman mean to say? “You, Matts +Wik’s wife, Anna Wik, confess! You have lied long enough before God and +before us. We are your judges. We will judge you and rend you to pieces.” +</p> + +<p> +No, the woman began to speak of husbands. And the others chimed in, as the +occasion demanded. What was said was not in the husbands’ praise. All the +evil husbands had done was dragged forward. It was as consolation for a +deserted wife. +</p> + +<p> +Injury was heaped upon injury. Strange beings these husbands! They beat us, +they drink up our money, they pawn our furniture. Why on earth had Our Lord +created them? +</p> + +<p> +The tongues became like dragons’ fangs; they spat venom, they spouted +fire. Each one added her word. Anecdotes were piled upon anecdotes. A wife fled +from her home before a drunken husband. Wives slaved for idle husbands. Wives +were deserted for other women. The tongues whistled like whip lashes. The +misery of homes was laid bare. Long litanies were read. From the tyranny of the +husband deliver us, good Lord! +</p> + +<p> +Illness and poverty, the children’s death, the winter’s cold, +trouble with the old people, everything was the husband’s fault. The +slaves hissed at their masters. They turned their stings against them, before +whose feet they crept. +</p> + +<p> +The deserted wife felt how it cut and stabbed in her ears. She dared to defend +the incorrigible ones. “My husband,” she said, “is +good.” The women started up, hissed and snorted. “He has run away. +He is no better than anybody else. He, who is an old man, ought to know better +than to run away from wife and child. Can you believe that he is better than +the others?” +</p> + +<p> +The wife trembled; she felt as if she was being dragged through prickly +bramble-bushes. Her husband considered a sinner! She flushed with shame, wished +to speak, but was silent. She was afraid; she had not the power. But why did +God keep silent? Why did God let such things be? +</p> + +<p> +If she should take the letter and read it aloud, then the stream of poison +would be turned. The venom would sprinkle upon her. The horror of death came +over her. She did not dare. She half wished that an insolent hand had been +thrust into her pocket and had drawn out the letter. She could not give herself +as a prize. Within the workshop was heard a shoemaker’s hammer. Did no +one hear how it hammered in triumph? She had heard that hammering and had been +vexed by it the whole day. But none of the women understood it. Omniscient God, +hast Thou no servant who could read hearts? She would gladly accept her +sentence, if only she did not need to confess. She wished to hear some one say: +“Who has given you the idea to lie before God?” She listened for +the sound of the young men’s footsteps in order to fall down and die. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Several years after this a divorced woman was married to a shoemaker, who had +been apprentice to her husband. She had not wished it, but had been drawn to +it, as a pickerel is drawn to the side of a boat when it has been caught on the +line. The fisherman lets it play. He lets it rush here and there. He lets it +believe it is free. But when it is tired out, when it can do no more, then he +drags with a light pull, then he lifts it up and jerks it down into the bottom +of the boat before it knows what it is all about. +</p> + +<p> +The wife of the absconded shoemaker had dismissed her apprentice and wished to +live alone. She had wished to show her husband that she was innocent. But where +was her husband? Did he not care for her faithfulness. She suffered want. Her +child went in rags. How long did her husband think that she could wait? She was +unhappy when she had no one upon whom she could depend. +</p> + +<p> +Erikson succeeded. He had a shop in the town. His shoes stood on glass shelves +behind broad plate-glass windows. His workshop grew. He hired an apartment and +put plush furniture in the parlor. Everything waited only for her. When she was +too wearied of poverty, she came. +</p> + +<p> +She was very much afraid in the beginning. But no misfortunes befell her. She +became more confident as time went on and more happy. She had people’s +regard, and knew within herself that she had not deserved it. That kept her +conscience awake, so that she became a good woman. +</p> + +<p> +Her first husband, after some years, came back to the house in the suburbs. It +was still his, and he settled down again there and wished to begin work. But he +got no work, nor would anybody have anything to do with him. He was despised, +while his wife enjoyed great honor. It was nevertheless he who had done right, +and she who had done wrong. +</p> + +<p> +The husband kept his secret, but it almost suffocated him. He felt how he sank, +because everybody considered him bad. No one had any confidence in him, no one +would trust any work to him. He took what company he could get, and learned to +drink. +</p> + +<p> +While he was going down hill, the Salvation Army came to the town. It hired a +big hall and began its work. From the very first evening all the loafers +gathered at the meetings to make a disturbance. When it had gone on for about a +week, Matts Wik came too to take part in the fun. +</p> + +<p> +There was a crowd in the street, a crowd in the door-way. Sharp elbows and +angry tongues were there; street boys and soldiers, maids and scrub-women; +peaceable police and stormy rabble. The army was new and the fashion. The +well-to-do and the wharf-rats, everybody went to the Salvation Army. Within, +the hall was low-studded. At the farthest end was an empty platform; unpainted +benches, borrowed chairs, an uneven floor, blotches on the ceiling, lamps that +smoked. The iron stove in the middle of the floor gave out warmth and coal gas. +All the places were filled in a moment. Nearest the platform sat the women, +demure as if in church, and back of them workmen and sewing-women. Farthest +away sat the boys on one another’s knees, and in the door-way there was a +fight among those who could not get in. +</p> + +<p> +The platform was empty. The clock had not struck, the entertainment had not +begun. One whistled, one laughed. The benches were kicked to pieces. “The +War-cry” flew like a kite between the groups. The public were enjoying +themselves. +</p> + +<p> +A side-door opened. Cold air streamed into the room. The fire flamed up. There +was silence. Attentive expectation filled the hall. At last they came, three +young women, carrying guitars and with faces almost hidden by broad-brimmed +hats. They fell on their knees as soon as they had ascended the steps of the +platform. +</p> + +<p> +One of them prayed aloud. She lifted her head, but closed her eyes. Her voice +cut like a knife. During the prayer there was silence. The street-boys and +loafers had not yet begun. They were waiting for the confessions and the +inspiring music. +</p> + +<p> +The women settled down to their work. They sang and prayed, sang and preached. +They smiled and spoke of their happiness. In front of them they had an audience +of ruffians. They began to rise, they climbed upon the benches. A threatening +noise passed through the throng. The women on the platform caught glimpses of +dreadful faces through the smoky air. The men had wet, dirty clothes, which +smelt badly. They spat tobacco every other second, swore with every word. Those +women, who were to struggle with them, spoke of their happiness. +</p> + +<p> +How brave that little army was! Ah, is it not beautiful to be brave? Is it not +something to be proud of to have God on one’s side? It was not worth +while to laugh at them in their big hats. It was most probable that they would +conquer the hard hands, the cruel faces, the blaspheming lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Sing with us!” cried the Salvation Army soldiers; “sing with +us! It is good to sing.” They started a well-known melody. They struck +their guitars and repeated the same verse over and over. They got one or two of +those sitting nearest to join in, but now sounded down by the door a light +street song. Notes struggled against notes, words against words, guitar against +whistle. The women’s strong, trained voices contested with the +boys’ hoarse falsetto, with the men’s growling bass. When the +street song was almost conquered, they began to stamp and whistle down by the +door. The Salvation Army song sank like a wounded warrior. The noise was +terrifying. The women fell on their knees. +</p> + +<p> +They knelt as if powerless. Their eyes were closed. Their bodies rocked in +silent pain. The noise died down. The Salvation Army captain began instantly: +“Lord, all these Thou wilt make Thine own. We thank Thee, Lord, that Thou +wilt lead them all into Thy host! We thank Thee, Lord, that it is granted to us +to lead them to Thee!” +</p> + +<p> +The crowd hissed, howled, screamed. It was as if all those throats had been +tickled by a sharp knife. It was as if the people had been afraid to be won +over, as if they had forgotten that they had come there of their own will. +</p> + +<p> +But the woman continued, and it was her sharp, piercing voice which conquered. +They had to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“You shout and scream; the old serpent within you is twisting and raging. +But that is just the sign. Blessings on the old serpent’s roarings! It +shows that he is tortured, that he is afraid. Laugh at us! Break our windows! +Drive us away from the platform! To-morrow you will belong to us. We shall +possess the earth. How can you withstand us? How can you withstand God?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the captain commanded one of her comrades to come forward and make her +confession. She came smiling. She stood brave and undaunted and told the story +of her sin and her conversion to the mockers. Where had that kitchen-girl +learned to stand smiling under all that scorn? Some of those who had come to +scoff grew pale. Where had these women found their courage and their strength? +Some one stood behind them. +</p> + +<p> +The third woman stepped forward. She was a beautiful child, daughter of rich +parents, with a sweet, clear voice. She did not tell of herself. Her testimony +was one of the usual songs. +</p> + +<p> +It was like the shadow of a victory. The audience forgot itself and listened. +The child was lovely to look at, sweet to hear. But when she ceased, the noise +became even more dreadful. Down by the door they built a platform of benches, +climbed up and confessed. +</p> + +<p> +It became worse and worse in the hall. The stove became red hot, devoured air +and belched heat. The respectable women on the front benches looked about for a +way to escape, but there was no possibility of getting out. The soldiers on the +platform perspired and wilted. They cried and prayed for strength. Suddenly a +breath came through the air, a whisper reached their ear. They knew not from +where, but they felt a change. God was with them. He fought for them. +</p> + +<p> +To the struggle again! The captain stepped forward and lifted the Bible over +her head. Stop, stop! We feel that God is working among us. A conversion is +near. Help us to pray! God will give us a soul. +</p> + +<p> +They fell on their knees in silent prayer. Some in the hall joined in the +prayer. All felt an intense expectation. Was it true? Was something great +taking place in a fellow-creature’s soul, here, in their midst? Should it +be granted to them to see it? Could it be influenced by these women? +</p> + +<p> +For the moment the crowd was won. They were now just as eager for a miracle as +lately for blasphemy. No one dared to move. All panted from excitement, but +nothing happened. “O God, Thou forsakest us! Thou forsakest us, O +God!” +</p> + +<p> +The beautiful salvation soldier began to sing. She chose the mildest of +melodies: “Oh, my beloved, wilt Thou not come soon?” +</p> + +<p> +Touching as a praying child, the song entered their souls—like a caress, +like a blessing. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd was silent, wrapped in those notes. “Mountains and forests +long, heaven and earth languish. Man, everything in the world, thirsts that you +shall open your soul to the light. Then glory will spread over the earth, then +the beasts will rise up from their degradation. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not true that thou dost linger in lofty halls. In the dark wood, +in miserable hovels thou dwellest. And thou wilt not come. My bright heaven +does not tempt thee. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” +</p> + +<p> +In the hall more and more began to sing the burden. Voice after voice joined +in. They did not rightly know what words they used. The tune was enough. All +their longing could sing itself free in those tones. They sang, too, down by +the door. Hearts were bursting. Wills were subdued. It no longer sounded like a +pitiful lament, but strong, imperative, commanding. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?” +</p> + +<p> +Down by the door, in the worst of the crowd, stood Matts Wik. He looked much +intoxicated, but that evening he had not drunk. He stood and thought. “If +I might speak, if I might speak!” +</p> + +<p> +It was the strangest room he had ever seen, the most wonderful chance. A voice +seemed to say to him: “These are the rushes to which you can whisper, the +waves which will bear your voice.” +</p> + +<p> +The singers started. It was as if they had heard a lion roar in their ears. A +mighty, terrible voice spoke dreadful words. +</p> + +<p> +It scoffed at God. Why did men serve God? He forsook all those who served him. +He had failed his own son. God helped no one. +</p> + +<p> +The voice grew louder, more like a roar every minute. No one could have +believed that human lungs could have such strength. No one had ever heard such +ravings burst from bruised heart. All bent their heads like wanderers in the +desert, when the storm beats on them. +</p> + +<p> +Terrible, terrible words! They were like thundering hammer strokes against +God’s throne. Against Him who had tortured Job, who had let the martyrs +suffer, who let those who professed his faith burn at the stake. +</p> + +<p> +A few had at first tried to laugh. Some of them had thought that it was a joke. +But now they heard, quaking, that it was in earnest. Already some rose up to +flee to the platform. They asked the protection of the Salvation Army from him +who drew down upon them the wrath of God. +</p> + +<p> +The voice asked them in hissing tones what rewards they expected for their +trouble in serving God. They need not count on heaven. God was not freehanded +with His heaven. A man, he said, had done more good than was needed to be +blessed. He had brought greater offerings than God demanded. But then he had +been tempted to sin. Life is long. He paid out his hard-earned grace already in +this world. He would go the way of the damned. +</p> + +<p> +The speech was the terrifying north-wind, which drives the ship into the +harbor. While the scoffer spoke, women rushed up to the platform. The Salvation +Army soldiers’ hands were embraced and kissed; they were scarcely able to +receive them all. The boys and the old men praised God. +</p> + +<p> +He who spoke continued. The words intoxicated him. He said to himself: “I +speak, I speak, at last I speak. I tell them my secret, and yet I do not tell +them.” For the first time since he made the great sacrifice he was free +from care. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +It was a Sunday afternoon in the height of the summer. The town looked like a +desert of stones, like a moon landscape. There was not a cat to be seen, nor a +sparrow, hardly a fly on the sunny wall. Not a chimney smoked. There was not a +breath of air in the sultry streets. The whole was only a stony field, out of +which grew stone walls. +</p> + +<p> +Where were the dogs and the people? Where were the young ladies in narrow +skirts and wide sleeves, long gloves and red sunshades? Where were the soldiers +and the fine people, the Salvation Army and the street boys? +</p> + +<p> +Whither had all those gay picnickers gone in the dewy cool of the morning, all +the baskets and accordions and bottles, which the steamer landed? And what had +happened to the procession of Good Templars? Banners fluttered, drums +thundered, boys swarmed, stamped, and hurrahed. Or what had happened to the +blue awnings under which the little ones slept while father and mother pushed +them solemnly up the street. +</p> + +<p> +All were on their way out to the wood. They complained of the long streets. It +seemed as if the stone houses followed them. At last, at last they caught a +glimpse of green. And just outside of the town, where the road wound over flat, +moist fields, where the song of the lark sounded loudest, where the clover +steamed with honey, there lay the first of those left behind; heads in the +moss, noses in the grass. Bodies bathed in sunshine and fragrance, souls +refreshed with idleness and rest. +</p> + +<p> +On the way to the wood toiled bicyclists and bearers of luncheon baskets. Boys +came with trowels and shiny knapsacks. Girls danced in clouds of dust. Sky and +banners and children and trumpets. Mechanics and their families and crowds of +laborers. The rearing horses of an omnibus waved their forelegs over the crowd. +A young man, half drunk, jumped up on the wheel. He was pulled down, and lay +kicking on his back in the dust of the road. +</p> + +<p> +In the wood a nightingale trilled and sang, piped and gurgled. The birches were +not thriving, their trunks were black. The beeches built high temples, layer +upon layer of streaky green. A toad sat and took aim with its tongue. It caught +a fly at every shot. A hedgehog trotted about in the dried, rustling beech +leaves. Dragonflies darted about with glittering wings. The people sat down +around the luncheon-baskets. The piping, chirping crickets tried to make their +Sunday a glad one. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the hedgehog disappeared, terrified he rolled himself up in his +prickles. The crickets crept into the grass, quite silenced. The nightingale +sang as if its throat would burst. It was guitars, guitars. The Salvation Army +marched forward under the beeches. The people started up from their rest under +the trees. The dancing-green and croquet-ground were deserted. The swings and +merry-go-rounds had an hour’s rest. Everybody followed to the Salvation +Army’s camp. The benches filled, and listeners sat on every hillock. The +army had waxed strong and powerful. About many a fair cheek was tied the +Salvation Army hat. Many a strong man wore the red shirt. There was peace and +order in the crowd. Bad words did not venture to pass the lips. Oaths rumbled +harmlessly behind teeth. And Matts Wik, the shoemaker, the terrible blasphemer, +stood now as standard-bearer by the platform. He, too, was one of the +believers. The red flag caressed his gray head. +</p> + +<p> +The Salvation Army soldiers had not forgotten the old man. They had him to +thank for their first victory. They had come to him in his loneliness. They +washed his floor and mended his clothes. They did not refuse to associate with +him. And at their meetings he was allowed to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Ever since he had broken his silence he was happy. He stood no longer as an +enemy of God. There was a raging power in him. He was happy when he could let +it out. When souls were shaken by his lion voice, he was happy. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke always of himself. He always told his own story. He described the fate +of the misjudged. He spoke of sacrifices of life itself, made without a hope of +reward, without acknowledgment. He disguised what he related. He told his +secret and yet did not tell it. +</p> + +<p> +He became a poet. He had the power of winning hearts. For his sake crowds +gathered in front of the Salvation Army platform. He drew them by the fantastic +images which filled his diseased brain. He captivated them with the words of +affecting lament, which the oppression of his heart had taught him. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps his spirit in days of old had visited this world of death and change. +Perhaps he had then been a mighty skald, skilful in playing on heartstrings. +But for some evil deed he had been condemned to begin again his earthly life, +to live by the work of his hands, without the knowledge of the strength of his +spirit. But now his grief had broken his spirit’s chains. His soul was a +newly released bird. Timid and confused, but still rejoicing in its freedom, it +flew onward over the old battlefields. +</p> + +<p> +The wild, ignorant singer, the black thrush, which had grown among starlings, +listened diffidently to the words which came to his lips. Where did he get the +power to compel the crowd to listen in ecstasy to his speech? Where did he get +the power to force proud men down upon their knees, wringing their hands? He +trembled before he began to speak. Then a quiet confidence came over him. From +the inexhaustible depths of his suffering rose ever torrents of agonized words. +</p> + +<p> +Those speeches were never printed. They were hunting-cries, ringing +trumpet-notes, rousing, animating, terrifying, urgent; not to capture, not to +give again. They were lightning flashes and rolling thunder. They shook hearts +with terrible alarms. But they were transient, never could they be caught. The +cataract can be measured to its last drop, the dizzy play of foam can be +painted, but not the elusive, delirious, swift, growing, mighty stream of those +speeches. +</p> + +<p> +That day in the wood he asked the gathering if they knew how they should serve +God?—as Uria served his king. +</p> + +<p> +Then he, the man in the pulpit, became Uria. He rode through the desert with +the letter of his king. He was alone. The solitude terrified him. His thoughts +were gloomy. But he smiled when he thought of his wife. The desert became a +flowering meadow when he remembered his wife. Springs gushed up from the ground +at the thought of her. +</p> + +<p> +His camel fell. His soul was filled with forebodings of evil. Misfortune, he +thought, is a vulture, which loves the desert. He did not turn, but went onward +with the king’s letter. He trod upon thorns. He walked among serpents and +scorpions. He thirsted and hungered. He saw caravans drag their dark length +through the sands. He did not join them. He dared not seek strangers. He, who +bears a royal letter, must go alone. He saw at eventide the white tents of +shepherds. He was tempted, as if by his wife’s smiling dwelling. He +thought he saw white veils waving to him. He turned away from the tents out +into solitude. Woe to him if they had stolen the letter of his king! +</p> + +<p> +He hesitates when he sees searching brigands pursuing him. He thinks of the +king’s letter. He reads it in order to then destroy it. He reads it, and +finds new courage. Stand up, warrior of Judah! He does not destroy the letter. +He does not give himself up to the robbers. He fights and conquers. And so +onward, onward! He bears his sentence of death through a thousand dangers. … +</p> + +<p> +It is so God’s will shall be obeyed through tortures unto death. … +</p> + +<p> +While Wik spoke, his divorced wife stood and listened to him. She had gone out +to the wood that morning, beaming and contented on her husband’s arm, +most matron-like, respectable in every fold. Her daughter and the apprentice +carried the luncheon basket. The maid followed with the youngest child. There +had been nothing but content, happiness, calm. +</p> + +<p> +There they had lain in a thicket. They had eaten and drunk, played and laughed. +Never a thought of the past! Conscience was as silent as a satisfied child. In +the beginning, when her first husband had slunk half drunk by her window, she +had felt a prick in her soul. +</p> + +<p> +Then she had heard that he had become the idol of the Salvation Army. She was, +therefore, quite calm. Now she had come to hear him. And she understood him. He +was not speaking of Uria; he was telling about himself. He was writhing at the +thought of his own sacrifice. He tore bits from his own heart and threw them +out among the people. She knew that rider in the desert, that conqueror of +brigands. And that unappeased agony stared at her like an open grave. … +</p> + +<p> +Night came. The wood was deserted. Farewell, grass and flowers! Wide heaven, a +long farewell! Snakes began to crawl about the tufts of grass. Turtles crept +along the paths. The wood was ugly. Everybody longed to be back in the stone +desert, the moon landscape. That is the place for men. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Dame Anna Erikson invited all her old friends. The mechanics’ wives from +the suburbs and the poorer scrub-women came to her for a cup of coffee. The +same were there who had been with her on the day of her desertion. One was new, +Maria Anderson, the captain of the Salvation Army. +</p> + +<p> +Anna Erikson had now been many times to the Salvation Army. She had heard her +husband. He always told about himself. He disguised his story. She recognized +it always. He was Abraham. He was Job. He was Jeremiah, whom the people threw +into a well. He was Elisha, whom the children at the wayside reviled. +</p> + +<p> +That pain seemed bottomless to her. His sorrow seemed to her to borrow all +voices, to make itself masks of everything it met. She did not understand that +her husband talked himself well, that pleasure in his power of fancy played and +smiled in him. +</p> + +<p> +She had dragged her daughter with her. The daughter had not wished to go. She +was serious, modest, and conscientious. Nothing of youth played in her veins. +She was born old. +</p> + +<p> +She had grown up in shame of her father. She walked upright, austere, as if +saying: “Look, the daughter of a man who is despised! Look if my dress is +soiled! Is there anything to blame in my conduct?” Her mother was proud +of her. Yet sometimes she sighed. “Alas! if my daughter’s hands +were less white, perhaps her caresses would be warmer!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl sat scornfully smiling. She despised theatricals. When her father rose +up to speak, she wished to go. Her mother’s hand seized hers, fast as a +vice. The girl sat still. The torrent of words began to roar over her. But that +which spoke to her was not so much the words as her mother’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +That hand writhed, convulsions passed through it. It lay in hers limp, as if +dead; it caught wildly about, hot with fever. Her mother’s face betrayed +nothing; only her hand suffered and struggled. +</p> + +<p> +The old speaker described the martyrdom of silence. The friend of Jesus lay +ill. His sisters sent a message to him; but his time had not come. For the sake +of God’s kingdom Lazarus must die. +</p> + +<p> +He now let all doubting, all slander be heaped upon Christ. He described his +suffering. His own compassion tortured him. He passed through the agony of +death, he as well as Lazarus. Still he had to keep silence. +</p> + +<p> +Only one word had he needed to say to win back the respect of his friends. He +was silent. He had to hear the lamentations of the sisters. He told them the +truth in words which they did not understand. Enemies mocked at him. +</p> + +<p> +And so on always more and more affecting. +</p> + +<p> +Anna Erikson’s hand still lay in that of her daughter. It confessed and +acknowledged: “The man there bears the martyr’s crown of silence. +He is wrongly accused. With a word he could set himself free.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl followed her mother home. They went in silence. The girl’s face +was like stone. She was pondering, searching for everything which memory could +tell her. Her mother looked anxiously at her. What did she know? +</p> + +<p> +The next day Anna Erikson had her coffee party. The talk turned on the +day’s market, on the price of wooden shoes, on pilfering maids. The women +chatted and laughed. They poured their coffee into the saucer. They were mild +and unconcerned. Anna Erikson could not understand why she had been afraid of +them, why she had always believed that they would judge her. +</p> + +<p> +When they were provided with their second cup, when they sat delighted with the +coffee trembling on the edge of their cups, and their saucers were filled with +bread, she began to speak. Her words were a little solemn, but her voice was +calm. +</p> + +<p> +“Young people are imprudent. A girl who marries without thinking +seriously of what she is doing can come to great grief. Who has met with worse +than I?” +</p> + +<p> +They all knew it. They had been with her and had mourned with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Young people are imprudent. One holds one’s tongue when one ought +to speak, for shame’s sake. One dares not to speak for fear of what +people will say. He who has not spoken at the right time may have to repent it +a whole lifetime.” +</p> + +<p> +They all believed that this was true. +</p> + +<p> +She had heard Wik yesterday as well as many times before. Now she must tell +them all something about him. An aching pain came over her when she thought of +what he had suffered for her sake. Still she thought that he, who had been old, +ought to have had more sense than to take her, a young girl, for his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not dare to say it in my youth. But he went away from me out of +pity, for he thought that I wanted to have Erikson. I have his letter about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +She read the letter aloud for them. A tear glided demurely down her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“He had seen falsely in his jealousy. Between Erikson and me there was +nothing then. It was four years before we were married; but I will say it now, +for Wik is too good to be misjudged. He did not run away from wife and child +from light motives, but with good intention. I want this to be known +everywhere. Captain Anderson will perhaps read the letter aloud at the meeting. +I wish Wik to be redressed. I know, too, that I have been silent too long, but +one does not like to give up everything for a drunkard. Now it is another +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +The women sat as if turned to stone. Anna Erikson, her voice trembling a +little, said with a faint smile,— +</p> + +<p> +“Now perhaps you will never care to come to see me again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes indeed! You were so young! It was nothing which you could +help.—It was his fault for having such ideas.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. These were the hard beaks which would have torn her to pieces. The +truth was not dangerous nor lying either. The young men were not waiting +outside her door. +</p> + +<p> +Did she know or did she not know that her eldest daughter had that very morning +left her home and had gone to her father? +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The sacrifice which Matts Wik had made to save his wife’s honor became +known. He was admired; he was derided. His letter was read aloud at the +meeting. Some of those present wept with emotion. People came and pressed his +hands on the street. His daughter moved to his house. +</p> + +<p> +For several evenings after he was silent at the meetings. He felt no +inspiration. At last they asked him to speak. He mounted the platform, folded +his hands together and began. +</p> + +<p> +When he had said a couple of words he stopped, confused. He did not recognize +his own voice. Where was the lion’s roar? Where the raging north wind? +And where the torrent of words? He did not understand, could not understand. +</p> + +<p> +He staggered back. “I cannot,” he muttered. “God gives me no +strength to speak yet.” He sat down on a bench and buried his head in his +hands. He gathered all his powers of thought to discover first what he wanted +to talk about. Did he have to consider so in the old days? Could he consider +now? His head whirled. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it would go if he should stand up again, place himself where he was +accustomed to stand, and begin with his usual prayer. He tried. His face turned +ashy-gray. All glances were turned towards him. A cold sweat trickled down his +forehead. He found not a word on his lips. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down in his place and wept, moaning heavily. The gift was taken from +him. He tried to speak, tried silently to himself. What should he talk about. +His sorrow was taken from him. He had nothing to say to people which he was not +allowed to tell them. He had no secret to disguise. He did not need to romance. +Romance left him. +</p> + +<p> +It was the agony of death; it was a struggle for life. He wished to hold fast +that which was already gone. He wished to have his grief again in order to be +able again to speak. His grief was gone; he could not get it back. +</p> + +<p> +He staggered forward like a drunken man to the platform again and again. He +stammered out a few meaningless words. He repeated like a lesson learned by +heart what he had heard others say. He tried to imitate himself. He looked for +devotion in the glances, for trembling silence, quickening breaths. He +perceived nothing. That which had been his joy was taken from him. +</p> + +<p> +He sank back into the darkness. He cursed, that he by his discourse had +converted his wife and daughter. He had possessed the most precious of gifts +and lost it. His pain was extreme.—But it is not by such grief that +genius lives. +</p> + +<p> +He was a painter without hands, a singer who had lost his voice. He had only +spoken of his sorrow. What should he speak of now? +</p> + +<p> +He prayed: “O God, when honor is dumb, and misjudgment speaks, give me +back misjudgment! When happiness is dumb, but sorrow speaks, give me back +sorrow!” +</p> + +<p> +But the crown was taken from him. He sat there, more miserable than the most +miserable, for he had been cast down from the heights of life. He was a fallen +king. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>A CHRISTMAS GUEST</h2> + +<p> +One of those who had lived the life of a pensioner at Ekeby was little Ruster, +who could transpose music and play the flute. He was of low origin and poor, +without home and without relations. Hard times came to him when the company of +pensioners were dispersed. +</p> + +<p> +He then had no horse nor carriole, no fur coat nor red-painted luncheon-basket. +He had to go on foot from house to house and carry his belongings tied in a +blue striped cotton handkerchief. He buttoned his coat all the way up to his +chin, so that no one should need to know in what condition his shirt and +waistcoat were, and in its deep pockets he kept his most precious possessions: +his flute taken to pieces, his flat brandy bottle and his music-pen. +</p> + +<p> +His profession was to copy music, and if it bad been as in the old days, there +would have been no lack of work for him. But with every passing year music was +less practised in Värmland. The guitar, with its mouldy, silken ribbon and its +worn screws, and the dented horn, with faded tassels and cord were put away in +the lumber-room in the attic, and the dust settled inches deep on the long, +iron-bound violin boxes. Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute and +music-pen, so much the more must he turn to the brandy flask, and at last he +became quite a drunkard. It was a great pity. +</p> + +<p> +He was still received at the manor-houses as an old friend, but there were +complaints when he came and joy when he went. There was an odor of dirt and +brandy about him, and if he had only a couple of glasses of wine or one toddy, +he grew confused and told unpleasant stories. He was the torment of the +hospitable houses. +</p> + +<p> +One Christmas he came to Löfdala, where Liljekrona, the great violinist, had +his home. Liljekrona had also been one of the pensioners of Ekeby, but after +the death of the major’s wife, he returned to his quiet farm and remained +there. Ruster came to him a few days before Christmas, in the midst of all the +preparations, and asked for work. Liljekrona gave him a little copying to keep +him busy. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to have let him go immediately,” said his wife; +“now he will certainly take so long with that that we will be obliged to +keep him over Christmas.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must be somewhere,” answered Liljekrona. +</p> + +<p> +And he offered Ruster toddy and brandy, sat with him, and lived over again with +him the whole Ekeby time. But he was out of spirits and disgusted by him, like +every one else, although he would not let it be seen, for old friendship and +hospitality were sacred to him. +</p> + +<p> +In Liljekrona’s house for three weeks now they had been preparing to +receive Christmas. They had been living in discomfort and bustle, had sat up +with dip-lights and torches till their eyes grew red, had been frozen in the +out-house with the salting of meat and in the brew-house with the brewing of +the beer. But both the mistress and the servants gave themselves up to it all +without grumbling. +</p> + +<p> +When all the preparations were done and the holy evening come, a sweet +enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen all tongues, so +that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment would flow of themselves without +effort. Every one’s feet would wish to twirl in the dance, and from +memory’s dark corners words and melodies would rise, although no one +could believe that they were there. And then every one was so good, so good! +</p> + +<p> +Now when Ruster came the whole household at Löfdala thought that Christmas was +spoiled. The mistress and the older children and the old servants were all of +the same opinion. Ruster caused them a suffocating disgust. They were moreover +afraid that when he and Liljekrona began to rake up the old memories, the +artist’s blood would flame up in the great violinist and his home would +lose him. Formerly he had not been able to remain long sit home. +</p> + +<p> +No one can describe how they loved their master on the farm, since they had had +him with them a couple of years. And what he had to give! How much he was to +his home, especially at Christmas! He did not take his place on any sofa or +rocking-stool, but on a high, narrow wooden bench in the corner of the +fireplace. When he was settled there he started off on adventures. He travelled +about the earth, climbed up to the stars, and even higher. He played and talked +by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened. Life grew +proud and beautiful when the richness of that one soul shone on it. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmas time, pleasure, the spring +sun. And when little Ruster came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had +worked in vain if he was coming to tempt away their master. It was unjust that +the drunkard should sit at the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil the +Christmas pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +On the forenoon of Christmas Eve little Ruster had his music written out, and +he said something about going, although of course he meant to stay. +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona had been influenced by the general feeling, and therefore said quite +lukewarmly and indifferently that Ruster had better stay where he was over +Christmas. +</p> + +<p> +Little Ruster was inflammable and proud. He twirled his moustache and shook +back the black artist’s hair that stood like a dark cloud over his head. +What did Liljekrona mean? Should he stay because he had nowhere else to go? Oh, +only think how they stood and waited for him in the big ironworks in the parish +of Bro! The guest-room was in order, the glass of welcome filled. He was in +great haste. He only did not know to which he ought to go first. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” answered Liljekrona, “you may go if you +will.” +</p> + +<p> +After dinner little Ruster borrowed horse and sleigh, coat and furs. The +stable-boy from Löfdala was to take him to some place in Bro and drive quickly +back, for it threatened snow. +</p> + +<p> +No one believed that he was expected, or that there was a single place in the +neighborhood where he was welcome. But they were so anxious to be rid of him +that they put the thought aside and let him depart. “He wished it +himself,” they said; and then they thought that now they would be glad. +</p> + +<p> +But when they gathered in the dining room at five o’clock to drink tea +and to dance round the Christmas-tree, Liljekrona was silent and out of +spirits. He did not seat himself on the bench; he touched neither tea nor +punch; he could not remember any polka; the violin was out of order. Those who +could play and dance had to do it without him. +</p> + +<p> +Then his wife grew uneasy; the children were discontented, everything in the +house went wrong. It was the most lamentable Christmas Eve. +</p> + +<p> +The porridge turned sour; the candles sputtered; the wood smoked; the wind +stirred up the snow and blew bitter cold into the rooms. The stable-boy who had +driven Ruster did not come home. The cook wept; the maids scolded. +</p> + +<p> +Finally Liljekrona remembered that no sheaves had been put out for the +sparrows, and he complained aloud of all the women about him who abandoned old +customs and were new-fangled and heartless. They understood well enough that +what tormented him was remorse that he had let little Ruster go away from his +home on Christmas Eve. +</p> + +<p> +After a while he went to his room, shut the door and began to play as he had +not played since he had ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn, full of +longing and revolt. You thought to bind me, but you must forge new fetters. You +thought to make me as small-minded as yourselves, but I turn to larger things, +to the open. Commonplace people, slaves of the home, hold me prisoner if it is +in your power! +</p> + +<p> +When his wife heard the music, she said: “Tomorrow he is gone, if God +does not work a miracle in the night. Our inhospitableness has brought on just +what we thought we could avoid.” +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the snowstorm. He went from one +house to the other and asked if there was any work for him to do, but he was +not received anywhere. They did not even ask him to get out of the sledge. Some +had their houses full of guests, others were going away on Christmas Day. +“Drive to the next neighbor,” they all said. +</p> + +<p> +He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary day, but not of Christmas +Eve. Christmas Eve came but once a year, and the children had been rejoicing in +the thought of it all the autumn. They could not put that man at a table where +there were children. Formerly they had been glad to see him, but not since he +had become a drunkard. Where should they put the fellow, moreover? The +servants’ room was too plain and the guest-room too fine. +</p> + +<p> +So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in the blinding snow. His wet +moustache hung limply down over his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and blurred, +but the brandy was blown out of his brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed. +Was it possible, was it possible that no one wished to receive him? +</p> + +<p> +Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how miserable and degraded he was, and +he understood that he was odious to people. “It is the end of me,” +he thought. “No more copying of music, no more flute-playing. No one on +earth needs me; no one has compassion on me.” +</p> + +<p> +The storm whirled and played, tore apart the drifts and piled them up again, +took a pillar of snow in its arms and danced out into the plain, lifted one +flake up to the clouds and chased another down into a ditch. “It is so, +it is so,” said little Ruster; “while one dances and whirls it is +play, but when one must be buried in the drift and forgotten, it is sorrow and +grief.” But down they all have to go, and now it was his turn. To think +that he had now come to the end! +</p> + +<p> +He no longer asked where the man was driving him; he thought that he was +driving in the land of death. +</p> + +<p> +Little Ruster made no offerings to the gods that night. He did not curse +flute-playing or the life of a pensioner; he did not think that it had been +better for him if he had ploughed the earth or sewn shoes. But he mourned that +he was now a worn-out instrument, which pleasure could no longer use. He +complained of no one, for he knew that when the horn is cracked and the guitar +will not stay in tune, they must go. He became all at once a very humble man. +He understood that it was the end of him, on this Christmas Eve. Hunger and +cold would destroy him, for he understood nothing, was good for nothing and had +no friends. +</p> + +<p> +The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him, and he hears friendly +voices, and there is some one who is helping him into a warm room, and some one +who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat is pulled off him, and several +people cry that he is welcome, and warm hands rub life into his benumbed +fingers. +</p> + +<p> +He was so confused by it all that he did not come to his senses for nearly a +quarter of an hour. He could not possibly comprehend that he had come back to +Löfdala. He had not been at all conscious that the stable-boy had grown tired +of driving about in the storm and had turned home. +</p> + +<p> +Nor did he understand why he was now so well received in Liljekrona’s +house. He could not know that Liljekrona’s wife understood what a weary +journey he had made that Christmas Eve, when he had been turned away from every +door where he had knocked. She felt such compassion on him that she forgot her +own troubles. +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona went on with the wild playing up in his room; he did not know that +Ruster had come. The latter sat meanwhile in the dining-room with the wife and +the children. The servants, who used also to be there on Christmas Eve, had +moved out into the kitchen away from their mistress’s trouble. +</p> + +<p> +The mistress of the house lost no time in setting Ruster to work. “You +hear, I suppose,” she said, “that Liljekrona does nothing but play +all the evening, and I must attend to setting the table and the food. The +children are quite forsaken. You must look after these two smallest.” +</p> + +<p> +Children were the kind of people with whom little Ruster had had least +intercourse. He had met them neither in the bachelor’s wing nor in the +campaign tent, neither in wayside inns nor on the highways. He was almost shy +of them, and did not know what he ought to say that was fine enough for them. +</p> + +<p> +He took out his flute and taught them how to finger the stops and holes. There +was one of four years and one of six. They had a lesson on the flute and were +deeply interested in it. “This is A,” he said, “and this is +C,” and then he blew the notes. Then the young people wished to know what +kind of an A and C it was that was to be played. +</p> + +<p> +Ruster took out his score and made a few notes. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” they said, “that is not right.” And they ran away +for an A B C book. +</p> + +<p> +Little Ruster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it and they did not know +it. What they knew was not very much. Ruster grew eager; he lifted the little +boys up, each on one of his knees, and began to teach them. Liljekrona’s +wife went out and in and listened quite in amazement. It sounded like a game, +and the children were laughing the whole time, but they learned. +</p> + +<p> +Ruster kept on for a while, but he was absent from what he was doing. He was +turning over the old thoughts from out in the storm. It was good and pleasant, +but nevertheless it was the end of him. He was worn .out. He ought to be thrown +away. And all of a sudden he put his hands before his face and began to weep. +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona’s wife came quickly up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Ruster,” she said, “I can understand that you think that all +is over for you. You cannot make a living with your music, and you are +destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Ruster.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” sobbed the little flute-player. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see that to sit as to-night with the children, that would be +something for you? If you would teach children to read and write, you would be +welcomed everywhere. That is no less important an instrument on which to play, +Ruster, than flute and violin. Look at them, Ruster!” +</p> + +<p> +She placed the two children in front of him, and he looked up, blinking as if +he had looked at the sun. It seemed as if his little, blurred eyes could not +meet those of the children, which were big, clear and innocent. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at them, Ruster!” repeated Liljekrona’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not,” said Ruster, for it was like a purgatory to look +through the beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their souls. +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona’s wife laughed loud and joyously. “Then you must +accustom yourself to them, Ruster. You can stay in my house as schoolmaster +this year.” +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona heard his wife laugh and came out of his room. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he said. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” she answered, “but that Ruster has come again, and +that I have engaged him as schoolmaster for our little boys.” +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona was quite amazed. “Do you dare?” he said, “do you +dare? Has he promised to give up—” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the wife; “Ruster has promised nothing. But there +is much about which he must be careful when he has to look little children in +the eyes every day. If it had not been Christmas, perhaps I would not have +ventured; but when our Lord dared to place a little child who was his own son +among us sinners, so can I also dare to let my little children try to save a +human soul.” +</p> + +<p> +Liljekrona could not speak, but every feature and wrinkle in his face twitched +and twisted as always when he heard anything noble. +</p> + +<p> +Then he kissed his wife’s hand as gently as a child who asks for +forgiveness and cried aloud: “All the children must come and kiss their +mother’s hand.” +</p> + +<p> +They did so, and then they had a happy Christmas in Liljekrona’s house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>UNCLE REUBEN</h2> + +<p> +There was once, nearly eighty years ago, a little boy who went out into the +market-place to spin his top. The little boy’s name was Reuben. He was +not more than three years old, but he swung his little whip as bravely as +anybody and made the top spin so that it was a pleasure to see it. +</p> + +<p> +On that day, eighty years ago, it was beautiful spring weather. It was in the +month of March, and the town was divided into two worlds; one white and warm, +where the sun shone, and one cold and dark, where it was in shadow. The whole +market-place was in the sun except a narrow edge along one row of houses. +</p> + +<p> +Now it happened that the little boy, brave as he was, grew tired of spinning +his top and looked about for some place to rest. It was not hard to find. There +were no benches or seats, but every house was supplied with stone steps. Little +Reuben could not imagine anything better. +</p> + +<p> +He was a conscientious little fellow. He had a vague feeling that his mother +did not like to have him sit on strange people’s steps. His mother was +poor, but just on that account it must never look as if they wanted to take +anything of anybody. So he went and sat on their own stone steps, for they also +lived on the market-place. +</p> + +<p> +The steps lay in the shadow, and it was very cold there. The little fellow +leaned his head against the railing, drew up his legs and made himself +comfortable. For a little while he watched the sunlight dance out in the +market-place and the boys running and spinning tops—then he shut his eyes +and went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +He must have slept an hour. When he awoke he did not feel so well as when he +fell asleep; everything felt so dreadfully uncomfortable. He went in to his +mother crying, and his mother saw that he was ill and put him to bed. And in a +couple of days the boy was dead. +</p> + +<p> +But that is not the end of his story. It happened that his mother mourned for +him from the depths of her heart with a sorrow which defies years and death. +His mother had several other children, many cares occupied her time and +thoughts, but there was always a corner in her heart where her son Reuben dwelt +undisturbed. He was ever alive to her. When she saw a group of children playing +in the market-place, he too was running there, and when she went about her +house, she believed fully and firmly that the little boy was still sitting and +sleeping out on those dangerous stone steps. Certainly none of her living +children were so constantly in her thoughts as her dead one. +</p> + +<p> +Some years after his death little Reuben had a sister, and when she grew to be +old enough to run out on the market-place and spin tops, it happened that she +too sat down on the stone steps to rest. But her mother felt instantly as if +some one had pulled her skirt. She came out and seized the little sister so +roughly, when she lifted her up, that she remembered it as long as she lived. +</p> + +<p> +And as little did she forget how strange her mother’s face was and how +her voice trembled, when she said: “Do you know that you once had a +little brother, whose name was Reuben, and he died because he sat on these +stone steps and caught cold? You do not want to die and leave your mother, +Berta?” +</p> + +<p> +Brother Reuben soon became just as living to his brothers and sisters as to his +mother. She was able to make them see with her eyes and they too soon saw him +sitting out on the stone steps. And it naturally never occurred to them to sit +down there. Yes, whenever they saw any one sitting on stone steps, or on a +stone railing, or on a stone by the roadside, they felt a prick in their heart +and thought of Brother Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, Brother Reuben was always placed highest of all the children when they +spoke of him among themselves. For they all knew that they were a troublesome +and fatiguing family, who only gave their mother care and inconvenience. They +could not believe that she would grieve much at losing any of them. But as she +really mourned for Brother Reuben, it was certain that he must have been much +better than they were. +</p> + +<p> +They would often think: “Oh, if we could only give mother as much joy as +Brother Reuben!” And yet no one knew anything more about him than that he +had played top and caught cold on the stone steps. But he must have been +something wonderful, as their mother had such a love for him. +</p> + +<p> +He was wonderful too; he was more of a joy to his mother than any of the +children. Her husband died and she worked in care and want. But the children +had so strong a faith in their mother’s grief for the little +three-year-old boy, that they were convinced that if he had lived she would not +have mourned over her misfortunes. And every time they saw their mother weep, +they thought that it was because Brother Reuben was dead, or because they were +not like Brother Reuben. Soon enough an ever-growing desire was born in them to +rival their little dead brother in their mother’s affection. There was +nothing that they would not have done for her, if she had only cared as much +for them as for him. And it was on account of that longing, I think, that +Brother Reuben did more good than any of the other children. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy that when the eldest brother had earned his first money by rowing a +stranger over the river, he came and gave it to his mother without reserving a +penny! Then his mother looked so happy that he swelled with pride, and could +not help betraying how ambitious beyond measure he had been. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, am I not now as good as Brother Reuben?” His mother looked +at him questioningly. She seemed as if she was comparing his fresh, glowing +face with the little pale boy out on the stone steps. And she would have liked +to have answered yes, if she had been able, but she could not. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very fond of you, Ivan, but you will never be like Reuben.” +</p> + +<p> +It was beyond their powers; all the children realized it, and yet they could +not help trying. +</p> + +<p> +They grew up strong and capable; they worked their way up to wealth and +consideration, while Brother Reuben only sat still on his stone steps. But he +still had a start; he could not be overtaken. +</p> + +<p> +And at every success, every improvement, as they by degrees were able to offer +their mother a good home and comfort, it had to be reward enough for them for +their mother to say: “Ah, if my little Reuben could have seen +that!” +</p> + +<p> +Brother Reuben followed his mother through the whole of her life, even to her +deathbed. It was he who robbed the death pangs of their sting, since she knew +that they bore her to him. In the midst of her greatest suffering the mother +could smile at the thought that she was going to meet little Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +And so died one whose faithful love had exalted and deified a poor little +three-year-old boy. +</p> + +<p> +But neither was that the end of little Reuben’s story. To all the +brothers and sisters he had become a symbol of their life of endeavor, of their +love for their mother, of all the touching memories from the years of struggle +and failure. There was always something rich and warm in their voices when they +spoke of him. +</p> + +<p> +So he also glided into the lives of the children of his brothers and sisters. +His mother’s love had raised him to greatness, and the great influence +generation after generation. +</p> + +<p> +Sister Berta had a son, who had much to do with Uncle Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +He was four years old the day he sat on the curbstone and stared down into the +gutter. It was full of rain water. Sticks and straws were carried past in wild +swirlings down to the sea. The little boy sat and looked on with that pleasant +calm that people feel in following the adventurous existence of others, when +they themselves are in safety. +</p> + +<p> +But his peaceful philosophizing was interrupted by his mother, who, the moment +she saw him, thought of the stone steps at home and of her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear little boy,” she said, “do not sit there! Do you +know that your mamma had a little brother whose name was Reuben, and he was +four years old just like you? He died because he sat on just such a curbstone +and caught cold.” +</p> + +<p> +The little boy did not like being disturbed in his pleasant thoughts. He sat +still and philosophized, while his yellow, curly hair fell down into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Berta would not have done it for any one else, but for her dear brother’s +sake she shook her little boy quite roughly. And so he learned respect for +Uncle Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +Another time this little yellow-haired man had fallen on the ice; he had been +thrown down out of sheer spite by a big, naughty boy, and there he sat and +cried to show how badly he had been treated, especially as his mother could not +be very far off. +</p> + +<p> +But he had forgotten that his mother was first and last Uncle Reuben’s +sister. When she caught sight of Axel sitting on the ice, she did not come with +anything soothing or consoling, but only with that everlasting: +</p> + +<p> +“Do not sit so, my little boy! Think of Uncle Reuben, who died when he +was five years old, just as you are now, because he sat down in a +snowdrift.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy stood up instantly when he heard her speak of Uncle Reuben, but he felt +a chill in his very heart. How could mamma talk about Uncle Reuben when her +little boy was in such distress! Axel had no objection to his sitting and dying +wherever he pleased, but now it seemed as if he wished to take his own mamma +away from him, and that Axel could not bear. So he learned to hate Uncle +Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +High up on the stairway in Axel’s home was a stone railing, which was +dizzily beautiful to sit on. Far below lay the stone floor of the hall, and he +who sat astride up there could dream that he was being borne along over +abysses. Axel called the balustrade the good steed Grane. On his back he +bounded over burning ramparts into an enchanted castle. There he sat proud and +bold with his long curls waving, and fought Saint George’s fight with the +dragon. And as yet it had not occurred to Uncle Reuben to want to ride there. +</p> + +<p> +But of course he came. Just as the dragon was writhing in the agony of death +and Axel sat in lofty consciousness of victory, he heard his nurse call: +“Little Axel, do not sit there! Think of Uncle Reuben, who died when he +was eight years old, just as you are now, because he sat and rode on a stone +railing. You must never sit there again.” +</p> + +<p> +Such a jealous old pudding-head, that Uncle Reuben! He could not bear it, of +course, because Axel was killing dragons and rescuing princesses. If he did not +look out, he, Axel, would show that he could win glory too. If he should jump +down to that stone floor and dash his brains out, he would feel himself thrown +into the shade, that big liar. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Uncle Reuben! The poor, good little boy who went to play top out in the +sunny market-place! Now he was to learn what it was to be a great man. +</p> + +<p> +It was in the country at Uncle Ivan’s. A number of the cousins had +gathered in the beautiful garden. Axel was there, filled with his hatred of his +Uncle Reuben. He was longing to know if he was tormenting any other besides +himself, but there was something which made him afraid to ask. It was as if he +was going to commit some sacrilege. +</p> + +<p> +At last the children were left to themselves. No big people were present. Then +Axel asked if they had ever heard of Uncle Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +He saw how all the eyes flashed and that many small fists were clenched, but it +seemed as if the little mouths had been taught respect for Uncle Reuben. +“Hush!” said the whole crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Axel; “I want to know if there is any one else +whom he tortures, for I think he is the most troublesome of all uncles.” +</p> + +<p> +That one brave word broke the dam which had held in the indignation of those +tormented child-hearts. There was a great murmuring and shouting. So must a +crowd of nihilists look when they revile an autocrat. +</p> + +<p> +The poor, great man’s register of sins was unrolled. Uncle Reuben +persecuted the children of all his brothers and sisters. Uncle Reuben died +wherever he chose. Uncle Reuben was always the same age as the child whose +peace he wished to disturb. +</p> + +<p> +And they had to show respect to him, although he was quite plainly a liar. They +might hate him in the most silent depths of their heart, but overlook him or +show him disrespect, no, then they were stopped. +</p> + +<p> +What an air the old people put on when they spoke of him! Had he ever really +done anything so wonderful? To sit down and die was nothing so surprising. And +whatever great thing he may have done, it was certain that he was now abusing +his power. He opposed the children in everything that they wanted to do, the +old scarecrow. He drove them from a noonday nap in the grass. He had discovered +their best hiding places in the park and forbidden them to go there. His last +performance was to ride on barebacked horses and to drive in the hay-rigging. +</p> + +<p> +They were all sure that the poor thing had never been more than three years +old. And now he fell upon the big children of fourteen and insisted that he was +their age. It was the most provoking thing. +</p> + +<p> +It was perfectly incredible what came to light about him. He had fished from +the dam; he had rowed in the little flat-bottomed boat; he had climbed up in +the willow which hangs over the water, and in which it was so nice to sit; yes, +he had even slept on the powder-horn. +</p> + +<p> +But they were all certain that there was no escape from his tyranny. It was a +relief to have spoken out, but not a remedy. They could not rebel against Uncle +Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +You never would have believed it, but when these children grew to be big and +had children of their own, they immediately began to make use of Uncle Reuben, +just as their parents had done before them. +</p> + +<p> +And their children again, the young people who are growing up now, have learned +their lesson so well, that it happened one summer out in the country that a +five-year-old boy came up to his old grandmother Berta, who had sat down on the +steps while waiting for the carriage:— +</p> + +<p> +“Grandmother once had a brother whose name was Reuben.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, my little boy,” grandmother said, and stood +up instantly. +</p> + +<p> +That was as much of a sign to the young people as if they had seen an old +Royalist bow before King Charles’s portrait. It made them understand that +Uncle Reuben always must remain great, however he abused his position, only +because he had been so deeply loved. +</p> + +<p> +In these days, when all greatness is so carefully examined, he has to be used +with greater moderation than formerly. The limit for his age is lower; trees, +boats and powder-horns are safe from him, but nothing of stone which can be sat +upon can escape him. +</p> + +<p> +And the children, the children of the day, treat him quite otherwise than their +parents did. They criticise him openly and frankly. Their parents no longer +understand how to inspire blind, terrified obedience. Little boarding-school +girls discuss Uncle Reuben and wonder if he is anything but a myth. A +six-year-old child proposes that he should prove by experiment that it is +impossible to catch a mortal cold on stone steps. +</p> + +<p> +But that is only a passing mood. That generation in their heart of hearts is +just as convinced of Uncle Reuben’s greatness as the preceding one and +obey him just as they did. The day will come when those scoffers will go down +to the home of their ancestors, try to find the old stone steps, and raise on +it a tablet with a golden inscription. +</p> + +<p> +They joke about Uncle Reuben for a few years, but as soon as they are grown and +have children to bring up, they will become convinced of the use and need of +the great man. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my little child, do not sit on those stone steps! Your +mother’s mother had an uncle whose name was Reuben. He died when he was +your age, because he sat down to rest on just such steps.” +</p> + +<p> +So will it be as long as the world lasts. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>DOWNIE</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +I think I can see them as they drive away. Quite distinctly I can see his +stiff, silk hat with its broad, curving brim, such as they had in the forties, +his light waistcoat and his stock. I also see his handsome, clean-shaven face +with its small, small whiskers, his high stiff collar, and the graceful dignity +of his slightest movement. He is sitting on the right in the chaise and is just +taking up the reins, and beside him is sitting that little woman. God bless +her! I see her even more distinctly. Like a picture I have before me that +narrow, little face, and the hat that frames it, tied under the chin, the +dark-brown, smoothly combed hair, and the big shawl with the embroidered silk +flowers. The chaise in which they are driving has a seat with a green, fluted +back, and of course the innkeeper’s horse which is to take them the first +six miles is a little fat sorrel. +</p> + +<p> +I lost my heart to her from the very first moment. There is no sense in it, for +she is the most insignificant little person; but I was won by seeing all the +eyes that followed her when she drove away. In the first place, I see how her +father and mother look after her from where they stand in the doorway of the +baker’s shop. Her father even has tears in his eyes, but her mother has +no time to weep yet. She must use her eyes to look at her daughter as long as +the latter can wave and nod to her. And then of course there are merry +greetings from the children in the little street and roguish glances from all +the pretty, little factory girls from behind windows and doors, and dreamy +looks from some of the young salesmen and apprentices. But all nod good-will +and god-speed to her. And then there are anxious glances from some poor, old +women, who come out and curtsey and take off their spectacles to be able to see +her as she drives by in state. But I cannot see a single unfriendly look +following her; no, not in the whole length of the street. +</p> + +<p> +When she is out of sight, her father wipes the tears from his eyes with his +sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be sad now, mother!” he says. “You will see that +she will come out all right. Downie will manage, mother, even if she is so +little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” says the mother with great emphasis, “you speak in +a strange way. Why should Anne-Marie not be able to manage it? She is as good +as anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course she is, mother; but still, mother, still—I would not be +in her shoes, nor go where she is going. No, that I would not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what good would that do, you ugly old baker!” says +mother, who sees that he is so uneasy about the girl that he needs to be +cheered with a little joke. And father laughs, for he does that as easily as he +cries. And then the old people go back into their shop. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime Downie, the little silken flower, is in very good spirits as +she drives along the road. A little afraid of her betrothed, perhaps; but in +her heart Downie is a little afraid of everybody, and that is a great help to +her, for on account of it every one tries to show her that they are not +dangerous. +</p> + +<p> +Never has she had such respect for Maurits as to-day. Now that they have left +the back street, and all her friends are behind them, it seems to her that +Maurits really grows to something big. His hat and collar and whiskers stiffen, +and the bow of his necktie swells. His voice grows thick in his throat, and he +speaks with difficulty. She feels a little depressed by it, but it is splendid +to see Maurits so impressive. +</p> + +<p> +Maurits is so clever; he has so much advice to give!—it is hard to +believe—but Maurits talks only sense the whole way. But that is just like +Maurits. He asks her if she understands clearly what this journey means to him. +Does she think it is only a pleasure trip along the country road? Thirty miles +in a good chaise with her betrothed by her side did seem quite like a pleasure +trip, and a beautiful place to drive to, a rich uncle to visit—perhaps +she has thought that it was only for amusement? +</p> + +<p> +Fancy if he knew that she had prepared herself for this journey by a long +conference with her mother before they went to bed; and by a long succession of +anxious dreams through the night, and with prayers, and with tears! But she +pretends to be stupid, in order to get more enjoyment out of Maurits’s +wisdom. He likes to show it, and she is glad to let him. +</p> + +<p> +“The real trouble is that you are so sweet,” says Maurits; for that +was how he had come to care for her, and it was really very stupid of him. His +father was not at all in favor of it. And his mother! He hardly dared to think +of what a fuss she had made when Maurits had informed her that he had engaged +himself to a poor girl from a back street—a girl who had no education, no +accomplishments, and who was not even pretty; only sweet. +</p> + +<p> +In Maurits’s eyes, of course, the daughter of a baker was just as good as +the son of a burgomaster, but every one did not have such liberal views as he. +If Maurits had not had his rich uncle, it could never have come to anything; +for he was only a student, and had nothing to marry on. But if they now could +win his uncle over their way was clear. +</p> + +<p> +I see them so plainly as they drive along the road. She looks a little unhappy +as she listens to his wisdom. But she is content in her thoughts! How sensible +Maurits is! And when he speaks of the sacrifices he is making for her, it is +only his way of saying how much he cares for her. +</p> + +<p> +And if she had expected that alone together on such a beautiful day he perhaps +might be not quite the same as when they sat at home with her mother—but +that would not have been right of Maurits. She is proud of him. +</p> + +<p> +He is telling her what kind of a man his uncle is. If he will befriend them +their fortune is made. Uncle Theodore is incredibly rich. He owns eleven +smelting-furnaces, and farms and houses besides, and mines and stocks. To all +these Maurits is the proper heir. But Uncle Theodore is a little uncertain to +have to do with when it concerns any one he does not like. If he is not pleased +with Maurits’s wife, he can will away everything. +</p> + +<p> +The little face grows paler and smaller, but Maurits only stiffens and swells. +There is not much chance of Anne-Marie’s turning his uncle’s head +as she did his. His uncle is quite a different kind of man. His +taste—well, Maurits does not think much of his taste but he thinks that +it would be something loud-voiced, something flashing and red which would +strike Uncle. Besides, he is a confirmed old bachelor—thinks women are +only a bother. The most important thing is that he shall not dislike her too +much. Maurits will take care of the rest. But she must not be silly. Is she +crying—! Oh, if she does not look better by the time they arrive, Uncle +will send them off inside of a minute. She is glad for their sakes that Uncle +is not as clever as Maurits. She hopes it is no sin against Maurits to think +that it is good that Uncle is quite a different sort of person. For fancy, if +Maurits had been Uncle, and two poor young people had come driving to him to +get aid in life; then Maurits, who is so sensible, would certainly have begged +them to return whence they came, and wait to get married until they had +something to marry on. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle, however, was decidedly terrifying in his own way. He drank, and gave +great parties, where everybody was very lively, and he did not at all +understand how to manage his affairs. He must know that every one cheated him, +but he was none the less cheerful. And heedless!—the burgomaster had sent +by Maurits some shares in an undertaking that was not prosperous; but Uncle +would buy them of him, Maurits had said. Uncle did not care where he threw his +money away. He had stood in town in the market-place and tossed silver to the +street boys. Playing away a couple of thousand crowns in a single night, or +lighting his pipe with ten-crown notes, were among the things Uncle did. +</p> + +<p> +Thus they drove on, and thus they talked while they were driving. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived toward evening. Uncle’s “residence,” as he +called it, did not stand by the ironworks. It lay far from all smoke and +hammering, on the slope of the mountain, looking over a wide view of lakes and +long hills. It was a stately building, with wooded lawns and groves of birches +round about it, but few cultivated fields, for the place was a pleasure palace, +not a farm. +</p> + +<p> +The young people drove up an avenue lined with birches and elms. Then they +drove between two low, thick rows of hedges and were about to turn up to the +house. +</p> + +<p> +But just where the road turned, a triumphal arch was raised, and there stood +Uncle with his dependents to greet them. Downie never could have believed that +Maurits would have prepared such a reception for her. Her heart grew light, and +she seized his hand and pressed it in gratitude. More she could not do then, +for they were just under the arch. +</p> + +<p> +And there he stood, the well-known man, the ironmaster, Theodore Fristeat, big +and black-bearded, and beaming with good-will. He waved his hat and shouted +hurrah, and all the people shouted hurrah, and tears rose in Anne-Marie’s +eyes, although she was smiling. And of course they all had to like her from the +very first moment, if only for her way of looking at Maurits. For she thought +that they were all there for his sake, and she had to turn her eyes away from +the whole spectacle to look at him, as he took off his hat with a sweep and +bowed so beautifully and royally. Oh, such a look as she gave him! Uncle +Theodore almost left off hurrahing and felt like swearing when he saw it. +</p> + +<p> +No, she wished no harm to any one on earth, but if the estate really had been +Maurits’s, it would have been very suitable. It was most impressive to +see him, as he stood on the steps of the porch and turned to the people to +thank them. The ironmaster was stately too, but what was his manner compared to +Maurits’s. He only helped her down from the carriage, and took her shawl +and hat like a footman, while Maurits lifted his hat from his white brow and +said: “Thank you, my children!” No, the ironmaster certainly had no +manners; for as he profited by his rights as an uncle and took her in his arms, +he noticed that she managed to look at Maurits while he was kissing her, and he +swore, really swore quite fiercely. Downie was not accustomed to find any one +disagreeable, but it certainly would be no easy task to please Uncle Theodore. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” says uncle, “there will be a big dinner here, +and a ball, but to-day you young people must rest after your journey. Now we +will eat our supper, and then we will go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +They are escorted into a drawing-room, and there they are left alone. The +ironmaster rushes out like a wind which is afraid of being shut in. Five +minutes later he is rolling down the avenue in his big carriage, and the +coachman is driving so that the horses seem to be lying along the ground. After +another five minutes uncle is there again, and now an old lady is sitting +beside him in the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +And in he comes, with a kind, talkative old lady on his arm. And she takes +Anne-Marie and embraces her, but Maurits she greets more stiffly. No one can +take any liberties with Maurits. +</p> + +<p> +However, Anne-Marie is very glad that this pleasant old lady has come. She and +the ironmaster have such a merry way of joking with one another. +</p> + +<p> +But when they have said good-night and Anne-Marie has come into her little +room, something too tiresome and provoking happens. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle and Maurits are walking in the garden, and she knows that Maurits is +unfolding his plans for the future. Uncle does not seem to be saying anything +at all; he is only walking and striking the blades of grass with his stick. But +Maurits will persuade him fast enough that the best thing for him to do is to +give Maurits a position as manager of one of his steel-works, if he does not +care to give him the works outright. Maurits has grown so practical since he +has been in love. He often says: “Is it not best for me, who am to be a +great landowner, to make myself familiar with it all? What is the use of taking +my bar examinations?” +</p> + +<p> +They are walking directly under the window and nothing prevents them from +seeing that she is sitting there; but as they do not mind it, no one can ask +that she shall not hear what they are saying. It is really just as much her +affair as it is Maurits’s. +</p> + +<p> +Then Uncle Theodore suddenly stops and he looks angry. He looks quite furious, +she thinks, and she almost calls to Maurits to take care. But it is too late, +for Uncle Theodore has seized Maurits, crushed his ruffle, and is shaking him +till he twists like an eel. Then he slings him from him with such force that +Maurits staggers backwards and would have fallen if he had not found support +in a tree trunk. And there Maurits stands and gasps “What?” Yes, +what else should he say? +</p> + +<p> +Ah, never has she admired Maurits’s self-control so much! He does not +throw himself upon Uncle Theodore and fight him. He only looks calmly superior, +merely innocently surprised. She understands that he controls himself so that +the journey may not be for nothing. He is thinking of her, and is controlling +himself. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Maurits! it seems that his uncle is angry with him on her account. He asks +if Maurits does not know that his uncle is a bachelor when he brings his +betrothed here without bringing her mother with him. Her mother! Downie is +offended in Maurits’s behalf. It was her mother who had excused herself +and said that she could not leave the bakery. Maurits answers so too, but his +uncle will accept no excuses.—Well, his mother, then; she could have done +her son that service. Yes, if she had been too haughty they had better have +stayed where they were. What would they have done if his old lady had not been +able to come? And how could a betrothed couple travel alone through the +country?—Really, Maurits was not dangerous. No, that he had never +believed, but people’s tongues are dangerous.—Well, and finally it +was that chaise! Had Maurits ferreted out the most ridiculous vehicle in the +whole town? To let that child shake thirty miles in a chaise, and to let him +raise a triumphal arch for a chaise!—He would like to shake him again! To +let his uncle shout hurrah for a tip-cart! He was getting too unreasonable. How +she admired Maurits for being so calm! She would like to join in the game and +defend Maurits, but she does not believe that he would like it. +</p> + +<p> +And before she goes to sleep, she lies and thinks out everything she would have +said to defend Maurits. Then she falls asleep and starts up again, and in her +ears rings an old saying:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A dog stood on a mountain-top,<br /> +He barked aloud and would not stop.<br /> +His name was you, His name was I,<br /> +His name was all in Earth and Sky.<br /> +What was his name?<br /> +His name was why.” +</p> + +<p> +The saying had irritated her many a time. Oh, how stupid she had thought the +dog was! But now half asleep, she confuses the dog “What” with +Maurits and she thinks that the dog has his white forehead. Then she laughs. +She laughs as easily as she cries. She has inherited that from her father. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +How has “it” come? That which she dares not call by name? +</p> + +<p> +“It” has come like the dew to the grass, like the color to the +rose, like the sweetness to the berry, imperceptibly and gently without +announcing itself beforehand. +</p> + +<p> +It is also no matter how “it” came or what “it” is. +Were it good or evil, fair or foul, still it is forbidden; that which never +ought to exist. “It” makes her anxious, sinful, unhappy. +</p> + +<p> +“It” is that of which she never wishes to think. “It” +is what shall be torn away and thrown out; and yet it is nothing that can be +seized and caught. She shuts her heart to “it,” but it comes in +just the same. “It” turns back the blood in her veins and flows +there, drives the thoughts from her brain and reigns there, dances through her +nerves and trembles in her finger-tips. It is everywhere in her, so that if she +had been able to take away everything else of which her body consisted and to +have left “it” behind, there would remain a complete impression of +her. And yet “it” was nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She wishes never to think of “it,” and yet she has to think of +“it” constantly. How has she become so wicked? And then she +searches and wonders how “it” came. +</p> + +<p> +Ah Downie! How tender are our souls, and how easily awakened are our hearts! +</p> + +<p> +She was sure that “it” had not come at breakfast, surely not at +breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +Then she had only been frightened and shy. She had been so terrified when she +came down to breakfast and found no Maurits, only Uncle Theodore and the old +lady. +</p> + +<p> +It had been a clever idea of Maurits to go hunting; although it was impossible +to discover what he was hunting in midsummer, as the old lady remarked. But he +knew of course that it was wise to keep away from his uncle for a few hours +until the latter became calm again. He could not know that she was so shy, nor +that she had almost fainted when she had found him gone and herself left alone +with uncle and the old lady. Maurits had never been shy. He did not know what +torture it is. +</p> + +<p> +That breakfast, that breakfast! Uncle had as a beginning asked the old lady if +she had heard the story of Sigrid the beautiful. He did not ask Downie, neither +would she have been able to answer. The old lady knew the story well, but he +told it just the same. Then Anne-Marie remembered that Maurits had laughed at +his uncle because in all his house he only had two books, and those were +Afzelius’ “Fairy Tales” and Nösselt’s “Popular +Stories for Ladies.” “But those he knows,” Maurits had said. +</p> + +<p> +Anne-Marie had found the story pretty. She liked it when Bengt Lagman had +pearls sewn on the breadth of homespun. She saw Maurits before her; how royally +proud he would have looked when ordering the pearls! That was just the sort of +thing Maurits would have done well. +</p> + +<p> +But when uncle had come to that part of the story where Bengt Lagman went into +the woods to avoid the meeting with his angry brother, and instead let his +young wife meet the storm, then it became so plain that uncle understood +Maurits had gone hunting to escape his wrath and that he knew how she thought +to win him over. —Yes, yesterday, then they had been able to make plans, +Maurits and she, how she should coquet with uncle, but to-day she had no +thought of carrying them out. Oh, she had never behaved so foolishly! Every +drop of blood streamed into her face, and her knife and fork fell with a +terrible clatter out of her hands down on her plate. +</p> + +<p> +But Uncle Theodore had shown no mercy and had gone on with the story until he +came to that princely speech: “Had my brother not done it, I would have +done it myself.” He said it with such a strange emphasis that she was +forced to look up and to meet his laughing brown eyes. +</p> + +<p> +And when he saw the trouble staring from her eyes, he began to laugh like a +boy. “What do you think,” he cried, “Bengt Lagman thought +when he came home and heard that ‘Had my brother?’ I think he +stopped at home the next time.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears rose to Downie’s eyes, and when Uncle saw that he laughed louder. +“Yes, it is a fine partisan my nephew has chosen,” he seemed to +say, “You are not playing your part, my little girl.” And every +time she had looked at him the brown eyes had repeated: “Had my brother +not done it, I would have done it myself.” Downie was not quite sure that +the eyes did not say “nephew.” And fancy how she behaved. She began +to cry, and rushed from the room. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not then that “it” came, nor during the walk of the +forenoon. +</p> + +<p> +Then she was occupied with something quite different. Then she was overcome +with pleasure at the beautiful place and that nature was so wonderfully near. +She felt as if she had found again something she had lost long, long ago. +</p> + +<p> +People thought she was a city girl. But she had become a country lass as soon +as she put her foot on the sandy path. She felt instantly that she belonged to +the country. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she had calmed down a little she had ventured out by herself to +inspect the place. She had looked about her on the lawn in front of the door. +Then she suddenly began to whirl about; she hung her hat on her arm and threw +her shawl away. She drew the air into her lungs so that her nostrils were drawn +together and whistled. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how brave she felt! +</p> + +<p> +She made a few attempts to go quietly and sedately down to the garden, but that +was not what attracted her. Turning off to one side, she started towards the +big groups of barns and out-houses. She met a farm-girl and said a few words to +her. She was surprised to hear how brisk her own voice sounded; it was like an +officer at the front. And she felt how smart she looked when, with head proudly +raised and a little on one side, moving with a quick, free motion and with a +little switch in her hand, she entered the barn. +</p> + +<p> +It was not, however, what she had expected. No long rows of horned creatures +were there to impress her, for they were all out at pasture. A single calf +stood in its pen and seemed to expect her to do something for him. She went up +to him, raised herself on tiptoe, held her dress together with one hand and +touched the calf’s forehead with the finger-tips of the other. +</p> + +<p> +As the calf still did not seem to think that she had done enough and stretched +out his long tongue, she graciously let him lick her little finger. She could +not resist looking about her, as if to find some one to admire her bravery. And +she discovered that Uncle Theodore stood at the barn-door and laughed at her. +</p> + +<p> +Then he had gone with her on her walk. But “it” did not come then, +not then at all. It had only wonderfully come to pass that she was no longer +afraid of Uncle Theodore. He was like her mother; he seemed to know all her +faults and weaknesses, and it was so comfortable. She did not need to show +herself better than she was. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore wished to take her to the garden and to the terraces by the +pond, but that was not to her mind. She wished to know what there could be in +all those big buildings. +</p> + +<p> +So he went patiently with her to the dairy and to the ice-house; to the +wine-cellar and to the potato bins. He took the things in order, and showed her +the larder, and the wood shed, and the carriage-house, and the laundry. Then he +led her through the stable of the draught-horses, and that of the carriage +horses; let her see the harness-room and the servants’ rooms; the +laborers’ cottages and the wood-carving room. She became a little +confused by all the different rooms that Uncle Theodore had considered +necessary to establish on his estate; but her heart was glowing with enthusiasm +at the thought of how splendid it must be to have all that to rule over. So she +was not tired, although they walked through the sheep-houses and the piggeries, +and looked in at the hens and the rabbits. She faithfully examined the +weaving-rooms and the dairies, the smoke-house and the smithy, all with growing +enthusiasm. Then they visited the big lofts; drying-rooms for the clothes and +drying-rooms for the wood; hay-lofts, and lofts for dried leaves for the sheep +to eat. +</p> + +<p> +The dormant housewife in her awoke to life and consciousness at all this +perfection. But most of all, she was moved by the great brewhouse and the two +neat bakeries with the wide oven and the big table. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother ought to see that,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +In the bakehouse they had sat down and rested, and she had told of her home. He +was already like a friend, although his brown eyes laughed at everything she +said. +</p> + +<p> +At home everything was so quiet; no life, no variety. She had been a delicate +child, and her parents had watched over her on account of it, and let her do +nothing. It was only as play that she was allowed to help in the baking and in +the shop. Somehow she came to tell him that her father called her Downie. She +had also said: “Everybody spoils me at home except Maurits, and that is +why I like him so much. He is so sensible with me! He never calls me Downie; +only Anne-Marie. Maurits is so admirable.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how it had danced and laughed in uncle’s eyes! She could have struck +him with her switch. She repeated almost with a sob: “Maurits is so +admirable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know, I know,” Uncle had answered. “He is going to be +my heir.” Whereupon she had cried: “Ah; Uncle Theodore, why do you +not marry? Think how happy any one would be to be mistress of such an +estate!” +</p> + +<p> +“How would it be then with Maurits’s inheritance?” uncle had +asked quite softly. +</p> + +<p> +Then she had been silent for a long while, for she could not say to Uncle that +she and Maurits did not ask for the inheritance, for that was just what they +did do. She wondered if it was very ugly for them to do so. She suddenly had a +feeling as if she ought to beg Uncle for forgiveness for some great wrong that +they had done him. But she could not do that either. +</p> + +<p> +When they came in again, Uncle’s dog came to meet them. It was a tiny, +little thing on the thinnest legs, with fluttering ears and gazelle-like eyes; +a nothing with a shrill, little voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You wonder, perhaps, that I have such a little dog,” Uncle +Theodore had said. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I do,” she had answered. +</p> + +<p> +“But, you see, it is not I who have chosen Jenny for my dog, but Jenny +who has taken me as a master. You would like to hear the story, Downie?” +That name he had instantly seized upon. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she would like it, although she understood that it would be something +irritating he would say. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, when Jenny came here the first time she lay on the knees +of a fine lady from the town, and had a blanket on her back and a cloth about +her head. Hush, Jenny; it is true that you had it! And I thought what a little +rat it was. But do you know when that little creature was put down on the +ground here some memories of her childhood or something must have wakened in +her. She scratched, and kicked, and tried to rub off her blanket. And then she +behaved like the big dogs here; so we said that Jenny must have grown up in the +country. +</p> + +<p> +“She lay out on the doorstep and never even looked at the parlor sofa, +and she chased the chickens, and stole the cat’s milk, and barked at +beggars, and darted about the horses’ legs when we had guests. It was a +pleasure and a joy to us to see how she behaved. You must understand, a little +thing that had only lain in a basket and been carried on the arm! It was +wonderful. And so when they were going to leave, Jenny would not go. She stood +on the steps and whined so pitifully and jumped up on me, and really asked to +be allowed to stay. So there was nothing for us to do but to let her stay. We +were touched by the little creature; it was so small, and yet wished to be a +country dog. But I had never thought that I should ever keep a lap-dog. Soon, +perhaps, I shall get a wife too.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how hard it is to be shy, to be uneducated! She wondered if Uncle had been +very surprised when she rushed away so hurriedly. But she had felt as if he had +meant her when he spoke of Jenny. And perhaps he had not at all. But any +way—yes she had been so embarrassed. She could not have stayed. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not then “it” came, not then. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it was in the evening at the ball. Never had she had such a good time +at any ball! But if any one had asked her if she had danced much, she would +have needed to reconsider and acknowledge that she had not. But it was the best +proof that she had really enjoyed herself when she had not even noticed that +she had been a little neglected. +</p> + +<p> +She had so much enjoyed looking at Maurits. Just because she had been a little +bit severe to him at breakfast and laughed at him yesterday, it was such a +pleasure to her to see him at the ball. He had never seemed to her so handsome +and so superior. +</p> + +<p> +He had seemed to feel that she would consider herself injured because he had +not talked and danced only with her. But it had been pleasure enough for her to +see how every one liked Maurits. As if she had wished to exhibit their love to +the general gaze! Oh, Downie was not so foolish! +</p> + +<p> +Maurits danced many dances with the beautiful Elizabeth Westling. But that had +not troubled her at all, for Maurits had time after time come up and whispered: +“You see, I can’t get away from her. We are old friends. Here in +the country they are so unaccustomed to have a partner who has been in society +and can both dance and talk. You must lend me to the daughters of the county +magnates for this evening, Anne-Marie.” +</p> + +<p> +But Uncle, too, gave way to Maurits. “Be host for this evening,” he +said to him, and Maurits was. He was everywhere. He led the dance, he led the +drinking, and he made a speech for the county and for the ladies. He was +wonderful. Both Uncle and she had watched Maurits, and then their eyes had met. +Uncle had smiled and nodded to her. Uncle certainly was proud of Maurits. She +had felt badly that Uncle did not really do justice to his nephew. Towards +morning Uncle had been loud and quarrelsome. He had wanted to join the dance, +but the girls drew back from him when he came up to them and pretended to be +engaged. +</p> + +<p> +“Dance with Anne-Marie,” Maurits had said to his uncle, and it had +sounded rather patronising. She was so frightened that she quite shrank +together. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle was offended too, turned on his heel and went into the smoking-room. +</p> + +<p> +Maurits came up to her and said with a hard, hard voice:— +</p> + +<p> +“You are ruining everything, Anne-Marie. Must you look like that when +Uncle wishes to dance with you? If you could know what he said to me yesterday +about you! You must do something too, Anne-Marie. Do you think it is right to +leave everything to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you wish me to do, Maurits?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, now there is nothing; now the game is spoiled. Think all I had won +this evening! But it is lost now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will gladly ask Uncle’s pardon, if you like, Maurits.” And +she really meant it. She was honestly sorry to have hurt Uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“That is of course the only right thing to do; but one can ask nothing of +any one as ridiculously shy as you are.” +</p> + +<p> +She had not answered, but had gone straight to the smoking-room, which was +almost empty. Uncle had thrown himself down in an arm-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Why will you not dance with me?” she had asked. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore’s eyes were closed. He opened them and looked long at her. +It was a look full of pain that she met. It made her understand how a prisoner +must feel when he thinks of his chains. It made her sorry for Uncle. It seemed +as if he had needed her much more than Maurits, for Maurits needed no one. He +was very well as he was. So she laid her hand on Uncle Theodore’s arm +quite gently and caressingly. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly new life awoke in his eyes. He began to stroke her hair with his big +hand. “Little mother,” he had said. +</p> + +<p> +Then “it” came over her while he stroked her hair. It came +stealing, it came creeping, it came rushing, as when elves pass through dark +woods. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +One evening thin, soft clouds are floating in the sky; one evening all is still +and mild; one evening the air is filled with fine white down from the aspens +and poplars. +</p> + +<p> +It is quite late, and no one is up except Uncle Theodore, who is walking in the +garden and is considering how he can separate the young man and the young +woman. +</p> + +<p> +For never, never in the world shall it come to pass that Maurits leaves his +house with her at his side while Uncle Theodore stands on the steps and wishes +them a pleasant journey. +</p> + +<p> +Is it a possibility to let her go at all, since she has filled the house for +three days with merry chirping, since she in her quiet way has accustomed them +to be cared for and petted by her, since they have all grown used to seeing +that soft, supple little creature roving about everywhere. Uncle Theodore says +to himself that it is not possible. He cannot live without her. +</p> + +<p> +Just then he strikes against a dandelion which has gone to seed, and, like +men’s resolutions and men’s promises, the white ball of down is +scattered, its white floss flies out and is dispersed. +</p> + +<p> +The night is not cold as the nights generally are in that part of the country. +The warmth is kept in by the grey cloud blanket. The winds show themselves +merciful for once and do not blow. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore sees her, Downie. She is weeping because Maurits has forsaken +her. But he draws her to him and kisses away her tears. +</p> + +<p> +Soft and fine, the white down falls from the great ripe clusters of the +trees,—so light that the air will scarcely let them fall, so fine and +delicate that they hardly show on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore laughs to himself when he thinks of Maurits. In thought he goes +in to him the next morning while he is still lying in his bed. “Listen, +Maurits,” he means to say to him. “I do not wish to inspire you +with false hopes. If you marry this girl, you need not expect a penny from me. +I will not help to ruin your future.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so badly of her, uncle?” Maurits will say. +</p> + +<p> +“No, on the contrary; she is a nice girl, but still not the one for you. +You shall have a woman like Elizabeth Westling. Be sensible, Maurits; what will +become of you if you break off your studies and go into trade for that +child’s sake. You are not suited to it, my boy. Something more is needed +for such work than to be able to lift your hat gracefully from your head and to +say: ‘Thank you, my children!’ You are cut out and made for a civil +official. You can become minister.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have such a good opinion of me,” Maurits will answer, +“help me with my examination and let us afterwards be married!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, not at all. What do you think would become of your career if +you had such a weight as a wife? The horse which drags the bread wagon does not +go fast ahead. Think of the girl from the bakery as a minister’s wife! +No, you ought not to engage yourself for at least ten years, not before you +have made your place. What would the result be if I helped you to be married? +Every year you would come to me and beg for money. You and I would both weary +of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, uncle, I am a man of honor. I have engaged myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Maurits! Which is better? For her to go and wait for you for ten +years, and then find that you will not marry her, or for you to break it off +now? No, be decided, get up, take the chaise and go home before she wakes. It +will never do at any rate for a betrothed couple to wander about the country by +themselves. I will take care of the girl if you only give up this madness. My +old friend will go home with her. You shall be supported by me so that you do +not need to worry about your future. Now be sensible; you will please your +parents by obeying me. Go now, without seeing her! I will talk to her. She will +not stand in the way of your happiness. Do not try to see her before you leave, +then you could grow soft-hearted, for she is sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +And at those words Maurits makes an heroic decision and goes his way. +</p> + +<p> +And when he has gone, what will happen then? +</p> + +<p> +“Scoundrel,” sounds in the garden, loud and threateningly, as if to +a thief. Uncle Theodore looks about him. Is it no one else? Is it only he +calling so at himself? +</p> + +<p> +What will happen afterwards? Oh, he will prepare her for Maurits’s +departure; show her that Maurits was not worthy of her; make her despise him. +And then when she has cried her heart out on his breast, he shall so carefully, +so skilfully make her understand what he feels, lure her, win her. +</p> + +<p> +The down still falls. Uncle Theodore stretches out his big hand and catches a +bit of it. +</p> + +<p> +So fine, so light, so delicate! He stands and looks at it. +</p> + +<p> +It falls about him, flake after flake. What will become of them? They will be +driven by the wind, soiled by the earth, trampled upon by heavy feet. +</p> + +<p> +He begins to feel as if that light down fell upon him with the heaviest weight. +Who will be the wind; who will be the earth; who will be the shoe when it is a +question of such defenceless little things? +</p> + +<p> +And as a result of his extraordinary knowledge of Nösselt’s +“Popular Stories,” an episode from one of them occurred to him like +what he had just been thinking. +</p> + +<p> +It was an early morning, not falling night as now. It was a rocky shore, and +down by the sea sat a beautiful youth with a panther skin over his shoulder, +with vine leaves in his hair, with thyrsus in his hand. Who was he? Oh, the god +Bacchus himself. +</p> + +<p> +And the rocky shore was Naxos. It was the seas of Greece the god saw. The ship +with the black sails swiftly sailing towards the horizon was steered by Theseus +and in the grotto, the entrance of which opened high up in a projection of the +steep cliff, slept Ariadne. +</p> + +<p> +During the night the young god had thought: “Is this mortal youth worthy +of that divine girl!” And to test Theseus he had in a dream frightened +him with the loss of his life, if he did not instantly forsake Ariadne. Then +the latter had risen up, hastened to the ship, and fled away over the waves +without even waking the girl to say good-bye. +</p> + +<p> +Now the god Bacchus sat there smiling, rocked by the tenderest hopes, and +waited for Ariadne. +</p> + +<p> +The sun rose, the morning breeze freshened. He abandoned himself to smiling +dreams. He would know well how to console the forsaken one; he, the god Bacchus +himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then she came. She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile. Her eyes +sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the anchoring-place of the ship, +to the sea—to the black sails. +</p> + +<p> +And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without hesitation, +down into the waves, down to death and oblivion. +</p> + +<p> +And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler. +</p> + +<p> +So it was. Thus had it actually happened. Uncle Theodore remembers that Nösselt +adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that Ariadne let herself be +consoled by Bacchus. But the sympathizers were certainly wrong. Ariadne would +not be consoled. +</p> + +<p> +Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her, shall she +for that reason be made unhappy! +</p> + +<p> +As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because her soft +little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had not been angry when +he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be made unhappy? +</p> + +<p> +For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned? Because she has shown +him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have stood fine and clean and +unoccupied all these years awaiting just such a tender and motherly little +woman; or because she has already such power over him that he hardly dares to +swear lest she hear it; or for what shall she be condemned? +</p> + +<p> +Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore! It is not easy to have to do with such +delicate, light bits of down.—They leap into the sea when they see the +black sails. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red cheeks, +coarse limbs. +</p> + +<p> +Then another flake falls and it begins to speak: “It is I who would have +followed you all your days. I would have whispered a warning in your ear at the +card-table. I would have moved away the wineglass. You would have borne it from +me.” “I would,” he whispers, “I would.” +</p> + +<p> +Another comes and speaks too: “It is I who would have reigned over your +big house and made it cheery and warm. It is I who would have followed you +through the desert of old age. I would have lighted your fire, have been your +eyes and your staff. Should I have been fit for that?” “Sweet +little Downie,” he answers, “you would.” +</p> + +<p> +Again a flake comes and says: “I am so to be pitied. To-morrow my +betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. To-morrow I shall weep, +weep all day long, for I shall feel the shame of not being good enough for +Maurits. And when I come home—I do not know how I shall be able to come +home; how I can cross my father’s threshold after this. The whole street +will be full of whispering and gossip when I show myself. Every one will wonder +what evil thing I have done, to be so badly treated. Is it my fault that you +love me?” He answers with a sob in his throat: “Do not speak so, +little Downie! It is too soon to speak so.” +</p> + +<p> +He wanders there the whole night and towards midnight comes a little darkness. +He is in great trouble; the heavy, sultry air seems to be still in terror of +some crime which is to be committed in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +He tries to calm the night by saying aloud: “I shall not do it.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the most wonderful thing happens. The night is seized with a trembling +dread. It is no longer the little flakes which are falling, but round about him +rustle great and small wings. He hears something flying but does not know +whither. +</p> + +<p> +They rush by him; they graze his cheek; they touch his clothes and hands; and +he understands what it is. The leaves are falling from the trees; the flowers +flee from their stalks; the wings fly away from the butterflies; the song +forsakes the birds. +</p> + +<p> +And he understands that when the sun rises his garden will be a waste. Empty, +cold, and silent winter shall reign there; no play of butterflies; no song of +birds. +</p> + +<p> +He remains until the light comes again, and he is almost astonished when he +sees the thick masses of leaves on the trees. “What is it, then,” +he says, “which is laid waste if it was not the garden? Not even a blade +of grass is missing. It is I who must live in winter and cold hereafter, not +the garden. It is as if the mainspring of life were gone. Ah, you old fool, +this will pass like everything else. It is too much ado about a little +girl.” +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +How very improperly “it” behaved the morning they were to leave! +During the two days after the ball “it” had been rather something +inspiring, something exciting; but now when Downie is to leave, when +“it” realizes that the end has come, that “it” will +never play any part in her life, then it changes to a death thrust, to a +deathly coldness. +</p> + +<p> +She feels as if she were dragging a body of stone down the stairs to the +breakfast-room. She stretches out a heavy, cold hand of stone when she says +good-morning; she speaks with a slow tongue of stone; smiles with hard stone +lips. It is a labor, a labor. +</p> + +<p> +But who can help being glad when everything is arranged according to +old-fashioned faith and honor. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore turns to Downie at breakfast and explains with a strangely harsh +voice that he has decided to give Maurits the position of manager at +Laxohyttan; but as the aforesaid young man, continued Uncle, with a strained +attempt to return to his usual manner, is not much at home in practical +occupations, he may not enter upon the position until he has a wife at his +side. Has she, Miss Downie, tended her myrtle so well that she can have a crown +and wreath in September? +</p> + +<p> +She feels how he is looking into her face. She knows that he wishes to have a +glance as thanks, but she does not look up. +</p> + +<p> +Maurits leaps up. He embraces Uncle and makes a great deal of noise. +“But, Anne-Marie, why do you not thank Uncle? You must kiss Uncle +Theodore, Anne-Marie. Laxohyttan is the most beautiful place in the world. Come +now, Anne-Marie!” +</p> + +<p> +She raises her eyes. There are tears in them, and through the tears a glance +full of despair and reproach falls on Maurits. She cannot understand; he +insists upon going with an uncovered light into the powder magazine. Then she +turns to Uncle Theodore; but not with the shy, childish manner she had before, +but with a certain nobleness, with something of the martyr, of an imprisoned +queen. +</p> + +<p> +“You are much too good to us,” she says only. +</p> + +<p> +Thus is everything accomplished according to the demands of honor. There is not +another word to be said in the matter. He has not robbed her of her faith in +him whom she loves. She has not betrayed herself. She is faithful to him who +has made her his betrothed, although she is only a poor girl from a little +bakery in a back street. +</p> + +<p> +And now the chaise can be brought up, the trunks be corded, the luncheon-basket +filled. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore leaves the table. He goes and places himself by a window. Ever +since she has turned to him with that tearful glance he is out of his senses. +He is quite mad, ready to throw himself upon her, press her to his breast and +call to Maurits to come and tear her away if he can. +</p> + +<p> +His hands are in his pockets. Through the clenched fists cramp-like convulsions +are passing. +</p> + +<p> +Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say goodbye to the old lady? +</p> + +<p> +There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the beloved for +himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully step forward and say: +“I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrothed must choose between us. You are +not married; there is no sin in trying to win her from you. Look well after +her. I mean to use every expedient.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he would be warned, and she would know what alternative lay before her. +</p> + +<p> +His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists again. How Maurits would laugh +at his old uncle when he stepped forward and explained that! And what would be +the good of it? Would he frighten her, so that he would not even be allowed to +help them in the future? +</p> + +<p> +But how will it go now when she approaches to say good-bye to him? He almost +screams to her to take care, to keep three paces away from him. +</p> + +<p> +He remains at the window and turns his back on them all, while they are busy +with their wraps and their luncheon-basket. Will they never be ready to go? He +has already lived it through a thousand times. He has taken her hand, kissed +her, helped her into the chaise. He has done it so many times that he believes +she is already gone. +</p> + +<p> +He has also wished her happiness. Happiness—Can she be happy with +Maurits? She has not looked happy this morning. Oh yes, certainly she has. She +wept with joy. +</p> + +<p> +While he is standing there Maurits suddenly says to Anne-Marie: “What a +dunce I am! I am quite forgetting to speak to Uncle about father’s +shares.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would be best if you did not,” Downie answers. +“Perhaps it is not right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Anne-Marie. The shares do not pay anything just now. But who +knows if they will not be better some day? And besides, what does it matter to +Uncle? Such a little thing—” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupts with unusual eagerness, almost anxiously. “I beg of you, +Maurits, do not do it. Give in to me this once.” +</p> + +<p> +He looks at her, a little offended. “This once!—as if I were a +tyrant over you. No, do you see, I cannot; just for that word I think that I +ought not to yield.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not cling to a word, Maurits. This means more than polite phrases. I +think it is not well of you to wish to cheat Uncle now when he has been so good +to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet, Anne-Marie, be quiet! What do you understand of +business?” His whole manner is now irritatingly calm and superior. He +looks at her as a schoolmaster looks at a good pupil who is making a fool of +himself at his examination. +</p> + +<p> +“That you do not at all understand what is at stake!” she cries. +And she strikes out despairingly with her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I really must talk to Uncle now,” says Maurits, “if for +nothing else, to show him that there is no question of any deceit. You behave +so that Uncle can believe that I and my father are veritable cheats.” +</p> + +<p> +And he comes forward to his uncle and explains to him what these shares which +his father wishes to sell him are. Uncle Theodore listens to him as well as he +can. He understands instantly that his brother has made a bad speculation and +wishes to protect himself from loss. But what of it, what of it? He is +accustomed to render to the whole family connection such services. But he is +not thinking of that, but of Downie. He wonders what is the meaning of that +look of resentment she casts upon Maurits. It was not exactly love. +</p> + +<p> +And so in the midst of his despair over the sacrifice he has to make, a faint +glimmer of hope begins to rise up before him. He stands and stares at it like a +man who is sleeping in a haunted room and sees a light mist rise from the floor +and condense and grow and become a tangible reality. +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me into my room, Maurits,” he says; “you shall +have the money immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +But while he speaks his eyes rest on Downie to see if the ghost can be +prevailed upon to speak. But as yet he sees only dumb despair in her. +</p> + +<p> +But he has hardly sat down by the desk in his room when the door opens and +Anne-Marie comes in. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Theodore,” she says, very firmly and decidedly, “do +not buy those papers!” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, such courage, Downie! Who would have believed it of you who had seen you +three days ago, when you sat at Maurits’s side in the chaise and seemed +to shrink and grow smaller for every word he said. +</p> + +<p> +Now she needs all her courage, for Maurits is angry in earnest. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue!” he hisses at her, and then roars to make +himself heard by Uncle Theodore, who is sitting at his desk and counting notes. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you? The shares give no interest now; I have +told Uncle that; but Uncle knows as well as I that they will pay. Do you think +Uncle will let himself be cheated by one like me? Uncle surely understands +those things better than any of us. Has it ever been my intention to give out +these shares as good? Have I said anything but that for him who can wait it may +be a good affair?” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore says nothing; he only hands a package of notes to Maurits. He +wonders if this will make the ghost speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” says the little intractable proclaimer of the truth, for +it is a known fact that no one can be more intractable than those soft, +delicate creature when they are in the right, “these shares are not worth +a shilling and will never be. We all know it at home there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anne-Marie, you make me out a scoundrel!” +</p> + +<p> +She surveys him all over as if her eyes were the moving blades of a pair of +scissors, and she cuts off him bit by bit everything in which she had clothed +him; and when at last she sees him in all the nakedness of egotism and +selfishness, her terrible little tongue passes sentence upon him:— +</p> + +<p> +“What else are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anne-Marie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, what else are we both,” continues the merciless tongue, +which, since it has once started, finds it best to clear up this matter which +has tortured her conscience ever since she has begun to realize that this rich +man who owned this big estate had a heart too which could suffer and yearn. So +while her tongue is so well started and all shyness seems to have fallen from +her, she says:— +</p> + +<p> +“When we placed ourselves in the chaise at home there, what did we think? +What did we talk about on the way? About how we would deceive him there. +‘You must be brave, Anne-Marie,’ you said. ‘And you must be +crafty, Maurits,’ I said. We thought only of ingratiating ourselves. We +wished to have much and we wished to give nothing except hypocrisy. It was not +our intention to say: ‘Help us, because we are poor and care for one +another,’ but we were to flatter and fawn until Uncle was charmed by me +or by you; that was our intention. But we meant to give nothing in return; +neither love nor respect nor even gratitude. And why did you not come alone, +why must I come too? You wished to show me to him; you wished me +to—to—” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore rises when he sees Maurits raise his hand against her. For now +he has finished counting, and follows what is passing with his heart swelling +with hope. His heart flies wide open to receive her as she now screams and runs +into his arms, runs there without hesitation or consideration, quite as if +there were no other place on earth to which to run. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle, he will strike me!” +</p> + +<p> +And she presses close, close to him. +</p> + +<p> +But Maurits is now calm again. “Forgive my impetuosity, +Anne-Marie,” he says. “It hurt me to hear you speak in such a +childish way in Uncle’s presence. But Uncle must also understand that you +are only a child. Still I grant that not even the most just wrath gives a man +the right to strike a woman. Come here now and kiss me. You need not seek +protection from me with anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +She does not move, does not turn, only clings more closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Downie, shall I let him take you?” whispers Uncle Theodore. +</p> + +<p> +She answers only with a shudder, which quivers through him also. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore feels so strong, so inspired. He, too, no longer sees his +perfect nephew as before in the bright light of his perfection. He dares to +jest with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Maurits,” he says, “you surprise me. Love makes you weak. +Can you so promptly forgive her having called you a scoundrel? You must break +with her instantly. Your honor, Maurits, think of your honor! Nothing in the +world can permit a woman to insult a man. Place yourself in the chaise, my boy, +and go away without this abandoned creature! It is only pure and simple justice +after such an insult.” +</p> + +<p> +As he finishes this speech, he puts his big hands about her head and bends it +back so that he can kiss her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Give up this abandoned creature!” he repeats. +</p> + +<p> +But now Maurits begins to understand also. He sees the light in Uncle +Theodore’s eyes and how one smile after the other dances over his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Anne-Marie!” +</p> + +<p> +She starts. Now he calls her as the man to whom she has promised herself. She +feels she must obey. And she lets go of Uncle Theodore so suddenly that he +cannot stop her, but she cannot go to Maurits; so she slides down to the floor +and there she remains sitting and sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“Go home alone in your chaise, Maurits,” says Uncle Theodore +sharply. “This young lady is guest in my house as yet, and I intend to +protect her from your interference.” +</p> + +<p> +He no longer thinks of Maurits, but only to lift her up, dry her tears and +whisper that he loves her. +</p> + +<p> +Maurits, who sees them, the one weeping, the other comforting, cries: +“Oh, this is a conspiracy! I am tricked! This is a comedy! You have +stolen my betrothed from me and you mock me! You let me call one who never +intends to come! I congratulate you on this affair, Anne-Marie!” +</p> + +<p> +As he rushes out and slams the door, he calls back: +“Fortune-hunter!” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Theodore makes a movement as if to go after him and chastise him, but +Downie holds him back. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Uncle Theodore, do let Maurits have the last word. Maurits is always +right. Fortune-hunter,—that is just what I am, Uncle Theodore.” +</p> + +<p> +She creeps again close to him without hesitation, without question. And Uncle +Theodore is quite confused; just now she was weeping and now she is laughing; +just now she was going to marry one man and now she is caressing another. Then +she lifts up her head and smiles: “Now I am your little dog. You cannot +be rid of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Downie,” says Uncle Theodore with his gruffest voice: “You +have known it the whole time!” +</p> + +<p> +She began to whisper: “Had my brother—” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you wished, Downie—Maurits is lucky to be rid of you. Such +a foolish, deceitful, hypocritical Downie, such an unreliable little wisp, such +a, such a—” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Ah, Downie, ah, silken flower! You were certainly not a fortune-hunter only; +you were also a fortune-giver, otherwise there would be nothing left of your +happy peace in the house where you lived. To this day the garden is shaded by +big beeches and the birch tree trunks stand there white and spotless from the +root upwards. To this day the snake suns himself in peace on the slope, and in +the pond in the park swims a carp which is so old that no boy has the heart to +catch it. And when I come there, I feel that there is festival in the air, and +it seems as if the birds and flowers still sang their beautiful songs of you. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>AMONG THE CLIMBING ROSES</h2> + +<p> +I could wish that the people with whom I have spent my summer would let their +glance fall on these lines. Now when the cold, dark nights have come, I should +like to carry their thoughts back to that bright, warm season. +</p> + +<p> +Above all, I should like to remind them of the climbing-roses that enclosed the +veranda, of the delicate, somewhat thin foliage of the clematis, which in the +sunlight as well as in the moonlight was drawn in dark gray shadows on the +light gray stone floor and threw a light lace-like veil over everything, and of +its big, bright blossoms with their ragged edges. +</p> + +<p> +Other summers remind me of fields of clover, or of birch-woods, or of +apple-trees and berry bushes, but that summer took its character from the +climbing-roses. The bright, delicate buds, that could resist neither wind nor +rain, the light, waving, pale-green shoots, the soft, bending stems, the +exuberant richness of blossoms, the gaily humming hosts of insects, all follow +me and rise up before me in their glory, when I think of that summer, that +rosy, delicate, dainty summer. +</p> + +<p> +Now, when the time for work has come, people often ask me how I passed my +summer. Then everything glides from my memory, and it seems to me as if I had +sat day in and day out on the veranda behind the climbing roses and breathed in +fragrance and sunshine. What did I do? Oh, I watched others work. +</p> + +<p> +There was a little upholsterer bee which worked from morning till night, from +night till morning. From the soft, green leaves it sawed out a neat little oval +with its sharp jaws, rolled it together as one rolls up a real carpet, and with +the precious burden pressed to it, it fluttered away to the park and lighted on +an old tree stump. There it burrowed down through dark passage-ways and +mysterious galleries, until at last it reached the bottom of a perpendicular +shaft. In its unknown depths, where neither ant nor centipede ever had +ventured, it spread out the green leaf roll and covered the uneven floor with +the most beautiful carpet. And when the floor was covered, the bee came back +for new leaves to cover the walls of the shaft, and worked so quickly and +eagerly, that there was soon not a leaf in the rose hedge that did not have an +oval hole which bore testimony that it had been forced to assist in the +adorning of the old tree-stump. +</p> + +<p> +One fine day the little bee changed its occupation. It bored deep in among the +ragged petals of the full-blown roses, sucked and drank all it could in those +beautiful larders, and when it had got its fill, it flew quickly away to the +old stump to fill the freshly-papered chambers with brightest honey. +</p> + +<p> +The little upholsterer bee was not the only one who worked in the rose-bushes. +There was also a spider, a quite unparalleled spider. It was bigger than any +spider I have ever seen; it was bright orange with a clearly marked cross on +its back, and it had eight long, red-and-white striped legs, all equally well +marked. You ought to have seen it spin! Every thread was drawn out with the +greatest precision from the first ones that were only for supports to the last +fine connecting thread. And you should have seen it balance its way along the +slender threads to seize a fly or to take its place in the middle of the web, +motionless, patient, waiting for hours. +</p> + +<p> +That big, orange spider won my heart; he was so patient and so wise. Every day +he had his little encounter with the upholsterer bee, and he always came out of +the affair with the same unfailing tact. The bee who took his way close by him +caught time and time again in his net. Instantly it began to buzz and tear; it +dragged at the fine web and behaved like a mad thing, which naturally resulted +in its being more and more entangled and getting both legs and wings wound up +in the sticky net. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the bee was exhausted and weakened, the spider came creeping out to +it. It kept always at a respectful distance, but with the extreme end of one of +the beautiful, red striped legs it gave the bee a little push, so that it swung +round in the web. When the bee had again buzzed and raged itself tired, it +received another gentle shove, and then another and yet another, until it spun +round like a top and did not know what it was doing in its fury, and became so +confused that it could not defend itself. But during the whirling the threads +that held it fast twisted ever more tightly, till the tension became so great +that they broke, and the bee fell to the ground. Yes, that was what the spider +had wished, of course. +</p> + +<p> +And that performance could they repeat, those two, day after day as long as the +bee had work in the rose-bushes. Never could the little bee learn to look out +for the spider-web, and never did the spider show anger or impatience. I liked +them both; the little, eager, furry worker, as well as the big, crafty, old +hunter. +</p> + +<p> +Very few great events happened in the garden of the climbing roses. Between the +espaliers one could see the little lake lying and twinkling in the sunlight. +And it was a lake which was too little and too shut in to be able to heave in +real waves, but at every little ripple on the gray surface thousands of small +sparkles that glistened and played on the waves flew up; it seemed as if its +depths had been full of fire that could not get out. And it was the same with +the summer life there; it was usually so quiet, but if there came the +slightest, little ripple—oh, how it could shine and glitter! +</p> + +<p> +We needed nothing great to make us happy. A flower or a bird could make us +merry for several hours, not to speak of the upholsterer bee. I shall never +forget what pleasure I had once on his account. +</p> + +<p> +The bee had been in the spider-web as usual, and the spider had as usual helped +him out; but it had been fastened so securely that it had had to buzz a +dreadfully long time and had been very tamed and subdued when it had flown +away. I bent forward to see if the spider-web had suffered much damage. +Fortunately it had not; but on the other hand a little yellow larva was caught +in the web, a little threadlike monster, which consisted of only jaws and +claws, and I was agitated, really agitated, at the sight of it. +</p> + +<p> +I knew them, those May-bug larvæ, that in thousands crawl up on the flowers +and hide themselves under their petals. Did I not know them and yet admire +them, those bold, cunning parasites, that sit hidden and wait, only wait, even +if it is for weeks, until a bee comes, in whose yellow and black down they can +hide. And did I not know their hateful skill just when the little cell-builder +has filled a room with honey and on its surface laid the egg from which the +rightful owner of the cell and the honey will come forth, just then to creep +down on the egg and with careful balancing sit on it as on a boat; for if they +should come down into the honey, they would drown. And while the bee covers the +thimble-like cell with a green roof and carefully shuts in its young one, the +yellow larva tears open the egg with its sharp jaws and devours its contents, +while the egg-shell has still to serve as craft on the dangerous honey-sea. +</p> + +<p> +But gradually the little yellow larva grows flat and big and can swim by itself +on the honey and drink of it, and in the course of time a fat, black beetle +comes out of the bee-cell. It is certain that this is not what the little bee +wished to effect by its work, and however cunningly and cleverly the beetle may +have behaved, it is nevertheless nothing but a lazy parasite, who deserves no +sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +And my bee, my own little, industrious bee, bad flown about with such a yellow +hanger-on in its down. But while the spider had spun round with it, the larva +had loosened and fallen down on the spider-web, and now the big, orange spider +came and gave it a bite and transformed it in a second into a skeleton without +life or substance. +</p> + +<p> +When the little bee came again, its humming was like a hymn to life. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thou beauteous life,” it said. “I thank thee that happy +work among roses and sunshine has fallen to my lot. I thank thee that I can +enjoy thee without anxiety or fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Well I know that spiders lie in wait and beetles steal, but happy work +is mine, and brave freedom from care. Oh, thou beauteous life, thou glorious +existence!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14273 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/14273-h/images/cover.jpg b/14273-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ffaa72 --- /dev/null +++ b/14273-h/images/cover.jpg |
