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Title: The Girl from the Marsh Croft

Author: Selma Lagerlöf

Translator: Velma Swanston Howard

Release date: November 20, 2012 [eBook #41414]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by sp1nd, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT ***




Produced by sp1nd, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed
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produced from images generously made available by The
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                     The Girl From the Marsh Croft

                           By Selma Lagerlöf

    Author of "The Story of Gösta Berling," "The Miracles of
    Antichrist," "Invisible Links," etc.


    _Translated from the Swedish_
    By Velma Swanston Howard

    GARDEN CITY       NEW YORK
    DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
    1916

    _Copyright, 1910, by_
    DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

    _All rights reserved, including that of
    translation into foreign languages._




PREFATORY NOTE


Readers of Miss Lagerlöf will observe that in this, her latest book,
"The Girl from the Marsh Croft," the Swedish author has abandoned her
former world of Romanticism and has entered the field of Naturalism and
Realism.

This writer's romantic style is most marked, perhaps, in her first
successful work, "Gösta Berling."

How "The Story of Gösta Berling" grew, and the years required to perfect
it, is told in the author's unique literary autobiography, "The Story of
a Story," which is embodied in the present volume.

In "The Girl from the Marsh Croft" Miss Lagerlöf has courageously chosen
a girl who had gone astray as the heroine of her love story, making her
innate honesty and goodness the redemptive qualities which win for her
the love of an honest man and the respect and esteem of all.

To the kindness of the publishers of _Good Housekeeping_, I am indebted
for permission to include "The Legend of the Christmas Rose" in this
volume.

This book is translated and published with the sanction of the author,
Selma Lagerlöf.




CONTENTS


I. THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 3

II. THE SILVER MINE 99

III. THE AIRSHIP 125

IV. THE WEDDING MARCH 163

V. THE MUSICIAN 173

VI. THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 189

VII. A STORY FROM JERUSALEM 219

VIII. WHY THE POPE LIVED TO BE SO OLD 235

IX. THE STORY OF A STORY 257




The Girl from the Marsh Croft


I

It took place in the court room of a rural district. At the head of the
Judges' table sits an old Judge--a tall and massively built man, with a
broad, rough-hewn visage. For several hours he has been engaged in
deciding one case after another, and finally something like disgust and
melancholy has taken hold of him. It is difficult to know if it is the
heat and closeness of the court room that are torturing him or if he has
become low-spirited from handling all these petty wrangles, which seem
to spring from no other cause than to bear witness to people's
quarrel-mania, uncharitableness, and greed.

He has just begun on one of the last cases to be tried during the day.
It concerns a plea for help in the rearing of a child.

This case had already been tried at the last Court Session, and the
protocols of the former suit are being read; therefore one learns that
the plaintiff is a poor farmer's daughter and the defendant is a married
man.

Moreover, it says in the protocol, the defendant maintains that the
plaintiff has wrongfully, unjustly, and only with the desire of
profiting thereby, sued the defendant. He admits that at one time the
plaintiff had been employed in his household, but that during her stay
in his home he had not carried on any intrigue with her, and she has no
right to demand assistance from him. The plaintiff still holds firmly to
her claim, and after a few witnesses have been heard, the defendant is
called to take the oath and show cause why he should not be sentenced by
the Court to assist the plaintiff.

Both parties have come up and are standing, side by side, before the
Judges' table. The plaintiff is very young and looks frightened to
death. She is weeping from shyness and with difficulty wipes away the
tears with a crumpled handkerchief, which she doesn't seem to know how
to open out. She wears black clothes, which are quite new and whole, but
they fit so badly that one is tempted to think she has borrowed them in
order to appear before the Court of Justice in a befitting manner.

As regards the defendant, one sees at a glance that he is a prosperous
man. He is about forty and has a bold and dashing appearance. As he
stands before the Court, he has a very good bearing. One can see that he
does not think it a pleasure to stand there, but he doesn't appear to be
the least concerned about it.

As soon as the protocols have been read, the Judge turns to the
defendant and asks him if he holds fast to his denials and if he is
prepared to take the oath.

To these questions the defendant promptly answers a curt yes. He digs
down in his vest pocket and takes out a statement from the clergyman who
attests that he understands the meaning and import of the oath and is
qualified to take it.

