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diff --git a/old/56158-0.txt b/old/56158-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4d5a55b..0000000 --- a/old/56158-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15827 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of Gösta Berling, by Selma Lagerlöf - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Story of Gösta Berling - -Author: Selma Lagerlöf - -Translator: Pauline Bancroft Flach - -Release Date: December 10, 2017 [EBook #56158] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF GÖSTA BERLING *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - -The Story of Gösta Berling - - - - - The - Story of Gösta Berling - - _Translated from the Swedish of_ - Selma Lagerlöf - by - Pauline Bancroft Flach - - [Illustration] - - Boston - Little, Brown, and Company - 1898 - - _Copyright, 1898_, - BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. - - _All rights reserved._ - - University Press: - JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. - - - - -TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE - - -“The Story of Gösta Berling” was published in Sweden in 1894 and -immediately brought its author into prominence. - -The tales are founded on actual occurrences and depict the life in the -province of Värmland at the beginning of this century. Värmland is a -lonely tract in the southern part of Sweden, and has retained many of -its old customs, while mining is the principal industry of its sparse -population. It consists of great stretches of forest, sloping down to -long, narrow lakes, connected by rivers. - -Miss Lagerlöf has grown up in the midst of the wild legends of her -country, and, deeply imbued with their spirit, interprets them with a -living force all her own. - -Her efforts have been materially encouraged by the Crown Prince of -Sweden, and there is every reason to expect that her genius has not -reached its fullest development. - - STOCKHOLM, May, 1898. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - INTRODUCTION: - - I THE PRIEST 1 - - II THE BEGGAR 12 - - PART I - - I THE LANDSCAPE 29 - - II CHRISTMAS EVE 34 - - III CHRISTMAS DAY 49 - - IV GÖSTA BERLING, POET 63 - - V LA CACHUCHA 79 - - VI THE BALL AT EKEBY 84 - - VII THE OLD VEHICLES 106 - - VIII THE GREAT BEAR IN GURLITTA CLIFF 122 - - IX THE AUCTION AT BJÖRNE 138 - - X THE YOUNG COUNTESS 170 - - XI GHOST-STORIES 199 - - XII EBBA DOHNA’S STORY 214 - - XIII MAMSELLE MARIE 236 - - PART II - - I COUSIN CHRISTOPHER 247 - - II THE PATHS OF LIFE 253 - - III PENITENCE 268 - - IV THE IRON FROM EKEBY 280 - - V LILLIECRONA’S HOME 291 - - VI THE WITCH OF DOVRE 298 - - VII MIDSUMMER 304 - - VIII MADAME MUSICA 309 - - IX THE BROBY CLERGYMAN 315 - - X PATRON JULIUS 321 - - XI THE PLASTER SAINTS 329 - - XII GOD’S WAYFARER 337 - - XIII THE CHURCHYARD 350 - - XIV OLD SONGS 355 - - XV DEATH, THE DELIVERER 367 - - XVI THE DROUGHT 374 - - XVII THE CHILD’S MOTHER 386 - - XVIII AMOR VINCIT OMNIA 396 - - XIX THE BROOM-GIRL 403 - - XX KEVENHÜLLER 417 - - XXI THE BROBY FAIR 429 - - XXII THE FOREST COTTAGE 438 - - XXIII MARGARETA CELSING 456 - - - - -The Story of Gösta Berling - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -I - -THE PRIEST - -At last the minister stood in the pulpit. The heads of the congregation -were lifted. Well, there he finally was. There would be no default this -Sunday, as on the last and on many other Sundays before. - -The minister was young, tall, slender, and strikingly handsome. With a -helmet on his head, and girt with sword and shirt of mail, he could have -been cut in marble and taken for an ideal of Grecian beauty. - -He had a poet’s deep eyes, and a general’s firm, rounded chin; everything -about him was beautiful, noble, full of feeling, glowing with genius and -spiritual life. - -The people in the church felt themselves strangely subdued to see him -so. They were more used to see him come reeling out of the public house -with his good friends, Beerencreutz, the Colonel with the thick, white -moustaches, and the stalwart Captain Christian Bergh. - -He had drunk so deeply that he had not been able to attend to his duties -for many weeks, and the congregation had been obliged to complain, first -to the dean, and then to the bishop and the chapters. Now the bishop had -come to the parish to make a strict inquiry. He sat in the choir with the -gold cross on his breast; the clergymen of the neighboring parishes sat -round about him. - -There was no doubt that the minister’s conduct had gone beyond the -permissible limit. At that time, in the twenties, much in the matter of -drinking was overlooked, but this man had deserted his post for the sake -of drink, and now must lose it. - -He stood in the pulpit and waited while the last verse of the psalm was -sung. - -A feeling came over him as he stood there, that he had only enemies in -the church, enemies in all the seats. Among the gentry in the pews, -among the peasants in the farther seats, among the little boys in the -choir, he had enemies, none but enemies. It was an enemy who worked the -organ-bellows, an enemy who played. In the churchwardens’ pews he had -enemies. They all hated him, every one,—from the children in arms, who -were carried into the church, to the sexton, a formal and stiff old -soldier, who had been at Leipsic. - -He longed to throw himself on his knees and to beg for mercy. - -But a moment after, a dull rage came over him. He remembered well what he -had been when, a year ago, he first stood in this pulpit. He was then a -blameless man, and now he stood there and looked down on the man with the -gold cross on his breast, who had come to pass sentence on him. - -While he read the introduction, wave after wave of blood surged up in his -face,—it was rage. - -It was true enough that he had drunk, but who had a right to blame him -for that? Had they seen the vicarage where he had to live? Pine forests -grew dark and gloomy close up to his windows. The dampness dripped from -the black roofs and ran down the mouldy walls. Was not brandy needed to -keep the spirits up when rain and driving snow streamed in through the -broken panes, when the neglected earth would not give bread enough to -keep hunger away? - -He thought that he was just such a minister as they deserved. For they -all drank. Why should he alone control himself? The man who had buried -his wife got drunk at the funeral feast; the father who had baptized his -child had a carouse afterwards. The congregation drank on the way back -from church, so that most of them were drunk when they reached home. A -drunken priest was good enough for them. - -It was on his pastoral visits, when he drove in his thin cloak over miles -of frozen seas, where all the icy winds met, it was when his boat was -tossed about on these same seas in storm and pouring rain, it was when he -must climb out of his sledge in blinding snow to clear the way for his -horse through drifts high as houses, or when he waded through the forest -swamps,—it was then that he learned to love brandy. - -The year had dragged itself out in heavy gloom. Peasant and master had -passed their days with their thoughts on the soil, but at evening their -spirits cast off their yokes, freed by brandy. Inspiration came, the -heart grew warm, life became glowing, the song rang out, roses shed their -perfume. The public-house bar-room seemed to him a tropical garden: -grapes and olives hung down over his head, marble statues shone among -dark leaves, songsters and poets wandered under the palms and plane-trees. - -No, he, the priest, up there in the pulpit, knew that without brandy life -could not be borne in this end of the world; all his congregation knew -that, and yet they wished to judge him. - -They wished to tear his vestments from him, because he had come drunken -into God’s house. Oh, all these people, had they believed, did they want -to believe, that they had any other God than brandy? - -He had finished the exordium, and he kneeled to say the Lord’s Prayer. - -There was a breathless silence in the church during the prayer. But -suddenly the minister with both hands caught hold of the ribbons which -held his surplice. It seemed to him as if the whole congregation, with -the bishop at the head, were stealing up the pulpit steps to take his -bands from him. He was kneeling and his head was turned away, but he -could feel how they were dragging, and he saw them so plainly, the -bishop and the deans, the clergymen, the churchwardens, the sexton, and -the whole assemblage in a long line, tearing and straining to get his -surplice off. And he could picture to himself how all these people who -were dragging so eagerly would fall over one another down the steps when -the bands gave way, and the whole row of them below, who had not got up -as far as his cape, but only to the skirts of his coat, would also fall. - -He saw it all so plainly that he had to smile as he knelt, but at the -same time a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The whole thing was too -horrible. - -That he should now become a dishonored man for the sake of brandy. A -clergyman, dismissed! Was there anything on God’s earth more wretched? - -He should be one of the beggars at the roadside, lie drunk at the edge of -a ditch, go dressed in rags, with vagrants for companions. - -The prayer was ended. He should read his sermon. Then a thought came to -him and checked the words on his lips. He thought that it was the last -time he should stand in the pulpit and proclaim the glory of God. - -For the last time—that took hold of him. He forgot the brandy and the -bishop. He thought that he must use the chance, and testify to the glory -of God. - -He thought that the floor of the church with all his hearers sank deep, -deep down, and the roof was lifted off, so that he saw far into the sky. -He stood alone, quite alone in his pulpit; his spirit took its flight to -the heavens opened above him; his voice became strong and powerful, and -he proclaimed the glory of God. - -He was inspired. He left what he had written; thoughts came to him like a -flock of tame doves. He felt, as if it were not he who spoke, but he felt -too that it was the best earth had to give, and that no one could reach -a greater height of brilliancy and splendor than he who stood there and -proclaimed the glory of God. - -As long as the flame of inspiration burned in him he continued to speak, -but when it died out, and the roof sank down over the church, and the -floor came up again from far, far below, he bowed his head and wept, for -he thought that the best of life, for him, was now over. - -After the service came the inspection and the vestry meeting. The bishop -asked if the congregation had any complaints to make against their -clergyman. - -The minister was no longer angry and defiant as before the sermon. Now -he was ashamed and hung his head. Oh, all the miserable brandy stories, -which were coming now! - -But none came. There was a deep silence about the long table in the -parish-hall. - -The minister looked first at the sexton,—no, he was silent; then at the -churchwardens, then at the powerful peasants and mine-owners; they were -all silent. They sat with their lips pressed close together and looked -embarrassed down on the table. - -“They are waiting for somebody to begin,” thought the minister. - -One of the churchwardens cleared his throat. - -“I think we’ve got a fine minister,” he said. - -“Your Reverence has heard how he preaches,” interrupted the sexton. - -The bishop spoke of repeated absences. - -“The minister has the right to be ill, as well as another,” was the -peasants’ opinion. - -The bishop hinted at their dissatisfaction with the minister’s mode of -life. - -They defended him with one voice. He was so young, their minister; there -was nothing wrong with him. No; if he would only always preach as he had -done to-day they would not exchange him for the bishop himself. - -There were no accusers; there could be no judge. - -The minister felt how his heart swelled and how swiftly the blood flew -through his veins. Could it be that he was no longer among enemies; that -he had won them over when he had least thought of it; that he should -still be their priest? - -After the inspection the bishop and the clergymen of the neighborhood and -the deans and the chief men of the parish dined at the vicarage. The wife -of one of the neighbors had taken charge of the dinner; for the minister -was not married. She had arranged it all so well that it made him open -his eyes, for the vicarage was not so dreadful. The long dining-table was -spread out under the pines and shone with its white cloth, with its blue -and white china, its glittering glass and folded napkins. Two birches -bent over the door, the floor of the entry was strewn with rushes, a -wreath of flowers hung from the rafters, there were flowers in all the -rooms; the mouldy smell was gone, and the green window-panes shone -bravely in the sunshine. - -He was glad to the bottom of his heart, the minister; he thought that he -would never drink again. - -There was not one who was not glad at that dinner-table. Those who had -been generous and had forgiven were glad, and the priests in authority -were glad because they had escaped a scandal. - -The good bishop raised his glass and said that he had started on this -journey with a heavy heart, for he had heard many evil rumors. He had -gone forth to meet Saul, but lo, Saul was already changed to a Paul, who -should accomplish more than any of them. And the worthy man spoke of the -rich gifts which their young brother possessed, and praised them. Not -that he should be proud, but that he should strain every nerve and keep -a close watch over himself, as he must do who bears an exceedingly heavy -and costly burden on his shoulders. - -The minister was not drunk at that dinner, but he was intoxicated. All -this great unlooked-for happiness went to his head. Heaven had let the -flame of inspiration burn in him, and these people had given him their -love. His blood was at fever heat, and at raging speed rushed through -his veins still when the evening came and his guests departed. Far into -the night he sat awake in his room, and let the night air stream in -through the open window to cool this fever of happiness, this pleasant -restlessness which would not let him sleep. - -He heard a voice. - -“Are you awake?” - -A man came over the lawn up to the window. The minister looked out and -recognized Captain Christian Bergh, one of his trusty boon-companions. He -was a wayfarer without house or land, this Captain Bergh, and a giant in -stature and strength; big was he as Goliath, malicious and stupid as a -mountain goblin. - -“Of course I am up, Captain Christian,” answered the minister. “Do you -think I could sleep to-night?” - -And hear now what this Captain Bergh says to him! The giant had guessed, -he had understood, that the minister would now be afraid to drink. He -would never have any peace, thought Captain Christian; for those priests -from Karlstad, who had been here once, could come again and take his -surplice from him if he drank. - -But now Captain Christian had put his heavy hand to the good work; now he -had arranged that those priests never should come again, neither they nor -the bishop. Henceforth the minister and his friends could drink as much -as they liked at the vicarage. - -Hear what a deed he had done, he, Christian Bergh, the mighty Captain. -When the bishop and the two deans had climbed into their closed carriage, -and the doors had been shut tight on them, then he had mounted on the box -and driven them ten miles or so in the light summer night. - -And then had Christian Bergh taught the reverend gentlemen how loose life -sits in the human body. He had let the horses run at the maddest pace. -That was because they would not let an honorable man get drunk in peace. - -Do you suppose he followed the road with them; do you believe he saved -them from jolts? He drove over ditches and ploughed fields; he drove in -a dizzy gallop down the hills; he drove along the water’s edge, till the -waves covered the wheels; he almost stuck in a bog; he drove down over -bare rocks, where the horses slid with legs held stiff. - -And all the time the bishop and the priests sat with blanched faces -behind the leather curtains and murmured prayers. It was the worst -journey they had ever made. - -And think how they must have looked when they came to Rissäter’s inn, -living, but shaken like shot in a leather pouch. - -“What does this mean, Captain Christian?” says the bishop, as he opens -the door for them. - -“It means that you shall think twice, bishop, before you make a new -journey of inspection to Gösta Berling,” says Captain Christian; and he -had thought that sentence well out beforehand, so as not to get it wrong. - -“Tell Gösta Berling,” says the bishop, “that to him neither I nor any -other bishop will ever come again.” - -This exploit the mighty Captain Christian stands and relates at the open -window in the summer night. For Captain Christian has only just left the -horses at the inn, and has come directly to the minister with his news. - -“Now you can be at rest, comrade,” he says. - -Ah, Captain Christian, the clergymen sat with pale faces behind the -leather curtains, but the priest at the window looks in the bright summer -night far, far paler. Ah, Captain Christian! - -The minister raised his arm and measured a terrible blow at the giant’s -coarse, stupid face, but checked himself. He shut the window with a bang, -and stood in the middle of the room, shaking his clenched fist on high. - -He in whom the fire of inspiration had flamed, he who had been able to -proclaim the glory of God, stood there and thought that God had made a -fool of him. - -Would not the bishop believe that Captain Christian had been sent by the -minister? Would he not believe that he had dissembled and lied the whole -day? Now he would investigate everything about him in earnest; now he -would suspend him and dismiss him. - -When the dawn broke the minister was far from his home. He did not care -to stay and defend himself. God had mocked at him. God would not help -him. He knew that he would be dismissed. God would have it. He might as -well go at once. - -All this happened in the beginning of the twenties in a far-a-way parish -in Western Värmland. - -It was the first misfortune which befell Gösta Berling; it was not the -last. - -For colts who cannot bear spur or whips find life hard. For every pain -which comes to them they bolt down wild ways to yawning chasms. As soon -as the road is stony and the way hard they know no other remedy than to -cast off their load and rush away in frenzy. - - -II - -THE BEGGAR - -One cold December day a beggar came wandering up the slopes of Broby. He -was dressed in the most miserable rags, and his shoes were so worn that -the cold snow wet his feet. - -Löfven is a long, narrow lake in Värmland, intersected in several places -by long narrow sounds. In the north it stretches up to the Finn forests, -in the south down to the lake Väner. There are many parishes along its -shores, but the parish of Bro is the largest and richest. It takes up a -large part of the lake’s shores both on the east and west sides, but on -the west side are the largest estates, such as Ekeby and Björne, known -far and wide for wealth and beauty, and Broby, with its large village and -inn, courthouse, sheriff-quarters, vicarage, and market-place. - -Broby lies on a steep slope. The beggar had come past the inn, which lies -at the foot of the hill, and was struggling up towards the parsonage, -which lies at the top. - -A little girl went in front of him up the hill; she dragged a sledge -laden with a bag of meal. The beggar caught up with the child and began -to talk to her. - -“A little horse for such a heavy load,” he said. - -The child turned and looked at him. She was a little creature about -twelve years old, with sharp, suspicious eyes, and lips pressed together. - -“Would to God the horse was smaller and the load larger; it might last -longer,” answered the girl. - -“Is it then your own food you are dragging home?” - -“By God’s grace it is; I have to get my own food, although I am so -little.” - -The beggar seized the sled rope to drag it up. - -The girl turned and looked at him. - -“You needn’t think that you will get anything for this,” she said. - -The beggar laughed. - -“You must be the daughter of the Broby clergyman.” - -“Yes, yes, I am indeed. Many have poorer fathers, but none have worse. -That’s the Lord’s truth, although it’s a shame that his own child should -have to say it.” - -“I hear he is mean and ill-natured, your father.” - -“Mean he is, and ill-natured he is, but they say his daughter will be -worse if she lives so long; that’s what people say.” - -“I fancy people are right. What I would like to know is, where you found -this meal-bag.” - -“It makes no difference if I tell you. I took the grain out of father’s -store-house this morning, and now I have been to the mill.” - -“May he not see you when you come dragging it behind you?” - -“You have left school too early. Father is away on his parish visits, -can’t you see?” - -“Somebody is driving up the hill behind us; I hear the creaking of the -runners. Think if it were he who is coming!” - -The girl listened and peered down, then she burst into tears. - -“It is father,” she sobbed. “He will kill me! He will kill me!” - -“Yes, good advice is now precious, and prompt advice better than silver -and gold,” said the beggar. - -“Look here,” said the child, “you can help me. Take the rope and drag the -sledge; then father will believe it is yours.” - -“What shall I do with it afterwards?” asked the beggar, and put the rope -round his shoulders. - -“Take it where you like for the moment, but come up to the parsonage with -it when it is dark. I shall be looking out for you. You are to come with -the bag and the sledge, you understand.” - -“I shall try.” - -“God help you if you don’t come!” called the girl, while she ran, -hurrying to get home before her father. - -The beggar turned the sledge with a heavy heart and dragged it down to -the inn. - -The poor fellow had had his dream, as he went in the snow with half-naked -feet. He had thought of the great woods north of lake Löfven, of the -great Finn forests. - -Here in the parish of Bro, where he was now wandering along the sound -which connects the upper and lower Löfven,—in this rich and smiling -country, where one estate joins another, factory lies near factory—here -all the roads seemed to him too heavy, the rooms too small, the beds too -hard. Here he longed for the peace of the great, eternal forests. - -Here he heard the blows echoing in all the barns as they threshed out -the grain. Loads of timber and charcoal-vans kept coming down from the -inexhaustible forests. Endless loads of metal followed the deep ruts -which the hundreds gone before had cut. Here he saw sleighs filled with -travellers speed from house to house, and it seemed to him as if pleasure -held the reins, and beauty and love stood on the runners. Oh, how he -longed for the peace of the forest. - -There the trees rise straight and pillarlike from the even ground, there -the snow rests in heavy layers on the motionless pines, there the wind -is powerless and only plays softly in the topmost leaves, there he would -wander deeper and still farther in, until at last his strength would fail -him, and he would drop under the great trees, dying of hunger and cold. - -He longed for the great murmuring grave above the Löfven, where he would -be overcome by the powers of annihilation, where at last hunger, cold, -fatigue, and brandy should succeed in destroying his poor body, which had -endured everything. - -He came down to the inn to await the evening. He went into the bar-room -and threw himself down on a bench by the door, dreaming of the eternal -forests. - -The innkeeper’s wife felt sorry for him and gave him a glass of brandy. -She even gave him another, he implored her so eagerly. - -But more she would not give him, and the beggar was in despair. He must -have more of the strong, sweet brandy. He must once again feel his heart -dance in his body and his thoughts flame up in intoxication. Oh, that -sweet spirit of the corn! - -The summer sun, the song of the birds, perfume and beauty floated in -its white wave. Once more, before he disappears into the night and the -darkness, let him drink sunshine and happiness. - -So he bartered first the meal, then the meal-sack, and last the sledge, -for brandy. On it he got thoroughly drunk, and slept the greater part of -the afternoon on a bench in the bar-room. - -When he awoke he understood that there was left for him only one thing to -do. Since his miserable body had taken possession of his soul, since he -had been capable of drinking up what a child had confided to him, since -he was a disgrace to the earth, he must free it of the burden of such -wretchedness. He must give his soul its liberty, let it go to its God. - -He lay on the bench in the bar-room and passed sentence on himself: -“Gösta Berling, dismissed priest, accused of having drunk up the food -of a hungry child, is condemned to death. What death? Death in the -snow-drifts.” - -He seized his cap and reeled out. He was neither quite awake nor quite -sober. He wept in pity for himself, for his poor, soiled soul, which he -must set free. - -He did not go far, and did not turn from the road. At the very roadside -lay a deep drift, and there he threw himself down to die. He closed his -eyes and tried to sleep. - -No one knows how long he lay there; but there was still life in him when -the daughter of the minister of Broby came running along the road with a -lantern in her hand, and found him in the drift by the roadside. She had -stood for hours and waited for him; now she had run down Broby hill to -look for him. - -She recognized him instantly, and she began to shake him and to scream -with all her might to get him awake. - -She must know what he had done with her meal-bag. - -She must call him back to life, at least for so long a time that he could -tell her what had become of her sledge and her meal-bag. Her father would -kill her if she had lost his sledge. She bit the beggar’s finger and -scratched his face, and at the same time she screamed madly. - -Then some one came driving along the road. - -“Who the devil is screaming so?” asked a harsh voice. - -“I want to know what this fellow has done with my meal-bag and my -sledge,” sobbed the child, and beat with clenched fists on the beggar’s -breast. - -“Are you clawing a frozen man? Away with you, wild-cat!” - -The traveller was a large and coarse woman. She got out of the sleigh and -came over to the drift. She took the child by the back of the neck and -threw her on one side. Then she leaned over, thrust her arms under the -beggar’s body, and lifted him up. Then she carried him to the sleigh and -laid him in it. - -“Come with me to the inn, wild-cat,” she called to the child, “that we -may hear what you know of all this.” - - * * * * * - -An hour later the beggar sat on a chair by the door in the best room of -the inn, and in front of him stood the powerful woman who had rescued him -from the drift. - -Just as Gösta Berling now saw her, on her way home from the charcoal -kilns, with sooty hands, and a clay-pipe in her mouth, dressed in a -short, unlined sheepskin jacket and striped homespun skirt, with tarred -shoes on her feet and a sheath-knife in her bosom, as he saw her with -gray hair combed back from an old, beautiful face, so had he heard her -described a thousand times, and he knew that he had come across the -far-famed major’s wife of Ekeby. - -She was the most influential woman in all Värmland, mistress of seven -iron-works, accustomed to command and to be obeyed; and he was only a -poor, condemned man, stripped of everything, knowing that every road was -too heavy for him, every room too crowded. His body shook with terror, -while her glance rested on him. - -She stood silent and looked at the human wretchedness before her, the -red, swollen hands, the emaciated form, and the splendid head, which even -in its ruin and neglect shone in wild beauty. - -“You are Gösta Berling, the mad priest?” she said, peering at him. - -The beggar sat motionless. - -“I am the mistress of Ekeby.” - -A shudder passed over the beggar’s body. He clasped his hands and raised -his eyes with a longing glance. What would she do with him? Would she -force him to live? He shook before her strength. And yet he had so nearly -reached the peace of the eternal forests. - -She began the struggle by telling him the minister’s daughter had got her -sledge and her meal-sack again, and that she, the major’s wife, had a -shelter for him as for so many other homeless wretches in the bachelor’s -wing at Ekeby. - -She offered him a life of idleness and pleasure, but he answered he must -die. - -Then she struck the table with her clenched fist and let him hear what -she thought of him. - -“So you want to die, that’s what you want. That would not surprise me, -if you were alive. Look, such a wasted body and such powerless limbs and -such dull eyes, and you think that there is something left of you to -die. Do you think that you have to lie stiff and stark with a coffin-lid -nailed down over you to be dead? Don’t you believe that I stand here and -see how dead you are, Gösta Berling? - -“I see that you have a skull for a head, and it seems to me as if the -worms were creeping out of the sockets of your eyes. Do you not feel that -your mouth is full of dust? Do you not hear how your bones rattle when -you move? - -“You have drowned yourself in brandy, Gösta Berling, and you are dead. - -“That which now moves in you is only death spasms, and you will not allow -them to live, if you call that life. It is just as if you grudged the -dead a dance over the graves in the starlight. - -“Are you ashamed that you were dismissed, since you wish to die now? It -would have been more to your honor had you made use of your gifts and -been of some use on God’s green earth, I tell you. Why did you not come -directly to me? I should have arranged everything for you. Yes, now you -expect much glory from being wrapped in a winding-sheet and laid on -saw-dust and called a beautiful corpse.” - -The beggar sat calm, almost smiling, while she thundered out her angry -words. There was no danger, he rejoiced, no danger. The eternal forests -wait, and she has no power to turn thy soul from them. - -But the major’s wife was silent and walked a couple of times up and down -the room; then she took a seat before the fire, put her feet on the -fender, and leaned her elbows on her knees. - -“Thousand devils!” she said, and laughed softly to herself. “It is -truer, what I am saying, than I myself thought. Don’t you believe, Gösta -Berling, that most of the people in this world are dead or half-dead? Do -you think that I am alive? No! No, indeed! - -“Yes, look at me! I am the mistress of Ekeby, and I am the most powerful -in Värmland. If I wave one finger the governor comes, if I wave with -two the bishop comes, and if I wave with three all the chapter and the -aldermen and mine-owners in Värmland dance to my music in Karlstad’s -market-place. A thousand devils! Boy, I tell you that I am only a -dressed-up corpse. God knows how little life there is in me.” - -The beggar leaned forward on his chair and listened with strained -attention. The old woman sat and rocked before the fire. She did not look -at him while she talked. - -“Don’t you know,” she continued, “that if I were a living being, and saw -you sitting there, wretched and deplorable with suicidal thoughts, don’t -you believe that I should take them out of you in a second? I should have -tears for you and prayers, which would turn you upside down, and I should -save your soul; but now I am dead. - -“Have you heard that I once was the beautiful Margareta Celsing? That was -not yesterday, but I can still sit and weep my old eyes red for her. Why -shall Margareta Celsing be dead, and Margareta Samzelius live? Why shall -the major’s wife at Ekeby live?—tell me that, Gösta Berling. - -“Do you know what Margareta Celsing was like? She was slender and -delicate and modest and innocent, Gösta Berling. She was one over whose -grave angels weep. - -“She knew nothing of evil, no one had ever given her pain, she was good -to all. And she was beautiful, really beautiful. - -“There was a man, his name was Altringer. God knows how he happened to be -travelling up there in Älfdal wildernesses, where her parents had their -iron-works. Margareta Celsing saw him; he was a handsome man, and she -loved him. - -“But he was poor, and they agreed to wait for one another five years, as -it is in the legend. When three years had passed another suitor came. He -was ugly and bad, but her parents believed that he was rich, and they -forced Margareta Celsing, by fair means and foul, by blows and hard -words, to take him for her husband. And that day, you see, Margareta -Celsing died. - -“After that there was no Margareta Celsing, only Major Samzelius’s wife, -and she was not good nor modest; she believed in much evil and never -thought of the good. - -“You know well enough what happened afterwards. We lived at Sjö by the -Lake Löfven, the major and I. But he was not rich, as people had said. I -often had hard days. - -“Then Altringer came again, and now he was rich. He became master of -Ekeby, which lies next to Sjö; he made himself master of six other -estates by Lake Löfven. He was able, thrifty; he was a man of mark. - -“He helped us in our poverty; we drove in his carriages; he sent food -to our kitchen, wine to our cellar. He filled my life with feasting and -pleasure. The major went off to the wars, but what did we care for that? -One day I was a guest at Ekeby, the next he came to Sjö. Oh, it was like -a long dance of delight on Löfven’s shores. - -“But there was evil talk of Altringer and me. If Margareta Celsing had -been living, it would have given her much pain, but it made no difference -to me. But as yet I did not understand that it was because I was dead -that I had no feeling. - -“At last the tales of us reached my father and mother, as they went among -the charcoal kilns up in Älfdal’s forest. My mother did not stop to -think; she travelled hither to talk to me. - -“One day, when the major was away and I sat dining with Altringer and -several others, she arrived. I saw her come into the room, but I could -not feel that she was my mother, Gösta Berling. I greeted her as a -stranger, and invited her to sit down at my table and take part in the -meal. - -“She wished to talk with me, as if I had been her daughter, but I said to -her that she was mistaken, that my parents were dead, they had both died -on my wedding day. - -“Then she agreed to the comedy. She was sixty years old; a hundred and -twenty miles had she driven in three days. Now she sat without ceremony -at the dinner-table and ate her food; she was a strong and capable woman. - -“She said that it was very sad that I had had such a loss just on that -day. - -“‘The saddest thing was,’ I said, ‘that my parents did not die a day -sooner; then the wedding would never have taken place.’ - -“‘Is not the gracious lady pleased with her marriage?’ she then asked. - -“‘Oh, yes,’ said I, ‘I am pleased. I shall always be pleased to obey my -dear parents’ wish!’ - -“She asked if it had been my parents’ wish that I should heap shame upon -myself and them and deceive my husband. I did my parents little honor by -making myself a byword in every man’s mouth. - -“‘They must lie as they have made their bed,’ I answered her. And -moreover I wished her to understand, that I did not intend to allow any -one to calumniate my parents’ daughter. - -“We ate, we two. The men about us sat silent and could not lift knife nor -fork. - -“She stayed a day to rest, then she went. But all the time I saw her, I -could not understand that she was my mother. I only knew that my mother -was dead. - -“When she was ready to leave, Gösta Berling, and I stood beside her on -the steps, and the carriage was before the door, she said to me:— - -“‘Twenty-four hours have I been here, without your greeting me as your -mother. By lonely roads I came here, a hundred and twenty miles in -three days. And for shame for you my body is trembling, as if it had -been beaten with rods. May you be disowned, as I have been disowned, -repudiated as I have been repudiated! May the highway be your home, the -hay-stack your bed, the charcoal-kiln your stove! May shame and dishonor -be your reward; may others strike you, as I strike you!’ - -“And she gave me a heavy blow on the cheek. - -“But I lifted her up, carried her down the steps, and put her in her -carriage. - -“‘Who are you, that you curse me?’ I asked; ‘who are you that you strike -me? That I will suffer from no one.’ - -“And I gave her the blow again. - -“The carriage drove away, but then, at that moment, Gösta Berling, I knew -that Margareta Celsing was dead. - -“She was good and innocent; she knew no evil. Angels had wept at her -grave. If she had lived, she would not have struck her mother.” - -The beggar by the door had listened, and the words for a moment had -drowned the sound of the eternal forests’ alluring murmur. For see, this -great lady, she made herself his equal in sin, his sister in perdition, -to give him courage to live. For he should learn that sorrow and -wrong-doing weighed down other heads than his. He rose and went over to -the major’s wife. - -“Will you live now? Gösta Berling?” she asked with a voice which broke -with tears. “Why should you die? You could have been such a good priest, -but it was never Gösta Berling whom you drowned in brandy, he as -gleamingly innocent-white as that Margareta Celsing I suffocated in hate. -Will you live?” - -Gösta fell on his knees before her. - -“Forgive me,” he said, “I cannot.” - -“I am an old woman, hardened by much sorrow,” answered the major’s wife, -“and I sit here and give myself as a prize to a beggar, whom I have found -half-frozen in a snow-drift by the roadside. It serves me right. Let him -go and kill himself; then at least he won’t be able to tell of my folly.” - -“I am no suicide, I am condemned to die. Do not make the struggle too -hard for me! I may not live. My body has taken possession of my soul, -therefore I must let it escape and go to God.” - -“And so you believe you will get there?” - -“Farewell, and thank you!” - -“Farewell, Gösta Berling.” - -The beggar rose and walked with hanging head and dragging step to the -door. This woman made the way up to the great forests heavy for him. - -When he came to the door, he had to look back. Then he met her glance, as -she sat still and looked after him. He had never seen such a change in -any face, and he stood and stared at her. She, who had just been angry -and threatening, sat transfigured, and her eyes shone with a pitying, -compassionate love. - -There was something in him, in his own wild heart, which burst before -that glance; he leaned his forehead against the door-post, stretched his -arms up over his head, and wept as if his heart would break. - -The major’s wife tossed her clay-pipe into the fire and came over to -Gösta. Her movements were as tender as a mother’s. - -“There, there, my boy!” - -And she got him down beside her on the bench by the door, so that he wept -with his head on her knees. - -“Will you still die?” - -Then he wished to rush away. She had to hold him back by force. - -“Now I tell you that you may do as you please. But I promise you that, if -you will live, I will take to me the daughter of the Broby minister and -make a human being of her, so that she can thank her God that you stole -her meal. Now will you?” - -He raised his head and looked her right in the eyes. - -“Do you mean it?” - -“I do, Gösta Berling.” - -Then he wrung his hands in anguish. He saw before him the peering eyes, -the compressed lips, the wasted little hands. This young creature would -get protection and care, and the marks of degradation be effaced from -her body, anger from her soul. Now the way up to the eternal forests was -closed to him. - -“I shall not kill myself as long as she is under your care,” he said. “I -knew well enough that you would force me to live. I felt that you were -stronger than I.” - -“Gösta Berling,” she said solemnly, “I have fought for you as for myself. -I said to God: ‘If there is anything of Margareta Celsing living in me, -let her come forward and show herself, so that this man may not go and -kill himself.’ And He granted it, and you saw her, and therefore you -could not go. And she whispered to me that for that poor child’s sake you -would give up your plan of dying. Ah, you fly, you wild birds, but our -Lord knows the net which will catch you.” - -“He is a great and wonderful God,” said Gösta Berling. “He has mocked me -and cast me out, but He will not let me die. May His will be done!” - -From that day Gösta Berling became a guest at Ekeby. Twice he tried to -leave and make himself a way to live by his own work. The first time the -major’s wife gave him a cottage near Ekeby; he moved thither and meant to -live as a laborer. This succeeded for a while, but he soon wearied of the -loneliness and the daily labor, and again returned as a guest. There was -another time, when he became tutor at Borg for Count Henry Dohna. During -this time he fell in love with the young Ebba Dohna, the count’s sister; -but when she died, just as he thought he had nearly won her, he gave up -every thought of being anything but guest at Ekeby. It seemed to him that -for a dismissed priest all ways to make amends were closed. - - - - -PART I - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE LANDSCAPE - - -I must now describe the long lake, the rich plains and the blue -mountains, since they were the scene where Gösta Berling and the other -knights of Ekeby passed their joyous existence. - -The lake has its sources far up in the north, and it is a perfect country -for a lake. The forest and the mountains never cease to collect water for -it; rivulets and brooks stream into it the whole year round. It has fine -white sand to stretch itself over, headlands and islands to mirror and to -look at, river sprites and sea nymphs have free play room there, and it -quickly grows large and beautiful. There, in the north, it is smiling and -friendly; one needs but to see it on a summer morning, when it lies half -awake under a veil of mist, to perceive how gay it is. It plays first for -a while, creeps softly, softly, out of its light covering, so magically -beautiful that one can hardly recognize it; but then it casts from it, -suddenly, the whole covering, and lies there bare and uncovered and rosy, -shining in the morning light. - -But the lake is not content with this life of play; it draws itself -together to a narrow strait, breaks its way out through the sand-hills to -the south, and seeks out a new kingdom for itself. And such a one it also -finds; it gets larger and more powerful, has bottomless depths to fill, -and a busy landscape to adorn. And now its water is darker, its shores -less varying, its winds sharper, its whole character more severe. It has -become a stately and magnificent lake. Many are the ships and the rafts -of timber which pass there; late in the year it finds time to take its -winter rest, rarely before Christmas. Often is it in peevish mood, when -it grows white with wrath and drags down sailing-boats; but it can also -lie in a dreamy calm and reflect the heavens. - -But still farther out into the world will the lake go, although the -mountains become bolder and space narrower; still farther down it comes, -so that it once again must creep as a narrow strait between sand-bound -shores. Then it broadens out for the third time, but no longer with the -same beauty and might. - -The shores sink down and become tame, gentler winds blow, the lake takes -its winter rest early. It is still beautiful, but it has lost youth’s -giddiness and manhood’s strength—it is now a lake like any other. With -two arms it gropes after a way to Lake Vänern, and when that is found it -throws itself with the feebleness of old age over the slopes and goes -with a last thundering leap to rest. - -The plain is as long as the lake; but it has no easy time to find a place -between sea and mountain, all the way from the valley of the basin at the -lake’s northern end, where it first dares to spread itself out, till it -lays itself to easy rest by the Vänern’s shore. There is no doubt that -the plain would rather follow the shore of the lake, long as it is, but -the mountains give it no peace. The mountains are mighty granite walls, -covered with woods, full of cliffs difficult to cross, rich in moss and -lichen,—in those old days the home of many wild things. - -On the far-stretching ridges one often comes upon a wet swamp or a pool -with dark water. Here and there is a charcoal kiln or an open patch where -timber and wood have been cut, or a burnt clearing, and these all bear -witness that there is work going on on the mountains; but as a rule they -lie in careless peace and amuse themselves with watching the lights and -shadows play over their slopes. - -And with these mountains the plain, which is peaceful and rich, and loves -work, wages a perpetual war, in a friendly spirit, however. - -“It is quite enough,” says the plain to the mountains; “if you set up -your walls about me, that is safety enough for me.” - -But the mountains will not listen. They send out long rows of hills and -barren table-lands way down to the lake. They raise great look-out towers -on every promontory, and leave the shores of the lake so seldom that the -plain can but rarely stretch itself out by the soft, broad sands. But it -does not help to complain. - -“You ought to be glad that we stand here,” the mountains say. “Think of -that time before Christmas, when the icy fogs, day after day, rolled up -from the Löfven. We do you good service.” - -The plain complains that it has no space and an ugly view. - -“You are so stupid,” answer the mountains; “if you could only feel how it -is blowing down here by the lake. One needs at least a granite back and a -fir-tree jacket to withstand it. And, besides, you can be glad to have us -to look at.” - -Yes, looking at the mountains, that is just what the plain is doing. It -knows so well all the wonderful shiftings of light and shade, which pass -over them. It knows how they sink down in the noon-day heat towards the -horizon, low and a dim light-blue, and in the morning or evening light -raise their venerable heights, clear blue as the sky at noon. - -Sometimes the light falls so sharply over them that they look green or -dark-blue, and every separate fir-tree, each path and cleft, is visible -miles away. - -There are places where the mountains draw back and allow the plain to -come forward and gaze at the lake. But when it sees the lake in its -anger, hissing and spitting like a wild-cat, or sees it covered with -that cold mist which happens when the sea-sprite is busy with brewing or -washing, then it agrees that the mountains were right, and draws back to -its narrow prison again. - -Men have cultivated the beautiful plain time out of mind, and have built -much there. Wherever a stream in white foaming falls throws itself down -the slope, rose up factories and mills. On the bright, open places, where -the plain came down to the lake, churches and vicarages were built; but -on the edges of the valley, half-way up the slope, on stony grounds, -where grain would not grow, lie farm-houses and officers’ quarters, and -here and there a manor. - -Still, in the twenties, this district was not nearly so much cultivated -as now. Many were the woods and lakes and swamps which now can be tilled. -There were not so many people either, and they earned their living partly -by carting and day labor at the many factories, partly by working at -neighboring places; agriculture could not feed them. At that time they -went dressed in homespun, ate oatcakes, and were satisfied with a wage of -ten cents a day. Many were in great want; but life was often made easier -for them by a light and glad temper, and by an inborn handiness and -capability. - -And all those three, the long lake, the rich plain, and the blue -mountains, made the most beautiful scenery, and still do, just as the -people are still to this day, strong, brave and intelligent. Great -progress has been made, however, in prosperity and culture. - -May everything go well with those who live far away by the long lake and -the blue mountains! I shall now recall some of their memories. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -CHRISTMAS EVE - - -Sintram is the name of the wicked master of the works at Fors, with his -clumsy ape-body, and his long arms, with his bald head and ugly, grinning -face,—he whose delight is to make mischief. - -Sintram it is who takes only vagrants and bullies for workmen, and has -only quarrelsome, lying maids in his service; he who excites dogs to -madness by sticking pins in their noses, and lives happiest among evil -people and fierce beasts. - -It is Sintram whose greatest pleasure is to dress himself up in the foul -fiend’s likeness, with horns, and tail, and cloven hoof, and hairy body, -and suddenly appearing from dark corners, from behind the stove or the -wood-pile, to frighten timid children and superstitious women. - -It is Sintram who delights to change old friendship to new hate, and to -poison the heart with lies. - -Sintram is his name—and one day he came to Ekeby. - -Drag the great wood-sledge into the smithy, put it in the middle of the -floor, and lay a cart-bottom on the frame! There we have a table. Hurrah -for the table; the table is ready! - -Come now with chairs, with everything which will serve for a seat! -Come with three-legged stools and empty boxes! Come with ragged old -arm-chairs without any backs, and push up the runnerless sleigh and the -old coach! Ha, ha, ha, up with the old coach; it shall be the speaker’s -chair! - -Just look; one wheel gone, and the whole bottom out! Only the coach-box -is left. The cushion is thin and worn, its moss stuffing coming through, -the leather is red with age. High as a house is the old wreck. Prop it -up, prop it up, or down it will come! - -Hurrah! Hurrah! It is Christmas eve at Ekeby. - -Behind the broad bed’s silken curtains sleep the major and the major’s -wife, sleep and believe that the bachelors’ wing sleeps. The men-servants -and maids can sleep, heavy with feasting and the bitter Christmas ale; -but not their masters in the bachelors’ wing. How can any one think that -the bachelors’ wing sleeps? - -Sleeps, sleeps (oh, child of man, sleeps!), when the pensioners are -awake. The long tongs stand upright on the floor, with tallow candles in -their claws. From the mammoth kettle of shining copper flames the blue -fire of the burning brandy, high up to the dark roof. Beerencreutz’s -horn-lantern hangs on the forge-hammer. The yellow punch glows in the -bowl like a bright sun. The pensioners are celebrating Christmas eve in -the smithy. - -There is mirth and bustle. Fancy, if the major’s wife should see them! - -What then? Probably she would sit down with them and empty a bumper. She -is a doughty woman; she’s not afraid of a thundering drinking-song or to -take a hand at _kille_.[1] The richest woman in Värmland, as bold as a -man, proud as a queen. Songs she loves, and sounding fiddles, and the -hunting-horn. She likes wine and games of cards, and tables surrounded -by merry guests are her delight. She likes to see the larder emptied, to -have dancing and merry-making in chamber and hall, and the bachelors’ -wing full of pensioners. - -See them round about the bowl! Twelve are they, twelve men. Not -butterflies nor dandies, but men whose fame will not soon die out in -Värmland; brave men and strong. - -Not dried-up parchment, nor close-fisted money-bags; poor men, without a -care, gentlemen the whole day long. - -No mother’s darlings, no sleepy masters on their own estates. Wayfaring -men, cheerful men, knights of a hundred adventures. - -Now for many years the bachelors’ wing has stood empty. Ekeby is no -longer the chosen refuge of homeless gentlemen. Pensioned officers and -impoverished noblemen no longer drive about Värmland in shaky one-horse -vehicles. But let the dead live, let them rise up in their glad, -careless, eternal youth! - -All these notorious men could play on one or several instruments. All -were as full of wit and humor and conceits and songs as an ant-hill is -full of ants; but each one had his particular great quality, his much -esteemed merit which distinguished him from the others. - -First of all who sit about the bowl will I name Beerencreutz, the colonel -with the great white moustaches, player of cards, singer of songs; and -next to him, his friend and brother in arms, the silent major, the great -bear hunter, Anders Fuchs; and, as the third in order, little Ruster, -the drummer, who had been for many years the colonel’s servant, but had -won the rank of pensioner through his skill in brewing punch and his -knowledge of thorough-bass. Then may be mentioned the old ensign, Rutger -von Örneclou, lady-killer, dressed in stock and wig and ruffles, and -painted like a woman,—he was one of the most important pensioners; also -Christian Bergh, the mighty captain, who was a stalwart hero, but as -easy to outwit as a giant in the fairy story. In these two men’s company -one often saw the little, round Master Julius, witty, merry, and gifted, -speaker, painter, songster, and storyteller. He often had his joke with -the gout-crippled ensign and the dull giant. - -There was also the big German Kevenhüller, inventor of the automatic -carriage and the flying-machine, he whose name still echoes in the -murmuring forests,—a nobleman by birth and in appearance, with great -curled moustaches, a pointed beard, aquiline nose, and narrow, squinting -eyes in a net of intersecting wrinkles. There sat the great warrior -cousin, Christopher, who never went outside the walls of the bachelors’ -wing unless there was to be a bear-hunt or some foolhardy adventure; and -beside him Uncle Eberhard, the philosopher, who had not come to Ekeby for -pleasure and play, but in order to be able, undisturbed by concern for -daily bread, to complete his great work in the science of sciences. - -Last of all, and the best, the gentle Löwenborg, who sought the good in -the world, and understood little of its ways, and Lilliecrona, the great -musician, who had a good home, and was always longing to be there, but -still remained at Ekeby, for his soul needed riches and variety to be -able to bear life. - -These eleven men had all left youth behind them, and several were in old -age; but in the midst of them was one who was not more than thirty years -old, and still possessed the full, undiminished strength of his mind and -body. It was Gösta Berling, the Knight of Knights, who alone in himself -was a better speaker, singer, musician, hunter, drinking companion and -card-player than all of the others together. He possessed all gifts. What -a man the major’s wife had made of him! - -Look at him now in the speaker’s chair! The darkness sinks from the black -roof in great festoons over him. His blond head shines through it like a -young god’s. Slender, beautiful, eager for adventure, he stands there. - -But he is speaking very seriously. - -“Gentlemen and brothers, the time passes, the feast is far advanced, it -is time to drink a toast to the thirteenth at the table!” - -“Little brother Gösta,” cries Master Julius, “there is no thirteenth; we -are only twelve.” - -“At Ekeby a man dies every year,” continues Gösta with a more and more -gloomy voice. “One of the guests of the bachelors’ wing dies, one of -the glad, the careless, the eternal youth dies. What of that? Gentlemen -should never be old. Could our trembling hands not lift a glass, could -our quenched eyes not distinguish the cards, what has life for us, -and what are we for life? One must die of the thirteen who celebrate -Christmas eve in the smithy at Ekeby; but every year a new one comes to -complete our number; a man, experienced in pleasure, one who can handle -violin and card, must come and make our company complete. Old butterflies -should know how to die while the summer sun is shining. A toast to the -thirteenth!” - -“But, Gösta, we are only twelve,” remonstrate the pensioners, and do not -touch their glasses. - -Gösta Berling, whom they called the poet, although he never wrote -verses, continues with unaltered calmness: “Gentlemen and brothers! Have -you forgotten who you are? You are they who hold pleasure by force in -Värmland. You are they who set the fiddle-bows going, keep up the dance, -make song and music resound through the land. You know how to keep your -hearts from the love of gold, your hands from work. If you did not exist -the dance would die, summer die, the roses die, card-playing die, song -die, and in this whole blessed land there would be nothing but iron and -owners of iron-works. Pleasure lives while you live. For six years have -I celebrated Christmas eve in the Ekeby smithy, and never before has any -one refused to drink to the thirteenth?” - -“But, Gösta,” cry they all, “when we are only twelve how can we drink to -the thirteenth?” - -“Are we only twelve?” he says. “Why must we die out from the earth? Shall -we be but eleven next year, but ten the year after. Shall our name become -a legend, our company destroyed? I call upon him, the thirteenth, for -I have stood up to drink his toast. From the ocean’s depths, from the -bowels of the earth, from heaven, from hell I call him who shall complete -our number.” - -Then it rattled in the chimney, then the furnace-door opened, then the -thirteenth came. - -He was hairy, with tail and cloven-hoof, with horns and a pointed beard, -and at the sight of him the pensioners start up with a cry. - -But in uncontrollable joy Gösta Berling cries, “The thirteenth has come—a -toast to the thirteenth!” - -Yes, he has come, the old enemy of mankind, come to these foolhardy men -who trouble the peace of the Holy Night. The friend of witches on their -way to hell, who signs his bargains in blood on coal-black paper, he who -danced with the countess at Ivarsnäs for seven days, and could not be -exorcized by seven priests,—he has come. - -In stormy haste thoughts fly through the heads of the old adventurers at -the sight of him. They wonder for whose sake he is out this night. - -Many of them were ready to hurry away in terror, but they soon saw that -the horned one had not come to carry them down to his dark kingdom, but -that the ring of the cups and their songs had attracted him. He wished -to enjoy a little human pleasure in this holy night, and cast aside his -burden during this glad time. - -Oh, pensioners, pensioners, who of you now remembers it is the night -before Christmas; that even now angels are singing for the shepherds in -the fields? Children are lying anxious lest they sleep too soundly, that -they may not wake in time for the beautiful morning worship. Soon it will -be time to light the Christmas candles in the church at Bro, and far away -in the forest homes the young man in the evening has prepared a resin -torch to light his girl to church. In all the houses the mistress has -placed dip-lights in the windows, ready to light as the people go by to -church. The sexton takes up the Christmas psalm in his sleep, and the old -minister lies and tries if he has enough voice left to sing: “Glory be to -God on high, on earth peace, good-will towards men!” - -Oh, pensioners, better had it been for you if you had spent this peaceful -night quietly in your beds than to trouble the company with the Prince of -Darkness. - -But they greet him with cries of welcome, as Gösta had done. A goblet -filled with burning brandy is placed in his hand. They give him the place -of honor at the table, and they look upon him with gladness, as if his -ugly satyr face wore the delicate features of their youth’s first love. - -Beerencreutz invites him to a game of cards, Master Julius sings his best -songs for him, and Örneclou talks to him of lovely women, those beautiful -creatures who make life sweet. - -He enjoys everything, the devil, as with princely bearing he leans back -on the old coach-box, and with clawed hand lifts the brimming goblet to -his smiling mouth. - -But Gösta Berling of course must make a speech in his honor. - -“Your Grace,” he says, “we have long awaited you here at Ekeby, for you -have little access, we suppose, to any other paradise. Here one can -live without toiling or spinning, as your Grace perhaps knows. Here -roasted ortolans fly into one’s mouth, and the bitter ale and the sweet -brandy flow in brooks and rivulets. This is a good place, your Grace! -We pensioners have waited for you, I tell you, for we have never been -complete before. See, we are something finer than we seem; we are the -mighty twelve of the poet, who are of all time. We were twelve when we -steered the world, up there on Olympus’s cloud-veiled top, and twelve -when we lived like birds in Ygdrasil’s green crown. Wherever there has -been poetry there have we followed. Did we not sit twelve men strong -about King Arthur’s Round Table, and were there not twelve paladins at -Charlemagne’s court? One of us has been a Thor, a Jupiter; any one can -see that in us now. They can perceive the divine splendor under our rags, -the lion’s mane under the ass’s head. Times are bad with us, but if we -are there a smithy becomes Olympus and the bachelors’ wing Valhalla. - -“But, your Grace, our number has not been complete. Every one knows that -in the poet’s twelve there must always be a Loki, a Prometheus. Him have -we been without.” - -“Your Grace, I wish you welcome!” - -“Hear, hear, hear!” says the evil one; “such a fine speech, a fine speech -indeed! And I, who have no time to answer. Business, boys, business. -I must be off, otherwise I should so gladly be at your service in any -rôle you like. Thanks for a pleasant evening, old gossips. We shall meet -again.” - -Then the pensioners demand where he is going; and he answers that the -noble major’s wife, mistress of Ekeby, is waiting for him to get her -contract renewed. - -Great wonder seizes upon the pensioners. - -A harsh and capable woman is she, the major’s wife at Ekeby. She can -lift a barrel of flour on her broad shoulders. She follows the loads of -ore from the Bergslagen mines, on the long road to Ekeby. She sleeps -like a waggoner on the stable floor, with a meal-bag under her head. -In the winter she will watch by a charcoal kiln, in the summer follow -a timber-raft down to the Löfven. She is a powerful woman. She swears -like a trooper, and rules over her seven estates like a king; rules her -own parish and all the neighboring parishes; yes, the whole of lovely -Värmland. But for the homeless gentlemen she had been like a mother, and -therefore they had closed their ears when slander had whispered to them -that she was in league with the devil. - -So they ask him with wonder what kind of a contract she has made with him. - -And he answers them, the black one, that he had given the major’s wife -her seven estates on the condition that she should send him every year a -human soul. - -Oh, the horror which compresses the pensioners’ hearts! - -Of course they knew it, but they had not understood before. - -At Ekeby every year, a man dies, one of the guests in the bachelors’ -wing dies, one of the glad, the careless, the ever young dies. What of -that?—gentlemen may not be old! If their trembling fingers cannot lift -the glass, if their dulled eyes cannot see the cards, what has life for -them, and what are they to life? Butterflies should know how to die while -the sun is shining. - -But now, now for the first time, they grasp its real meaning. - -Woe to that woman! That is why she had given them so many good meals, why -she had let them drink her bitter ale and her sweet brandy, that they -might reel from the drinking-halls and the card-tables at Ekeby down to -the king of hell,—one a year, one for each passing year. - -Woe to the woman, the witch! Strong men had come to this Ekeby, had come -hither to perish. For she had destroyed them here. Their brains were as -sponges, dry ashes their lungs, and darkness their spirit, as they sank -back on their death-beds and were ready for their long journey, hopeless, -soulless, virtueless. - -Woe to the woman! So had those died who had been better men than they, -and so should they die. - -But not long are they paralyzed by weight of terror. - -“You king of perdition!” they cry, “never again shall you make a -blood-signed contract with that witch; she shall die! Christian -Bergh, the mighty captain, has thrown over his shoulder the heaviest -sledge-hammer in the smithy. He will bury it to the handle in the hag’s -head. No more souls shall she sacrifice to you. - -“And you, you horned thing, we shall lay you on the anvil and let the -forge-hammer loose. We shall hold you quiet with tongs under the hammer’s -blows and teach you to go a-hunting for gentlemen’s souls.” - -He is a coward, the devil, as every one knows of old, and all this talk -of the forge-hammer does not please him at all. He calls Christian Bergh -back and begins to bargain with the pensioners. - -“Take the seven estates; take them yourselves, gentlemen, and give me the -major’s wife!” - -“Do you think we are as base as she?” cries Master Julius. “We will -have Ekeby and all the rest, but you must look after the major’s wife -yourself.” - -“What does Gösta say? what does Gösta say?” asks the gentle Löwenborg. -“Gösta Berling must speak. We must hear what he thinks of this important -matter.” - -“It is madness,” says Gösta Berling. “Gentlemen, don’t let him make fools -of you! What are you all against the major’s wife? It may fare as it -will with our souls, but with my consent we will not be such ungrateful -wretches as to act like rascals and traitors. I have eaten her food for -too many years to deceive her now.” - -“Yes, you can go to hell, Gösta, if you wish! We would rather rule at -Ekeby.” - -“But are you all raving, or have you drunk away your wits? Do you believe -it is true? Do you believe that that thing is the devil? Don’t you see -that it’s all a confounded lie?” - -“Tut, tut, tut,” says the black one; “he does not see that he will soon -be ready, and yet he has been seven years at Ekeby. He does not see how -far advanced he is.” - -“Begone, man! I myself have helped to shove you into the oven there.” - -“As if that made any difference; as if I were not as good a devil as -another. Yes, yes, Gösta Berling, you are in for it. You have improved, -indeed, under her treatment.” - -“It was she who saved me,” says Gösta. “What had I been without her?” - -“As if she did not know what she was about when she kept you here at -Ekeby. You can lure others to the trap; you have great gifts. Once you -tried to get away from her; you let her give you a cottage, and you -became a laborer; you wished to earn your bread. Every day she passed -your cottage, and she had lovely young girls with her. Once it was -Marianne Sinclair; then you threw aside your spade and apron, Gösta -Berling, and came back as pensioner.” - -“It lay on the highway, you fool.” - -“Yes, yes, of course; it lay on the highway. Then you came to Borg, -were tutor there to Henrik Dohna, and might have been Countess Märta’s -son-in-law. Who was it who managed that the young Ebba Dohna should hear -that you were only a dismissed priest, so that she refused you? It was -the major’s wife, Gösta Berling. She wanted you back again.” - -“Great matter!” says Gösta. “Ebba Dohna died soon afterwards. I would -never have got her anyway.” - -Then the devil came close up to him and hissed right in his face: “Died! -yes, of course she died. Killed herself for your sake, did she? But they -never told you that.” - -“You are not such a bad devil,” says Gösta. - -“It was the major’s wife who arranged it all, I tell you. She wanted to -have you back in the bachelors’ wing.” - -Gösta burst out laughing. - -“You are not such a bad devil,” he cried wildly. “Why should we not make -a contract with you? I’m sure you can get us the seven estates if you -like.” - -“It is well that you do not longer withstand your fate.” - -The pensioners drew a sigh of relief. It had gone so far with them -that they could do nothing without Gösta. If he had not agreed to the -arrangement it could never have come to anything. And it was no small -matter for destitute gentlemen to get seven estates for their own. - -“Remember, now,” says Gösta, “that we take the seven estates in order to -save our souls, but not to be iron-work owners who count their money and -weigh their iron. No dried-up parchments, no purse-proud money-bags will -we become, but gentlemen will we be and remain.” - -“The very words of wisdom,” murmurs the black one. - -“If you, therefore, will give us the seven estates for one year we will -accept them; but remember that if we do anything during that time which -is not worthy of a gentleman, if we do anything which is sensible, or -useful, or effeminate, then you may take the whole twelve of us when the -year is out, and give the estates to whom you will.” - -The devil rubbed his hands with delight. - -“But if we always behave like true gentlemen,” continues Gösta, “then you -may never again make any contract about Ekeby, and no pay do you get for -this year either from us or from the major’s wife.” - -“That is hard,” says the devil. “Oh, dear Gösta, I must have one soul, -just one little, poor soul. Couldn’t I have the major’s wife? Why should -you spare the major’s wife?” - -“I do not drive any bargains with such wares,” roars Gösta; “but if you -must have some one, you can take old Sintram at Fors; he is ready, I can -answer for that.” - -“Well, well, that will do,” says the devil, without blinking. “The -pensioners or Sintram, they can balance one another. This will be a good -year.” - -And so the contract was written, with blood from Gösta’s little finger, -on the devil’s black paper and with his quill-pen. - -And when it was done the pensioners rejoiced. Now the world should belong -to them for a whole year, and afterwards there would always be some way. - -They push aside the chairs, make a ring about the kettle, which stands in -the middle of the black floor, and whirl in a wild dance. Innermost in -the circle dances the devil, with wild bounds; and at last he falls flat -beside the kettle, rolls it over, and drinks. - -Then Beerencreutz throws himself down beside him, and also Gösta Berling; -and after them all the others lay themselves in a circle round the -kettle, which is rolled from mouth to mouth. At last it is tipped over by -a push, and the hot, sticky drink pours over them. - -When they rise up, swearing, the devil is gone; but his golden promises -float like shining crowns over the pensioners’ heads. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -CHRISTMAS DAY - - -On Christmas day the major’s wife gives a great dinner at Ekeby. - -She sits as hostess at a table laid for fifty guests. She sits there in -splendor and magnificence; here her short sheepskin jacket, her striped -woollen skirt, and clay-pipe do not follow her. She rustles in silk, gold -weighs on her bare arms, pearls cool her white neck. - -Where are the pensioners? Where are they who on the black floor of the -smithy, out of the polished copper kettle, drank a toast to the new -masters of Ekeby? - -In the corner by the stove the pensioners are sitting at a separate -table; to-day there is no room for them at the big table. To them the -food comes late, the wine sparingly; to them are sent no glances from -beautiful women, no one listens to Gösta’s jokes. - -But the pensioners are like tamed birds, like satiated wild beasts. They -had had scarcely an hour’s sleep that night; then they had driven to -morning worship, lighted by torches and the stars. They saw the Christmas -candles, they heard the Christmas hymns, their faces were like smiling -children’s. They forgot the night in the smithy as one forgets an evil -dream. - -Great and powerful is the major’s wife at Ekeby. Who dares lift his arm -to strike her; who his voice to give evidence against her? Certainly not -poor gentlemen who for many years have eaten her bread and slept under -her roof. She can put them where she will, she can shut her door to them -when she will, and they have not the power to fly from her might. God be -merciful to their souls! Far from Ekeby they cannot live. - -At the big table there was rejoicing: there shone Marianne Sinclair’s -beautiful eyes; there rang the gay Countess Dohna’s low laugh. - -But the pensioners are gloomy. Was it not just as easy to have put them -at the same table with the other guests? What a lowering position there -in the corner by the stove. As if pensioners were not fit to associate -with fine people! - -The major’s wife is proud to sit between the Count at Borg and the Bro -clergyman. The pensioners hang their heads like shame-faced children, and -by degrees awake in them thoughts of the night. - -Like shy guests the gay sallies, the merry stories come to the table in -the corner by the stove. There the rage of the night and its promises -enter into their minds. Master Julius makes the mighty captain, Christian -Bergh, believe that the roasted grouse, which are being served at the big -table, will not go round for all the guests; but it amuses no one. - -“They won’t go round,” he says. “I know how many there are. But they’ll -manage in spite of it, Captain Christian; they have some roasted crows -for us here at the little table.” - -But Colonel Beerencreutz’s lips are curved by only a very feeble smile, -under the fierce moustaches, and Gösta has looked the whole day as if he -was meditating somebody’s death. - -“Any food is good enough for pensioners,” he says. - -At last the dish heaped up with magnificent grouse reaches the little -table. - -But Captain Christian is angry. Has he not had a life-long hate of -crows,—those odious, cawing, winged things? - -He hated them so bitterly that last autumn he had put on a woman’s -trailing dress, and had fastened a cloth on his head and made himself a -laughing-stock for all men, only to get in range when they ate the grain -in the fields. - -He sought them out at their caucuses on the bare fields in the spring and -killed them. He looked for their nests in the summer, and threw out the -screaming, featherless young ones, or smashed the half-hatched eggs. - -Now he seizes the dish of grouse. - -“Do you think I don’t know them?” he cries to the servant. “Do I need to -hear them caw to recognize them? Shame on you, to offer Christian Bergh -crows! Shame on you!” - -Thereupon he takes the grouse, one by one, and throws them against the -wall. - -“Shame, shame!” he reiterates, so that the whole room rings,—“to offer -Christian Bergh crows! Shame!” - -And just as he used to hurl the helpless young crows against the cliffs, -so now he sends grouse after grouse whizzing against the wall. - -Sauce and grease spatter about him, the crushed birds rebound to the -floor. - -And the bachelors’ wing rejoices. - -Then the angry voice of the major’s wife penetrates to the pensioners’ -ears. - -“Turn him out!” she calls to the servants. - -But they do not dare to touch him. He is still Christian Bergh, the -mighty captain. - -“Turn him out!” - -He hears the command, and, terrible in his rage, he now turns upon the -major’s wife as a bear turns from a fallen enemy to meet a new attack. He -marches up to the horse-shoe table. His heavy tread resounds through the -hall. He stands opposite her, with the table between them. - -“Turn him out!” cries the major’s wife again. - -But he is raging; none dare to face his frowning brow and great clenched -hand. He is big as a giant, and as strong. The guests and servants -tremble, and dare not approach him. Who would dare to touch him now, when -rage has taken away his reason? - -He stands opposite the major’s wife and threatens her. - -“I took the crow and threw it against the wall. And I did right.” - -“Out with you, captain!” - -“Shame, woman! Offer Christian Bergh crows! If I did right I would take -you and your seven hell’s—” - -“Thousand devils, Christian Bergh! don’t swear. Nobody but I swears here.” - -“Do you think I am afraid of you, hag? Don’t you think I know how you got -your seven estates?” - -“Silence, captain!” - -“When Altringer died he gave them to your husband because you had been -his mistress.” - -“Will you be silent?” - -“Because you had been such a faithful wife, Margareta Samzelius. And the -major took the seven estates and let you manage them and pretended not to -know. And the devil arranged it all; but now comes the end for you.” - -The major’s wife sits down; she is pale and trembling. She assents in a -strange, low voice. - -“Yes, now it is the end for me, and it is your doing, Christian Bergh.” - -At her voice Captain Christian trembles, his face works, and his eyes are -filled with tears of anguish. - -“I am drunk,” he cries. “I don’t know what I am saying; I haven’t said -anything. Dog and slave, dog and slave, and nothing more have I been for -her for forty years. She is Margareta Celsing, whom I have served my -whole life. I say nothing against her. What should I have to say against -the beautiful Margareta Celsing! I am the dog which guards her door, the -slave who bears her burdens. She may strike me, she may kick me! You see -how I hold my tongue and bear it. I have loved her for forty years. How -could I say anything against her?” - -And a wonderful sight it is to see how he kneels and begs for -forgiveness. And as she is sitting on the other side of the table, he -goes on his knees round the table till he comes to her; then he bends -down and kisses the hem of her dress, and the floor is wet with his tears. - -But not far from the major’s wife sits a small, strong man. He has shaggy -hair, small, squinting eyes, and a protruding under-jaw. He looks like a -bear. He is a man of few words, who likes to go his own quiet way and -let the world take care of itself. He is Major Samzelius. - -He rises when he hears Captain Christian’s accusing words, and the -major’s wife rises, and all the fifty guests. The women are weeping in -terror of what is coming, the men stand dejected, and at the feet of -the major’s wife lies Captain Christian, kissing the hem of her dress, -wetting the floor with his tears. - -The major slowly clenches his broad, hairy hands, and lifts his arm. - -But the woman speaks first. Her voice sounds hollow and unfamiliar. - -“You stole me,” she cried. “You came like a thief and took me. They -forced me, in my home, by blows, by hunger, and hard words to be your -wife. I have treated you as you deserved.” - -The major’s broad fist is clenched. His wife gives way a couple of steps. -Then she speaks again. - -“Living eels twist under the knife; an unwilling wife takes a lover. Will -you strike me now for what happened twenty years ago? Do you not remember -how he lived at Ekeby, we at Sjö? Do you not remember how he helped us -in our poverty? We drove in his carriages, we drank his wine. Did we -hide anything from you? Were not his servants your servants? Did not his -gold weigh heavy in your pocket? Did you not accept the seven estates? -You held your tongue and took them; then you should have struck, Berndt -Samzelius,—then you should have struck.” - -The man turns from her and looks on all those present. He reads in their -faces that they think she is right, that they all believe he took the -estates in return for his silence. - -“I never knew it!” he says, and stamps on the floor. - -“It is well that you know it now!” she cries, in a shrill, ringing voice. -“Was I not afraid lest you should die without knowing it? It is well that -you know it now, so that I can speak out to you who have been my master -and jailer. You know now that I, in spite of all, was his from whom you -stole me. I tell you all now, you who have slandered me!” - -It is the old love which exults in her voice and shines from her eyes. -Her husband stands before her with lifted hand. She reads horror and -scorn on the fifty faces about her. She feels that it is the last hour of -her power. But she cannot help rejoicing that she may speak openly of the -tenderest memory of her life. - -“He was a man, a man indeed. Who were you, to come between us? I have -never seen his equal. He gave me happiness, he gave me riches. Blessed be -his memory!” - -Then the major lets his lifted arm fall without striking her; now he -knows how he shall punish her. - -“Away!” he cries; “out of my house!” - -She stands motionless. - -But the pensioners stand with pale faces and stare at one another. -Everything was going as the devil had prophesied. They now saw the -consequences of the non-renewal of the contract. If that is true, so is -it also true that she for more than twenty years had sent pensioners -to perdition, and that they too were destined for the journey. Oh, the -witch! - -“Out with you!” continues the major. “Beg your bread on the highway! You -shall have no pleasure of his money, you shall not live on his lands. -There is no more a mistress of Ekeby. The day you set your foot in my -house I will kill you.” - -“Do you drive me from my home?” - -“You have no home. Ekeby is mine.” - -A feeling of despair comes over the major’s wife. She retreats to the -door, he following close after her. - -“You who have been my life’s curse,” she laments, “shall you also now -have power to do this to me?” - -“Out, out!” - -She leans against the door-post, clasps her hands, and holds them before -her face. She thinks of her mother and murmurs to herself:— - -“‘May you be disowned, as I have been disowned; may the highway be your -home, the hay-stack your bed!’ It is all coming true.” - -The good old clergyman from Bro and the judge from Munkerud came forward -now to Major Samzelius and tried to calm him. They said to him that it -would be best to let all those old stories rest, to let everything be as -it was, to forget and forgive. - -He shakes the mild old hands from his shoulder. He is terrible to -approach, just as Christian Bergh had been. - -“It is no old story,” he cries. “I never knew anything till to-day. I -have never been able before to punish the adulteress.” - -At that word the major’s wife lifts her head and regains her old courage. - -“You shall go out before I do. Do you think that I shall give in to -you?” she says. And she comes forward from the door. - -The major does not answer, but he watches her every movement, ready to -strike if he finds no better way to revenge himself. - -“Help me, good gentlemen,” she cries, “to get this man bound and carried -out, until he gets back the use of his senses. Remember who I am and who -he is! Think of it, before I must give in to him! I arrange all the work -at Ekeby, and he sits the whole day long and feeds his bears. Help me, -good friends and neighbors! There will be a boundless misery if I am no -longer here. The peasant gets his living by cutting my wood and carting -my iron. The charcoal burner lives by getting me charcoal, the lumber man -by bringing down my timber. It is I who give out the work which brings -prosperity. Smiths, mechanics, and carpenters live by serving me. Do you -think that man can keep my work going? I tell you that if you drive me -away you let famine in.” - -Again are many hands lifted to help the major’s wife; again mild, -persuading hands are laid on the major’s shoulders. - -“No,” he says, “away with you. Who will defend an adulteress? I tell you -that if she does not go of her own will I shall take her in my arms and -carry her down to my bears.” - -At these words the raised hands are lowered. - -Then, as a last resource, she turns to the pensioners. - -“Will you also allow me to be driven from my home? Have I let you freeze -out in the snow in winter? Have I denied you bitter ale and sweet -brandy? Did I take any pay or any work from you because I gave you -food and clothes? Have you not played at my feet, safe as children at -their mother’s side? Has not the dance gone through my halls? Have not -merriment and laughter been your daily bread? Do not let this man, who -has been my life’s misfortune, drive me from my home, gentlemen! Do not -let me become a beggar on the highway!” - -At these words Gösta Berling had stolen away to a beautiful dark-haired -girl who sat at the big table. - -“You were much at Borg five years ago, Anna,” he says. “Do you know if it -was the major’s wife who told Ebba Dohna that I was a dismissed priest?” - -“Help her, Gösta!” is the girl’s only answer. - -“You must know that I will first hear if she has made me a murderer.” - -“Oh, Gösta, what a thought! Help her, Gösta!” - -“You won’t answer, I see. Then Sintram told the truth.” And Gösta goes -back to the other pensioners. He does not lift a finger to help the -major’s wife. - -Oh, if only she had not put the pensioners at a separate table off there -in the corner by the stove! Now the thoughts of the night awake in their -minds, and a rage burns in their faces which is not less than the major’s -own. - -In pitiless hardness they stand, unmoved by her prayers. - -Did not everything they saw confirm the events of the night? - -“One can see that she did not get her contract renewed,” murmurs one. - -“Go to hell, hag!” screams another. “By rights we ought to hunt you from -the door.” - -“Fools,” cries the gentle old Uncle Eberhard to the pensioners. “Don’t -you understand it was Sintram?” - -“Of course we understand; of course we know it,” answers Julius; “but -what of that? May it not be true, at any rate? Does not Sintram go on the -devil’s errands? Don’t they understand one another?” - -“Go yourself, Eberhard; go and help her!” they mock. “You don’t believe -in hell. You can go!” - -And Gösta Berling stands, without a word, motionless. - -No, from the threatening, murmuring, struggling bachelors’ wing she will -get no help. - -Then once again she retreats to the door and raises her clasped hands to -her eyes. - -“‘May you be disowned, as I have been disowned,’” she cries to herself -in her bitter sorrow. “‘May the highway be your home, the hay-stack your -bed!’” - -Then she lays one hand on the door latch, but the other she stretches on -high. - -“Know you all, who now let me fall, know that your hour is soon coming! -You shall be scattered, and your place shall stand empty. How can you -stand when I do not hold you up? You, Melchior Sinclair, who have a heavy -hand and let your wife feel it, beware! You, minister at Broby, your -punishment is coming! Madame Uggla, look after your house; poverty is -coming! You young, beautiful women—Elizabeth Dohna, Marianne Sinclair, -Anna Stjärnhök—do not think that I am the only one who must flee from -her home. And beware, pensioners, a storm is coming over the land. You -will be swept away from the earth; your day is over, it is verily over! I -do not lament for myself, but for you; for the storm shall pass over your -heads, and who shall stand when I have fallen? And my heart bleeds for my -poor people. Who will give them work when I am gone?” - -She opens the door; but then Captain Christian lifts his head and says:— - -“How long must I lie here at your feet, Margareta Celsing? Will you not -forgive me, so that I may stand up and fight for you?” - -Then the major’s wife fights a hard battle with herself; but she sees -that if she forgives him he will rise up and attack her husband; and this -man, who has loved her faithfully for forty years will become a murderer. - -“Must I forgive, too?” she says. “Are you not the cause of all my -misfortune, Christian Bergh? Go to the pensioners and rejoice over your -work.” - -So she went. She went calmly, leaving terror and dismay behind her. She -fell, but she was not without greatness in her fall. - -She did not lower herself to grieving weakly, but in her old age she -still exulted over the love of her youth. She did not lower herself to -lamenting and pitiable weeping when she left everything; she did not -shrink from wandering about the land with beggar’s bag and crutch. She -pitied only the poor peasants and the happy, careless people on the -shores of the Löfven, the penniless pensioners,—all those whom she had -taken in and cared for. - -She was abandoned by all, and yet she had strength to turn away her last -friend that he should not be a murderer. - -She was a woman great in strength and love of action. We shall not soon -see her like again. - -The next day Major Samzelius moved from Ekeby to his own farm of Sjö, -which lies next to the large estate. - -In Altringer’s will, by which the major had got the estates, it was -clearly stated that none of them should be sold or given away, but that -after the death of the major his wife and her heirs should inherit them -all. So, as he could not dissipate the hated inheritance, he placed the -pensioners to reign over it, thinking that he, by so doing, most injured -Ekeby and the other six estates. - -As no one in all the country round now doubted that the wicked Sintram -went on the devil’s errands, and as everything he had promised had been -so brilliantly fulfilled the pensioners were quite sure that the contract -would be carried out in every point, and they were entirely decided not -to do, during the year, anything sensible, or useful, or effeminate, -convinced that the major’s wife was an abominable witch who sought their -ruin. - -The old philosopher, Eberhard, ridiculed their belief. But who paid any -attention to such a man, who was so obstinate in his unbelief that if he -had lain in the midst of the fires of hell and had seen all the devils -standing and grinning at him, would still have insisted that they did -not exist, because they could not exist?