All through this the plaintiff has been weeping. She appears to be
unconquerably bashful, and doggedly keeps her eyes fixed upon the floor.
Thus far she has not raised her eyes sufficiently to look the defendant
in the face.

As he utters his "yes," she starts back. She moves a step or two nearer
the Court, as if she had something to say to the contrary, and then she
stands there perplexed. It is hardly possible, she seems to say to
herself; he cannot have answered yes. I have heard wrongly.

Meanwhile the Judge takes the clergyman's paper and motions to the court
officer. The latter goes up to the table to find the Bible, which lies
hidden under a pile of records, and lays it down in front of the
defendant.

The plaintiff hears that some one is walking past her and becomes
restless. She forces herself to raise her eyes just enough to cast a
glance over the table, and she sees then how the court officer moves the
Bible.

Again it appears as though she wished to raise some objection, and again
she controls herself. It isn't possible that he will be allowed to take
the oath. Surely the Judge must prevent him!

The Judge is a wise man and knows how people in her home district think
and feel. He knew, very likely, how severe all people were as soon as
there was anything which affected the marriage relation. They knew of no
worse sin than the one she had committed. Would she ever have confessed
anything like this about herself if it were not true? The Judge must
understand the awful contempt that she had brought down upon herself,
and not contempt only, but all sorts of misery. No one wanted her in
service--no one wanted her work. Her own parents could scarcely tolerate
her presence in their cabin and talked all the while of casting her out.
Oh, the Judge must know that she would never have asked for help from a
married man had she no right to it.

Surely the Judge could not believe that she lied in a case like this;
that she would have called down upon herself such a terrible misfortune
if she had had any one else to accuse than a married man. And if he
knows this, he must stop the oath-taking.

She sees that the Judge reads through the clergyman's statements a
couple of times and she begins to think he intends to interfere.

True, the Judge has a wary look. Now he shifts his glance to the
plaintiff, and with that his weariness and disgust become even more
marked. It appears as though he were unfavorably disposed toward her.
Even if the plaintiff is telling the truth, she is nevertheless a bad
woman and the Judge cannot feel any sympathy for her.

Sometimes the Judge interposes in a case, like a good and wise
counsellor, and keeps the parties from ruining themselves entirely. But
to-day he is tired and cross and thinks only of letting the legal
process have its course.

He lays down the clergyman's recommendation and says a few words to the
defendant to the effect that he hopes he has carefully considered the
consequences of a perjured oath. The defendant listens to him with the
calm air which he has shown all the while, and he answers respectfully
and not without dignity.

The plaintiff listens to this in extreme terror. She makes a few
vehement protests and wrings her hands. Now she wants to speak to the
Court. She struggles frightfully with her shyness and with the sobs
which prevent her speaking. The result is that she cannot get out an
audible word.

Then the oath will be taken! She must give it up. No one will prevent
him from swearing away his soul.

Until now, she could not believe this possible. But now she is seized
with the certainty that it is close at hand--that it will occur the next
second. A fear more overpowering than any she has hitherto felt takes
possession of her. She is absolutely paralyzed. She does not even weep
more. Her eyes are glazed. It is his intention, then, to bring down upon
himself eternal punishment.

She comprehends that he wants to swear himself free for the sake of his
wife. But even if the truth were to make trouble in his home, he should
not for that reason throw away his soul's salvation.

There is nothing so terrible as perjury. There is something uncanny and
awful about that sin. There is no mercy or condonation for it. The gates
of the infernal regions open of their own accord when the perjurer's
name is mentioned.

If she had then raised her eyes to his face, she would have been afraid
of seeing it stamped with damnation's mark, branded by the wrath of God.

As she stands there and works herself into greater and greater terror,
the Judge instructs the defendant as to how he must place his fingers on
the Bible. Then the Judge opens the law book to find the form of the
oath.

As she sees him place his fingers on the book, she comes a step nearer,
and it appears as though she wished to reach across the table and push
his hand away.

But as yet she is restrained by a faint hope. She thinks he will relent
now--at the last moment.