—for Uncle Eberhard was a great -philosopher. - -Gösta Berling told no one what he thought. It is certain that he -considered he owed the major’s wife little thanks because she had made -him a pensioner at Ekeby; it seemed better to him to be dead than to have -on his conscience the guilt of Ebba Dohna’s suicide. - -He did not lift his hand to be revenged on the major’s wife, but neither -did he to help her. He could not. But the pensioners had attained great -power and magnificence. Christmas was at hand, with its feasts and -pleasures. The hearts of the pensioners were filled with rejoicing; and -whatever sorrow weighed on Gösta Berling’s heart he did not show in face -or speech. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -GÖSTA BERLING, POET - - -It was Christmas, and there was to be a ball at Borg. - -At that time, and it is soon sixty years ago, a young Count Dohna lived -at Borg; he was newly married, and he had a young, beautiful countess. It -was sure to be gay at the old castle. - -An invitation had come to Ekeby, but it so happened that of them all who -were there that year, Gösta Berling, whom they called “the poet,” was the -only one who wished to go. - -Borg and Ekeby both lie by the Löfven, but on opposite shores. Borg is in -Svartsjö parish, Ekeby in Bro. When the lake is impassable it is a ten or -twelve miles’ journey from Ekeby to Borg. - -The pauper, Gösta Berling, was fitted out for the festival by the old -men, as if he had been a king’s son, and had the honor of a kingdom to -keep up. - -His coat with the glittering buttons was new, his ruffles were stiff, and -his buckled shoes shining. He wore a cloak of the finest beaver, and a -cap of sable on his yellow, curling hair. They spread a bear-skin with -silver claws over his sledge, and gave him black Don Juan, the pride of -the stable, to drive. - -He whistled to his white Tancred, and seized the braided reins. He -started rejoicing, surrounded by the glitter of riches and splendor, -he who shone so by his own beauty and by the playful brilliancy of his -genius. - -He left early in the forenoon. It was Sunday, and he heard the organ in -the church at Bro as he drove by. He followed the lonely forest road -which led to Berga, where Captain Uggla then lived. There he meant to -stop for dinner. - -Berga was no rich man’s home. Hunger knew the way to that turf-roofed -house; but he was met with jests, charmed with song and games like other -guests, and went as unwillingly as they. - -The old Mamselle Ulrika Dillner, who looked after everything at Berga, -stood on the steps and wished Gösta Berling welcome. She courtesied to -him, and the false curls, which hung down over her brown face with its -thousand wrinkles, danced with joy. She led him into the dining-room, and -then she began to tell him about the family, and their changing fortunes. - -Distress stood at the door, she said; it was hard times at Berga. They -would not even have had any horse-radish for dinner, with their corned -beef, if Ferdinand and the girls had not put Disa before a sledge and -driven down to Munkerud to borrow some. - -The captain was off in the woods again, and would of course come home -with a tough old hare, on which one had to use more butter in cooking -it than it was worth itself. That’s what he called getting food for the -house. Still, it would do, if only he did not come with a miserable fox, -the worst beast our Lord ever made; no use, whether dead or alive. - -And the captain’s wife, yes, she was not up yet. She lay abed and read -novels, just as she had always done. She was not made for work, that -God’s angel. - -No, that could be done by some one who was old and gray like Ulrika -Dillner, working night and day to keep the whole miserable affair -together. And it wasn’t always so easy; for it was the truth that for -one whole winter they had not had in that house any other meat than -bear-hams. And big wages she did not expect; so far she had never seen -any; but they would not turn her out on the roadside either, when -she couldn’t work any longer in return for her food. They treated a -house-maid like a human being in that house, and they would one of these -days give old Ulrika a good burial if they had anything to buy the coffin -with. - -“For who knows how it will be?” she bursts out, and wipes her eyes, which -are always so quick to tears. “We have debts to the wicked Sintram, and -he can take everything from us. Of course Ferdinand is engaged to the -rich Anna Stjärnhök; but she is tired,—she is tired of him. And what will -become of us, of our three cows, and our nine horses, of our gay young -ladies who want to go from one ball to another, of our dry fields where -nothing grows, of our mild Ferdinand, who will never be a real man? What -will become of the whole blessed house, where everything thrives except -work?” - -But dinner-time came, and the family gathered. The good Ferdinand, the -gentle son of the house, and the lively daughters came home with the -borrowed horse-radish. The captain came, fortified by a bath in a hole -in the ice and a tramp through the woods. He threw up the window to get -more air, and shook Gösta’s hand with a strong grip. And his wife came, -dressed in silk, with wide laces hanging over her white hands, which -Gösta was allowed to kiss. - -They all greeted Gösta with joy; jests flew about the circle; gayly they -asked him:— - -“How are you all at Ekeby; how is it in that promised land?” - -“Milk and honey flow there,” he answered. “We empty the mountains of iron -and fill our cellar with wine. The fields bear gold, with which we gild -life’s misery, and we cut down our woods to build bowling-alleys and -summer houses.” - -The captain’s wife sighed and smiled at his answer, and her lips murmured -the word,— - -“Poet!” - -“Many sins have I on my conscience,” answered Gösta, “but I have never -written a line of poetry.” - -“You are nevertheless a poet, Gösta; that name you must put up with. You -have lived through more poems than all our poets have written.” - -Then she spoke, tenderly as a mother, of his wasted life. “I shall live -to see you become a man,” she said. And he felt it sweet to be urged on -by this gentle woman, who was such a faithful friend, and whose romantic -heart burned with the love of great deeds. - -But just as they had finished the gay meal and had enjoyed the corned -beef and horse-radish and cabbage and apple fritters and Christmas ale, -and Gösta had made them laugh and cry by telling them of the major and -his wife and the Broby clergyman, they heard sleigh-bells outside, and -immediately afterward the wicked Sintram walked in. - -He beamed with satisfaction, from the top of his bald head down to his -long, flat feet. He swung his long arms, and his face was twisted. It was -easy to see that he brought bad news. - -“Have you heard,” he asked,—“have you heard that the banns have been -called to-day for Anna Stjärnhök and the rich Dahlberg in the Svartsjö -church? She must have forgotten that she was engaged to Ferdinand.” - -They had not heard a word of it. They were amazed and grieved. - -Already they fancied the home pillaged to pay the debt to this wicked -man; the beloved horses sold, as well as the worn furniture which had -come from the home of the captain’s wife. They saw an end to the gay life -with feasts and journeyings from ball to ball. Bear-hams would again -adorn the board, and the young people must go out into the world and work -for strangers. - -The captain’s wife caressed her son, and let him feel the comfort of a -never-failing love. - -But—there sat Gösta Berling in the midst of them, and, unconquerable, -turned over a thousand plans in his head. - -“Listen,” he cried, “it is not yet time to think of grieving. It is the -minister’s wife at Svartsjö who has arranged all this. She has got a -hold on Anna, since she has been living with her at the vicarage. It is -she who has persuaded her to forsake Ferdinand and take old Dahlberg; -but they’re not married yet, and will never be either. I am on my way to -Borg, and shall meet Anna there. I shall talk to her; I shall get her -away from the clergyman’s, from her fiancé,—I shall bring her with me -here to-night. And afterwards old Dahlberg shall never get any good of -her.” - -And so it was arranged. Gösta started for Borg alone, without taking any -of the gay young ladies, but with warm good wishes for his return. And -Sintram, who rejoiced that old Dahlberg should be cheated, decided to -stop at Berga to see Gösta come back with the faithless girl. In a burst -of good-will he even wrapt round him his green plaid, a present from -Mamselle Ulrika. - -The captain’s wife came out on the steps with three little books, bound -in red leather, in her hand. - -“Take them,” she said to Gösta, who already sat in the sledge; “take -them, if you fail! It is ‘Corinne,’ Madame de Staël’s ‘Corinne.’ I do not -want them to go by auction.” - -“I shall not fail.” - -“Ah, Gösta, Gösta,” she said, and passed her hand over his bared head, -“strongest and weakest of men! How long will you remember that a few poor -people’s happiness lies in your hand?” - -Once more Gösta flew along the road, drawn by the black Don Juan, -followed by the white Tancred, and the joy of adventure filled his soul. -He felt like a young conqueror, the spirit was in him. - -His way took him past the vicarage at Svartsjö. He turned in there and -asked if he might drive Anna Stjärnhök to the ball. And that he was -permitted. - -A beautiful, self-willed girl it was who sat in his sledge. Who would not -want to drive behind the black Don Juan? - -The young people were silent at first, but then she began the -conversation, audaciousness itself. - -“Have you heard what the minister read out in church to-day?” - -“Did he say that you were the prettiest girl between the Löfven and the -Klar River?” - -“How stupid you are! but every one knows that. He called the banns for me -and old Dahlberg.” - -“Never would I have let you sit in my sledge nor sat here myself, if I -had known that. Never would I have wished to drive you at all.” - -And the proud heiress answered:— - -“I could have got there well enough without you, Gösta Berling.” - -“It is a pity for you, Anna,” said Gösta, thoughtfully, “that your father -and mother are not alive. You are your own mistress, and no one can hold -you to account.” - -“It is a much greater pity that you had not said that before, so that I -might have driven with some one else.” - -“The minister’s wife thinks as I do, that you need some one to take your -father’s place; else she had never put you to pull in harness with such -an old nag.” - -“It is not she who has decided it.” - -“Ah, Heaven preserve us!—have you yourself chosen such a fine man?” - -“He does not take me for my money.” - -“No, the old ones, they only run after blue eyes and red cheeks; and -awfully nice they are, when they do that.” - -“Oh, Gösta, are you not ashamed?” - -“But remember that you are not to play with young men any longer. No more -dancing and games. Your place is in the corner of the sofa—or perhaps -you mean to play cribbage with old Dahlberg?” - -They were silent, till they drove up the steep hill to Borg. - -“Thanks for the drive! It will be long before I drive again with you, -Gösta Berling.” - -“Thanks for the promise! I know many who will be sorry to-day they ever -drove you to a party.” - -Little pleased was the haughty beauty when she entered the ball-room and -looked over the guests gathered there. - -First of all she saw the little, bald Dahlberg beside the tall, slender, -golden-haired Gösta Berling. She wished she could have driven them both -out of the room. - -Her fiancé came to ask her to dance, but she received him with crushing -astonishment. - -“Are you going to dance? You never do!” - -And the girls came to wish her joy. - -“Don’t give yourselves the trouble, girls. You don’t suppose that any -one could be in love with old Dahlberg. But he is rich, and I am rich, -therefore we go well together.” - -The old ladies went up to her, pressed her white hand, and spoke of -life’s greatest happiness. - -“Congratulate the minister’s wife,” she said. “She is gladder about it -than I.” - -But there stood Gösta Berling, the gay cavalier, greeted with joy for his -cheerful smile and his pleasant words, which sifted gold-dust over life’s -gray web. Never before had she seen him as he was that night. He was no -outcast, no homeless jester; no, a king among men, a born king. - -He and the other young men conspired against her. She should think over -how badly she had behaved when she gave herself with her lovely face and -her great fortune to an old man. And they let her sit out ten dances. - -She was boiling with rage. - -At the eleventh dance came a man, the most insignificant of all, a poor -thing, whom nobody would dance with, and asked her for a turn. - -“There is no more bread, bring on the crusts,” she said. - -They played a game of forfeits. The fair-haired girls put their heads -together and condemned her to kiss the one she loved best. And with -smiling lips they waited to see the proud beauty kiss old Dahlberg. - -But she rose, stately in her anger, and said:— - -“May I not just as well give a blow to the one I like the least!” - -The moment after Gösta’s cheek burned under her firm hand. He flushed a -flaming red, but he conquered himself, seized her hand, held it fast a -second, and whispered:— - -“Meet me in half an hour in the red drawing-room on the lower floor!” - -His blue eyes flashed on her, and encompassed her with magical waves. She -felt that she must obey. - - * * * * * - -She met him with proud and angry words. - -“How does it concern you whom I marry?” - -He was not ready to speak gently to her, nor did it seem to him best to -speak yet of Ferdinand. - -“I thought it was not too severe a punishment for you to sit out ten -dances. But you want to be allowed unpunished to break vows and promises. -If a better man than I had taken your sentence in his hand, he could -have made it harder.” - -“What have I done to you and all the others, that I may not be in peace? -It is for my money’s sake you persecute me. I shall throw it into the -Löfven, and any one who wants it can fish it up.” - -She put her hands before her eyes and wept from anger. - -That moved the poet’s heart. He was ashamed of his harshness. He spoke in -caressing tones. - -“Ah, child, child, forgive me! Forgive poor Gösta Berling! Nobody cares -what such a poor wretch says or does, you know that. Nobody weeps for -his anger, one might just as well weep over a mosquito’s bite. It was -madness in me to hope that I could prevent our loveliest and richest girl -marrying that old man. And now I have only distressed you.” - -He sat down on the sofa beside her. Gently he put his arm about her -waist, with caressing tenderness, to support and raise her. - -She did not move away. She pressed closer to him, threw her arms round -his neck, and wept with her beautiful head on his shoulder. - -O poet, strongest and weakest of men, it was not about your neck those -white arms should rest. - -“If I had known that,” she whispered, “never would I have taken the old -man. I have watched you this evening; there is no one like you.” - -From between pale lips Gösta forced out,— - -“Ferdinand.” - -She silenced him with a kiss. - -“He is nothing; no one but you is anything. To you will I be faithful.” - -“I am Gösta Berling,” he said gloomily; “you cannot marry me.” - -“You are the man I love, the noblest of men. You need do nothing, be -nothing. You are born a king.” - -Then the poet’s blood seethed. She was beautiful and tender in her love. -He took her in his arms. - -“If you will be mine, you cannot remain at the vicarage. Let me drive you -to Ekeby to-night; there I shall know how to defend you till we can be -married.” - - * * * * * - -That was a wild drive through the night. Absorbed in their love, they -let Don Juan take his own pace. The noise of the runners was like the -lamentations of those they had deceived. What did they care for that? She -hung on his neck, and he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. - -“Can any happiness be compared in sweetness to stolen pleasures?” - -What did the banns matter? They had love. And the anger of men! Gösta -Berling believed in fate; fate had mastered them: no one can resist fate. - -If the stars had been the candles which had been lighted for her wedding, -if Don Juan’s bells had been the church chimes, calling the people to -witness her marriage to old Dahlberg, still she must have fled with Gösta -Berling. So powerful is fate. - -They had passed the vicarage and Munkerud. They had three miles to Berga -and three miles more to Ekeby. The road skirted the edge of the wood; on -their right lay dark hills, on their left a long, white valley. - -Tancred came rushing. He ran so fast that he seemed to lie along the -ground. Howling with fright, he sprang up in the sledge and crept under -Anna’s feet. - -Don Juan shied and bolted. - -“Wolves!” said Gösta Berling. - -They saw a long, gray line running by the fence. There were at least a -dozen of them. - -Anna was not afraid. The day had been richly blessed with adventure, -and the night promised to be equally so. It was life,—to speed over the -sparkling snow, defying wild beasts and men. - -Gösta uttered an oath, leaned forward, and struck Don Juan a heavy blow -with the whip. - -“Are you afraid?” he asked. “They mean to cut us off there, where the -road turns.” - -Don Juan ran, racing with the wild beasts of the forest, and Tancred -howled in rage and terror. They reached the turn of the road at the same -time as the wolves, and Gösta drove back the foremost with the whip. - -“Ah, Don Juan, my boy, how easily you could get away from twelve wolves, -if you did not have us to drag.” - -They tied the green plaid behind them. The wolves were afraid of it, and -fell back for a while. But when they had overcome their fright, one of -them ran, panting, with hanging tongue and open mouth up to the sledge. -Then Gösta took Madame de Staël’s “Corinne” and threw it into his mouth. - -Once more they had breathing-space for a time, while the brutes tore -their booty to pieces, and then again they felt the dragging as the -wolves seized the green plaid, and heard their panting breath. They knew -that they should not pass any human dwelling before Berga, but worse -than death it seemed to Gösta to see those he had deceived. But he knew -that the horse would tire, and what should become of them then? - -They saw the house at Berga at the edge of the forest. Candles burned in -the windows. Gösta knew too well for whose sake. - -But now the wolves drew back, fearing the neighborhood of man, and Gösta -drove past Berga. He came no further than to the place where the road -once again buried itself in the wood; there he saw a dark group before -him,—the wolves were waiting for him. - -“Let us turn back to the vicarage and say that we took a little pleasure -trip in the starlight. We can’t go on.” - -They turned, but in the next moment the sledge was surrounded by wolves. -Gray forms brushed by them, their white teeth glittered in gaping mouths, -and their glowing eyes shone. They howled with hunger and thirst for -blood. The glittering teeth were ready to seize the soft human flesh. -The wolves leaped up on Don Juan, and hung on the saddle-cloth. Anna sat -and wondered if they would eat them entirely up, or if there would be -something left, so that people the next morning would find their mangled -limbs on the trampled, bloody snow. - -“It’s a question of our lives,” she said, and leaned down and seized -Tancred by the nape of the neck. - -“Don’t,—that will not help! It is not for the dog’s sake the wolves are -out to-night.” - -Thereupon Gösta drove into the yard at Berga, but the wolves hunted him -up to the very steps. He had to beat them off with the whip. - -“Anna,” he said, as they drew up, “God would not have it. Keep a -good countenance; if you are the woman I take you for, keep a good -countenance!” - -They had heard the sleigh-bells in the house, and came out. - -“He has her!” they cried, “he has her! Long live Gösta Berling!” and the -new-comers were embraced by one after another. - -Few questions were asked. The night was far advanced, the travellers were -agitated by their terrible drive and needed rest. It was enough that Anna -had come. - -All was well. Only “Corinne” and the green plaid, Mamselle Ulrika’s -prized gift, were destroyed. - - * * * * * - -The whole house slept. But Gösta rose, dressed himself, and stole out. -Unnoticed he led Don Juan out of the stable, harnessed him to the sledge, -and meant to set out. But Anna Stjärnhök came out from the house. - -“I heard you go out,” she said. “So I got up, too. I am ready to go with -you.” - -He went up to her and took her hand. - -“Don’t you understand it yet? It cannot be. God does not wish it. Listen -now and try to understand. I was here to dinner and saw their grief over -your faithlessness. I went to Borg to bring you back to Ferdinand. But -I have always been a good-for-nothing, and will never be anything else. -I betrayed him, and kept you for myself. There is an old woman here who -believes that I shall become a man. I betrayed her. And another poor old -thing will freeze and starve here for the sake of dying among friends, -but I was ready to let the wicked Sintram take her home. You were -beautiful, and sin is sweet. It is so easy to tempt Gösta Berling. Oh, -what a miserable wretch I am! I know how they love their home, all those -in there, but I was ready just now to leave it to be pillaged. I forgot -everything for your sake, you were so sweet in your love. But now, Anna, -now since I have seen their joy, I will not keep you; no, I will not. You -could have made a man of me, but I may not keep you. Oh, my beloved! He -there above mocks at our desires. We must bow under His chastising hand. -Tell me that you from this day will take up your burden! All of them rely -upon you. Say that you will stay with them and be their prop and help! -If you love me, if you will lighten my deep sorrow, promise me this! My -beloved, is your heart so great that you can conquer yourself, and smile -in doing it?” - -She accepted the renunciation in a sort of ecstasy. - -“I shall do as you wish,—sacrifice myself and smile.” - -“And not hate my poor friends?” - -She smiled sadly. - -“As long as I love you, I shall love them.” - -“Now for the first time I know what you are. It is hard to leave you.” - -“Farewell, Gösta! Go, and God be with you! My love shall not tempt you to -sin.” - -She turned to go in. He followed her. - -“Will you soon forget me?” - -“Go, Gösta! We are only human.” - -He threw himself down in the sledge, but then she came back again. - -“Do you not think of the wolves?” - -“Just of them I am thinking, but they have done their work. From me they -have nothing more to get this night.” - -Once more he stretched his arms towards her, but Don Juan became -impatient and set off. He did not take the reins. He sat backwards and -looked after her. Then he leaned against the seat and wept despairingly. - -“I have possessed happiness and driven her from me; I myself drove her -from me. Why did I not keep her?” - -Ah, Gösta Berling, strongest and weakest of men! - - - - -CHAPTER V - -LA CACHUCHA - - -War-horse! war-horse! Old friend, who now stand tethered in the pasture, -do you remember your youth? - -Do you remember the day of the battle? You sprang forward, as if you had -been borne on wings, your mane fluttered about you like waving flames, on -your black haunches shone drops of blood and frothy foam. In harness of -gold you bounded forward; the ground thundered under you. You trembled -with joy. Ah, how beautiful you were! - -It is the gray hour of twilight in the pensioners’ wing. In the big room -the pensioners’ red-painted chests stand against the walls, and their -holiday clothes hang on hooks in the corner. The firelight plays on the -whitewashed walls and on the yellow-striped curtains which conceal the -beds. The pensioners’ wing is not a kingly dwelling,—no seraglio with -cushioned divans and soft pillows. - -But there Lilliecrona’s violin is heard. He is playing the cachucha in -the dusk of the evening. And he plays it over and over again. - -Cut the strings, break his bow! Why does he play that cursed dance? Why -does he play it, when Örneclou, the ensign, is lying sick with the pains -of gout, so severe that he cannot move in his bed? No; snatch the violin -away and throw it against the wall if he will not stop. - -La cachucha, is it for us, master? Shall it be danced over the shaking -floor of the pensioners’ wing, between the narrow walls, black with smoke -and greasy with dirt, under that low ceiling? Woe to you, to play so. - -La cachucha, is it for us,—for us pensioners? Without the snow-storm -howls. Do you think to teach the snow-flakes to dance in time? Are you -playing for the light-footed children of the storm? - -Maiden forms, which tremble with the throbbing of hot blood, small sooty -hands, which have thrown aside the pot to seize the castanets, bare feet -under tucked-up skirts, courts paved with marble slabs, crouching gypsies -with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight, and black -eyes,—have you these, master? If not, let the violin rest. - -The pensioners are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Shall they swing -in high boots with iron-shod heels and inch-thick soles? Through snow -yards deep they have waded the whole day to reach the bear’s lair. Do you -think they will dance in wet, reeking homespun clothes, with shaggy bruin -as a partner? - -An evening sky glittering with stars, red roses in dark hair, troublous -tenderness in the air, untutored grace in their movements, love rising -from the ground, raining from the sky, floating in the air,—have you all -that, master? If not, why do you force us to long for such things? - -Most cruel of men, are you summoning the tethered war-horse to the -combat? Rutger von Örneclou is lying in his bed, a prisoner to the gout. -Spare him the pain of tender memories, master! He too has worn sombrero -and bright-colored hair-net; he too has owned velvet jacket and belted -poniard. Spare old Örneclou, master! - -But Lilliecrona plays the cachucha, always the cachucha, and Örneclou -is tortured like the lover when he sees the swallow fly away to his -beloved’s distant dwelling, like the hart when he is driven by the -hurrying chase past the cooling spring. - -Lilliecrona takes the violin for a second from his chin. - -“Ensign, do you remember Rosalie von Berger?” - -Örneclou swears a solemn oath. - -“She was light as a candle-flame. She sparkled and danced like the -diamond in the end of the fiddle-bow. You must remember her in the -theatre at Karlstad. We saw her when we were young; do you remember?” - -And the ensign remembered. She was small and ardent. She was like a -sparkling flame. She could dance la cachucha. She taught all the young -men in Karlstad to dance cachucha and to play the castanets. At the -governor’s ball a _pas de deux_ was danced by the ensign and Mlle. von -Berger, dressed as Spaniards. - -And he had danced as one dances under fig-trees and magnolias, like a -Spaniard,—a real Spaniard. - -No one in the whole of Värmland could dance cachucha like him. No one -could dance it so that it was worth speaking of it, but he. - -What a cavalier Värmland lost when the gout stiffened his legs and great -lumps grew out on his joints! What a cavalier he had been, so slender, -so handsome, so courtly! “The handsome Örneclou” he was called by those -young girls, who were ready to come to blows over a dance with him. - -Then Lilliecrona begins the cachucha again, always the cachucha, and -Örneclou is taken back to old times. - -There he stands, and there she stands, Rosalie von Berger. Just now they -were alone in the dressing-room. She was a Spaniard, he too. He was -allowed to kiss her, but carefully, for she was afraid of his blackened -moustache. Now they dance. Ah, as one dances under fig-trees and -magnolias! She draws away, he follows; he is bold, she proud; he wounded, -she conciliatory. When he at the end falls on his knees and receives her -in his outstretched arms, a sigh goes through the ball-room, a sigh of -rapture. - -He had been like a Spaniard, a real Spaniard. - -Just at that stroke had he bent so, stretched his arms so, and put out -his foot to glide forward. What grace! He might have been hewn in marble. - -He does not know how it happened, but he has got his foot over the edge -of the bed, he stands upright, he bends, he raises his arms, snaps his -fingers, and wishes to glide forward over the floor in the same way as -long ago, when he wore so tight patent leather shoes the stocking feet -had to be cut away. - -“Bravo, Örneclou! Bravo, Lilliecrona, play life into him!” - -His foot gives way; he cannot rise on his toe. He kicks a couple of times -with one leg; he can do no more, he falls back on the bed. - -Handsome señor, you have grown old. - -Perhaps the señorita has too. - -It is only under the plane-trees of Granada that the cachucha is danced -by eternally young gitanas. Eternally young, because, like the roses, -each spring brings new ones. - -So now the time has come to cut the strings. - -No, play on, Lilliecrona, play the cachucha, always the cachucha! - -Teach us that, although we have got slow bodies and stiff joints, in our -feelings we are always the same, always Spaniards. - -War-horse, war-horse! - -Say that you love the trumpet-blast, which decoys you into a gallop, even -if you also cut your foot to the bone on the steel-link of the tether. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE BALL AT EKEBY - - -Ah, women of the olden times! - -To speak of you is to speak of the kingdom of heaven; you were all -beauties, ever bright, ever young, ever lovely and gentle as a mother’s -eyes when she looks down on her child. Soft as young squirrels you hung -on your husband’s neck. Your voice never trembled with anger, no frowns -ruffled your brow, your white hand was never harsh and hard. You, sweet -saints, like adored images stood in the temple of home. Incense and -prayers were offered you, through you love worked its wonders, and round -your temples poetry wreathed its gold, gleaming glory. - -Ah, women of the past, this is the story of how one of you gave Gösta -Berling her love. - -Two weeks after the ball at Borg there was one at Ekeby. - -What a feast it was! Old men and women become young again, smile and -rejoice, only in speaking of it. - -The pensioners were masters at Ekeby at that time. The major’s wife went -about the country with beggar’s wallet and crutch, and the major lived at -Sjö. He could not even be present at the ball, for at Sjö small-pox had -broken out, and he was afraid to spread the infection. - -What pleasures those twelve hours contained, from the pop of the first -cork at the dinner-table to the last wail of the violins, long after -midnight. - -They have sunk into the background of time, those crowned hours, made -magical by the most fiery wines, by the most delicate food, by the most -inspiring music, by the wittiest of theatricals, by the most beautiful -tableaux. They have sunk away, dizzy with the dizziest dance. Where are -to be found such polished floors, such courtly knights, such lovely women? - -Ah, women of the olden days, you knew well how to adorn a ball. Streams -of fire, of genius, and youthful vigor thrilled each and all who -approached you. It was worth wasting one’s gold on wax-candles to light -up your loveliness, on wine to instil gayety into your hearts; it was -worth dancing soles to dust and rubbing stiff arms which had drawn the -fiddle-bow, for your sakes. - -Ah, women of the olden days, it was you who owned the key to the door of -Paradise. - -The halls of Ekeby are crowded with the loveliest of your lovely throng. -There is the young Countess Dohna, sparklingly gay and eager for game and -dance, as befits her twenty years; there are the lovely daughters of the -judge of Munkerud, and the lively young ladies from Berga; there is Anna -Stjärnhök, a thousand times more beautiful than ever before, with that -gentle dreaminess which had come over her ever since the night she had -been hunted by wolves; there are many more, who are not yet forgotten but -soon will be; and there is the beautiful Marianne Sinclair. - -She, the famed queen of beauty, who had shone at royal courts, who had -travelled the land over and received homage everywhere, she who lighted -the spark of love wherever she showed herself,—she had deigned to come to -the pensioners’ ball. - -At that time Värmland’s glory was at its height, borne up by many proud -names. Much had the beautiful land’s happy children to be proud of, but -when they named their glories they never neglected to speak of Marianne -Sinclair. - -The tales of her conquests filled the land. - -They spoke of the coronets which had floated over her head, of the -millions which had been laid at her feet, of the warriors’ swords and -poets’ wreaths whose splendor had tempted her. - -And she possessed not only beauty. She was witty and learned. The -cleverest men of the day were glad to talk with her. She was not an -author herself, but many of her ideas, which she had put into the souls -of her poet-friends, lived again in song. - -In Värmland, in the land of the bear, she seldom stayed. Her life was -spent in perpetual journeyings. Her father, the rich Melchior Sinclair, -remained at home at Björne and let Marianne go to her noble friends in -the large towns or at the great country-seats. He had his pleasure in -telling of all the money she wasted, and both the old people lived happy -in the splendor of Marianne’s glowing existence. - -Her life was a life of pleasures and homage. The air about her was -love—love her light and lamp, love her daily bread. - -She, too, had often loved, often, often; but never had that fire lasted -long enough to forge the chains which bind for life. - -“I wait for him, the irresistible,” she used to say of love. “Hitherto he -has not climbed over several ramparts, nor swum through several trenches. -He has come tamely, without wildness in his eye and madness in his heart. -I wait for the conqueror, who shall take me out of myself. I will feel -love so strong within me that I must tremble before him; now I know only -the love at which my good sense laughs.” - -Her presence gave fire to talk, life to the wine. Her glowing spirit -set the fiddle-bows going, and the dance floated in sweeter giddiness -than before over the floor which she had touched with her feet. She was -radiant in the tableaux, she gave genius to the comedy, her lovely lips— - -Ah, hush, it was not her fault, she never meant to do it! It was the -balcony, it was the moonlight, the lace veil, the knightly dress, the -song, which were to blame. The poor young creatures were innocent. - -All that which led to so much unhappiness was with the best intentions. -Master Julius, who could do anything, had arranged a tableau especially -that Marianne might shine in full glory. - -In the theatre, which was set up in the great drawing-room at Ekeby, -sat the hundred guests and looked at the picture, Spain’s yellow moon -wandering through a dark night sky. A Don Juan came stealing along -Sevilla’s street and stopped under an ivy-clad balcony. He was disguised -as a monk, but one could see an embroidered cuff under the sleeve, and a -gleaming sword-point under the mantle’s hem. - -He raised his voice in song:— - - “I kiss the lips of no fair maid, - Nor wet mine with the foaming wine - Within the beaker’s gold. - A cheek upon whose rose-leaf shade - Mine eyes have lit a glow divine, - A look which shyly seeketh mine,— - These leave me still and cold. - - “Ah, come not in thy beauty’s glow, - Señora, through yon terrace-door; - I fear when thou art nigh! - Cope and stole my shoulders know, - The Virgin only I adore, - And water-jugs hold comfort’s store; - For ease to them I fly.” - -As he finished, Marianne came out on the balcony, dressed in black -velvet and lace veil. She leaned over the balustrade and sang slowly and -ironically: - - “Why tarry thus, thou holy man - Beneath my window late or long? - Dost pray for my soul’s weal?” - -Then suddenly, warmly and eagerly:— - - “Ah, flee, begone while yet you can! - Your gleaming sword sticks forth so long. - And plainly, spite your holy song, - The spurs clank on your heel.” - -At these words the monk cast off his disguise, and Gösta Berling stood -under the balcony in a knight’s dress of silk and gold. He heeded not -the beauty’s warning, but climbed up one of the balcony supports, swung -himself over the balustrade, and, just as Master Julius had arranged it, -fell on his knees at the lovely Marianne’s feet. - -Graciously she smiled on him, and gave him her hand to kiss, and while -the two young people gazed at one another, absorbed in their love, the -curtain fell. - -And before her knelt Gösta Berling, with a face tender as a poet’s and -bold as a soldier’s, with deep eyes, which glowed with wit and genius, -which implored and constrained. Supple and full of strength was he, fiery -and captivating. - -While the curtain went up and down, the two stood always in the same -position. Gösta’s eyes held the lovely Marianne fast; they implored; they -constrained. - -Then the applause ceased; the curtain hung quiet; no one saw them. - -Then the beautiful Marianne bent down and kissed Gösta Berling. She did -not know why,—she had to. He stretched up his arms about her head and -held her fast. She kissed him again and again. - -But it was the balcony, it was the moonlight, it was the lace veil, the -knightly dress, the song, the applause, which were to blame. They had not -wished it. She had not thrust aside the crowns which had hovered over her -head, and spurned the millions which lay at her feet, out of love for -Gösta Berling; nor had he already forgotten Anna Stjärnhök. No; they were -blameless; neither of them had wished it. - -It was the gentle Löwenborg,—he with the fear in his eye and the smile -on his lips,—who that day was curtain-raiser. Distracted by the memory -of many sorrows, he noticed little of the things of this world, and had -never learned to look after them rightly. When he now saw that Gösta and -Marianne had taken a new position, he thought that it also belonged to -the tableau, and so he began to drag on the curtain string. - -The two on the balcony observed nothing until a thunder of applause -greeted them. - -Marianne started back and wished to flee, but Gösta held her fast, -whispering:— - -“Stand still; they think it belongs to the tableau.” - -He felt how her body shook with shuddering, and how the fire of her -kisses died out on her lips. - -“Do not be afraid,” he whispered; “lovely lips have a right to kiss.” - -They had to stand while the curtain went up and went down, and each time -the hundreds of eyes saw them, hundreds of hands thundered out a stormy -applause. - -For it was beautiful to see two fair young people represent love’s -happiness. No one could think that those kisses were anything but stage -delusion. No one guessed that the señora shook with embarrassment and the -knight with uneasiness. No one could think that it did not all belong to -the tableau. - -At last Marianne and Gösta stood behind the scenes. - -She pushed her hair back from her forehead. - -“I don’t understand myself,” she said. - -“Fie! for shame, Miss Marianne,” said he, grimacing, and stretched out -his hands. “To kiss Gösta Berling; shame on you!” - -Marianne had to laugh. - -“Everyone knows that Gösta Berling is irresistible. My fault is no -greater than others’.” - -And they agreed to put a good face on it, so that no one should suspect -the truth. - -“Can I be sure that the truth will never come out, _Herr_ Gösta?” she -asked, before they went out among the guests. - -“That you can. Gentlemen can hold their tongues. I promise you that.” - -She dropped her eyes. A strange smile curved her lips. - -“If the truth should come out, what would people think of me, Herr Gösta?” - -“They would not think anything. They would know that it meant nothing. -They would think that we entered into our parts and were going on with -the play.” - -Yet another question, with lowered lids and with the same forced smile,— - -“But you yourself? What do you think about it, Herr Gösta?” - -“I think that you are in love with me,” he jested. - -“Think no such thing,” she smiled, “for then I must run you through with -my stiletto to show you that you are wrong.” - -“Women’s kisses are precious,” said Gösta. “Does it cost one’s life to be -kissed by Marianne Sinclair?” - -A glance flashed on him from Marianne’s eyes, so sharp that it felt like -a blow. - -“I could wish to see you dead, Gösta Berling! dead! dead!” - -These words revived the old longing in the poet’s blood. - -“Ah,” he said, “would that those words were more than words!—that they -were arrows which came whistling from some dark ambush; that they were -daggers or poison, and had the power to destroy this wretched body and -set my soul free!” - -She was calm and smiling now. - -“Childishness!” she said, and took his arm to join the guests. - -They kept their costumes, and their triumphs were renewed when they -showed themselves in front of the scenes. Every one complimented them. No -one suspected anything. - -The ball began again, but Gösta escaped from the ball-room. - -His heart ached from Marianne’s glance, as if it had been wounded by -sharp steel. He understood too well the meaning of her words. - -It was a disgrace to love him; it was a disgrace to be loved by him, a -shame worse than death. - -He would never dance again. He wished never to see them again, those -lovely women. - -He knew it too well. Those beautiful eyes, those red cheeks burned not -for him. Not for him floated those light feet, nor rung that low laugh. - -Yes, dance with him, flirt with him, that they could do, but not one of -them would be his in earnest. - -The poet went into the smoking-room to the old men, and sat down by one -of the card-tables. He happened to throw himself down by the same table -where the powerful master of Björne sat and played “baccarat” holding the -bank with a great pile of silver in front of him. - -The play was already high. Gösta gave it an even greater impulse. Green -bank-notes appeared, and always the pile of money grew in front of the -powerful Melchior Sinclair. - -But before Gösta also gathered both coins and notes, and soon he was the -only one who held out in the struggle against the great land-owner at -Björne. Soon the great pile of money changed over from Melchior Sinclair -to Gösta Berling. - -“Gösta, my boy,” cried the land-owner, laughing, when he had played away -everything he had in his pocket-book and purse, “what shall we do now? -I am bankrupt, and I never play with borrowed money. I promised my wife -that.” - -He discovered a way. He played away his watch and his beaver coat, and -was just going to stake his horse and sledge when Sintram checked him. - -“Stake something to win on,” he advised him. “Stake something to turn the -luck.” - -“What the devil have I got?” - -“Play your reddest heart’s blood, brother Melchior. Stake your daughter!” - -“You would never venture that,” said Gösta, laughing. “That prize I would -never get under my roof.” - -Melchior could not help laughing also. He could not endure that -Marianne’s name should be mentioned at the card-tables, but this was so -insanely ridiculous that he could not be angry. To play away Marianne to -Gösta, yes, that he certainly could venture. - -“That is to say,” he explained, “that if you can win her consent, Gösta, -I will stake my blessing to the marriage on this card.” - -Gösta staked all his winnings and the play began. He won, and Sinclair -stopped playing. He could not fight against such bad luck; he saw that. - -The night slipped by; it was past midnight. The lovely women’s cheeks -began to grow pale; curls hung straight, ruffles were crumpled. The old -ladies rose up from the sofa-corners and said that as they had been -there twelve hours, it was about time for them to be thinking of home. - -And the beautiful ball should be over, but then Lilliecrona himself -seized the fiddle and struck up the last polka. The horses stood at the -door; the old ladies were dressed in their cloaks and shawls; the old men -wound their plaids about them and buckled their galoshes. - -But the young people could not tear themselves from the dance. They -danced in their out-door wraps, and a mad dance it was. As soon as a girl -stopped dancing with one partner, another came and dragged her away with -him. - -And even the sorrowful Gösta was dragged into the whirl. He hoped to -dance away grief and humiliation; he wished to have the love of life in -his blood again; he longed to be gay, he as well as the others. And he -danced till the walls went round, and he no longer knew what he was doing. - -Who was it he had got hold of in the crowd? She was light and supple, and -he felt that streams of fire went from one to the other. Ah, Marianne! - -While Gösta danced with Marianne, Sintram sat in his sledge before the -door, and beside him stood Melchior Sinclair. - -The great land-owner was impatient at being forced to wait for Marianne. -He stamped in the snow with his great snow-boots and beat with his arms, -for it was bitter cold. - -“Perhaps you ought not to have played Marianne away to Gösta,” said -Sintram. - -“What do you mean?” - -Sintram arranged his reins and lifted his whip, before he answered:— - -“It did not belong to the tableau, that kissing.” - -The powerful land-owner raised his arm for a death-blow, but Sintram was -already gone. He drove away, whipping the horse to a wild gallop without -daring to look back, for Melchior Sinclair had a heavy hand and short -patience. - -He went now into the dancing-room to look for his daughter, and saw how -Gösta and Marianne were dancing. - -Wild and giddy was that last polka. - -Some of the couples were pale, others glowing red, dust lay like smoke -over the hall, the wax-candles gleamed, burned down to the sockets, and -in the midst of all the ghostly ruin, they flew on, Gösta and Marianne, -royal in their tireless strength, no blemish on their beauty, happy in -the glorious motion. - -Melchior Sinclair watched them for a while; but then he went and left -Marianne to dance. He slammed the door, tramped down the stairs, and -placed himself in the sledge, where his wife already waited, and drove -home. - -When Marianne stopped dancing and asked after her parents, they were gone. - -When she was certain of this she showed no surprise. She dressed herself -quietly and went out in the yard. The ladies in the dressing-room thought -that she drove in her own sledge. - -She hurried in her thin satin shoes along the road without telling any -one of her distress. - -In the darkness no one recognized her, as she went by the edge of the -road; no one could think that this late wanderer, who was driven up into -the high drifts by the passing sledges, was the beautiful Marianne. - -When she could go in the middle of the road she began to run. She ran as -long as she was able, then walked for a while, then ran again. A hideous, -torturing fear drove her on. - -From Ekeby to Björne it cannot be farther than at most two miles. -Marianne was soon at home, but she thought almost that she had come the -wrong way. When she reached the house all the doors were closed, all the -lights out; she wondered if her parents had not come home. - -She went forward and twice knocked loudly on the front door. She seized -the door-handle and shook it till the noise resounded through the whole -house. No one came and opened, but when she let the iron go, which she -had grasped with her bare hands, the fast-frozen skin was torn from them. - -Melchior Sinclair had driven home in order to shut his door on his only -child. - -He was drunk with much drinking, wild with rage. He hated his daughter, -because she liked Gösta Berling. He had shut the servants into the -kitchen, and his wife in the bedroom. With solemn oaths he told them that -the one who let Marianne in, he would beat to a jelly. And they knew that -he would keep his word. - -No one had ever seen him so angry. Such a grief had never come to him -before. Had his daughter come into his presence, he would perhaps have -killed her. - -Golden ornaments, silken dresses had he given her, wit and learning had -been instilled in her. She had been his pride, his glory. He had been -as proud of her as if she had worn a crown. Oh, his queen, his goddess, -his honored, beautiful, proud Marianne! Had he ever denied her anything? -Had he not always considered himself too common to be her father? Oh, -Marianne, Marianne! - -Ought he not to hate her, when she is in love with Gösta Berling and -kisses him? Should he not cast her out, shut his door against her, when -she will disgrace her greatness by loving such a man? Let her stay at -Ekeby, let her run to the neighbors for shelter, let her sleep in the -snow-drifts; it’s all the same, she has already been dragged in the dirt, -the lovely Marianne. The bloom is gone. The lustre of her life is gone. - -He lies there in his bed, and hears how she beats on the door. What does -that matter to him? He is asleep. Outside stands one who will marry a -dismissed priest; he has no home for such a one. If he had loved her -less, if he had been less proud of her, he could have let her come in. - -Yes, his blessing he could not refuse them. He had played it away. But to -open the door for her, that he would not do. Ah, Marianne! - -The beautiful young woman still stood outside the door of her home. One -minute she shook the lock in powerless rage, the next she fell on her -knees, clasped her mangled hands, and begged for forgiveness. - -But no one heard her, no one answered, no one opened to her. - -Oh! was it not terrible? I am filled with horror as I tell of it. She -came from a ball whose queen she had been! She had been proud, rich, -happy; and in one minute she was cast into such an endless misery. Shut -out from her home, exposed to the cold,—not scorned, not beaten, not -cursed, but shut out with cold, immovable lovelessness. - -Think of the cold, starlit night, which spread its arch above her, the -great wide night with the empty, desolate snow-fields, with the silent -woods. Everything slept, everything was sunk in painless sleep; only one -living point in all that sleeping whiteness. All sorrow and pain and -horror, which otherwise had been spread over the world, crept forward -towards that one lonely point. O God, to suffer alone in the midst of -this sleeping, ice-bound world! - -For the first time in her life she met with unmercifulness and hardness. -Her mother would not take the trouble to leave her bed to save her. The -old servants, who had guided her first steps, heard her and did not move -a finger for her sake. For what crime was she punished? - -Where should she find compassion, if not at this door? If she had been a -murderess, she would still have knocked on it, knowing that they would -forgive her. If she had sunk to being the most miserable of creatures, -come wasted and in rags, she would still confidently have gone up to that -door, and expected a loving welcome. That door was the entrance to her -home; behind it she could only meet with love. - -Had not her father tried her enough? Would they not soon open to her? - -“Father, father!” she called. “Let me come in! I freeze, I tremble. It is -terrible out here!” - -“Mother, mother! You who have gone so many steps to serve me, you who -have watched so many nights over me, why do you sleep now? Mother, -mother, wake just this one night, and I will never give you pain again!” - -She calls, and falls into breathless silence to listen for an answer. But -no one heard her, no one obeyed her, no one answered. - -Then she wrings her hands in despair, but there are no tears in her eyes. - -The long, dark house with its closed doors and darkened windows lay awful -and motionless in the night. What would become of her, who was homeless? -Branded and dishonored was she, as long as she encumbered the earth. And -her father himself pressed the red-hot iron deeper into her shoulders. - -“Father,” she called once more, “what will become of me? People will -believe the worst of me.” - -She wept and suffered; her body was stiff with cold. - -Alas, that such misery can reach one, who but lately stood so high! It -is so easy to be plunged into the deepest suffering! Should we not fear -life? Who sails in a safe craft? Round about us swell sorrows like a -heaving ocean; see how the hungry waves lick the ship’s sides, see how -they rage up over her. Ah, no safe anchorage, no solid ground, no steady -ship, as far as the eye can see; only an unknown sky over an ocean of -sorrow! - -But hush! At last, at last! A light step comes through the hall. - -“Is it mother?” asked Marianne. - -“Yes, my child.” - -“May I come in now?” - -“Father will not let you come in.” - -“I have run in the snow-drifts in my thin shoes all the way from Ekeby. -I have stood here an hour and knocked and called. I am freezing to death -out here. Why did you drive away and leave me?” - -“My child, my child, why did you kiss Gösta Berling?” - -“But father must have seen that I do not like him for that. It was in -fun. Does he think that I will marry Gösta?” - -“Go to the gardener’s house, Marianne, and beg that you pass the night -there. Your father is drunk. He will not listen to reason. He has kept me -a prisoner up there. I crept out when I thought he was asleep. He will -kill me, if you come in.” - -“Mother, mother, shall I go to strangers when I have a home? Are you as -hard as father? How can you allow me to be shut out? I will lay myself in -the drift out here, if you do not let me in.” - -Then Marianne’s mother laid her hand on the lock to open the door, but at -the same moment a heavy step was heard on the stair, and a harsh voice -called her. - -Marianne listened: her mother hurried away, the harsh voice cursed her -and then— - -Marianne heard something terrible,—she could hear every sound in the -silent house. - -She heard the thud of a blow, a blow with a stick or a box on the ear; -then she heard a faint noise, and then again a blow. - -He struck her mother, the terrible brutal Melchior Sinclair struck his -wife! - -And in pale horror Marianne threw herself down on the threshold and -writhed in anguish. Now she wept, and her tears froze to ice on the -threshold of her home. - -Grace! pity! Open, open, that she might bend her own back under the -blows! Oh, that he could strike her mother, strike her, because she did -not wish to see her daughter the next day lying dead in the snow-drift, -because she had wished to comfort her child! - -Great humiliation had come to Marianne that night. She had fancied -herself a queen, and she lay there little better than a whipped slave. - -But she rose up in cold rage. Once more she struck the door with her -bloody hand and called:— - -“Hear what I say to you,—you, who beat my mother. You shall weep for -this, Melchior Sinclair, weep!” - -Then she went and laid herself to rest in the snow-drift. She threw off -her cloak and lay in her black velvet dress, easily distinguishable -against the white snow. She lay and thought how her father would come out -the next day on his early morning tour of inspection and find her there. -She only hoped that he himself might find her. - - * * * * * - -O Death, pale friend, is it as true as it is consoling, that I never can -escape meeting you? Even to me, the lowliest of earth’s workers, will -you come, to loosen the torn leather shoes from my feet, to take the -spade and the barrow from my hand, to take the working-dress from my -body. With gentle force you lay me out on a lace-trimmed bed; you adorn -me with draped linen sheets. My feet need no more shoes, my hands are -clad in snow-white gloves, which no more work shall soil. Consecrated by -thee to the sweetness of rest, I shall sleep a sleep of a thousand years. -Oh deliverer! The lowliest of earth’s laborers am I, and I dream with a -thrill of pleasure of the hour when I shall be received into your kingdom. - -Pale friend, on me you can easily try your strength, but I tell you -that the fight was harder against those women of the olden days. Life’s -strength was mighty in their slender bodies, no cold could cool their -hot blood. You had laid Marianne on your bed, O Death, and you sat -by her side, as an old nurse sits by the cradle to lull the child to -sleep. You faithful old nurse, who know what is good for the children -of men, how angry you must be when playmates come, who with noise and -romping wake your sleeping child. How vexed you must have been when the -pensioners lifted the lovely Marianne out of the bed, when a man laid her -against his breast, and warm tears fell from his eyes on to her face. - - * * * * * - -At Ekeby all lights were out, and all the guests had gone. The pensioners -stood alone in the bachelors’ wing, about the last half-emptied punch -bowl. - -Then Gösta rung on the edge of the bowl and made a speech for you, women -of the olden days. To speak of you, he said, was to speak of the kingdom -of heaven: you were all beauties, ever bright, ever young, ever lovely -and gentle as a mother’s eyes when she looks down on her child. Soft -as young squirrels you hung on your husband’s neck, your voice never -trembled with anger, no frowns ruffled your brow, your white hands were -never harsh and hard. Sweet saints, you were adored images in the temple -of home. Men lay at your feet, offering you incense and prayers. Through -you love worked its wonders, and round your temples poetry wreathed its -gold, gleaming glory. - -And the pensioners sprang up, wild with wine, wild with his words, with -their blood raging. Old Eberhard and the lazy Christopher drew back -from the sport. In the wildest haste the pensioners harnessed horses to -sledges and hurried out in the cold night to pay homage to those who -never could be honored enough, to sing a serenade to each and all of -them who possessed the rosy cheeks and bright eyes which had just lighted -up Ekeby halls. - -But the pensioners did not go far on their happy way, for when they came -to Björne, they found Marianne lying in the snow-drift, just by the door -of her home. - -They trembled and raged to see her there. It was like finding a -worshipped saint lying mangled and stripped outside the church-door. - -Gösta shook his clenched hand at the dark house. “You children of hate,” -he cried, “you hail-storms, you ravagers of God’s pleasure-house!” - -Beerencreutz lighted his horn lantern and let it shine down on the livid -face. Then the pensioners saw Marianne’s mangled hands, and the tears -which had frozen to ice on her eyelashes, and they wailed like women, for -she was not merely a saintly image, but a beautiful woman, who had been a -joy to their old hearts. - -Gösta Berling threw himself on his knees beside her. - -“She is lying here, my bride,” he said. “She gave me the betrothal kiss a -few hours ago, and her father has promised me his blessing. She lies and -waits for me to come and share her white bed.” - -And Gösta lifted up the lifeless form in his strong arms. - -“Home to Ekeby with her!” he cried. “Now she is mine. In the snow-drift -I have found her; no one shall take her from me. We will not wake them -in there. What has she to do behind those doors, against which she has -beaten her hand into blood?” - -He was allowed to do as he wished. He laid Marianne in the foremost -sledge and sat down at her side. Beerencreutz sat behind and took the -reins. - -“Take snow and rub her, Gösta!” he commanded. - -The cold had paralyzed her limbs, nothing more. The wildly agitated heart -still beat. She had not even lost consciousness; she knew all about the -pensioners, and how they had found her, but she could not move. So she -lay stiff and stark in the sledge, while Gösta Berling rubbed her with -snow and alternately wept and kissed, and she felt an infinite longing to -be able only to lift a hand, that she might give a caress in return. - -She remembered everything. She lay there stiff and motionless and thought -more clearly than ever before. Was she in love with Gösta Berling? Yes, -she was. Was it merely a whim of the moment? No, it had been for many -years. She compared herself with him and the other people in Värmland. -They were all just like children. They followed whatever impulse came -to them. They only lived the outer life, had never looked deep into -their souls. But she had become what one grows to be by living in the -world; she could never really lose herself in anything. If she loved, -yes, whatever she did, one half of her stood and looked on with a cold -scorn. She had longed for a passion which should carry her away in wild -heedlessness, and now it had come. When she kissed Gösta Berling on the -balcony, for the first time she had forgotten herself. - -And now the passion came over her again, her heart throbbed so that she -heard it beat. Should she not soon be mistress of her limbs? She felt a -wild joy that she had been thrust out from her home. Now she could be -Gösta’s without hesitation. How stupid she had been, to have subdued her -love so many years. Ah, it is so sweet to yield to love. But shall she -never, never be free from these icy chains? She has been ice within and -fire on the surface; now it is the opposite, a soul of fire in a body of -ice. - -Then Gösta feels how two arms gently are raised about his neck in a weak, -feeble pressure. - -He could only just feel them, but Marianne thought that she gave -expression to the suppressed passion in her by a suffocating embrace. - -But when Beerencreutz saw it he let the horse go as it would along the -familiar road. He raised his eyes and looked obstinately and unceasingly -at the Pleiades. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE OLD VEHICLES - - -If it should happen to you that you are sitting or lying and reading this -at night, as I am writing it during the silent hours, then do not draw a -sigh of relief here and think that the good pensioners were allowed to -have an undisturbed sleep, after they had come back with Marianne and -made her a good bed in the best guest-room beyond the big drawing-room. - -They went to bed, and went to sleep, but it was not their lot to sleep in -peace and quiet till noon, as you and I, dear reader, might have done, -if we had been awake till four in the morning and our limbs ached with -fatigue. - -It must not be forgotten that the old major’s wife went about the country -with beggar’s wallet and stick, and that it never was her way, when she -had anything to do, to think of a poor tired sinner’s convenience. And -now she would do it even less, as she had decided to drive the pensioners -that very night from Ekeby. - -Gone was the day when she sat in splendor and magnificence at Ekeby and -sowed happiness over the earth, as God sows stars over the skies. And -while she wandered homeless about the land, the authority and honor of -the great estate was left in the pensioners’ hands to be guarded by -them, as the wind guards ashes, as the spring sun guards the snow-drift. - -It sometimes happened that the pensioners drove out, six or eight of -them, in a long sledge drawn by four horses, with chiming bells and -braided reins. If they met the major’s wife, as she went as a beggar, -they did not turn away their heads. - -Clenched fists were stretched against her. By a violent swing of the -sledge, she was forced up into the drifts by the roadside, and Major -Fuchs, the bear-killer, always took pains to spit three times to take -away the evil effect of meeting the old woman. - -They had no pity on her. She was as odious as a witch to them as she went -along the road. If any mishap had befallen her, they would no more have -grieved than he who shoots off his gun on Easter Eve, loaded with brass -hooks, grieves that he has hit a witch flying by. - -It was to secure their salvation that these unhappy pensioners persecuted -the major’s wife. People have often been cruel and tortured one another -with the greatest hardness, when they have trembled for their souls. - -When the pensioners late at night reeled from the drinking-tables to the -window to see if the night was calm and clear, they often noticed a dark -shadow, which glided over the grass, and knew that the major’s wife had -come to see her beloved home; then the bachelors’ wing rang with the -pensioners’ scornful laughter, and gibes flew from the open windows down -to her. - -Verily, lovelessness and arrogance began to take possession of the -penniless adventurers’ hearts. Sintram had planted hate. Their souls -could not have been in greater danger if the major’s wife had remained -at Ekeby. More die in flight than in battle. - -The major’s wife cherished no great anger against the pensioners. - -If she had had the power, she would have whipped them like naughty boys -and then granted them her grace and favor again. - -But now she feared for her beloved lands, which were in the pensioners’ -hands to be guarded by them, as wolves guard the sheep, as crows guard -the spring grain. - -There are many who have suffered the same sorrow. She is not the only one -who has seen ruin come to a beloved home and well-kept fields fall into -decay. They have seen their childhood’s home look at them like a wounded -animal. Many feel like culprits when they see the trees there wither -away, and the paths covered with tufts of grass. They wish to throw -themselves on their knees in those fields, which once boasted of rich -harvests, and beg them not to blame them for the disgrace which befalls -them. And they turn away from the poor old horses; they have not courage -to meet their glance. And they dare not stand by the gate and see the -cattle come home from pasture. There is no spot on earth so sad to visit -as an old home in ruin. - -When I think what that proud Ekeby must have suffered under the -pensioners’ rule, I wish that the plan of the major’s wife had been -fulfilled, and that Ekeby had been taken from them. - -It was not her thought to take back her dominion again. - -She had only one object,—to rid her home of these madmen, these locusts, -these wild brigands, in whose path no grass grew. - -While she went begging about the land and lived on alms, she continually -thought of her mother; and the thought bit deep into her heart, that -there could be no bettering for her till her mother lifted the curse from -her shoulders. - -No one had ever mentioned the old woman’s death, so she must be still -living up there by the iron-works in the forest. Ninety years old, she -still lived in unceasing labor, watching over her milk-pans in the -summer, her charcoal-kilns in the winter, working till death, longing for -the day when she would have completed her life’s duties. - -And the major’s wife thought that her mother had lived so long in order -to be able to lift the curse from her life. That mother could not die who -had called down such misery on her child. - -So the major’s wife wanted to go to the old woman, that they might both -get rest. She wished to struggle up through the dark woods by the long -river to the home of her childhood. - -Till then she could not rest. There were many who offered her a warm home -and all the comforts of a faithful friendship, but she would not stop -anywhere. Grim and fierce, she went from house to house, for she was -weighed down by the curse. - -She was going to struggle up to her mother, but first she wanted to -provide for her beloved home. She would not go and leave it in the hands -of light-minded spendthrifts, of worthless drunkards, of good-for-nothing -dispersers of God’s gifts. - -Should she go to find on her return her inheritance gone to waste, her -hammers silent, her horses starving, her servants scattered? Ah, no, once -more she will rise in her might and drive out the pensioners. - -She well understood that her husband saw with joy how her inheritance -was squandered. But she knew him enough to understand, also, that if she -drove away his devouring locusts, he would be too lazy to get new ones. -Were the pensioners removed, then her old bailiff and overseer could -carry on the work at Ekeby in the old grooves. - -And so, many nights her dark shadow had glided along the black lanes. She -had stolen in and out of the cottagers’ houses, she had whispered with -the miller and the mill-hands in the lower floor of the great mill, she -had conferred with the smith in the dark coal-house. - -And they had all sworn to help her. The honor of the great estate should -no longer be left in the hands of careless pensioners, to be guarded as -the wind guards the ashes, as the wolf guards the flock of sheep. - -And this night, when the merry gentlemen had danced, played, and drunk -until they had sunk down on their beds in a dead sleep, this very night -they must go. She has let them have their good time. She has sat in the -smithy and awaited the end of the ball. She has waited still longer, -until the pensioners should return from their nocturnal drive. She has -sat in silent waiting, until the message was brought her that the last -light was out in the bachelors’ wing and that the great house slept. Then -she rose and went out. - -The major’s wife ordered that all the workmen on the estate should be -gathered together up by the bachelors’ wing; she herself went to the -house. There she went to the main building, knocked, and was let in. The -young daughter of the minister at Broby, whom she had trained to be a -capable maid-servant, was there to meet her. - -“You are so welcome, madame,” said the maid, and kissed her hand. - -“Put out the light!” said the major’s wife. “Do you think I cannot find -my way without a candle?” - -And then she began a wandering through the silent house. She went from -the cellar to the attic, and said farewell. With stealthy step they went -from room to room. - -The major’s wife was filled with old memories. The maid neither sighed -nor sobbed, but tear after tear flowed unchecked from her eyes, while she -followed her mistress. The major’s wife had her open the linen-closet -and silver-chest, and passed her hand over the fine damask table-cloths -and the magnificent silver service. She felt caressingly the mighty pile -of pillows in the store-closet. She touched all the implements, the -looms, the spinning-wheels, and winding-bobbins. She thrust her hand into -the spice-box, and felt the rows of tallow candles which hung from the -rafters. - -“The candles are dry,” she said. “They can be taken down and put away.” - -She was down in the cellar, carefully lifted the beer-casks, and groped -over the rows of wine bottles. - -She went into the pantry and kitchen; she felt everything, examined -everything. She stretched out her hand and said farewell to everything in -her house. - -Last she went through the rooms. She found the long broad sofas in their -places; she laid her hand on the cool slabs of the marble tables, and on -the mirrors with their frames of gilded dancing nymphs. - -“This is a rich house,” she said. “A noble man was he who gave me all -this for my own.” - -In the great drawing-room, where the dance had lately whirled, the -stiff-backed arm-chairs already stood in prim order against the walls. - -She went over to the piano, and very gently struck a chord. - -“Joy and gladness were no strangers here in my time, either,” she said. - -She went also to the guest-room beyond. It was pitch-dark. The major’s -wife groped with her hands and came against the maid’s face. - -“Are you weeping?” she said, for she felt her hands were wet with tears. - -Then the young girl burst out sobbing. - -“Madame,” she cried, “madame, they will destroy everything. Why do you -leave us and let the pensioners ruin your house?” - -The major’s wife drew back the curtain and pointed out into the yard. - -“Is it I who have taught you to weep and lament?” she cried. “Look out! -the place is full of people; to-morrow there will not be one pensioner -left at Ekeby.” - -“Are you coming back?” asked the maid. - -“My time has not yet come,” said the major’s wife. “The highway is my -home, and the hay-stack my bed. But you shall watch over Ekeby for me, -child, while I am away.” - -And they went on. Neither of them knew or thought that Marianne slept -in that very room. But she did not sleep. She was wide awake, heard -everything, and understood it all. She had lain there in bed and sung a -hymn to Love. - -“You conqueror, who have taken me out of myself,” she said, “I lay in -fathomless misery and you have changed it to a paradise. My hands stuck -fast to the iron latch of the closed door and were torn and wounded; on -the threshold of my home my tears lie frozen to pearls of ice. Anger -froze my heart when I heard the blows on my mother’s back. In the cold -snow-drift I hoped to sleep away my anger, but you came. O Love, child -of fire, to one who was frozen by much cold you came. When I compare -my sufferings to the glory won by them, they seem to me as nothing. I -am free of all ties. I have no father nor mother, no home. People will -believe all evil of me and turn away from me. It has pleased you to do -this, O Love, for why should I stand higher than my beloved? Hand in hand -we will wander out into the world. Gösta Berling’s bride is penniless; -he found her in a snow-drift. We shall not live in lofty halls, but in a -cottage at the edge of the wood. I shall help him to watch the kiln, I -shall help him to set snares for partridges and hares, I shall cook his -food and mend his clothes. Oh, my beloved, how I shall long and mourn, -while I sit there alone by the edge of the wood and wait for you! But -not for the days of riches, only for you; only you shall I look for and -miss,—your footstep on the forest path, your joyous song, as you come -with your axe on your shoulder. Oh, my beloved, my beloved! As long as my -life lasts, I could sit and wait for you.” - -So she lay and sang hymns to the heart-conquering god, and never once had -closed her eyes in sleep when the major’s wife came in. - -When she had gone, Marianne got up and dressed herself. Once more must -she put on the black velvet dress and the thin satin slippers. She -wrapped a blanket about her like a shawl, and hurried out once again into -the terrible night. - -Calm, starlit, and bitingly cold the February night lay over the earth; -it was as if it would never end. And the darkness and the cold of that -long night lasted on the earth long, long after the sun had risen, long -after the snow-drifts through which Marianne wandered had been changed to -water. - -Marianne hurried away from Ekeby to get help. She could not let those men -who had rescued her from the snow-drift and opened their hearts and home -to her be hunted away. She went down to Sjö to Major Samzelius. It would -be an hour before she could be back. - -When the major’s wife had said farewell to her home, she went out into -the yard, where her people were waiting, and the struggle began. - -She placed them round about the high, narrow house, the upper story -of which was the pensioners’ far-famed home,—the great room with the -whitewashed walls, the red-painted chests, and the great folding-table, -where playing-cards swim in the spilled brandy, where the broad beds are -hidden by yellow striped curtains where the pensioners sleep. - -And in the stable before full mangers the pensioners’ horses sleep and -dream of the journeys of their youth. It is sweet to dream when they know -that they never again shall leave the filled cribs, the warm stalls of -Ekeby. - -In a musty old carriage-house, where all the broken-down coaches and -worn-out sledges were stored, was a wonderful collection of old vehicles. - -Many are the pensioners who have lived and died at Ekeby. Their names -are forgotten on the earth, and they have no longer a place in men’s -hearts; but the major’s wife has kept the vehicles in which they came to -Ekeby, she has collected them all in the old carriage-house. - -And there they stand and sleep, and dust falls thick, thick over them. - -But now in this February night the major’s wife has the door opened to -the carriage-house, and with lanterns and torches she seeks out the -vehicles which belong to Ekeby’s present pensioners,—Beerencreutz’s old -gig, and Örneclou’s coach, painted with coat of arms, and the narrow -cutter which had brought Cousin Christopher. - -She does not care if the vehicles are for summer or winter, she only sees -that each one gets his own. - -And in the stable they are now awake, all the pensioners’ old horses, who -had so lately been dreaming before full mangers. The dream shall be true. - -You shall again try the steep hills, and the musty hay in the sheds of -wayside inns, and drunken horse-dealers’ sharp whips, and the mad races -on ice so slippery that you tremble only to walk on it. - -The old beasts mouth and snort when the bit is put into their toothless -jaws; the old vehicles creak and crack. Pitiful infirmity, which should -have been allowed to sleep in peace till the end of the world, was now -dragged out before all eyes; stiff joints, halting forelegs, spavin, and -broken-wind are shown up. - -The stable grooms succeed, however, in getting the horses harnessed; then -they go and ask the major’s wife in what Gösta Berling shall be put, for, -as every one knows, he came to Ekeby in the coal-sledge of the major’s -wife. - -“Put Don Juan in our best sledge,” she says, “and spread over it the -bear-skin with the silver claws!” And when the grooms grumble, she -continues: “There is not a horse in my stable which I would not give to -be rid of that man, remember that!” - -Well, now the vehicles are waked and the horses too, but the pensioners -still sleep. It is now their time to be brought out in the winter night; -but it is a more perilous deed to seize them in their beds than to lead -out stiff-legged horses and shaky old carriages. They are bold, strong -men, tried in a hundred adventures; they are ready to defend themselves -till death; it is no easy thing to take them against their will from out -their beds and down to the carriages which shall carry them away. - -The major’s wife has them set fire to a hay-stack, which stands so near -the house that the flames must shine in to where the pensioners are -sleeping. - -“The hay-stack is mine, all Ekeby is mine,” she says. - -And when the stack is in flames, she cries: “Wake them now!” - -But the pensioners sleep behind well-closed doors. The whole mass of -people begin to cry out that terrible “Fire, fire!” but the pensioners -sleep on. - -The master-smith’s heavy sledge-hammer thunders against the door, but the -pensioners sleep. - -A hard snowball breaks the window-pane and flies into the room, -rebounding against the bed-curtains, but the pensioners sleep. - -They dream that a lovely girl throws a handkerchief at them, they dream -of applause from behind fallen curtains, they dream of gay laughter and -the deafening noise of midnight feasts. - -The noise of cannon at their cars, an ocean of ice-cold water were needed -to awake them. - -They have bowed, danced, played, acted, and sung. They are heavy with -wine, exhausted, and sleep a sleep as deep as death’s. - -This blessed sleep almost saves them. - -The people begin to think that this quiet conceals a danger. What if -it means that the pensioners are already out to get help? What if it -means that they stand awake, with finger on the trigger, on guard behind -windows or door, ready to fall upon the first who enters? - -These men are crafty, ready to fight; they must mean something by their -silence. Who can think it of them, that they would let themselves be -surprised in their lairs like bears? - -The people bawl their “Fire, fire!” time after time, but nothing avails. - -Then when all are trembling, the major’s wife herself takes an axe and -bursts open the outer door. - -Then she rushes alone up the stairs, throws open the door to the -bachelors’ wing, and calls into the room: “Fire!” - -Hers is a voice which finds a better echo in the pensioners’ ears than -the people’s outcry. Accustomed to obey that voice, twelve men at the -same moment spring from their beds, see the flames, throw on their -clothes, and rush down the stairs out into the yard. - -But at the door stands the great master-smith and two stout mill-hands, -and deep disgrace then befalls the pensioners. Each, as he comes down, is -seized, thrown to the ground, and his feet bound; thereupon he is carried -without ceremony to the vehicle prepared for him. - -None escaped; they were all caught. Beerencreutz, the grim colonel, was -bound and carried away; also Christian Bergh, the mighty captain, and -Eberhard, the philosopher. - -Even the invincible, the terrible Gösta Berling was caught. The major’s -wife had succeeded. - -She was still greater than the pensioners. - -They are pitiful to see, as they sit with bound limbs in the mouldy old -vehicles. There are hanging heads and angry glances, and the yard rings -with oaths and wild bursts of powerless rage. - -The major’s wife goes from one to the other. - -“You shall swear,” she says, “never to come back to Ekeby.” - -“Begone, hag!” - -“You shall swear,” she says, “otherwise I will throw you into the -bachelors’ wing, bound as you are, and you shall burn up in there, for -to-night I am going to burn down the bachelors’ wing.” - -“You dare not do that.” - -“Dare not! Is not Ekeby mine? Ah, you villain! Do you think I do not -remember how you spit at me on the highway? Did I not long to set fire -here just now and let you all burn up? Did you lift a finger to defend me -when I was driven from my home? No, swear now!” - -And she stands there so terrible, although she pretends perhaps to be -more angry than she is, and so many men armed with axes stand about her, -that they are obliged to swear, that no worse misfortune may happen. - -The major’s wife has their clothes and boxes brought down and has their -hand-fetters loosened; then the reins are laid in their hands. - -But much time has been consumed, and Marianne has reached Sjö. - -The major was no late-riser; he was dressed when she came. She met him in -the yard; he had been out with his bears’ breakfast. - -He did not say anything when he heard her story. He only went in to the -bears, put muzzles on them, led them out, and hurried away to Ekeby. - -Marianne followed him at a distance. She was dropping with fatigue, but -then she saw a bright light of fire in the sky and was frightened nearly -to death. - -What a night it was! A man beats his wife and leaves his child to freeze -to death outside his door. Did a woman now mean to burn up her enemies; -did the old major mean to let loose the bears on his own people? - -She conquered her weariness, hurried past the major, and ran madly up to -Ekeby. - -She had a good start. When she reached the yard, she made her way through -the crowd. When she stood in the middle of the ring, face to face with -the major’s wife, she cried as loud as she could,— - -“The major, the major is coming with the bears!” - -There was consternation among the people; all eyes turned to the major’s -wife. - -“You have gone for him,” she said to Marianne. - -“Run!” cried the latter, more earnestly. “Away, for God’s sake! I do not -know what the major is thinking of, but he has the bears with him.” - -All stood still and looked at the major’s wife. - -“I thank you for your help, children,” she said quietly to the people. -“Everything which has happened to-night has been so arranged that no one -of you can be prosecuted by the law or get into trouble for it. Go home -now! I do not want to see any of my people murder or be murdered. Go now!” - -Still the people waited. - -The major’s wife turned to Marianne. - -“I know that you are in love,” she said. “You act in love’s madness. May -the day never come when you must look on powerless at the ruin of your -home! May you always be mistress over your tongue and your hand when -anger fills the soul!” - -“Dear children, come now, come!” she continued, turning to the people. -“May God protect Ekeby! I must go to my mother. Oh, Marianne, when you -have got back your senses, when Ekeby is ravaged, and the land sighs in -want, think on what you have done this night, and look after the people!” - -Thereupon she went, followed by her people. - -When the major reached the yard, he found there no living thing but -Marianne and a long line of horses with sledges and carriages,—a long -dismal line, where the horses were not worse than the vehicles, nor the -vehicles worse than their owners. Ill-used in the struggle of life were -they all. - -Marianne went forward and freed them. - -She noticed how they bit their lips and looked away. They were ashamed as -never before. A great disgrace had befallen them. - -“I was not better off when I lay on my knees on the steps at Björne a -couple of hours ago,” said Marianne. - -And so, dear reader, what happened afterwards that night—how the old -vehicles were put into the carriage-house, the horses in the stable, and -the pensioners in their house—I shall not try to relate. The dawn began -to appear over the eastern hills, and the day came clear and calm. How -much quieter the bright, sunny days are than the dark nights, under whose -protecting wings beasts of prey hunt and owls hoot! - -I will only say that when the pensioners had gone in again and had found -a few drops in the last punch-bowl to fill their glasses, a sudden -ecstasy came over them. - -“A toast for the major’s wife!” they cried. - -Ah, she is a matchless woman! What better could they wish for than to -serve her, to worship her? - -Was it not sad that the devil had got her in his power, and that all her -endeavors were to send poor gentlemen’s souls to hell? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE GREAT BEAR IN GURLITTA CLIFF - - -In the darkness of the forests dwell unholy creatures, whose jaws are -armed with horrible, glittering teeth or sharp beaks, whose feet have -pointed claws, which long to sink themselves in a blood-filled throat, -and whose eyes shine with murderous desires. - -There the wolves live, who come out at night and hunt the peasant’s -sledge until the wife must take her little child, which sits upon her -knee, and throw it to them, to save her own and her husband’s life. - -There the lynx lives, which the people call “göpa,” for in the woods at -least it is dangerous to call it by its right name. He who speaks of it -during the day had best see that the doors and windows of the sheep-house -are well closed towards night, for otherwise it will come. It climbs -right up the walls, for its claws are strong as steel nails, glides in -through the smallest hole, and throws itself on the sheep. And “göpa” -hangs on their throats, and drinks their blood, and kills and tears, till -every sheep is dead. He does not cease his wild death-dance among the -terrified animals as long as any of them show a sign of life. - -And in the morning the peasant finds all the sheep lying dead with torn -throats, for “göpa” leaves nothing living where he ravages. - -There the great owl lives, which hoots at dusk. If one mimics him, he -comes whizzing down with outspread wings and strikes out one’s eyes, for -he is no real bird, but an evil spirit. - -And there lives the most terrible of them all, the bear, who has the -strength of twelve men, and who, when he becomes a devil, can be killed -only with a silver bullet. - -And if one should chance to meet him in the wood, big and high as a -wandering cliff, one must not run, nor defend one’s self; one must throw -one’s self down on the ground and pretend to be dead. Many small children -have imagined themselves lying on the ground with the bear over them. -He has rolled them over with his paw, and they have felt his hot breath -on their faces, but they have lain quiet, until he has gone away to dig -a hole to bury them in. Then they have softly raised themselves up and -stolen away, slowly at first, then in mad haste. - -But think, think if the bear had not thought them really dead, but had -taken a bite, or if he had been very hungry and wanted to eat them right -up, or if he had seen them when they moved and had run after them. O God! - -Terror is a witch. She sits in the dimness of the forest, sings magic -songs to people, and fills their hearts with frightful thoughts. From her -comes that deadly fear which weighs down life and darkens the beauty of -smiling landscapes. Nature is malignant, treacherous as a sleeping snake; -one can believe nothing. There lies Löfven’s lake in brilliant beauty; -but trust it not, it lures to destruction. Every year it must gather its -tribute of the drowned. There lies the wood temptingly peaceful; but -trust it not! The wood is full of unholy things, beset with evil spirits -and bloodthirsty vagrants’ souls. - -Trust not the brook with its gliding waters. It is sudden sickness and -death to wade in it after sunset. Trust not the cuckoo, who sings so -gayly in the spring. In the autumn he becomes a hawk with fierce eyes and -terrible claws. Trust not the moss, nor the heather, nor the rock. Nature -is evil, full of invisible powers, who hate man. There is no spot where -you can set your foot in safety; it is wonderful that your weak race can -escape so much persecution. - -Terror is a witch. Does she still sit in the darkness of the woods of -Värmland? Does she still darken the beauty of smiling places, does she -still dampen the joy of living? Great her power has been. I know it well, -who have put steel in the cradle and a red-hot coal in the bath; I know -it, who have felt her iron hand around my heart. - -But no one shall think that I now am going to relate anything terrible -or dreadful. It is only an old story of the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff -which I must tell; and any one can believe it or not, as it always is -with hunting stories. - - * * * * * - -The great bear has its home on the beautiful mountain summit which is -called Gurlitta Cliff, and which raises itself precipitously from the -shores of the Löfven. - -The roots of a fallen pine between which tufts of moss are hanging make -the walls and roof of his dwelling, branches and twigs protect it, the -snow makes it warm. He can lie there and sleep a good quiet sleep from -summer to summer. - -Is he, then, a poet, a dreamer, this hairy monarch of the forest? Will -he sleep away the cold winter’s chill nights and colorless days to be -waked by purling brooks and the song of birds? Will he lie there and -dream of blushing cranberry bogs, and of ant-hills filled with brown -delicious creatures, and of the white lambs which graze on the green -slopes? Does he want, happy one! to escape the winter of life? - -Outside the snow-storm rages; wolves and foxes wander about, mad with -hunger. Why shall the bear alone sleep? Let him get up and feel how the -cold bites, how heavy it is to wade in deep snow. - -He has bedded himself in so well. He is like the sleeping princess in -the fairy tale; and as she was waked by love, so will he be waked by the -spring. By a ray of sunlight which penetrates through the twigs and warms -his nose, by the drops of melting snow which wet his fur, will he be -waked. Woe to him who untimely disturbs him! - -He hears, suddenly, shouts, noise, and shots. He shakes the sleep out -of his joints, and pushes aside the branches to see what it is. It is -not spring, which rattles and roars outside his lair, nor the wind, -which overthrows pine-trees and casts up the driving snow, but it is the -pensioners, the pensioners from Ekeby, old acquaintances of the forest -monarch. He remembered well the night when Fuchs and Beerencreutz sat -and dozed in a Nygård peasant’s barn, where they awaited a visit from -him. They had just fallen asleep over their brandy-bottle, when he swung -himself in through the peat-roof; but they awoke, when he was trying to -lift the cow he had killed out of the stall, and fell upon him with gun -and knife. They took the cow from him and one of his eyes, but he saved -his life. - -Yes, verily the pensioners and he are old acquaintances. He remembered -how they had come on him another time, when he and his queen consort had -just laid themselves down for their winter sleep in the old lair here on -Gurlitta Cliff and had young ones in the hole. He remembered well how -they came on them unawares. He got away all right, throwing to either -side everything that stood in his path; but he must limp for life from a -bullet in his thigh, and when he came back at night to the royal lair, -the snow was red with his queen consort’s blood, and the royal children -had been carried away to the plain, to grow up there and be man’s -servants and friends. - -Yes, now the ground trembles; now the snow-drift which hides his lair -shakes; now he bursts out, the great bear, the pensioners’ old enemy. -Look out, Fuchs, old bear-killer; look out now, Beerencreutz; look out, -Gösta Berling, hero of a hundred adventures! - -Woe to all poets, all dreamers, all heroes of romance! There stands Gösta -Berling with finger on trigger, and the bear comes straight towards him. -Why does he not shoot? What is he thinking of? - -Why does he not send a bullet straight into the broad breast? He stands -in just the place to do it. The others are not placed right to shoot. -Does he think he is on parade before the forest monarch? - -Gösta of course stood and dreamed of the lovely Marianne, who is lying at -Ekeby dangerously ill, from the chill of that night when she slept in the -snow-drift. - -He thinks of her, who also is a sacrifice to the curse of hatred which -overlies the earth, and he shudders at himself, who has come out to -pursue and to kill. - -And there comes the great bear right towards him, blind in one eye from -the blow of a pensioner’s knife, lame in one leg from a bullet from a -pensioner’s gun, fierce and shaggy, alone, since they had killed his -wife and carried away his children. And Gösta sees him as he is,—a poor, -persecuted beast, whom he will not deprive of life, all he has left, -since people have taken from him everything else. - -“Let him kill me,” thinks Gösta, “but I will not shoot.” - -And while the bear breaks his way towards him, he stands quite still as -if on parade, and when the forest monarch stands directly in front of -him, he presents arms and takes a step to one side. - -The bear continues on his way, knowing too well that he has no time to -waste, breaks into the wood, ploughs his way through drifts the height of -a man, rolls down the steep slopes, and escapes, while all of them, who -had stood with cocked guns and waited for Gösta’s shot, shoot off their -guns after him. - -But it is of no avail; the ring is broken, and the bear gone. Fuchs -scolds, and Beerencreutz swears, but Gösta only laughs. - -How could they ask that any one so happy as he should harm one of God’s -creatures? - -The great bear of Gurlitta Cliff got away thus with his life, and he -is waked from his winter sleep, as the peasants will find. No bear has -greater skill than he to tear apart the roofs of their low, cellar-like -cow-barns; none can better avoid a concealed ambush. - -The people about the upper Löfven soon were at their wits’ end about him. -Message after message was sent down to the pensioners, that they should -come and kill the bear. - -Day after day, night after night, during the whole of February, the -pensioners scour the upper Löfven to find the bear, but he always escapes -them. Has he learned cunning from the fox, and swiftness from the -wolf? If they lie in wait at one place, he is ravaging the neighboring -farmyard; if they seek him in the wood, he is pursuing the peasant, who -comes driving over the ice. He has become the boldest of marauders: he -creeps into the garret and empties the housewife’s honey-jar; he kills -the horse in the peasant’s sledge. - -But gradually they begin to understand what kind of a bear he is and why -Gösta could not shoot him. Terrible to say, dreadful to believe, this -is no ordinary bear. No one can hope to kill him if he does not have a -silver bullet in his gun. A bullet of silver and bell-metal cast on a -Thursday evening at new moon in the church-tower without the priest or -the sexton or anybody knowing it would certainly kill him, but such a one -is not so easy to get. - - * * * * * - -There is one man at Ekeby who, more than all the rest, would grieve over -all this. It is, as one can easily guess, Anders Fuchs, the bear-killer. -He loses both his appetite and his sleep in his anger at not being able -to kill the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff. At last even he understands -that the bear can only be killed with a silver bullet. - -The grim Major Anders Fuchs was not handsome. He had a heavy, clumsy -body, and a broad, red face, with hanging bags under his cheeks and -several double chins. His small black moustache sat stiff as a brush -above his thick lips, and his black hair stood out rough and thick from -his head. Moreover, he was a man of few words and a glutton. He was not -a person whom women meet with sunny smile and open arms, nor did he give -them tender glances back again. One could not believe that he ever would -see a woman whom he could tolerate, and everything which concerned love -and enthusiasm was foreign to him. - -One Thursday evening, when the moon, just two fingers wide, lingers above -the horizon an hour or two after the sun has gone down, Major Fuchs -betakes himself from Ekeby without telling any one where he means to go. -He has flint and steel and a bullet-mould in his hunting-bag, and his gun -on his back, and goes up towards the church at Bro to see what luck there -may be for an honest man. - -The church lies on the eastern shore of the narrow sound between the -upper and lower Löfven, and Major Fuchs must go over a bridge to get -there. He wends his way towards it, deep in his thoughts, without looking -up towards Broby hill, where the houses cut sharply against the clear -evening sky; he only looks on the ground, and wonders how he shall get -hold of the key of the church without anybody’s knowing it. - -When he comes down to the bridge, he hears some one screaming so -despairingly that he has to look up. - -At that time the little German, Faber, was organist at Bro. He was a -slender man, small in body and mind. And the sexton was Jan Larsson, an -energetic peasant, but poor, for the Broby clergyman had cheated him out -of his patrimony, five hundred rix-dollars. - -The sexton wanted to marry the organist’s sister, the little, delicate -maiden Faber, but the organist would not let him have her, and therefore -the two were not good friends. That evening the sexton has met the -organist as he crossed the bridge and has fallen upon him. He seizes him -by the shoulder, and holding him at arm’s length out over the railing -tells him solemnly that he shall drop him into the sound if he does -not give him the little maiden. The little German will not give in; he -struggles and screams, and reiterates “No,” although far below him he -sees the black water rushing between the white banks. - -“No, no,” he screams; “no, no!” - -And it is uncertain if the sexton in his rage would have let him down -into the cold black water if Major Fuchs had not just then come over the -bridge. The sexton is afraid, puts Faber down on solid ground, and runs -away as fast as he can. - -Little Faber falls on the major’s neck to thank him for his life, but -the major pushes him away, and says that there is nothing to thank him -for. The major has no love for Germans, ever since he had his quarters -at Putbus on the Rügen during the Pomeranian war. He had never so nearly -starved to death as in those days. - -Then little Faber wants to run up to the bailiff Scharling and accuse the -sexton of an attempt at murder, but the major lets him know that it is of -no use here in the country, for it does not count for anything to kill a -German. - -Little Faber grows calmer and asks the major to come home with him to eat -a bit of sausage and to taste his home-brewed ale. - -The major follows him, for he thinks that the organist must have a key -to the church-door; and so they go up the hill, where the Bro church -stands, with the vicarage, the sexton’s cottage and the organist’s house -round about it. - -“You must excuse us,” says little Faber, as he and the major enter the -house. “It is not really in order to-day. We have had a little to do, my -sister and I. We have killed a cock.” - -“The devil!” cries the major. - -The little maid Faber has just come in with the ale in great earthen -mugs. Now, every one knows that the major did not look upon women with a -tender glance, but this little maiden he had to gaze upon with delight, -as she came in so neat in lace and cap. Her light hair lay combed so -smooth above her forehead, the home-woven dress was so pretty and so -dazzlingly clean, her little hands were so busy and eager, and her little -face so rosy and round, that he could not help thinking that if he had -seen such a little woman twenty-five years ago, he must have come forward -and offered himself. - -She is so pretty and rosy and nimble, but her eyes are quite red with -weeping. It is that which suggests such tender thoughts. - -While the men eat and drink, she goes in and out of the room. Once she -comes to her brother, courtesies, and says,— - -“How do you wish me to place the cows in the stable?” - -“Put twelve on the left and eleven on the right, then they can’t gore one -another.” - -“Have you so many cows, Faber?” bursts out the major. - -The fact was that the organist had only two cows, but he called one -eleven and the other twelve, that it might sound fine, when he spoke of -them. - -And then the major hears that Faber’s barn is being altered, so that the -cows are out all day and at night are put into the woodshed. - -The little maiden comes again to her brother, courtesies to him, and says -that the carpenter had asked how high the barn should be made. - -“Measure by the cows,” says the organist, “measure by the cows!” - -Major Fuchs thinks that is such a good answer. However it comes to pass, -the major asks the organist why his sister’s eyes are so red, and learns -that she weeps because he will not let her marry the penniless sexton, in -debt and without inheritance as he is. - -Major Fuchs grows more and more thoughtful. He empties tankard after -tankard, and eats sausage after sausage, without noticing it. Little -Faber is appalled at such an appetite and thirst; but the more the major -eats and drinks, the clearer and more determined his mind grows. The more -decided becomes his resolution to do something for the little maiden -Faber. - -He has kept his eyes fixed on the great key which hangs on a knob by the -door, and as soon as little Faber, who has had to keep up with the major -in drinking the home-brewed ale, lays his head on the table and snores, -Major Fuchs has seized the key, put on his cap, and hurried away. - -A minute later he is groping his way up the tower stairs, lighted by -his little horn lantern, and comes at last to the bell-room, where the -bells open their wide throats over him. He scrapes off a little of the -bell-metal with a file, and is just going to take the bullet-mould and -melting-ladle out of his hunting-bag, when he finds that he has forgotten -what is most important of all: he has no silver with him. If there -shall be any power in the bullet, it must be cast there in the tower. -Everything is right; it is Thursday evening and a new moon, and no one -has any idea he is there, and now he cannot do anything. He sends forth -into the silence of the night an oath with such a ring in it that the -bells hum. - -Then he hears a slight noise down in the church and thinks he hears steps -on the stairs. Yes, it is true, heavy steps are coming up the stairs. - -Major Fuchs, who stands there and swears so that the bells vibrate, is a -little thoughtful at that. He wonders who it can be who is coming to help -him with the bullet-casting. The steps come nearer and nearer. Whoever it -is, is coming all the way up to the bell-room. - -The major creeps far in among the beams and rafters, and puts out his -lantern. He is not exactly afraid, but the whole thing would be spoiled -if any one should see him there. He has scarcely had time to hide before -the new-comer’s head appears above the floor. - -The major knows him well; it is the miserly Broby minister. He, who is -nearly mad with greed, has the habit of hiding his treasures in the -strangest places. He comes now with a roll of bank-notes which he is -going to hide in the tower-room. He does not know that any one sees him. -He lifts up a board in the floor and puts in the money and takes himself -off again. - -The major is not slow; he lifts up the same board. Oh, so much money! -Package after package of bank-notes, and among them brown leather bags, -full of silver. The major takes just enough silver to make a bullet; the -rest he leaves. - -When he comes down to the earth again, he has the silver bullet in -his gun. He wonders what luck has in store for him that night. It is -marvellous on Thursday nights, as every one knows. He goes up towards -the organist’s house. Fancy if the bear knew that Faber’s cows are in a -miserable shed, no better than under the bare sky. - -What! surely he sees something black and big coming over the field -towards the woodshed; it must be the bear. He puts the gun to his cheek -and is just going to shoot, but then he changes his mind. - -The little maid’s red eyes come before him in the darkness; he thinks -that he will help her and the sexton a little, but it is hard not to kill -the great bear himself. He said afterwards that nothing in the world had -ever been so hard, but as the little maiden was so dear and sweet, it had -to be done. - -He goes up to the sexton’s house, wakes him, drags him out, half dressed -and half naked, and says that he shall shoot the bear which is creeping -about outside of Faber’s woodshed. - -“If you shoot the bear, he will surely give you his sister,” he says, -“for then you will be a famous man. That is no ordinary bear, and the -best men in the country would consider it an honor to kill it.” - -And he puts into his hand his own gun, loaded with a bullet of silver and -bell-metal cast in a church tower on a Thursday evening at the new moon, -and he cannot help trembling with envy that another than he shall shoot -the great forest monarch, the old bear of Gurlitta Cliff. - -The sexton aims,—God help us! aims, as if he meant to hit the Great Bear, -which high up in the sky wanders about the North Star, and not a bear -wandering on the plain,—and the gun goes off with a bang which can be -heard all the way to Gurlitta Cliff. - -But however he has aimed, the bear falls. So it is when one shoots with a -silver bullet. One shoots the bear through the heart, even if one aims at -the Dipper. - -People come rushing out from all the neighboring farmyards and wonder -what is going on, for never had a shot sounded so loud nor waked so many -sleeping echoes as this one, and the sexton wins much praise, for the -bear had been a real pest. - -Little Faber comes out too, but now is Major Fuchs sadly disappointed. -There stands the sexton covered with glory, besides having saved Faber’s -cows, but the little organist is neither touched nor grateful. He does -not open his arms to him and greet him as brother-in-law and hero. - -The major stands and frowns and stamps his foot in rage over such -smallness. He wants to explain to the covetous, narrow-minded little -fellow what a deed it is, but he begins to stammer, so that he cannot get -out a word. And he gets angry and more angry at the thought that he has -given up the glory of killing the great bear in vain. - -Oh, it is quite impossible for him to comprehend that he who had done -such a deed should not be worthy to win the proudest of brides. - -The sexton and some of the young men are going to skin the bear; they go -to the grindstone and sharpen the knives. Others go in and go to bed. -Major Fuchs stands alone by the dead bear. - -Then he goes to the church once more, puts the key again in the lock, -climbs up the narrow stairs and the twisted ladder, wakes the sleeping -pigeons, and once more comes up to the tower-room. - -Afterwards, when the bear is skinned under the major’s inspection, they -find between his jaws a package of notes of five hundred rix-dollars. It -is impossible to say how it came there, but of course it was a marvellous -bear; and as the sexton had killed him, the money is his, that is very -plain. - -When it is made known, little Faber too understands what a glorious deed -the sexton has done, and he declares that he would be proud to be his -brother-in-law. - -On Friday evening Major Anders Fuchs returns to Ekeby, after having been -at a feast, in honor of the lucky shot, at the sexton’s and an engagement -dinner at the organist’s. He follows the road with a heavy heart; he -feels no joy that his enemy is dead, and no pleasure in the magnificent -bear-skin which the sexton has given him. - -Many perhaps will believe that he is grieving that the sweet little -maiden shall be another’s. Oh no, that causes him no sorrow. But what -goes to his very heart is that the old, one-eyed forest king is dead, and -it was not he who shot the silver bullet at him. - -So he comes into the pensioners’ wing, where the pensioners are sitting -round the fire, and without a word throws the bear-skin down among them. -Let no one think that he told about that expedition; it was not until -long, long after that any one could get out of him the truth of it. Nor -did he betray the Broby clergyman’s hiding-place, who perhaps never -noticed the theft. - -The pensioners examine the skin. - -“It is a fine skin,” says Beerencreutz. “I would like to know why this -fellow has come out of his winter sleep, or perhaps you shot him in his -hole?” - -“He was shot at Bro.” - -“Yes, as big as the Gurlitta bear he never was,” says Gösta, “but he has -been a fine beast.” - -“If he had had one eye,” says Kevenhüller, “I would have thought that you -had killed the old one himself, he is so big; but this one has no wound -or inflammation about his eyes, so it cannot be the same.” - -Fuchs swears over his stupidity, but then his face lights up so that he -is really handsome. The great bear has not been killed by another man’s -bullet. - -“Lord God, how good thou art!” he says, and folds his hands. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE AUCTION AT BJÖRNE - - -We young people often had to wonder at the old people’s tales. “Was there -a ball every day, as long as your radiant youth lasted?” we asked them. -“Was life then one long adventure?” - -“Were all young women beautiful and lovely in those days, and did every -feast end by Gösta Berling carrying off one of them?” - -Then the old people shook their worthy heads, and began to tell of the -whirring of the spinning-wheel and the clatter of the loom, of work in -the kitchen, of the thud of the flail and the path of the axe through -the forest; but it was not long before they harked back to the old -theme. Then sledges drove up to the door, horses speeded away through -the dark woods with the joyous young people; then the dance whirled and -the violin-strings snapped. Adventure’s wild chase roared about Löfven’s -long lake with thunder and crash. Far away could its noise be heard. The -forest tottered and fell, all the powers of destruction were let loose; -fire flamed out, floods laid waste the land, wild beasts roamed starving -about the farmyards. Under the light-footed horses’ hoofs all quiet -happiness was trampled to dust. Wherever the hunt rushed by, men’s hearts -flamed up in madness, and the women in pale terror had to flee from their -homes. - -And we young ones sat wondering, silent, troubled, but blissful. “What -people!” we thought. “We shall never see their like.” - -“Did the people of those days never _think_ of what they were doing?” we -asked. - -“Of course they thought, children,” answered the old people. - -“But not as we think,” we insisted. - -But the old people did not understand what we meant. - -But we thought of the strange spirit of self-consciousness which had -already taken possession of us. We thought of him, with his eyes of ice -and his long, bent fingers,—he who sits there in the soul’s darkest -corner and picks to pieces our being, just as old women pick to pieces -bits of silk and wool. - -Bit by bit had the long, hard, crooked fingers picked, until our whole -self lay there like a pile of rags, and our best impulses, our most -original thoughts, everything which we had done and said, had been -examined, investigated, picked to pieces, and the icy eyes had looked on, -and the toothless mouth had laughed in derision and whispered,— - -“See, it is rags, only rags.” - -There was also one of the people of that time who had opened her soul to -the spirit with the icy eyes. In one of them he sat, watching the causes -of all actions, sneering at both evil and good, understanding everything, -condemning nothing, examining, seeking out, picking to pieces, paralyzing -the emotions of the heart and the power of the mind by sneering -unceasingly. - -The beautiful Marianne bore the spirit of introspection within her. She -felt his icy eyes and sneers follow every step, every word. Her life -had become a drama where she was the only spectator. She had ceased -to be a human being, she did not suffer, she was not glad, nor did -she love; she carried out the beautiful Marianne Sinclair’s rôle, and -self-consciousness sat with staring, icy eyes and busy, picking fingers, -and watched her performance. - -She was divided into two halves. Pale, unsympathetic, and sneering, one -half sat and watched what the other half was doing; and the strange -spirit who picked to pieces her being never had a word of feeling or -sympathy. - -But where had he been, the pale watcher of the source of deeds, that -night, when she had learned to know the fulness of life? Where was he -when she, the sensible Marianne, kissed Gösta Berling before a hundred -pairs of eyes, and when in a gust of passion she threw herself down in -the snow-drift to die? Then the icy eyes were blinded, then the sneer was -weakened, for passion had raged through her soul. The roar of adventure’s -wild hunt had thundered in her ears. She had been a whole person during -that one terrible night. - -Oh, you god of self-mockery, when Marianne with infinite difficulty -succeeded in lifting her stiffened arms and putting them about Gösta’s -neck, you too, like old Beerencreutz, had to turn away your eyes from the -earth and look at the stars. - -That night you had no power. You were dead while she sang her love-song, -dead while she hurried down to Sjö after the major, dead when she saw the -flames redden the sky over the tops of the trees. - -For they had come, the mighty storm-birds, the griffins of demoniac -passions. With wings of fire and claws of steel they had come swooping -down over you, you icy-eyed spirit; they had struck their claws into your -neck and flung you far into the unknown. You have been dead and crushed. - -But now they had rushed on,—they whose course no sage can predict, no -observer can follow; and out of the depths of the unknown had the strange -spirit of self-consciousness again raised itself and had once again taken -possession of Marianne’s soul. - -During the whole of February Marianne lay ill at Ekeby. When she sought -out the major at Sjö she had been infected with small-pox. The terrible -illness had taken a great hold on her, who had been so chilled and -exhausted. Death had come very near to her, but at the end of the month -she had recovered. She was still very weak and much disfigured. She would -never again be called the beautiful Marianne. - -This, however, was as yet only known to Marianne and her nurse. The -pensioners themselves did not know it. The sick-room where small-pox -raged was not open to any one. - -But when is the introspective power greater than during the long hours -of convalescence? Then the fiend sits and stares and stares with his icy -eyes, and picks and picks with his bony, hard fingers. And if one looks -carefully, behind him sits a still paler creature, who stares and sneers, -and behind him another and still another, sneering at one another and at -the whole world. - -And while Marianne lay and looked at herself with all these staring icy -eyes, all natural feelings died within her. - -She lay there and played she was ill; she lay there and played she was -unhappy, in love, longing for revenge. - -She was it all, and still it was only a play. Everything became a play -and unreality under those icy eyes, which watched her while they were -watched by a pair behind them, which were watched by other pairs in -infinite perspective. - -All the energy of life had died within her. She had found strength for -glowing hate and tender love for one single night, not more. - -She did not even know if she loved Gösta Berling. She longed to see him -to know if he could take her out of herself. - -While under the dominion of her illness, she had had only one clear -thought: she had worried lest her illness should be known. She did not -wish to see her parents; she wished no reconciliation with her father, -and she knew that he would repent if he should know how ill she was. -Therefore she ordered that her parents and every one else should only -know that the troublesome irritation of the eyes, which she always had -when she visited her native country, forced her to sit in a darkened -room. She forbade her nurse to say how ill she was; she forbade the -pensioners to go after the doctor at Karlstad. She had of course -small-pox, but only very lightly; in the medicine-chest at Ekeby there -were remedies enough to save her life. - -She never thought of death; she only lay and waited for health, to be -able to go to the clergyman with Gösta and have the banns published. - -But now the sickness and the fever were gone. She was once more cold and -sensible. It seemed to her as if she alone was sensible in this world -of fools. She neither hated nor loved. She understood her father; she -understood them all. He who understands does not hate. - -She had heard that Melchior Sinclair meant to have an auction at Björne -and make way with all his wealth, that she might inherit nothing after -him. People said that he would make the devastation as thorough as -possible; first he would sell the furniture and utensils, then the -cattle and implements, and then the house itself with all its lands, and -would put the money in a bag and sink it to the bottom of the Löfven. -Dissipation, confusion, and devastation should be her inheritance. -Marianne smiled approvingly when she heard it: such was his character, -and so he must act. - -It seemed strange to her that she had sung that great hymn to love. She -had dreamed of love in a cottage, as others have done. Now it seemed odd -to her that she had ever had a dream. - -She sighed for naturalness. She was tired of this continual play. She -never had a strong emotion. She only grieved for her beauty, but she -shuddered at the compassion of strangers. - -Oh, one second of forgetfulness of herself! One gesture, one word, one -act which was not calculated! - -One day, when the rooms had been disinfected and she lay dressed on a -sofa, she had Gösta Berling called. They answered her that he had gone to -the auction at Björne. - - * * * * * - -At Björne there was in truth a big auction. It was an old, rich home. -People had come long distances to be present at the sale. - -Melchior Sinclair had flung all the property in the house together in -the great drawing-room. There lay thousands of articles, collected in -piles, which reached from floor to ceiling. - -He had himself gone about the house like an angel of destruction on the -day of judgment, and dragged together what he wanted to sell. Everything -in the kitchen,—the black pots, the wooden chairs, the pewter dishes, the -copper kettles, all were left in peace, for among them there was nothing -which recalled Marianne; but they were the only things which escaped his -anger. - -He burst into Marianne’s room, turning everything out. Her doll-house -stood there, and her book-case, the little chair he had had made for her, -her trinkets and clothes, her sofa and bed, everything must go. - -And then he went from room to room. He tore down everything he found -unpleasant, and carried great loads down to the auction-room. He panted -under the weight of sofas and marble slabs; but he went on. He had thrown -open the sideboards and taken out the magnificent family silver. Away -with it! Marianne had touched it. He filled his arms with snow-white -damask and with shining linen sheets with hem-stitching as wide as one’s -hand,—honest home-made work, the fruit of many years of labor,—and flung -them down together on the piles. Away with them! Marianne was not worthy -to own them. He stormed through the rooms with piles of china, not caring -if he broke the plates by the dozen, and he seized the hand-painted cups -on which the family arms were burned. Away with them! Let any one who -will use them! He staggered under mountains of bedding from the attic: -bolsters and pillows so soft that one sunk down in them as in a wave. -Away with them! Marianne had slept on them. - -He cast fierce glances on the old, well-known furniture. Was there a -chair where she had not sat, or a sofa which she had not used, or a -picture which she had not looked at, a candlestick which had not lighted -her, a mirror which had not reflected her features? Gloomily he shook his -fist at this world of memories. He would have liked to have rushed on -them with swinging club and to have crushed everything to small bits and -splinters. - -But it seemed to him a more famous revenge to sell them all at auction. -They should go to strangers! Away to be soiled in the cottagers’ huts, to -be in the care of indifferent strangers. Did he not know them, the dented -pieces of auction furniture in the peasants’ houses, fallen into dishonor -like his beautiful daughter? Away with them! May they stand with torn-out -stuffing and worn-off gilding, with cracked legs and stained leaves, and -long for their former home! Away with them to the ends of the earth, so -that no eye can find them, no hand gather them together! - -When the auction began, he had filled half the hall with an incredible -confusion of piled-up articles. - -Right across the room he had placed a long counter. Behind it stood the -auctioneer and put up the things; there the clerks sat and kept the -record, and there Melchior Sinclair had a keg of brandy standing. In the -other half of the room, in the hall, and in the yard were the buyers. -There were many people, and much noise and gayety. The bids followed -close on one another, and the auction was lively. But by the keg of -brandy, with all his possessions in endless confusion behind him, sat -Melchior Sinclair, half drunk and half mad. His hair stood up in rough -tufts above his red face; his eyes were rolling, fierce, and bloodshot. -He shouted and laughed, as if he had been in the best of moods; and every -one who had made a good bid he called up to him and offered a dram. - -Among those who saw him there was Gösta Berling, who had stolen in with -the crowd of buyers, but who avoided coming under Melchior Sinclair’s -eyes. He became thoughtful at the sight, and his heart stood still, as at -a presentiment of a misfortune. - -He wondered much where Marianne’s mother could be during all this. And he -went out, against his will, but driven by fate, to find Madame Gustava -Sinclair. - -He had to go through many doors before he found her. Her husband had -short patience and little fondness for wailing and women’s complaints. He -had wearied of seeing her tears flow over the fate which had befallen her -household treasures. He was furious that she could weep over table and -bed linen, when, what was worse, his beautiful daughter was lost; and so -he had hunted her, with clenched fists, before him, through the house, -out into the kitchen, and all the way to the pantry. - -She could not go any farther, and he had rejoiced at seeing her there, -cowering behind the step-ladder, awaiting heavy blows, perhaps death. He -let her stay there, but he locked the door and stuffed the key in his -pocket. She could sit there as long as the auction lasted. She did not -need to starve, and his ears had rest from her laments. - -There she still sat, imprisoned in her own pantry, when Gösta came -through the corridor between the kitchen and the dining-room. He saw her -face at a little window high up in the wall. She had climbed up on the -step-ladder, and stood staring out of her prison. - -“What are you doing up there?” asked Gösta. - -“He has shut me in,” she whispered. - -“Your husband?” - -“Yes. I thought he was going to kill me. But listen, Gösta, take the key -of the dining-room door, and go into the kitchen and unlock the pantry -door with it, so that I can come out. That key fits here.” - -Gösta obeyed, and in a couple of minutes the little woman stood in the -kitchen, which was quite deserted. - -“You should have let one of the maids open the door with the dining-room -key,” said Gösta. - -“Do you think I want to teach them that trick? Then I should never have -any peace in the pantry. And, besides, I took this chance to put the -upper shelves in order. They needed it, indeed. I cannot understand how I -could have let so much rubbish collect there.” - -“You have so much to attend to,” said Gösta. - -“Yes, that you may believe. If I were not everywhere, neither the loom -nor the spinning-wheel would be going right. And if—” - -Here she stopped and wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye. - -“God help me, how I do talk!” she said; “they say that I won’t have -anything more to look after. He is selling everything we have.” - -“Yes, it is a wretched business,” said Gösta. - -“You know that big mirror in the drawing-room, Gösta. It was such a -beauty, for the glass was whole in it, without a flaw, and there was no -blemish at all on the gilding. I got it from my mother, and now he wants -to sell it.” - -“He is mad.” - -“You may well say so. He is not much better. He won’t stop until we shall -have to go and beg on the highway, we as well as the major’s wife.” - -“It will never be so bad as that,” answered Gösta. - -“Yes, Gösta. When the major’s wife went away from Ekeby, she foretold -misfortune for us, and now it is coming. She would never have allowed -him to sell Björne. And think, his own china, the old Canton cups from -his own home, are to be sold. The major’s wife would never have let it -happen.” - -“But what is the matter with him?” asked Gösta. - -“Oh, it is only because Marianne has not come back again. He has waited -and waited. He has gone up and down the avenue the whole day and waited -for her. He is longing himself mad, but I do not dare to say anything.” - -“Marianne believes that he is angry with her.” - -“She does not believe that. She knows him well enough; but she is proud -and will not take the first step. They are stiff and hard, both of them, -and I have to stand between them.” - -“You must know that Marianne is going to marry me?” - -“Alas, Gösta, she will never do that. She says that only to make him -angry. She is too spoiled to marry a poor man, and too proud, too. -Go home and tell her that if she does not come home soon, all her -inheritance will have gone to destruction. Oh, he will throw everything -away, I know, without getting anything for it.” - -Gösta was really angry with her. There she sat on a big kitchen table, -and had no thought for anything but her mirrors and her china. - -“You ought to be ashamed!” he burst out. “You throw your daughter out -into a snow-drift, and then you think that it is only temper that she -does not come back. And you think that she is no better than to forsake -him whom she cares for, lest she should lose her inheritance.” - -“Dear Gösta, don’t be angry, you too. I don’t know what I am saying. I -tried my best to open the door for Marianne, but he took me and dragged -me away. They all say here that I don’t understand anything. I shall not -grudge you Marianne, Gösta, if you can make her happy. It is not so easy -to make a woman happy, Gösta.” - -Gösta looked at her. How could he too have raised his voice in anger -against such a person as she,—terrified and cowed, but with such a good -heart! - -“You do not ask how Marianne is,” he said gently. - -She burst into tears. - -“Will you not be angry with me if I ask you?” she said. “I have longed to -ask you the whole time. Think that I know no more of her than that she -is living. Not one greeting have I had from her the whole time, not once -when I sent clothes to her, and so I thought that you and she did not -want to have me know anything about her.” - -Gösta could bear it no longer. He was wild, he was out of his -head,—sometimes God had to send his wolves after him to force him to -obedience,—but this old woman’s tears, this old woman’s laments were -harder for him to bear than the howling of the wolves. He let her know -the truth. - -“Marianne has been ill the whole time,” he said. “She has had small-pox. -She was to get up to-day and lie on the sofa. I have not seen her since -the first night.” - -Madame Gustava leaped with one bound to the ground. She left Gösta -standing there, and rushed away without another word to her husband. - -The people in the auction-room saw her come up to him and eagerly whisper -something in his ear. They saw how his face grew still more flushed, and -his hand, which rested on the cock, turned it round so that the brandy -streamed over the floor. - -It seemed to all as if Madame Gustava had come with such important news -that the auction must end immediately. The auctioneer’s hammer no longer -fell, the clerks’ pens stopped, there were no new bids. - -Melchior Sinclair roused himself from his thoughts. - -“Well,” he cried, “what is the matter?” - -And the auction was in full swing once more. - -Gösta still sat in the kitchen, and Madame Gustava came weeping out to -him. - -“It’s no use,” she said. “I thought he would stop when he heard that -Marianne had been ill; but he is letting them go on. He would like to, -but now he is ashamed.” - -Gösta shrugged his shoulders and bade her farewell. - -In the hall he met Sintram. - -“This is a funny show,” exclaimed Sintram, and rubbed his hands. “You are -a master, Gösta. Lord, what you have brought to pass!” - -“It will be funnier in a little while,” whispered Gösta. “The Broby -clergyman is here with a sledge full of money. They say that he wants -to buy the whole of Björne and pay in cash. Then I would like to see -Melchior Sinclair, Sintram.” - -Sintram drew his head down between his shoulders and laughed internally -a long time. And then he made his way into the auction-room and up to -Melchior Sinclair. - -“If you want a drink, Sintram, you must make a bid first.” - -Sintram came close up to him. - -“You are in luck to-day as always,” he said. “A fellow has come to -the house with a sledge full of money. He is going to buy Björne and -everything both inside and out. He has told a lot of people to bid for -him. He does not want to show himself yet for a while.” - -“You might say who he is; then I suppose I must give you a drink for your -pains.” - -Sintram took the dram and moved a couple of steps backwards, before he -answered,— - -“They say it is the Broby clergyman, Melchior.” - -Melchior Sinclair had many better friends than the Broby clergyman. It -had been a life-long feud between them. There were legends of how he -had lain in wait on dark nights on the roads where the minister should -pass, and how he had given him many an honest drubbing, the old fawning -oppressor of the peasants. - -It was well for Sintram that he had drawn back a step or two, but he did -not entirely escape the big man’s anger. He got a brandy glass between -his eyes and the whole brandy keg on his feet. But then followed a scene -which for a long time rejoiced his heart. - -“Does the Broby clergyman want my house?” roared Melchior Sinclair. “Do -you stand there and bid on my things for the Broby clergyman? Oh, you -ought to be ashamed! You ought to know better!” - -He seized a candlestick, and an inkstand, and slung them into the crowd -of people. - -All the bitterness of his poor heart at last found expression. Roaring -like a wild beast, he clenched his fist at those standing about, and -slung at them whatever missile he could lay his hand on. Brandy glasses -and bottles flew across the room. He did not know what he was doing in -his rage. - -“It’s the end of the auction,” he cried. “Out with you! Never while I -live shall the Broby clergyman have Björne. Out! I will teach you to bid -for the Broby clergyman!” - -He rushed on the auctioneer and the clerks. They hurried away. In the -confusion they overturned the desk, and Sinclair with unspeakable fury -burst into the crowd of peaceful people. - -There was a flight and wildest confusion. A couple of hundred people were -crowding towards the door, fleeing before a single man. And he stood, -roaring his “Out with you!” He sent curses after them, and now and again -he swept about him with a chair, which he brandished like a club. - -He pursued them out into the hall, but no farther. When the last stranger -had left the house, he went back into the drawing-room and bolted the -door after him. Then he dragged together a mattress and a couple of -pillows, laid himself down on them, went to sleep in the midst of all the -havoc, and never woke till the next day. - -When Gösta got home, he heard that Marianne wished to speak to him. That -was just what he wanted. He had been wondering how he could get a word -with her. - -When he came into the dim room where she lay, he had to stand a moment at -the door. He could not see where she was. - -“Stay where you are, Gösta,” Marianne said to him. “It may be dangerous -to come near me.” - -But Gösta had come up the stairs in two bounds, trembling with eagerness -and longing. What did he care for the contagion? He wished to have the -bliss of seeing her. - -For she was so beautiful, his beloved! No one had such soft hair, such an -open, radiant brow. Her whole face was a symphony of exquisite lines. - -He thought of her eyebrows, sharply and clearly drawn like the -honey-markings on a lily, and of the bold curve of her nose, and of her -lips, as softly turned as rolling waves, and of her cheek’s long oval and -her chin’s perfect shape. - -And he thought of the rosy hue of her skin, of the magical effect of her -coal-black eyebrows with her light hair, and of her blue irises swimming -in clear white, and of the light in her eyes. - -She was beautiful, his beloved! He thought of the warm heart which -she hid under a proud exterior. She had strength for devotion and -self-sacrifice concealed under that fine skin and her proud words. It was -bliss to see her. - -He had rushed up the stairs in two bounds, and she thought that he would -stop at the door. He stormed through the room and fell on his knees at -the head of her bed. - -But he meant to see her, to kiss her, and to bid her farewell. - -He loved her. He would certainly never cease to love her, but his heart -was used to being trampled on. Oh, where should he find her, that rose -without support or roots, which he could take and call his own? He -might not keep even her whom he had found disowned and half dead at the -roadside. - -When should his love raise its voice in a song so loud and clear that he -should hear no dissonance through it? When should his palace of happiness -be built on a ground for which no other heart longed restlessly and with -regret? - -He thought how he would bid her farewell. - -“There is great sorrow in your home,” he would say. “My heart is torn -at the thought of it. You must go home and give your father his reason -again. Your mother lives in continual danger of death. You must go home, -my beloved.” - -These were the words he had on his lips, but they were never spoken. - -He fell on his knees at the head of her bed, and he took her face between -his hands and kissed her; but then he could not speak. His heart began to -beat so fiercely, as if it would burst his breast. - -Small-pox had passed over that lovely face. Her skin had become coarse -and scarred. Never again should the red blood glow in her cheeks, or the -fine blue veins show on her temples. Her eyebrows had fallen out, and the -shining white of her eyes had changed to yellow. - -Everything was laid waste. The bold lines had become coarse and heavy. - -They were not few who mourned over Marianne Sinclair’s lost beauty. In -the whole of Värmland, people lamented the change in her bright color, -her sparkling eyes, and blond hair. There beauty was prized as nowhere -else. The joyous people grieved, as if the country had lost a precious -stone from the crown of its honor, as if their life had received a blot -on its glory. - -But the first man who saw her after she had lost her beauty did not -indulge in sorrow. - -Unutterable emotion filled his soul. The more he looked at her, the -warmer it grew within him. Love grew and grew, like a river in the -spring. In waves of fire it welled up in his heart, it filled his whole -being, it rose to his eyes as tears; it sighed on his lips, trembled in -his hands, in his whole body. - -Oh, to love her, to protect her, to keep her from all harm! - -To be her slave, her guide! - -Love is strong when it has gone through the baptismal fire of pain. He -could not speak to Marianne of parting and renunciation. He could not -leave her—he owed her his life. He could commit the unpardonable sin for -her sake. - -He could not speak a coherent word, he only wept and kissed, until at -last the old nurse thought it was time to lead him out. - -When he had gone, Marianne lay and thought of him and his emotion. “It is -good to be so loved,” she thought. - -Yes, it was good to be loved, but how was it with herself? What did she -feel? Oh, nothing, less than nothing! - -Was it dead, her love, or where had it taken flight? Where had it hidden -itself, her heart’s child? - -Did it still live? Had it crept into her heart’s darkest corner and sat -there freezing under the icy eyes, frightened by the pale sneer, half -suffocated under the bony fingers? - -“Ah, my love,” she sighed, “child of my heart! Are you alive, or are you -dead, dead as my beauty?” - - * * * * * - -The next day Melchior Sinclair went in early to his wife. - -“See to it that there is order in the house again, Gustava!” he said. “I -am going to bring Marianne home.” - -“Yes, dear Melchior, here there will of course be order,” she answered. - -Thereupon there was peace between them. - -An hour afterwards he was on his way to Ekeby. - -It was impossible to find a more noble and kindly old gentleman than -Melchior Sinclair, as he sat in the open sledge in his best fur cloak and -his best rug. His hair lay smooth on his head, but his face was pale and -his eyes were sunken in their sockets. - -There was no limit to the brilliancy of the clear sky on that February -day. The snow sparkled like a young girl’s eyes when she hears the music -of the first waltz. The birches stretched the fine lace-work of their -reddish-brown twigs against the sky, and on some of them hung a fringe of -little icicles. - -There was a splendor and a festive glow in the day. The horses prancing -threw up their forelegs, and the coachman cracked his whip in sheer -pleasure of living. - -After a short drive the sledge drew up before the great steps at Ekeby. - -The footman came out. - -“Where are your masters?” asked Melchior. - -“They are hunting the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff.” - -“All of them?” - -“All of them, sir. Those who do not go for the sake of the bear go for -the sake of the luncheon.” - -Melchior laughed so that it echoed through the silent yard. He gave the -man a crown for his answer. - -“Go say to my daughter that I am here to take her home. She need not be -afraid of the cold. I have the big sledge and a wolfskin cloak to wrap -her in.” - -“Will you not come in, sir?” - -“Thank you! I sit very well where I am.” - -The man disappeared, and Melchior began his waiting. - -He was in such a genial mood that day that nothing could irritate him. He -had expected to have to wait a little for Marianne; perhaps she was not -even up. He would have to amuse himself by looking about him for a while. - -From the cornice hung a long icicle, with which the sun had terrible -trouble. It began at the upper end, melted a drop, and wanted to have -it run down along the icicle and fall to the earth. But before it had -gone half the way, it had frozen again. And the sun made continual new -attempts, which always failed. But at last a regular freebooter of a -ray hung itself on the icicle’s point, a little one, which shone and -sparkled; and however it was, it accomplished its object,—a drop fell -tinkling to the ground. - -Melchior looked on and laughed. “You were not such a fool,” he said to -the ray of sunlight. - -The yard was quiet and deserted. Not a sound was heard in the big house. -But he was not impatient. He knew that women needed plenty of time to -make themselves ready. - -He sat and looked at the dove-cote. The birds had a grating before the -door. They were shut in, as long as the winter lasted, lest hawks should -exterminate them. Time after time a pigeon came and stuck out its white -head through the meshes. - -“She is waiting for the spring,” said Melchior Sinclair, “but she must -have patience for a while.” - -The pigeon came so regularly that he took out his watch and followed her, -with it in his hand. Exactly every third minute she stuck out her head. - -“No, my little friend,” he said, “do you think spring will be ready in -three minutes? You must learn to wait.” - -And he had to wait himself; but he had plenty of time. - -The horses first pawed impatiently in the snow, but then they grew sleepy -from standing and blinking in the sun. They laid their heads together and -slept. - -The coachman sat straight on his box, with whip and reins in his hand and -his face turned directly towards the sun, and slept, slept so that he -snored. - -But Melchior did not sleep. He had never felt less like sleeping. He had -seldom passed pleasanter hours than during this glad waiting. Marianne -had been ill. She had not been able to come before, but now she would -come. Oh, of course she would. And everything would be well again. - -She must understand that he was not angry with her. He had come himself -with two horses and the big sledge. - -It is nothing to have to wait when one is sure of one’s self, and when -there is so much to distract one’s mind. - -There comes the great watch-dog. He creeps forward on the tips of his -toes, keeps his eyes on the ground, and wags his tail gently, as if he -meant to set out on the most indifferent errand. All at once he begins to -burrow eagerly in the snow. The old rascal must have hidden there some -stolen goods. But just as he lifts his head to see if he can eat it now -undisturbed, he is quite out of countenance to see two magpies right in -front of him. - -“You old thief!” say the magpies, and look like conscience itself. “We -are police officers. Give up your stolen goods!” - -“Oh, be quiet with your noise! I am the steward—” - -“Just the right one,” they sneer. - -The dog throws himself on them, and they fly away with slow flaps. The -dog rushes after them, jumps, and barks. But while he is chasing one, the -other is already back. She flies down into the hole, tears at the piece -of meat, but cannot lift it. The dog snatches away the meat, holds it -between his paws, and bites in it. The magpies place themselves close in -front of him, and make disagreeable remarks. He glares fiercely at them, -while he eats, and when they get too impertinent, he jumps up and drives -them away. - -The sun began to sink down towards the western hills. Melchior looked at -his watch. It is three o’clock. And his wife, who had had dinner ready at -twelve! - -At the same moment the footman came out and announced that Miss Marianne -wished to speak to him. - -Melchior laid the wolfskin cloak over his arm and went beaming up the -steps. - -When Marianne heard his heavy tread on the stairs, she did not even then -know if she should go home with him or not. She only knew that she must -put an end to this long waiting. - -She had hoped that the pensioners would come home; but they did not come. -So she had to do something to put an end to it all. She could bear it no -longer. - -She had thought that he in a burst of anger would have driven away after -he had waited five minutes, or that he would break the door in or try to -set the house on fire. - -But there he sat calm and smiling, and only waited. She cherished neither -hatred nor love for him. But there was a voice in her which seemed to -warn her against putting herself in his power again, and moreover she -wished to keep her promise to Gösta. - -If he had slept, if he had spoken, if he had been restless, if he had -shown any sign of doubt, if he had had the carriage driven into the -shade! But he was only patience and certainty. - -Certain, so infectiously certain, that she would come if he only waited! - -Her head ached. Every nerve quivered. She could get no rest as long as -she knew that he sat there. It was as if his will dragged her bound down -the stairs. - -So she thought she would at least talk with him. - -Before he came, she had all the curtains drawn up, and she placed herself -so that her face came in the full light. - -For it was her intention to put him to a sort of test; but Melchior -Sinclair was a wonderful man that day. - -When he saw her, he did not make a sign, nor did he exclaim. It was as -if he had not seen any change in her. She knew how highly he prized her -beauty. But he showed no sorrow. He controlled himself not to wound her. -That touched her. She began to understand why her mother had loved him -through everything. - -He showed no hesitation. He came with neither reproaches nor excuses. - -“I will wrap the wolfskin about you, Marianne; it is not cold. It has -been on my knees the whole time.” - -To make sure, he went up to the fire and warmed it. - -Then he helped her to raise herself from the sofa, wrapped the cloak -about her, put a shawl over her head, drew it down under her arms, and -knotted it behind her back. - -She let him do it. She was helpless. It was good to have everything -arranged, it was good not to have to decide anything, especially good for -one who was so picked to pieces as she, for one who did not possess one -thought or one feeling which was her own. - -Melchior lifted her up, carried her down to the sleigh, closed the top, -tucked the furs in about her, and drove away from Ekeby. - -She shut her eyes and sighed, partly from pleasure, partly from regret. -She was leaving life, the real life; but it did not make so much -difference to her,—she who could not live but only act. - - * * * * * - -A few days later her mother arranged that she should meet Gösta. She sent -for him while her husband was off on his long walk to see after his -timber, and took him in to Marianne. - -Gösta came in; but he neither bowed nor spoke. He stood at the door and -looked on the ground like an obstinate boy. - -“But, Gösta!” cried Marianne. She sat in her arm-chair and looked at him -half amused. - -“Yes, that is my name.” - -“Come here, come to me, Gösta!” - -He went slowly forward to her, but did not raise his eyes. - -“Come nearer! Kneel down here!” - -“Lord God, what is the use of all that?” he cried; but he obeyed. - -“Gösta, I want to tell you that I think it was best that I came home.” - -“Let us hope that they will not throw you out in the snow-drift again.” - -“Oh, Gösta, do you not care for me any longer? Do you think that I am too -ugly?” - -He drew her head down and kissed her, but he looked as cold as ever. - -She was almost amused. If he was pleased to be jealous of her parents, -what then? It would pass. It amused her to try and win him back. She did -not know why she wished to keep him, but she did. She thought that it was -he who had succeeded for once in freeing her from herself. He was the -only one who would be able to do it again. - -And now she began to speak, eager to win him back. She said that it had -not been her meaning to desert him for good, but for a time they must for -appearance’s sake break off their connection. He must have seen, himself, -that her father was on the verge of going mad, that her mother was in -continual danger of her life. He must understand that she had been forced -to come home. - -Then his anger burst out in words. She need not give herself so much -trouble. He would be her plaything no longer. She had given him up when -she had gone home, and he could not love her any more. When he came home -the day before yesterday from his hunting-trip and found her gone without -a message, without a word, his blood ran cold in his veins, he had nearly -died of grief. He could not love any one who had given him such pain. She -had, besides, never loved him. She was a coquette, who wanted to have -some one to kiss her and caress her when she was here in the country, -that was all. - -Did he think that she was in the habit of allowing young men to caress -her? - -Oh yes, he was sure of it. Women were not so saintly as they seemed. -Selfishness and coquetry from beginning to end! No, if she could know -how he had felt when he came home from the hunt. It was as though he had -waded in ice-water. He should never get over that pain. It would follow -him through the whole of his life. He would never be the same person -again. - -She tried to explain to him how it had all happened. She tried to -convince him that she was still faithful. Well, it did not matter, for -now he did not love her any more. He had seen through her. She was -selfish. She did not love him. She had gone without leaving him a message. - -He came continually back to that. She really enjoyed the performance. She -could not be angry, she understood his wrath so well. She did not fear -any real break between them. But at last she became uneasy. Had there -really been such a change in him that he could no longer care for her? - -“Gösta,” she said, “was I selfish when I went to Sjö after the major; I -knew that they had small-pox there. Nor is it pleasant to go out in satin -slippers in the cold and snow.” - -“Love lives on love, and not on services and deeds,” said Gösta. - -“You wish, then, that we shall be as strangers from now on, Gösta?” - -“That is what I wish.” - -“You are very changeable, Gösta Berling.” - -“People often charge me with it.” - -He was cold, impossible to warm, and she was still colder. -Self-consciousness sat and sneered at her attempt to act love. - -“Gösta,” she said, making a last effort, “I have never intentionally -wronged you, even if it may seem so. I beg of you, forgive me!” - -“I cannot forgive you.” - -She knew that if she had possessed a real feeling she could have won him -back. And she tried to play the impassioned. The icy eyes sneered at her, -but she tried nevertheless. She did not want to lose him. - -“Do not go, Gösta! Do not go in anger! Think how ugly I have become! No -one will ever love me again.” - -“Nor I, either,” he said. “You must accustom yourself to see your heart -trampled upon as well as another.” - -“Gösta, I have never loved any one but you. Forgive me. Do not forsake -me! You are the only one who can save me from myself.” - -He thrust her from him. - -“You do not speak the truth,” he said with icy calmness. “I do not know -what you want of me, but I see that you are lying. Why do you want to -keep me? You are so rich that you will never lack suitors.” - -And so he went. - -And not until he had closed the door, did regret and pain in all their -strength take possession of Marianne’s heart. - -It was love, her heart’s own child, who came out of the corner where the -cold eyes had banished him. He came, he for whom she had so longed when -it was too late. - -When Marianne could with real certainty say to herself that Gösta Berling -had forsaken her, she felt a purely physical pain so terrible that she -almost fainted. She pressed her hands against her heart, and sat for -hours in the same place, struggling with a tearless grief. - -And it was she herself who was suffering, not a stranger, nor an actress. -It was she herself. Why had her father come and separated them? Her love -had never been dead. It was only that in her weak condition after her -illness she could not appreciate his power. - -O God, O God, that she had lost him! O God, that she had waked so late! - -Ah, he was the only one, he was her heart’s conqueror! From him she could -bear anything. Hardness and angry words from him bent her only to humble -love. If he had beaten her, she would have crept like a dog to him and -kissed his hand. - -She did not know what she would do to get relief from this dull pain. - -She seized pen and paper and wrote with terrible eagerness. First she -wrote of her love and regret. Then she begged, if not for his love, only -for his pity. It was a kind of poem she wrote. - -When she had finished she thought that if he should see it he must -believe that she had loved him. Well, why should she not send what she -had written to him? She would send it the next day, and she was sure that -it would bring him back to her. - -The next day she spent in agony and in struggling with herself. What she -had written seemed to her paltry and so stupid. It had neither rhyme nor -metre. It was only prose. He would only laugh at such verses. - -Her pride was roused too. If he no longer cared for her, it was such a -terrible humiliation to beg for his love. - -Sometimes her good sense told her that she ought to be glad to escape -from the connection with Gösta, and all the deplorable circumstances -which it had brought with it. - -Her heart’s pain was still so terrible that her emotions finally -conquered. Three days after she had become conscious of her love, she -enclosed the verses and wrote Gösta Berling’s name on the cover. But they -were never sent. Before she could find a suitable messenger she heard -such things of Gösta Berling that she understood it was too late to win -him back. - -But it was the sorrow of her life that she had not sent the verses in -time, while she could have won him. - -All her pain fastened itself on that point: “If I only had not waited so -long, if I had not waited so many days!” - -The happiness of life, or at any rate the reality of life, would have -been won to her through those written words. She was sure they would have -brought him back to her. - -Grief, however, did her the same service as love. It made her a whole -being, potent to devote herself to good as well as evil. Passionate -feelings filled her soul, unrestrained by self-consciousness’s icy chill. -And she was, in spite of her plainness, much loved. - -But they say that she never forgot Gösta Berling. She mourned for him as -one mourns for a wasted life. - -And her poor verses, which at one time were much read, are forgotten long -ago. I beg of you to read them and to think of them. Who knows what power -they might have had, if they had been sent? They are impassioned enough -to bear witness of a real feeling. Perhaps they could have brought him -back to her. - -They are touching enough, tender enough in their awkward formlessness. No -one can wish them different. No one can want to see them imprisoned in -the chains of rhyme and metre, and yet it is so sad to think that it was -perhaps just this imperfection which prevented her from sending them in -time. - -I beg you to read them and to love them. It is a person in great trouble -who has written them. - - “Child, thou hast loved once, but nevermore - Shalt thou taste of the joys of love! - A passionate storm has raged through thy soul - Rejoice thou hast gone to thy rest! - No more in wild joy shall thou soar up on high - Rejoice, thou hast gone to thy rest! - No more shalt thou sink in abysses of pain, - Oh, nevermore. - - “Child, thou hast loved once, but nevermore - Shall your soul burn and scorch in the flames. - Thou wert as a field of brown, sun-dried grass - Flaming with fire for a moment’s space; - From the whirling smoke-clouds the fiery sparks - Drove the birds of heaven with piercing cries. - Let them return! Thou burnest no more!— - Wilt burn nevermore. - - “Child, thou hast loved, but now nevermore - Shalt thou hear love’s murmuring voice. - Thy young heart’s strength, like a weary child - That sits still and tired on the hard school-bench, - Yearns for freedom and pleasure. - But no man calleth it more like a forgotten song; - No one sings it more,—nevermore. - - “Child, the end has now come! - And with it gone love and love’s joy. - He whom thou lovedst as if he had taught thee - With wings to hover through space, - He whom thou lovedst as if he had given thee - Safety and home when the village was flooded, - Is gone, who alone understood - The key to the door of thy heart. - - “I ask but one thing of thee, O my beloved: - ‘Lay not upon me the load of thy hate!’ - That weakest of all things, the poor human heart, - How can it live with the pang and the thought - That it gave pain to another? - - “O my beloved, if thou wilt kill me, - Use neither dagger nor poison nor rope! - Say only you wish me to vanish - From the green earth and the kingdom of life, - And I shall sink to my grave. - - “From thee came life of life; thou gavest me love, - And now thou recallest thy gift, I know it too well. - But do not give me thy hate! - I still have love of living! Oh, remember that; - But under a load of hate I have but to die.” - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE YOUNG COUNTESS - - -The young countess sleeps till ten o’clock in the morning, and wants -fresh bread on the breakfast-table every day. The young countess -embroiders, and reads poetry. She knows nothing of weaving and cooking. -The young countess is spoiled. - -But the young countess is gay, and lets her joyousness shine on all and -everything. One is so glad to forgive her the long morning sleep and the -fresh bread, for she squanders kindness on the poor and is friendly to -every one. - -The young countess’s father is a Swedish nobleman, who has lived in -Italy all his life, retained there by the loveliness of the land and by -one of that lovely land’s beautiful daughters. When Count Henrik Dohna -travelled in Italy he had been received in this nobleman’s house, made -the acquaintance of his daughters, married one of them, and brought her -with him to Sweden. - -She, who had always spoken Swedish and had been brought up to love -everything Swedish, is happy in the land of the bear. She whirls so -merrily in the long dance of pleasure, on Löfven’s shores, that one could -well believe she had always lived there. Little she understands what it -means to be a countess. There is no state, no stiffness, no condescending -dignity in that young, joyous creature. - -It was the old men who liked the young countess best. It was wonderful, -what a success she had with old men. When they had seen her at a ball, -one could be sure that all of them, the judge at Munkerud and the -clergyman at Bro and Melchior Sinclair and the captain at Berga, would -tell their wives in the greatest confidence that if they had met the -young countess thirty or forty years ago— - -“Yes, then she was not born,” say the old ladies. - -And the next time they meet, they joke with the young countess, because -she wins the old men’s hearts from them. - -The old ladies look at her with a certain anxiety. They remember so well -Countess Märta. She had been just as joyous and good and beloved when -she first came to Borg. And she had become a vain and pleasure-seeking -coquette, who never could think of anything but her amusements. “If she -only had a husband who could keep her at work!” say the old ladies. -“If she only could learn to weave!” For weaving was a consolation for -everything; it swallowed up all other interests, and had been the saving -of many a woman. - -The young countess wants to be a good housekeeper. She knows nothing -better than as a happy wife to live in a comfortable home, and she often -comes at balls, and sits down beside the old people. - -“Henrik wants me to learn to be a capable housekeeper,” she says, “just -as his mother is. Teach me how to weave!” - -Then the old people heave a sigh: first, over Count Henrik, who can think -that his mother was a good housekeeper; and then over the difficulty of -initiating this young, ignorant creature in such a complicated thing. -It was enough to speak to her of heddles, and harnesses, and warps, and -woofs,[2] to make her head spin. - -No one who sees the young countess can help wondering why she married -stupid Count Henrik. It is a pity for him who is stupid, wherever he -may be. And it is the greatest pity for him who is stupid and lives in -Värmland. - -There are already many stories of Count Henrik’s stupidity, and he is -only a little over twenty years old. They tell how he entertained Anna -Stjärnhök on a sleighing party a few years ago. - -“You are very pretty, Anna,” he said. - -“How you talk, Henrik!” - -“You are the prettiest girl in the whole of Värmland.” - -“That I certainly am not.” - -“The prettiest in this sleighing party at any rate.” - -“Alas, Henrik, I am not that either.” - -“Well, you are the prettiest in this sledge, that you can’t deny.” - -No, that she could not. - -For Count Henrik is no beauty. He is as ugly as he is stupid. They say -of him that that head on the top of his thin neck has descended in the -family for a couple of hundred years. That is why the brain is so worn -out in the last heir. - -“It is perfectly plain that he has no head of his own,” they say. “He -has borrowed his father’s. He does not dare to bend it; he is afraid of -losing it,—he is already yellow and wrinkled. The head has been in use -with both his father and grandfather. Why should the hair otherwise be so -thin and the lips so bloodless and the chin so pointed?” - -He always has scoffers about him, who encourage him to say stupid things, -which they save up, circulate, and add to. - -It is lucky for him that he does not notice it. He is solemn and -dignified in everything he does. He moves formally, he holds himself -straight, he never turns his head without turning his whole body. - -He had been at Munkerud on a visit to the judge a few years ago. He had -come riding with high hat, yellow breeches, and polished boots, and -had sat stiff and proud in the saddle. When he arrived everything went -well, but when he was to ride away again it so happened that one of the -low-hanging branches of a birch-tree knocked off his hat. He got off, -put on his hat, and rode again under the same branch. His hat was again -knocked off; this was repeated four times. - -The judge at last went out to him and said: “If you should ride on one -side of the branch the next time?” - -The fifth time he got safely by. - -But still the young countess cared for him in spite of his old-man’s -head. She of course did not know that he was crowned with such a halo -of stupidity in his own country, when she saw him in Rome. There, -there had been something of the glory of youth about him, and they had -come together under such romantic circumstances. You ought to hear the -countess tell how Count Henrik had to carry her off. The priests and the -cardinals had been wild with rage that she wished to give up her mother’s -religion and become a Protestant. The whole people had been in uproar. -Her father’s palace was besieged. Henrik was pursued by bandits. Her -mother and sisters implored her to give up the marriage. But her father -was furious that that Italian rabble should prevent him from giving his -daughter to whomsoever he might wish. He commanded Count Henrik to carry -her off. And so, as it was impossible for them to be married at home -without its being discovered, Henrik and she stole out by side streets -and all sorts of dark alleys to the Swedish consulate. And when she had -abjured the Catholic faith and become a Protestant, they were immediately -married and sent north in a swift travelling-carriage. “There was no time -for banns, you see. It was quite impossible,” the young countess used to -say. “And of course it was gloomy to be married at a consulate, and not -in one of the beautiful churches, but if we had not Henrik would have had -to do without me. Every one is so impetuous down there, both papa and -mamma and the cardinals and the priests, all are so impetuous. That was -why everything had to be done so secretly, and if the people had seen us -steal out of the house, they would certainly have killed us both—only to -save my soul; Henrik was of course already lost.” - -The young countess loves her husband, ever since they have come home to -Borg and live a quieter life. She loves in him the glory of the old name -and the famous ancestors. She likes to see how her presence softens the -stiffness of his manner, and to hear how his voice grows tender when he -speaks to her. And besides, he cares for her and spoils her, and she is -married to him. The young countess cannot imagine that a married woman -should not care for her husband. - -In a certain way he corresponds to her ideal of manliness. He is honest -and loves the truth. He had never broken his word. She considers him a -true nobleman. - -On the 18th of March Bailiff Scharling celebrates his birthday, and many -then drive up Broby Hill. People from the east and the west, known and -unknown, invited and uninvited, come to the bailiff’s on that day. All -are welcome, all find plenty of food and drink, and in the ball-room -there is room for dancers from seven parishes. - -The young countess is coming too, as she always does where there is to be -dancing and merry-making. - -But she is not happy as she comes. It is as if she has a presentiment -that it is now her turn to be dragged-in in adventure’s wild chase. - -On the way she sat and watched the sinking sun. It set in a cloudless sky -and left no gold edges on the light clouds. A pale, gray, twilight, swept -by cold squalls, settled down over the country. - -The young countess saw how day and night struggled, and how fear seized -all living things at the mighty contest. The horses quickened their pace -with the last load to come under shelter. The woodcutters hurried home -from the woods, the maids from the farmyard. Wild creatures howled at the -edge of the wood. The day, beloved of man, was conquered. - -The light grew dim, the colors faded. She only saw chillness and -ugliness. What she had hoped, what she had loved, what she had done, -seemed to her to be also wrapped in the twilight’s gray light. It was the -hour of weariness, of depression, of impotence for her as for all nature. - -She thought that her own heart, which now in its playful gladness clothed -existence with purple and gold, she thought that this heart perhaps -sometime would lose its power to light up her world. - -“Oh, impotence, my own heart’s impotence!” she said to herself. “Goddess -of the stifling, gray twilight. You will one day be mistress of my soul. -Then I shall see life ugly and gray, as it perhaps is, then my hair will -grow white, my back be bent, my brain be paralyzed.” - -At the same moment the sledge turned in at the bailiff’s gate, and as the -young countess looked up, her eyes fell on a grated window in the wing, -and on a fierce, staring face behind. - -That face belonged to the major’s wife at Ekeby, and the young woman knew -that her pleasure for the evening was now spoiled. - -One can be glad when one does not see sorrow, only hears it spoken of. -But it is harder to keep a joyous heart when one stands face to face with -black, fierce, staring trouble. - -The countess knows of course that Bailiff Scharling had put the major’s -wife in prison, and that she shall be tried for the assault she made on -Ekeby the night of the great ball. But she never thought that she should -be kept in custody there at the bailiff’s house, so near the ball-room -that one could look into her room, so near that she must hear the dance -music and the noise of merry-making. And the thought takes away all her -pleasure. - -The young countess dances both waltz and quadrille. She takes part in -both minuet and contra-dance; but after each dance she steals to the -window in the wing. There is a light there and she can see how the -major’s wife walks up and down in her room. She never seems to rest, but -walks and walks. - -The countess takes no pleasure in the dance. She only thinks of the -major’s wife going backwards and forwards in her prison like a caged wild -beast. She wonders how all the others can dance. She is sure there are -many there who are as much moved as she to know that the major’s wife is -so near, and still there is no one who shows it. - -But every time she has looked out her feet grow heavier in the dance, and -the laugh sticks in her throat. - -The bailiff’s wife notices her as she wipes the moisture from the -window-pane to see out, and comes to her. - -“Such misery! Oh, it is such suffering!” she whispers to the countess. - -“I think it is almost impossible to dance to-night,” whispers the -countess back again. - -“It is not with my consent that we dance here, while she is sitting shut -up there,” answers Madame Scharling. “She has been in Karlstad since she -was arrested. But there is soon to be a trial now, and that is why she -was brought here to-day. We could not put her in that miserable cell in -the courthouse, so she was allowed to stay in the weaving-room in the -wing. She should have had my drawing-room, countess, if all these people -had not come to-day. You hardly know her, but she has been like a mother -and queen to us all. What will she think of us, who are dancing here, -while she is in such great trouble. It is as well that most of them do -not know that she is sitting there.” - -“She ought never to have been arrested,” says the young countess, sternly. - -“No, that is a true word, countess, but there was nothing else to do, if -there should not be a worse misfortune. No one blamed her for setting -fire to her own hay-stack and driving out the pensioners, but the major -was scouring the country for her. God knows what he would have done if -she had not been put in prison. Scharling has given much offence because -he arrested the major’s wife, countess. Even in Karlstad they were much -displeased with him, because he did not shut his eyes to everything which -happened at Ekeby; but he did what he thought was best.” - -“But now I suppose she will be sentenced?” says the countess. - -“Oh, no, countess, she will not be sentenced. She will be acquitted, but -all that she has to bear these days is being too much for her. She is -going mad. You can understand, such a proud woman, how can she bear to be -treated like a criminal! I think that it would have been best if she had -been allowed to go free. She might have been able to escape by herself.” - -“Let her go,” says the countess. - -“Any one can do that but the bailiff and his wife,” whispers Madame -Scharling. “We have to guard her. Especially to-night, when so many of -her friends are here, two men sit on guard outside her door, and it is -locked and barred so that no one can come in. But if any one got her out, -countess, we should be so glad, both Scharling and I.” - -“Can I not go to her?” says the young countess. Madame Scharling seizes -her eagerly by the wrist and leads her out with her. In the hall they -throw a couple of shawls about them, and hurry across the yard. - -“It is not certain that she will even speak to us,” says the bailiff’s -wife. “But she will see that we have not forgotten her.” - -They come into the first room in the wing, where the two men sit and -guard the barred door, and go in without being stopped to the major’s -wife. She was in a large room crowded with looms and other implements. It -was used mostly for a weaving-room, but it had bars in the window and a -strong lock on the door, so that it could be used, in case of need, for a -cell. - -The major’s wife continues to walk without paying any attention to them. - -She is on a long wandering these days. She cannot remember anything -except that she is going the hundred and twenty miles to her mother, who -is up in the Älfdal woods, and is waiting for her. She never has time to -rest She must go. A never-resting haste is on her. Her mother is over -ninety years old. She would soon be dead. - -She has measured off the floor by yards, and she is now adding up the -yards to furlongs and the furlongs to half-miles and miles. - -Her way seems heavy and long, but she dares not rest. She wades through -deep drifts. She hears the forests murmur over her as she goes. She rests -in Finn huts and in the charcoal-burner’s log cabin. Sometimes, when -there is nobody for many miles, she has to break branches for a bed and -rest under the roots of a fallen pine. - -And at last she has reached her journey’s end, the hundred and twenty -miles are over, the wood opens out, and the red house stands in a -snow-covered yard. The Klar River rushes foaming by in a succession of -little waterfalls, and by that well-known sound she hears that she is at -home. And her mother, who must have seen her coming begging, just as she -had wished, comes to meet her. - -When the major’s wife has got so far she always looks up, glances about -her, sees the closed door, and knows where she is. - -Then she wonders if she is going mad, and sits down to think and to -rest. But after a time she sets out again, calculates the yards and the -furlongs, the half-miles and the miles, rests for a short time in Finn -huts, and sleeps neither night nor day until she has again accomplished -the hundred and twenty miles. - -During all the time she has been in prison she has almost never slept. - -And the two women who had come to see her looked at her with anguish. - -The young countess will ever afterwards remember her, as she walked -there. She sees her often in her dreams, and wakes with eyes full of -tears and a moan on her lips. - -The old woman is so pitifully changed, her hair is so thin, and loose -ends stick out from the narrow braid. Her face is relaxed and sunken, her -dress is disordered and ragged. But with it all she has so much still of -her lofty bearing that she inspires not only sympathy, but also respect. - -But what the countess remembered most distinctly were her eyes, sunken, -turned inward, not yet deprived of all the light of reason, but almost -ready to be extinguished, and with a spark of wildness lurking in their -depths, so that one had to shudder and fear to have the old woman in the -next moment upon one, with teeth ready to bite, fingers to tear. - -They have been there quite a while when the major’s wife suddenly stops -before the young woman and looks at her with a stern glance. The countess -takes a step backwards and seizes Madame Scharling’s arm. - -The features of the major’s wife have life and expression, her eyes look -out into the world with full intelligence. - -“Oh, no; oh, no,” she says and smiles; “as yet it is not so bad, my dear -young lady.” - -She asks them to sit down, and sits down herself. She has an air of -old-time stateliness, known since days of feasting at Ekeby and at the -royal balls at the governor’s house at Karlstad. They forget the rags and -the prison and only see the proudest and richest woman in Värmland. - -“My dear countess,” she says, “what possessed you to leave the dance to -visit a lonely old woman? You must be very good.” - -Countess Elizabeth cannot answer. Her voice is choking with emotion. -Madame Scharling answers for her, that she had not been able to dance for -thinking of the major’s wife. - -“Dear Madame Scharling,” answers the major’s wife, “has it gone so far -with me that I disturb the young people in their pleasure? You must not -weep for me, my dear young countess,” she continued. “I am a wicked old -woman, who deserves all I get. You do not think it right to strike one’s -mother?” - -“No, but—” - -The major’s wife interrupts her and strokes the curly, light hair back -from her forehead. - -“Child, child,” she says, “how could you marry that stupid Henrik Dohna?” - -“But I love him.” - -“I see how it is, I see how it is,” says the major’s wife. “A kind child -and nothing more; weeps with those in sorrow, and laughs with those who -are glad. And obliged to say ‘yes’ to the first man who says, ‘I love -you.’ Yes, of course. Go back now and dance, my dear young countess. -Dance and be happy! There is nothing bad in you.” - -“But I want to do something for you.” - -“Child,” says the major’s wife, solemnly, “an old woman lived at Ekeby -who held the winds of heaven prisoners. Now she is caught and the winds -are free. Is it strange that a storm goes over the land? - -“I, who am old, have seen it before, countess. I know it. I know that the -storm of the thundering God is coming. Sometimes it rushes over great -kingdoms, sometimes over small out-of-the-way communities. God’s storm -forgets no one. It comes over the great as well as the small. It is grand -to see God’s storm coming. - -“Anguish shall spread itself over the land. The small birds’ nests shall -fall from the branches. The hawk’s nest in the pine-tree’s top shall be -shaken down to the earth with a great noise, and even the eagle’s nest in -the mountain cleft shall the wind drag out with its dragon tongue. - -“We thought that all was well with us; but it was not so. God’s storm -is needed. I understand that, and I do not complain. I only wish that I -might go to my mother.” - -She suddenly sinks back. - -“Go now, young woman,” she says. “I have no more time. I must go. Go now, -and look out for them who ride on the storm-cloud!” - -Thereupon she renews her wandering. Her features relax, her glance turns -inward. The countess and Madame Scharling have to leave her. - -As soon as they are back again among the dancers the young countess goes -straight to Gösta Berling. - -“I can greet you from the major’s wife,” she says. “She is waiting for -you to get her out of prison.” - -“Then she must go on waiting, countess.” - -“Oh, help her, Herr Berling!” - -Gösta stares gloomily before him. “No,” he says, “why should I help her? -What thanks do I owe her? Everything she has done for me has been to my -ruin.” - -“But Herr Berling—” - -“If she had not existed,” he says angrily, “I would now be sleeping up -there in the forest. Is it my duty to risk my life for her, because she -has made me a pensioner at Ekeby? Do you think much credit goes with that -profession?” - -The young countess turns away from him without answering. She is angry. - -She goes back to her place thinking bitter thoughts of the pensioners. -They have come to-night with horns and fiddles, and mean to let the bows -scrape the strings until the horse-hair is worn through, without thinking -that the merry tunes ring in the prisoner’s miserable room. They come -here to dance until their shoes fall to pieces, and do not remember that -their old benefactress can see their shadows whirling by the misty -window-panes. Alas, how gray and ugly the world was! Alas, what a shadow -trouble and hardness had cast over the young countess’s soul! - -After a while Gösta comes to ask her to dance. - -She refuses shortly. - -“Will you not dance with me, countess?” he asks, and grows very red. - -“Neither with you nor with any other of the Ekeby pensioners,” she says. - -“We are not worthy of such an honor.” - -“It is no honor, Herr Berling. But it gives me no pleasure to dance with -those who forget the precepts of gratitude.” - -Gösta has already turned on his heel. - -This scene is heard and seen by many. All think the countess is right. -The pensioners’ ingratitude and heartlessness had waked general -indignation. - -But in these days Gösta Berling is more dangerous than a wild beast in -the forest. Ever since he came home from the hunt and found Marianne -gone, his heart has been like an aching wound. He longs to do some one a -bloody wrong and to spread sorrow and pain far around. - -If she wishes it so, he says to himself, it shall be as she wishes. But -she shall not save her own skin. The young countess likes abductions. She -shall get her fill. He has nothing against adventure. For eight days he -has mourned for a woman’s sake. It is long enough. He calls Beerencreutz -the colonel, and Christian Bergh the great captain, and the slow Cousin -Christopher, who never hesitates at any mad adventure, and consults with -them how he shall avenge the pensioners’ injured honor. - -It is the end of the party. A long line of sledges drive up into the -yard. The men are putting on their fur cloaks. The ladies look for their -wraps in the dreadful confusion of the dressing-room. - -The young countess has been in great haste to leave this hateful ball. -She is ready first of all the ladies. She stands smiling in the middle of -the room and looks at the confusion, when the door is thrown open, and -Gösta Berling shows himself on the threshold. - -No man has a right to enter this room. The old ladies stand there with -their thin hair no longer adorned with becoming caps; and the young ones -have turned up their skirts under their cloaks, that the stiff ruffles -may not be crushed on the way home. - -But without paying any attention to the warning cries, Gösta Berling -rushes up to the countess and seizes her. - -He lifts her in his arms and rushes from the room out into the hall and -then on to the steps with her. - -The astonished women’s screams could not check him. When they hurry -after, they only see how he throws himself into a sledge with the -countess in his arms. - -They hear the driver crack his whip and see the horse set off. They know -the driver: it is Beerencreutz. They know the horse: it is Don Juan. And -in deep distress over the countess’s fate they call their husbands. - -And these waste no time in questions, but hasten to their sledges. And -with the count at their head they chase after the ravisher. - -But he lies in the sledge, holding the young countess fast. He has -forgotten all grief, and mad with adventure’s intoxicating joy, he sings -at the top of his voice a song of love and roses. - -Close to him he presses her; but she makes no attempt to escape. Her face -lies, white and stiffened, against his breast. - -Ah, what shall a man do when he has a pale, helpless face so near his -own, when he sees the fair hair which usually shades the white, gleaming -forehead, pushed to one side, and when the eyelids have closed heavily -over the gray eyes’ roguish glance? - -What shall a man do when red lips grow pale beneath his eyes? - -Kiss, of course, kiss the fading lips, the closed eyes, the white -forehead. - -But then the young woman awakes. She throws herself back. She is like a -bent spring. And he has to struggle with her with his whole strength to -keep her from throwing herself from the sledge, until finally he forces -her, subdued and trembling, down in the corner of the sledge. - -“See,” says Gösta quite calmly to Beerencreutz, “the countess is the -third whom Don Juan and I have carried off this winter. But the others -hung about my neck with kisses, and she will neither be kissed by me nor -dance with me. Can you understand these women, Beerencreutz?” - -But when Gösta drove away from the house, when the women screamed and the -men swore, when the sleigh-bells rang and the whips cracked, and there -was nothing but cries and confusion, the men who guarded the major’s wife -were wondering. - -“What is going on?” they thought. “Why are they screaming?” - -Suddenly the door is thrown open, and a voice calls to them. - -“She is gone. He is driving away with her.” - -They rush out, running like mad, without waiting to see if it was the -major’s wife or who it was who was gone. Luck was with them, and they -came up with a hurrying sledge, and they drove both far and fast, before -they discovered whom they were pursuing. - -But Berg and Cousin Christopher went quietly to the door, burst the lock, -and opened it for the major’s wife. - -“You are free,” they said. - -She came out. They stood straight as ramrods on either side of the door -and did not look at her. - -“You have a horse and sledge outside.” - -She went out, placed herself in the sledge, and drove away. No one -followed her. No one knew whither she went. - -Down Broby hill Don Juan speeds towards the Löfven’s ice-covered surface. -The proud courser flies on. Strong, ice-cold breezes whistle by their -cheeks. The bells jingle. The stars and the moon are shining. The snow -lies blue-white and glitters from its own brightness. - -Gösta feels poetical thoughts wake in him. - -“Beerencreutz,” he says, “this is life. Just as Don Juan hurries away -with this young woman, so time hurries away with man. You are necessity, -who steers the journey. I am desire, who fetters the will, and she is -dragged helpless, always deeper and deeper down.” - -“Don’t talk!” cries Beerencreutz. “They are coming after us.” - -And with a whistling cut of the whip he urges Don Juan to still wilder -speed. - -“Once it was wolves, now it is spoils,” cries Gösta. “Don Juan, my boy, -fancy that you are a young elk. Rush through the brushwood, wade through -the swamps, leap from the mountain top down into the clear lake, swim -across it with bravely lifted head, and vanish, vanish in the thick -pine-woods’ rescuing darkness! Spring, Don Juan! Spring like a young elk!” - -Joy fills his wild heart at the mad race. The cries of the pursuers are -to him a song of victory. Joy fills his wild heart when he feels the -countess’s body shake with fright, when he hears her teeth chatter. - -Suddenly he loosens the grip of iron with which he has held her. He -stands up in the sledge and waves his cap. - -“I am Gösta Berling,” he cries, “lord of ten thousand kisses and thirteen -thousand love-letters! Hurra for Gösta Berling! Take him who can!” - -And in the next minute he whispers in the countess’s ear:— - -“Is not the pace good? Is not the course kingly? Beyond Löfven lies Lake -Väner. Beyond Väner lies the sea, everywhere endless stretches of clear -blue-black ice, and beyond all a glowing world. Rolling thunders in -the freezing ice, shrill cries behind us, shooting stars above us, and -jingling bells before us! Forward! Always forward! Have you a mind to try -the journey, young, beautiful lady?” - -He had let her go. She pushes him roughly away. The next instant finds -him on his knees at her feet. - -“I am a wretch, a wretch. You ought not to have angered me, countess. You -stood there so proud and fair, and never thought that a pensioner’s hand -could reach you. Heaven and earth love you. You ought not to add to the -burden of those whom heaven and earth scorn.” - -He draws her hands to him and lifts them to his face. - -“If you only knew,” he says, “what it means to be an outcast. One does -not stop to think what one does. No, one does not.” - -At the same moment he notices that she has nothing on her hands. He draws -a pair of great fur gloves from his pocket and puts them on her. - -And he has become all at once quite quiet. He places himself in the -sledge, as far from the young countess as possible. - -“You need not be afraid,” he says. “Do you not see where we are driving? -You must understand that we do not dare to do you any harm.” - -She, who has been almost out of her mind with fright, sees that they have -driven across the lake and that Don Juan is struggling up the steep hill -to Borg. - -They stop the horse before the steps of the castle, and let the young -countess get out of the sledge at the door of her own home. - -When she is surrounded by attentive servants, she regains her courage and -presence of mind. - -“Take care of the horse, Andersson!” she says to the coachman. “These -gentlemen who have driven me home will be kind enough to come in for a -while. The count will soon be here.” - -“As you wish, countess,” says Gösta, and instantly gets out of the -sledge. Beerencreutz throws the reins to the groom without a moment’s -hesitation. And the young countess goes before them and ushers them into -the hall with ill-concealed malicious joy. - -The countess had expected that the pensioners would hesitate at the -proposition to await her husband. - -They did not know perhaps what a stern and upright man he was. They were -not afraid of the inquiry he should make of them, who had seized her by -force and compelled her to drive with them. She longed to hear him forbid -them ever again to set their foot in her house. - -She wished to see him call in the servants to point out the pensioners to -them as men who thereafter never should be admitted within the doors of -Borg. She wished to hear him express his scorn not only of what they had -done to her, but also of their conduct toward the old major’s wife, their -benefactress. - -He, who showed her only tenderness and consideration, would rise in just -wrath against her persecutors. Love would give fire to his speech. He, -who guarded and looked after her as a creature of finer stuff than any -other, would not bear that rough men had fallen upon her like birds of -prey upon a sparrow. She glowed with thirst of revenge. - -Beerencreutz, however, walked undaunted into the dining-room, and up to -the fire, which was always lighted when the countess came home from a -ball. - -Gösta remained in the darkness by the door and silently watched the -countess, while the servant removed her outer wraps. As he sat and looked -at the young woman, he rejoiced as he had not done for many years. He saw -so clearly it was like a revelation, although he did not understand how -he had discovered it, that she had in her one of the most beautiful of -souls. - -As yet it lay bound and sleeping; but it would some day show itself. He -rejoiced at having discovered all the purity and gentleness and innocence -which was hidden in her. He was almost ready to laugh at her, because she -looked so angry and stood with flushed cheeks and frowning brows. - -“You do not know how gentle and good you are,” he thought. - -The side of her being which was turned towards the outside world would -never do her inner personality justice, he thought. But Gösta Berling -from that hour must be her servant, as one must serve everything -beautiful and godlike. Yes, there was nothing to be sorry for that he -had just been so violent with her. If she had not been so afraid, if she -had not thrust him from her so angrily, if he had not felt how her whole -being was shaken by his roughness, he would never have known what a fine -and noble soul dwelt within her. - -He had not thought it before. She had only cared for pleasure-seeking and -amusement. And she had married that stupid Count Henrik. - -Yes, now he would be her slave till death; dog and slave as Captain Bergh -used to say, and nothing more. - -He sat by the door, Gösta Berling, and held with clasped hands a sort -of service. Since the day when he for the first time felt the flame of -inspiration burn in him, he had not known such a holiness in his soul. He -did not move, even when Count Dohna came in with a crowd of people, who -swore and lamented over the pensioners’ mad performance. - -He let Beerencreutz receive the storm. With indolent calm, tried by many -adventures, the latter stood by the fireplace. He had put one foot up on -the fender, rested his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand, and -looked at the excited company. - -“What is the meaning of all this?” roared the little count at him. - -“The meaning is,” he said, “that as long as there are women on earth, -there will be fools to dance after their piping.” - -The young count’s face grew red. - -“I ask what that means!” he repeated. - -“I ask that too,” sneered Beerencreutz. “I ask what it means when Henrik -Dohna’s countess will not dance with Gösta Berling.” - -The count turned questioning to his wife. - -“I could not, Henrik,” she cried. “I could not dance with him or any of -them. I thought of the major’s wife, whom they allowed to languish in -prison.” - -The little count straightened his stiff body and stretched up his -old-man’s head. - -“We pensioners,” said Beerencreutz, “permit no one to insult us. She -who will not dance with us must drive with us. No harm has come to the -countess, and there can be an end of the matter.” - -“No,” said the count. “It cannot be the end. It is I who am responsible -for my wife’s acts. Now I ask why Gösta Berling did not turn to me to get -satisfaction when my wife had insulted him.” - -Beerencreutz smiled. - -“I ask that,” repeated the count. - -“One does not ask leave of the fox to take his skin from him,” said -Beerencreutz. - -The count laid his hand on his narrow chest. - -“I am known to be a just man,” he cried. “I can pass sentence on my -servants. Why should I not be able to pass sentence on my wife? The -pensioners have no right to judge her. The punishment they have given -her, I wipe out. It has never been, do you understand, gentlemen. It has -never existed.” - -The count screamed out the words in a high falsetto. Beerencreutz -cast a swift glance about the assembly. There was not one of those -present—Sintram and Daniel Bendix and Dahlberg and all the others who had -followed in—who did not stand and smile at the way he outwitted stupid -Henrik Dohna. - -The young countess did not understand at first. What was it which should -not be considered? Her anguish, the pensioner’s hard grip on her tender -body, the wild song, the wild words, the wild kisses, did they not exist? -Had that evening never been, over which the goddess of the gray twilight -had reigned? - -“But, Henrik—” - -“Silence!” he said. And he drew himself up to chide her. “Woe to you, -that you, who are a woman, have wished to set yourself up as a judge of -men,” he says. “Woe to you, that you, who are my wife, dare to insult -one whose hand I gladly press. What is it to you if the pensioners have -put the major’s wife in prison? Were they not right? You can never know -how angry a man is to the bottom of his soul when he hears of a woman’s -infidelity. Do you also mean to go that evil way, that you take such a -woman’s part?” - -“But, Henrik—” - -She wailed like a child, and stretched out her arms to ward off the angry -words. She had never before heard such hard words addressed to her. She -was so helpless among these hard men, and now her only defender turned -against her. Never again would her heart have power to light up the world. - -“But, Henrik, it is you who ought to protect me.” - -Gösta Berling was observant now, when it was too late. He did not know -what to do. He wished her so well. But he did not dare to thrust himself -between man and wife. - -“Where is Gösta Berling?” asked the count. - -“Here,” said Gösta. And he made a pitiable attempt to make a jest of the -matter. “You were making a speech, I think, count, and I fell asleep. -What do you say to letting us go home and letting you all go to bed?” - -“Gösta Berling, since my countess has refused to dance with you, I -command her to kiss your hand and to ask you for forgiveness.” - -“My dear Count Henrik,” says Gösta, smiling, “it is not a fit hand for -a young woman to kiss. Yesterday it was red with blood from killing an -elk, to-day black with soot from a fight with a charcoal-burner. You have -given a noble and high-minded sentence. That is satisfaction enough. -Come, Beerencreutz!” - -The count placed himself in his way. - -“Do not go,” he said. “My wife must obey me. I wish that my countess -shall know whither it leads to be self-willed.” - -Gösta stood helpless. The countess was quite white; but she did not move. - -“Go,” said the count. - -“Henrik, I cannot.” - -“You can,” said the count, harshly. “You can. But I know what you want. -You will force me to fight with this man, because your whim is not to -like him. Well, if you will not make him amends, I shall do so. You -women love to have a man killed for your sake. You have done wrong, but -will not atone for it. Therefore I must do it. I shall fight the duel, -countess. In a few hours I shall be a bloody corpse.” - -She gave him a long look. And she saw him as he was,—stupid, cowardly, -puffed up with pride and vanity, the most pitiful of men. - -“Be calm,” she said. And she became as cold as ice. “I will do it.” - -But now Gösta Berling became quite beside himself. - -“You shall not, countess! No, you shall not! You are only a child, a -poor, innocent child, and you would kiss my hand. You have such a white, -beautiful soul. I will never again come near you. Oh, never again! I -bring death and destruction to everything good and blameless. You shall -not touch me. I shudder for you like fire for water. You shall not!” - -He put his hands behind his back. - -“It is all the same to me, Herr Berling. Nothing makes any difference to -me any more. I ask you for forgiveness. I ask you to let me kiss your -hand!” - -Gösta kept his hands behind his back. He approached the door. - -“If you do not accept the amends my wife offers, I must fight with you, -Gösta Berling, and moreover must impose upon her another, severer, -punishment.” - -The countess shrugged her shoulders. “He is mad from cowardice,” she -whispered. “Let me do it! It does not matter if I am humbled. It is after -all what you wanted the whole time.” - -“Did I want that? Do you think I wanted that? Well, if I have no hands to -kiss, you must see that I did not want it,” he cried. - -He ran to the fire and stretched out his hands into it. The flames -closed over them, the skin shrivelled up, the nails crackled. But in the -same second Beerencreutz seized him by the neck and threw him across the -floor. He tripped against a chair and sat down. He sat and almost blushed -for such a foolish performance. Would she think that he only did it by -way of boast? To do such a thing in the crowded room must seem like a -foolish vaunt. There had not been a vestige of danger. - -Before he could raise himself, the countess was kneeling beside him. She -seized his red, sooty hands and looked at them. - -“I will kiss them, kiss them,” she cried, “as soon as they are not too -painful and sore!” And the tears streamed from her eyes as she saw the -blisters rising under the scorched skin. - -For he had been like a revelation to her of an unknown glory. That such -things could happen here on earth, that they could be done for her! What -a man this was, ready for everything, mighty in good as in evil, a man of -great deeds, of strong words, of splendid actions! A hero, a hero, made -of different stuff from others! Slave of a whim, of the desire of the -moment, wild and terrible, but possessor of a tremendous power, fearless -of everything. - -She had been so depressed the whole evening she had not seen anything but -pain and cruelty and cowardice. Now everything was forgotten. The young -countess was glad once more to be alive. The goddess of the twilight was -conquered. The young countess saw light and color brighten the world. - - * * * * * - -It was the same night in the pensioners’ wing. - -There they scolded and swore at Gösta Berling. The old men wanted to -sleep; but it was impossible. He let them get no rest. It was in vain -that they drew the bed-curtains and put out the light. He only talked. - -He let them know what an angel the young countess was, and how he adored -her. He would serve her, worship her. He was glad that every one had -forsaken him. He could devote his life to her service. She despised him -of course. But he would be satisfied to lie at her feet like a dog. - -Had they ever noticed an island out in the Löfven? Had they seen it -from the south side, where the rugged cliff rises precipitously from -the water? Had they seen it from the north, where it sinks down to the -sea in a gentle slope, and where the narrow shoals, covered with great -pines wind out into the water, and make the most wonderful little lakes? -There on the steep cliff, where the ruins of an old viking fortress still -remain, he would build a palace for the young countess, a palace of -marble. Broad steps, at which boats decked with flags should land, should -be hewn in the cliff down to the sea. There should be glowing halls and -lofty towers with gilded pinnacles. It should be a suitable dwelling for -the young countess. That old wooden house at Borg was not worthy for her -to enter. - -When he had gone on so for a while, first one snore and then another -began to sound behind the yellow-striped curtains. But most of them swore -and bewailed themselves over him and his foolishness. - -“Friends,” he then says solemnly, “I see the green earth covered with the -works of man or with the ruins of men’s work. The pyramids weigh down -the earth, the tower of Babel has bored through the sky, the beautiful -temples and the gray castles have fallen into ruins. But of all which -hands have built, what is it which has not fallen, nor shall fall? Ah, -friends, throw away the trowel and the mortar! Spread your mason’s aprons -over your heads and lay you down to build bright palaces of dreams! -What has the soul to do with temples of stone and clay? Learn to build -everlasting palaces of dreams and visions!” - -Thereupon he went laughing to bed. - -When, shortly after, the countess heard that the major’s wife had been -set free, she gave a dinner for the pensioners. - -And then began hers and Gösta Berling’s long friendship. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -GHOST-STORIES - - -Oh, children of the present day! - -I have nothing new to tell you, only what is old and almost forgotten. I -have legends from the nursery, where the little ones sat on low stools -about the old nurse with her white hair, or from the log-fire in the -cottage, where the laborers sat and chatted, while the steam reeked from -their wet clothes, and they drew knives from leather sheaths at their -necks to spread the butter on thick, soft bread, or from the hall where -old men sat in their rocking-chairs, and, cheered by the steaming toddy, -talked of old times. - -When a child, who had listened to the old nurse, to the laborers, to -the old men, stood at the window on a winter’s evening, it saw no -clouds on the horizon without their being the pensioners; the stars -were wax-candles, which were lighted at the old house at Borg; and the -spinning-wheel which hummed in the next room was driven by old Ulrika -Dillner. For the child’s head was filled with the people of those old -days; it lived for and adored them. - -But if such a child, whose whole soul was filled with stories, should be -sent through the dark attic to the store-room for flax or biscuits, then -the small feet scurried; then it came flying down the stairs, through -the passage to the kitchen. For up there in the dark it could not help -thinking of the wicked mill-owner at Fors,—of him who was in league with -the devil. - -Sintram’s ashes have been resting long in Svartsjö churchyard, but no -one believes that his soul has been called to God, as it reads on his -tombstone. - -While he was alive he was one of those to whose home, on long, rainy -Sunday afternoons, a heavy coach, drawn by black horses, used to come. -A gentleman richly but plainly dressed gets out of the carriage, and -helps with cards and dice to while away the long hours which with their -monotony have driven the master of the house to despair. The game is -carried on far into the night; and when the stranger departs at dawn he -always leaves behind some baleful parting-gift. - -As long as Sintram was here on earth he was one of those whose coming is -made known by spirits. They are heralded by visions. Their carriages roll -into the yard, their whip cracks, their voices sound on the stairs, the -door of the entry is opened and shut. The dogs and people are awakened by -the noise, it is so loud; but there is no one who has come, it is only an -hallucination which goes before them. - -Ugh, those horrible people, whom evil spirits seek out! What kind of -a big black dog was it which showed itself at Fors in Sintram’s time? -He had terrible, shining eyes, and a long tongue which dripped blood -and hung far out of his panting throat. One day, when the men-servants -had been in the kitchen and eaten their dinner, he had scratched at -the kitchen door, and all the maids had screamed with fright; but the -biggest and strongest of the men had taken a burning log from the fire, -thrown open the door, and hurled it into the dog’s gaping mouth. - -Then he had fled with terrible howls, flames and smoke had burst from his -throat, sparks whirled about him, and his footprints on the path shone -like fire. - -And was it not dreadful that every time Sintram came home from a journey -he had changed the animals which drew him? He left with horses, but when -he came home at night he had always black bulls before his carriage. -The people who lived near the road saw their great black horns against -the sky when he drove by, and heard the creatures’ bellowing, and were -terrified by the line of sparks which the hoofs and wheels drew out of -the dry gravel. - -Yes, the little feet needed to hurry, indeed, to come across the big, -dark attic. Think if something awful, if he, whose name one may not say, -should come out of a dark corner! Who can be sure? It was not only to -wicked people that he showed himself. Had not Ulrika Dillner seen him? -Both she and Anna Stjärnhök could say that they had seen him. - - * * * * * - -Friends, children, you who dance, you who laugh! I beg you so earnestly -to dance carefully, laugh gently, for there can be so much unhappiness if -your thin slippers tread on sensitive hearts instead of on hard boards; -and your glad, silvery laughter can drive a soul to despair. - -It was surely so; the young people’s feet had trodden too hard on old -Ulrika Dillner, and the young people’s laughter had rung too arrogantly -in her ears; for there came over her suddenly an irresistible longing -for a married woman’s titles and dignities. At last she said “yes” to -the evil Sintram’s long courtship, followed him to Fors as his wife, and -was parted from the old friends at Berga, the dear old work, and the old -cares for daily bread. - -It was a match which went quickly and gayly. Sintram offered himself at -Christmas, and in February they were married. That year Anna Stjärnhök -was living in Captain Uggla’s home. She was a good substitute for old -Ulrika, and the latter could draw back without compunction, and take to -herself married honors. - -Without compunction, but not without regret. It was not a pleasant place -she had come to; the big, empty rooms were filled with dreadful terrors. -As soon as it was dark she began to tremble and to be afraid. She almost -died of homesickness. - -The long Sunday afternoons were the hardest of all. They never came to -an end, neither they nor the long succession of torturing thoughts which -travelled through her brain. - -So it happened one day in March, when Sintram had not come home from -church to dinner, that she went into the drawing-room, on the second -floor, and placed herself at the piano. It was her last consolation. -The old piano, with a flute-player and shepherdess painted on the white -cover, was her own, come to her from her parents’ home. To it she could -tell her troubles; it understood her. - -But is it not both pitiful and ridiculous? Do you know what she is -playing? Only a polka, and she who is so heart-broken! - -She does not know anything else. Before her fingers stiffened round -broom and carving-knife she had learned this one polka. It sticks in her -fingers; but she does not know any other piece,—no funeral march, no -impassioned sonata, not even a wailing ballad,—only the polka. - -She plays it whenever she has anything to confide to the old piano. She -plays it both when she feels like weeping and like smiling. When she was -married she played it, and when for the first time she had come to her -own home, and also now. - -The old strings understand her: she is unhappy, unhappy. - -A traveller passing by and hearing the polka ring could well believe -that Sintram was having a ball for neighbors and friends, it sounds so -gay. It is such a brave and glad melody. With it, in the old days, she -has played carelessness in and hunger out at Berga; when they heard it -every one must up and dance. It burst the fetters of rheumatism about the -joints, and lured pensioners of eighty years on to the floor. The whole -world would gladly dance to that polka, it sounds so gay—but old Ulrika -weeps. Sintram has sulky, morose servants about him, and savage animals. -She longs for friendly faces and smiling mouths. It is this despairing -longing which the lively polka shall interpret. - -People find it hard to remember that she is Madame Sintram. Everybody -calls her Mamselle Dillner. She wants the polka tune to express her -sorrow for the vanity which tempted her to seek for married honors. - -Old Ulrika plays as if she would break the strings. There is so much to -drown: the lamentations of the poor peasants, the curses of overworked -cottagers, the sneers of insolent servants, and, first and last, the -shame,—the shame of being the wife of a bad man. - -To those notes Gösta Berling has led young Countess Dohna to the dance. -Marianne Sinclair and her many admirers have danced to them, and the -major’s wife at Ekeby has moved to their measure when Altringer was still -alive. She can see them, couple after couple, in their youth and beauty, -whirl by. There was a stream of gayety from them to her, from her to -them. It was her polka which made their cheeks glow, their eyes shine. -She is parted from all that now. Let the polka resound,—so many memories, -so many tender memories to drown! - -She plays to deaden her anguish. Her heart is ready to burst with terror -when she sees the black dog, when she hears the servants whispering of -the black bulls. She plays the polka over and over again to deaden her -anguish. - -Then she perceives that her husband has come home. She hears that he -comes into the room and sits down in the rocking-chair. She knows so well -the sound as the rockers creak on the deal floor that she does not even -look round. - -All the time she is playing the rocking continues; she soon hears the -music no longer, only the rocking. - -Poor old Ulrika, so tortured, so lonely, so helpless, astray in a hostile -country, without a friend to complain to, without any consoler but a -cracked piano, which answers her with a polka. - -It is like loud laughter at a funeral, a drinking song in a church. - -While the rocking-chair is still rocking she hears suddenly how the piano -is laughing at her sorrows, and she stops in the middle of a bar. She -rises and turns to the rocking-chair. - -But the next instant she is lying in a swoon on the floor. It was not -her husband who sat in the rocking-chair, but another,—he to whom little -children do not dare to give a name, he who would frighten them to death -if they should meet him in the deserted attic. - - * * * * * - -Can any one whose soul has been filled with legends ever free himself -from their dominion? The night wind howls outside, the trees whip the -pillars of the balcony with their stiff branches, the sky arches darkly -over the far-stretching hills, and I, who sit alone in the night and -write, with the lamp lighted and the curtain drawn, I, who am old and -ought to be sensible, feel the same shudder creeping up my back as when I -first heard this story, and I have to keep lifting my eyes from my work -to be certain that no one has come in and hidden himself in that further -corner; I have to look out on the balcony to see if there is not a black -head looking over the railing. This fright never leaves me when the night -is dark and solitude deep; and it becomes at last so dreadful that I must -throw aside my pen, creep down in my bed and draw the blanket up over my -eyes. - -It was the great, secret wonder of my childhood that Ulrika Dillner -survived that afternoon. I should never have done so. - -I hope, dear friends, that you may never see the tears of old eyes. And -that you may not have to stand helpless when a gray head leans against -your breast for support, or when old hands are clasped about yours in -a silent prayer. May you never see the old sunk in a sorrow which you -cannot comfort. - -What is the grief of the young? They have strength, they have hope. But -what suffering it is when the old weep; what despair when they, who have -always been the support of your young days, sink into helpless wailing. - -There sat Anna Stjärnhök and listened to old Ulrika, and she saw no way -out for her. - -The old woman wept and trembled. Her eyes were wild. She talked and -talked, sometimes quite incoherently, as if she did not know where she -was. The thousand wrinkles which crossed her face were twice as deep as -usual, the false curls, which hung down over her eyes, were straightened -by her tears, and her whole long, thin body was shaken with sobs. - -At last Anna had to put an end to the wailings. She had made up her mind. -She was going to take her back with her to Berga. Of course, she was -Sintram’s wife, but she could not remain at Fors. He would drive her mad -if she stayed with him. Anna Stjärnhök had decided to take old Ulrika -away. - -Ah, how the poor thing rejoiced, and yet trembled at this decision! But -she never would dare to leave her husband and her home. He would perhaps -send the big black dog after her. - -But Anna Stjärnhök conquered her resistance, partly by jests, partly -by threats, and in half an hour she had her beside her in the sledge. -Anna was driving herself, and old Disa was in the shafts. The road was -wretched, for it was late in March; but it did old Ulrika good to drive -once more in the well-known sledge, behind the old horse who had been a -faithful servant at Berga almost as long as she. - -As she had naturally a cheerful spirit, she stopped crying by the time -they passed Arvidstorp; at Hogberg she was already laughing, and when -they passed Munkeby she was telling how it used to be in her youth, when -she lived with the countess at Svaneholm. - -They drove up a steep and stony road in the lonely and deserted region -north of Munkeby. The road sought out all the hills it possibly could -find; it crept up to their tops by slow windings, rushed down them in a -steep descent, hurried across the even valley to find a new hill to climb -over. - -They were just driving down Vestratorp’s hill, when old Ulrika stopped -short in what she was saying, and seized Anna by the arm. She was staring -at a big black dog at the roadside. - -“Look!” she said. - -The dog set off into the wood. Anna did not see much of him. - -“Drive on,” said Ulrika; “drive as fast as you can! Now Sintram will hear -that I have gone.” - -Anna tried to laugh at her terror, but she insisted. - -“We shall soon hear his sleigh-bells, you will see. We shall hear them -before we reach the top of the next hill.” - -And when Disa drew breath for a second at the top of Elof’s hill -sleigh-bells could be heard behind them. - -Old Ulrika became quite mad with fright. She trembled, sobbed, and wailed -as she had done in the drawing-room at Fors. Anna tried to urge Disa -on, but she only turned her head and gave her a glance of unspeakable -surprise. Did she think that Disa had forgotten when it was time to trot -and when it was time to walk? Did she want to teach her how to drag a -sledge, to teach her who had known every stone, every bridge, every gate, -every hill for more than twenty years? - -All this while the sleigh-bells were coming nearer. - -“It is he, it is he! I know his bells,” wails old Ulrika. - -The sound comes ever nearer. Sometimes it seems so unnaturally loud that -Anna turns to see if Sintram’s horse has not got his head in her sledge; -sometimes it dies away. They hear it now on the right, now on the left -of the road, but they see no one. It is as if the jingling of the bells -alone pursues them. - -Just as it is at night, on the way home from a party, is it also now. -These bells ring out a tune; they sing, speak, answer. The woods echo -with their sound. - -Anna Stjärnhök almost wishes that their pursuer would come near -enough for her to see Sintram himself and his red horse. The dreadful -sleigh-bells anger her. - -“Those bells torture me,” she says. - -The word is taken up by the bells. “Torture me,” they ring. “Torture me, -torture, torture, torture me,” they sing to all possible tunes. - -It was not so long ago that she had driven this same way, hunted by -wolves. She had seen their white teeth, in the darkness, gleam in their -gaping mouths; she had thought that her body would soon be torn to pieces -by the wild beasts of the forest; but then she had not been afraid. She -had never lived through a more glorious night. Strong and beautiful had -the horse been which drew her, strong and beautiful was the man who had -shared the joy of the adventure with her. - -Ah, this old horse, this old, helpless, trembling companion. She feels so -helpless that she longs to cry. She cannot escape from those terrible, -irritating bells. - -So she stops and gets out of the sledge. There must be an end to it -all. Why should she run away as if she were afraid of that wicked, -contemptible wretch? - -At last she sees a horse’s head come out of the advancing twilight, and -after the head a whole horse, a whole sledge, and in the sledge sits -Sintram himself. - -She notices, however, that it is not as if they had come along the -road—this sledge, and this horse, and their driver—but more as if they -had been created just there before her eyes, and had come forward out of -the twilight as soon as they were made ready. - -Anna threw the reins to Ulrika and went to meet Sintram. - -He stops the horse. - -“Well, well,” he says; “what a piece of luck! Dear Miss Stjärnhök, let me -move my companion over to your sledge. He is going to Berga to-night, and -I am in a hurry to get home.” - -“Where is your companion?” - -Sintram lifts his blanket, and shows Anna a man who is lying asleep on -the bottom of the sledge. “He is a little drunk,” he says; “but what does -that matter? He will sleep. It’s an old acquaintance, moreover; it is -Gösta Berling.” - -Anna shudders. - -“Well, I will tell you,” continues Sintram, “that she who forsakes the -man she loves sells him to the devil. That was the way I got into his -claws. People think they do so well, of course; to renounce is good, and -to love is evil.” - -“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” asks Anna, quite -disturbed. - -“I mean that you should not have let Gösta Berling go from you, Miss -Anna.” - -“It was God’s will.” - -“Yes, yes, that’s the way it is; to renounce is good, and to love is -evil. The good God does not like to see people happy. He sends wolves -after them. But if it was not God who did it, Miss Anna? Could it not -just as well have been I who called my little gray lambs from the Dovre -mountains to hunt the young man and the young girl? Think, if it was I -who sent the wolves, because I did not wish to lose one of my own! Think, -if it was not God who did it!” - -“You must not tempt me to doubt that,” says Anna, in a weak voice, “for -then I am lost.” - -“Look here,” says Sintram, and bends down over the sleeping Gösta -Berling; “look at his little finger. That little sore never heals. We -took the blood there when he signed the contract. He is mine. There is a -peculiar power in blood. He is mine, and it is only love which can free -him; but if I am allowed to keep him he will be a fine thing.” - -Anna Stjärnhök struggles and struggles to shake off the fascination which -has seized her. It is all madness, madness. No one can swear away his -soul to the odious tempter. But she has no power over her thoughts; the -twilight lies so heavy over her, the woods stand so dark and silent. She -cannot escape the dreadful terror of the moment. - -“You think, perhaps,” continues Sintram, “that there is not much left in -him to ruin. But don’t think that! Has he ground down the peasants, has -he deceived poor friends, has he cheated at cards? Has he, Miss Anna, has -he been a married woman’s lover?” - -“I think you are the devil himself!” - -“Let us exchange. You take Gösta Berling, take him and marry him. Keep -him, and give them at Berga the money. I yield him up to you, and you -know that he is mine. Think that it was not God who sent the wolves after -you the other night, and let us exchange!” - -“What do you want as compensation?” - -Sintram grinned. - -“I—what do I want? Oh, I am satisfied with little. I only want that old -woman there in your sledge, Miss Anna.” - -“Satan, tempter,” cries Anna, “leave me! Shall I betray an old friend -who relies on me? Shall I leave her to you, that you may torture her to -madness?” - -“There, there, there; quietly, Miss Anna! Think what you are doing! Here -is a fine young man, and there an old, worn-out woman. One of them I -must have. Which of them will you let me keep?” - -Anna Stjärnhök laughed wildly. - -“Do you think that we can stand here and exchange souls as they exchange -horses at the market at Broby?” - -“Just so, yes. But if you will, we shall put it on another basis. We -shall think of the honor of the Stjärnhöks.” - -Thereupon he begins to call in a loud voice to his wife, who is sitting -in Anna’s sledge; and, to the girl’s unspeakable horror, she obeys the -summons instantly, gets out of the sledge, and comes, trembling and -shaking, to them. - -“See, see, see!—such an obedient wife,” says Sintram. “You cannot prevent -her coming when her husband calls. Now, I shall lift Gösta out of my -sledge and leave him here,—leave him for good, Miss Anna. Whoever may -want to can pick him up.” - -He bends down to lift Gösta up; but Anna leans forward, fixes him with -her eyes, and hisses like an angry animal:— - -“In God’s name, go home! Do you not know who is sitting in the -rocking-chair in the drawing-room and waiting for you? Do you dare to let -him wait?” - -It was for Anna almost the climax of the horrors of the day to see -how these words affect him. He drags on the reins, turns, and drives -homewards, urging the horse to a gallop with blows and wild cries down -the dreadful hill, while a long line of sparks crackle under the runners -and hoofs in the thin March snow. - -Anna Stjärnhök and Ulrika Dillner stand alone in the road, but they do -not say a word. Ulrika trembles before Anna’s wild eyes, and Anna has -nothing to say to the poor old thing, for whose sake she has sacrificed -her beloved. - -She would have liked to weep, to rave, to roll on the ground and strew -snow and sand on her head. - -Before, she had known the sweetness of renunciation, now she knew its -bitterness. What was it to sacrifice her love compared to sacrificing -her beloved’s soul? They drove on to Berga in the same silence; but when -they arrived, and the hall-door was opened, Anna Stjärnhök fainted for -the first and only time in her life. There sat both Sintram and Gösta -Berling, and chatted quietly. The tray with toddy had been brought in; -they had been there at least an hour. - -Anna Stjärnhök fainted, but old Ulrika stood calm. She had noticed that -everything was not right with him who had followed them on the road. - -Afterwards the captain and his wife arranged the matter so with Sintram -that old Ulrika was allowed to stay at Berga. He agreed good-naturedly. - -“He did not want to drive her mad,” he said. - - * * * * * - -I do not ask any one to believe these old stories. They cannot be -anything but lies and fiction. But the anguish which passes over the -heart, until it wails as the floor boards in Sintram’s room wailed under -the swaying rockers; but the questions which ring in the ears, as the -sleigh-bells rang for Anna Stjärnhök in the lonely forest,—when will they -be as lies and fiction? - -Oh, that they could be! - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -EBBA DOHNA’S STORY - - -The beautiful point on Löfven’s eastern shore, about which the bay glides -with lapping waves, the proud point where the manor of Borg lies, beware -of approaching. - -Löfven never looks more glorious than from its summit. - -No one can know how lovely it is, the lake of my dreams, until he has -seen from Borg’s point the morning mist glide away from its smooth -surface; until he, from the windows of the little blue cabinet, where so -many memories dwell, has seen it reflect a pink sunset. - -But I still say, go not thither! - -For perhaps you will be seized with a desire to remain in that old -manor’s sorrowful halls; perhaps you will make yourself the owner of -those fair lands; and if you are young, rich, and happy, you will make -your home there with a young wife. - -No, it is better never to see the beautiful point, for at Borg no one can -live and be happy. No matter how rich, how happy you may be, who move in -there, those old tear-drenched floors would soon drink _your_ tears as -well, and those walls, which could give back so many moans, would also -glean _your_ sighs. - -An implacable fate is on this lovely spot. It is as if misfortune were -buried there, but found no rest in its grave, and perpetually rose from -it to terrify the living. If I were lord of Borg I would search through -the ground, both in the park and under the cellar floor in the house, and -in the fertile mould out in the meadows, until I had found the witch’s -worm-eaten corpse, and then I would give her a grave in consecrated earth -in the Svartsjö churchyard. And at the burial I would not spare on the -ringer’s pay, but let the bells sound long and loud over her; and to the -clergyman and sexton I should send rich gifts, that they with redoubled -strength might with speech and song consecrate her to everlasting rest. - -Or, if that did not help, some stormy night I would set fire to the -wooden walls, and let it destroy everything, so that no one more might -be tempted to live in the home of misfortune. Afterwards no one should -be allowed to approach that doomed spot; only the church-tower’s black -jackdaws should build in the great chimney, which, blackened and -dreadful, would raise itself over the deserted foundations. - -Still, I should certainly mourn when I saw the flames close over the -roof, when thick smoke, reddened by the fire and flecked with sparks, -should roll out from the old manor-house. In the crackling and the -roaring I should fancy I heard the wails of homeless memories; on the -blue points of the flames I should see disturbed spirits floating. I -should think how sorrow beautifies, how misfortune adorns, and weep as if -a temple to the old gods had been condemned to destruction. - -But why croak of unhappiness? As yet Borg lies and shines on its point, -shaded by its park of mighty pines, and the snow-covered fields glitter -in March’s burning sun; as yet is heard within those walls the young -Countess Elizabeth’s gay laughter. - -Every Sunday she goes to church at Svartsjö, which lies near Borg, and -gathers together a few friends for dinner. The judge and his family from -Munkerud used to come, and the Ugglas from Berga, and even Sintram. If -Gösta Berling happens to be in Svartsjö, wandering over Löfven’s ice, she -invites him too. Why should she not invite Gösta Berling? - -She probably does not know that the gossips are beginning to whisper that -Gösta comes very often over to the east shore to see her. Perhaps he also -comes to drink and play cards with Sintram; but no one thinks so much of -that; every one knows that his body is of steel; but it is another matter -with his heart. No one believes that he can see a pair of shining eyes, -and fair hair which curls about a white brow, without love. - -The young countess is good to him. But there is nothing strange in that; -she is good to all. She takes ragged beggar children on her knee, and -when she drives by some poor old creature on the high-road she has the -coachman stop, and takes the poor wanderer up into her sledge. - -Gösta used to sit in the little blue cabinet, where there is such a -glorious view over the lake, and read poetry to her. There can be no harm -in that. He does not forget that she is a countess, and he a homeless -adventurer; and it is good for him to be with some one whom he holds high -and holy. He could just as well be in love with the Queen of Sheba as -with her. - -He only asks to be allowed to wait on her as a page waits on his noble -mistress: to fasten her skates, to hold her skeins, to steer her sled. -There cannot be any question of love between them; he is just the man to -find his happiness in a romantic, innocent adoration. - -The young count is silent and serious, and Gösta is playfully gay. He is -just such a companion as the young countess likes. No one who sees her -fancies that she is hiding a forbidden love. She thinks of dancing,—of -dancing and merry-making. She would like the earth to be quite flat, -without stones, without hills or seas, so that she could dance -everywhere. From the cradle to the grave she would like to dance in her -small, thin-soled, satin slippers. - -But rumor is not very merciful to young women. - -When the guests come to dinner at Borg, the men generally, after the -meal, go into the count’s room to sleep and smoke; the old ladies sink -down in the easy-chairs in the drawing-room, and lean their venerable -heads against the high backs; but the countess and Anna Stjärnhök go into -the blue cabinet and exchange endless confidences. - -The Sunday after the one when Anna Stjärnhök took Ulrika Dillner back to -Berga they are sitting there again. - -No one on earth is so unhappy as the young girl. All her gayety is -departed, and gone is the glad defiance which she showed to everything -and everybody who wished to come too near her. - -Everything which had happened to her that day has sunk back into the -twilight from which it was charmed; she has only one distinct impression -left,—yes, one, which is poisoning her soul. - -“If it really was not God who did it,” she used to whisper to herself. -“If it was not God, who sent the wolves?” - -She asks for a sign, she longs for a miracle. She searches heaven and -earth. But she sees no finger stretched from the sky to point out her way. - -As she sits now opposite the countess in the blue cabinet, her eyes fall -on a little bunch of hepaticas which the countess holds in her white -hand. Like a bolt it strikes her that she knows where the flowers have -grown, that she knows who has picked them. - -She does not need to ask. Where else in the whole countryside do -hepaticas bloom in the beginning of April, except in the birch grove -which lies on the slopes of Ekeby? - -She stares and stares at the little blue stars; those happy ones who -possess all hearts; those little prophets who, beautiful in themselves, -are also glorified by the splendor of all the beauty which they herald, -of all the beauty which is coming. And as she watches them a storm of -wrath rises in her soul, rumbling like the thunder, deadening like the -lightning. “By what right,” she thinks, “does Countess Dohna hold this -bunch of hepaticas, picked by the shore at Ekeby?” - -They were all tempters: Sintram, the countess, everybody wanted to allure -Gösta Berling to what was evil. But she would protect him; against all -would she protect him. Even if it should cost her heart’s blood, she -would do it. - -She thinks that she must see those flowers torn out of the countess’s -hand, and thrown aside, trampled, crushed, before she leaves the little -blue cabinet. - -She thinks that, and she begins a struggle with the little blue stars. -Out in the drawing-room the old ladies lean their venerable heads against -the chair-backs and suspect nothing; the men smoke their pipes in calm -and quiet in the count’s room; peace is everywhere; only in the little -blue cabinet rages a terrible struggle. - -Ah, how well they do who keep their hands from the sword, who understand -how to wait quietly, to lay their hearts to rest and let God direct! The -restless heart always goes astray; ill-will makes the pain worse. - -But Anna Stjärnhök believes that at last she has seen a finger in the sky. - -“Anna,” says the countess, “tell me a story!” - -“About what?” - -“Oh,” says the countess, and caresses the flowers with her white hand. -“Do not you know something about love, something about loving?” - -“No, I know nothing of love.” - -“How you talk! Is there not a place here which is called Ekeby,—a place -full of pensioners?” - -“Yes,” says Anna, “there is a place which is called Ekeby, and there -are men there who suck the marrow of the land, who make us incapable of -serious work, who ruin growing youth, and lead astray our geniuses. Do -you want to hear of them? Do you want to hear love-stories of them?” - -“Yes. I like the pensioners.” - -So Anna Stjärnhök speaks,—speaks in short sentences, like an old -hymn-book, for she is nearly choking with stormy emotions. Suppressed -suffering trembles in each word, and the countess was both frightened -and interested to hear her. - -“What is a pensioner’s love, what is a pensioner’s faith?—one sweetheart -to-day, another to-morrow, one in the east, another in the west. Nothing -is too high for him, nothing too low; one day a count’s daughter, the -next day a beggar girl. Nothing on earth is so capacious as his heart. -But alas, alas for her who loves a pensioner. She must seek him out -where he lies drunk at the wayside. She must silently look on while he -at the card-table plays away the home of her childhood. She must bear to -have him hang about other women. Oh, Elizabeth, if a pensioner asks an -honorable woman for a dance she ought to refuse it to him; if he gives -her a bunch of flowers she ought to throw the flowers on the ground and -trample on them; if she loves him she ought rather to die than to marry -him. There was one among the pensioners who was a dismissed priest; he -had lost his vestments for drunkenness. He was drunk in the church. He -drank up the communion wine. Have you ever heard of him?” - -“No.” - -“After he had been dismissed he wandered about the country as a beggar. -He drank like a madman. He would steal to get brandy.” - -“What is his name?” - -“He is no longer at Ekeby. The major’s wife got hold of him, gave him -clothes, and persuaded your mother-in-law, Countess Dohna, to make him -tutor to your husband, young Count Henrik.” - -“A dismissed priest!” - -“Oh, he was a young, powerful man, of good intelligence. There was -no harm in him, if he only did not drink. Countess Märta was not -particular. It amused her to quarrel with the neighboring clergymen. -Still, she ordered him to say nothing of his past life to her children. -For then her son would have lost respect for him, and her daughter would -not have endured him, for she was a saint. - -“So he came here to Borg. He always sat just inside the door, on the very -edge of his chair, never said a word at the table, and fled out into the -park when any visitors came. - -“But there in the lonely walks he used to meet young Ebba Dohna. She was -not one who loved the noisy feasts which resounded in the halls at Borg -after the countess became a widow. She was so gentle, so shy. She was -still, although she was seventeen, nothing but a tender child; but she -was very lovely, with her brown eyes, and the faint, delicate color in -her cheeks. Her thin, slender body bent forward. Her little hand would -creep into yours with a shy pressure. Her little mouth was the most -silent of mouths and the most serious. Ah, her voice, her sweet little -voice, which pronounced the words so slowly and so well, but never rang -with the freshness and warmth of youth,—its feeble tones were like a -weary musician’s last chord. - -“She was not as others. Her foot trod so lightly, so softly, as if she -were a frightened fugitive. She kept her eyelids lowered in order not -to be disturbed in her contemplation of the visions of her soul. It had -turned from the earth when she was but a child. - -“When she was little her grandmother used to tell her stories; and one -evening they both sat by the fire; but the stories had come to an end. -But still the little girl’s hand lay on the old woman’s dress, and she -gently stroked the silk,—that funny stuff which sounded like a little -bird. And this stroking was her prayer, for she was one of those children -who never beg in words. - -“Then the old lady began to tell her of a little child in the land of -Judah; of a little child who was born to become a great King. The angels -had filled the earth with songs of praise when he was born. The kings -of the East came, guided by the star of heaven, and gave him gold and -incense; and old men and women foretold his glory. This child grew up to -greater beauty and wisdom than all other children. Already, when he was -twelve years old, his wisdom was greater than that of the chief-priests -and the scribes. - -“Then the old woman told her of the most beautiful thing the earth has -ever seen: of that child’s life while he remained among men,—those wicked -men who would not acknowledge him their King. - -“She told her how the child became a man, but that the glory surrounded -him still. - -“Everything on the earth served him and loved him, except mankind. The -fishes let themselves be caught in his net, bread filled his baskets, -water changed itself to wine when he wished it. - -“But the people gave the great King no golden crown, no shining throne. -He had no bowing courtiers about him. They let him go among them like a -beggar. - -“Still, he was so good to them, the great King! He cured their -sicknesses, gave back to the blind their sight, and waked the dead. - -“But,” said the grandmother, “the people would not have the great King -for their lord. - -“‘They sent their soldiers against him, and took him prisoner; they -dressed him, by way of mockery, in crown and sceptre, and in a silken -cloak, and made him go out to the place of execution, bearing a heavy -cross. Oh, my child, the good King loved the high mountains. At night he -used to climb them to talk with those who dwelt in heaven, and he liked -by day to sit on the mountain-side and talk to the listening people. -But now they led him up on a mountain to crucify him. They drove nails -through his hands and feet, and hung the good King on a cross, as if he -had been a robber or a malefactor. - -“‘And the people mocked at him. Only his mother and his friends wept, -that he should die before he had been a King. - -“‘Oh, how the dead things mourned his death! - -“‘The sun lost its light, and the mountains trembled; the curtain in the -temple was rent asunder, and the graves opened, that the dead might rise -up and show their grief.’ - -“The little one lay with her head on her grandmother’s knee, and sobbed -as if her heart would break. - -“‘Do not weep, little one; the good King rose from his grave and went up -to his Father in heaven.’ - -“‘Grandmother,’ sobbed the poor little thing, ‘did he ever get any -kingdom?’ - -“‘He sits on God’s right hand in heaven.’ - -“But that did not comfort her. She wept helplessly and unrestrainedly, as -only a child can weep. - -“‘Why were they so cruel to him? Why were they allowed to be so cruel to -him?’ - -“Her grandmother was almost frightened at her overwhelming sorrow. - -“‘Say, grandmother, say that you have not told it right! Say that it did -not end so! Say that they were not so cruel to the good King! Say that he -got a kingdom on earth!’ - -“She threw her arms around the old woman and beseeched her with streaming -tears. - -“‘Child, child,’ said her grandmother, to console her. ‘There are some -who believe that he will come again. Then he will put the earth under -his power and direct it. The beautiful earth will be a glorious kingdom. -It shall last a thousand years. Then the fierce animals will be gentle; -little children will play by the viper’s nest, and bears and cows will -eat together. No one shall injure or destroy the other; the lance shall -be bent into scythes, and the sword forged into ploughs. And everything -shall be play and happiness, for the good will possess the earth.’ - -“Then the little one’s face brightened behind her tears. - -“‘Will the good King then get a throne, grandmother?’ - -“‘A throne of gold.’ - -“‘And servants, and courtiers, and a golden crown?’ - -“‘Yes.’ - -“‘Will he come soon, grandmother?’ - -“‘No one knows when he will come.’ - -“‘May I sit on a stool at his feet?’ - -“‘You may.’ - -“‘Grandmother, I am so happy,’ says the little one. - -“Evening after evening, through many winters, they both sat by the fire -and talked of the good King and his kingdom. The little one dreamed of -the kingdom which should last a thousand years, both by night and by day. -She never wearied of adorning it with everything beautiful which she -could think of. - -“Ebba Dohna never dared to speak of it to any one; but from that evening -she only lived for the Lord’s kingdom, and to await his coming. - -“When the evening sun crimsoned the western sky, she wondered if he would -ever appear there, glowing with a mild splendor, followed by a host of -millions of angels, and march by her, allowing her to touch the hem of -his garment. - -“She often thought, too, of those pious women who had hung a veil over -their heads, and never lifted their eyes from the ground, but shut -themselves in in the gray cloister’s calm, in the darkness of little -cells, to always contemplate the glowing visions which appear from the -night of the soul. - -“Such had she grown up; such she was when she and the new tutor met in -the lonely paths of the park. - -“I will not speak more harshly of him than I must. I will believe that -he loved that child, who soon chose him for companion in her lonely -wanderings. I think that his soul got back its wings when he walked by -the side of that quiet girl, who had never confided in any other. I think -that he felt himself a child again, good, gentle, virtuous. - -“But if he really loved her, why did he not remember that he could not -give her a worse gift than his love? He, one of the world’s outcasts, -what did he want, what did he think of when he walked at the side of -the count’s daughter? What did the dismissed clergyman think when she -confided to him her gentle dreams? What did he want, who had been a -drunkard, and would be again when he got the chance, at the side of her -who dreamed of a bridegroom in heaven? Why did he not fly far, far away -from her? Would it not have been better for him to wander begging and -stealing about the land than to walk under the silent pines and again be -good, gentle, virtuous, when it could not change the life he had led, nor -make it right that Ebba Dohna should love him? - -“Do not think that he looked like a drunkard, with livid cheeks and red -eyes. He was always a splendid man, handsome and unbroken in soul and -body. He had the bearing of a king and a body of steel, which was not -hurt by the wildest life.” - -“Is he still living?” asks the countess. - -“Oh, no, he must be dead now. All that happened so long ago.” - -There is something in Anna Stjärnhök which begins to tremble at what she -is doing. She begins to think that she will never tell the countess who -the man is of whom she speaks; that she will let her believe that he is -dead. - -“At that time he was still young;” and she begins her story again. “The -joy of living was kindled in him. He had the gift of eloquence, and a -fiery, impulsive heart. - -“One evening he spoke to Ebba Dohna of love. She did not answer; she -only told him what her grandmother had told her that winter evening, and -described to him the land of her dreams. Then she exacted a promise from -him. She made him swear that he would be a proclaimer of the word of -God; one of those who would prepare the way for the Lord, so that his -coming might be hastened. - -“What could he do? He was a dismissed clergyman, and no way was so closed -to him as that on which she wanted him to enter. But he did not dare to -tell her the truth. He did not have the heart to grieve that gentle child -whom he loved. He promised everything she wished. - -“After that few words were needed. It went without saying that some day -she should be his wife. It was not a love of kisses and caresses. He -hardly dared come near her. She was as sensitive as a fragile flower. -But her brown eyes were sometimes raised from the ground to seek his. On -moonlit evenings, when they sat on the veranda, she would creep close to -him, and then he would kiss her hair without her noticing it. - -“But you understand that his sin was in his forgetting both the past -and the future. That he was poor and humble he could forget; but he -ought always to have remembered that a day must come when in her soul -love would rise against love, earth against heaven, when she would be -obliged to choose between him and the glorious Lord of the kingdom of the -thousand years. And she was not one who could endure such a struggle. - -“A summer went by, an autumn, a winter. When the spring came, and the -ice melted, Ebba Dohna fell ill. It was thawing in the valleys; there -were streams down all the hills, the ice was unsafe, the roads almost -impassable both for sledge and cart. - -“Countess Dohna wanted to get a doctor from Karlstad; there was none -nearer. But she commanded in vain. She could not, either with prayers or -threats, induce a servant to go. She threw herself on her knees before -the coachman, but he refused. She went into hysterics of grief over her -daughter—she was always immoderate, in sorrow as in joy, Countess Märta. - -“Ebba Dohna lay ill with pneumonia, and her life was in danger; but no -doctor could be got. - -“Then the tutor drove to Karlstad. To take that journey in the condition -the roads were in was to play with his life; but he did it. It took him -over bending ice and break-neck freshets. Sometimes he had to cut steps -for the horse in the ice, sometimes drag him out of the deep clay in the -road. It was said that the doctor refused to go with him, and that he, -with pistol in hand, forced him to set out. - -“When he came back the countess was ready to throw herself at his feet. -‘Take everything!’ she said. ‘Say what you want, what you desire,—my -daughter, my lands, my money!’ - -“‘Your daughter,’ answered the tutor.” - -Anna Stjärnhök suddenly stops. - -“Well, what then, what then?” asks Countess Elizabeth. - -“That can be enough for now,” answers Anna, for she is one of those -unhappy people who live in the anguish of doubt. She has felt it a whole -week. She does not know what she wants. What one moment seems right to -her the next is wrong. Now she wishes that she had never begun this story. - -“I begin to think that you want to deceive me, Anna. Do you not -understand that I _must_ hear the end of this story?” - -“There is not much more to tell.—The hour of strife was come for Ebba -Dohna. Love raised itself against love, earth against heaven. - -“Countess Märta told her of the wonderful journey which the young man had -made for her sake, and she said to her that she, as a reward, had given -him her hand. - -“Ebba was so much better that she lay dressed on a sofa. She was weak and -pale, and even more silent than usual. - -“When she heard those words she lifted her brown eyes reproachfully to -her mother, and said to her:— - -“‘Mamma, have you given me to a dismissed priest, to one who has -forfeited his right to serve God, to a man who has been a thief, a -beggar?’ - -“‘But, child, who has told you that? I thought you knew nothing of it.’ - -“‘I heard your guests speaking of him the day I was taken ill.’ - -“‘But, child, remember that he has saved your life!’ - -“‘I remember that he has deceived me. He should have told me who he was.’ - -“‘He says that you love him.’ - -“‘I have done so. I cannot love one who has deceived me.’ - -“‘How has he deceived you?’ - -“‘You would not understand, mamma.’ - -“She did not wish to speak to her mother of the kingdom of her dreams, -which her beloved should have helped her to realize. - -“‘Ebba,’ said the countess, ‘if you love him you shall not ask what he -has been, but marry him. The husband of a Countess Dohna will be rich -enough, powerful enough, to excuse all the follies of his youth.’ - -“‘I care nothing for his youthful follies, mamma; it is because he can -never be what I want him to be that I cannot marry him.’ - -“‘Ebba, remember that I have given him my promise!’ - -“The girl became as pale as death. - -“‘Mamma, I tell you that if you marry me to him you part me from God.’ - -“‘I have decided to act for your happiness,’ says the countess. ‘I am -certain that you will be happy with this man. You have already succeeded -in making a saint of him. I have decided to overlook the claims of birth -and to forget that he is poor and despised, in order to give you a chance -to raise him. I feel that I am doing right. You know that I scorn all old -prejudices.’ - -“The young girl lay quiet on her sofa for a while after the countess -had left her. She was fighting her battle. Earth raised itself against -heaven, love against love; but her childhood’s love won the victory. As -she lay there on the sofa, she saw the western sky glow in a magnificent -sunset. She thought that it was a greeting from the good King; and as she -could not be faithful to him if she lived, she decided to die. There was -nothing else for her to do, since her mother wished her to belong to one -who never could be the good King’s servant. - -“She went over to the window, opened it, and let the twilight’s cold, -damp air chill her poor, weak body. - -“It was easily done. The illness was certain to begin again, and it did. - -“No one but I knows that she sought death, Elizabeth. I found her at the -window. I heard her delirium. She liked to have me at her side those last -days. - -“It was I who saw her die; who saw how she one evening stretched out her -arms towards the glowing west, and died, smiling, as if she had seen some -one advance from the sunset’s glory to meet her. It was also I who had to -take her last greeting to the man she loved. I was to ask him to forgive -her, that she could not be his wife. The good King would not permit it. - -“But I have never dared to say to that man that he was her murderer. -I have not dared to lay the weight of such pain on his shoulders. And -yet he, who won her love by lies, was he not her murderer? Was he not, -Elizabeth?” - -Countess Dohna long ago had stopped caressing the blue flowers. Now she -rises, and the bouquet falls to the floor. - -“Anna, you are deceiving me. You say that the story is old, and that the -man has been dead a long time. But I know that it is scarcely five years -since Ebba Dohna died, and you say that you yourself were there through -it all. You are not old. Tell me who the man is!” - -Anna Stjärnhök begins to laugh. - -“You wanted a love-story. Now you have had one which has cost you both -tears and pain.” - -“Do you mean that you have lied?” - -“Nothing but romance and lies, the whole thing!” - -“You are too bad, Anna.” - -“Maybe. I am not so happy, either.—But the ladies are awake, and the men -are coming into the drawing-room. Let us join them!” - -On the threshold she is stopped by Gösta Berling, who is looking for the -young ladies. - -“You must have patience with me,” he says, laughing. “I shall only -torment you for ten minutes; but you must hear my verses.” - -He tells them that in the night he had had a dream more vivid than ever -before; he had dreamt that he had written verse. He, whom the world -called “poet,” although he had always been undeserving of the title, had -got up in the middle of the night, and, half asleep, half awake, had -begun to write. It was a whole poem, which he had found the next morning -on his writing-table. He could never have believed it of himself. Now the -ladies should hear it. - -And he reads:— - - “The moon rose, and with her came the sweetest hour of the day. - From the clear, pale-blue, lofty vault - She flooded the leafy veranda with her light. - On the broad steps we were sitting, both old and young, - Silent at first to let the emotions sing - The heart’s old song in that tender hour. - - “From the mignonette rose a sweet perfume, - And from dark thickets shadows crept over the dewy grass. - Oh, who can be safe from emotion - When the night’s shadows play, when the mignonette sheds its heavy - perfume? - - “The last faded petal dropped from the rose, - Although the offering was not sought by the wind. - So—we thought—will we give up our life, - Vanish into space like a sound, - Like autumn’s yellowed leaf go without a moan. - Death is the reward of life; may we meet it quietly, - Just as a rose lets its last faded petal fall. - - “On its fluttering wing a bat flew by us, - Flew and was seen, wherever the moon shone; - Then the question arose in our oppressed hearts,— - - “The question which none can answer, - The question, heavy as sorrow, old as pain: - ‘Oh, whither go we, what paths shall we wander - When we no longer walk on earth’s green pastures?’ - Is there no one to show our spirits the way? - Easier were it to show a way to the bat who fluttered by us. - - “She laid her head on my shoulder, her soft hair, - She, who loved me, and whispered softly: - ‘Think not that souls fly to far-distant places; - When I am dead, think not that I am far away. - Into my beloved’s soul my homeless spirit will creep - And I will come and live in thee.’ - - “Oh what anguish! With sorrow my heart will break. - Was she to die, die soon? Was this night to be her last? - Did I press my last kiss on my beloved’s waving hair? - - “Years have gone by since then. I still sit many times - In the old place, when the night is dark and silent. - But I tremble when the moon shines on the leafy veranda, - For her who alone knows how often I kissed my darling there, - For her who blended her quivering light with my tears, - Which fell on my darling’s hair. - Alas, for memory’s pain! Oh, ’tis the grief of my poor, sinful soul - That it should be her home! What punishment may he not await - Who has bound to himself a soul so pure, so innocent.” - -“Gösta,” says Anna, jestingly, while her throat contracts with pain, -“people say of you that you have lived through more poems than others -have written, who have not done anything else all their lives; but do -you know, you will do best to compose poems your own way. That was night -work.” - -“You are not kind.” - -“To come and read such a thing, on death and suffering—you ought to be -ashamed!” - -Gösta is not listening to her. His eyes are fixed on the young countess. -She sits quite stiff, motionless as a statue. He thinks she is going to -faint. - -But with infinite difficulty her lips form one word. - -“Go!” she says. - -“Who shall go? Shall _I_ go?” - -“The priest shall go,” she stammers out. - -“Elizabeth, be silent!” - -“The drunken priest shall leave my house!” - -“Anna, Anna,” Gösta asks, “what does she mean?” - -“You had better go, Gösta.” - -“Why shall I go? What does all this mean?” - -“Anna,” says Countess Elizabeth, “tell him, tell him!” - -“No, countess, tell him yourself!” - -The countess sets her teeth, and masters her emotion. - -“Herr Berling,” she says, and goes up to him, “you have a wonderful power -of making people forget who you are. I did not know it till to-day. I -have just heard the story of Ebba Dohna’s death, and that it was the -discovery that she loved one who was unworthy which killed her. Your -poem has made me understand that you are that man. I cannot understand -how any one with your antecedents can show himself in the presence of an -honorable woman. I cannot understand it, Herr Berling. Do I speak plainly -enough?” - -“You do, Countess. I will only say one word in my defence. I was -convinced, I thought the whole time that you knew everything about me. I -have never tried to hide anything; but it is not so pleasant to cry out -one’s life’s bitterest sorrow on the highways.” - -He goes. - -And in the same instant Countess Dohna sets her little foot on the bunch -of blue stars. - -“You have now done what I wished,” says Anna Stjärnhök sternly to the -countess; “but it is also the end of our friendship. You need not think -that I can forgive your having been cruel to him. You have turned him -away, scorned, and wounded him, and I—I will follow him into captivity; -to the scaffold if need be. I will watch over him, protect him. You have -done what I wished, but I shall never forgive you.” - -“But, Anna, Anna!” - -“Because I told you all that do you think that I did it with a glad -spirit? Have I not sat here and bit by bit torn my heart out of my -breast?” - -“Why did you do it?” - -“Why? Because I did not wish—that he should be a married woman’s lover.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -MAMSELLE MARIE - - -There is a buzzing over my head. It must be a bumblebee. And such a -perfume! As true as I live, it is sweet marjoram and lavender and -hawthorn and lilacs and Easter lilies. It is glorious to feel it on a -gray autumn evening in the midst of the town. I only have to think of -that little blessed corner of the earth to have it immediately begin to -hum and smell fragrant about me, and I am transported to a little square -rose-garden, filled with flowers and protected by a privet hedge. In the -corners are lilac arbors with small wooden benches, and round about the -flower-beds, which are in the shapes of hearts and stars, wind narrow -paths strewed with white sea-sand. On three sides of the rose-garden -stands the forest, silent and dark. - -On the fourth side lies a little gray cottage. - -The rose-garden of which I am thinking was owned sixty years ago by an -old Madame Moreus in Svartsjö, who made her living by knitting blankets -for the peasants and cooking their feasts. - -Old Madame Moreus was in her day the possessor of many things. She had -three lively and industrious daughters and a little cottage by the -roadside. She had a store of pennies at the bottom of a chest, stiff silk -shawls, straight-backed chairs, and could turn her hand to everything, -which is useful for one who must earn her bread. But the best that she -had was the rose-garden, which gave her joy as long as the summer lasted. - -In Madame Moreus’ little cottage there was a boarder, a little dry old -maid, about forty years of age, who lived in a gable-room in the attic. -Mamselle Marie, as she was always called, had her own ideas on many -things, as one always does who sits much alone and lets her thoughts -dwell on what her eyes have seen. - -Mamselle Marie thought that love was the root and origin of all evil in -this sorrowful world. - -Every evening, before she fell asleep, she used to clasp her hands and -say her evening prayers. After she had said “Our Father” and “The Lord -bless us” she always ended by praying that God would preserve her from -love. - -“It causes only misery,” she said. “I am old and ugly and poor. No, may I -never be in love!” - -She sat day after day in her attic room in Madame Moreus’ little cottage, -and knitted curtains and table-covers. All these she afterwards sold to -the peasants and the gentry. She had almost knitted together a little -cottage of her own. - -For a little cottage on the side of the hill opposite Svartsjö church was -what she wanted to have. But love she would never hear of. - -When on summer evenings she heard the violin sounded from the cross -roads, where the fiddler sat on the stile, and the young people swung in -the polka till the dust whirled, she went a long way round through the -wood to avoid hearing and seeing. - -The day after Christmas, when the peasant brides came, five or six of -them, to be dressed by Madame Moreus and her daughters, when they were -adorned with wreaths of myrtle, and high crowns of silk, and glass beads, -with gorgeous silk sashes and bunches of artificial roses, and skirts -edged with garlands of taffeta flowers, she stayed up in her room to -avoid seeing how they were being decked out in Love’s honor. - -But she knew Love’s misdeeds, and of them she could tell. She wondered -that he dared to show himself on earth, that he was not frightened away -by the moans of the forsaken, by the curses of those of whom he had made -criminals, by the lamentations of those whom he had thrown into hateful -chains. She wondered that his wings could bear him so easily and lightly, -that he did not, weighed down by pain and shame, sink into nameless -depths. - -No, of course she had been young, she like others, but she had never -loved. She had never let herself be tempted by dancing and caresses. Her -mother’s guitar hung dusty and unstrung in the attic; she never struck it -to sentimental love-ditties. - -Her mother’s rose bushes stood in her window. She gave them scarcely any -water. She did not love flowers, those children of love. Spiders played -among the branches, and the buds never opened. - -There came a time when the Svartsjö congregation had an organ put into -their church. It was the summer before the year when the pensioners -reigned. A young organ-builder came there. He too became a boarder at -Madame Moreus’. - -That the young organ-builder was a master of his profession may be a -matter of doubt. But he was a gay young blade, with sunshine in his eyes. -He had a friendly word for every one, for rich and poor, for old and -young. - -When he came home from his work in the evening, he held Madame Moreus’ -skeins, and worked at the side of young girls in the rose-garden. Then he -declaimed “Axel” and sang “Frithiof.” He picked up Mamselle Marie’s ball -of thread as often as she dropped it, and put her clock to rights. - -He never left any ball until he had danced with everybody, from the -oldest woman to the youngest girl, and if an adversity befell him, he -sat himself down by the side of the first woman he met and made her his -_confidante_. He was such a man as women create in their dreams! It -could not be said of him that he spoke of love to any one. But when he -had lived a few weeks in Madame Moreus’ gable-room, all the girls were -in love with him, and poor Mamselle Marie knew that she had prayed her -prayers in vain. - -That was a time of sorrow and a time of joy. In the evening a pale -dreamer often sat in the lilac arbor, and up in Mamselle Marie’s little -room the newly strung guitar twanged to old love-songs, which she had -learned from her mother. - -The young organ-builder was just as careless and gay as ever, and doled -out smiles and services to all these languishing women, who quarrelled -over him when he was away at his work. And at last the day came when he -had to leave. - -The carriage stood before the door. His bag had been tied on behind, and -the young man said farewell. He kissed Madame Moreus’ hand and took the -weeping girls in his arms and kissed them on the cheek. He wept himself -at being obliged to go, for he had had a pleasant summer in the little -gray cottage. At the last he looked around for Mamselle Marie. - -She came down the narrow attic-stairs in her best array. The guitar -hung about her neck on a broad, green-silk ribbon, and in her hand she -held a bunch of damask roses, for this year her mother’s rose-bushes had -blossomed. She stood before the young man, struck the guitar and sang:— - - “Thou goest far from us. Ah! welcome again! - Hear the voice of my friendship, which greets thee. - Be happy: forget not a true, loving friend - Who in Värmland’s forests awaits thee!” - -Thereupon she put the flowers in his buttonhole and kissed him square on -the mouth. Yes, and then she vanished up the attic stairs again, the old -apparition. - -Love had revenged himself on her and made her a spectacle for all men. -But she never again complained of him. She never laid away the guitar, -and never forgot to water her mother’s rose-bushes. - -She had learned to cherish Love with all his pain, his tears, his longing. - -“Better to be sorrowful with him than happy without him,” she said. - - * * * * * - -The time passed. The major’s wife at Ekeby was driven out, the pensioners -came to power, and it so happened, as has been described, that Gösta -Berling one Sunday evening read a poem aloud to the countess at Borg, and -afterwards was forbidden by her to show himself in her house. - -It is said that when Gösta shut the hall-door after him he saw several -sledges driving up to Borg. He cast a glance on the little lady who sat -in the first sledge. Gloomy as the hour was for him, it became still -more gloomy at the sight. He hurried away not to be recognized, but -forebodings of disaster filled his soul. Had the conversation in there -conjured up this woman? One misfortune always brings another. - -But the servants hurried out, the shawls and furs were thrown on one -side. Who had come? Who was the little lady who stood up in the sledge? -Ah, it is really she herself, Märta Dohna, the far-famed countess! - -She was the gayest and most foolish of women. Joy had lifted her on -high on his throne and made her his queen. Games and laughter were her -subjects. Music and dancing and adventure had been her share when the -lottery of life was drawn. - -She was not far now from her fiftieth year, but she was one of the wise, -who do not count the years. “He whose foot is not ready to dance, or -mouth to laugh,” she said, “he is old. He knows the terrible weight of -years, not I.” - -Pleasure had no undisturbed throne in the days of her youth, but change -and uncertainty only increased the delight of his glad presence. His -Majesty of the butterfly wings one day had afternoon tea in the court -ladies’ rooms at the palace in Stockholm, and danced the next in Paris. -He visited Napoleon’s camps, he went on board Nelson’s fleet in the blue -Mediterranean, he looked in on a congress at Vienna, he risked his life -at Brussels at a ball the night before a famous battle. - -And wherever Pleasure was, there too was Märta Dohna, his chosen queen. -Dancing, playing, jesting, Countess Märta hurried the whole world round. -What had she not seen, what had she not lived through? She had danced -over thrones, played écarté on the fate of princes, caused devastating -wars by her jests! Gayety and folly had filled her life and would always -do so. Her body was not too old for dancing, nor her heart for love. When -did she weary of masquerades and comedies, of merry stories and plaintive -ballads? - -When Pleasure sometimes could find no home out in the struggling world, -she used to drive up to the old manor by Löfven’s shores,—just as she -had come there when the princes and their court had become too gloomy -for her in the time of the Holy Alliance. It was then she had thought -best to make Gösta Berling her son’s tutor. She always enjoyed it there. -Never had Pleasure a pleasanter kingdom. There song was to be found and -card-playing, men who loved adventure, and gay, lovely women. She did not -lack for dances and balls, nor boating-parties over moonlit seas, nor -sledging through dark forests, nor appalling adventures and love’s sorrow -and pain. - -But after her daughter’s death she had ceased to come to Borg. She -had not been there for five years. Now she had come to see how her -daughter-in-law bore the life up among the pine forests, the bears, and -the snow-drifts. She thought it her duty to come and see if the stupid -Henrik had not bored her to death with his tediousness. She meant to be -the gentle angel of domestic peace. Sunshine and happiness were packed in -her forty leather trunks, Gayety was her waiting-maid, Jest her coachman, -Play her companion. - -And when she ran up the steps she was met with open arms. Her old rooms -on the lower floor were in order for her. Her man-servant, her lady -companion, and maid, her forty leather trunks, her thirty hat-boxes, -her bags and shawls and furs, everything was brought by degrees into -the house. There was bustle and noise everywhere. There was a slamming -of doors and a running on the stairs. It was plain enough that Countess -Märta had come. - - * * * * * - -It was a spring evening, a really beautiful spring evening, although it -was only April and the ice had not broken up. Mamselle Marie had opened -her window. She sat in her room, played on the guitar, and sang. - -She was so engrossed in her guitar and her memories that she did not hear -that a carriage came driving up the road and stopped at the cottage. In -the carriage Countess Märta sat, and it amused her to see Mamselle Marie, -who sat at the window with her guitar on her lap, and with eyes turned -towards heaven sang old forgotten love-songs. - -At last the countess got out of the carriage and went into the cottage, -where the girls were sitting at their work. She was never haughty; the -wind of revolution had whistled over her and blown fresh air into her -lungs. - -It was not her fault that she was a countess, she used to say; but she -wanted at all events to live the life she liked best. She enjoyed herself -just as much at peasant weddings as at court balls. She acted for her -maids when there was no other spectator to be had, and she brought joy -with her in all the places where she showed herself, with her beautiful -little face and her overflowing love of life. - -She ordered a blanket of Madame Moreus and praised the girls. She looked -about the rose-garden and told of her adventures on the journey. She -always was having adventures. And at the last she ventured up the attic -stairs, which were dreadfully steep and narrow, and sought out Mamselle -Marie in her gable-room. - -She bought curtains of her. She could not live without having knitted -curtains for all her windows, and on every table should she have Mamselle -Marie’s table-covers. - -She borrowed her guitar and sang to her of pleasure and love. And she -told her stories, so that Mamselle Marie found herself transported out -into the gay, rushing world. And the countess’s laughter made such music -that the frozen birds in the rose-garden began to sing when they heard -it, and her face, which was hardly pretty now,—for her complexion was -ruined by paint, and there was such an expression of sensuality about -the mouth,—seemed to Mamselle Marie so lovely that she wondered how the -little mirror could let it vanish when it had once caught it on its -shining surface. - -When she left, she kissed Mamselle Marie and asked her to come to Borg. - -Mamselle Marie’s heart was as empty as the swallow’s-nest at Christmas. -She was free, but she sighed for chains like a slave freed in his old age. - -Now there began again for Mamselle Marie a time of joy and a time of -sorrow; but it did not last long,—only one short week. - -The countess sent for her continually to come to Borg. She played her -comedy for her and told about all her lovers, and Mamselle Marie laughed -as she had never laughed before. They became the best of friends. -The countess soon knew all about the young organ-builder and about -the parting. And in the twilight she made Mamselle Marie sit on the -window-seat in the little blue cabinet. Then she hung the guitar ribbon -round her neck and got her to sing love-songs. And the countess sat and -watched how the old maid’s dry, thin figure and little plain head were -outlined against the red evening sky, and she said that the poor old -Mamselle was like a languishing maiden of the Middle Ages. All the songs -were of tender shepherds and cruel shepherdesses, and Mamselle Marie’s -voice was the thinnest voice in the world, and it is easy to understand -how the countess was amused at such a comedy. - -There was a party at Borg, as was natural, when the count’s mother had -come home. And it was gay as always. There were not so many there, only -the members of the parish being invited. - -The dining-room was on the lower floor, and after supper it so happened -that the guests did not go upstairs again, but sat in Countess Märta’s -room, which lay beyond. The countess got hold of Mamselle Marie’s guitar -and began to sing for the company. She was a merry person, Countess -Märta, and she could mimic any one. She now had the idea to mimic -Mamselle Marie. She turned up her eyes to heaven and sang in a thin, -shrill, child’s voice. - -“Oh no, oh no, countess!” begged Mamselle Marie. - -But the countess was enjoying herself, and no one could help laughing, -although they all thought that it was hard on Mamselle Marie. - -The countess took a handful of dried rose-leaves out of a pot-pourri -jar, went with tragic gestures up to Mamselle Marie, and sang with deep -emotion:— - - “Thou goest far from us. Ah! welcome again! - Hear the voice of my friendship, which greets thee. - Be happy: forget not a true, loving friend - Who in Värmland’s forests awaits thee!” - -Then she strewed the rose-leaves over her head. Everybody laughed; but -Mamselle Marie was wild with rage. She looked as if she could have torn -out the countess’s eyes. - -“You are a bad woman, Märta Dohna,” she said. “No decent woman ought to -speak to you.” - -Countess Märta lost her temper too. - -“Out with you, mamselle!” she said. “I have had enough of your folly.” - -“Yes, I shall go,” said Mamselle Marie; “but first I will be paid for my -covers and curtains which you have put up here.” - -“The old rags!” cried the countess. “Do you want to be paid for such -rags? Take them away with you! I never want to see them again! Take them -away immediately!” - -Thereupon the countess threw the table-covers at her and tore down the -curtains, for she was beside herself. - -The next day the young countess begged her mother-in-law to make her -peace with Mamselle Marie; but the countess would not. She was tired of -her. - -Countess Elizabeth then bought of Mamselle Marie the whole set of -curtains and put them up in the upper floor. Whereupon Mamselle Marie -felt herself redressed. - -Countess Märta made fun of her daughter-in-law for her love of knitted -curtains. She too could conceal her anger—preserve it fresh and new for -years. She was a richly gifted person. - - - - -PART II - - - - -CHAPTER I - -COUSIN CHRISTOPHER - - -They had an old bird of prey up in the pensioners’ wing. He always sat -in the corner by the fire and saw that it did not go out. He was rough -and gray. His little head with the big nose and the sunken eyes hung -sorrowfully on the long, thin neck which stuck up out of a fluffy fur -collar. For the bird of prey wore furs both winter and summer. - -Once he had belonged to the swarm who in the great Emperor’s train swept -over Europe; but what name and title he bore no one now can say. In -Värmland they only knew that he had taken part in the great wars, that he -had risen to might and power in the thundering struggle, and that after -1815 he had taken flight from an ungrateful fatherland. He found a refuge -with the Swedish Crown Prince, and the latter advised him to disappear in -far away Värmland. - -And so it happened that one whose name had caused the world to tremble -was now glad that no one even knew that once dreaded name. - -He had given the Crown Prince his word of honor not to leave Värmland -and not to make known who he was. And he had been sent to Ekeby with -a private letter to the major from the Crown Prince, who had given him -the best of recommendations. It was then the pensioners’ wing opened its -doors to him. - -In the beginning people wondered much who he was who concealed his -identity under an assumed name. But gradually he was transformed into -a pensioner. Everybody called him Cousin Christopher, without knowing -exactly how he had acquired the name. - -But it is not good for a bird of prey to live in a cage. One can -understand that he is accustomed to something different than hopping from -perch to perch and taking food from his keeper’s hand. The excitement of -the battle and of the danger of death had set his pulse on fire. Drowsy -peace disgusts him. - -It is true that none of the pensioners were exactly tame birds; but in -none of them the blood burned so hot as in Cousin Christopher. A bear -hunt was the only thing which could put life into him, a bear hunt or a -woman, one single woman. - -He had come to life when he, ten years ago, for the first time saw -Countess Märta, who was already then a widow,—a woman as changeable as -war, as inciting as danger, a startling, audacious creature; he loved her. - -And now he sat there and grew old and gray without being able to ask her -to be his wife. He had not seen her for five years. He was withering and -dying by degrees, as caged eagles do. Every year he became more dried and -frozen. He had to creep down deeper into his furs and move nearer the -fire. - - * * * * * - -So there he is sitting, shivering, shaggy, and gray, the morning of the -day, on the evening of which the Easter bullets should be shot off and -the Easter witch burned. The pensioners have all gone out; but he sits -in the corner by the fire. - -Oh, Cousin Christopher, Cousin Christopher, do you not know? - -Smiling she has come, the enchanting spring. - -Nature up starts from drowsy sleep, and in the blue sky butterfly-winged -spirits tumble in wild play. Close as roses on the sweet brier, their -faces shine between the clouds. - -Earth, the great mother, begins to live. Romping like a child she rises -from her bath in the spring floods, from her douche in the spring rain. - -But Cousin Christopher sits quiet and does not understand. He leans his -head on his stiffened fingers and dreams of showers of bullets and of -honors won on the field of battle. - -One pities the lonely old warrior who sits there by the fire, without a -people, without a country, he who never hears the sound of his native -language, he who will have a nameless grave in the Bro churchyard. Is it -his fault that he is an eagle, and was born to persecute and to kill? - -Oh, Cousin Christopher, you have sat and dreamed long enough in the -pensioners’ wing! Up and drink the sparkling wine of life. You must know, -Cousin Christopher, that a letter has come to the major this day, a royal -letter adorned with the seal of Sweden. It is addressed to the major, but -the contents concern you. It is strange to see you, when you read the -letter, old eagle. Your eye regains its brightness, and you lift your -head. You see the cage door open and free space for your longing wings. - - * * * * * - -Cousin Christopher is burrowing deep down to the bottom of his chest. He -drags out the carefully laid away gold-laced uniform and dresses himself -in it. He presses the plumed hat on his head and he is soon hastening -away from Ekeby, riding his excellent white horse. - -This is another life than to sit shivering by the fire; he too now sees -that spring has come. - -He straightens himself up in his saddle and sets off at a gallop. The -fur-lined dolman flutters. The plumes on his hat wave. The man has grown -young like the earth itself. He has awaked from a long winter. The old -gold can still shine. The bold warrior face under the cocked hat is a -proud sight. - -It is a wonderful ride. Brooks gush from the ground, and flowers shoot -forth, as he rides by. The birds sing and warble about the freed -prisoner. All nature shares in his joy. - -He is like a victor. Spring rides before on a floating cloud. And round -about Cousin Christopher rides a staff of old brothers-in-arms: there is -Happiness, who stands on tiptoe in the saddle, and Honor on his stately -charger, and Love on his fiery Arab. The ride is wonderful; wonderful is -the rider. The thrush calls to him:— - -“Cousin Christopher, Cousin Christopher, whither are you riding? Whither -are you riding?” - -“To Borg to offer myself, to Borg to offer myself,” answers Cousin -Christopher. - -“Do not go to Borg, do not go to Borg! An unmarried man has no sorrow,” -screams the thrush after him. - -But he does not listen to the warning. Up the hills and down the hills he -rides, until at last he is there. He leaps from the saddle and is shown -in to the countess. - -Everything goes well. The countess is gracious to him. Cousin Christopher -feels sure that she will not refuse to bear his glorious name or to reign -in his palace. He sits and puts off the moment of rapture, when he shall -show her the royal letter. He enjoys the waiting. - -She talks and entertains him with a thousand stories. He laughs at -everything, enjoys everything. But as they are sitting in one of the -rooms where Countess Elizabeth has hung up Mamselle Marie’s curtains, the -countess begins to tell the story of them. And she makes it as funny as -she can. - -“See,” she says at last, “see how bad I am. Here hang the curtains now, -that I may think daily and hourly of my sin. It is a penance without -equal. Oh, those dreadful knitted curtains!” - -The great warrior, Cousin Christopher, looks at her with burning eyes. - -“I, too, am old and poor,” he says, “and I have sat for ten years by the -fire and longed for my mistress. Do you laugh at that too, countess?” - -“Oh, that is another matter,” cries the countess. - -“God has taken from me happiness and my fatherland, and forced me to eat -the bread of others,” says Cousin Christopher, earnestly. “I have learned -to have respect for poverty.” - -“You, too,” cries the countess, and holds up her hands. “How virtuous -every one is getting!” - -“Yes,” he says, “and know, countess, that if God some day in the future -should give me back riches and power, I would make a better use of them -than to share them with such a worldly woman, such a painted, heartless -monkey, who makes fun of poverty.” - -“You would do quite right, Cousin Christopher.” - -And then Cousin Christopher marches out of the room and rides home to -Ekeby again; but the spirits do not follow him, the thrush does not call -to him, and he no longer sees the smiling spring. - -He came to Ekeby just as the Easter witch was to be burned. She is a big -doll of straw, with a rag face, on which eyes, nose, and mouth are drawn -with charcoal. She is dressed in old cast-off clothes. The long-handled -oven-rake and broom are placed beside her, and she has a horn of oil hung -round her neck. She is quite ready for the journey to hell. - -Major Fuchs loads his gun and shoots it off into the air time after time. -A pile of dried branches is lighted, the witch is thrown on it and is -soon burning gayly. The pensioners do all they can, according to the old, -tried customs, to destroy the power of the evil one. - -Cousin Christopher stands and looks on with gloomy mien. Suddenly he -drags the great royal letter from his cuff and throws it on the fire. God -alone knows what he thought. Perhaps he imagined that it was Countess -Märta herself who was burning there on the pile. Perhaps he thought that, -as that woman, when all was said, consisted only of rags and straw, there -was nothing worth anything any more on earth. - -He goes once more into the pensioners’ wing, lights the fire, and puts -away his uniform. Again he sits down at the fire, and every day he gets -more rough and more gray. He is dying by degrees, as old eagles do in -captivity. - -He is no longer a prisoner; but he does not care to make use of his -freedom. The world stands open to him. The battle-field, honor, life, -await him. But he has not the strength to spread his wings in flight. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE PATHS OF LIFE - - -Weary are the ways which men have to follow here on earth. - -Paths through the desert, paths through the marshes, paths over the -mountains. - -Why is so much sorrow allowed to go undisturbed, until it loses itself in -the desert or sinks in the bog, or falls on the mountain? Where are the -little flower-pickers, where are the little princesses of the fairy tale -about whose feet roses grow, where are they who should strew flowers on -the weary ways? - -Gösta Berling has decided to get married. He is searching for a bride who -is poor enough, humble enough for a mad priest. - -Beautiful and high-born women have loved him, but they may not compete -for his hand. The outcast chooses from among outcasts. - -Whom shall he choose, whom shall he seek out? - -To Ekeby a poor girl sometimes comes from a lonely forest hamlet far away -among the mountains, and sells brooms. In that hamlet, where poverty and -great misery exist, there are many who are not in possession of their -full intellect, and the girl with the brooms is one of them. - -But she is beautiful. Her masses of black hair make such thick braids -that they scarcely find room on her head, her cheeks are delicately -rounded, her nose straight and not too large, her eyes blue. She is of a -melancholy, Madonna-like type, such as is still found among the lovely -girls by the shores of Löfven’s long lake. - -Well, Gösta has found his sweetheart; a half-crazy broom-girl is just the -wife for a mad priest. Nothing can be more suitable. - -All he needs to do is to go to Karlstad for the rings, and then they can -once more have a merry day by Löfven’s shore. Let them laugh at Gösta -Berling when he betroths himself to the broom-girl, when he celebrates -his wedding with her! Let them laugh! Has he ever had a merrier idea? - -Must not the outcast go the way of the outcasts,—the way of anger, the -way of sorrow, the way of unhappiness? What does it matter if he falls, -if he is ruined? Is there any one to stop him? Is there any one who would -reach him a helping hand or offer him a cooling drink? Where are the -little flower-pickers, where are the little princesses of the fairy-tale, -where are they who should strew roses on the stony ways? - -No, no, the gentle young countess at Borg will not interfere with Gösta -Berling’s plans. She must think of her reputation, she must think of her -husband’s anger and her mother-in-law’s hate, she must not do anything to -keep him back. - -All through the long service in the Svartsjö church, she must bend her -head, fold her hands, and only pray for him. During sleepless nights she -can weep and grieve over him, but she has no flowers to strew on the way -of the outcast, not a drop of water to give one who is thirsting. She -does not stretch out her hand to lead him back from the edge of the -precipice. - -Gösta Berling does not care to clothe his chosen bride in silk and -jewels. He lets her go from farm to farm with brooms, as her habit is, -but when he has gathered together all the chief men and women of the -place at a great feast at Ekeby, he will make his betrothal known. He -will call her in from the kitchen, just as she has come from her long -wanderings, with the dust and dirt of the road on her clothes, perhaps -ragged, perhaps with dishevelled hair, with wild eyes, with an incoherent -stream of words on her lips. And he will ask the guests if he has not -chosen a suitable bride, if the mad priest ought not to be proud of such -a lovely sweetheart, of that gentle Madonna face, of those blue, dreamy -eyes. - -He intended that no one should know anything beforehand, but he did not -succeed in keeping the secret, and one of those who heard it was the -young Countess Dohna. - -But what can she do to stop him? It is the engagement day, the eleventh -hour has come. The countess stands at the window in the blue cabinet -and looks out towards the north. She almost thinks that she can see -Ekeby, although her eyes are dim with tears. She can see how the great -three-storied house shines with three rows of lighted windows; she thinks -how the champagne flows in the glasses, how the toast resounds and how -Gösta Berling proclaims his engagement to the broom-girl. - -If she were only near him and quite gently could lay her hand on his arm, -or only give him a friendly look, would he not turn back from the evil -way? If a word from her had driven him to such a desperate deed, would -not also a word from her check him? - -She shudders at the sin he is going to commit against that poor, -half-witted child. She shudders at his sin against the unfortunate -creature, who shall be won to love him, perhaps only for the jest of a -single day. Perhaps too—and then she shudders even more at the sin he -is committing against himself—to chain fast to his life such a galling -burden, which would always take from his spirit the strength to reach the -highest. - -And the fault was chiefly hers. She had with a word of condemnation -driven him on the evil way. She, who had come to bless, to alleviate, why -had she twisted one more thorn into the sinner’s crown? - -Yes, now she knows what she will do. She will have the black horses -harnessed into the sledge, hasten over the Löfven and to Ekeby, place -herself opposite to Gösta Berling, and tell him that she does not despise -him, that she did not know what she was saying when she drove him from -her house. No, she could never do such a thing; she would be ashamed and -would not dare to say a word. Now that she was married, she must take -care. There would be such a scandal if she did such a thing. But if she -did not do it, how would it go with him? - -She must go. - -Then she remembers that such a plan is impossible. No horse can go again -this year over the ice. The ice is melting, it has already broken away -from the land. It is broken, cracked, terrible to see. Water bubbles -up through it, in some places it has gathered in black pools, in other -places the ice is dazzlingly white. It is mostly gray, dirty with melting -snow, and the roads look like long, black streaks on its surface. - -How can she think of going? Old Countess Märta, her mother-in-law, would -never permit such a thing. She must sit beside her the whole evening in -the drawing-room and listen to those old stories which are the older -woman’s delight. - -At last the night comes, and her husband is away; she is free. - -She cannot drive, she does not dare to call the servants, but her anxiety -drives her out of her home. There is nothing else for her to do. - -Weary are the ways men wander on earth; but that way by night over -melting ice, to what shall I compare it? Is it not the way which the -little flower-pickers have to go, an uncertain, shaking, slippery way, -the way of those who wish to make amends, the way of the light foot, the -quick eye, and the brave, loving heart? - -It was past midnight when the countess reached the shores of Ekeby. She -had fallen on the ice, she had leaped over wide fissures, she had hurried -across places where her footprints were filled with bubbling water, she -had slipped, she had crept on all fours. - -It had been a weary wandering; she had wept as she had walked. She was -wet and tired, and out there on the ice, the darkness and the loneliness -had given her terrible thoughts. - -At the last she had had to wade in water over her ankles to reach land. -And when she had come to the shore, she had not had the courage to do -more than sit down on a rock and weep from fatigue and helplessness. - -This young, high-born lady was, however, a brave little heroine. She had -never gone such ways in her bright mother country. She may well sit by -the edge of that terrible lake, wet, tired, unhappy as she is, and think -of the fair, flowery paths of her Southern fatherland. - -Ah, for her it is not a question of South or North. She is not weeping -from homesickness. She is weeping because she is so tired, because she -will not come in time. She thinks that she has come too late. - -Then people come running along the shore. They hurry by her without -seeing her, but she hears what they say. - -“If the dam gives way, the smithy goes,” one says. “And the mill and the -work-shops and the smith’s house,” adds another. - -Then she gets new courage, rises, and follows them. - - * * * * * - -Ekeby mill and smithy lay on a narrow point past which the Björksjö River -rushes. It comes roaring down towards the point, whipped white in the -mighty falls above, and to protect the land a great break-water was built -before the point. But the dam was old now, and the pensioners were in -power. In their day the dance filled all their thoughts, and no one took -the trouble to see how the current and the cold and time had worn the old -stone-dam. - -Now with the spring-floods the dam begins to yield. - -The falls at Ekeby are like mighty granite stairs, down which the waves -come rushing. Giddy with the speed, they tumble over one another and -rush together. They rise up in anger and dash in spray over one another, -fall again, over a rock, over a log, and rise up again, again to fall, -again and again, foaming, hissing, roaring. - -And now these wild, raging waves, drunken with the spring air, dizzy with -their newly won freedom, storm against the old stone-wall. They come, -hissing and tearing, high up on to it and then fall back again, as if -they had hit their white heads. They use logs as battering-rams, they -strain, they beat, they rush against that poor wall, until suddenly, -just as if some one had called to them, “Look out!” they rush backwards, -and after them comes a big stone, which has broken away from the dam and -sinks thundering down in the stream. - -But why are these wild waves allowed to rage without meeting any -resistance? Is every one dead at Ekeby? - -No, there are people enough there,—a wild, perplexed, helpless crowd of -people. The night is dark, they cannot see one another, nor see where -they are going. Loud roars the falls, terrible is the din of the breaking -ice and the pounding logs; they cannot hear their own voices. They have -not a thought nor an idea. They feel that the end is coming. The dam is -trembling, the smithy is in danger, the mill is in danger, and their own -poor houses beloved in all their lowliness. - -Message after message is sent up to the house to the pensioners. - -Are they in a mood to think of smithy or mill? The hundred guests are -gathered in the wide walls. The broom-girl is waiting in the kitchen. The -hour has come. The champagne bubbles in the glasses. Julius rises to -make the speech. All the old adventurers at Ekeby are rejoicing at the -petrifying amazement which will fall upon the assembly. - -Out on the ice the young Countess Dohna is wandering a terrible, perilous -way in order to whisper a word of warning to Gösta Berling. Down at the -waterfall the waves are storming the honor and might of Ekeby, but in the -wide halls only joy and eager expectation reign, wax-candles are shining, -wine is flowing; no one thinks of what is happening in the dark, stormy -spring night. - -Now has the moment come. Gösta rises and goes out to bring in his -sweetheart. He has to go through the hall, and its great doors are -standing open; he stops, he looks out into the pitch dark night—and he -hears, he hears! - -He hears the bells ringing, the falls roaring. He hears the thunder of -the breaking ice, the noise of the pounding logs, the rebellious waves’ -rushing and threatening voice. - -He hastens out into the night, forgetting everything. Let them inside -stand with lifted glasses till the world’s last day; he cares nothing for -them. The broom-girl can wait, Julius’s speech may die on his lips. There -would be no rings exchanged that night, no paralyzing amazement would -fall upon the shining assembly. - -Now the waves must in truth fight for their freedom, for Gösta Berling -has come, the people have found a leader. Terrified hearts take courage, -a terrible struggle begins. - -Hear how he calls to the people; he commands, he sets all to work. - -“We must have light, light first of all; the miller’s horn-lantern is -not enough. See all those piles of branches; carry them up on the cliff -and set fire to them. That is work for the women and children. Only be -quick; build up a great flaming brush-pile and set fire to it! That will -light up our work; that will be seen far and wide and bring more to help -us. And let it never go out! Bring straw, bring branches, let the flames -stream up to the sky!” - -“Look, look, you men, here is work for you. Here is timber, here are -planks; make a temporary dam, which we can sink in front of this breaking -wall. Quick, quick to work; make it firm and solid! Get ready stones and -sand-bags to sink it with! Quick! Swing your axes! To work! to work!” - -“And where are the boys? Get poles, get boat-hooks, and come out here in -the midst of the struggle. Out on the dam with you, boys, right in the -waves. Keep off, weaken, drive back their attacks, before which the walls -are cracking. Push aside the logs and pieces of ice; throw yourselves -down, if nothing else helps, and hold the loosening stones with your -hands; bite into them, seize them with claws of iron. Out on the wall, -boys! We shall fight for every inch of land.” - -Gösta himself takes his stand farthest out on the dam and stands there -covered with spray; the ground shakes under him, the waves thunder -and rage, but his wild heart rejoices at the danger, the anxiety, the -struggle. He laughs. He jokes with the boys about him on the dam; he has -never had a merrier night. - -The work of rescue goes quickly forward, the fire flames, the axes -resound, and the dam stands. - -The other pensioners and the hundred guests have come down to the -waterfall. People come running from near and far; all are working, at -the fires, at the temporary dam, at the sand-bags, out on the tottering, -trembling stone-wall. - -Now the temporary dam is ready, and shall be sunk in front of the -yielding break-water. Have the stones and sand-bags ready, and boat-hooks -and rope, that it may not be carried away, that the victory may be for -the people, and the cowed waves return to their bondage. - -It so happens that just before the decisive moment Gösta catches sight of -a woman who is sitting on a stone at the water’s edge. The flames from -the bonfire light her up where she sits staring out over the waves; he -cannot see her clearly and distinctly through the mist and spray, but his -eyes are continually drawn to her. Again and again he has to look at her. -He feels as if that woman had a special errand to him. - -Among all these hundreds who are working and busy, she is the only one -who sits still, and to her his eyes keep turning, he can see nothing else. - -She is sitting so far out that the waves break at her feet, and the -spray dashes over her. She must be dripping wet. Her dress is dark, she -has a black shawl over her head, she sits shrunk together, her chin on -her hand, and stares persistently at him out on the dam. He feels as if -those staring eyes were drawing and calling, although he cannot even -distinguish her face; he thinks of nothing but the woman who sits on the -shore by the white waves. - -“It is the sea-nymph from the Löfven, who has come up the river to lure -me to destruction,” he thinks. “She sits there and calls and calls. I -must go and drive her away.” - -All these waves with their white heads seem to him the black woman’s -hair; it was she who set them on, who led the attack against him. - -“I really must drive her away,” he says. - -He seizes a boat-hook, runs to the shore, and hurries away to the woman. - -He leaves his place on the end of the dam to drive the sea-nymph away. -He felt, in that moment of excitement, as if the evil powers of the deep -were fighting against him. He did not know what he thought, what he -believed, but he must drive that black thing away from the stone by the -river’s edge. - -Alas, Gösta, why is your place empty in the decisive moment? They are -coming with the temporary dam, a long row of men station themselves on -the break-water; they have ropes and stones and sand-bags ready to weight -it down and hold it in place; they stand ready, they wait, they listen. -Where is their leader? Is there no voice to command? - -No, Gösta Berling is chasing the sea-nymph, his voice is silent, his -commands lead no one. - -So the temporary dam has to be sunk without him. The waves rush back, it -sinks into the water and after it the stones and sand-bags. But how is -the work carried out without a leader? No care, no order. The waves dash -up again, they break with renewed rage against this new obstacle, they -begin to roll the sand-bags over, tear the ropes, loosen the stones; and -they succeed, they succeed. Threatening, rejoicing, they lift the whole -dam on their strong shoulders, tear and drag on it, and then they have it -in their power. Away with the miserable defence, down to the Löfven with -it. And then on once more against the tottering, helpless stone-wall. - -But Gösta is chasing the sea-nymph. She saw him as he came towards her -swinging the boat-hook. She was frightened. It looked as if she was going -to throw herself into the water, but she changed her mind and ran to the -land. - -“Sea-nymph!” cries Gösta, and brandishes the boat-hook. She runs in among -the alder-bushes, gets entangled in their thick branches, and stops. - -Then Gösta throws away the boat-hook, goes forward, and lays his hand on -her shoulder. - -“You are out late to-night, Countess Elizabeth,” he says. - -“Let me alone, Herr Berling, let me go home!” - -He obeys instantly and turns away from her. - -But since she is not only a high-born lady, but a really kind little -woman, who cannot bear the thought that she has driven any one to -despair; since she is a little flower-picker, who always has roses enough -in her basket to adorn the barrenest way, she repents, goes after him and -seizes his hand. - -“I came,” she says, and stammers, “I came to⸺ Oh, Herr Berling, you have -not done it? Say that you have not done it! I was so frightened when you -came running after me, but it was you I wanted to meet. I wanted to ask -you not to think of what I said the other day, and to come to see me as -usual.” - -“How have you come here, countess?” - -She laughs nervously. “I knew that I should come too late, but I did -not like to tell any one that I was going; and besides, you know, it is -impossible to drive over the ice now.” - -“Have you walked across the lake, countess?” - -“Yes, yes, of course; but, Herr Berling, tell me. Are you engaged? You -understand; I wish so you were not. It is so wrong, you see, and I felt -as if the whole thing was my fault. You should not have minded a word -from me so much. I am a stranger, who does not know the customs of the -country. It is so dull at Borg since you do not come any more, Herr -Berling.” - -It seems to Gösta Berling, as he stands among the wet alder-bushes on the -marshy ground, as if some one were throwing over him armfuls of roses. -He wades in roses up to his knees, they shine before his eyes in the -darkness, he eagerly drinks in their fragrance. - -“Have you done that?” she repeats. - -He must make up his mind to answer her and to put an end to her anxiety, -although his joy is so great over it. It grows so warm in him and so -bright when he thinks what a way she has wandered, how wet she is, how -frozen, how frightened she must have been, how broken with weeping her -voice sounds. - -“No,” he says, “I am not engaged.” - -Then she takes his hand again and strokes it. “I am so glad, I am so -glad,” she says, and her voice is shaken with sobs. - -There are flowers enough now on the poet’s way, everything dark, evil, -and hateful melts from his heart. - -“How good you are, how good you are!” he says. - -At their side the waves are rushing against all Ekeby’s honor and glory. -The people have no leader, no one to instill courage and hope into -their hearts; the dam gives way, the waves close over it, and then rush -triumphant forward to the point where the mill and smithy stand. No one -tries any longer to resist the waves; no one thinks of anything but of -saving life and property. - -It seems quite natural to both the young people that Gösta should escort -the countess home; he cannot leave her alone in this dark night, nor let -her again wander alone over the melting ice. They never think that he is -needed up at the smithy, they are so happy that they are friends again. - -One might easily believe that these young people cherish a warm love -for one another, but who can be sure? In broken fragments the glowing -adventures of their lives have come to me. I know nothing, or next to -nothing, of what was in their innermost souls. What can I say of the -motives of their actions. I only know that that night a beautiful young -woman risked her life, her honor, her reputation, her health, to bring -back a poor wretch to the right way. I only know that that night Gösta -Berling left the beloved Ekeby fall to follow her who for his sake had -conquered the fear of death, the fear of shame, the fear of punishment. - -Often in my thoughts I have followed them over the ice that terrible -night, which ended so well for them. I do not think that there was -anything hidden or forbidden in their hearts, as they wandered over the -ice, gay and chatting of everything which had happened during their -separation. - -He is once more her slave, her page, who lies at her feet, and she is his -lady. - -They are only happy, only joyous. Neither of them speaks a word which can -denote love. - -Laughing they splash through the water, they laugh when they find the -path, when they lose it, when they slip, when they fall, when they are -up again; they only laugh. - -This blessed life is once more a merry play, and they are children who -have been cross and have quarrelled. Oh, how good it is to make up and -begin to play again. - -Rumor came, and rumor went. In time the story of the countess’s -wanderings reached Anna Stjärnhök. - -“I see,” she said, “that God has not one string only to his bow. I can -rest and stay where I am needed. He can make a man of Gösta Berling -without my help.” - - - - -CHAPTER III - -PENITENCE - - -Dear friends, if it should ever happen that you meet a pitiful wretch on -your way, a little distressed creature, who lets his hat hang on his back -and holds his shoes in his hand, so as not to have any protection from -the heat of the sun and the stones of the road, one without defence, who -of his own free will calls down destruction on his head,—well, pass him -by in silent fear! It is a penitent, do you understand?—a penitent on his -way to the holy sepulchre. - -The penitent must wear a coarse cloak and live on water and dry bread, -even if he were a king. He must walk and not ride. He must beg. He must -sleep among thistles. He must wear the hard gravestones with kneeling. -He must swing the thorny scourge over his back. He can know no sweetness -except in suffering, no tenderness except in grief. - -The young Countess Elizabeth was once one who wore the heavy cloak and -trod the thorny paths. Her heart accused her of sin. It longed for pain -as one wearied longs for a warm bath. Dire disaster she brought down on -herself while she descended rejoicing into the night of suffering. - -Her husband, the young count with the old-man’s head, came home to Borg -the morning after the night when the mill and smithy at Ekeby were -destroyed by the spring flood. He had hardly arrived before Countess -Märta had him summoned in to her and told him wonderful things. - -“Your wife was out last night, Henrik. She was gone many hours. She came -home with a man. I heard how he said good-night to her. I know too who -he is. I heard both when she went and when she came. She is deceiving -you, Henrik. She is deceiving you, the hypocritical creature, who hangs -knitted curtains in all the windows only to cause me discomfort. She has -never loved you, my poor boy. Her father only wanted to have her well -married. She took you to be provided for.” - -She managed her affair so well that Count Henrik became furious. He -wished to get a divorce. He wished to send his wife home to her father. - -“No, my friend,” said Countess Märta, “in that way she would be quite -given over to evil. She is spoiled and badly brought up. But let me take -her in hand, let me lead her to the path of duty.” - -And the count called in his countess to tell her that she now was to obey -his mother in everything. - -Many angry words the young man let the young woman hear. He stretched his -hands to heaven and accused it of having let his name be dragged in the -dirt by a shameless woman. He shook his clenched fist before her face and -asked her what punishment she thought great enough for such a crime as -hers. - -She was not at all afraid. She thought that she had done right. She said -that she had already caught a serious cold, and that might be punishment -enough. - -“Elizabeth.” says Countess Märta, “this is not a matter to joke about.” - -“We two,” answers the young woman, “have never been able to agree about -the right time to joke and to be serious.” - -“But you ought to understand, Elizabeth, that no honorable woman -leaves her home to roam about in the middle of the night with a known -adventurer.” - -Then Elizabeth Dohna saw that her mother-in-law meant her ruin. She saw -that she must fight to the last gasp, lest Countess Märta should succeed -in drawing down upon her a terrible misfortune. - -“Henrik,” she begs, “do not let your mother come between us! Let me tell -you how it all happened. You are just, you will not condemn me unheard. -Let me tell you all, and you will see that I only acted as you have -taught me.” - -The count nodded a silent consent, and Countess Elizabeth told how she -had come to drive Gösta Berling into the evil way. She told of everything -which had happened in the little blue cabinet, and how she had felt -herself driven by her conscience to go and save him she had wronged. “I -had no right to judge him,” she said, “and my husband has himself taught -me that no sacrifice is too great when one will make amends for a wrong. -Is it not so, Henrik?” - -The count turned to his mother. - -“What has my mother to say about this?” he asked. His little body was now -quite stiff with dignity, and his high, narrow forehead lay in majestic -folds. - -“I,” answered the countess,—“I say that Anna Stjärnhök is a clever girl, -and she knew what she was doing when she told Elizabeth that story.” - -“You are pleased to misunderstand me,” said the count. “I ask what you -think of this story. Has Countess Märta Dohna tried to persuade her -daughter, my sister, to marry a dismissed priest?” - -Countess Märta was silent an instant. Alas, that Henrik, so stupid, so -stupid! Now he was quite on the wrong track. Her hound was pursuing the -hunter himself and letting the hare get away. But if Märta Dohna was -without an answer for an instant, it was not longer. - -“Dear friend,” she said with a shrug, “there is a reason for letting all -those old stories about that unhappy man rest,—the same reason which -makes me beg you to suppress all public scandal. It is most probable that -he has perished in the night.” - -She spoke in a gentle, commiserating tone, but there was not a word of -truth in what she said. - -“Elizabeth has slept late to-day and therefore has not heard that people -have already been sent out on to the lake to look for Herr Berling. -He has not returned to Ekeby, and they fear that he has drowned. The -ice broke up this morning. See, the storm has split it into a thousand -pieces.” - -Countess Elizabeth looked out. The lake was almost open. - -Then in despair she threw herself on her knees before her husband and -confession rushed from her lips. She had wished to escape God’s justice. -She had lied and dissembled. She had thrown the white mantle of innocence -over her. - -“Condemn me, turn me out! I have loved him. Be in no doubt but that I -have loved him! I tear my hair, I rend my clothes with grief. I do not -care for anything when he is dead. I do not care to shield myself. You -shall know the whole truth. My heart’s love I have taken from my husband -and given to a stranger. Oh, I am one of them whom a forbidden love has -tempted.” - -You desperate young thing, lie there at your judges’ feet and tell them -all! Welcome, martyrdom! Welcome, disgrace! Welcome! Oh, how shall you -bring the bolt of heaven down on your young head! - -Tell your husband how frightened you were when the pain came over you, -mighty and irresistible, how you shuddered for your heart’s wretchedness. -You would rather have met the ghosts of the graveyard than the demons in -your own soul. - -Tell them how you felt yourself unworthy to tread the earth. With prayers -and tears you have struggled. - -“O God, save me! O Son of God, caster out of devils, save me!” you have -prayed. - -Tell them how you thought it best to conceal it all. No one should know -your wretchedness. You thought that it was God’s pleasure to have it so. -You thought, too, that you went in God’s ways when you wished to save the -man you loved. He knew nothing of your love. He must not be lost for your -sake. Did you know what was right? Did you know what was wrong? God alone -knew it, and he had passed sentence upon you. He had struck down your -heart’s idol. He had led you on to the great, healing way of penitence. - -Tell them that you know that salvation is not to be found in concealment. -Devils love darkness. Let your judges’ hands close on the scourge! The -punishment shall fall like soothing balm on the wounds of sin. Your heart -longs for suffering. - -Tell them all that, while you kneel on the floor and wring your hands in -fierce sorrow, speaking in the wild accents of despair, with a shrill -laugh greeting the thought of punishment and dishonor, until at last your -husband seizes you and drags you up from the floor. - -“Conduct yourself as it behooves a Countess Dohna, or I must ask my -mother to chastise you like a child.” - -“Do with me what you will!” - -Then the count pronounced his sentence:— - -“My mother has interceded for you. Therefore you may stay in my house. -But hereafter it is she who commands, and you who obey.” - - * * * * * - -See the way of the penitent! The young countess has become the most -humble of servants. How long? Oh, how long? - -How long shall a proud heart be able to bend? How long can impatient lips -keep silent; how long a passionate hand be held back? - -Sweet is the misery of humiliation. When the back aches from the heavy -work the heart is at peace. To one who sleeps a few short hours on a hard -bed of straw, sleep comes uncalled. - -Let the older woman change herself into an evil spirit to torture the -younger. She thanks her benefactress. As yet the evil is not dead in her. -Hunt her up at four o’clock every morning! Impose on the inexperienced -workwoman an unreasonable day’s work at the heavy weaving-loom! It is -well. The penitent has perhaps not strength enough to swing the scourge -with the required force. - -When the time for the great spring washing comes,[3] Countess Märta has -her stand at the tub in the wash-house. She comes herself to oversee her -work. “The water is too cold in your tub,” she says, and takes boiling -water from a kettle and pours it over her bare arms. - -The day is cold, the washerwomen have to stand by the lake and rinse out -the clothes. Squalls rush by and drench them with sleet. Dripping wet and -heavy as lead are the washerwomen’s skirts. - -Hard is the work with the wooden clapper. The blood bursts from the -delicate nails. - -But Countess Elizabeth does not complain. Praised be the goodness of God! -The scourge’s thorny knots fall softly, as if they were rose-leaves, on -the penitent’s back. - -The young woman soon hears that Gösta Berling is alive. Her mother-in-law -had only wanted to cheat her into a confession. Well, what of that? See -the hand of God! He had won over the sinner to the path of atonement. - -She grieves for only one thing. How shall it be with her mother-in-law, -whose heart God for her sake has hardened? Ah, he will judge her mildly. -She must show anger to help the sinner to win back God’s love. - -She did not know that often a soul that has tried all other pleasures -turns to delight in cruelty. In the suffering of animals and men, -weakened emotions find a source of joy. - -The older woman is not conscious of any malice. She thinks she is only -correcting a wanton wife. So she lies awake sometimes at night and broods -over new methods of torture. - -One evening she goes through the house and has the countess light her -with a candle. She carries it in her hand without a candlestick. - -“The candle is burned out,” says the young woman. - -“When there is an end to the candle, the candlestick must burn,” answers -Countess Märta. - -And they go on, until the reeking wick goes out in the scorched hand. - -But that is childishness. There are tortures for the soul which are -greater than any suffering of the body. Countess Märta invites guests and -makes the mistress of the house herself wait on them at her own table. - -That is the penitent’s great day. Strangers shall see her in her -humiliation. They shall see that she is no longer worthy to sit at her -husband’s table. Oh, with what scorn their cold eyes will rest on her! - -Worse, much worse it is. Not an eye meets hers. Everybody at the table -sits silent and depressed, men and women equally out of spirits. - -But she gathers it all to lay it like coals of fire on her head. Is her -sin so dreadful? Is it a disgrace to be near her? - -Then temptation comes. Anna Stjärnhök, who has been her friend, and the -judge at Munkerud, Anna’s neighbor at the table, take hold of her when -she comes, snatch the dish from her, push up a chair, and will not let -her escape. - -“Sit there, child, sit there!” says the judge. “You have done no wrong.” - -And with one voice all the guests declare that if she does not sit down -at the table, they must all go. They are no executioners. They will -not do Märta Dohna’s bidding. They are not so easily deceived as that -sheep-like count. - -“Oh, good gentlemen! Oh, beloved friends! Do not be so charitable. You -force me to cry out my sin. There is some one whom I have loved too -dearly.” - -“Child, you do not know what sin is. You do not understand how guiltless -you are. Gösta Berling did not even know that you liked him. Take your -proper place in your home! You have done no wrong.” - -They keep up her courage for a while and are themselves suddenly gay as -children. Laughter and jests ring about the board. - -These impetuous, emotional people, they are so good; but still they are -sent by the tempter. They want to make her think that she is a martyr, -and openly scoff at Countess Märta as if she were a witch. But they do -not understand. They do not know how the soul longs for purity, nor how -the penitent is driven by his own heart to expose himself to the stones -of the way and the heat of the sun. - -Sometimes Countess Märta forces her to sit the whole day long quietly in -the bay window, and then she tells her endless stories of Gösta Berling, -priest and adventurer. If her memory does not hold out, she romances, -only to contrive that his name the whole day shall sound in the young -woman’s ears. That is what she fears most. On those days she feels that -her penance will never end. Her love will not die. She thinks that she -herself will die before it. Her strength begins to give way. She is often -very ill. - -“But where is your hero tarrying?” asks the countess, spitefully. “From -day to day I have expected him at the head of the pensioners. Why does -he not take Borg by storm, set you up on a throne, and throw me and your -husband, bound, into a dungeon cell? Are you already forgotten?” - -She is almost ready to defend him and say that she herself had forbidden -him to give her any help. But no, it is best to be silent, to be silent -and to suffer. - -Day by day she is more and more consumed by the fire of irritation. She -has incessant fever and is so weak that she can scarcely hold herself up. -She longs to die. Life’s strongest forces are subdued. Love and joy do -not dare to move. She no longer fears pain. - - * * * * * - -It is as if her husband no longer knew that she existed. He sits shut up -in his room almost the whole day and studies indecipherable manuscripts -and essays in old, stained print. - -He reads charters of nobility on parchment, from which the seal of Sweden -hangs, large and potent, stamped in red wax and kept in a turned wooden -box. He examines old coats of arms with lilies on a white field and -griffins on a blue. Such things he understands, and such he interprets -with ease. And he reads over and over again speeches and obituary notices -of the noble counts Dohna, where their exploits are compared to those of -the heroes of Israel and the gods of Greece. - -Those old things have always given him pleasure. But he does not trouble -himself to think a second time of his young wife. - -Countess Märta has said a word which killed the love in him: “She took -you for your money.” No man can bear to hear such a thing. It quenches -all love. Now it was quite one to him what happened to the young woman. -If his mother could bring her to the path of duty, so much the better. -Count Henrik had much admiration for his mother. - -This misery went on for a month. Still it was not such a stormy and -agitated time as it may sound when it is all compressed into a few -written pages. Countess Elizabeth was always outwardly calm. Once only, -when she heard that Gösta Berling might be dead, emotion overcame her. - -But her grief was so great that she had not been able to preserve her -love for her husband that she would probably have let Countess Märta -torture her to death, if her old housekeeper had not spoken to her one -evening. - -“You must speak to the count, countess,” she said. “Good heavens, you are -such a child! You do not perhaps know yourself, countess, what you have -to expect; but I see well enough what the matter is.” - -But that was just what she could not say to her husband, while he -cherished such a black suspicion of her. - -That night she dressed herself quietly, and went out. She wore an -ordinary peasant-girl’s dress, and had a bundle in her hand. She meant to -run away from her home and never come back. - -She did not go to escape pain and suffering. But now she believed that -God had given her a sign that she might go, that she must preserve her -body’s health and strength. - -She did not turn to the west across the lake, for there lived one whom -she loved very dearly; nor did she go to the north, for there many of her -friends lived; nor towards the south, for, far, far to the south lay her -father’s home, and she did not wish to come a step nearer; but to the -east she went, for there she knew she had no home, no beloved friend, no -acquaintance, no help nor comfort. - -She did not go with a light step, for the thought that she had not yet -appeased God. But still she was glad that she hereafter might bear the -burden of her sin among strangers. Their indifferent glances should rest -on her, soothing as cold steel laid on a swollen limb. - -She meant to continue her wandering until she found a lowly cottage at -the edge of the wood, where no one should know her. “You can see what has -happened to me, and my parents have turned me out,” she meant to say. -“Let me have food and a roof over my head here, until I can earn my bread. -I am not without money.” - -So she went on in the bright June night, for the month of May had passed -during her suffering. Alas, the month of May, that fair time when the -birches mingle their pale green with the darkness of the pine forest, and -when the south-wind comes again satiated with warmth. - -Ah, May, you dear, bright month, have you ever seen a child who is -sitting on its mother’s knee listening to fairy stories? As long as the -child is told of cruel giants and of the bitter suffering of beautiful -princesses, it holds its head up and its eyes open; but if the mother -begins to speak of happiness and sunshine, the little one closes its eyes -and falls asleep with its head against her breast. - -And see, fair month of May, such a child am I too. Others may listen to -tales of flowers and sunshine; but for myself I choose the dark nights, -full of visions and adventures, bitter destinies, sorrowful sufferings of -wild hearts. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE IRON FROM EKEBY - - -Spring had come, and the iron from all the mines in Värmland was to be -sent to Gothenburg. - -But at Ekeby they had no iron to send. In the autumn there had been a -scarcity of water, in the spring the pensioners had been in power. - -In their time strong, bitter ale foamed down the broad granite slope of -Björksjö falls, and Löfven’s long lake was filled not with water, but -with brandy. In their time no iron was brought to the forge, the smiths -stood in shirt-sleeves and clogs by the hearth and turned enormous roasts -on long spits, while the boys on long tongs held larded capons over the -coals. In those days they slept on the carpenter’s bench and played cards -on the anvil. In those days no iron was forged. - -But the spring came and in the wholesale office in Gothenburg they began -to expect the iron from Ekeby. They looked up the contract made with the -major and his wife, where there were promises of the delivery of many -hundreds of tons. - -But what did the pensioners care for the contract? They thought of -pleasure and fiddling and feasting. - -Iron came from Stömne, iron from Sölje. From Uddeholm it came, and from -Munkfors, and from all of the many mines. But where is the iron from -Ekeby? - -Is Ekeby no longer the chief of Värmland’s iron works? Does no one watch -over the honor of the old estate? Like ashes for the wind it is left in -the hands of shiftless pensioners. - -Well, but if the Ekeby hammers have rested, they must have worked at our -six other estates. There must be there enough and more than enough iron. - -So Gösta Berling sets out to talk with the managers of the six mines. - -He travelled ten miles or so to the north, till he came to Lötafors. It -is a pretty place, there can be no doubt of that. The upper Löfven lies -spread out before it and close behind it has Gurlitta cliff, with steeply -rising top and a look of wildness and romance which well suits an old -mountain. But the smithy, that is not as it ought to be: the swing-wheel -is broken, and has been so a whole year. - -“Well, why has it not been mended?” - -“The carpenter, my dear friend, the carpenter, the only one in the whole -district who could mend it, has been busy somewhere else. We have not -been able to forge a single ton.” - -“Why did you not send after the carpenter?” - -“Send after! As if we had not sent after him every day, but he has not -been able to come. He was busy building bowling-alleys and summer-houses -at Ekeby.” - -He goes further to the north to Björnidet. Also a beautiful spot, but -iron, is there any iron? - -No, of course not. They had had no coal, and they had not been able to -get any money from Ekeby to pay charcoal-burners and teamsters. There had -been no work all winter. - -Then Gösta turns to the south. He comes to Hån, and to Löfstafors, far -in in the woods, but he fares no better there. Nowhere have they iron, -and everywhere it seems to be the pensioners’ own fault that such is the -case. - -So Gösta turns back to Ekeby, and the pensioners with gloomy looks take -into consideration the fifty tons or so, which are in stock, and their -heads are weighed down with grief, for they hear how all nature sneers at -Ekeby, and they think that the ground shakes with sobs, that the trees -threaten them with angry gestures, and that the grass and weeds lament -that the honor of Ekeby is gone. - -But why so many words and so much perplexity? There is the iron from -Ekeby. - -There it is, loaded on barges on the Klar River, ready to sail down -the stream, ready to be weighed at Karlstad, ready to be conveyed to -Gothenburg. So it is saved, the honor of Ekeby. - - * * * * * - -But how is it possible? At Ekeby there was not more than fifty tons of -iron, at the six other mines there was no iron at all. How is it possible -that full-loaded barges shall now carry such an enormous amount of iron -to the scales at Karlstad? Yes, one may well ask the pensioners. - -The pensioners are themselves on board the heavy, ugly vessels; they -mean to escort the iron from Ekeby to Gothenburg. They are going to do -everything for their dear iron and not forsake it until it is unloaded on -the wharf in Gothenburg. They are going to load and unload, manage sails -and rudder. They are the very ones for such an undertaking. Is there a -shoal in the Klar River or a reef in the Väner which they do not know? - -If they love anything in the world, it is the iron on those barges. -They treat it like the most delicate glass, they spread cloths over it. -Not a bit may lie bare. It it those heavy, gray bars which are going to -retrieve the honor of Ekeby. No stranger may cast indifferent glances on -them. - -None of the pensioners have remained at home. Uncle Eberhard has left his -desk, and Cousin Christopher has come out of his corner. No one can hold -back when it is a question of the honor of Ekeby. - -Every one knows that often in life occur such coincidences as that -which now followed. He who still can be surprised may wonder that the -pensioners should be lying with their barges at the ferry over the Klar -River just on the morning after when Countess Elizabeth had started -on her wanderings towards the east. But it would certainly have been -more wonderful if the young woman had found no help in her need. It now -happened that she, who had walked the whole night, was coming along the -highway which led down to the ferry, just as the pensioners intended -to push off, and they stood and looked at her while she talked to the -ferryman and he untied his boat. She was dressed like a peasant girl, -and they never guessed who she was. But still they stood and stared at -her, because there was something familiar about her. As she stood and -talked to the ferryman, a cloud of dust appeared on the highway, and in -that cloud of dust they could catch a glimpse of a big yellow coach. She -knew that it was from Borg, that they were out to look for her, and that -she would now be discovered. She could no longer hope to escape in the -ferryman’s boat, and the only hiding-place she saw was the pensioners’ -barges. She rushed down to them without seeing who it was on board. And -well it was that she did not see, for otherwise she would rather have -thrown herself under the horses’ feet than have taken her flight thither. - -When she came on board she only screamed, “Hide me, hide me!” And then -she tripped and fell on the pile of iron. But the pensioners bade her be -calm. They pushed off hurriedly from the land, so that the barge came -out into the current and bore down towards Karlstad, just as the coach -reached the ferry. - -In the carriage sat Count Henrik and Countess Märta. The count ran -forward to ask the ferryman if he had seen his countess. But as Count -Henrik was a little embarrassed to have to ask about a runaway wife, he -only said:— - -“Something has been lost!” - -“Really?” said the ferryman. - -“Something has been lost. I ask if you have seen anything?” - -“What are you asking about?” - -“Yes, it makes no difference, but something has been lost. I ask if you -have ferried anything over the river to-day?” - -By these means he could find out nothing, and Countess Märta had to go -and speak to the man. She knew in a minute, that she whom they sought was -on board one of the heavily gliding barges. - -“Who are the people on those barges?” - -“Oh, they are the pensioners, as we call them.” - -“Ah,” says the countess. “Yes, then your wife is in good keeping, Henrik. -We might as well go straight home.” - -On the barge there was no such great joy as Countess Märta believed. As -long as the yellow coach was in sight, the frightened young woman shrank -together on the load motionless and silent, staring at the shore. - -Probably she first recognized the pensioners when she had seen the yellow -coach drive away. She started up. It was as if she wanted to escape -again, but she was stopped by the one standing nearest, and she sank back -on the load with a faint moan. - -The pensioners dared not speak to her nor ask her any questions. She -looked as if on the verge of madness. - -Their careless heads began verily to be heavy with responsibility. This -iron was already a heavy load for unaccustomed shoulders, and now they -had to watch over a young, high-born lady, who had run away from her -husband. - -When they had met this young woman at the balls of the winter, one and -another of them had thought of a little sister whom he had once loved. -When he played and romped with that sister he needed to handle her -carefully, and when he talked with her he had learned to be careful not -to use bad words. If a strange boy had chased her too wildly in their -play or had sung coarse songs for her, he had thrown himself on him with -boundless fury and almost pounded the life out of him, for his little -sister should never hear anything bad nor suffer any pain nor ever be met -with anger and hate. - -Countess Elizabeth had been like a joyous sister to them all. When she -had laid her little hands in their hard fists, it had been as if she -had said: “Feel how fragile I am, but you are my big brother; you shall -protect me both from others and from yourself.” And they had been courtly -knights as long as they had been with her. - -Now the pensioners looked upon her with terror, and did not quite -recognize her. She was worn and thin, her neck was without roundness, her -face transparent. She must have struck herself during her wanderings, for -from a little wound on her temple blood was trickling, and her curly, -light hair, which shaded her brow, was sticky with it. Her dress was -soiled from her long walk on the wet paths, and her shoes were muddy. The -pensioners had a dreadful feeling that this was a stranger. The Countess -Elizabeth they knew never had such wild, glittering eyes. Their poor -little sister had been hunted nearly to madness. It was as if a soul come -down from other spaces was struggling with the right soul for the mastery -of her tortured body. - -But there was no need for them to worry over what they should do with -her. The old thought soon waked in her. Temptation had come to her again. -God wished to try her once more. See, she is among friends; does she -intend to leave the path of the penitent? - -She rises and cries that she must go. - -The pensioners try to calm her. They told her that she was safe. They -would protect her from all persecution. - -She only begged to be allowed to get into the little boat, which was -towed after the barge, and row to the land, to continue her wandering. - -But they could not let her go. What would become of her? It was better to -remain with them. They were only poor old men, but they would surely find -some way to help her. - -Then she wrung her hands and begged them to let her go. But they could -not grant her prayer. She was so exhausted and weak that they thought -that she would die by the roadside. - -Gösta Berling stood a short distance away and looked down into the water. -Perhaps the young woman would not wish to see him. He did not know it, -but his thoughts played and smiled. “Nobody knows where she is,” he -thought; “we can take her with us to Ekeby. We will keep her hidden -there, we pensioners, and we will be good to her. She shall be our queen, -our mistress, but no one shall know that she is there. We will guard -her so well, so well. She perhaps would be happy with us; she would be -cherished like a daughter by all the old men.” - -He had never dared to ask himself if he loved her. She could not be his -without sin, and he would not drag her down to anything low and wretched, -that he knew. But to have her concealed at Ekeby and to be good to her -after others had been cruel, and to let her enjoy everything pleasant in -life, ah, what a dream, what a blissful dream! - -But he wakened out of it, for the young countess was in dire distress, -and her words had the piercing accents of despair. She had thrown herself -upon her knees in the midst of the pensioners and begged them to be -allowed to go. - -“God has not yet pardoned me,” she cried. “Let me go!” - -Gösta saw that none of the others meant to obey her, and understood that -he must do it. He, who loved her, must do it. - -He felt a difficulty in walking, as if his every limb resisted his will, -but he dragged himself to her and said that he would take her on shore. - -She rose instantly. He lifted her down into the boat and rowed her to -the east shore. He landed at a little pathway and helped her out of the -boat. - -“What is to become of you, countess?” he said. - -She lifted her finger solemnly and pointed towards heaven. - -“If you are in need, countess—” - -He could not speak, his voice failed him, but she understood him and -answered:— - -“I will send you word when I need you.” - -“I would have liked to protect you from all evil,” he said. - -She gave him her hand in farewell, and he was not able to say anything -more. Her hand lay cold and limp in his. - -She was not conscious of anything but those inward voices which forced -her to go among strangers. She hardly knew that it was the man she loved -whom she now left. - -So he let her go and rowed out to the pensioners again. When he came -up on the barge he was trembling with fatigue and seemed exhausted and -faint. He had done the hardest work of his life, it seemed to him. - -For the few days he kept up his courage, until the honor of Ekeby was -saved. He brought the iron to the weighing-office on Kanike point; then -for a long time he lost all strength and love of life. - -The pensioners noticed no change in him as long as they were on board. He -strained every nerve to keep his hold on gayety and carelessness, for it -was by gayety and carelessness that the honor of Ekeby was to be saved. -How should their venture at the weighing-office succeed if they came with -anxious faces and dejected hearts? - -If what rumor says is true, that the pensioners that time had more sand -than iron on their barges, if it is true that they kept bringing up -and down the same bars to the weighing-office at Kanike point, until -the many hundred tons were weighed; if it is true that all that could -happen because the keeper of the public scales and his men were so well -entertained out of the hampers and wine cases brought from Ekeby, one -must know that they had to be gay on the iron barges. - -Who can know the truth now? But if it was so, it is certain that Gösta -Berling had no time to grieve. Of the joy of adventure and danger he felt -nothing. As soon as he dared, he sank into a condition of despair. - -As soon as the pensioners had got their certificate of weighing, they -loaded their iron on a bark. It was generally the custom that the captain -of the vessel took charge of the load to Gothenburg, and the Värmland -mines had no more responsibility for their iron when they had got their -certificate that the consignment was filled. But the pensioners would -do nothing by halves, they were going to take the iron all the way to -Gothenburg. - -On the way they met with misfortune. A storm broke out in the night, the -vessel was disabled, drove on a reef, and sank with all her precious -load. But if one saw the matter rightly, what did it matter if the iron -was lost? The honor of Ekeby was saved. The iron had been weighed at -the weighing-office at Kanike point. And even if the major had to sit -down and in a curt letter inform the merchants in the big town that he -would not have their money, as they had not got his iron, that made no -difference either. Ekeby was so rich, and its honor was saved. - -But if the harbors and locks, if the mines and charcoal-kilns, if the -schooners and barges begin to whisper of strange things? If a gentle -murmur goes through the forests that the journey was a fraud? If it is -asserted through the whole of Värmland that there were never more than -fifty miserable tons on the barges and that the shipwreck was arranged -intentionally? A bold exploit had been carried out, and a real pensioner -prank accomplished. By such things the honor of the old estate is not -blemished. - -But it happened so long ago now. It is quite possible that the pensioners -bought the iron or that they found it in some hitherto unknown -store-house. The truth will never be made clear in the matter. The keeper -of the scales will never listen to any tales of fraud, and he ought to -know. - -When the pensioners reached home they heard news. Count Dohna’s marriage -was to be annulled. The count had sent his steward to Italy to get proofs -that the marriage had not been legal. He had come back late in the summer -with satisfactory reports. What these were,—well, that I do not know with -certainty. One must treat old tales with care; they are like faded roses. -They easily drop their petals if one comes too near to them. People say -that the ceremony in Italy had not been performed by a real priest. I do -not know, but it certainly is true that the marriage between Count Dohna -and Elizabeth von Thurn was declared at the court at Borg never to have -been any marriage. - -Of this the young woman knew nothing. She lived among peasants in some -out-of-the-way place, if she was living. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -LILLIECRONA’S HOME - - -Among the pensioners was one whom I have often mentioned as a great -musician. He was a tall, heavily built man, with a big head and bushy, -black hair. He was certainly not more than forty years old at that time, -but he had an ugly, large-featured face and a pompous manner. This made -many think him old. He was a good man, but low-spirited. - -One afternoon he took his violin under his arm and went away from Ekeby. -He said no farewell to any one, although he never meant to return. He -loathed the life there ever since he had seen Countess Elizabeth in her -trouble. He walked without resting the whole evening and the whole night, -until at early sunrise he came to a little farm, called Löfdala, which -belonged to him. - -It was so early that nobody was as yet awake. Lilliecrona sat down on -the green bench outside the main building and looked at his estate. A -more beautiful place did not exist. The lawn in front of the house lay -in a gentle slope and was covered with fine, light-green grass. There -never was such a lawn. The sheep were allowed to graze there and the -children to romp there in their games, but it was always just as even -and green. The scythe never passed over it, but at least once a week -the mistress of the house had all sticks and straws and dry leaves -swept from the fresh grass. He looked at the gravel walk in front of -the house and suddenly drew his feet back. The children had late in the -evening raked it and his big feet had done terrible harm to the fine -work. Think how everything grew there. The six mountain-ashes which -guarded the place were high as beeches and wide-spreading as oaks. Such -trees had never been seen before. They were beautiful with their thick -trunks covered with yellow lichens, and with big, white flower-clusters -sticking out from the dark foliage. It made him think of the sky and its -stars. It was indeed wonderful how the trees grew there. There stood an -old willow, so thick that the arms of two men could not meet about it. -It was now rotten and hollow, and the lightning had taken the top off -it, but it would not die. Every spring a cluster of green shoots came up -out of the shattered trunk to show that it was alive. That hawthorn by -the east gable had become such a big tree that it overshadowed the whole -house. The roof was white with its dropping petals, for the hawthorn had -already blossomed. And the birches which stood in small clumps here and -there in the pastures, they certainly had found their paradise on his -farm. They developed there in so many different growths, as if they had -meant to imitate all other trees. One was like a linden, thick and leafy -with a wide-spreading arch, another stood close and tall like a poplar, -and a third drooped its branches like a weeping-willow. No one was like -another, and they were all beautiful. - -Then he rose and went round the house. There lay the garden, so -wonderfully beautiful that he had to stop and draw a long breath. The -apple-trees were in bloom. Yes, of course he knew that. He had seen it -on all the other farms; but in no other place did they bloom as they did -in that garden, where he had seen them blossom since he was a child. -He walked with clasped hands and careful step up and down the gravel -path. The ground was white, and the trees were white, here and there -with a touch of pink. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He knew -every tree, as one knows one’s brothers and sisters and playmates. The -astrachan trees were quite white, also the winter fruit-trees. But the -russet blossoms were pink, and the crab-apple almost red. The most -beautiful was the old wild apple-tree, whose little, bitter apples nobody -could eat. It was not stingy with its blossoms; it looked like a great -snow-drift in the morning light. - -For remember that it was early in the morning! The dew made every leaf -shine, all dust was washed away. Behind the forest-clad hills, close -under which the farm lay, came the first rays of the sun. It was as if -the tops of the pines had been set on fire by them. Over the clover -meadows, over rye and corn fields, and over the sprouting oat-shoots, lay -the lightest of mists, like a thin veil, and the shadows fell sharp as in -moonlight. - -He stood and looked at the big vegetable beds between the paths. He knows -that mistress and maids have been at work here. They have dug, raked, -pulled up weeds and turned the earth, until it has become fine and light. -After they have made the beds even and the edges straight they have -taken tapes and pegs and marked out rows and squares. Then they have -sowed and set out, until all the rows and squares have been filled. And -the children have been with them and have been so happy and eager to be -allowed to help, although it has been hard work for them to stand bent -and stretch their arms out over the broad beds. And of great assistance -have they been, as any one can understand. - -Now what they had sown began to come up. - -God bless them! they stood there so bravely, both peas and beans with -their two thick cotyledons; and how thick and nice had both carrots and -beets come up! The funniest of all were the little crinkled parsley -leaves, which lifted a little earth above them and played bopeep with -life as yet. - -And here was a little bed where the lines did not go so evenly and where -the small squares seemed to be an experiment map of everything which -could be set or sowed. That was the children’s garden. - -And Lilliecrona put his violin hastily up to his chin and began to play. -The birds began to sing in the big shrubbery which protected the garden -from the north wind. It was not possible for anything gifted with voice -to be silent, so glorious was the morning. The fiddle-bow moved quite of -itself. - -Lilliecrona walked up and down the paths and played. “No,” he thought, -“there is no more beautiful place.” What was Ekeby compared to Löfdala. -His home had a thatched roof and was only one story high. It lay at the -edge of the wood, with the mountain above it and the long valley below -it. There was nothing wonderful about it; there was no lake there, no -waterfall, no park, but it was beautiful just the same. It was beautiful -because it was a good, peaceful home. Life was easy to live there. -Everything which in other places caused bitterness and hate was there -smoothed away with gentleness. So shall it be in a home. - -Within, in the house, the mistress lies and sleeps in a room which opens -on the garden. She wakes suddenly and listens, but she does not move. She -lies smiling and listening. Then the musician comes nearer and nearer, -and at last it sounds as if he had stopped under her window. It is indeed -not the first time she has heard the violin under her window. He was -in the habit of coming so, her husband, when they had done something -unusually wild there at Ekeby. - -He stands there and confesses and begs for forgiveness. He describes to -her the dark powers which tempt him away from what he loves best,—from -her and the children. But he loves them. Oh, of course he loves them! - -While he plays she gets up and puts on her clothes without quite knowing -what she is doing. She is so taken up with his playing. - -“It is not luxury and good cheer, which tempt me away,” he plays “not -love for other women, nor glory, but life’s seductive changes: its -sweetness, its bitterness, its riches, I must feel about me. But now I -have had enough of it, now I am tired and satisfied. I shall never again -leave my home. Forgive me; have mercy upon me!” - -Then she draws aside the curtain and opens the window, and he sees her -beautiful, kind face. - -She is good, and she is wise. Her glances bring blessings like the sun’s -on everything they meet. She directs and tends. Where she is, everything -grows and flourishes. She bears happiness within her. - -He swings himself up on to the window-sill to her, and is happy as a -young lover. - -Then he lifts her out into the garden and carries her down under the -apple-trees. There he explains for her how beautiful everything is, and -shows her the vegetable beds and the children’s garden and the funny -little parsley leaves. - -When the children awake, there is joy and rapture that father has come. -They take possession of him. He must see all that is new and wonderful: -the little nail-manufactory which pounds away in the brook, the -bird’s-nest in the willow, and the little minnows in the pond, which swim -in thousands near the surface of the water. - -Then father, mother, and children take a long walk in the fields. He -wants to see how close the rye stands, how the clover is growing, and how -the potatoes are beginning to poke up their crumpled leaves. - -He must see the cows when they come in from the pasture, visit the -new-comers in the barn and sheep-house, look for eggs, and give all the -horses sugar. - -The children hang at his heels the whole day. No lessons, no work; only -to wander about with their father! - -In the evening he plays polkas for them, and all day he has been such a -good comrade and playfellow that they fall asleep with a pious prayer -that father may always stay with them. - -He stays eight long days, and is joyous as a boy the whole time. He -could stand it no longer, it was too much happiness for him. Ekeby was a -thousand times worse, but Ekeby lay in the midst of the whirl of events. -Oh, how much there was there to dream of and to play of! How could he -live separated from the pensioners’ deeds, and from Löfven’s long lake, -about which adventure’s wild chase rushed onward? - -On his own estate everything went on in its calm, wonted way. Everything -flourished and grew under the gentle mistress’s care. Every one was -happy there. Everything which anywhere else could have caused discord -and bitterness passed over there without complaints or pain. Everything -was as it should be. If now the master of the house longed to live as -pensioner at Ekeby, what then? Does it help to complain of heaven’s sun -because it disappears every evening in the west, and leaves the earth in -darkness? - -What is so unconquerable as submission? What is so certain of victory as -patience? - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE WITCH OF DOVRE - - -The witch of Dovre walks on Löfven’s shores. People have seen her there, -little and bent, in a leather skirt and a belt of silver plates. Why -has she come out of the wolf-holes to a human world? What does the old -creature of the mountains want in the green of the valley? - -She comes begging. She is mean, greedy for gifts, although she is so -rich. In the clefts of the mountain she hides heavy bars of white silver; -and in the rich meadows far away on the heights feed her great flocks of -black cattle with golden horns. Still she wanders about in birch-bark -shoes and greasy leather skirt soiled with the dirt of a hundred years. -She smokes moss in her pipe and begs of the poorest. Shame on one who is -never grateful, never gets enough! - -She is old. When did the rosy glory of youth dwell in that broad face -with its brown greasy skin, in the flat nose and the small eyes, which -gleam in the surrounding dirt like coals of fire in gray ashes? When did -she sit as a young girl on the mountain-side and answer with her horn -the shepherd-boy’s love-songs? She has lived several hundred years. The -oldest do not remember the time when she did not wander through the -land. Their fathers had seen her old when they were young. Nor is she yet -dead. I who write, myself have seen her. - -She is powerful. She does not bend for any one. She can summon the hail, -she can guide the lightning. She can lead the herds astray and set wolves -on the sheep. Little good can she do, but much evil. It is best to be on -good terms with her! If she should beg for your only goat and a whole -pound of wool, give it to her; if you don’t the horse will fall, or the -cottage will burn, or the cow will sicken, or the child will die. - -A welcome guest she never is. But it is best to meet her with smiling -lips! Who knows for whose sake the bearer of disaster is roaming through -the valley? She does not come only to fill her beggar’s-pouch. Evil omens -go with her; the army worm shows itself, foxes and owls howl and hoot in -the twilight, red and black serpents, which spit venom, crawl out of the -wood up to the very threshold. - -Charms can she chant, philters can she brew. She knows all herbs. -Everybody trembles with fear when they see her; but the strong daughter -of the wilderness goes calmly on her way among them, protected by their -dread. The exploits of her race are not forgotten, nor are her own. As -the cat trusts in its claws, so does she trust in her wisdom and in the -strength of her divinely inspired prophecies. No king is more sure of his -might than she of the kingdom of fear in which she rules. - -The witch of Dovre has wandered through many villages. Now she has come -to Borg, and does not fear to wander up to the castle. She seldom goes -to the kitchen door. Right up the terrace steps she comes. She plants -her broad birch-bark shoes on the flower-bordered gravel-walks as calmly -as if she were tramping up mountain paths. - -Countess Märta has just come out on the steps to admire the beauty of -the June day. Below her two maids have stopped on their way to the -store-house. They have come from the smoke-house, where the bacon is -being smoked, and are carrying newly cured hams on a pole between them. -“Will our gracious Countess feel and smell?” say the maids. “Are the hams -smoked enough?” - -Countess Märta, mistress at Borg at that time, leans over the railing and -looks at the hams, but in the same instant the old Finn woman lays her -hand on one of them. - -The daughter of the mountains is not accustomed to beg and pray! Is it -not by her grace that flowers thrive and people live? Frost and storm and -floods are all in her power to send. Therefore she does not need to pray -and beg. She lays her hand on what she wants, and it is hers. - -Countess Märta, however, knows nothing of the old woman’s power. - -“Away with you, beggar-woman!” she says. - -“Give me the ham,” says the witch. - -“She is mad,” cries the countess. And she orders the maids to go to the -store-house with their burden. - -The eyes of the old woman flame with rage and greed. - -“Give me the brown ham,” she repeats, “or it will go ill with you.” - -“I would rather give it to the magpies than to such as you.” - -Then the old woman is shaken by a storm of rage. She stretches towards -heaven her runic-staff and waves it wildly. Her lips utter strange words. -Her hair stands on end, her eyes shine, her face is distorted. - -“You shall be eaten by magpies yourself,” she screams at last. - -Then she goes, mumbling curses, brandishing her stick. She turns towards -home. Farther towards the south does she not go. She has accomplished her -errand, for which she had travelled down from the mountains. - -Countess Märta remains standing on the steps and laughs at her -extravagant anger; but on her lips the laugh will soon die away, for -there they come. She cannot believe her eyes. She thinks that she is -dreaming, but there they come, the magpies who are going to eat her. - -From the park and the garden they swoop down on her, magpies by scores, -with claws ready to seize and bills stretched out to strike. They come -with wild screams. Black and white wings gleam before her eyes. She sees -as in delirium behind this swarm the magpies of the whole neighborhood -approaching; the whole heaven is full of black and white wings. In the -bright morning sun the metallic colors of the feathers glisten. In -smaller and smaller circles the monsters fly about the countess, aiming -with beaks and claws at her face and hands. She has to escape into the -hall and shut the door. She leans against it, panting with terror, while -the screaming magpies circle about outside. - -From that time on she is shut in from the sweetness and green of the -summer and from the joy of life. For her were only closed rooms and -drawn curtains; for her, despair; for her, terror; for her, confusion, -bordering on madness. - -Mad this story too may seem, but it must also be true. Hundreds will -recognize it and bear witness that such is the old tale. - -The birds settled down on the railing and the roof. They sat as if they -only waited till the countess should show herself, to throw themselves -upon her. They took up their abode in the park and there they remained. -It was impossible to drive them away. It was only worse if they shot -them. For one that fell, ten came flying. Sometimes great flocks flew -away to get food, but faithful sentries always remained behind. And if -Countess Märta showed herself, if she looked out of a window or only -drew aside the curtain for an instant, if she tried to go out on the -steps,—they came directly. The whole terrible swarm whirled up to the -house on thundering wings, and the countess fled into her inner room. - -She lived in the bedroom beyond the red drawing-room. I have often heard -the room described, as it was during that time of terror, when Borg was -besieged by magpies. Heavy quilts before the doors and windows, thick -carpets on the floor, softly treading, whispering people. - -In the countess’s heart dwelt wild terror. Her hair turned gray. Her face -became wrinkled. She grew old in a month. She could not steel her heart -to doubt of hateful magic. She started up from her dreams with wild cries -that the magpies were eating her. She wept for days over this fate, which -she could not escape. Shunning people, afraid that the swarm of birds -should follow on the heels of any one coming in, she sat mostly silent -with her hands before her face, rocking backwards and forwards in her -chair, low-spirited and depressed in the close air, sometimes starting up -with cries of lamentation. - -No one’s life could be more bitter. Can any one help pitying her? - -I have not much more to tell of her now, and what I have said has not -been good. It is as if my conscience smote me. She was good-hearted -and cheerful when she was young, and many merry stories about her have -gladdened my heart, although there has been no space to tell them here. - -But it is so, although that poor wayfarer did not know it, that the soul -is ever hungry. On frivolity and play it cannot live. If it gets no other -food, it will like a wild beast first tear others to pieces and then -itself. - -That is the meaning of the story. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -MIDSUMMER - - -Midsummer was hot then as now when I am writing. It was the most -beautiful season of the year. It was the season when Sintram, the wicked -ironmaster at Fors, fretted and grieved. He resented the sun’s triumphal -march through the hours of the day, and the overthrow of darkness. He -raged at the leafy dress which clothed the trees, and at the many-colored -carpet which covered the ground. - -Everything arrayed itself in beauty. The road, gray and dusty as it was, -had its border of flowers: yellow and purple midsummer blossoms, wild -parsley, and asters. - -When the glory of midsummer lay on the mountains and the sound of the -bells from the church at Bro was borne on the quivering air even as far -as Fors, when the unspeakable stillness of the Sabbath day reigned in the -land, then he rose in wrath. It seemed to him as if God and men dared to -forget that he existed, and he decided to go to church, he too. Those who -rejoiced at the summer should see him, Sintram, lover of darkness without -morning, of death without resurrection, of winter without spring. - -He put on his wolfskin coat and shaggy fur gloves. He had the red horse -harnessed in a sledge, and fastened bells to the shining horse-collar. -Equipped as if it were thirty degrees below zero, he drove to church. He -believed that the grinding under the runners was from the severe cold. He -believed that the white foam on the horse’s back was hoar-frost. He felt -no heat. Cold streamed from him as warmth from the sun. - -He drove over the wide plain north of the Bro church. Large, rich -villages lay near his way, and fields of grain, over which singing larks -fluttered. Never have I heard larks sing as in those fields. Often have I -wondered how he could shut his ears to those hundreds of songsters. - -He had to drive by many things on the way which would have enraged him -if he had given them a glance. He would have seen two bending birches at -the door of every house, and through open windows he would have looked -into rooms whose ceilings and walls were covered with flowers and green -branches. The smallest beggar child went on the road with a bunch of -lilacs in her hand, and every peasant woman had a little nosegay stuck in -her neckerchief. - -Maypoles with faded flowers and drooping wreaths stood in every yard. -Round about them the grass was trodden down, for the merry dance had -whirled there through the summer night. - -Below on the Löfven crowded the floats of timber. The little white sails -were hoisted in honor of the day, although no wind filled them, and every -masthead bore a green wreath. - -On the many roads which lead to Bro the congregation came walking. The -women were especially magnificent in the light summer-dresses, which had -been made ready just for that day. All were dressed in their best. - -And the people could not help rejoicing at the peace of the day and the -rest from daily work, at the delicious warmth, the promising harvest, and -the wild strawberries which were beginning to redden at the edge of the -road. They noticed the stillness of the air and the song of the larks, -and said: “It is plain that this is the Lord’s day.” - -Then Sintram drove up. He swore and swung his whip over the straining -horse. The sand grated horribly under the runners, the sleigh-bells’ -shrill clang drowned the sound of the church bells. His brow lay in angry -wrinkles under his fur cap. - -The church-goers shuddered and thought they had seen the evil one -himself. Not even to-day on the summer’s festival might they forget evil -and cold. Bitter is the lot of those who wander upon earth. - -The people who stood in the shadow of the church or sat on the churchyard -wall and waited for the beginning of the service, saw him with calm -wonder when he came up to the church door. The glorious day had filled -their hearts with joy that they were walking the paths of earth and -enjoying the sweetness of existence. Now, when they saw Sintram, -forebodings of strange disaster came over them. - -Sintram entered the church and sat down in his seat, throwing his gloves -on the bench, so that the rattle of the wolves’ claws which were sewed -into the skin was heard through the church. And several women who had -already taken their places on the front benches fainted when they saw the -shaggy form, and had to be carried out. - -But no one dared to drive out Sintram. He disturbed the people’s -devotions, but he was too much feared for any one to venture to order him -to leave the church. - -In vain the old clergyman spoke of the summer’s bright festival. Nobody -listened to him. The people only thought of evil and cold and of the -strange disaster which the wicked ironmaster announced to them. - -When it was over, they saw him walk out on to the slope of the hill where -the Bro church stands. He looked down on the Broby Sound and followed it -with his eyes past the deanery and the three points of the west shore out -into the Löfven. And they saw how he clenched his fist and shook it over -the sound and its green banks. Then his glance turned further south over -the lower Löfven to the misty shores which seemed to shut in the lake, -and northward it flew miles beyond Gurlitta Cliff up to Björnidet, where -the lake began. He looked to the west and east, where the long mountains -border the valley, and he clenched his fist again. And every one felt -that if he had held a bundle of thunderbolts in his right hand, he would -have hurled them in wild joy out over the peaceful country and spread -sorrow and death as far as he could. For now he had so accustomed his -heart to evil that he knew no pleasure except in suffering. By degrees -he had taught himself to love everything ugly and wretched. He was more -insane than the most violent madman, but that no one understood. - -Strange stories went about the land after that day. It was said that when -the sexton came to shut up the church, the bit of the key broke, because -a tightly folded paper had been stuck in the keyhole. He gave it to the -dean. It was, as was to be expected, a letter meant for a being in the -other world. - -People whispered of what had stood there. The dean had burnt the paper, -but the sexton had looked on while the devil’s trash burned. The letters -had shone bright red on a black ground. He could not help reading. He -read, people said, that Sintram wished to lay the country waste as far -as the Bro church tower was visible. He wished to see the forest grow -up about the church. He wished to see bear and fox living in men’s -dwellings. The fields should lie uncultivated, and neither dog nor cock -should be heard in the neighborhood. He wished to serve his master by -causing every man’s ruin. That was what he promised. - -And the people looked to the future in silent despair, for they knew that -his power was great, that he hated everything living, that he wished to -see the wilderness spread through the valley, and that he would gladly -take pestilence or famine or war into his service to drive away every one -who loved good, joy-bringing work. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -MADAME MUSICA - - -When nothing could make Gösta Berling glad, after he had helped the young -countess to escape, the pensioners decided to seek help of the good -Madame Musica, who is a powerful fairy and consoles many who are unhappy. - -So one evening in July they had the doors of the big drawing-room at -Ekeby opened and the shutters taken down. The sun and air were let in, -the late evening’s big, red sun, the cool, mild, steaming air. - -The striped covers were taken off the furniture, the piano was opened, -and the net about the Venetian chandelier taken away. The golden griffins -under the white-marble table-tops again reflected the light. The white -goddesses danced above the mirror. The variegated flowers on the silk -damask glistened in the evening glow. Roses were picked and brought in. -The whole room was filled with their fragrance. There were wonderful -roses with unknown names, which had been brought to Ekeby from foreign -lands. There were yellow ones in whose veins the blood shone red as in a -human being’s, and cream-white roses with curled edges, and pink roses -with broad petals, which on their outside edge were as colorless as -water, and dark red with black shadows. They carried in all Altringer’s -roses which had come from far distant lands to rejoice the eyes of lovely -women. - -The music and music-stands were brought in, and the brass instruments and -bows and violins of all sizes; for good Madame Musica shall now reign at -Ekeby and try to console Gösta Berling. - -Madame Musica has chosen the Oxford Symphony of Haydn, and has had the -pensioners practise it. Julius conducts, and each of the others attends -to his own instrument. All the pensioners can play—they would not -otherwise be pensioners. - -When everything is ready Gösta is sent for. He is still weak and -low-spirited, but he rejoices in the beautiful room and in the music he -soon shall hear. For every one knows that for him who suffers and is in -pain good Madame Musica is the best company. She is gay and playful like -a child. She is fiery and captivating like a young woman. She is good and -wise like the old who have lived a good life. - -And then the pensioners began to play, so gently, so murmuringly soft. - -It goes well, it goes brilliantly well. From the dead notes they charm -Madame Musica herself. Spread out your magic cloak, dear Madame Musica, -and take Gösta Berling to the land of gladness, where he used to live. - -Alas that it is Gösta Berling who sits there pale and depressed, and whom -the old men must amuse as if he were a child. There will be no more joy -now in Värmland. - -I know why the old people loved him. I know how long a winter evening can -be, and how gloom can creep over the spirit in those lonely farm-houses. -I understand how it felt when he came. - -Ah, fancy a Sunday afternoon, when work is laid aside and the thoughts -are dull! Fancy an obstinate north wind, whipping cold into the room,—a -cold which no fire can relieve! Fancy the single tallow-candle, which has -to be continually snuffed! Fancy the monotonous sound of psalms from the -kitchen! - -Well, and then bells come ringing, eager feet stamp off the snow in the -hall, and Gösta Berling comes into the room. He laughs and jokes. He is -life, he is warmth. He opens the piano, and he plays so that they are -surprised at the old strings. He can sing all songs, play any tune. He -makes all the inmates of the house happy. He was never cold, he was never -tired. The mourner forgot his sorrows when he saw him. Ah, what a good -heart he had! How compassionate he was to the weak and poor! And what a -genius he was! Yes, you ought to have heard the old people talk of him. - -But now, just as they were playing, he burst into tears. He thinks life -is so sad. He rests his head in his hands and weeps. The pensioners -are dismayed. These are not mild, healing tears, such as Madame Musica -generally calls forth. He is sobbing like one in despair. At their wits’ -end they put their instruments away. - -And the good Madame Musica, who loves Gösta Berling, she too almost loses -courage; but then she remembers that she has still a mighty champion -among the pensioners. - -It is the gentle Löwenborg, he who had lost his fiancée in the muddy -river, and who is more Gösta Berling’s slave than any of the others. He -steals away to the piano. - -In the pensioners’ wing Löwenborg has a great wooden table, on which -he has painted a keyboard and set up a music-stand. There he can sit -for hours at a time and let his fingers fly over the black and white -keys. There he practises both scales and studies, and there he plays his -Beethoven. He never plays anything but Beethoven. - -But the old man never ventures on any other instrument than the wooden -table. For the piano he has a respectful awe. It tempts him, but it -frightens him even more. The clashing instrument, on which so many polkas -have been drummed, is a sacred thing to him. He has never dared to touch -it. Think of that wonderful thing with its many strings, which could give -life to the great master’s works! He only needs to put his ear to it, to -hear andantes and scherzos murmuring there. But he has never played on -such a thing. He will never be rich enough to buy one of his own, and -on this he has never dared to play. The major’s wife was not so willing -either to open it for him. - -He has heard how polkas and waltzes have been played on it. But in such -profane music the noble instrument could only clash and complain. No, if -Beethoven should come, then it would let its true, clear sound be heard. - -Now he thinks that the moment is come for him and Beethoven. He will take -courage and touch the holy thing, and let his young lord and master be -gladdened by the sleeping harmonies. - -He sits down and begins to play. He is uncertain and nervous, but he -gropes through a couple of bars, tries to bring out the right ring, -frowns, tries again, and puts his hands before his face and begins to -weep. - -Yes, it is a bitter thing. The sacred thing is not sacred. There are -no clear, pure tones hidden and dreaming in it; there are no mighty -thunders, no rushing hurricanes. None of the endless harmonies direct -from heaven had remained there. It is an old, worn-out piano, and nothing -more. - -But then Madame Musica gives the colonel a hint. He takes Ruster with him -and they go to the pensioners’ wing and get Löwenborg’s table, where the -keys are painted. - -“See here, Löwenborg,” says Beerencreutz, when they come back, “here is -your piano. Play for Gösta!” - -Then Löwenborg stops crying and sits down to play Beethoven for his -sorrowful young friend. Now he would certainly be glad again. - -In the old man’s head sound the most heavenly tones. He cannot think but -that Gösta hears how beautifully he is playing. He meets with no more -difficulties. He plays his runs and trills with the greatest ease. He -would have liked that the master himself could have heard him. - -The longer he plays, the more he is carried away. He hears every note -with unearthly clearness. He sits there glowing with enthusiasm and -emotion, hearing the most wonderful tones, certain that Gösta must hear -them too and be comforted. - -Gösta sat and looked at him. At first he was angry at this foolery, but -gradually he became of milder mood. He was irresistible, the old man, as -he sat and enjoyed his Beethoven. - -And Gösta began to think how this man too, who now was so gentle and so -careless, had been sunk in suffering, how he too had lost her whom he -loved. And now he sat beamingly happy at his wooden table. Nothing more -was needed to add to his bliss. - -He felt humbled. “What, Gösta,” he said to himself, “can you no longer -bear and suffer? You who have been hardened by poverty all your life, -you who have heard every tree in the forest, every tuft in the meadow -preach of resignation and patience, you who have been brought up in a -land where the winter is severe and the summer short,—have you forgotten -how to endure?” - -Ah Gösta, a man must bear all that life offers with a brave heart and -smiling lip, or he is no man. Regret as much as you like if you have lost -what you hold dearest, let remorse tear at your vitals, but show yourself -a man. Let your glance shine with gladness, and meet your friends with -cheerful words! - -Life is hard, nature is hard. But they both give courage and cheerfulness -as compensations for their hardness, or no one could hold out. - -Courage and cheerfulness! It is as if they were the first duties of life. -You have never failed in them before, and shall not now. - -Are you worse than Löwenborg, who sits there at his wooden piano, than -all the other pensioners? You know well enough that none of them have -escaped suffering! - -And then Gösta looks at them. Oh, such a performance! They all are -sitting there so seriously and listening to this music which nobody hears. - -Suddenly Löwenborg is waked from his dreams by a merry laugh. He lifts -his hands from the keys and listens as if in rapture. It is Gösta -Berling’s old laugh, his good, kind, infectious laugh. It is the sweetest -music the old man has heard in all his life. - -“Did I not say that Beethoven would help you, Gösta,” he cries. “Now you -are yourself again.” - -So did the good Madame Musica cure Gösta Berling’s hypochondria. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE BROBY CLERGYMAN - - -Eros, all-powerful god, you know well that it often seems as if a man -should have freed himself from your might. All the tender feelings which -unite mankind seem dead in his heart. Madness stretches its claws after -the unhappy one, but then you come in all your power, and like the great -saint’s staff the dried-up heart bursts into bloom. - -No one is so mean as the Broby clergyman, no one more divided by malice -and uncharitableness from his fellow-men. His rooms are unheated in the -winter, he sits on an unpainted wooden seat, he dresses in rags, lives on -dry bread, and is furious if a beggar enters his door. He lets the horse -starve in the stable and sells the hay, his cows nibble the dry grass at -the roadside and the moss on the wall. The bleating of the hungry sheep -can be heard far along the highway. The peasants throw him presents of -food which their dogs will not eat, of clothes which their poor disdain. -His hand is stretched out to beg, his back bent to thank. He begs of the -rich, lends to the poor. If he sees a piece of money his heart aches with -longing till he gets it into his pocket. Unhappy is he who has not his -affairs in order on the day of payment! - -He was married late in life, but it had been better if he had never -been. Exhausted and overworked, his wife died. His daughter serves with -strangers. He is old, but age grants him no relief in his struggling. -The madness of avarice never leaves him. - -But one fine day in the beginning of August a heavy coach, drawn by four -horses, drives up Broby hill. A delicate old lady comes driving in great -state, with coachman and footman and lady’s-maid. She comes to meet the -Broby clergyman. She had loved him in the days of her youth. - -He had been tutor at her father’s house, and they had loved one another, -although her proud family had separated them. And now she is journeying -up Broby hill to see him before she dies. All that is left to her in life -is to see once again the beloved of her youth. - -She sits in the great carriage and dreams. She is not driving up Broby -hill to a poor little pastorage. She is on her way to the cool leafy -arbor down in the park, where her lover is waiting. She sees him; he is -young, he can kiss, he can love. Now, when she knows that she soon shall -meet him his image rises before her with singular clearness. He is so -handsome, so handsome! He can adore, he can burn, he fills her whole -being with rapture. - -Now she is sallow, withered, and old. Perhaps he will not recognize her -with her sixty years, but she has not come to be seen, but to see, to see -the beloved of her youth, who has gone through life untouched by time, -who is ever young, beautiful, glowing. - -She has come from so far away that she has not heard a word of the Broby -clergyman. - -The coach clatters up the hill, and at the summit the pastorage is -visible. - -“For the love of God,” whines a beggar at the wayside, “a copper for a -poor man!” - -The noble lady gives him a piece of silver and asks where the Broby -pastorage is. - -“The pastorage is in front of you,” he says, “but the clergyman is not at -home, there is no one at the pastorage.” - -The little lady seems to fade away. The cool arbor vanishes, her lover is -not there. How could she expect, after forty years, to find him there? - -What had the gracious lady to do at the vicarage? - -She had come to meet the minister. She had known him in the old days. - -Forty years and four hundred miles have separated them. And for each ten -miles she has come nearer she has left behind her a year with its burden -of sorrows and memories, so that when she now comes to the vicarage she -is a girl of twenty again, without a care or a regret. - -The beggar stands and looks at her, sees her change under his eyes from -twenty to sixty, and from sixty back again to twenty. - -“The minister is coming home this afternoon,” he says. The gracious lady -would do best to drive down to the Broby inn and come again later. In the -afternoon, the beggar can answer for it, the minister will be at home. - -A moment after, the heavy coach with the little faded lady rolls down the -hill to the inn, but the beggar stands trembling and looks after her. He -feels that he ought to fall on his knees and kiss the wheel tracks. - -Elegant, newly shaven, and washed, in shoes with shining buckles, with -silk stockings, with ruffles and frills, the Broby clergyman stands at -noon that same day before the dean’s wife at Bro. - -“A fine lady,” he says, “a count’s daughter. Do you think that I, -poor man, can ask her to come into my house? My floors are black, my -drawing-room without furniture, the dining-room ceiling is green with -mildew and damp. Help me! Remember that she is a noble count’s daughter!” - -“Say that you have gone away!” - -“My dear lady, she has come four hundred miles to see me, poor man. She -does not know how it is. I have not a bed to offer her. I have not a bed -for her servants!” - -“Well, let her go again.” - -“Dear heart! Do you not understand what I mean? I would rather give -everything I possess, everything that I have gathered together by -industry and striving, than that she should go without my having received -her under my roof. She was twenty when I saw her last, and it is now -forty years ago! Help me, that I may see her in my house! Here is money, -if money can help, but here more than money is needed.” - -Oh, Eros, women love you. They would rather go a hundred steps for you -than one for other gods. - -In the deanery at Bro the rooms are emptied, the kitchen is emptied, the -larder is emptied. Wagons are piled up and driven to the vicarage. When -the dean comes home from the communion service, he will find empty rooms, -look in through the kitchen door to ask after his dinner and find no one -there. No dinner, no wife, no maids! What was to be done? - -Eros has so wished it. - -A little later in the afternoon the heavy coach comes clattering up Broby -hill. And the little lady sits and wonders if any new mischance shall -happen, if it is really true that she is now going to meet her life’s -only joy. - -Then the coach swings into the vicarage, there comes some one, there he -comes. He lifts her out of the carriage, he takes her on his arm, strong -as ever, she is clasped in an embrace as warm as of old, forty years ago. -She looks into his eyes; which glow as they did when they had only seen -five and twenty summers. - -A storm of emotion comes over her—warmer than ever. She remembers that he -once carried her up the steps to the terrace. She, who believed that her -love had lived all these years, had forgotten what it was to be clasped -in strong arms, to look into young, glowing eyes. - -She does not see that he is old. She only sees his eyes. - -She does not see the black floors, the mildewed ceilings, she only sees -his glowing eyes. The Broby clergyman is a stately man, a handsome man in -that hour. He grows handsome when he looks at her. - -She hears his voice, his dear, strong voice; caressingly it sounds. He -only speaks so to her. Why did he need furniture from the deanery for his -empty rooms; why food, why servants? The old lady would never have missed -anything. She hears his voice and sees his eyes. - -Never, never before has she been so happy. - -She knows that he has been married, but she does not remember it. How -could she remember such a thing? She is twenty, he twenty-five. Shall he -become the mean Broby clergyman, that smiling youth? The wailing of the -poor, the curses of the defrauded, the scornful gibes, the caricatures, -the sneers, all that as yet does not exist for him. His heart burns only -with a pure and innocent love. Never shall that proud youth love gold so -that he will creep after it in the dirt, beg it from the wayfarer, suffer -humiliation, suffer disgrace, suffer cold, suffer hunger to get it. Shall -he starve his child, torture his wife, for that same miserable gold? It -is impossible. Such he can never be. He is a good man like all others. He -is not a monster. - -The beloved of his youth does not walk by the side of a despised wretch, -unworthy of the profession he has dared to undertake! - -Oh, Eros, not that evening! That evening he is not the Broby clergyman, -nor the next day either, nor the day after. - -The day after that she goes. - -What a dream, what a beautiful dream! For these three days not a cloud! - -She journeyed smiling home to her castle and her memories. She never -heard his name again, she never asked after him. She wanted to dream that -dream as long as she lived. - -The Broby clergyman sat in his lonely home and wept. She had made him -young. Must he now be old again? Should the evil spirit return and he be -despicable, contemptible, as he had been? - - - - -CHAPTER X - -PATRON JULIUS - - -Patron Julius carried down his red painted wooden chest from the -pensioners’ wing. He filled with fragrant brandy a green keg, which had -followed him on many journeys, and in the big carved luncheon-box he put -butter, bread, and seasoned cheese, deliciously shading in green and -brown, fat ham, and pan-cakes swimming in raspberry jam. - -Then Patron Julius went about and said farewell, with tears in his eyes, -to all the glory of Ekeby. He caressed for the last time the worn balls -in the bowling-alley and the round-cheeked youngsters on the estate. He -went about to the arbors in the garden and the grottos in the park. He -was in stable and cow-house, patted the horses’ necks, shook the angry -bull’s horns, and let the calves lick his bare hand. Finally he went with -weeping eyes to the main building, where the farewell breakfast awaited -him. - -Woe to our existence! How can it be full of so much darkness? There was -poison in the food, gall in the wine. - -The pensioners’ throats were compressed by emotion as well as his own. A -mist of tears dimmed the eyes. The farewell speech was broken by sobs. -Woe to our existence! His life would be, from now on, one long desire. -He would never smile again; the ballads should die from his memory as -flowers die in the autumn ground. He should grow pale and thin, wither -like a frost-bitten rose, like a thirsting lily. Never more should the -pensioners see poor Julius. Heavy forebodings traversed his soul, just as -shadows of wind-swept clouds traverse our newly tilled fields. He would -go home to die. - -Blooming with health and well-being, he now stood before them. Never -again should they see him so. Never more should they jestingly ask him -when he last saw his feet; never more should they wish for his cheeks for -bowls. In liver and lungs the disease had already settled. It was gnawing -and consuming. He had felt it long. His days were numbered. - -Oh, will the Ekeby pensioners but remember death? Oh, may they never -forget him! - -Duty called him. There in his home sat his mother and waited for him. For -seventeen years she had waited for him to come home from Ekeby. Now she -had written a summoning letter, and he would obey. He knew that it would -be his death; but he would obey like a good son. - -Oh, the glorious feasts! Oh, the fair shores, the proud falls! Oh, the -wild adventures, the white, smooth floors, the beloved pensioners’ wing! -Oh, violins and horns, oh, life of happiness and pleasure! It was death -to be parted from all that. - -Then Patron Julius went out into the kitchen and said farewell to -the servants of the house. Each and all, from the housekeeper to -kitchen-girl, he embraced and kissed in overflowing emotion. The maids -wept and lamented over his fate: that such a kind and merry gentleman -should die, that they should never see him again. - -Patron Julius gave command that his chaise should be dragged out of the -carriage-house and his horse taken out of the stable. - -His voice almost failed him when he gave that order. So the chaise -might not mould in peace at Ekeby, so old Kajsa must be parted from the -well-known manger. He did not wish to say anything hard about his mother; -but she ought to have thought of the chaise and Kajsa, if she did not -think of him. How would they bear the long journey? - -The most bitter of all was to take leave of the pensioners. - -Little, round Patron Julius, more built to roll than to walk, felt -himself tragic to his very fingertips. He felt himself the great -Athenian, who calmly emptied the poison cup in the circle of weeping -students. He felt himself the old King Gösta, who prophesied to Sweden’s -people that they some day should wish to tear him up from the dust. - -Finally he sang his best ballad for them. He thought of the swan, who -dies in singing. It was so, he hoped, that they would remember him,—a -kingly spirit, which does not lower itself to complaining, but goes its -way, borne on melody. - -At last the last cup was emptied, the last song sung, the last embrace -given. He had his coat on, and he held the whip in his hand. There was -not a dry eye about him; his own were so filled by sorrow’s rising mist -that he could not see anything. - -Then the pensioners seized him and lifted him up. Cheers thundered about -him. They put him down somewhere, he did not see where. A whip cracked, -the carriage seemed to move under him. He was carried away. When he -recovered the use of his eyes he was out on the highway. - -The pensioners had really wept and been overcome by deep regret; still -their grief had not stifled all the heart’s glad emotions. One of -them—was it Gösta Berling, the poet, or Beerencreutz, the card-playing -old warrior, or the life-weary Cousin Christopher?—had arranged it -so that old Kajsa did not have to be taken from her stall, nor the -mouldering chaise from the coach-house. Instead, a big spotted ox had -been harnessed to a hay-wagon, and after the red chest, the green -keg, and the carved luncheon-box had been put in there, Patron Julius -himself, whose eyes were dim with tears, was lifted up, not on to the -luncheon-box, nor on to the chest, but on to the spotted ox’s back. - -For so is man, too weak to meet sorrow in all its bitterness! The -pensioners honestly mourned for their friend, who was going away to -die,—that withered lily, that mortally wounded singing swan; yet the -oppression of their hearts was relieved when they saw him depart riding -on the big ox’s back, while his fat body was shaken with sobs, his arms, -outspread for the last embrace, sank down in despair, and his eyes sought -sympathy in an unkind heaven. - -Out on the highway the mists began to clear for Patron Julius, and he -perceived that he was sitting on the shaking back of an animal. And then -people say that he began to ponder on what can happen in seventeen long -years. Old Kajsa was visibly changed. Could the oats and clover of Ekeby -cause so much? And he cried—I do not know if the stones in the road or -the birds in the bushes heard it, but true it is that he cried—“The devil -may torture me, if you have not got horns, Kajsa!” - -After another period of consideration he let himself slide gently down -from the back of the ox, climbed up into the wagon, sat down on the -luncheon-box, and drove on, deep in his thoughts. - -After a while, when he has almost reached Broby, he hears singing. - -It was the merry young ladies from Berga, and some of the judge’s pretty -daughters, who were walking along the road. They had fastened their -lunch-baskets on long sticks, which rested on their shoulders like guns, -and they were marching bravely on in the summer’s heat, singing in good -time. - -“Whither away, Patron Julius?” they cried, when they met him, without -noticing the cloud of grief which obscured his brow. - -“I am departing from the home of sin and vanity,” answered Patron Julius. -“I will dwell no longer among idlers and malefactors. I am going home to -my mother.” - -“Oh,” they cried, “it is not true; you do not want to leave Ekeby, Patron -Julius!” - -“Yes,” he said, and struck his wooden chest with his fist. “As Lot -fled from Sodom and Gomorrah, so do I flee from Ekeby. There is not a -righteous man there. But when the earth crumbles away under them, and the -sulphur rain patters down from the sky, I shall rejoice in God’s just -judgment. Farewell, girls; beware of Ekeby!” - -Whereupon he wished to continue on his way; but that was not at all -their plan. They meant to walk up to Dunder Cliff, to climb it; but the -road was long, and they felt inclined to ride in Julius’ wagon to the -foot of the mountain. Inside of two minutes the girls had got their way. -Patron Julius turned back and directed his course towards Dunder Cliff. -Smiling, he sat on his chest, while the wagon was filled with girls. -Along the road grew daisies and buttercups. The ox had to rest every now -and then for a while. Then the girls climbed out and picked flowers. Soon -gaudy wreaths hung on Julius’ head and the ox’s horns. - -Further on they came upon bright young birches and dark alder-bushes. -They got out and broke branches to adorn the wagon. It looked, soon, like -a moving grove. It was fun and play the whole day. - -Patron Julius became milder and brighter as the day went on. He divided -his provisions among the girls, and sang ballads for them. When they -stood on the top of Dunder Cliff, with the wide panorama lying below, so -proud and beautiful that tears came into their eyes at its loveliness, -Julius felt his heart beat violently; words poured from his lips, and he -spoke of his beloved land. - -“Ah, Värmland,” he said, “ever beautiful, ever glorious! Often, when -I have seen thee before me on a map, I have wondered what thou might -represent; but now I understand what thou art. Thou art an old, pious -hermit, who sits quiet and dreams, with crossed legs and hands resting in -his lap. Thou hast a pointed cap drawn down over thy half-shut eyes. Thou -art a muser, a holy dreamer, and thou art very beautiful. Wide forests -are thy dress. Long bands of blue water and parallel chains of blue hills -border it. Thou art so simple that strangers do not see how beautiful -thou art. Thou art poor, as the devout desire to be. Thou sittest still, -while Vänern’s waves wash thy feet and thy crossed legs. To the left thou -hast thy fields of ore and thy iron-works. There is thy beating heart. -To the north thou hast the dark, beautiful regions of the wilderness, of -mystery. There is thy dreaming head. - -“When I see thee, gigantic, serious, my eyes are filled with tears. Thou -art stern in thy beauty. Thou art meditation, poverty, resignation; and -yet I see in thy sternness the tender features of kindness. I see thee -and worship. If I only look into the deep forest, if only the hem of thy -garment touches me, my spirit is healed. Hour after hour, year after -year, I have gazed into thy holy countenance. What mystery are you hiding -under lowered eyelids, thou spirit of resignation? Hast thou solved the -enigma of life and death, or art thou wondering still, thou holy, thou -giant-like? For me thou art the keeper of great, serious thoughts. But I -see people crawl on thee and about thee, creatures who never seem to see -the majesty of earnestness on thy brow. They only see the beauty of thy -face and thy limbs, and are so charmed by it that they forget all else. - -“Woe is me, woe to us all, children of Värmland! Beauty, beauty and -nothing else, we demand of life. We, children of renunciation, of -seriousness, of poverty, raise our hands in one long prayer, and ask the -one good: beauty. May life be like a rose-bush, with blossoms of love, -wine, and pleasure, and may its roses be within every man’s reach! Yes, -that is what we wish, and our land wears the features of sternness, -earnestness, renunciation. Our land is the eternal symbol of meditation, -but we have no thoughts. - -“Oh, Värmland, beautiful and glorious!” - -So he spoke, with tears in his eyes, and with voice vibrating with -inspiration. The young girls heard him with wonder and not without -emotion. They had little guessed the depth of feeling which was hidden -under that surface, glittering with jests and laughter. - -When it drew towards evening, and they once more climbed into the -hay-wagon, the girls hardly knew whither Patron Julius drove them, until -they stopped before the steps at Ekeby. - -“Now we will go in here and have a dance, girls,” said Patron Julius. - -What did the pensioners say when they saw Patron Julius come with a -withered wreath round his hat, and the hay-cart full of girls? - -“We might have known that the girls had carried him off,” they said; -“otherwise we should have had him back here several hours earlier.” For -the pensioners remembered that this was exactly the seventeenth time -Patron Julius had tried to leave Ekeby, once for every departing year. -Now Patron Julius had already forgotten both this attempt and all the -others. His conscience slept once more its year-long sleep. - -He was a doughty man, Patron Julius. He was light in the dance, gay at -the card-table. Pen, pencil, and fiddle-bow lay equally well in his hand. -He had an easily moved heart, fair words on his tongue, a throat full -of songs. But what would have been the good of all that if he had not -possessed a conscience, which made itself be felt only once a year, like -the dragon-flies, which free themselves from the gloomy depths and take -wings to live only a few hours in the light of day and in the glory of -the sun? - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE PLASTER SAINTS - - -Svartsjö church is white both outside and in: the walls are white, the -pulpit, the seats, the galleries, the roof, the window-sashes, the -altar-cloth,—everything is white. In Svartsjö church are no decorations, -no pictures, no coats of arms. Over the altar stands only a wooden cross -with a white linen cloth. But it was not always so. Once the roof was -covered with paintings, and many colored images of stone and plaster -stood in that house of God. - -Once, many years ago, an artist in Svartsjö had stood and watched the -summer sky and the path of the clouds across the sun. He had seen those -white, shining clouds, which in the morning float low on the horizon, -pile themselves up higher and higher and raise themselves to storm -the heavens. They set up sails like ships. They raised standards like -warriors. They encroached on the whole sky. They placed themselves before -the sun, those growing monsters, and took on wonderful shapes. There was -a devouring lion; it changed into a powdered lady. There was a giant -with outstretched arms; he laid himself down as a dreaming sphinx. Some -adorned their white nakedness with gold-bordered mantles; others spread -rouge over snowy cheeks. There were plains. There were forests. There -were walled castles with high towers. The white clouds were lords of the -summer sky. They filled the whole blue arch. They reached up to the sun -and hid it. - -“Oh, how beautiful,” thought the gentle artist, “if the longing spirits -could climb up on those towering mountains and be carried on those -rocking ships ever higher and higher upwards!” - -And all at once he understood that the white clouds were the vessels on -which the souls of the blessed were carried. - -He saw them there. They stood on the gliding masses with lilies in their -hands and golden crowns on their heads. Space echoed with their song. -Angels circled down on broad, strong wings to meet them. Oh, what a host -there were! As the clouds spread out, more and more were visible. They -lay on the cloud-beds like water-lilies on a pond; they adorned them, -as lilies adorn the meadow. Cloud after cloud rolled up. And all were -filled with heavenly hosts in armor of silver, of immortal singers in -purple-bordered mantles. - -That artist had afterwards painted the roof in the Svartsjö church. He -had wished to reproduce there the mounting clouds of the summer day, -which bore the blessed to the kingdom of heaven. The hand which had -guided the pencil had been strong, but also rather stiff, so that the -clouds resembled more the curling locks of a full-bottomed wig than -mountains of soft mist. And the form the holy ones had taken for the -painter’s fancy he was not able to give them again, but instead clothed -them in long, red cloaks, and stiff bishops’ mitres, or in black robes -with stiff ruffles. He had given them big heads and small bodies, and he -had provided them with handkerchiefs and prayer-books. Latin sentences -flew out of their mouths; and for them whom he meant to be the greatest, -he had constructed solid wooden chairs on the backs of the clouds, so -that they could be carried sitting comfortably to the everlasting life. - -But every one knew that spirits and angels had never shown themselves -to the poor artist, and so they were not much surprised that he had not -been able to give them celestial beauty. The good master’s pious work had -seemed to many wonderfully fine, and much holy emotion had it wakened. It -would have been worthy to have been looked at by our eyes as well. - -But during the pensioners’ year, Count Dohna had the whole church -whitewashed. Then the paintings on the roof were destroyed. And all the -plaster saints were also taken away. - -Alas! the plaster saints! - -There was a Saint Olof with crown on helm, an axe in his hand, and a -kneeling giant under his feet; on the pulpit was a Judith in a red -jacket and blue skirt, with a sword in one hand and an hour-glass in the -other,—instead of the Assyrian general’s head; there was a mysterious -Queen of Sheba in a blue jacket and red skirt, with a web-foot on one leg -and her hands full of Sibylline books; there was a gray Saint Göran lying -alone on a bench in the choir, for both horse and dragon had been broken -away; there was Saint Christopher with the flowering staff, and Saint -Erik with sceptre and axe, dressed in a flowing brocaded cloak. - -These saints were always losing their sceptres or their ears or hands -and had to be mended and cleaned. The congregation wearied of it, and -longed to be rid of them. But the peasants would never have done the -saints any injury if Count Henrik Dohna had not existed. It was he who -had them taken away. - -When Count Dohna had caused his marriage to be declared null and -void, instead of seeking out his wife and having it made legal, much -indignation had arisen; for every one knew that his wife had left his -house only not to be tortured to death. It seemed now as if he wanted -to win back God’s grace and men’s respect by a good work, and so he had -Svartsjö church repaired. He had the whole church whitewashed and the -paintings torn down. He and his men carried the images out in a boat and -sank them in the depths of the Löfven. - -How could he dare to lay his hand on those mighty ones of the Lord? - -Did the hand which struck off Holofernes’ head no longer hold a sword? -Had Sheba’s queen forgotten all secret knowledge, which wounds more -deeply than a poisoned arrow? Saint Olof, Saint Olof, old viking, Saint -Göran, old dragon-killer, the noise of your deeds is, then, dead! But -it was best that the saints did not wish to use force against their -destroyers. Since the Svartsjö peasants would not pay for paint for their -robes and gilding for their crowns, they allowed Count Dohna to carry -them out and sink them in Löfven’s bottomless depths. They would not -stand there and disfigure God’s house. - -I thought of that boat with its load of saints gliding over Löfven’s -surface on a quiet summer evening in August. The man who rowed took -slow strokes, and threw timorous glances at the strange passengers which -lay in the bow and stern; but Count Dohna, who was also there, was not -afraid. He took them one by one and threw them into the water. His brow -was clear and he breathed deep. He felt like a defender of the pure -Evangelical religion. And no miracle was performed in the old saints’ -honor. Silent and dejected they sank down into annihilation. - -But the next Sunday morning Svartsjö church stood gleamingly white. No -images disturbed the peace of meditation. Only with the eyes of the soul -could the virtuous contemplate the glory of heaven and the faces of the -blessed. - -But the earth, men’s beloved dwelling, is green, the sky is blue. The -world glows with colors. Why should the church be white? White as winter, -naked as poverty, pale as grief! It does not glitter with hoar-frost like -a wintry wood; it does not shine in pearls and lace like a white bride. -The church stands in white, cold whitewash, without an image, without a -picture. - -That Sunday Count Dohna sat in a flower-trimmed arm-chair in the choir, -to be seen and to be praised by all men. He who had had the old benches -mended, destroyed the disfiguring images, had set new glass in all the -broken windows, and had the whole church whitewashed, should now be -honored. If he wished to soften the Almighty’s anger, it was right that -he had adorned His temple as well as he knew how. But why did he take -praise for it? - -He, who came with implacable sternness on his conscience, ought to have -fallen on his knees and begged his brothers and sisters in the church -to implore God to suffer him to come into his sanctuary. It would have -been better for him if he had stood there like a miserable culprit than -that he should sit honored and blessed in the choir, and receive praise -because he had wished to make his peace with God. - -When the service was over and the last psalm sung, no one left the -church, for the clergyman was to make a speech of thanks to the count. -But it never went so far. - -For the doors were thrown open, back into the church came the old saints, -dripping with Löfven’s water, stained with green slime and brown mud. -They must have heard that here the praise of him who had destroyed them, -who had driven them out of God’s holy house and sunk them in the cold, -dissolving waves, should be sung. The old saints wanted to have their -share in the entertainment. - -They do not love the waves’ monotonous ripple. They are used to psalms -and prayers. They held their peace and let it all happen, as long as -they believed that it would be to the honor of God. But it was not so. -Here sits Count Dohna in honor and glory in the choir and wishes to be -worshipped and praised in the house of God. They cannot suffer such a -thing. Therefore they have risen from their watery grave and march into -the church, easily recognizable to all. There is Saint Olof, with crown -on hat, and Saint Erik, with gold-brocaded cloak, and the gray Saint -Göran and Saint Christopher; no more; the Queen of Sheba and Judith had -not come. - -But when the people have recovered a little from their amazement, an -audible whisper goes through the church,— - -“The pensioners!” - -Yes, of course it is the pensioners. And they go up to the count without -a word, and lift his chair to their shoulders and carry him from the -church and set him down on the slope outside. - -They say nothing, and look neither to the right nor to the left. They -merely carry Count Dohna out of the house of God, and when that is done, -they go away again, the nearest way to the lake. - -They used no violence, nor did they waste much time in explanations. It -was plain enough: “We the Ekeby pensioners have our own opinion. Count -Dohna is not worthy to be praised in God’s house. Therefore we carry him -out. Let him who will carry him in again.” - -But he was not carried in. The clergyman’s speech of thanks was never -made. The people streamed out of the church. There was no one who did not -think the pensioners had acted rightly. - -They thought of the fair young countess who had been so cruelly tortured -at Borg. They remembered her who had been so kind to the poor, who had -been so sweet to look upon that it had been a consolation for them to see -her. - -It was a pity to come with wild pranks into the church; but both the -clergyman and the congregation knew that they had been about to play -a greater trick on the Omniscient. And they stood ashamed before the -misguided old madmen. - -“When man is silent, the stones must speak,” they said. - -But after that day Count Henrik was not happy at Borg. One dark night -in the beginning of August a closed carriage drove close up to the big -steps. All the servants stationed themselves about it, and Countess Märta -came out wrapped in shawls with a thick veil over her face. The count led -her, but she trembled and shuddered. It was with the greatest difficulty -that they could persuade her to go through the hall and down the steps. - -At last she reached the carriage, the count sprang in after her, the -doors were slammed to, and the coachman started the horses off at a -gallop. The next morning, when the magpies awoke, she was gone. - -The count lived from that time on far away in the South of Sweden. Borg -was sold and has changed owners many times. No one can help loving it. -But few have been happy in its possession. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -GOD’S WAYFARER - - -God’s wayfarer, Captain Lennart, came one afternoon in August wandering -up to the Broby inn and walked into the kitchen there. He was on his way -to his home, Helgesäter, which lies a couple of miles northwest of Broby, -close to the edge of the wood. - -Captain Lennart did not then know that he was to be one of God’s -wanderers on the earth. His heart was full of joy that he should see his -home again. He had suffered a hard fate; but now he was at home, and all -would be well. He did not know that he was to be one of those who may not -rest under their own roof, nor warm themselves at their own fires. - -God’s wayfarer, Captain Lennart, had a cheerful spirit. As he found no -one in the kitchen, he poked about like a wild boy. He threw the cat at -the dog’s head, and laughed till it rang through the house when the two -comrades let the heat of the moment break through old friendship, and -fought with tooth and nail and fiery eyes. - -The innkeeper’s wife came in, attracted by the noise. She stopped on -the threshold and looked at the man, who was laughing at the struggling -animals. She knew him well; but when she saw him last, he had been -sitting in the prison-van with handcuffs on his wrists. She remembered -it well. Five years and a half ago, during the winter fair in Karlstad, -thieves had stolen the jewels of the governor’s wife. Many rings, -bracelets, and buckles, much prized by the noble lady,—for most of them -were heirlooms and presents,—had then been lost. They had never been -found. But a rumor spread through the land that Captain Lennart at -Helgesäter was the thief. - -She had never been able to understand how such a rumor had started. He -was such a good and honorable man. He lived happily with his wife, whom -he had only a few years before brought home, for he had not been able to -afford to marry before. Had he not a good income from his pay and his -estate? What could tempt such a man to steal old bracelets and rings? -And still more strange it seemed to her that such a rumor could be so -believed, so proven, that Captain Lennart was discharged from the army, -lost his order of the Sword, and was condemned to five years’ hard labor. - -He himself had said that he had been at the market, but had left before -he heard anything of the theft. On the highway he had found an ugly old -buckle, which he had taken home and given to the children. The buckle, -however, was of gold, and belonged to the stolen things; that was the -cause of his misfortune. It had all been Sintram’s work. He had accused -him, and given the condemning testimony. It seemed as if he wanted to -get rid of Captain Lennart, for a short time after a law-suit was opened -against himself, because it had been discovered that he had sold powder -to the Norwegians during the war of 1814. People believed that he was -afraid of Captain Lennart’s testimony. As it was, he was acquitted on the -ground of not proven. - -She could not stare at him enough. His hair had grown gray and his back -bent; he must have suffered. But he still had his friendly face and his -cheerful spirit. He was still the same Captain Lennart who had led her -forward to the altar, as a bride, and danced at her wedding. She felt -sure he would still stop and chat with everybody he met on the road and -throw a copper to every child; he would still say to every wrinkled old -woman that she grew younger and prettier every day; and he would still -sometimes place himself on a barrel and play the fiddle for those who -danced about the Maypole. - -“Well, Mother Karin,” he began, “are you afraid to look at me?” - -He had come especially to hear how it was in his home, and whether they -expected him. They must know that he had worked out his time. - -The innkeeper’s wife gave him the best of news. His wife had worked like -a man. She had leased the estate from the new owner, and everything had -succeeded for her. The children were healthy, and it was a pleasure to -see them. And of course they expected him. His wife was a hard woman, who -never spoke of what she thought, but she knew that no one was allowed -to eat with Captain Lennart’s spoon or to sit in his chair while he was -away. This spring, no day had passed without her coming out to the stone -at the top of Broby hill and looking down the road. And she had put in -order new clothes for him, home-woven clothes, on which she herself had -done nearly all the work. By that one could see that he was expected, -even if she said nothing. - -“They don’t believe it, then?” said Captain Lennart. - -“No, captain,” answered the peasant woman. “Nobody believes it.” - -Then Captain Lennart would stop no longer; then he wished to go home. - -It happened that outside the door he met some dear old friends. The -pensioners at Ekeby had just come to the inn. Sintram had invited them -thither to celebrate his birthday. And the pensioners did not hesitate -a minute before shaking the convict’s hand and welcoming him home. Even -Sintram did it. - -“Dear Lennart,” he said, “were you certain that God had any meaning in it -all?” - -“Do you not think I know,” cried Captain Lennart, “that it was not our -Lord who saved you from the block?” - -The others laughed. But Sintram was not at all angry. He was pleased when -people spoke of his compact with the devil. - -Yes, then they took Captain Lennart in with them again to empty a glass -of welcome; after, he could go his way. But it went badly for him. He had -not drunk such treacherous things for five years. Perhaps he had eaten -nothing the whole day, and was exhausted by his long journey on foot. The -result was that he was quite confused after a couple of glasses. - -When the pensioners had got him into a state when he no longer knew what -he was doing, they forced on him glass after glass, and they meant no -harm by it; it was with good intention towards him, who had not tasted -anything good for five years. - -Otherwise he was one of the most sober of men. It is also easy to -understand that he had no intention to get drunk; he was to have gone -home to wife and children. But instead he was lying on the bench in the -bar-room, and was sleeping there. - -While he lay there, temptingly unconscious, Gösta took a piece of -charcoal and a little cranberry-juice and painted him. He gave him the -face of a criminal; he thought that most suitable for one who came direct -from jail. He painted a black eye, drew a red scar across his nose, -plastered his hair down on his forehead in matted tangles, and smeared -his whole face. - -They laughed at it for a while, then Gösta wished to wash it off. - -“Let it be,” said Sintram, “so that he can see it when he wakes. It will -amuse him.” - -So they left it as it was, and thought no more of the captain. The -feasting lasted the whole night. They broke up at daybreak. There was -more wine than sense in their heads. - -The question was what they should do with Captain Lennart. “We will go -home with him,” said Sintram. “Think how glad his wife will be! It will -be a pleasure to see her joy. I am moved when I think of it. Let us go -home with him!” - -They were all moved at the thought. Heavens, how glad she would be! - -They shook life into Captain Lennart and lifted him into one of the -carriages which the sleepy grooms had long since driven up. And so the -whole mob drove up to Helgesäter; some of them, half-asleep, nearly fell -out of the carriage, others sang to keep awake. They looked little better -than a company of tramps, with dull eyes and swollen faces. - -They arrived at last, left the horses in the back-yard and marched with -a certain solemnity up to the steps. Beerencreutz and Julius supported -Captain Lennart between them. - -“Pull yourself together, Lennart,” they said to him, “you are at home. -Don’t you see that you’re at home?” - -He got his eyes open and was almost sober. He was touched that they had -accompanied him home. - -“Friends,” he said, and stopped to speak to them all, “have asked God, -friends, why so much evil has passed over me.” - -“Shut up, Lennart, don’t preach!” cries Beerencreutz. - -“Let him go on,” says Sintram. “He speaks well.” - -“Have asked Him and not understood; understand now. He wanted to show me -what friends I had; friends who follow me home to see mine and my wife’s -joy. For my wife is expecting me. What are five years of misery compared -to that?” - -Now hard fists pounded on the door. The pensioners had no time to hear -more. - -Within there was commotion. The maids awoke and looked out. They threw on -their clothes, but did not dare to open for that crowd of men. At last -the bolt was drawn. The captain’s wife herself came out. - -“What do you want?” she asked. - -It was Beerencreutz who answered:— - -“We are here with your husband.” - -They pushed forward Captain Lennart, and she saw him reel towards her, -drunk, with a prize-fighter’s face; and behind him she saw the crowd of -drunken, reeling men. - -She took a step back; he followed with outstretched arms. “You left me as -a thief,” she cried, “and come home as a vagabond.” Whereupon she turned -to go in. - -He did not understand. He wished to follow her, but she struck him a blow -on the breast. - -“Do you think that I will receive such a man as you as master in my house -and over my children?” - -The door slammed and the key turned in the lock. - -Captain Lennart threw himself against the door and began to shake it. - -The pensioners could not help it, they began to laugh. He had been so -sure of his wife, and now she would have nothing to do with him. It was -absurd, they thought. - -When Captain Lennart heard them laughing, he rushed after them and -wished to beat them. They ran away and leaped into their carriages, he -after them; but in his eagerness he stumbled over a stone and fell. He -got up again, but pursued them no farther. A thought struck him in his -confusion. In this world nothing happens without God’s will, nothing. - -“Where wilt thou lead me?” he said. “I am a feather, driven by thy -breath. I am thy plaything. Whither wilt thou send me? Why dost thou shut -the doors of my home to me?” - -He turned away from his home, believing that it was God’s will. - -When the sun rose he stood at the top of Broby hill and looked out over -the valley. Ah, little did the poor people in the valley know that their -rescuer was near. No mothers as yet lifted their children on their arms -that they might see him as he came. The cottages were not clean and in -order, with the black hearth hidden by fragrant juniper. As yet the men -did not work with eager industry in the fields that his eyes might be -gladdened by the sight of cared-for crops and well-dug ditches. - -Alas, where he stood his sorrowful eyes saw the ravages of the drought, -how the crops were burned up, and how the people scarcely seemed to -trouble themselves to prepare the earth for the coming year. He looked up -at the blue mountains, and the sharp morning sun showed him the blackened -stretches where the forest-fires had passed. He understood by many small -signs, by the tumble-down fences, by the small amount of wood which -had been carted home and sawed, that the people were not looking after -their affairs, that want had come, and that they sought consolation in -indifference and brandy. - -Captain Lennart stood there on Broby hill and began to think that God -perhaps needed him. He was not called home by his wife. - -The pensioners could not at all understand what their fault had been; -Sintram held his tongue. His wife was much blamed through all the -neighborhood, because she had been too proud to receive such a good -husband. People said that any one who tried to talk to her of him was -instantly interrupted. She could not bear to hear his name spoken. -Captain Lennart did nothing to give her other thoughts. - -It was a day later. - -An old peasant is lying on his death-bed. He has taken the sacrament, and -his strength is gone; he must die. - -Restless as one who is to set off on a long journey, he has his bed moved -from the kitchen to the bedroom and from the bedroom back to the kitchen. -By that they understand, more than by the heavy rattling and the failing -eyes, that his time has come. - -Round about him stand his wife, his children, and servants. He has been -fortunate, rich, esteemed. He is not forsaken on his death-bed. The old -man speaks of himself as if he stood in the presence of God, and with -sighs and confirming words those about him bear witness that he speaks -the truth. - -“I have been an industrious worker and a kind master,” he says. “I -have loved my wife like my right hand. I have not let my children grow -up without discipline and care. I have not drunk. I have not moved my -boundary line. I have not hurried my horse up the hills. I have not let -the cows starve in winter. I have not let the sheep be tortured by their -wool in summer.” - -And round about him the weeping servants repeat like an echo: “He has -been a kind master. He has not hurried the horse up the hills, nor let -the sheep sweat in their wool in summer.” - -But through the door unnoticed a poor man has come in to ask for a little -food. He also hears the words of the dying man from where he stands -silent by the door. - -And the sick man resumes: “I have opened up the forest, I have drained -the meadows. I drove the plough in straight furrows. I built three times -as big a barn for three times as big a harvest as in my father’s time. -Of shining money I had three silver goblets made; my father only made -one. God shall give me a good place in his heaven.” - -“Our Lord will receive our master well,” say the servants. - -The man by the door hears the words, and terror fills him who for five -long years has been God’s plaything. - -He goes up to the sick man and takes his hand. - -“Friend, friend,” he says, and his voice trembles, “have you considered -who the Lord is before whose face you soon must appear? He is a great -God, a terrible God. The earth is his pasture. The storm his horse. Wide -heavens shake under the weight of his foot. And you stand before him and -say: ‘I have ploughed straight furrows, I have sowed rye, I have chopped -wood.’ Will you praise yourself to him and compare yourself to him? You -do not know how mighty the Lord is to whose kingdom you are going. - -“Do not come before your God with big words!” continues the wayfarer. -“The mighty on the earth are like threshed-out straw in his barn. -His day’s work is to make suns. He has dug out oceans and raised up -mountains. Bend before him! Lie low in the dust before your Lord, your -God! Catch like a child at the hem of his garment and beg for protection! -Humble yourself before your Creator!” - -The sick man’s eyes stand wide-open, his hands are clasped, but his face -lights up and the rattling ceases. - -“Soul, soul,” cries the man, “as surely as you now in your last hour -humble yourself before your God, will he take you like a child on his arm -and carry you into the glory of his heaven.” - -The old man gives a last sigh, and all is over. Captain Lennart bends his -head and prays. Every one in the room prays with heavy sighs. - -When they look up the old peasant lies in quiet peace. His eyes seem -still to shine with the reflection of glorious visions, his mouth smiles, -his face is beautiful. He has seen God. - -“He has seen God,” says the son, and closes the dead man’s eyes. - -“He saw heaven opening,” sob the children and servants. - -The old wife lays her shaking hand on Captain Lennart’s. - -“You helped him over the worst, captain.” - - * * * * * - -It was that hour which drove Captain Lennart out among the people. Else -he would have gone home and let his wife see his real face, but from that -time he believed that God needed him. He became God’s wayfarer, who came -with help to the poor. Distress was great, and there was much suffering -which good sense and kindness could help better than gold and power. - -Captain Lennart came one day to the poor peasants who lived in the -neighborhood of Gurlitta Cliff. Among them there was great want; there -were no more potatoes, and the rye could not be sown, as they had no seed. - -Then Captain Lennart took a little boat and rowed across the lake to Fors -and asked Sintram to give them rye and potatoes. Sintram received him -well: he took him to the big, well-stocked grain-houses and down into the -cellar, where the potatoes of last year’s crop were, and let him fill all -the bags and sacks he had with him. - -But when Sintram saw the little boat, he thought that it was too small -for such a load. He had the sacks carried to one of his big boats, and -his servant, big Mons, row it across the lake. Captain Lennart had only -his empty boat to attend to. - -He came however after Mons, for the latter was a master of rowing and a -giant in strength. Captain Lennart sits and dreams, while he rows across -the beautiful lake, and thinks of the little seed-corns’ wonderful fate. -They were to be thrown out on the black earth among stones and stubble, -but they would sprout and take root in the wilderness. He thinks how the -soft, light-green shoots will cover the earth, and how, finally, when -the ears are filled with soft, sweet kernels, the scythe will pass, and -the straws fall, and the flail thunder over them, and the mill crush the -kernels to meal, and the meal be baked into bread,—ah, how much hunger -will be satisfied by the grain in the boat in front of him! - -Sintram’s servant landed at the pier of the Gurlitta people, and many -hungry men came down to the boat. - -Then the man said, as his master had ordered:— - -“The master sends you malt and grain, peasants. He has heard that you -have no brandy.” - -Then the people became as mad. They rushed down to the boat and ran -out into the water to seize on bags and sacks, but that had never been -Captain Lennart’s meaning. He had now come, and he was furious when he -saw what they were doing. He wanted to have the potatoes for food, and -the rye for seed; he had never asked for malt. - -He called to the people to leave the sacks alone, but they did not obey. - -“May the rye turn to sand in your mouths, and the potatoes to stone in -your throats!” he cried, for he was very angry because they had taken the -grain. - -It looked as if Captain Lennart had worked a miracle. Two women, who were -fighting for a bag, tore a hole in it and found only sand; the men who -lifted up the potato-sacks, felt how heavy they were, as if filled with -stones. - -It was all sand and stones, only sand and stones. The people stood in -silent terror of God’s miracle-worker who had come to them. Captain -Lennart was himself for a moment seized with astonishment. Only Mons -laughed. - -“Go home, fellow,” said Captain Lennart, “before the peasants understand -that there has never been anything but sand in these sacks; otherwise I -am afraid they will sink your boat.” - -“I am not afraid,” said the man. - -“Go,” said Captain Lennart, with such an imperious voice that he went. - -Then Captain Lennart let the people know that Sintram had fooled them, -but they would not believe anything but that a miracle had happened. The -story of it spread soon, and as the people’s love of the supernatural -is great, it was generally believed that Captain Lennart could work -wonders. He won great power among the peasants, and they called him God’s -wayfarer. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE CHURCHYARD - - -It was a beautiful evening in August. The Löfven lay like a mirror, haze -veiled the mountains, it was the cool of the evening. - -There came Beerencreutz, the colonel with the white moustaches, short, -strong as a wrestler, and with a pack of cards in his coat pocket, to -the shore of the lake, and sat down in a flat-bottomed boat. With him -were Major Anders Fuchs, his old brother-at-arms, and little Ruster, -the flute-player, who had been drummer in the Värmland _chasseurs_, and -during many years had followed the colonel as his friend and servant. - -On the other shore of the lake lies the churchyard, the neglected -churchyard, of the Svartsjö parish, sparsely set with crooked, rattling -iron crosses, full of hillocks like an unploughed meadow, overgrown with -sedges and striped grasses, which had been sowed there as a reminder that -no man’s life is like another’s, but changes like the leaf of the grass. -There are no gravel walks there, no shading trees except the big linden -on the forgotten grave of some old priest. A stone wall, rough and high, -encloses the miserable field. Miserable and desolate is the churchyard, -ugly as the face of a miser, which has withered at the laments of those -whose happiness he has stolen. And yet they who rest there are blessed, -they who have been sunk into consecrated earth to the sound of psalms -and prayers. Acquilon, the gambler, he who died last year at Ekeby, -had had to be buried outside the wall. That man, who once had been so -proud and courtly, the brave warrior, the bold hunter, the gambler who -held fortune in his hand, he had ended by squandering his children’s -inheritance, all that he had gained himself, all that his wife had saved. -Wife and children he had forsaken many years before, to lead the life of -a pensioner at Ekeby. One evening in the past summer he had played away -the farm which gave them their means of subsistence. Rather than to pay -his debt he had shot himself. But the suicide’s body was buried outside -the moss-grown wall of the miserable churchyard. - -Since he died the pensioners had only been twelve; since he died no one -had come to take the place of the thirteenth,—no one but the devil, who -on Christmas Eve had crept out of the furnace. - -The pensioners had found his fate more bitter than that of his -predecessors. Of course they knew that one of them must die each year. -What harm was there in that? Pensioners may not be old. Can their dim -eyes no longer distinguish the cards, can their trembling hands no longer -lift the glass, what is life for them, and what are they for life? But -to lie like a dog by the churchyard wall, where the protecting sods may -not rest in peace, but are trodden by grazing sheep, wounded by spade -and plough, where the wanderer goes by without slackening his pace, and -where the children play without subduing their laughter and jests,—to -rest there, where the stone wall prevents the sound from coming when the -angel of the day of doom wakes with his trumpet the dead within,—oh, to -lie there! - -Beerencreutz rows his boat over the Löfven. He passes in the evening -over the lake of my dreams, about whose shores I have seen gods wander, -and from whose depths my magic palace rises. He rows by Lagön’s lagoons, -where the pines stand right up from the water, growing on low, circular -shoals, and where the ruin of the tumble-down Viking castle still remains -on the steep summit of the island; he rows under the pine grove on Borg’s -point, where one old tree still hangs on thick roots over the cleft, -where a mighty bear had been caught and where old mounds and graves bear -witness of the age of the place. - -He rows to the other side of the point, gets out below the churchyard, -and then walks over mowed fields, which belong to the count at Borg, to -Acquilon’s grave. - -Arrived there, he bends down and pats the turf, as one lightly caresses -the blanket under which a sick friend is lying. Then he takes out a pack -of cards and sits down beside the grave. - -“He is so lonely outside here, Johan Fredrik. He must long sometimes for -a game.” - -“It is a sin and a shame that such a man shall lie here,” says the great -bear-hunter, Anders Fuchs, and sits down at his side. - -But little Ruster, the flute-player, speaks with broken voice, while the -tears run from his small red eyes. - -“Next to you, colonel, next to you he was the finest man I have ever -known.” - -These three worthy men sit round the grave and deal the cards seriously -and with zeal. - -I look out over the world, I see many graves. There rest the mighty ones -of the earth, weighed down by marble. Funeral marches thunder over them. -Standards are sunk over those graves. I see the graves of those who have -been much loved. Flowers, wet with tears, caressed with kisses, rest -lightly on their green sods. I see forgotten graves, arrogant graves, -lying resting-places, and others which say nothing, but never before did -I see the right-bower and the joker with the bells in his cap offered as -entertainment to a grave’s occupant. - -“Johan Fredrik has won,” says the colonel, proudly. “Did I not know it? I -taught him to play. Yes, now we are dead, we three, and he alone alive.” - -Thereupon he gathers together the cards, rises, and goes, followed by the -others, back to Ekeby. - -May the dead man have known and felt that not every one has forgotten him -or his forsaken grave. - -Strange homage wild hearts bring to them they love; but he who lies -outside the wall, he whose dead body was not allowed to rest in -consecrated ground, he ought to be glad that not every one has rejected -him. - -Friends, children of men, when I die I shall surely rest in the middle of -the churchyard, in the tomb of my ancestors. I shall not have robbed my -family of their means of subsistence, nor lifted my hand against my own -life, but certainly I have not won such a love, surely will no one do as -much for me as the pensioners did for that culprit. It is certain that -no one will come in the evening, when the sun sets and it is lonely and -dreary in the gardens of the dead, to place between my bony fingers the -many-colored cards. - -Not even will any one come, which would please me more,—for cards tempt -me little,—with fiddle and bow to the grave, that my spirit, which -wanders about the mouldering dust, may rock in the flow of melody like a -swan on glittering waves. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -OLD SONGS - - -Marianne Sinclair sat one quiet afternoon at the end of August in her -room and arranged her old letters and other papers. - -Round about her was disorder. Great leather trunks and iron bound boxes -had been dragged into the room. Her clothes covered the chairs and -sofas. From attics and wardrobes and from the stained chests of drawers -everything had been taken out, glistening silk and linen, jewels spread -out to be polished, shawls and furs to be selected and inspected. - -Marianne was making herself ready for a long journey. She was not certain -if she should ever return to her home. She was at a turning-point in her -life and therefore burned a mass of old letters and diaries. She did not -wish to be weighed down with records of the past. - -As she sits there, she finds a bundle of old verses. They were copies of -old ballads, which her mother used to sing to her when she was little. -She untied the string which held them together, and began to read. - -She smiled sadly when she had read for a while; the old songs spoke -strange wisdom. - -Have no faith in happiness, have no faith in the appearance of happiness, -have no faith in roses. - -“Trust not laughter,” they said. “See, the lovely maiden Valborg drives -in a golden coach, and her lips smile, but she is as sorrowful as if -hoofs and wheels were passing over her life’s happiness.” - -“Trust not the dance,” they said. “Many a foot whirls lightly over -polished floor, while the heart is heavy as lead.” - -“Trust not the jest,” they said. “Many a one goes to the feast with -jesting lips, while she longs to die for pain.” - -In what shall one believe? In tears and sorrow! - -He who is sorrowful can force himself to smile, but he who is glad cannot -weep. - -But joy is only sorrow disguised. There is nothing real on earth but -sorrow. - -She went to the window and looked out into the garden, where her parents -were walking. They went up and down the broad paths and talked of -everything which met their eyes, of the grass and the birds. - -“See,” said Marianne, “there goes a heart which sighs with sorrow, -because it has never been so happy before.” - -And she thought suddenly that perhaps everything really depended on the -person himself, that sorrow and joy depended upon the different ways of -looking at things. She asked herself if it were joy or sorrow which had -passed over her that year. She hardly knew herself. - -She had lived through a bitter time. Her soul had been sick. She had been -bowed down to the earth by her deep humiliation. For when she returned to -her home she had said to herself, “I will remember no evil of my father.” -But her heart did not agree. “He has caused me such mortal pain,” it -said; “he has parted me from him I loved; he made me desperate when he -struck my mother. I wish him no harm, but I am afraid of him.” And then -she noticed how she had to force herself to sit still when her father -sat down beside her; she longed to flee from him. She tried to control -herself; she talked with him as usual and was almost always with him. She -could conquer herself, but she suffered beyond endurance. She ended by -detesting everything about him: his coarse loud voice, his heavy tread, -his big hands. She wished him no harm, but she could no longer be near -him without a feeling of fear and repulsion. Her repressed heart revenged -itself. “You would not let me love,” it said, “but I am nevertheless your -master; you shall end by hating.” - -Accustomed as she was to observe everything which stirred within her, -she saw too well how this repulsion became stronger, how it grew each -day. At the same time she seemed to be tied forever to her home. She knew -that it would be best for her to go away among people, but she could not -bring herself to it since her illness. It would never be any better. She -would only be more and more tortured, and some day her self-control would -give way, and she would burst out before her father and show him the -bitterness of her heart, and then there would be strife and unhappiness. - -So had the spring and early summer passed. In July she had become engaged -to Baron Adrian, in order to have her own home. - -One fine forenoon Baron Adrian had galloped up to the house, riding a -magnificent horse. His hussar jacket had shone in the sun, his spurs and -sword and belt had glittered and flashed, to say nothing of his own fresh -face and smiling eyes. - -Melchior Sinclair had stood on the steps and welcomed him when he came. -Marianne had sat at the window and sewed. She had seen him come, and now -heard every word he said to her father. - -“Good-day, Sir Sunshine!” cried Melchior. “How fine you are! You are not -out to woo?” - -“Yes, yes, uncle, that is just what I am,” he answered, and laughed. - -“Is there no shame in you, boy? What have you to maintain a wife with?” - -“Nothing, uncle. Had I anything, I would never get married.” - -“Do you say that, do you say that, Sir Sunshine? But that fine -jacket,—you have had money enough to get you that?” - -“On credit, uncle.” - -“And the horse you are riding, that is worth a lot of money, I can tell -you. Where did you get that?” - -“The horse is not mine, uncle.” - -This was more than Melchior could withstand. - -“God be with you, boy,” he said. “You do indeed need a wife who has -something. If you can win Marianne, take her.” - -So everything had been made clear between them before Baron Adrian had -even dismounted. But Melchior Sinclair knew very well what he was about, -for Baron Adrian was a fine fellow. - -Then the suitor had come in to Marianne and immediately burst out with -his errand. - -“Oh, Marianne, dear Marianne. I have already spoken to uncle. I would -like so much to have you for my wife. Say that you will, Marianne.” - -She had got at the truth. The old baron, his father, had let himself be -cheated into buying some used-up mines again. The old baron had been -buying mines all his life, and never had anything been found in them. -His mother was anxious, he himself was in debt, and now he was proposing -to her in order to thereby save the home of his ancestors and his hussar -jacket. - -His home was Hedeby; it lay on the other side of the lake, almost -opposite Björne. She knew him well; they were of the same age and -playmates. - -“You might marry me, Marianne. I lead such a wretched life. I have to -ride on borrowed horses and cannot pay my tailor’s bills. It can’t go on. -I shall have to resign, and then I shall shoot myself.” - -“But, Adrian, what kind of a marriage would it be? We are not in the -least in love with one another.” - -“Oh, as for love, I care nothing for all that nonsense,” he had then -explained. “I like to ride a good horse and to hunt, but I am no -pensioner, I am a worker. If I only could get some money, so that I could -take charge of the estate at home and give my mother some peace in her -old age, I should be happy. I should both plough and sow, for I like -work.” - -Then he had looked at her with his honest eyes, and she knew that he -spoke the truth and that he was a man to depend upon. She engaged herself -to him, chiefly to get away from her home, but also because she had -always liked him. - -But never would she forget that month which followed the August evening -when her engagement was announced,—all that time of madness. - -Baron Adrian became each day sadder and more silent. He came very often -to Björne, sometimes several times a day, but she could not help noticing -how depressed he was. With others he could still jest, but with her he -was impossible, silent and bored. She understood what was the matter: it -was not so easy as he had believed to marry an ugly woman. No one knew -better than she how ugly she was. She had shown him that she did not -want any caresses or love-making, but he was nevertheless tortured by -the thought of her as his wife, and it seemed worse to him day by day. -Why did he care? Why did he not break it off? She had given hints which -were plain enough. She could do nothing. Her father had told her that her -reputation would not bear any more ventures in being engaged. Then she -had despised them both, and any way seemed good enough to get away from -them. But only a couple of days after the great engagement feast a sudden -and wonderful change had come. - - * * * * * - -In the path in front of the steps at Björne lay a big stone, which caused -much trouble and vexation. Carriages rolled over it, horses and people -tripped on it, the maids who came with heavy milk cans ran against it and -spilled the milk; but the stone remained, because it had already lain -there so many years. It had been there in the time of Sinclair’s parents, -long before any one had thought of building at Björne. He did not see why -he should take it up. - -But one day at the end of August, two maids, who were carrying a heavy -tub, tripped over the stone; they fell, hurt themselves badly, and the -feeling against the stone grew strong. - -It was early in the morning. Melchior was out on his morning walk, but as -the workmen were about the house between eight and nine, Madame Gustava -had several of them come and dig up the big stone. - -They came with iron levers and spades, dug and strained, and at last got -the old disturber of the peace up out of his hole. Then they carried him -away to the back yard. It was work for six men. - -The stone was hardly taken up before Melchior came home. You can believe -that he was angry. It was no longer the same place, he thought. Who had -dared to move the stone? Madame Gustava had given the order. Those women -had no heart in their bodies. Did not his wife know that he loved that -stone? - -And then he went direct to the stone, lifted it, and carried it across -the yard to the place where it had lain, and there he flung it down. And -it was a stone which six men could scarcely lift. That deed was mightily -admired through the whole of Värmland. - -While he carried the stone across the yard, Marianne had stood at the -dining-room window and looked at him. He was her master, that terrible -man with his boundless strength,—an unreasonable, capricious master, who -thought of nothing but his own pleasure. - -They were in the midst of breakfast, and she had a carving-knife in her -hand. Involuntarily she lifted the knife. - -Madame Gustava seized her by the wrist. - -“Marianne!” - -“What is the matter, mother?” - -“Oh, Marianne, you looked so strange! I was frightened.” - -Marianne looked at her. She was a little, dry woman, gray and wrinkled -already at fifty. She loved like a dog, without remembering knocks and -blows. She was generally good-humored, and yet she made a melancholy -impression. She was like a storm-whipped tree by the sea; she had never -had quiet to grow. She had learned to use mean shifts, to lie when -needed, and often made herself out more stupid than she was to escape -taunts. In everything she was the tool of her husband. - -“Would you grieve much if father died?” asked Marianne. - -“Marianne, you are angry with your father. You are always angry with him. -Why cannot everything be forgotten, since you have got a new fiancé?” - -“Oh, mother, it is not my fault. Can I help shuddering at him? Do you not -see what he is? Why should I care for him? He is violent, he is uncouth, -he has tortured you till you are prematurely old. Why is he our master? -He behaves like a madman. Why shall I honor and respect him? He is not -good, he is not charitable. I know that he is strong. He is capable of -beating us to death at any moment. He can turn us out of the house when -he will. Is that why I should love him?” - -But then Madame Gustava had been as never before. She had found strength -and courage and had spoken weighty words. - -“You must take care, Marianne. It almost seems to me as if your father -was right when he shut you out last winter. You shall see that you will -be punished for this. You must teach yourself to bear without hating, -Marianne, to suffer without revenge.” - -“Oh, mother, I am so unhappy.” - -Immediately after, they heard in the hall the sound of a heavy fall. - -They never knew if Melchior Sinclair had stood on the steps and through -the open dining-room door had heard Marianne’s words, or if it was only -over-exertion which had been the cause of the stroke. When they came out -he lay unconscious. They never dared to ask him the cause. He himself -never made any sign that he had heard anything. Marianne never dared to -think the thought out that she had involuntarily revenged herself. But -the sight of her father lying on the very steps where she had learnt to -hate him took all bitterness from her heart. - -He soon returned to consciousness, and when he had kept quiet a few days, -he was like himself—and yet not at all like. - -Marianne saw her parents walking together in the garden. It was always so -now. He never went out alone, grumbled at guests and at everything which -separated him from his wife. Old age had come upon him. He could not -bring himself to write a letter; his wife had to do it. He never decided -anything by himself, but asked her about everything and let it be as she -decided. And he was always gentle and kind. He noticed the change which -had come over him, and how happy his wife was. “She is well off now,” he -said one day to Marianne, and pointed to Madame Gustava. - -“Oh, dear Melchior,” she cried, “you know very well that I would rather -have you strong again.” - -And she really meant it. It was her joy to speak of him as he was in the -days of his strength. She told how he held his own in riot and revel as -well as any of the Ekeby pensioners, how he had done good business and -earned much money, just when she thought that he in his madness would -lose house and lands. But Marianne knew that she was happy in spite of -all her complaints. To be everything to her husband was enough for her. -They both looked old, prematurely broken. Marianne thought that she -could see their future life. He would get gradually weaker and weaker; -other strokes would make him more helpless, and she would watch over him -until death parted them. But the end might be far distant. Madame Gustava -could enjoy her happiness in peace still for a time. It must be so, -Marianne thought. Life owed her some compensation. - -For her too it was better. No fretting despair forced her to marry to get -another master. Her wounded heart had found peace. She had to acknowledge -that she was a truer, richer, nobler person than before; what could she -wish undone of what had happened? Was it true that all suffering was -good? Could everything be turned to happiness? She had begun to consider -everything good which could help to develop her to a higher degree of -humanity. The old songs were not right. Sorrow was not the only lasting -thing. She would now go out into the world and look about for some place -where she was needed. If her father had been in his old mood, he would -never have allowed her to break her engagement. Now Madame Gustava had -arranged the matter. Marianne had even been allowed to give Baron Adrian -the money he needed. - -She could think of him too with pleasure, she would be free from him. -With his bravery and love of life he had always reminded her of Gösta; -now she should see him glad again. He would again be that sunny knight -who had come in his glory to her father’s house. She would get him lands -where he could plough and dig as much as his heart desired, and she would -see him lead a beautiful bride to the altar. - -With such thoughts she sits down and writes to give him back his -freedom. She writes gentle, persuasive words, sense wrapped up in jests, -and yet so that he must understand how seriously she means it. - -While she writes she hears hoof-beats on the road. - -“My dear Sir Sunshine,” she thinks, “it is the last time.” - -Baron Adrian immediately after comes into her room. - -“What, Adrian, are you coming in here?” and she looks dismayed at all her -packing. - -He is shy and embarrassed and stammers out an excuse. - -“I was just writing to you,” she says. “Look, you might as well read it -now.” - -He takes the letter and she sits and watches him while he reads. She -longs to see his face light up with joy. - -But he has not read far before he grows fiery red, throws the letter on -the floor, stamps on it, and swears terrible oaths. - -Marianne trembles slightly. She is no novice in the study of love; still -she has not before understood this inexperienced boy, this great child. - -“Adrian, dear Adrian,” she says, “what kind of a comedy have you played -with me? Come and tell me the truth.” - -He came and almost suffocated her with caresses. Poor boy, so he had -cared and longed. - -After a while she looked out. There walked Madame Gustava and talked with -her husband of flowers and birds, and here she sat and chatted of love. -“Life has let us both feel its serious side,” she thought, and smiled -sadly. “It wants to comfort us; we have each got her big child to play -with.” - -However, it was good to be loved. It was sweet to hear him whisper of the -magical power which she possessed, of how he had been ashamed of what he -had said at their first conversation. He had not then known what charm -she had. Oh, no man could be near her without loving her, but she had -frightened him; he had felt so strangely subdued. - -It was not happiness, nor unhappiness, but she would try to live with -this man. - -She began to understand herself, and thought of the words of the old -songs about the turtle-dove. It never drinks clear water, but first -muddies it with its foot so that it may better suit its sorrowful spirit. -So too should she never go to the spring of life and drink pure, unmixed -happiness. Troubled with sorrow, life pleased her best. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -DEATH, THE DELIVERER - - -My pale friend, Death the deliverer, came in August, when the nights -were white with moonlight, to the house of Captain Uggla. But he did not -dare to go direct into that hospitable home, for they are few who love -him, and he does not wish to be greeted with weeping, rather with quiet -joy,—he who comes to set free the soul from the fetters of pain, he who -delivers the soul from the burden of the body and lets it enjoy the -beautiful life of the spheres. - -Into the old grove behind the house, crept Death. In the grove, which -then was young and full of green, my pale friend hid himself by day, -but at night he stood at the edge of the wood, white and pale, with his -scythe glittering in the moonlight. - -Death stood there, and the creatures of the night saw him. Evening after -evening the people at Berga heard how the fox howled to foretell his -coming. The snake crawled up the sandy path to the very house. He could -not speak, but they well understood that he came as a presage. And in the -apple-tree outside the window of the captain’s wife the owl hooted. For -everything in nature feels Death and trembles. - -It happened that the judge from Munkerud, who had been at a festival at -the Bro deanery, drove by Berga at two o’clock in the night and saw a -candle burning in the window of the guest-room. He plainly saw the yellow -flame and the white candle, and, wondering, he afterwards told of the -candle which had burned in the summer night. - -The gay daughters at Berga laughed and said that the judge had the gift -of second sight, for there were no candles in the house, they were -already burned up in March; and the captain swore that no one had slept -in the guest-room for days and weeks; but his wife was silent and grew -pale, for that white candle with the clear flame used to show itself when -one of her family should be set free by Death. - -A short time after, Ferdinand came home from a surveying journey in the -northern forests. He came, pale and ill with an incurable disease of the -lungs, and as soon as his mother saw him, she knew that her son must die. - -He must go, that good son who had never given his parents a sorrow. He -must leave earth’s pleasures and happiness, and the beautiful, beloved -bride who awaited him, and the rich estates which should have been his. - -At last, when my pale friend had waited a month, he took heart and went -one night up to the house. He thought how hunger and privation had there -been met by glad faces, so why should not he too be received with joy? - -That night the captain’s wife, who lay awake, heard a knocking on the -window-pane, and she sat up in bed and asked: “Who is it who knocks?” - -And the old people tell that Death answered her: - -“It is Death who knocks.” - -Then she rose up, opened her window, and saw bats and owls fluttering in -the moonlight, but Death she did not see. - -“Come,” she said half aloud, “friend and deliverer! Why have you lingered -so long? I have been waiting. I have called. Come and set my son free!” - -The next day, she sat by her son’s sick-bed and spoke to him of the -blissfulness of the liberated spirit and of its glorious life. - -So Ferdinand died, enchanted by bright visions, smiling at the glory to -come. - -Death had never seen anything so beautiful. For of course there were some -who wept by Ferdinand Uggla’s death-bed; but the sick man himself smiled -at the man with the scythe, when he took his place on the edge of the -bed, and his mother listened to the death-rattle as if to sweet music. -She trembled lest Death should not finish his work; and when the end -came, tears fell from her eyes, but they were tears of joy which wet her -son’s stiffened face. - -Never had Death been so fêted as at Ferdinand Uggla’s burial. - -It was a wonderful funeral procession which passed under the lindens. In -front of the flower-decked coffin beautiful children walked and strewed -flowers. There was no mourning-dress, no crape; for his mother had wished -that he who died with joy should not be followed to the good refuge by a -gloomy funeral procession, but by a shining wedding train. - -Following the coffin, went Anna Stjärnhök, the dead man’s beautiful, -glowing bride. She had set a bridal wreath on her head, hung a bridal -veil over her, and arrayed herself in a bridal dress of white, shimmering -satin. So adorned, she went to be wedded at the grave to a mouldering -bridegroom. - -Behind her they came, two by two, dignified old ladies and stately -men. The ladies came in shining buckles and brooches, with strings of -milk-white pearls and bracelets of gold. Ostrich feathers nodded in -their bonnets of silk and lace, and from their shoulders floated thin -silken shawls over dresses of many-colored satin. And their husbands came -in their best array, in high-collared coats with gilded buttons, with -swelling ruffles, and in vests of stiff brocade or richly-embroidered -velvet. It was a wedding procession; the captain’s wife had wished it so. - -She herself walked next after Anna Stjärnhök, led by her husband. If she -had possessed a dress of shining brocade, she would have worn it; if she -had possessed jewels and a gay bonnet, she would have worn them too to -do honor to her son on his festival day. But she only had the black silk -dress and the yellowed laces which had adorned so many feasts, and she -wore them here too. - -Although all the guests came in their best array, there was not a dry -eye when they walked forward to the grave. Men and women wept, not so -much for the dead, as for themselves. There walked the bride; there the -bridegroom was carried; there they themselves wandered, decked out for -a feast, and yet—who is there who walks earth’s green pathways and does -not know that his lot is affliction, sorrow, unhappiness, and death. They -wept at the thought that nothing on earth could save them. - -The captain’s wife did not weep; but she was the only one whose eyes were -dry. - -When the prayers were read, and the grave filled in, all went away to -the carriages. Only the mother and Anna Stjärnhök lingered by the grave -to bid their dead a last good-bye. The older woman sat down on the -grave-mound, and Anna placed herself at her side. - -“Anna,” said the captain’s wife, “I have said to God: ‘Let Death come -and take away my son, let him take away him I love most, and only tears -of joy shall come to my eyes; with nuptial pomp I will follow him to his -grave, and my red rose-bush, which stands outside my chamber-window, -will I move to him in the graveyard.’ And now it has come to pass my -son is dead. I have greeted Death like a friend, called him by the -tenderest names; I have wept tears of joy over my son’s dead face, and in -the autumn, when the leaves are fallen, I shall plant my red rose-bush -here. But do you know, you who sit here at my side, why I have sent such -prayers to God?” - -She looked questioningly at Anna Stjärnhök; but the girl sat silent and -pale beside her. Perhaps she was struggling to silence inward voices -which already there, on the grave of the dead, began to whisper to her -that now at last she was free. - -“The fault is yours,” said the captain’s wife. - -The girl sank down as from a blow. She did not answer a word. - -“Anna Stjärnhök, you were once proud and self-willed: you played with my -son, took him and cast him off. But what of that? He had to accept it, as -well as another. Perhaps too he and we all loved your money as much as -you. But you came back, you came with a blessing to our home; you were -gentle and mild, strong and kind, when you came again. You cherished us -with love; you made us so happy, Anna Stjärnhök; and we poor people lay -at your feet. - -“And yet, and yet I have wished that you had not come. Then had I not -needed to pray to God to shorten my son’s life. At Christmas he could -have borne to lose you, but after he had learnt to know you, such as you -now are, he would not have had the strength. - -“You know, Anna Stjärnhök, who to-day have put on your bridal dress to -follow my son, that if he had lived you would never have followed him in -that attire to the Bro church, for you did not love him. - -“I saw that you only came out of pity, for you wanted to relieve our hard -lot. You did not love him. Do you not think that I know love, that I see -it, when it is there, and understand when it is lacking. Then I thought: -‘May God take my son’s life before he has his eyes opened!’ - -“Oh, if you had loved him! Oh, if you had never come to us and sweetened -our lives, when you did not love him! I knew my duty: if he had not died, -I should have been forced to tell him that you did not love him, that -you were marrying him out of pity. I must have made him set you free, -and then his life’s happiness would have been gone. That is why I prayed -to God that he might die, that I should not need to disturb the peace of -his heart. And I have rejoiced over his sunken cheeks, exulted over his -rattling breath, trembled lest Death should not complete his work.” - -She stopped speaking, and waited for an answer; but Anna Stjärnhök could -not speak, she was still listening to the many voices in her soul. - -Then the mother cried out in despair:— - -“Oh, how happy are they who may mourn for their dead, they who may weep -streams of tears! I must stand with dry eyes by my son’s grave, I must -rejoice over his death! How unhappy I am!” - -Then Anna Stjärnhök pressed her hands against her breast. She remembered -that winter night when she had sworn by her love to be these poor -people’s support and comfort, and she trembled. Had it all been in vain; -was not her sacrifice one of those which God accepts? Should it all be -turned to a curse? - -But if she sacrificed everything would not God then give His blessing to -the work, and let her bring happiness, be a support, a help, to these -people? - -“What is required for you to be able to mourn for your son?” she asked. - -“That I shall not believe the testimony of my old eyes. If I believed -that you loved my son, then I would grieve for his death.” - -The girl rose up, her eyes burning. She tore off her veil and spread it -over the grave, she tore off her wreath and laid it beside it. - -“See how I love him!” she cried. “I give him my wreath and veil. I -consecrate myself to him. I will never belong to another.” - -Then the captain’s wife rose too. She stood silent for a while; her -whole body was shaking, and her face twitched, but at last the tears -came,—tears of grief. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE DROUGHT - - -If dead things love, if earth and water distinguish friends from enemies, -I should like to possess their love. I should like the green earth not -to feel my step as a heavy burden. I should like her to forgive that she -for my sake is wounded by plough and harrow, and willingly to open for my -dead body. And I should like the waves, whose shining mirror is broken by -my oars, to have the same patience with me as a mother has with an eager -child when it climbs up on her knee, careless of the uncrumpled silk of -her dress. - -The spirit of life still dwells in dead things. Have you not seen it? -When strife and hate fill the earth, dead things must suffer too. Then -the waves are wild and ravenous; then the fields are niggardly as a -miser. But woe to him for whose sake the woods sigh and the mountains -weep. - -Memorable was the year when the pensioners were in power. If one could -tell of everything which happened that year to the people by Löfven’s -shores a world would be surprised. For then old love wakened, then new -was kindled. Old hate blazed up, and long cherished revenge seized its -prey. - -From Ekeby this restless infection went forth; it spread first through -the manors and estates, and drove men to ruin and to crime. It ran from -village to village, from cottage to cottage. Everywhere hearts became -wild, and brains confused. Never did the dance whirl so merrily at the -cross-roads; never was the beer-barrel so quickly emptied; never was so -much grain turned into brandy. Never were there so many balls; never -was the way shorter from the angry word to the knife-thrust. But the -uneasiness was not only among men. It spread through all living things. -Never had wolf and bear ravaged so fiercely; never had fox and owl howled -so terribly, and plundered so boldly; never did the sheep go so often -astray in the wood; never did so much sickness rage among the cattle. - -He who will see how everything hangs together must leave the towns and -live in a lonely hut at the edge of the forest; then he will learn to -notice nature’s every sign and to understand how the dead things depend -on the living. He will see that when there is restlessness on the earth, -the peace of the dead things is disturbed. The people know it. It is in -such times that the wood-nymph puts out the charcoal-kiln, the sea-nymph -breaks the boat to pieces, the river-sprite sends illness, the goblin -starves the cow. And it was so that year. Never had the spring freshets -done so much damage. The mill and smithy at Ekeby were not the only -offerings. Never had the lightning laid waste so much already before -midsummer—after midsummer came the drought. - -As long as the long days lasted, no rain came. From the middle of June -till the beginning of September, the country was bathed in continual -sunshine. - -The rain refused to fall, the earth to nourish, the winds to blow. -Sunshine only streamed down on the earth. The grass was not yet high and -could not grow; the rye was without nourishment, just when it should -have collected food in its ears; the wheat, from which most of the bread -was baked, never came up more than a few inches; the late sowed turnips -never sprouted; not even the potatoes could draw sustenance from that -petrified earth. - -At such times they begin to be frightened far away in the forest huts, -and from the mountains the terror comes down to the calmer people on the -plain. - -“There is some one whom God’s hand is seeking!” say the people. - -And each one beats his breast and says: “Is it I? Is it from horror of me -that the rain holds back? Is it in wrath against me that the stern earth -dries up and hardens?—and the perpetual sunshine,—is it to heap coals of -fire on my head? Or if it is not I, who is it whom God’s hand is seeking?” - -It was a Sunday in August. The service was over. The people wandered in -groups along the sunny roads. On all sides they saw burned woods and -ruined crops. There had been many forest fires; and what they had spared, -insects had taken. - -The gloomy people did not lack for subjects of conversation. There were -many who could tell how hard it had been in the years of famine of -eighteen hundred and eight and nine, and in the cold winter of eighteen -hundred and twelve, when the sparrows froze to death. They knew how to -make bread out of bark, and how the cows could be taught to eat moss. - -There was one woman who had tried a new kind of bread of cranberries and -corn-meal. She had a sample with her, and let the people taste it. She -was proud of her invention. - -But over them all floated the same question. It stared from every eye, -was whispered by every lip: “Who is it, O Lord, whom Thy hand seeks?” - -A man in the gloomy crowd which had gone westward, and struggled up Broby -hill, stopped a minute before the path which led up to the house of the -mean Broby clergyman. He picked up a dry stick from the ground and threw -it upon the path. - -“Dry as that stick have the prayers been which he has given our Lord,” -said the man. - -He who walked next to him also stopped. He took up a dry branch and threw -it where the stick had fallen. - -“That is the proper offering to that priest,” he said. - -The third in the crowd followed the others’ example. - -“He has been like the drought; sticks and straw are all that he has let -us keep.” - -The fourth said: “We give him back what he has given us.” - -And the fifth: “For a perpetual disgrace I throw this to him. May he dry -up and wither away like this branch!” - -“Dry food to the dry priest,” said the sixth. - -The people who came after see what they are doing and hear what they say. -Now they get the answer to their long questioning. - -“Give him what belongs to him! He has brought the drought on us.” - -And each one stops, each one says his word and throws his branch before -he goes on. - -In the corner by the path there soon lies a pile of sticks and straw,—a -pile of shame for the Broby clergyman. - -That was their only revenge. No one lifted his hand against the -clergyman or said an angry word to him. Desperate hearts cast off part -of their burden by throwing a dry branch on the pile. They did not -revenge themselves. They only pointed out the guilty one to the God of -retribution. - -“If we have not worshipped you rightly, it is that man’s fault. Be -pitiful, Lord, and let him alone suffer! We mark him with shame and -dishonor. We are not with him.” - -It soon became the custom for every one who passed the vicarage to throw -a dry branch on the pile of shame. - -The old miser soon noticed the pile by the roadside. He had it carried -away,—some said that he heated his stove with it. The next day a new pile -had collected on the same spot, and as soon as he had that taken away a -new one was begun. - -The dry branches lay there and said: “Shame, shame to the Broby -clergyman!” - -Soon the people’s meaning became clear to him. He understood that they -pointed to him as the origin of their misfortune. It was in wrath at -him God let the earth languish. He tried to laugh at them and their -branches; but when it had gone on a week, he laughed no more. Oh, what -childishness! How can those dry sticks injure him? He understood that -the hate of years sought an opportunity of expressing itself. What of -that?—he was not used to love. - -For all this he did not become more gentle. He had perhaps wished to -improve after the old lady had visited him; now he could not. He would -not be forced to it. - -But gradually the pile grew too strong for him. He thought of it -continually, and the feeling which every one cherished took root also in -him. He watched the pile, counted the branches which had been added each -day. The thought of it encroached upon all other thoughts. The pile was -destroying him. - -Every day he felt more and more the people were right. He grew thin -and very old in a couple of weeks. He suffered from remorse and -indisposition. But it was as if everything depended on that pile. It was -as if his remorse would grow silent, and the weight of years be lifted -off him, if only the pile would stop growing. - -Finally he sat there the whole day and watched; but the people were -without mercy. At night there were always new branches thrown on. - - * * * * * - -One day Gösta Berling passed along the road. The Broby clergyman sat at -the roadside, old and haggard. He sat and picked out the dry sticks and -laid them together in rows and piles, playing with them as if he were a -child again. Gösta was grieved at his misery. - -“What are you doing, pastor?” he says, and leaps out of the carriage. - -“Oh, I am sitting here and picking. I am not doing anything.” - -“You had better go home, and not sit here in the dust.” - -“It is best that I sit here.” - -Then Gösta Berling sits down beside him. - -“It is not so easy to be a priest,” he says after a while. - -“It is all very well down here where there are people,” answers the -clergyman. “It is worse up there.” - -Gösta understands what he means. He knows those parishes in Northern -Värmland where sometimes there is not even a house for the clergyman, -where there are not more than a couple of people in ten miles of country, -where the clergyman is the only educated man. The Broby minister had been -in such a parish for over twenty years. - -“That is where we are sent when we are young,” says Gösta. “It is -impossible to hold out with such a life; and so one is ruined forever. -There are many who have gone under up there.” - -“Yes,” says the Broby clergyman; “a man is destroyed by loneliness.” - -“A man comes,” says Gösta, “eager and ardent, exhorts and admonishes, and -thinks that all will be well, that the people will soon turn to better -ways.” - -“Yes, yes.” - -“But soon he sees that words do not help. Poverty stands in the way. -Poverty prevents all improvement.” - -“Poverty,” repeats the clergyman,—“poverty has ruined my life.” - -“The young minister comes up there,” continues Gösta, “poor as all the -others. He says to the drunkard: Stop drinking!” - -“Then the drunkard answers,” interrupts the clergyman: “Give me something -which is better than brandy! Brandy is furs in winter, coolness in -summer. Brandy is a warm house and a soft bed. Give me those, and I will -drink no more.” - -“And then,” resumes Gösta, “the minister says to the thief: You shall -not steal; and to the cruel husband: You shall not beat your wife; and -to the superstitious: You shall believe in God and not in devils and -goblins. But the thief answers: Give me bread; and the cruel husband -says: Make us rich, and we will not quarrel; and the superstitious say: -Teach us better. But who can help them without money?” - -“It is true, true every word,” cried the clergyman. “They believed in -God, but more in the devil, and most in the mountain goblin. The crops -were all turned into the still. There seemed to be no end to the misery. -In most of the gray cottages there was want. Hidden sorrow made the -women’s tongues bitter. Discomfort drove their husbands to drink. They -could not look after their fields or their cattle. They made a fool of -their minister. What could a man do with them? They did not understand -what I said to them from the pulpit. They did not believe what I wanted -to teach them. And no one to consult, no one who could help me to keep up -my courage.” - -“There are those who have stood out,” says Gösta. “God’s grace has been -so great to some that they have not returned from such a life broken men. -They have had strength; they have borne the loneliness, the poverty, -the hopelessness. They have done what little good they could and have -not despaired. Such men have always been and still are. I greet them as -heroes. I will honor them as long as I live. I was not able to stand out.” - -“I could not,” added the clergyman. - -“The minister up there thinks,” says Gösta, musingly, “that he will be -a rich man, an exceedingly rich man. No one who is poor can struggle -against evil. And so he begins to hoard.” - -“If he had not hoarded he would have drunk,” answers the old man; “he -sees so much misery.” - -“Or he would become dull and lazy, and lose all strength. It is dangerous -for him who is not born there to come thither.” - -“He has to harden himself to hoard. He pretends at first; then it becomes -a habit.” - -“He has to be hard both to himself and to others,” continues Gösta; “it -is hard to amass. He must endure hate and scorn; he must go cold and -hungry and harden his heart: it almost seems as if he had forgotten why -he began to hoard.” - -The Broby clergyman looked startled at him. He wondered if Gösta sat -there and made a fool of him. But Gösta was only eager and earnest. It -was as if he was speaking of his own life. - -“It was so with me,” says the old man quietly. - -“But God watches over him,” interrupts Gösta. “He wakes in him the -thoughts of his youth when he has amassed enough. He gives the minister a -sign when His people need him.” - -“But if the minister does not obey the sign, Gösta Berling?” - -“He cannot withstand it,” says Gösta, and smiles. “He is so moved by the -thought of the warm cottages which he will help the poor to build.” - -The clergyman looks down on the little heaps he had raised from the -sticks of the pile of shame. The longer he talks with Gösta, the more -he is convinced that the latter is right. He had always had the thought -of doing good some day, when he had enough,—of course he had had that -thought. - -“Why does he never build the cottages?” he asks shyly. - -“He is ashamed. Many would think that he did what he always had meant to -do through fear of the people.” - -“He cannot bear to be forced, is that it?” - -“He can however do much good secretly. Much help is needed this year. He -can find some one who will dispense his gifts. I understand what it all -means,” cries Gösta, and his eyes shone. “Thousands shall get bread this -year from one whom they load with curses.” - -“It shall be so, Gösta.” - -A feeling of transport came over the two who had so failed in the -vocation they had chosen. The desire of their youthful days to serve God -and man filled them. They gloated over the good deeds they would do. -Gösta would help the minister. - -“We will get bread to begin with,” says the clergyman. - -“We will get teachers. We will have a surveyor come, and divide up the -land. Then the people shall learn how to till their fields and tend their -cattle.” - -“We will build roads and open new districts.” - -“We will make locks at the falls at Berg, so that there will be an open -way between Löfven and Väner.” - -“All the riches of the forest will be of double blessing when the way to -the sea is opened.” - -“Your head shall be weighed down by blessings,” cries Gösta. - -The clergyman looks up. They read in one another’s eyes the same burning -enthusiasm. - -But at the same moment the eyes of both fall on the pile of shame. - -“Gösta,” says the old man, “all that needs a young man’s strength, but I -am dying. You see what is killing me.” - -“Get rid of it!” - -“How, Gösta Berling?” - -Gösta moves close up to him and looks sharply into his eyes. “Pray to God -for rain,” he says. “You are going to preach next Sunday. Pray for rain.” - -The old clergyman sinks down in terror. - -“If you are in earnest, if you are not he who has brought the drought to -the land, if you had meant to serve the Most High with your hardness, -pray God for rain. That shall be the token; by that we shall know if God -wishes what we wish.” - -When Gösta drove down Broby hill, he was astonished at himself and at -the enthusiasm which had taken hold of him. But it could be a beautiful -life—yes, but not for him. Up there they would have none of his services. - - * * * * * - -In the Broby church the sermon was over and the usual prayers read. The -minister was just going to step down from the pulpit, but he hesitated, -finally he fell on his knees and prayed for rain. - -He prayed as a desperate man prays, with few words, without coherency. - -“If it is my sin which has called down Thy wrath, let me alone suffer! If -there is any pity in Thee, Thou God of mercy, let it rain! Take the shame -from me! Let it rain in answer to my prayer! Let the rain fall on the -fields of the poor! Give Thy people bread!” - -The day was hot; the sultriness was intolerable. The congregation sat as -if in a torpor; but at these broken words, this hoarse despair, every one -had awakened. - -“If there is a way of expiation for me, give rain—” - -He stopped speaking. The doors stood open. There came a violent gust of -wind. It rushed along the ground, whirled into the church, in a cloud -of dust, full of sticks and straw. The clergyman could not continue; he -staggered down from the pulpit. - -The people trembled. Could that be an answer? - -But the gust was only the forerunner of the thunderstorm. It came rushing -with an unheard-of violence. When the psalm was sung, and the clergyman -stood by the altar, the lightning was already flashing, and the thunder -crashing, drowning the sound of his voice. As the sexton struck up the -final march, the first drops were already pattering against the green -window-panes, and the people hurried out to see the rain. But they were -not content with that: some wept, others laughed, while they let the -torrents stream over them. Ah, how great had been their need! How unhappy -they had been! But God is good! God let it rain. What joy, what joy! - -The Broby clergyman was the only one who did not come out into the rain. -He lay on his knees before the altar and did not rise. The joy had been -too violent for him. He died of happiness. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -THE CHILD’S MOTHER - - -The child was born in a peasant’s house east of the Klar river. The -child’s mother had come seeking employment one day in early June. - -She had been unfortunate, she had said to the master and mistress, and -her mother had been so hard to her that she had had to run away from -home. She called herself Elizabeth Karlsdotter; but she would not say -from whence she came, for then perhaps they would tell her parents that -she was there, and if they should find her, she would be tortured to -death, she knew it. She asked for no pay, only food and a roof over her -head. She could work, weave or spin, and take care of the cows,—whatever -they wanted. If they wished, she could also pay for herself. - -She had been clever enough to come to the farm-house bare-foot, with her -shoes under her arm; she had coarse hands; she spoke the country dialect; -and she wore a peasant woman’s clothes. She was believed. - -The master thought she looked sickly, and did not count much on her -fitness for work. But somewhere the poor thing must be. And so she was -allowed to stop. - -There was something about her which made every one on the farm kind to -her. She had come to a good place. The people were serious and reticent. -Her mistress liked her; when she discovered that she could weave, they -borrowed a loom from the vicarage, and the child’s mother worked at it -the whole summer. - -It never occurred to any one that she needed to be spared; she had to -work like a peasant girl the whole time. She liked too to have much -work. She was not unhappy. Life among the peasants pleased her, although -she lacked all her accustomed conveniences. But everything was taken so -simply and quietly there. Every one’s thoughts were on his or her work; -the days passed so uniform and monotonous that one mistook the day and -thought it was the middle of the week when Sunday came. - -One day at the end of August there had been haste with the oat crop, and -the child’s mother had gone out with the others to bind the sheaves. She -had strained herself, and the child had been born, but too soon. She had -expected it in October. - -Now the farmer’s wife stood with the child in the living room to warm it -by the fire, for the poor little thing was shivering in the August heat. -The child’s mother lay in a room beyond and listened to what they said -of the little one. She could imagine how the men and maids came up and -looked at him. - -“Such a poor little thing,” they all said, and then followed always, -without fail:— - -“Poor little thing, with no father!” - -They did not complain of the child’s crying: they thought a child needed -to cry; and, when everything was considered, the child was strong for its -age; had it but a father, all would have been well. - -The mother lay and listened and wondered. The matter suddenly seemed to -her incredibly important. How would he get through life, the poor little -thing? - -She had made her plans before. She would remain at the farm-house the -first year. Then she would hire a room and earn her bread at the loom. -She meant to earn enough to feed and clothe the child. Her husband could -continue to believe that she was unworthy. She had thought that the child -perhaps would be a better man if she alone brought it up, than if a -stupid and conceited father should guide it. - -But now, since the child was born, she could not see the matter in the -same way. Now she thought that she had been selfish. “The child must have -a father,” she said to herself. - -If he had not been such a pitiful little thing, if he had been able to -eat and sleep like other children, if his head had not always sunk down -on one shoulder, and if he had not so nearly died when the attack of -cramp came, it would not have been so important. - -It was not so easy to decide, but decide she must immediately. The child -was three days old, and the peasants in Värmland seldom wait longer to -have the child baptized. Under what name should the baby be entered in -the church-register, and what would the clergyman want to know about the -child’s mother? - -It was an injustice to the child to let him be entered as fatherless. If -he should be a weak and sickly man, how could she take the responsibility -of depriving him of the advantages of birth and riches? - -The child’s mother had noticed that there is generally great joy and -excitement when a child comes into the world. Now it seemed to her that -it must be hard for this baby to live, whom every one pitied. She wanted -to see him sleeping on silk and lace, as it behoves a count’s son. She -wanted to see him encompassed with joy and pride. - -The child’s mother began to think that she had done its father too great -an injustice. Had she the right to keep him for herself? That she could -not have. Such a precious little thing, whose worth it is not in the -power of man to calculate, should she take that for her own? That would -not be honest. - -But she did not wish to go back to her husband. She feared that it would -be her death. But the child was in greater danger than she. He might die -any minute, and he was not baptized. - -That which had driven her from her home, the grievous sin which had dwelt -in her heart, was gone. She had now no love for any other than the child. - -It was not too heavy a duty to try to get him his right place in life. - -The child’s mother had the farmer and his wife called and told them -everything. The husband journeyed to Borg to tell Count Dohna that his -countess was alive, and that there was a child. - -The peasant came home late in the evening; he had not met the count, for -he had gone away, but he had been to the minister at Svartsjö, and talked -with him of the matter. - -Then the countess heard that her marriage had been declared invalid, and -that she no longer had a husband. - -The minister wrote a friendly letter to her, and offered her a home in -his house. - -A letter from her own father to Count Henrik, which must have reached -Borg a few days after her flight, was also sent to her. It was just that -letter in which the old man had begged the count to hasten to make his -marriage legal, which had indicated to the count the easiest way to be -rid of his wife. - -It is easy to imagine that the child’s mother was seized with anger more -than sorrow, when she heard the peasant’s story. - -She lay awake the whole night. The child must have a father, she thought -over and over again. - -The next morning the peasant had to drive to Ekeby for her, and go for -Gösta Berling. - -Gösta asked the silent man many questions, but could find out nothing. -Yes, the countess had been in his house the whole summer. She had been -well and had worked. Now a child was born. The child was weak; but the -mother would soon be strong again. - -Gösta asked if the countess knew that the marriage had been annulled. - -Yes, she knew it now. She had heard it yesterday. - -And as long as the drive lasted Gösta had alternately fever and chills. - -What did she want of him? Why did she send for him? - -He thought of the life that summer on Löfven’s shores. They had let the -days go by with jests and laughter and pleasure parties, while she had -worked and suffered. - -He had never thought of the possibility of ever seeing her again. Ah, if -he had dared to hope! He would have then come into her presence a better -man. What had he now to look back on but the usual follies! - -About eight o’clock in the evening he arrived, and was immediately taken -to the child’s mother. It was dark in the room. He could scarcely see her -where she lay. The farmer and his wife came in also. - -Now you must know that she whose white face shone in the dimness was -always the noblest and the purest he knew, the most beautiful soul which -had ever arrayed itself in earthly dust. When he once again felt the -bliss of being near her, he longed to throw himself on his knees and -thank her for having again appeared to him; but he was so overpowered by -emotion that he could neither speak nor act. - -“Dear Countess Elizabeth!” he only cried. - -“Good-evening, Gösta.” - -She gave him her hand, which seemed once more to have become soft and -transparent. She lay silent, while he struggled with his emotion. - -The child’s mother was not shaken by any violently raging feelings when -she saw Gösta. It surprised her only that he seemed to consider her of -chief importance, when he ought to understand that it now only concerned -the child. - -“Gösta,” she said gently, “you must help me now, as you once promised. -You know that my husband has abandoned me, so that my child has no -father.” - -“Yes, countess; but that can certainly be changed. Now that there is a -child, the count can be forced to make the marriage legal. You may be -certain that I shall help you!” - -The countess smiled. “Do you think that I will force myself upon Count -Dohna?” - -The blood surged up to Gösta’s head. What did she wish then? What did she -want of him? - -“Come here, Gösta,” she said, and again stretched out her hand. “You -must not be angry with me for what I am going to say; but I thought that -you who are—who are—” - -“A dismissed priest, a drunkard, a pensioner, Ebba Dohna’s murderer; I -know the whole list—” - -“Are you already angry, Gösta?” - -“I would rather that you did not say anything more.” - -But the child’s mother continued:— - -“There are many, Gösta, who would have liked to be your wife out of love; -but it is not so with me. If I loved you I should not dare to speak as I -am speaking now. For myself I would never ask such a thing, Gösta; but -do you see, I can do it for the sake of the child. You must understand -what I mean to beg of you. Of course it is a great degradation for you, -since I am an unmarried woman who has a child. I did not think that you -would be willing to do it because you are worse than others; although, -yes, I did think of that too. But first I thought that you could be -willing, because you are kind, Gösta, because you are a hero and can -sacrifice yourself. But it is perhaps too much to ask. Perhaps such a -thing would be impossible for a man. If you despise me too much, if it is -too loathsome for you to give your name to another man’s child, say so! -I shall not be angry. I understand that it is too much to ask; but the -child is sick, Gösta. It is cruel at his baptism not to be able to give -the name of his mother’s husband.” - -He, hearing her, experienced the same feeling as when that spring day he -had put her on land and left her to her fate. Now he had to help her to -ruin her life, her whole future life. He who loved her had to do it. - -“I will do everything you wish, countess,” he said. - -The next day he spoke to the dean at Bro, for there the banns were to be -called. - -The good old dean was much moved by his story, and promised to take all -the responsibility of giving her away. - -“Yes,” he said, “you must help her, Gösta, otherwise she might become -insane. She thinks that she has injured the child by depriving it of its -position in life. She has a most sensitive conscience, that woman.” - -“But I know that I shall make her unhappy,” cried Gösta. - -“That you must not do, Gösta. You must be a sensible man now, with wife -and child to care for.” - -The dean had to journey down to Svartsjö and speak to both the minister -there and the judge. The end of it all was that the next Sunday, the -first of September, the banns were called in Svartsjö between Gösta -Berling and Elizabeth von Thurn. - -Then the child’s mother was carried with the greatest care to Ekeby, and -there the child was baptized. - -The dean talked to her, and told her that she could still recall her -decision to marry such a man as Gösta Berling. She ought to first write -to her father. - -“I cannot repent,” she said; “think if my child should die before it had -a father.” - -When the banns had been thrice asked, the child’s mother had been well -and up several days. In the afternoon the dean came to Ekeby and married -her to Gösta Berling. But no one thought of it as a wedding. No guests -were invited. They only gave the child a father, nothing more. - -The child’s mother shone with a quiet joy, as if she had attained a great -end in life. The bridegroom was in despair. He thought how she had thrown -away her life by a marriage with him. He saw with dismay how he scarcely -existed for her. All her thoughts were with her child. - -A few days after the father and mother were mourning. The child had died. - -Many thought that the child’s mother did not mourn so violently nor so -deeply as they had expected; she had a look of triumph. It was as if she -rejoiced that she had thrown away her life for the sake of the child. -When he joined the angels, he would still remember that a mother on earth -had loved him. - - * * * * * - -All this happened quietly and unnoticed. When the banns were published -for Gösta Berling and Elizabeth von Thurn in the Svartsjö church, most -of the congregation did not even know who the bride was. The clergyman -and the gentry who knew the story said little about it. It was as if they -were afraid that some one who had lost faith in the power of conscience -should wrongly interpret the young woman’s action. They were so afraid, -so afraid lest some one should come and say: “See now, she could not -conquer her love for Gösta; she has married him under a plausible -pretext.” Ah, the old people were always so careful of that young woman! -Never could they bear to hear anything evil of her. They would scarcely -acknowledge that she had sinned. They would not agree that any fault -stained that soul which was so afraid of evil. - -Another great event happened just then, which also caused Gösta’s -marriage to be little discussed. - -Major Samzelius had met with an accident. He had become more and more -strange and misanthropic. His chief intercourse was with animals, and he -had collected a small menagerie at Sjö. - -He was dangerous too; for he always carried a loaded gun, and shot it off -time after time without paying much attention to his aim. One day he was -bitten by a tame bear which he had shot without intending it. The wounded -animal threw itself on him, and succeeded in giving him a terrible bite -in the arm. The beast broke away and took refuge in the forest. - -The major was put to bed and died of the wound, but not till just before -Christmas. Had his wife known that he lay ill, she could have resumed her -sway over Ekeby. But the pensioners knew that she would not come before -their year was out. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -AMOR VINCIT OMNIA - - -Under the stairs to the gallery in the Svartsjö church is a lumber-room -filled with the grave-diggers’ worn-out shovels, with broken benches, -with rejected tin labels and other rubbish. - -There, where the dust lies thickest and seems to hide it from every human -eye, stands a chest, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the most perfect -mosaic. If one scrapes the dust away, it seems to shine and glitter -like a mountain-wall in a fairy-tale. The chest is locked, and the key -is in good keeping; it may not be used. No mortal man may cast a glance -into that chest. No one knows what is in it. First, when the nineteenth -century has reached its close, may the key be placed in the lock, the -cover be lifted, and the treasures which it guarded be seen by men. - -So has he who owned the chest ordained. - -On the brass-plate of the cover stands an inscription: “Labor vincit -omnia.” But another inscription would be more appropriate. “Amor vincit -omnia” ought to stand there. For the chest in the rubbish room under the -gallery stairs is a testimony of the omnipotence of love. - -O Eros, all-conquering god! - -Thou, O Love, art indeed eternal! Old are people on the earth, but thou -hast followed them through the ages. - -Where are the gods of the East, the strong heroes who carried weapons -of thunderbolts,—they who on the shores of holy rivers took offerings -of honey and milk? They are dead. Dead is Bel, the mighty warrior, and -Thot, the hawk-headed champion. The glorious ones are dead who rested on -the cloud banks of Olympus; so too the mighty who dwelt in the turreted -Valhalla. All the old gods are dead except Eros, Eros, the all-powerful! - -His work is in everything you see. He supports the race. See him -everywhere! Whither can you go without finding the print of his foot? -What has your ear perceived, where the humming of his wings has not been -the key-note? He lives in the hearts of men and in the sleeping germ. See -with trembling his presence in inanimate things! - -What is there which does not long and desire? What is there which escapes -his dominion? All the gods of revenge will fall, all the powers of -strength and might. Thou, O Love, art eternal! - - * * * * * - -Old Uncle Eberhard is sitting at his writing-desk,—a splendid piece -of furniture with a hundred drawers, with marble top and ornaments of -blackened brass. He works with eagerness and diligence, alone in the -pensioners’ wing. - -Oh, Eberhard, why do you not wander about wood and field in these last -days of the departing summer like the other pensioners? No one, you know, -worships unpunished the goddess of wisdom. Your back is bent with sixty -and some years; the hair which covers your head is not your own; the -wrinkles crowd one another on your brow, which arches over hollow eyes; -and the decay of old age is drawn in the thousand lines about your empty -mouth. - -Oh, Eberhard, why do you not wander about wood and field? Death parts you -just so much the sooner from your desk, because you have not let life -tempt you from it. - -Uncle Eberhard draws a thick stroke under his last line. From the desk’s -innumerable drawers he drags out yellowed, closely scribbled manuscripts, -all the different parts of his great work,—that work which is to carry on -Eberhard Berggren’s name through all time. But just as he has piled up -manuscript on manuscript, and is staring at them in silent rapture, the -door opens, and in walks the young countess. - -There she is, the old men’s young mistress,—she whom they wait on and -adore more than grandparents wait on and adore the first grandson. There -she is whom they had found in poverty and in sickness, and to whom they -had now given all the glory of the world, just as the king in the fairy -tale did to the beautiful beggar girl he found in the forest. It is for -her that the horn and violin now sound at Ekeby,—for her everything -moves, breathes, works on the great estate. - -She is well again, although still very weak. Time goes slowly for her -alone in the big house, and, as she knows that the pensioners are away, -she wishes to see what it looks like in the pensioners’ wing, that -notorious room. - -So she comes softly in and looks up at the whitewashed walls and the -yellow striped bed-curtains, but she is embarrassed when she sees that -the room is not empty. - -Uncle Eberhard goes solemnly towards her, and leads her forward to the -great pile of paper. - -“Look, countess,” he says; “now my work is ready. Now shall what I have -written go out into the world. Now great things are going to happen.” - -“What is going to happen, Uncle Eberhard?” - -“Oh, countess, it is going to strike like a thunderbolt, a bolt which -enlightens and kills. Ever since Moses dragged him out of Sinai’s -thunder-cloud and put him on the throne of grace in the innermost -sanctuary of the temple, ever since then he has sat secure, the old -Jehovah; but now men shall see what he is: Imagination, emptiness, -exhalation, the stillborn child of our own brain. He shall sink into -nothingness,” said the old man, and laid his wrinkled hand on the pile of -manuscript. “It stands here; and when people read this, they will have to -believe. They will rise up and acknowledge their own stupidity; they will -use crosses for kindling-wood, churches for storehouses, and clergymen -will plough the earth.” - -“Oh, Uncle Eberhard,” says the countess, with a slight shudder, “are you -such a dreadful person? Do such dreadful things stand there?” - -“Dreadful!” repeated the old man, “it is only the truth. But we are like -little boys who hide their faces in a woman’s skirt as soon as they meet -a stranger: we have accustomed ourselves to hide from the truth, from the -eternal stranger. But now he shall come and dwell among us, now he shall -be known by all.” - -“By all?” - -“Not only by philosophers, but by everybody; do you understand, countess, -by everybody.” - -“And so Jehovah shall die?” - -“He and all angels, all saints, all devils, all lies.” - -“Who shall then rule the world?” - -“Do you believe that any one has ruled it before? Do you believe in that -Providence which looks after sparrows and the hair of your head? No one -has ruled it, no one shall rule it.” - -“But we, we people, what will we become—” - -“The same which we have been—dust. That which is burned out can burn no -longer; it is dead. We about whom the fire of life flickers are only -fuel. Life’s sparks fly from one to another. We are lighted, flame up, -and die out. That is life.” - -“Oh, Eberhard, is there no life of the spirit?” - -“None.” - -“No life beyond the grave?” - -“None.” - -“No good, no evil, no aim, no hope?” - -“None.” - -The young woman walks over to the window. She looks out at the autumn’s -yellowed leaves, at dahlias and asters which hang their heavy heads on -broken stalks. She sees the Löfven’s black waves, the autumn’s dark -storm-clouds, and for a moment she inclines towards repudiation. - -“Uncle Eberhard,” she says, “how ugly and gray the world is; how -profitless everything is! I should like to lie down and die.” - -But then she hears a murmur in her soul. The vigor of life and its strong -emotions cry out for the happiness of living. - -“Is there nothing,” she breaks out, “which can give life beauty, since -you have taken from me God and immortality?” - -“Work,” answers the old man. - -But she looks out again, and a feeling of scorn for that poor wisdom -creeps over her. The unfathomable rises before her; she feels the spirit -dwelling in everything; she is sensible of the power which lies bound -in seemingly dead material, but which can develop into a thousand forms -of shifting life. Dizzily she seeks for a name for the presence of God’s -spirit in nature. - -“Oh, Eberhard,” she says, “what is work? Is it a god? Has it any meaning -in itself? Name another!” - -“I know no other,” answered the old man. - -Then she finds the name which she is seeking,—a poor, often sullied name. - -“Uncle Eberhard, why do you not speak of love?” - -A smile glides over the empty mouth where the thousand wrinkles cross. - -“Here,” says the philosopher, and strikes the heavy packet with his -clenched hand, “here all the gods are slain, and I have not forgotten -Eros. What is love but a longing of the flesh? In what does he stand -higher than the other requirements of the body? Make hunger a god! Make -fatigue a god! They are just as worthy. Let there be an end to such -absurdities! Let the truth live!” - -The young countess sinks her head. It is not so, all that is not true; -but she cannot contest it. - -“Your words have wounded my soul,” she says; “but still I do not believe -you. The gods of revenge and violence you may be able to kill, no others.” - -But the old man takes her hand, lays it on the book, and swears in the -fanaticism of unbelief. - -“When you have read this, you must believe.” - -“May it never come before my eyes,” she says, “for if I believe that, I -cannot live.” - -And she goes sadly from the philosopher. But he sits for a long time and -thinks, when she has gone. - -Those old manuscripts, scribbled over with heathenish confessions, have -not yet been tested before the world. Uncle Eberhard’s name has not yet -reached the heights of fame. - -His great work lies hidden in a chest in the lumber-room under the -gallery stairs in the Svartsjö church; it shall first see the light of -day at the end of the century. - -But why has he done this? Was he afraid not to have proved his point? Did -he fear persecutions? You little know Uncle Eberhard. - -Understand it now; he has loved the truth, not his own glory. So he has -sacrificed the latter, not the former, in order that a deeply loved child -might die in the belief in that she has most cared for. - -O Love, thou art indeed eternal! - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -THE BROOM-GIRL - - -No one knows the place in the lee of the mountain where the pines grow -thickest and deep layers of moss cover the ground. How should any one -know it? No man’s foot has ever trodden it before; no man’s tongue has -given it a name. No path leads to that hidden spot. It is the most -solitary tract in the forest, and now thousands of people are looking for -it. - -What an endless procession of seekers! They would fill the Bro -church,—not only Bro, but Löfviks and Svartsjö. - -All who live near the road rush out and ask, “Has anything happened? Is -the enemy upon us? Where are you going? Tell us where.” - -“We are searching,” they answer. “We have been searching for two days. -We shall go on to-day; but afterwards we can do no more. We are going to -look through the Björne wood and the firclad heights west of Ekeby.” - -It was from Nygård, a poor district far away among the eastern mountains, -the procession had first started. The beautiful girl with the heavy, -black hair and the red cheeks had disappeared a week before. The -broom-girl, to whom Gösta Berling had wished to engage himself, had been -lost in the great forests. No one had seen her for a week. - -So the people started from Nygård to search through the wood. And -everybody they met joined in the search. - -Sometimes one of the new-comers asks,— - -“You men from Nygård, how has it all happened? Why do you let that -beautiful girl go alone in strange paths? The forest is deep, and God has -taken away her reason.” - -“No one disturbs her,” they answer; “she disturbs no one. She goes as -safely as a child. Who is safer than one God himself must care for? She -has always come back before.” - -So have the searching crowd gone through the eastern woods, which shut in -Nygård from the plain. Now on the third day it passes by the Bro church -towards the woods west of Ekeby. - -But wherever they go, a storm of wondering rages; constantly a man from -the crowd has to stop to answer questions: “What do you want? What are -you looking for?” - -“We are looking for the blue-eyed, dark-haired girl. She has laid herself -down to die in the forest. She has been gone a week.” - -“Why has she laid herself down to die in the forest? Was she hungry? Was -she unhappy?” - -“She has not suffered want, but she had a misfortune last spring. She has -seen that mad priest, Gösta Berling, and loved him for many years. She -knew no better. God had taken away her wits.” - -“Last spring the misfortune happened,—before that, he had never looked at -her. Then he said to her that she should be his sweetheart. It was only -in jest; he let her go again, but she could not be consoled. She kept -coming to Ekeby. She went after him wherever he went. He wearied of her. -When she was there last, they set their dogs on her. Since then no one -has seen her.” - -To the rescue, to the rescue! A human life is concerned! A human being -has laid herself down to die in the wood! Perhaps she is already dead. -Perhaps, too, she is still wandering there without finding the right way. -The forest is wide, and her reason is with God. - -Come everybody, men and women and children! Who can dare to stay at home? -Who knows if God does not intend to use just him? Come all of you, that -your soul may not some day wander helpless in dry places, seek rest and -find none! Come! God has taken her reason, and the forest is wide. - -It is wonderful to see people unite for some great object. But it is not -hunger, nor the fear of God, nor war which has driven these out. Their -trouble is without profit, their striving without reward; they are only -going to find a fool. So many steps, so much anxiety, so many prayers it -all costs, and yet it will only be rewarded by the recovery of a poor, -misguided girl, whose reason is with God. - -Those anxious searchers fill the highway. With earnest eyes they gauge -the forest; they go forward sadly, for they know that they are more -probably searching for the dead than the living. - -Ah, that black thing at the foot of the cliff, it is not an ant-hill -after all, but a fallen tree. Praised be Heaven, only a fallen tree! But -they cannot see distinctly, the pines grow so thick. - -It is the third day of the search; they are used to the work. They search -under the sloping rock, on which the foot can slide, under fallen trees, -where arm or leg easily could have been broken, under the thick growing -pines’ branches, trailing over soft moss, inviting to rest. - -The bear’s den, the fox’s hole, the badger’s deep home, the red cranberry -slope, the silver fir, the mountain, which the forest fire laid waste a -month ago, the stone which the giant threw,—all that have they found, -but not the place under the rock where the black thing is lying. No one -has been there to see if it is an ant-hill, or a tree-trunk, or a human -being. Alas! it is indeed a human being, but no one has been there to see -her. - -The evening sun is shining on the other side of the wood, but the -young woman is not found. What should they do now? Should they search -through the wood once more? The wood is dangerous in the dark; there -are bottomless bogs and deep clefts. And what could they, who had found -nothing when the sun was shining, find when it was gone? - -“Let us go to Ekeby!” cries one in the crowd. - -“Let us go to Ekeby!” they all cry together. - -“Let us ask those pensioners why they let loose the dogs on one whose -reason God had taken, why they drove a fool to despair. Our poor, hungry -children weep; our clothes are torn; the potatoes rot in the ground; our -horses are running loose; our cows get no care; we are nearly dead with -fatigue—and the fault is theirs. Let us go to Ekeby and ask about this. - -“During this cursed year we have had to suffer everything. The winter -will bring us starvation. Whom does God’s hand seek? It was not the Broby -clergyman. His prayers could reach God’s ear. Who, then, if not these -pensioners? Let us go to Ekeby! - -“They have ruined the estate, they have driven the major’s wife to beg on -the highway. It is their fault that we have no work. The famine is their -doing. Let us go to Ekeby!” - -So the dark, embittered men crowd down to Ekeby; hungry women with -weeping children in their arms follow them; and last come the cripples -and the old men. And the bitterness spreads like an ever-increasing storm -from the old men to the women, from the women to the strong men at the -head of the train. - -It is the autumn-flood which is coming. Pensioners, do you remember the -spring-flood? - -A cottager who is ploughing in a pasture at the edge of the wood hears -the people’s mad cries. He throws himself on one of his horses and -gallops down to Ekeby. - -“Disaster is coming!” he cries; “the bears are coming, the wolves are -coming, the goblins are coming to take Ekeby!” - -He rides about the whole estate, wild with terror. - -“All the devils in the forest are let loose!” he cries. “They are coming -to take Ekeby! Save yourselves who can! The devils are coming to burn the -house and to kill the pensioners!” - -And behind him can be heard the din and cries of the rushing horde. Does -it know what it wants, that storming stream of bitterness? Does it want -fire, or murder, or plunder? - -They are not human beings; they are wild beasts. Death to Ekeby, death to -the pensioners! - -Here brandy flows in streams. Here gold lies piled in the vaults. Here -the storehouses are filled with grain and meat. Why should the honest -starve, and the guilty have plenty? - -But now your time is out, the measure is overflowing, pensioners. In the -wood lies one who condemns you; we are her deputies. - -The pensioners stand in the big building and see the people coming. They -know already why they are denounced. For once they are innocent. If -that poor girl has lain down to die in the wood, it is not because they -have set the dogs on her,—that they have never done,—but because Gösta -Berling, a week ago, was married to Countess Elizabeth. - -But what good is it to speak to that mob? They are tired, they are -hungry; revenge drives them on, plunder tempts them. They rush down with -wild cries, and before them rides the cottager, whom fear has driven mad. - -The pensioners have hidden the young countess in their innermost room. -Löwenborg and Eberhard are to sit there and guard her; the others go -out to meet the people. They are standing on the steps before the main -building, unarmed, smiling, as the first of the noisy crowd reach the -house. - -And the people stop before that little group of quiet men. They had -wanted to throw them down on the ground and trample them under their -iron-shod heels, as the people at the Lund iron-works used to do with the -manager and overseer fifty years ago; but they had expected closed doors, -raised weapons; they had expected resistance and fighting. - -“Dear friends,” say the pensioners; “dear friends, you are tired and -hungry; let us give you a little food and first a glass of Ekeby’s own -home-brewed brandy.” - -The people will not listen; they scream and threaten. But the pensioners -are not discouraged. - -“Only wait,” they say; “only wait a second. See, Ekeby stands open. The -cellar doors are open; the store-rooms are open; the dairy is open. Your -women are dropping with fatigue; the children are crying. Let us get them -food first! Then you can kill us. We will not run away. The attic is full -of apples. Let us go after apples for the children!” - - * * * * * - -An hour later the feasting is in full swing at Ekeby. The biggest feast -the big house has ever seen is celebrated there that autumn night under -the shining full moon. - -Woodpiles have been lighted; the whole estate flames with bonfires. The -people sit about in groups, enjoying warmth and rest, while all the good -things of the earth are scattered over them. - -Resolute men have gone to the farmyard and taken what was needed. Calves -and sheep have been killed, and even one or two oxen. The animals have -been cut up and roasted in a trice. Those starving hundreds are devouring -the food. Animal after animal is led out and slaughtered. It looks as if -the whole barn would be emptied in one night. - -They had just baked that day. Since the young Countess Elizabeth had -come, there had once more been industry in-doors. It seemed as if the -young woman never for an instant remembered that she was Gösta Berling’s -wife. Neither he nor she acted as if it were so; but on the other hand -she made herself the mistress of Ekeby. As a good and capable woman -always must do, she tried with burning zeal to remedy the waste and -the shiftlessness which reigned in the house. And she was obeyed. The -servants felt a certain pleasure in again having a mistress over them. - -But what did it matter that she had filled the rafters with bread, that -she had made cheeses and churned and brewed during the month of September? - -Out to the people with everything there is, so that they may not burn -down Ekeby and kill the pensioners! Out with bread, butter, cheese! Out -with the beer-barrels, out with the hams from the store-house, out with -the brandy-kegs, out with the apples! - -How can all the riches of Ekeby suffice to diminish the people’s anger? -If we get them away before any dark deed is done, we may be glad. - -It is all done for the sake of her who is now mistress at Ekeby. The -pensioners are brave men; they would have defended themselves if they had -followed their own will. They would rather have driven away the marauders -with a few sharp shots, but for her, who is gentle and mild and begs for -the people. - -As the night advances, the crowds become gentler. The warmth and the rest -and the food and the brandy assuage their terrible madness. They begin to -jest and laugh. - -As it draws towards midnight, it looks as if they were preparing to -leave. The pensioners stop bringing food and wine, drawing corks and -pouring ale. They draw a sigh of relief, in the feeling that the danger -is over. - -But just then a light is seen in one of the windows of the big house. All -who see it utter a cry. It is a young woman who is carrying the light. - -It had only been for a second. The vision disappeared; but the people -think they have recognized the woman. - -“She had thick black hair and red cheeks!” they cry. “She is here! They -have hidden her here!” - -“Oh, pensioners, have you her here? Have you got our child, whose reason -God has taken, here at Ekeby? What are you doing with her? You let us -grieve for her a whole week, search for three whole days. Away with wine -and food! Shame to us, that we accepted anything from your hands! First, -out with her! Then we shall know what we have to do to you.” - -The people are quick; quicker still are the pensioners. They rush in and -bar the door. But how could they resist such a mass? Door after door is -broken down. The pensioners are thrown one side; they are unarmed. They -are wedged in the crowd, so that they cannot move. The people will come -in to find the broom-girl. - -In the innermost room they find her. No one has time to see whether she -is light or dark. They lift her up and carry her out. She must not be -afraid, they say. They are here to save her. - -But they who now stream from the building are met by another procession. - -In the most lonely spot in the forest the body of a woman, who had fallen -over a high cliff and died in the fall, no longer rests. A child had -found her. Searchers who had remained in the wood had lifted her on their -shoulders. Here they come. - -In death she is more beautiful than in life. Lovely she lies, with her -long, black hair. Fair is the form since the eternal peace rests upon it. - -Lifted high on the men’s shoulders, she is carried through the crowd. -With bent heads all do homage to the majesty of death. - -“She has not been dead long,” the men whisper. “She must have wandered -in the woods till to-day. We think that she wanted to escape from us who -were looking for her, and so fell over the cliff.” - -But if this is the broom-girl, who is the one who has been carried out of -Ekeby? - -The procession from the wood meets the procession from the house. -Bonfires are burning all over the yard. The people can see both the women -and recognize them. The other is the young countess at Borg. - -“Oh! what is the meaning of this? Is this a new crime? Why is the young -countess here at Ekeby? Why have they told us that she was far away or -dead? In the name of justice, ought we not to throw ourselves on the -pensioners and trample them to dust under iron-shod heels?” - -Then a ringing voice is heard. Gösta Berling has climbed up on the -balustrade and is speaking. “Listen to me, you monsters, you devils! Do -you think there are no guns and powder at Ekeby, you madmen? Do you think -that I have not wanted to shoot you like mad dogs, if she had not begged -for you? Oh, if I had known that you would have touched her, not one of -you should have been left alive! - -“Why are you raging here to-night and threatening us with murder and -fire? What have I to do with your crazy girls? Do I know where they run? -I have been too kind to that one; that is the matter. I ought to have set -the dogs on her,—it would have been better for us both,—but I did not. -Nor have I ever promised to marry her; that I have never done. Remember -that! - -“But now I tell you that you must let her whom you have dragged out of -the house go. Let her go, I say; and may the hands who have touched her -burn in everlasting fire! Do you not understand that she is as much above -you as heaven is above the earth? She is as delicate as you are coarse; -as good as you are bad. - -“Now I will tell you who she is. First, she is an angel from -heaven,—secondly, she has been married to the count at Borg. But her -mother-in-law tortured her night and day; she had to stand at the lake -and wash clothes like an ordinary maid; she was beaten and tormented as -none of your women have ever been. Yes, she was almost ready to throw -herself into the river, as we all know, because they were torturing the -life out of her. I wonder which one of you was there then to save her -life. Not one of you was there; but we pensioners, we did it. - -“And when she afterwards gave birth to a child off in a farm-house, and -the count sent her the message: ‘We were married in a foreign land; we -did not follow law and order. You are not my wife; I am not your husband. -I care nothing for your child!’—yes, when that was so, and she did not -want the child to stand fatherless in the church register, then you would -have been proud enough if she had said to one of you: ‘Come and marry me! -I must have a father for the child!’ But she chose none of you. She took -Gösta Berling, the penniless priest, who may never speak the word of God. -Yes, I tell you, peasants, that I have never done anything harder; for I -was so unworthy of her that I did not dare to look her in the eyes, nor -did I dare say no, for she was in despair. - -“And now you may believe what evil you like of us pensioners; but to her -we have done what good we could. And it is thanks to her that you have -not all been killed to-night. But now I tell you: let her go, and go -yourselves, or I think the earth will open and swallow you up. And as you -go, pray God to forgive you for having frightened and grieved one who is -so good and innocent. And now be off! We have had enough of you!” - -Long before he had finished speaking, those who had carried out the -countess had put her down on one of the stone steps; and now a big -peasant came thoughtfully up to her and stretched out his great hand. - -“Thank you, and good-night,” he said. “We wish you no harm, countess.” - -After him came another and shook her hand. “Thanks, and good-night. You -must not be angry with us!” - -Gösta sprang down and placed himself beside her. Then they took his hand -too. - -So they came forward slowly, one after another, to bid them good-night -before they went. They were once more subdued; again were they human -beings, as they were when they left their homes that morning, before -hunger and revenge had made them wild beasts. - -They looked in the countess’s face, and Gösta saw that the innocence and -gentleness they saw there brought tears into the eyes of many. There was -in them all a silent adoration of the noblest they had ever seen. - -They could not all shake her hand. There were so many, and the young -woman was tired and weak. But they all came and looked at her, and could -take Gösta’s hand,—his arm could stand a shaking. - -Gösta stood as if in a dream. That evening a new love sprang up in his -heart. - -“Oh, my people,” he thought, “oh, my people, how I love you!” He felt how -he loved all that crowd who were disappearing into the darkness with the -dead girl at the head of the procession, with their coarse clothes and -evil-smelling shoes; those who lived in the gray huts at the edge of the -wood; those who could not write and often not read; those who had never -known the fulness and richness of life, only the struggle for their daily -bread. - -He loved them with a painful, burning tenderness which forced the tears -from his eyes. He did not know what he wanted to do for them, but he -loved them, each and all, with their faults, their vices and their -weaknesses. Oh, Lord God, if the day could come when he too should be -loved by them! - -He awoke from his dream; his wife laid her hand on his arm. The people -were gone. They were alone on the steps. - -“Oh, Gösta, Gösta, how could you!” - -She put her hands before her face and wept. - -“It is true what I said,” he cried. “I have never promised the broom-girl -to marry her. ‘Come here next Friday, and you shall see something funny!’ -was all I ever said to her. It is not my fault that she cared for me.” - -“Oh, it was not that; but how could you say to the people that I was -good and pure? Gösta, Gösta! Do you not know that I loved you when I had -no right to do it? I was ashamed, Gösta! I was ready to die of shame!” - -And she was shaken by sobs. - -He stood and looked at her. - -“Oh, my friend, my beloved!” he said quietly. “How happy you are, who are -so good! How happy to have such a beautiful soul!” - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -KEVENHÜLLER - - -In the year 1770, in Germany, the afterwards learned and accomplished -Kevenhüller was born. He was the son of a count, and could have lived in -lofty palaces and ridden at the Emperor’s side if he had so wished; but -he had not. - -He could have liked to fasten windmill sails on the castle’s highest -tower, turn the hall into a locksmith’s workshop, and the boudoir into -a watch-maker’s. He would have liked to fill the castle with whirling -wheels and working levers. But when he could not do it he left all -the pomp and apprenticed himself to a watch-maker. There he learned -everything there was to learn about cogwheels, springs, and pendulums. -He learned to make sun-dials and star-dials, clocks with singing -canary-birds and horn-blowing shepherds, chimes which filled a whole -church-tower with their wonderful machinery, and watch-works so small -that they could be set in a locket. - -When he had got his patent of mastership, he bound his knapsack on his -back, took his stick in his hand, and wandered from place to place to -study everything that went with rollers and wheels. Kevenhüller was no -ordinary watch-maker; he wished to be a great inventor and to improve the -world. - -When he had so wandered through many lands, he turned his steps towards -Värmland, to there study mill-wheels and mining. One beautiful summer -morning it so happened that he was crossing the market-place of Karlstad. -But that same beautiful summer morning it had pleased the wood-nymph to -extend her walk as far as the town. The noble lady came also across the -market-place from the opposite direction, and so met Kevenhüller. - -That was a meeting for a watch-maker’s apprentice. She had shining, green -eyes, and a mass of light hair, which almost reached the ground, and she -was dressed in green, changeable silk. She was the most beautiful woman -Kevenhüller had ever seen. - -He stood as if he had lost his wits, and stared at her as she came -towards him. - -She came direct from the deepest thicket of the wood, where the ferns are -as high as trees, where the giant firs shut out the sun, so that it can -only fall in golden drops on the yellow moss. - -I should like to have been in Kevenhüller’s place, to see her as she came -with ferns and pine-needles tangled in her yellow hair and a little black -snake about her neck. - -How the people must have stared at her! Horses bolted, frightened by her -long, floating hair. The street boys ran after her. The men dropped their -meat-axes to gape at her. - -She herself went calm and majestic, only smiling a little at the -excitement, so that Kevenhüller saw her small, pointed teeth shine -between her red lips. - -She had hung a cloak over her shoulders so that none should see who she -was; but as ill-luck would have it, she had forgotten to cover her tail. -It dragged along the paving stones. - -Kevenhüller saw the tail; he was sorry that a noble lady should make -herself the laughing-stock of the town; so he bowed and said courteously:— - -“Would it not please your Grace to lift your train?” - -The wood-nymph was touched, not only by his kindness, but by his -politeness. She stopped before him and looked at him, so that he thought -that shining sparks passed from her eyes into his brain. “Kevenhüller,” -she said, “hereafter you shall be able with your two hands to execute -whatever work you will, but only one of each kind.” - -She said it and she could keep her word. For who does not know that the -wood-nymph has the power to give genius and wonderful powers to those who -win her favor? - -Kevenhüller remained in Karlstad and hired a workshop there. He hammered -and worked night and day. In a week he had made a wonder. It was a -carriage, which went by itself. It went up hill and down hill, went fast -or slow, could be steered and turned, be stopped and started, as one -wished. - -Kevenhüller became famous. He was so proud of his carriage that he -journeyed up to Stockholm to show it to the king. He did not need to wait -for post-horses nor to scold ostlers. He proudly rode in his own carriage -and was there in a few hours. - -He rode right up to the palace, and the king came out with his court -ladies and gentlemen and looked at him. They could not praise him enough. - -The king then said: “You might give me that carriage, Kevenhüller.” And -although he answered no, the king persisted and wished to have the -carriage. - -Then Kevenhüller saw that in the king’s train stood a court lady with -light hair and a green dress. He recognized her, and he understood that -it was she who had advised the king to ask him for his carriage. He was -in despair. He could not bear that another should have his carriage, nor -did he dare to say no to the king. Therefore he drove it with such speed -against the palace wall that it was broken into a thousand pieces. - -When he came home to Karlstad he tried to make another carriage. But he -could not. Then he was dismayed at the gift the wood-nymph had given him. -He had left the life of ease at his father’s castle to be a benefactor to -many, not to make wonders which only one could use. What good was it to -him to be a great master, yes, the greatest of all masters, if he could -not duplicate his marvels so that they were of use to thousands. - -And he so longed for quiet, sensible work that he became a stone-cutter -and mason. It was then he built the great stone tower down by the west -bridge, and he meant to build walls and portals and courtyards, ramparts -and turrets, so that a veritable castle should stand by the Klar River. - -And there he should realize his childhood’s dream. Everything which had -to do with industry and handicraft should have a place in the castle -halls. White millers and blacksmiths, watchmakers with green shades -before their strained eyes, dyers with dark hands, weavers, turners, -filers,—all should have their work-shops in his castle. - -And everything went well. Of the stones he himself had hewn he had with -his own hand built the tower. He had fastened windmill sails on it,—for -the tower was to be a mill,—and now he wanted to begin on the smithy. - -But one day he stood and watched how the light, strong wings turned -before the wind. Then his old longing came over him. - -He shut himself in in his workshop, tasted no food, took no rest, and -worked unceasingly. At the end of a week he had made a new marvel. - -One day he climbed up on the roof of his tower and began to fasten wings -to his shoulders. - -Two street boys saw him, and they gave a cry which was heard through the -whole town. They started off; panting, they ran up the streets and down -the streets, knocking on all the doors, and screaming as they ran:— - -“Kevenhüller is going to fly! Kevenhüller is going to fly!” - -He stood calmly on the tower-roof and fastened on his wings, and in the -meantime crowds of people came running through the narrow streets of -old Karlstad. Soon the bridge was black with them. The market-place was -packed, and the banks of the river swarmed with people. - -Kevenhüller at last got his wings on and set out. He gave a couple of -flaps with them, and then he was out in the air. He lay and floated high -above the earth. - -He drew in the air with long breaths; it was strong and pure. His breast -expanded, and the old knights’ blood began to seethe in him. He tumbled -like a pigeon, he hovered like a hawk, his flight was as swift as the -swallow’s, as sure as the falcon’s. If he had only been able to make -such a pair of wings for every one of them! If he had only been able to -give them all the power to raise themselves in this pure air! He could -not enjoy it alone. Ah, that wood-nymph,—if he could only meet her! - -Then he saw, with eyes which were almost blinded by the dazzling -sunlight, how some one came flying towards him. Great wings like his own, -and between the wings floated a human body. He saw floating yellow hair, -billowy green silk, wild shining eyes. It was she, it was she! - -Kevenhüller did not stop to consider. With furious speed he threw himself -upon her to kiss her or to strike her,—he was not sure which,—but at any -rate to force her to remove the curse from his existence. He did not -look where he was going; he saw only the flying hair and the wild eyes. -He came close up to her and stretched out his arms to seize her. But his -wings caught in hers, and hers were the stronger. His wings were torn -and destroyed; he himself was swung round and hurled down, he knew not -whither. - -When he returned to consciousness he lay on the roof of his own tower, -with the broken flying-machine by his side. He had flown right against -his own mill; the sails had caught him, whirled him round a couple of -times, and then thrown him down on the tower roof. - -So that was the end. - -Kevenhüller was again a desperate man. He could not bear the thought of -honest work, and he did not dare to use his magic power. If he should -make another wonder and should then destroy it, his heart would break -with sorrow. And if he did not destroy it, he would certainly go mad at -the thought that he could not do good to others with it. - -He looked up his knapsack and stick, let the mill stand as it was, and -decided to go out and search for the wood-nymph. - -In the course of his journeyings he came to Ekeby, a few years before the -major’s wife was driven out. There he was well received, and there he -remained. The memories of his childhood came back to him, and he allowed -them to call him count. His hair grew gray and his brain slept. He was so -old that he could no longer believe in the feats of his youth. He was not -the man who could work wonders. It was not he who had made the automatic -carriage and the flying-machine. Oh, no,—tales, tales! - -But then it happened that the major’s wife was driven from Ekeby, and -the pensioners were masters of the great estate. Then a life began there -which had never been worse. A storm passed over the land; men warred on -earth, and souls in heaven. Wolves came from Dovre with witches on their -backs, and the wood-nymph came to Ekeby. - -The pensioners did not recognize her. They thought that she was a poor -and distressed woman whom a cruel mother-in-law had hunted to despair. -So they gave her shelter, revered her like a queen, and loved her like a -child. - -Kevenhüller alone saw who she was. At first he was dazzled like the -others. But one day she wore a dress of green, shimmering silk, and when -she had that on, Kevenhüller recognized her. - -There she sat on silken cushions, and all the old men made themselves -ridiculous to serve her. One was cook and another footman; one reader, -one court-musician, one shoemaker; they all had their occupations. - -They said she was ill, the odious witch; but Kevenhüller knew what that -illness meant. She was laughing at them all. - -He warned the pensioners against her. “Look at her small, pointed teeth,” -he said, “and her wild, shining eyes. She is the wood-nymph,—all evil is -about in these terrible times. I tell you she is the wood-nymph, come -hither for our ruin. I have seen her before.” - -But when Kevenhüller saw the wood-nymph and had recognized her, the -desire for work came over him. It began to burn and seethe in his brain; -his fingers ached with longing to bend themselves about hammer and -file; he could hold out no longer. With a bitter heart he put on his -working-blouse and shut himself in in an old smithy, which was to be his -workshop. - -A cry went out from Ekeby over the whole of Värmland:— - -“Kevenhüller has begun to work!” - -A new wonder was to see the light. What should it be? Will he teach us to -walk on the water, or to raise a ladder to the stars? - -One night, the first or second of October, he had the wonder ready. He -came out of the workshop and had it in his hand. It was a wheel which -turned incessantly; as it turned, the spokes glowed like fire, and it -gave out warmth and light. Kevenhüller had made a sun. When he came out -of the workshop with it, the night grew so light that the sparrows began -to chirp and the clouds to burn as if at dawn. - -There should never again be darkness or cold on earth. His head whirled -when he thought of it. The sun would continue to rise and set, but when -it disappeared, thousands and thousands of his fire-wheels should flame -through the land, and the air would quiver with warmth, as on the hottest -summer-day. Harvests should ripen in midwinter; wild strawberries should -cover the hillsides the whole year round; the ice should never bind the -water. - -His fire-wheel should create a new world. It should be furs to the poor -and a sun to the miners. It should give power to the mills, life to -nature, a new, rich, and happy existence to mankind. But at the same time -he knew that it was all a dream and that the wood-nymph would never let -him duplicate his wheel. And in his anger and longing for revenge, he -thought that he would kill her, and then he no longer knew what he was -doing. - -He went to the main building, and in the hall under the stairs he put -down his fire-wheel. It was his intention to set fire to the house and -burn up the witch in it. - -Then he went back to his workshop and sat there silently listening. - -There was shouting and crying outside. Now they could see that a great -deed was done. - -Yes, run, scream, ring the alarm! But she is burning in there, the -wood-nymph whom you laid on silken cushions. - -May she writhe in torment, may she flee before the flames from room to -room! Ah, how the green silk will blaze, and how the flames will play in -her torrents of hair! Courage, flames! courage! Catch her, set fire to -her! Witches burn! Fear not her magic, flames! Let her burn! There is -one who for her sake must burn his whole life through. - -Bells rang, wagons came rattling, pumps were brought out, water was -carried up from the lake, people came running from all the neighboring -villages. There were cries and wailings and commands; that was the roof, -which had fallen in; there was the terrible crackling and roaring of a -fire. But nothing disturbed Kevenhüller. He sat on the chopping-block and -rubbed his hands. - -Then he heard a crash, as if the heavens had fallen, and he started up in -triumph. “Now it is done!” he cried. “Now she cannot escape; now she is -crushed by the beams or burned up by the flames. Now it is done.” - -And he thought of the honor and glory of Ekeby which had had to be -sacrificed to get her out of the world,—the magnificent halls, where -so much happiness had dwelt, the tables which had groaned under dainty -dishes, the precious old furniture, silver and china, which could never -be replaced— - -And then he sprang up with a cry. His fire-wheel, his sun, the model on -which everything depended, had he not put it under the stairs to cause -the fire? - -Kevenhüller looked down on himself, paralyzed with dismay. - -“Am I going mad?” he said. “How could I do such a thing?” - -At the same moment the door of the workshop opened and the wood-nymph -walked in. - -She stood on the threshold, smiling and fair. Her green dress had neither -hole nor stain, no smoke darkened her yellow hair. She was just as he -had seen her in the market-place at Karlstad in his young days; her tail -hung between her feet, and she had all the wildness and fragrance of the -wood about her. - -“Ekeby is burning,” she said, and laughed. - -Kevenhüller had the sledge-hammer lifted and meant to throw it at her -head, but then he saw that she had his fire-wheel in her hand. - -“See what I have saved for you,” she said. - -Kevenhüller threw himself on his knees before her. - -“You have broken my carriage, you have rent my wings, and you have ruined -my life. Have grace, have pity on me!” - -She climbed up on the bench and sat there, just as young and mischievous -as when he saw her first. - -“I see that you know who I am,” she said. - -“I know you, I have always known you,” said the unfortunate man; “you -are genius. But set me free! Take back your gift! Let me be an ordinary -person! Why do you persecute me? Why do you destroy me?” - -“Madman,” said the wood-nymph, “I have never wished you any harm. I gave -you a great reward; but I can also take it from you if you wish. But -consider well. You will repent it.” - -“No, no!” he cried; “take from me the power of working wonders!” - -“First, you must destroy this,” she said, and threw the fire-wheel on the -ground in front of him. - -He did not hesitate. He swung the sledge-hammer over the shining sun; -sparks flew about the room, splinters and flames danced about him, and -then his last wonder lay in fragments. - -“Yes, so I take my gift from you,” said the wood-nymph. As she stood in -the door and the glare from the fire streamed over her, he looked at her -for the last time. More beautiful than ever before, she seemed to him, -and no longer malicious, only stern and proud. - -“Madman,” she said, “did I ever forbid you to let others copy your works? -I only wished to protect the man of genius from a mechanic’s labor.” - -Whereupon she went. Kevenhüller was insane for a couple of days. Then he -was as usual again. - -But in his madness he had burned down Ekeby. No one was hurt. Still, it -was a great sorrow to the pensioners that the hospitable home, where they -had enjoyed so many good things, should suffer such injury in their time. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -BROBY FAIR - - -On the first Friday in October the big Broby Fair begins, and lasts -one week. It is the festival of the autumn. There is slaughtering and -baking in every house; the new winter clothes are then worn for the first -time; the brandy rations are doubled; work rests. There is feasting on -all the estates. The servants and laborers draw their pay and hold long -conferences over what they shall buy at the Fair. People from a distance -come in small companies with knapsacks on their backs and staffs in -their hands. Many are driving their cattle before them to the market. -Small, obstinate young bulls and goats stand still and plant their -forefeet, causing much vexation to their owners and much amusement to the -by-standers. The guest-rooms at the manors are filled with guests, bits -of news are exchanged, and the prices of cattle discussed. - -And on the first Fair day what crowds swarm up Broby hill and over the -wide market-place! Booths are set up, where the tradespeople spread out -their wares. Rope-dancers, organ-grinders, and blind violin-players are -everywhere, as well as fortune-tellers, sellers of sweetmeats and of -brandy. Beyond the rows of booths, vegetables and fruit are offered for -sale by the gardeners from the big estates. Wide stretches are taken up -by ruddy copper-kettles. It is plain, however, by the movement in the -Fair, that there is want in Svartsjö and Bro and Löfvik and the other -provinces about the Löfven: trade is poor at the booths. There is most -bustle in the cattle-market, for many have to sell both cow and horse to -be able to live through the winter. - -It is a gay scene. If one only has money for a glass or two, one can keep -up one’s courage. And it is not only the brandy which is the cause of the -merriment; when the people from the lonely wood-huts come down to the -market-place with its seething masses, and hear the din of the screaming, -laughing crowd, they become as if delirious with excitement. - -Everybody who does not have to stay at home to look after the house and -cattle has come to this Broby Fair. There are the pensioners from Ekeby -and the peasants from Nygård, horse-dealers from Norway, Finns from the -Northern forests, vagrants from the highways. - -Sometimes the roaring sea gathers in a whirlpool, which turns about a -middle point. No one knows what is at the centre, until a couple of -policemen break a way through the crowd to put an end to a fight or to -lift up an overturned cart. - -Towards noon the great fight began. The peasants had got it into their -heads that the tradespeople were using too short yardsticks, and it began -with quarrelling and disturbance about the booths; then it turned to -violence. - -Every one knows that for many of those who for days had not seen -anything but want and suffering, it was a pleasure to strike, it made no -difference whom or what. And as soon as they see that a fight is going -on they come rushing from all sides. The pensioners mean to break through -to make peace after their fashion, and the tradesmen run to help one -another. - -Big Mons from Fors is the most eager in the game. He is drunk, and he is -angry; he has thrown down a tradesman and has begun to beat him, but at -his calls for help his comrades hurry to him and try to make Mons let him -go. Then Mons sweeps the rolls of cloth from one of the counters, and -seizes the top, which is a yard broad and five yards long and made of -thick planks, and begins to brandish it as a weapon. - -He is a terrible man, big Mons. It was he who kicked out a wall in the -Filipstad-jail, he who could lift a boat out of the water and carry it on -his shoulders. When he begins to strike about him with the heavy counter, -every one flies before him. But he follows, striking right and left. For -him it is no longer a question of friends or enemies: he only wants some -one to hit, since he has got a weapon. - -The people scatter in terror. Men and women scream and run. But how can -the women escape when many of them have their children by the hand? -Booths and carts stand in their way; oxen and cows, maddened by the -noise, prevent their escape. - -In a corner between the booths a group of women are wedged, and towards -them the giant rages. Does he not see a tradesman in the midst of the -crowd? He raises the plank and lets it fall. In pale, shuddering terror -the women receive the attack, sinking under the deadly blow. - -But as the board falls whistling down over them, its force is broken -against a man’s upstretched arms. One man has not sunk down, but raised -himself above the crowd, one man has voluntarily taken the blow to save -the many. The women and children are uninjured. One man has broken the -force of the blow, but he lies now unconscious on the ground. - -Big Mons does not lift up his board. He has met the man’s eye, just as -the counter struck his head, and it has paralyzed him. He lets himself be -bound and taken away without resistance. - -But the report flies about the Fair that big Mons has killed Captain -Lennart. They say that he who had been the people’s friend died to save -the women and defenceless children. - -And a silence falls on the great square, where life had lately roared at -fever pitch: trade ceases, the fighting stops, the people leave their -dinners. - -Their friend is dead. The silent throngs stream towards the place where -he has fallen. He lies stretched out on the ground quite unconscious; no -wound is visible, but his skull seems to be flattened. - -Some of the men lift him carefully up on to the counter which the giant -has let fall. They think they perceive that he still lives. - -“Where shall we carry him?” they ask one another. - -“Home,” answers a harsh voice in the crowd. - -Yes, good men, carry him home! Lift him up on your shoulders and carry -him home! He has been God’s plaything, he has been driven like a feather -before his breath. Carry him home! - -That wounded head has rested on the hard barrack-bed in the prison, on -sheaves of straw in the barn. Let it now come home and rest on a soft -pillow! He has suffered undeserved shame and torment, he has been hunted -from his own door. He has been a wandering fugitive, following the paths -of God where he could find them; but his promised land was that home -whose gates God had closed to him. Perhaps his house stands open for one -who has died to save women and children. - -Now he does not come as a malefactor, escorted by reeling -boon-companions; he is followed by a sorrowing people, in whose cottages -he has lived while he helped their sufferings. Carry him home! - -And so they do. Six men lift the board on which he lies on their -shoulders and carry him away from the fair-grounds. Wherever they pass, -the people move to one side and stand quiet; the men uncover their heads, -the women courtesy as they do in church when God’s name is spoken. Many -weep and dry their eyes; others begin to tell what a man he had been,—so -kind, so gay, so full of counsel and so religious. It is wonderful to -see, too, how, as soon as one of his bearers gives out, another quietly -comes and puts his shoulder under the board. - -So Captain Lennart comes by the place where the pensioners are standing. - -“I must go and see that he comes home safely,” says Beerencreutz, and -leaves his place at the roadside to follow the procession to Helgesäter. -Many follow his example. - -The fair-grounds are deserted. Everybody has to follow to see that -Captain Lennart comes home. - -When the procession reaches Helgesäter, the house is silent and deserted. -Again the colonel’s fist beats on the closed door. All the servants are -at the Fair; the captain’s wife is alone at home. It is she again who -opens the door. - -And she asks, as she asked once before,— - -“What do you want?” - -Whereupon the colonel answers, as he answered once before,— - -“We are here with your husband.” - -She looks at him, where he stands stiff and calm as usual. She looks at -the bearers behind him, who are weeping, and at all that mass of people. -She stands there on the steps and looks into hundreds of weeping eyes, -who stare sadly up at her. Last she looks at her husband, who lies -stretched out on the bier, and she presses her hand to her heart. “That -is his right face,” she murmurs. - -Without asking more, she bends down, draws back a bolt, opens the -hall-doors wide, and then goes before the others into the bedroom. - -The colonel helps her to drag out the big bed and shake up the pillows, -and so Captain Lennart is once more laid on soft down and white linen. - -“Is he alive?” she asks. - -“Yes,” answers the colonel. - -“Is there any hope?” - -“No. Nothing can be done.” - -There was silence for a while; then a sudden thought comes over her. - -“Are they weeping for his sake, all those people?” - -“Yes.” - -“What has he done?” - -“The last thing he did was to let big Mons kill him to save women and -children from death.” - -Again she sits silent for a while and thinks. - -“What kind of a face did he have, colonel, when he came home two months -ago?” - -The colonel started. Now he understands; now at last he understands. - -“Gösta had painted him.” - -“So it was on account of one of your pranks that I shut him out from his -home? How will you answer for that, colonel?” - -Beerencreutz shrugged his broad shoulders. - -“I have much to answer for.” - -“But I think that this must be the worst thing you have done.” - -“Nor have I ever gone a heavier way than that to-day up to Helgesäter. -Moreover, there are two others who are guilty in this matter.” - -“Who?” - -“Sintram is one, you yourself are the other. You are a hard woman. I know -that many have tried to speak to you of your husband.” - -“It is true,” she answers. - -Then she begs him to tell her all about that evening at Broby. - -He tells her all he can remember, and she listens silently. Captain -Lennart lies still unconscious on the bed. The room is full of weeping -people; no one thinks of shutting out that mourning crowd. All the doors -stand open, the stairs and the halls are filled with silent, grieving -people; far out in the yard they stand in close masses. - -When the colonel has finished, she raises her voice and says,— - -“If there are any pensioners here, I ask them to go. It is hard for me to -see them when I am sitting by my husband’s death-bed.” - -Without another word the colonel rises and goes out. So do Gösta Berling -and several of the other pensioners who had followed Captain Lennart. The -people move aside for the little group of humiliated men. - -When they are gone the captain’s wife says: “Will some of them who have -seen my husband during this time tell me where he has lived, and what he -has done?” Then they begin to give testimony of Captain Lennart to his -wife, who has misjudged him and sternly hardened her heart against him. - -It lasted a long time before they all were done. All through the twilight -and the evening they stand and speak; one after another steps forward and -tells of him to his wife, who would not hear his name mentioned. - -Some tell how he found them on a sick-bed and cured them. There are wild -brawlers whom he has tamed. There are mourners whom he has cheered, -drunkards whom he had led to sobriety. Every one who had been in -unbearable distress had sent a message to God’s wayfarer, and he had -helped them, or at least he had waked hope and faith. - -Out in the yard the crowd stands and waits. They know what is going on -inside: that which is said aloud by the death-bed is whispered from man -to man outside. He who has something to say pushes gently forward. “Here -is one who can bear witness,” they say, and let him pass. And they step -forward out of the darkness, give their testimony, and disappear again -into the darkness. - -“What does she say now?” those standing outside ask when some one comes -out. “What does she say?” - -“She shines like a queen. She smiles like a bride. She has moved his -arm-chair up to the bed and laid on it the clothes which she herself had -woven for him.” - -But then a silence falls on the people. No one says it, all know it at -the same time: “He is dying.” - -Captain Lennart opens his eyes and sees everything. - -He sees his home, the people, his wife, his children, the clothes; and -he smiles. But he has only waked to die. He draws a rattling breath and -gives up the ghost. - -Then the stories cease, but a voice takes up a death-hymn. All join in, -and, borne on hundreds of strong voices, the song rises on high. - -It is earth’s farewell greeting to the departing soul. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -THE FOREST COTTAGE - - -It was many years before the pensioners’ reign at Ekeby. - -The shepherd’s boy and girl played together in the wood, built houses -with flat stones, and picked cloud-berries. They were both born in the -wood. The wood was their home and mansion. They lived in peace with -everything there. - -The children looked upon the lynx and the fox as their watch-dogs, the -weasel was their cat, hares and squirrels their cattle, owls and grouse -sat in their bird-cage, the pines were their servants, and the young -birch-trees guests at their feasts. They knew the hole where the viper -lay curled up in his winter rest; and when they had bathed they had seen -the water-snake come swimming through the clear water; but they feared -neither snake nor wild creature; they belonged to the wood and it was -their home. There nothing could frighten them. - -Deep in the wood lay the cottage where the boy lived. A hilly wood-path -led to it; mountains closed it in and shut out the sun; a bottomless -swamp lay near by and gave out the whole year round an icy mist. Such a -dwelling seemed far from attractive to the people on the plain. - -The shepherd’s boy and girl were some day to be married, live there -in the forest cottage, and support themselves by the work of their -hands. But before they were married, war passed over the land, and the -boy enlisted. He came home again without wound or injured limb; but he -had been changed for life by the campaign. He had seen too much of the -world’s wickedness and man’s cruel activity against man. He could no -longer see the good. - -At first no one saw any change in him. With the love of his childhood he -went to the clergyman and had the banns published. The forest cottage -above Ekeby was their home, as they had planned long before; but it was -not a happy home. - -The wife looked at her husband as at a stranger. Since he had come from -the wars, she could not recognize him. His laugh was hard, and he spoke -but little. She was afraid of him. - -He did no harm, and worked hard. Still he was not liked, for he thought -evil of everybody. He felt himself like a hated stranger. Now the forest -animals were his enemies. The mountain, which shut out the sun, and the -swamp, which sent up the mist, were his foes. The forest is a terrible -place for one who has evil thoughts. - -He who will live in the wilderness should have bright memories. Otherwise -he sees only murder and oppression among plants and animals, just as he -had seen it before among men. He expects evil from everything he meets. - -The soldier, Jan Hök, could not explain what was the matter with him; but -he felt that nothing went well with him. There was little peace in his -home. His sons who grew up there were strong, but wild. They were hardy -and brave men, but they too lived at enmity with all men. - -His wife was tempted by her sorrow to seek out the secrets of the -wilderness. In swamp and thicket she gathered healing herbs. She could -cure sickness, and give advice to those who were crossed in love. She won -fame as a witch, and was shunned, although she did much good. - -One day the wife tried to speak to her husband of his trouble. - -“Ever since you went to the war,” she said, “you have been so changed. -What did they do to you there?” - -Then he rose up, and was ready to strike her; and so it was every time -she spoke of the war, he became mad with rage. From no one could he bear -to hear the word war, and it soon became known. So people were careful of -that subject. - -But none of his brothers in arms could say that he had done more harm -than others. He had fought like a good soldier. It was only all the -dreadful things he had seen which had frightened him so that since then -he saw nothing but evil. All his trouble came from the war. He thought -that all nature hated him, because he had had a share in such things. -They who knew more could console themselves that they had fought for -fatherland and honor. What did he know of such things? He only felt that -everything hated him because he had shed blood and done much injury. - -When the major’s wife was driven from Ekeby, he lived alone in his -cottage. His wife was dead and his sons away. During the fairs his house -was always full of guests. Black-haired, swarthy gypsies put up there. -They like those best whom others avoid. Small, long-haired horses climbed -up the wood path, dragging carts loaded with children and bundles of -rags. Women, prematurely old, with features swollen by smoking and -drinking, and men with pale, sharp faces and sinewy bodies followed the -carts. When the gypsies came to the forest cottage, there was a merry -life there. Brandy and cards and loud talking followed with them. They -had much to tell of thefts and horse-dealing and bloody fights. - -The Broby Fair began on a Friday, and then Captain Lennart was killed. -Big Mons, who gave the death-blow, was son to the old man in the forest -cottage. When the gypsies on Sunday afternoon sat together there, they -handed old Jan Hök the brandy bottle oftener than usual, and talked to -him of prison life and prison fare and trials; for they had often tried -such things. - -The old man sat on the chopping-block in the corner and said little. His -big lack-lustre eyes stared at the crowd which filled the room. It was -dusk, but the wood-fire lighted the room. - -The door was softly opened and two women entered. It was the young -Countess Elizabeth followed by the daughter of the Broby clergyman. -Lovely and glowing, she came into the circle of light. She told them that -Gösta Berling had not been seen at Ekeby since Captain Lennart died. She -and her servant had searched for him in the wood the whole afternoon. Now -she saw that there were men here who had much wandered, and knew all the -paths. Had they seen him? She had come in to rest, and to ask if they had -seen him. - -It was a useless question. None of them had seen him. - -They gave her a chair. She sank down on it, and sat silent for a while. -There was no sound in the room. All looked at her and wondered at her. At -last she grew frightened at the silence, started, and tried to speak of -indifferent things. She turned to the old man in the corner, “I think I -have heard that you have been a soldier,” she said. “Tell me something of -the war!” - -The silence grew still deeper. The old man sat as if he had not heard. - -“It would be very interesting to hear about the war from some one who had -been there himself,” continued the countess; but she stopped short, for -the Broby clergyman’s daughter shook her head at her. She must have said -something forbidden. Everybody was looking at her as if she had offended -against the simplest rule of propriety. Suddenly a gypsy woman raised her -sharp voice and asked: “Are you not she who has been countess at Borg?” - -“Yes, I am.” - -“That was another thing than running about the wood after a mad priest.” - -The countess rose and said farewell. She was quite rested. The woman who -had spoken followed her out through the door. - -“You understand, countess,” she said, “I had to say something; for it -does not do to speak to the old man of war. He can’t bear to hear the -word. I meant well.” - -Countess Elizabeth hurried away, but she soon stopped. She saw the -threatening wood, the dark mountain, and the reeking swamp. It must be -terrible to live here for one whose soul is filled with evil memories. -She felt compassion for the old man who had sat there with the dark -gypsies for company. - -“Anna Lisa,” she said, “let us turn back! They were kind to us, but I -behaved badly. I want to talk to the old man about pleasanter things.” - -And happy to have found some one to comfort, she went back to the cottage. - -“I think,” she said, “that Gösta Berling is wandering here in the wood, -and means to take his own life. It is therefore important that he be -soon found and prevented. I and my maid, Anna Lisa, thought we saw him -sometimes, but then he disappeared. He keeps to that part of the mountain -where the broom-girl was killed. I happened to think that I do not need -to go way down to Ekeby to get help. Here sit many active men who easily -could catch him.” - -“Go along, boys!” cried the gypsy woman. “When the countess does not hold -herself too good to ask a service of the forest people, you must go at -once.” - -The men rose immediately and went out to search. - -Old Jan Hök sat still and stared before him with lustreless eyes. -Terrifyingly gloomy and hard, he sat there. The young woman could think -of nothing to say to him. Then she saw that a child lay sick on a sheaf -of straw, and noticed that a woman had hurt her hand. Instantly she began -to care for the sick. She was soon friends with the gossiping women, and -had them show her the smallest children. - -In an hour the men came back. They carried Gösta Berling bound into -the room. They laid him down on the floor before the fire. His clothes -were torn and dirty, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes wild. Terrible had -been his ways during those days; he had lain on the damp ground; he had -burrowed with his hands and face in bogs, dragged himself over rocks, -forced his way through the thickest underbrush. Of his own will he had -never come with the men; but they had overpowered and bound him. - -When his wife saw him so, she was angry. She did not free his bound -limbs; she let him lie where he was on the floor. With scorn she turned -from him. - -“How you look!” she said. - -“I had never meant to come again before your eyes,” he answered. - -“Am I not your wife? Is it not my right to expect you to come to me with -your troubles? In bitter sorrow I have waited for you these two days.” - -“I was the cause of Captain Lennart’s misfortunes. How could I dare to -show myself to you?” - -“You are not often afraid, Gösta.” - -“The only service I can do you, Elizabeth, is to rid you of myself.” - -Unspeakable contempt flashed from under her frowning brows at him. - -“You wish to make me a suicide’s wife!” - -His face was distorted. - -“Elizabeth, let us go out into the silent forest and talk.” - -“Why should not these people hear us?” she cried, speaking in a shrill -voice. “Are we better than any of them? Has any one of them caused more -sorrow and injury than we? They are the children of the forest, and of -the highway; they are hated by every man. Let them hear how sin and -sorrow also follows the lord of Ekeby, the beloved of all, Gösta Berling! -Do you think your wife considers herself better than any one of them—or -do you?” - -He raised himself with difficulty onto his elbow, and looked at her with -sudden defiance. “I am not such a wretch as you think.” - -Then she heard the story of those two days. The first day Gösta wandered -about in the wood, driven by remorse. He could not bear to meet any -one’s eye. But he did not think of dying. He meant to journey to far -distant lands. On Sunday, however, he came down from the hills and went -to the Bro church. Once more he wished to see the people: the poor, -hungry people whom he had dreamed of serving when he had sat by the Broby -clergyman’s pile of shame, and whom he had learned to love when he saw -them disappear into the night with the dead broom-girl. - -The service had begun when he came to the church. He crept up to the -gallery, and looked down on the people. He had felt bitter agony. He -had wanted to speak to them, to comfort them in their poverty and -hopelessness. If he had only been allowed to speak in God’s house, -hopeless as he was, he would have found words of hope and salvation for -them all. - -Then he left the church, went into the sacristy, and wrote the message -which his wife already knew. He had promised that work should be renewed -at Ekeby, and grain distributed to those in greatest need. He had hoped -that his wife and the pensioners would fulfil his promises when he was -gone. - -As he came out, he saw a coffin standing before the parish-hall. It -was plain, put together in haste, but covered with black crape and -wreaths. He knew that it was Captain Lennart’s. The people had begged the -captain’s wife to hasten the funeral, so that all those who had come to -the Fair could be at the burial. - -He was standing and looking at the coffin, when a heavy hand was laid on -his shoulder. Sintram had come up to him. - -“Gösta,” he said, “if you want to play a regular trick on a person, lie -down and die. There is nothing more clever than to die, nothing which so -deceives an honest man who suspects no harm. Lie you down and die, I tell -you!” - -Gösta listened with horror to what he said. Sintram complained of the -failure of well-laid plans. He had wanted to see a waste about the shores -of the Löfven. He had made the pensioners lords of the place; he had -let the Broby clergyman impoverish the people; he had called forth the -drought and the famine. At the Broby Fair the decisive blow was to have -fallen. Excited by their misfortunes, the people should have turned to -murder and robbery. Then there should have been lawsuits to beggar them. -Famine, riot, and every kind of misfortune should have ravaged them. -Finally, the country would have become so odious and detestable that no -one could have lived there, and it would all have been Sintram’s doing. -It would have been his joy and pride, for he was evil-minded. He loved -desert wastes and uncultivated fields. But this man who had known how to -die at the right moment had spoiled it all for him. - -Then Gösta asked him what would have been the good of it all. - -“It would have pleased me, Gösta, for I am bad. I am the grizzly bear on -the mountain; I am the snow-storm on the plain; I like to kill and to -persecute. Away, I say, with people and their works! I don’t like them. -I can let them slip from between my claws and cut their capers,—that is -amusing too for a while; but now I am tired of play, Gösta, now I want to -strike, now I want to kill and to destroy.” - -He was mad, quite mad. He began a long time ago as a joke with those -devilish tricks, and now his maliciousness had taken the upper hand; now -he thought he really was a spirit from the lower regions. He had fed and -fostered the evil in him until it had taken possession of his soul. For -wickedness can drive people mad, as well as love and brooding. - -He was furious, and in his anger he began to tear the wreaths from off -the coffin; but then Gösta Berling cried: “Let the coffin be!” - -“Well, well, well, so I shall not touch it! Yes; I shall throw my friend -Lennart out on the ground and trample on his wreaths. Do you not see what -he has done to me? Do you not see in what a fine gray coach I am riding?” - -And Gösta then saw that a couple of prison-vans with the sheriff and -constables of the district stood and waited outside the churchyard wall. - -“I ought to send Captain Lennart’s wife thanks that she yesterday sat -herself down to read through old papers in order to find proof against me -in that matter of the powder, you know? Shall I not let her know that she -would have done better to occupy herself with brewing and baking, than -in sending the sheriff and his men after me? Shall I have nothing for -the tears I have wept to induce Scharling to let me come here and read a -prayer by my good friend’s coffin?” - -And he began again to drag on the crape. - -Then Gösta Berling came close up to him and seized his arms. - -“I will give anything to make you let the coffin alone,” he said. - -“Do what you like,” said the madman. “Call if you like. I can always -do something before the sheriff gets here. Fight with me, if you like. -That will be a pleasing sight here by the church. Let us fight among the -wreaths and palls.” - -“I will buy rest for the dead at any price. Take my life, take -everything!” - -“You promise much.” - -“You can prove it.” - -“Well, then, kill yourself!” - -“I will do it; but first the coffin shall be safely under earth.” - -And so it was. Sintram took Gösta’s oath that he would not be alive -twelve hours after Captain Lennart was buried. “Then I know that you can -never be good for anything,” he said. - -It was easy for Gösta Berling to promise. He was glad to be able to give -his wife her liberty. Remorse had made him long for death. The only thing -which troubled him was, that he had promised the major’s wife not to die -as long as the Broby clergyman’s daughter was a servant at Ekeby. But -Sintram said that she could no longer be considered as servant, since -she had inherited her father’s fortune. Gösta objected that the Broby -clergyman had hidden his treasures so well that no one had been able to -find them. Then Sintram laughed and said that they were hidden up among -the pigeons’ nests in the church tower. Thereupon he went away. And Gösta -went back to the wood again. It seemed best to him to die at the place -where the broom-girl had been killed. He had wandered there the whole -afternoon. He had seen his wife in the wood; and then he had not had the -strength to kill himself. - -All this he told his wife, while he lay bound on the floor of the cottage. - -“Oh,” she said sadly, when he had finished, “how familiar it all is! -Always ready to thrust your hands into the fire, Gösta, always ready to -throw yourself away! How noble such things seemed to me once! How I now -value calmness and good sense! What good did you do the dead by such a -promise? What did it matter if Sintram had overturned the coffin and torn -off the crape? It would have been picked up again; there would have been -found new crape, new wreaths. If you had laid your hand on that good -man’s coffin, there before Sintram’s eyes, and sworn to live to help -those poor people whom he wished to ruin, that I should have commended. -If you had thought, when you saw the people in the church: ‘I will help -them; I will make use of all my strength to help them,’ and not laid that -burden on your weak wife, and on old men with failing strength, I should -also have commended that.” - -Gösta Berling lay silent for a while. - -“We pensioners are not free men,” he said at last. “We have promised one -another to live for pleasure, and only for pleasure. Woe to us all if one -breaks his word!” - -“Woe to you,” said the countess, indignantly, “if you shall be the most -cowardly of the pensioners, and slower to improve than any of them. -Yesterday afternoon the whole eleven sat in the pensioners’ wing, and -they were very sad. You were gone; Captain Lennart was gone. The glory -and honor of Ekeby were gone. They left the toddy tray untouched; they -would not let me see them. Then the maid, Anna Lisa, who stands here, -went up to them. You know she is an energetic little woman who for years -has struggled despairingly against neglect and waste. - -“‘To-day I have again been at home and looked for father’s money,’ she -said to the pensioners; ‘but I have not found anything. All the debts are -paid, and the drawers and closets are empty.’ - -“‘We are sorry for you, Anna Lisa,’ said Beerencreutz. - -“‘When the major’s wife left Ekeby,’ continued Anna Lisa, ‘she told me -to see after her house. And if I had found father’s money, I would have -built up Ekeby. But as I did not find anything else to take away with me, -I took father’s shame heap; for great shame awaits me when my mistress -comes again and asks me what I have done with Ekeby.’ - -“‘Don’t take so much to heart what is not your fault, Anna Lisa,’ said -Beerencreutz again. - -“‘But I did not take the shame heap for myself alone,’ said Anna Lisa. ‘I -took it also for your reckoning, good gentlemen. Father is not the only -one who has been the cause of shame and injury in this world.’ - -“And she went from one to the other of them, and laid down some of the -dry sticks before each. Some of them swore, but most of them let her go -on. At last Beerencreutz said, calmly:— - -“‘It is well. We thank you. You may go now.’ When she had gone, he struck -the table with his clenched hand till the glasses rang. - -“‘From this hour,’ he said, ‘absolutely sober. Brandy shall never again -cause me such shame.’ Thereupon he rose and went out. - -“They followed him by degrees, all the others. Do you know where they -went, Gösta? Well, down to the river, to the point where the mill and -the forge had stood, and there they began to work. They began to drag -away the logs and stones and clear the place. The old men have had a -hard time. Many of them have had sorrow. Now they can no longer bear the -disgrace of having ruined Ekeby. I know too well that you pensioners -are ashamed to work; but now the others have taken that shame on them. -Moreover, Gösta, they mean to send Anna Lisa up to the major’s wife to -bring her home. But you, what are you doing?” - -He found still an answer to give her. - -“What do you want of me, of a dismissed priest? Cast off by men, hateful -to God?” - -“I too have been in the Bro church to-day, Gösta. I have a message to you -from two women. ‘Tell Gösta,’ said Marianne Sinclair, ‘that a woman does -not like to be ashamed of him she has loved.’ ‘Tell Gösta,’ said Anna -Stjärnhök, ‘that all is now well with me. I manage my own estates. I do -not think of love, only of work. At Berga too they have conquered the -first bitterness of their sorrow. But we all grieve for Gösta. We believe -in him and pray for him; but when, when will he be a man?’ - -“Do you hear? Are you cast off by men?” continued the countess. “Your -misfortune is that you have been met with too much love. Women and men -have loved you. If you only jested and laughed, if you only sang and -played, they have forgiven you everything. Whatever it has pleased you to -do has seemed right to them. And you dare to call yourself an outcast! Or -are you hateful to God? Why did you not stay and see Captain Lennart’s -burial? - -“As he had died on a Fair day, his fame had gone far and wide. After -the service, thousands of people came up to the church. The funeral -procession was formed by the town hall. They were only waiting for the -old dean. He was ill and had not preached; but he had promised to come -to Captain Lennart’s funeral. And at last he came, with head sunk on his -breast, and dreaming his dreams, as he is wont to do now in his old age, -and placed himself at the head of the procession. He noticed nothing -unusual. He walked on the familiar path and did not look up. He read the -prayers, and threw the earth on the coffin, and still noticed nothing. -But then the sexton began a hymn. Hundreds and hundreds of voices joined -in. Men, women, and children sang. Then the dean awoke from his dreams. -He passed his hand over his eyes and stepped up on the mound of earth to -look. Never had he seen such a crowd of mourners. All were singing; all -had tears in their eyes,—all were mourning. - -“Then the old dean began to tremble. What should he say to these people? -He must say a word to comfort them. - -“When the song ceased, he stretched out his arms over the people. - -“‘I see that you are mourning,’ he said; ‘and sorrow is heavier to bear -for one who has long to live than for me who will soon be gone.’ - -“He stopped dismayed. His voice was too weak, and words failed him. - -“But he soon began again. His voice had regained its youthful strength, -and his eyes glowed. - -“First, he told all he knew of God’s wayfarer. Then he reminded us that -no outward polish nor great ability had made that man so honored as he -now was, but only that he had always followed God’s ways. And now he -asked us to do the same. Each should love the other, and help him. Each -should think well of the other. And he explained everything which had -happened this year. He said it was a preparation for the time of love and -happiness which now was to be expected. - -“And we all felt as if we had heard a prophet speak. All wished to love -one another; all wished to be good. - -“He lifted his eyes and hands and proclaimed peace in the neighborhood. -Then he called on a helper for the people. ‘Some one will come,’ he said. -‘It is not God’s will that you shall perish. God will find some one who -will feed the hungry and lead you in His ways.’ - -“Then we all thought of you, Gösta. We knew that the dean spoke of you. -The people who had heard your message went home talking of you. And you -wandered here in the wood and wanted to die! The people are waiting for -you, Gösta. In all the cottages they are sitting and saying that, as the -mad priest at Ekeby is going to help them, all will be well. You are -their hero, Gösta. - -“Yes, Gösta, it is certain that the old man meant you, and that ought -to make you want to live. But I, Gösta, who am your wife, I say to you -that you shall go and do your duty. You shall not dream of being sent by -God,—any one can be that. You shall work without any heroics; you shall -not shine and astonish; you shall so manage that your name is not too -often heard on the people’s lips. But think well before you take back -your promise to Sintram. You have now got a certain right to die, and -life ought not to offer you many attractions. There was a time when my -wish was to go home to Italy, Gösta. It seemed too much happiness for -me, a sinner, to be your wife, and be with you through life. But now I -shall stay. If you dare to live, I shall stop; but do not await any joy -from that. I shall force you to follow the weary path of duty. You need -never expect words of joy or hope from me. Can a heart which has suffered -like mine love again? Tearless and joyless I shall walk beside you. Think -well, Gösta, before you choose to live. We shall go the way of penance.” - -She did not wait for his answer. She nodded to Anna Lisa and went. When -she came out into the wood, she began to weep bitterly, and wept until -she reached Ekeby. Arrived there, she remembered that she had forgotten -to talk of gladder things than war to Jan Hök, the soldier. - -In the cottage there was silence when she was gone. - -“Glory and honor be to the Lord God!” said the old soldier, suddenly. - -They looked at him. He had risen and was looking eagerly about him. - -“Wicked, wicked has everything been,” he said. “Everything I have seen -since I got my eyes opened has been wicked. Bad men, bad women! Hate and -anger in forest and plain! But she is good. A good woman has stood in my -house. When I am sitting here alone, I shall remember her. She shall be -with me in the wood.” - -He bent down over Gösta, untied his fetters, and lifted him up. Then he -solemnly took his hand. - -“Hateful to God,” he said and nodded. “That is just it. But now you are -not any more; nor I either, since she has been in my house. She is good.” - -The next day old Jan Hök came to the bailiff Scharling. “I will carry my -cross,” he said. “I have been a bad man, therefore I have had bad sons.” -And he asked to be allowed to go to prison instead of his son; but that -could not be. - -The best of old stories is the one which tells of how he followed his -son, walking beside the prison van; how he slept outside his cell; how he -did not forsake him until he had suffered his punishment. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -MARGARETA CELSING - - -A few days before Christmas the major’s wife started on her journey down -to the Löfsjö district; but it was not till Christmas Eve that she came -to Ekeby. During the whole journey she was ill. Yet, in spite of cold and -fever, people had never seen her in better spirits nor heard her speak -more friendly words. - -The Broby clergyman’s daughter, who had been with her in the Älfdal -forests ever since October, sat by her side in the sledge and wished to -hasten the journey; but she could not prevent the old woman from stopping -the horses and calling every wayfarer up to her to ask for news. - -“How is it with you all here in Löfsjö?” she asked. - -“All is well,” was the answer. “Better times are coming. The mad priest -there at Ekeby and his wife help us all.” - -“A good time has come,” answered another. “Sintram is gone. The Ekeby -pensioners are working. The Broby clergyman’s money is found in the Bro -church-tower. There is so much that the glory and power of Ekeby can be -restored with it. There is enough too to get bread for the hungry.” - -“Our old dean has waked to new life and strength,” said a third. “Every -Sunday he speaks to us of the coming of the Kingdom of God.” - -And the major’s wife drove slowly on, asking every one she met: “How is -it here? Do you not suffer from want here?” - -And the fever and the stabbing pain in her breast were assuaged, when -they answered her: “There are two good and rich women here, Marianne -Sinclair and Anna Stjärnhök. They help Gösta Berling to go from house to -house and see that no one is starving. And no more brandy is made now.” - -It was as if the major’s wife had sat in the sledge and listened to -a long divine service. She had come to a blessed land. She saw old, -furrowed faces brighten, when they spoke of the time which had come. The -sick forgot their pains to tell of the day of joy. - -“We all want to be like the good Captain Lennart,” they said. “We all -want to be good. We want to believe good of every one. We will not injure -any one. It shall hasten the coming of God’s Kingdom.” - -She found them all filled with the same spirit. On the larger estates -free dinners were given to those who were in greatest need. All who had -work to be done had it done now. - -She had never felt in better health than when she sat there and let the -cold air stream into her aching breast. She could not drive by a single -house without stopping and asking. - -“Everything is well,” they all said. “There was great distress, but the -good gentlemen from Ekeby help us. You will be surprised at everything -which has been done there. The mill is almost ready, and the smithy is at -work, and the burned-down house ready for the roof.” - -Ah, it would only last a short time! But still it was good to return -to a land where they all helped one another and all wished to do good. -The major’s wife felt that she could now forgive the pensioners, and she -thanked God for it. - -“Anna Lisa,” she said, “I feel as if I had already come into the heaven -of the blessed.” - -When she at last reached Ekeby, and the pensioners hurried to help her -out of the sledge, they could hardly recognize her, for she was as kind -and gentle as their own young countess. The older ones, who had seen her -as a young girl, whispered to one another: “It is not the major’s wife at -Ekeby; it is Margareta Celsing who has come back.” - -Great was the pensioners’ joy to see her come so kind and so free from -all thoughts of revenge; but it was soon changed to grief when they found -how ill she was. She had to be carried immediately into the guest-room in -the wing, and put to bed. But on the threshold she turned and spoke to -them. - -“It has been God’s storm,” she said,—“God’s storm. I know now that it has -all been for the best!” - -Then the door to the sick-room closed, and they never saw her again. - -There is so much to say to one who is dying. The words throng to the lips -when one knows that in the next room lies one whose ears will soon be -closed for always. “Ah, my friend, my friend,” one wants to say, “can you -forgive? Can you believe that I have loved you in spite of everything! -Ah, my friend, thanks for all the joy you have given me!” - -That will one say and so much, much more. - -But the major’s wife lay in a burning fever, and the voices of the -pensioners could not reach her. Would she never know how they had worked, -how they had taken up her work? - -After a little while the pensioners went down to the smithy. There all -work was stopped; but they threw new coal and new ore into the furnace, -and made ready to smelt. They did not call the smith, who had gone home -to celebrate Christmas, but worked themselves at the forge. If the -major’s wife could only live until the hammer got going, it would tell -her their story. - -Evening came and then night, while they worked. Several of them thought, -how strange it was that they should again celebrate the night before -Christmas in the smithy. - -Kevenhüller, who had been the architect of the mill and the smithy, and -Christian Bergh stood by the forge and attended to the melting iron. -Gösta and Julius were the stokers. Some of the others sat on the anvil -under the raised hammer, and others sat on coal-carts and piles of -pig-iron. Löwenborg was talking to Eberhard, the philosopher, who sat -beside him on the anvil. - -“Sintram dies to-night,” he said. - -“Why just to-night?” asked Eberhard. - -“You know that we made an agreement last year. Now we have done nothing -which has been ungentlemanly, and therefore he has lost.” - -“You who believe in such things know very well that we have done a great -deal which has been ungentlemanly. First, we did not help the major’s -wife; second, we began to work; third, it was not quite right that Gösta -Berling did not kill himself, when he had promised.” - -“I have thought of that too,” answered Löwenborg; “but my opinion is, -that you do not rightly comprehend the matter. To act with the thought of -our own mean advantage was forbidden us; but not to act as love or honor -or our own salvation demanded. I think that Sintram has lost.” - -“Perhaps you are right.” - -“I tell you that I know it. I have heard his sleigh-bells the whole -evening, but they are not real bells. We shall soon have him here.” - -And the little old man sat and stared through the smithy door, which -stood open, out at the bit of blue sky studded with stars which showed -through it. - -After a little while he started up. - -“Do you see him?” he whispered. “There he comes creeping. Do you not see -him in the doorway?” - -“I see nothing,” replied Eberhard. “You are sleepy, that is the whole -story.” - -“I saw him so distinctly against the sky. He had on his long wolfskin -coat and fur cap. Now he is over there in the dark, and I cannot see him. -Look, now he is up by the furnace. He is standing close to Christian -Bergh; but Christian seems not to see him. Now he is bending down and is -throwing something into the fire. Oh, how wicked he looks! Take care, -friends, take care!” - -As he spoke, a tongue of flame burst out of the furnace, and covered the -smiths and their assistants with cinders and sparks. No one, however, was -injured. - -“He wants to be revenged,” whispered Löwenborg. - -“You too are mad!” cried Eberhard. “You ought to have had enough of such -things.” - -“Do you not see how he is standing there by the prop and grinning at us? -But, verily, I believe that he has unfastened the hammer.” - -He started up and dragged Eberhard with him. The second after the hammer -fell thundering down onto the anvil. It was only a clamp which had given -way; but Eberhard and Löwenborg had narrowly escaped death. - -“You see that he has no power over us,” said Löwenborg, triumphantly. -“But it is plain that he wants to be revenged.” - -And he called Gösta Berling to him. - -“Go up to the women, Gösta. Perhaps he will show himself to them too. -They are not so used as I to seeing such things. They may be frightened. -And take care of yourself, Gösta, for he has a special grudge against -you, and perhaps he has power over you on account of that promise.” - -Afterwards they heard that Löwenborg had been right, and that Sintram had -died that night. Some said that he had hanged himself in his cell. Others -believed that the servants of justice secretly had him killed, for the -trial seemed to be going well for him, and it would never do to let him -out again among the people in Löfsjö. Still others thought that a dark -visitor had driven up in a black carriage, drawn by black horses, and -had taken him out of prison. And Löwenborg was not the only one who saw -him that night. He was also seen at Fors and in Ulrika Dillner’s dreams. -Many told how he had shown himself to them, until Ulrika Dillner moved -his body to the Bro churchyard. She also had the evil servants sent away -from Fors and introduced there good order. After that it was no longer -haunted. - -It is said that before Gösta Berling reached the house, a stranger had -come to the wing and had left a letter for the major’s wife. No one knew -the messenger, but the letter was carried in and laid on the table beside -the sick woman. Soon after she became unexpectedly better; the fever -decreased, the pain abated, and she was able to read the letter. - -The old people believe that her improvement depended on the influence -of the powers of darkness. Sintram and his friends would profit by the -reading of that letter. - -It was a contract written in blood on black paper. The pensioners would -have recognized it. It was composed on the last Christmas Eve in the -smithy at Ekeby. - -And the major’s wife lay there now and read that since she had been a -witch, and had sent pensioners’ souls to hell, she was condemned to lose -Ekeby. That and other similar absurdities she read. She examined the -date and signatures, and found the following note beside Gösta’s name: -“Because the major’s wife has taken advantage of my weakness to tempt -me away from honest work, and to keep me as pensioner at Ekeby, because -she has made me Ebba Dohna’s murderer by betraying to her that I am a -dismissed priest, I sign my name.” - -The major’s wife slowly folded the paper and put it in its envelope. Then -she lay still and thought over what she had learned. She understood with -bitter pain that such was the people’s thought of her. She was a witch -and a sorceress to all those whom she had served, to whom she had given -work and bread. This was her reward. They could not believe anything -better of an adulteress. - -Her thoughts flew. Wild anger and a longing for revenge flamed up in -her fever-burning brain. She had Anna Lisa, who with Countess Elizabeth -tended her, send a message to Hogfors to the manager and overseer. She -wished to make her will. - -Again she lay thinking. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her features -were terribly distorted by suffering. - -“You are very ill,” said the countess, softly. - -“Yes, more ill than ever before.” - -There was silence again, but then the major’s wife spoke in a hard, harsh -voice:— - -“It is strange to think that you, too, countess, you whom every one -loves, are an adulteress.” - -The young woman started. - -“Yes, if not in deed, yet in thoughts and desire, and that makes no -difference. I who lie here feel that it makes no difference.” - -“I know it!” - -“And yet you are happy now. You may possess him you loved without sin. -That black spectre does not stand between you when you meet. You may -belong to one another before the world, love one another, go side by side -through life.” - -“Oh, madame, madame!” - -“How can you dare to stay with him?” cried the old woman, with increasing -violence. “Repent, repent in time! Go home to your father and mother, -before they come and curse you. Do you dare to consider Gösta Berling -your husband? Leave him! I shall give him Ekeby. I shall give him power -and glory. Do you dare to share that with him? Do you dare to accept -happiness and honor? I did not dare to. Do you remember what happened to -me? Do you remember the Christmas dinner at Ekeby? Do you remember the -cell in the bailiff’s house?” - -“Oh, madame, we sinners go here side by side without happiness. I am here -to see that no joy shall find a home by our hearth. Do you think I do not -long for my home? Oh, bitterly do I long for the protection and support -of home; but I shall never again enjoy them. Here I shall live in fear -and trembling, knowing that everything I do leads to sin and sorrow, -knowing that if I help one, I ruin another. Too weak and foolish for the -life here, and yet forced to live it, bound by an everlasting penance.” - -“With such thoughts we deceive our hearts,” cried the major’s wife; “but -it is weakness. You will not leave him, that is the only reason.” - -Before the countess could answer, Gösta Berling came into the room. - -“Come here, Gösta,” said the major’s wife instantly, and her voice grew -still sharper and harder. “Come here, you whom everybody praises. You -shall now hear what has happened to your old friend whom you allowed to -wander about the country, despised and forsaken. - -“I will first tell you what happened last spring, when I came home to my -mother, for you ought to know the end of that story. - -“In March I reached the iron-works in the Älfdal forest, Gösta. Little -better than a beggar I looked. They told me that my mother was in the -dairy. So I went there, and stood for a long while silent at the door. -There were long shelves round about the room, and on them stood shining -copper pans filled with milk. And my mother, who was over ninety years -old, took down pan after pan and skimmed off the cream. She was active -enough, the old woman; but I saw well enough how hard it was for her to -straighten up her back to reach the pans. I did not know if she had seen -me; but after a while she spoke to me in a curious, shrill voice. - -“‘So everything has happened to you as I wished,’ she said. I wanted to -speak and to ask her to forgive me, but it was a waste of trouble. She -did not hear a word of it,—she was stone-deaf. But after a while she -spoke again: ‘You can come and help me,’ she said. - -“Then I went in and skimmed the milk. I took the pans in order, and -put everything in its place, and skimmed just deep enough, and she was -pleased. She had never been able to trust any of the maids to skim the -milk; but I knew of old how she liked to have it. - -“‘Now you can take charge of this work,’ she said. And then I knew that -she had forgiven me. - -“And afterwards all at once it seemed as if she could not work any more. -She sat in her arm-chair and slept almost all day. She died two weeks -before Christmas. I should have liked to have come before, Gösta, but I -could not leave her.” - -She stopped. She began to find breathing difficult; but she made an -effort and went on:— - -“It is true, Gösta, that I wished to keep you near me at Ekeby. There is -something about you which makes every one rejoice to be with you. If you -had shown a wish to be a settled man, I would have given you much power. -I always hoped that you would find a good wife. First, I thought that it -would be Marianne Sinclair, for I saw that she loved you already, when -you lived as wood-cutter in the wood. Then I thought that it would be -Ebba Dohna, and one day I drove over to Borg and told her that if she -would have you for husband, I would leave you Ekeby in my will. If I did -wrong in that, you must forgive me.” - -Gösta was kneeling by the bed with his face hidden in the blankets, and -was moaning bitterly. - -“Tell me, Gösta, how you mean to live? How shall you support your wife? -Tell me that. You know that I have always wished you well.” And Gösta -answered her smiling, while his heart almost burst with pain. - -“In the old days, when I tried to be a laborer here at Ekeby, you gave -me a cottage to live in, and it is still mine. This autumn I have put -it quite in order. Löwenborg has helped me, and we have whitewashed the -ceilings and hung the walls with paper and painted them. The inner little -room Löwenborg calls the countess’s boudoir, and he has gone through all -the farm-houses round about for furniture, which has come there from -manor-house auctions. He has bought them, so that there we have now -high-backed arm-chairs and chests of drawers with shining mountings. But -in the outer big room stands the young wife’s weaving-loom and my lathe. -Household utensils and all kinds of things are there, and there Löwenborg -and I have already sat many evenings and talked of how the young countess -and I will have it in the cottage. But my wife did not know it till now. -We wanted to tell her when we should leave Ekeby.” - -“Go on, Gösta.” - -“Löwenborg was always saying that a maid was needed in the house. ‘In the -summer it is lovely here in the birch grove,’ he used to say; ‘but in -winter it will be too lonely for the young wife. You will have to have a -maid, Gösta.’ - -“And I agreed with him, but I did not know how I could afford to keep -one. Then he came one day and carried down his music, and his table with -the painted keyboard, and put it in the cottage. ‘It is you, Löwenborg, -who are going to be the maid,’ I said to him. He answered that he would -be needed. Did I mean the young countess to cook the food, and to carry -wood and water? No, I had not meant her to do anything at all, as long -as I had a pair of arms to work with. But he still thought that it would -be best if there were two of us, so that she might sit the whole day on -her sofa and embroider. I could never know how much waiting upon such a -little woman needed, he said.” - -“Go on,” said the major’s wife. “It eases my pain. Did you think that -your young countess would be willing to live in a cottage?” - -He wondered at her scornful tone, but continued: - -“No, I did not dare to think it; but it would have been so perfect if -she had been willing. It is thirty miles from any doctor. She, who has a -light hand and a tender heart, would have had work enough to tend wounds -and allay fevers. And I thought that everybody in trouble would find the -way to the lady mistress in the forest cottage. There is so much distress -among the poor which kind words and a gentle heart can help.” - -“But you yourself, Gösta Berling?” - -“I shall have my work at the carpenter’s bench and lathe. I shall -hereafter live my own life. If my wife will not follow me, I cannot help -it. If some one should offer me all the riches of the universe, it would -not tempt me. I want to live my own life. Now I shall be and remain a -poor man among the peasants, and help them with whatever I can. They -need some one to play the polka for them at weddings and at Christmas; -they need some one to write letters to their distant sons,—and that some -one I will be. But I must be poor.” - -“It will be a gloomy life for you, Gösta.” - -“Oh, no, it would not be if we were but two who kept together. The rich -and happy would come to us as well as the poor. It would be gay enough -in our cottage. Our guests would not care if the food was cooked right -before their eyes, or be shocked that two must eat from the same plate.” - -“And what would be the good of it all, Gösta? What praise would you win?” - -“Great would be my reward if the poor would remember me for a year or two -after my death. I should have done some good if I had planted a couple of -apple-trees at the house-corners, if I had taught the country fiddlers -some of the old tunes, and if the shepherd children could have learnt a -few good songs to sing in the wood-paths. - -“You can believe me, I am the same mad Gösta Berling that I was before. -A country fiddler is all I can be, but that is enough. I have many sins -to atone for. To weep and to repent is not for me. I shall give the poor -pleasure, that is my penance.” - -“Gösta,” said the major’s wife, “it is too humble a life for a man with -your powers. I will give you Ekeby.” - -“Oh,” he cried in terror, “do not make me rich! Do not put such duties -upon me! Do not part me from the poor!” - -“I will give Ekeby to you and the pensioners,” repeated the major’s wife. -“You are a capable man, Gösta, whom the people bless. I say like my -mother, ‘You shall take charge of this work!’” - -“No, we could not accept it,—we who have misjudged you and caused you -such pain!” - -“I will give you Ekeby, do you hear?” - -She spoke bitterly and harshly, without kindness. He was filled with -dismay. - -“Do not tempt the old men! It would only make them idlers and drunkards -again. God in Heaven, rich pensioners! What would become of us!” - -“I will give you Ekeby, Gösta; but then you must promise to set your wife -free. Such a delicate little woman is not for you. She has had to suffer -too much here in the land of the bear. She is longing for her bright -native country. You shall let her go. That is why I give you Ekeby.” - -But then Countess Elizabeth came forward to the major’s wife and knelt by -the bed. - -“I do not long any more. He who is my husband has solved the problem, and -found the life I can live. No longer shall I need to go stern and cold -beside him, and remind him of repentance and atonement. Poverty and want -and hard work will do that. The paths which lead to the poor and sick I -can follow without sin. I am no longer afraid of the life here in the -north. But do not make him rich; then I do not dare to stay.” - -The major’s wife raised herself in the bed. - -“You demand happiness for yourselves,” she cried, and threatened them -with clenched fists,—“happiness and blessing. No, let Ekeby be the -pensioners’, that they may be ruined. Let man and wife be parted, that -they may be ruined! I am a witch, I am a sorceress, I shall incite you to -evil-doing. I shall be what my reputation is.” - -She seized the letter and flung it in Gösta’s face. The black paper -fluttered out and fell on the floor. Gösta knew it too well. - -“You have sinned against me, Gösta. You have misjudged one who has been -a second mother to you. Do you dare to refuse your punishment? You shall -accept Ekeby, and it shall ruin you, for you are weak. You shall send -home your wife, so that there will be no one to save you. You shall die -with a name as hated as mine. Margareta Celsing’s obituary is that of a -witch. Yours shall be that of a spendthrift and an oppressor of the poor.” - -She sank back on the pillows, and all was still. Through the silence rang -a muffled blow, now one and then another. The sledge-hammer had begun its -far-echoing work. - -“Listen,” said Gösta Berling, “so sounds Margareta Celsing’s obituary! -That is not a prank of drunken pensioners; that is the song of the -victory of labor, raised in honor of a good, old worker. Do you hear -what the hammer says? ‘Thanks,’ it says; ‘thanks for good work; thanks -for bread, which you have given the poor; thanks for roads, which you -have opened; thanks for districts, which you have cultivated! Thanks for -pleasure, with which you have filled your halls!’—‘Thanks,’ it says, -‘and sleep in peace! Your work shall live and continue. Your house shall -always be a home for happy labor.’—‘Thanks,’ it says, ‘and do not judge -us who have sinned! You who are now starting on the journey to the -regions of peace, think gentle thoughts of us who still live.’” - -Gösta ceased, but the sledge-hammer went on speaking. All the voices -which had ever spoken kindly to the major’s wife were mingled with the -ring of the hammer. Gradually her features relaxed, as if the shadow of -death had fallen over her. - -Anna Lisa came in and announced that the gentlemen from Hogfors had come. -The major’s wife let them go. She would not make any will. - -“Oh, Gösta Berling, man of many deeds,” she said, “so you have conquered -once more. Bend down and let me bless you!” - -The fever returned with redoubled strength. The death-rattle began. The -body toiled through dreary suffering; but the spirit soon knew nothing of -it. It began to gaze into the heaven which is opened for the dying. - -So an hour passed, and the short death-struggle was over. She lay there -so peaceful and beautiful that those about her were deeply moved. - -“My dear old mistress,” said Gösta, “so have I seen you once before. Now -has Margareta Celsing come back to life. Now she will never again yield -to the major’s wife at Ekeby.” - - * * * * * - -When the pensioners came in from the forge, they were met by the news of -Margareta Celsing’s death. - -“Did she hear the hammer?” they asked. - -She had done so, and they could be satisfied. - -They heard, too, that she had meant to give Ekeby to them; but that -the will had never been drawn. That they considered a great honor, and -rejoiced over it as long as they lived. But no one ever heard them lament -over the riches they had lost. - -It is also said that on that Christmas night Gösta Berling stood by his -young wife’s side and made his last speech to the pensioners. He was -grieved at their fate when they now must all leave Ekeby. The ailments -of old age awaited them. The old and worn-out find a cold welcome. - -And so he spoke to them. Once more he called them old gods and knights -who had risen up to bring pleasure into the land of iron. But he lamented -that the pleasure garden where the butterfly-winged pleasure roves is -filled with destructive caterpillars, and that its fruits are withered. - -Well he knew that pleasure was a good to the children of the earth, and -it must exist. But, like a heavy riddle, the question always lay upon the -world, how a man could be both gay and good. The easiest thing and yet -the hardest, he called it. Hitherto they had not been able to solve the -problem. Now he wanted to believe that they had learned it, that they -had all learned it during that year of joy and sorrow, of happiness and -despair. - - * * * * * - -You dear old people! In the old days you gave me precious gifts. But what -have I given you? - -Perhaps it may gladden you that your names sound again in connection -with the dear old places? May all the brightness which belonged to your -life fall again over the tracts where you have lived! Borg still stands; -Björne still stands; Ekeby still lies by lake Löfven, surrounded by falls -and lake, by park and smiling meadows; and when one stands on the broad -terraces, legends swarm about one like the bees of summer. - -But, speaking of bees, let me tell one more old story. The little Ruster, -who went as a drummer at the head of the Swedish army, when in 1813 it -marched into Germany, could never weary of telling stories of that -wonderful land in the south. The people there were as tall as church -towers, the swallows were as big as eagles, the bees as geese. - -“Well, but the bee-hives?” - -“The bee-hives were like our ordinary bee-hives.” - -“How did the bees get in?” - -“Well, that they had to look out for,” said the little Ruster. - -Dear reader, must I say the same? The giant bees of fancy have now -swarmed about us for a year and a day; but how they are going to come -into the bee-hive of fact, that they really must find out for themselves. - -THE END - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] A Swedish game of cards. - -[2] Terms used in weaving. - -[3] In the country, in Sweden, they wash twice a year, in spring and -autumn. - - - - -Historical Romances. - - -=THE KING’S HENCHMAN.= A Chronicle of the Sixteenth Century. Brought to -light and edited by WILLIAM HENRY JOHNSON. 12mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, -$1.50. - -A story of pure love and stirring action. It purports to be told by an -inseparable attendant of Henry of Navarre, and that hero of a hundred -lights and as many gallant adventures is made to live again for us. - - We close the book reluctantly. The hours spent in reading “The - King’s Henchman” were richly rewarded.—_Atlanta Constitution._ - - What is more noticeable than the interest of the story itself is - Mr. Johnson’s intuitive insight and thorough understanding at - the period. While the book is Weyman in vigorous activity, it is - Dumas in its brilliant touches of romanticism.—_Boston Herald._ - - Mr. Johnson has caught the spirit of the period, and has - painted in Henry of Navarre a truthful and memorable historical - portrait.—_The Mail and Express_, New York. - - -=THE COUNT’S SNUFF-BOX.= A Romance of Washington and Buzzard’s Bay in the -War of 1812. By GEORGE R. R. RIVERS, author of “The Governor’s Garden,” -“Captain Shays, a Populist of 1786,” etc. Illustrated by Clyde O. DeLand. -12mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.50. - -The story of “The Count’s Snuff-Box” is founded on an incident of the War -of 1812. In January of that year an adventurer, calling himself Count -de Crillon, appeared in Washington, and for some weeks was the central -social attraction of the capital. He bore letters from prominent members -of Napoleon’s government to M. Serurier, then Minister from France. His -motive was ostensibly to help France, and injure Great Britain and the -Federalists, but his real object was to secure money for John Henry’s -letters. In this he finally succeeded, the United States government -purchasing them for fifty thousand dollars. - - -=CAPTAIN SHAYS.= A Populist of 1786. By GEORGE R. R. RIVERS, author of -“The Count’s Snuff-Box.” 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25. - - -=THE GOVERNOR’S GARDEN.= A Relation of some Passages in the Life -of His Excellency, Thomas Hutchinson, sometime Captain-General and -Governor-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Province of Massachusetts Bay. By -GEORGE R. R. RIVERS. With frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. - - -=IN BUFF AND BLUE.= Being Certain Portions from the Diary of Richard -Hilton, Gentleman of Haslet’s Regiment of Delaware Foot, in our Ever -Glorious War of Independence. By GEORGE BRYDGES RODNEY. 16mo. Cloth, -extra, gilt top, $1.25. - - -=HASSAN, A FELLAH.= A Romance of Palestine. By HENRY GILLMAN. Crown 8vo. -Cloth, $2.00. - -The author of this powerful romance lived in Palestine for over five -years, and during his residence there had unusual and peculiar advantages -for seeing and knowing the people and the country. He has selected the -present time for the story, but has drawn freely from all the rich -treasures of the past for ornament. The portions connected with the -“Thar,” or blood-feud between the Syrian villages, and the insurrection -in Crete are not only of uncommon interest and power, but are also -intensely dramatic. - - A biblical, patriarchal, pastoral spirit pervades it. Indeed, the - whole book is saturated with the author’s reverence for the Holy - Land, its legends, traditions, glory, misery,—its romance, in a - word, and its one supreme glory, the impress of the Chosen of God - and of the Master who walked among them.—_The Independent._ - - Mr. Gillman has certainly opened up a new field of fiction. The - book is a marvel of power, acute insight, and clever manipulation - of thoroughly grounded truths. The story is as much of a giant in - fiction as its hero is among men.—_Boston Herald._ - - The book is one that seems destined to take hold of the popular - heart as strongly as did “Ben Hur” or “Quo Vadis,” nor is it - less worthy of such popularity than either of those named.—_Art - Interchange._ - - It is romance of the strongest type. Many pages fairly glow with - color, as the author in his enthusiasm portrays the natural - beauties of the Holy Land.—_Public Opinion._ - - The hero of “Hassan, a Fellah.” will be a revelation even to - those who carry their ethnological studies beyond the realm of - fiction.—_N. Y. Times._ - - -=“QUO VADIS.”= A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. -Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Library Edition. With map -and photogravure plates. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. - -Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents. - - _Of intense interest to the whole Christian - civilization._—Chicago Tribune. - - With him we view, appalled, Rome, grand and awful, in her last - throes. The picture of the giant Ursus struggling with the wild - animal is one that will always hold place with such literary - triumphs as that of the chariot race in “Ben Hur.”—_Boston - Courier._ - - Mr. Curtin’s English is so limpid and fluent that one - finds it difficult to realize that he is reading a - translation.—_Philadelphia Church Standard._ - - -=“QUO VADIS.”= ILLUSTRATED HOLIDAY EDITION. With maps and plans of -Ancient Rome, and twenty-seven photogravure plates from pictures by -Howard Pyle, Edmund H. Garrett, E. Van Muyden, and other artists. 2 vols. -8vo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, in box, $6.00. - -Half crushed Levant morocco, extra, gilt top, $12.00. - - -=WITH FIRE AND SWORD.= An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. By -HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. With -portrait of the author, plates, and map. Library Editions. Crown 8vo. -Cloth, $2.00. - -Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. - - _The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, - sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing - interest is “The Three Musketeers” of Dumas._—New York Tribune. - -“With Fire and Sword” is the first of a trilogy of historical romances -of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received -throughout the United States by readers and critics as an event in -literature. Action in the field has never before been described in any -language so briefly, so vividly, and with such a marvellous expression of -energy. The famous character of Zagloba has been described as “a curious -and fascinating combination of Falstaff and Ulysses.” Charles Dudley -Warner, in “Harper’s Magazine,” affirms that the Polish author has in -Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_. - - -=THE DELUGE.= An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. By -HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. A -sequel to “With Fire and Sword.” With a map of the country at the period -in which the events of “The Deluge” and “With Fire and Sword” take place. -Library Edition. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. - -Popular Edition. 2 vols. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. - - _It even surpasses in interest and power the same author’s - romance, “With Fire and Sword.” … The whole story swarms with - brilliant pictures of war, and with personal episodes of battle - and adventure._—New York Tribune. - - Marvellous in its grand descriptions.—_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ - - One of the direct anointed line of the kings of - story-telling.—_Literary World._ - - _A really great novelist_ … To match this story one must turn to - the masterpieces of Scott and Dumas.—_Philadelphia Press._ - - -=PAN MICHAEL.= An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. -By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. A -sequel to “With Fire and Sword” and “The Deluge.” Library Edition. Crown -8vo. Cloth, $2.00. - -Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents. - -This work completes the great Polish trilogy. The period of the story is -1668-1674, and the principal historical event is the Turkish invasion of -1672. Pan Michael, a favorite character in the preceding stories, and -the incomparable Zagloba figure throughout the novel. The most important -historical character introduced is Sobieski, who was elected king in 1674. - - _No word less than “Excelsior” will justly describe the - achievement of the trilogy of novels of which “Pan Michael” is - the last._—Baltimore American. - - There is no falling off in interest in this third and last book - of the series; again Sienkiewicz looms as one of the great novel - writers of the world.—_The Nation._ - - From the artistic standpoint, to have created the character of - Zagloba was a feat comparable with Shakespeare’s creation of - Falstaff and Goethe’s creation of Mephistopheles.—_The Dial._ - - -=ANDRONIKE.= The Heroine of the Greek Revolution. Translated from the -Greek of STEPHANOS THEODONUS XENOS by Edwin A. Grosvenor, Professor of -European History in Amherst College, and author of “Constantinople.” -12mo. Cloth, $1.50. - -Modern Greece may be proud of having given the world an historical -romance like this. Viewed merely as a story, it is a work of absorbing -interest in its plot and execution. At the same time, no other book, -whether description, travels, or pure romance, offers so faithful -and complete a picture of Greek life to-day. The reader follows the -vicissitudes of hero and heroine with rapt attention, and all the time -seems breathing Greek air under a Greek sky and living among the Greeks. - - A book well worth reading, because it is a story of thrilling - interest and it presents the best description of a memorable - conflict for national liberty.—_Detroit Tribune._ - - A book which is drama and action from one end to the other. - Altogether a most fascinating work.—_New York Home Journal._ - - -=I AM THE KING.= Being the Account of some Happenings in the Life of -Godfrey de Bersac, Crusader Knight. By SHEPPARD STEVENS. 16mo. Cloth, -$1.25. - -This is a romantic story of the days of Saladin and Richard Cœur de Leon. -Its author has wrought into it much of the color of the home-life of the -period and many of the quaint superstitions and folk-lore. The scene of -the story is in part laid in England and in part in the Holy Land. - - -=THE HEAD OF A HUNDRED.= Being an Account of Certain Passages in the Life -of Humphrey Huntoon, Esq., sometyme an Officer in the Colony of Virginia. -Edited by MAUD WILDER GOODWIN, author of “The Colonial Cavalier.” 16mo. -Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25. - - It is as sweet and pure a piece of fiction as we have read for - many a day, breathing, as it does, the same noble air, the lofty - tone, and the wholesome sentiment of “Lorna Doone.”—_The Bookman._ - - -=WHITE APRONS.= A Romance of Bacon’s Rebellion, Virginia, 1676. By MAUD -WILDER GOODWIN. 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25. - - A beautiful little story, sweet and inspiring, not less clever - than true.—_New York Times._ - - A charming story… Its fidelity to the conditions prevailing in - the Virginia colony at the time is carefully sustained.—_The - Review of Reviews._ - - -=A WOMAN OF SHAWMUT.= A Romance of Colonial Times. Boston, 1640. By -EDMUND JANES CARPENTER. With twelve charming full-page illustrations and -numerous chapter headings from pen-and-ink drawings by F. T. Merrill. -16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, with cameo design, $1.25. - - -=CINQ-MARS=; or, A Conspiracy under Louis XIII. By Count ALFRED DE VIGNY. -Translated by William Hazlitt. With thirteen exquisite full-page etchings -by Gaujean from designs by A. Dawant, and numerous smaller illustrations -(head and tail pieces) in the text. 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, $6.00. - - It is one of the masterpieces of French romantic fiction, … and - a book to be always read and remembered.—_New York Mail and - Express._ - - -=THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES.= An Historical Romance of the Court of Henry II. -By MADAME DE LA FAYETTE. With preface by Anatole France. Translated by -Thomas Sergeant Perry. Most exquisitely illustrated with four full page -etchings and eight etched vignettes by Jules Garnier, also a portrait -of the author engraved by Lamotte. The letterpress choicely printed on -handmade paper at the University Press, Cambridge. 2 vols. 16mo. Cloth, -extra, gilt top, $3.75. - - Madame de la Fayette was the first to introduce naturalness into - fiction,—the first to draw human beings and real feelings; and - thereby she earned a place among the true classics.—_Preface by - Anatole France._ - - -=THE MASTER MOSAIC WORKERS (_Les Maitres Mosaïstes_).= Translated from -the French of GEORGE SAND by Charlotte C. Johnston. With a portrait of -Titian, etched by W. H. W. Bicknell. 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25. - -A story of Venice in the time of Titian and Tintoretto, who figure -prominently in the work. The mosaic work executed in the restoration of -the basilica of St. Mark is fully described, and George Sand has followed -very closely the facts as given by Vasari regarding the brothers Zuccati -and Bartolomeo Bozza. The story is one of exquisite beauty and great -power. - - “The Master Mosaic Workers” is _one of the most delightful of - historical novels_, and gives a vivid picture of the life in - Venice at the time when Titian, Tintoretto, and Giorgione were in - their zenith, and when the famous mosaics which still adorn St. - Mark’s were being made.—_Literary World._ - - -=THE PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID=; or, Three Years in the Holy City. -Being a Series of Letters of Adina, a Jewess of Alexandria, supposed to -be sojourning in Jerusalem in the days of Herod, addressed to her father, -a wealthy Jew in Egypt, and relating, as if by an eye-witness, all the -scenes and wonderful incidents in the life of Jesus of Nazareth, from his -Baptism in Jordan to his Crucifixion on Calvary. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM. -12mo. Cloth, $1.00. - -New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-six engravings by Victor A. Searles. -12mo. $2.00. - -Popular Edition. 16mo. Cloth, 50 cents. - -These editions contain the author’s latest revisions, he having availed -himself of hints and suggestions contained in numerous private letters -from eminent and learned men of various denominations, who have pointed -out errors and suggested alterations and improvements. - - -=THE PILLAR OF FIRE=; or, Israel in Bondage. Being an Account of -the Wonderful Scenes in the Life of the Son of Pharaoh’s Daughter -(Moses), together with Picturesque Sketches of the Hebrews under their -Taskmasters. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. - -New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-one engravings by Victor A. Searles. -12mo. $2.00. - - -=THE THRONE OF DAVID=, from the Consecration of the Shepherd of -Bethlehem to the Rebellion of Prince Absalom. Being an Illustration of -the Splendor, Power, and Dominion of the Reign of the Shepherd, Poet, -Warrior, King, and Prophet, Ancestor and Type of Jesus; in a Series of -Letters addressed by an Assyrian Ambassador to his Lord and King on the -Throne of Nineveh. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. - -New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-one engravings by Victor A. Searles. -12mo. $2.00. - - -=BULWER’S HISTORICAL ROMANCES.= - -Comprising:— - - =Devereux.= 2 vols. - =The Last Days of Pompeii.= 1 vol. - =Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes.= 2 vols. - =The Last of the Barons.= 2 vols. - =Leila and Calderon, Pausanias the Spartan.= 1 vol. - =Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings.= 2 vols. - -12mo. With frontispiece by Edmund H. Garrett. Per volume, plain cloth, -$1.25; decorated cloth, gilt top, $1.50. - -_Any story can be supplied separately._ - - The new library edition of Bulwer’s works is one of exceeding - beauty, the size, type, paper, and binding of the volumes making - them “a delight to the eye and to the touch.”—_The Watchman._ - - - - -The Historical Romances of Alexandre Dumas. - - -Little, Brown, & Company’s New Library Edition of these important -historical novels comprises the only complete translations into English, -and has been accepted as the standard edition of this famous novelist in -both the United States and England. Much matter hitherto omitted will be -found only in this edition. The books are illustrated with portraits of -notable historical personages, and are printed in handsome, clear type. - -The set comprises sixty volumes, 12mo, with nearly one hundred etchings, -photogravures, etc., by French and American artists. Decorated cloth, -gilt top, $1.50 per volume; plain cloth, gilt top, $1.25 per volume. - -Half calf, extra, or half morocco, $3.00 per volume. - -_Any story supplied separately in cloth._ - - Decorated Plain - cloth. cloth. - - HISTORICAL AND REGENCY ROMANCES. Ten Volumes. - - =The Two Dianas.= 3 vols. $4.50 $3.75 - - =The Page of the Duke of Savoy.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =The Chevalier d’Harmental.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - ⁂ Sometimes called “The Conspirators.” - - =The Regent’s Daughter.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =The Black Tulip.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =Olympe de Clèves.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - THE VALOIS ROMANCES. Six Volumes. - - =Marguerite de Valois.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =La Dame de Monsoreau.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - ⁂ Also known under the name of “Chicot the - Jester.” - - =The Forty-Five.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - ⁂ Sometimes called “The Forty-Five Guardsmen.” - - THE D’ARTAGNAN ROMANCES. Ten Volumes. - - =The Three Musketeers.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =Twenty Years After.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =Vicomte de Bragelonne.= 6 vols. 9.00 7.50 - ⁂ Portions of this powerful romance have - sometimes been issued separately under the - titles of “Ten Years Later,” “Bragelonne,” - “Louise de la Vallière,” and “The Iron Mask.” - All three stories are included in the above, - unabridged and according to the author’s own - arrangement. - - THE MARIE ANTOINETTE ROMANCES. Twelve Volumes. - - =Memoirs of a Physician.= 3 vols. 4.50 3.75 - - =The Queen’s Necklace.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =Ange Pitou.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - ⁂ Sometimes called “Taking the Bastile.” - - =Comtesse de Charny.= 4 vols. 6.00 5.00 - ⁂ Published according to the author’s own - arrangement. It has been issued as two - separate stories,—“Comtesse de Charny” and - “Andrée de Taverney.” - - =Chevalier de Maison Rouge.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - THE NAPOLEON ROMANCES. Six Volumes. - - =The Companions of Jehu.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =The Whites and the Blues.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - ⁂ This story has also been issued under the - title of “The First Republic.” - - =The She-Wolves of Machecoul= and =The Corsican - Brothers.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - ⁂ “The She-Wolves of Machecoul” has also been - issued under the title of “The Last Vendée.” - - DUMAS ROMANCES, NEW SERIES. I. Six Volumes. - - =Ascanio.= A Romance of François I. and Benvenuto - Cellini. 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =The War of Women.= A Romance of the Fronde. - 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =Black.= The Story of a Dog. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =Tales of the Caucasus.= Comprising “The Ball of - Snow” and “Sultanetta.” 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - DUMAS ROMANCES, NEW SERIES. II. Six Volumes. - - =Agénor de Mauléon.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50 - - =The Brigand.= A Romance of the Reign of Don Carlos. - To which is added =Blanche de Beaulieu=. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =The Horoscope.= A Romance of the Reign of François - II. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =Sylvandire.= A Romance of the Reign of Louis XIV. - 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =Monsieur de Chauvelin’s Will= and =The Woman with the - Velvet Necklace=. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25 - - =The Count of Monte Cristo.= 4 vols. 6.00 5.00 - -LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers, 254 Washington Street, Boston. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Gösta Berling, by Selma Lagerlöf - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF GÖSTA BERLING *** - -***** This file should be named 56158-0.txt or 56158-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/5/56158/ - -Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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