The Judge has found the place in the law book, and now he begins to
administer the oath loudly and distinctly. Then he makes a pause for the
defendant to repeat his words. The defendant actually starts to repeat,
but he stumbles over the words, and the Judge must begin again from the
beginning.

Now she can no longer entertain a trace of hope. She knows now that he
means to swear falsely--that he means to bring down upon himself the
wrath of God, both for this life and for the life to come.

She stands wringing her hands in her helplessness. And it is all her
fault because she has accused him! But she was without work; she was
starving and freezing; the child came near dying. To whom else should
she turn for help? Never had she thought that he would be willing to
commit such an execrable sin.

The Judge has again administered the oath. In a few seconds the thing
will have been done: the kind of thing from which there is no turning
back--which can never be retrieved, never blotted out.

Just as the defendant begins to repeat the oath, she rushes forward,
sweeps away his outstretched hand, and seizes the Bible.

It is her terrible dread which has finally given her courage. He must
not swear away his soul; he must not!

The court officer hastens forward instantly to take the Bible from her
and to bring her to order. She has a boundless fear of all that pertains
to a Court of Justice and actually believes that what she has just done
will bring her to prison; but she does not let go her hold on the Bible.
Cost what it may, he cannot take the oath. He who would swear also runs
up to take the Bible, but she resists him too.

"You shall not take the oath!" she cries, "you shall not!"

That which is happening naturally awakens the greatest surprise. The
court attendants elbow their way up to the bar, the jurymen start to
rise, the recording clerk jumps up with the ink bottle in his hand to
prevent its being upset.

Then the Judge shouts in a loud and angry tone, "Silence!" and everybody
stands perfectly still.

"What is the matter with you? What business have you with the Bible?"
the Judge asks the plaintiff in the same hard and severe tone.

Since, with the courage of despair, she has been able to give utterance
to her distress, her anxiety has decreased so that she can answer, "He
must not take the oath!"

"Be silent, and put back the book!" demands the Judge.

She does not obey, but holds the book tightly with both hands. "He
cannot take the oath!" she cries fiercely.

"Are you so determined to win your suit?" asks the Judge sharply.

"I want to withdraw the suit," she shrieks in a high, shrill voice. "I
don't want to force him to swear."

"What are you shrieking about?" demands the Judge. "Have you lost your
senses?"

She catches her breath suddenly and tries to control herself. She hears
herself how she is shrieking. The Judge will think she has gone mad if
she cannot say what she would say calmly. She struggles with herself
again to get control of her voice, and this time she succeeds. She says
slowly, earnestly, and clearly, as she looks the Judge in the face: "I
wish to withdraw the suit. He is the father of the child. I am still
fond of him. I don't wish him to swear falsely."

She stands erect and resolute, facing the Judges' table, all the while
looking the Judge square in the face. He sits with both hands resting on
the table and for a long while does not take his eyes off from her.
While the Judge is looking at her, a great change comes over him. All
the ennui and displeasure in his face vanishes, and the large,
rough-hewn visage becomes beautiful with the most beautiful emotion.
"Ah, see!" he thinks--"Ah, see! such is the mettle of my people. I shall
not be vexed at them when there is so much love and godliness even in
one of the humblest."

Suddenly the Judge feels his eyes fill up with tears; then he pulls
himself together, almost ashamed, and casts a hasty glance about him. He
sees that the clerks and bailiffs and the whole long row of jurymen are
leaning forward and looking at the girl who stands before the Judges'
table with the Bible hugged close to her. And he sees a light in their
faces, as though they had seen something very beautiful, which had made
them happy all the way into their souls.

Then the Judge casts a glance over the spectators, and he sees that they
all breathe a quick sigh of relief, as if they had just heard what they
had longed above everything to hear.

Finally, the Judge looks at the defendant. Now it is _he_ who stands
with lowered head and looks at the floor.

The Judge turns once more to the poor girl. "It shall be as you wish,"
he says. "The case shall be stricken from the Calendar,"--this to the
recording clerk.

The defendant makes a move, as though he wished to interpose an
objection. "Well, what now?" the Judge bellows at him. "Have you
anything against it?"

The defendant's head hangs lower and lower, and he says, almost
inaudibly, "Oh, no, I dare say it is best to let it go that way."

The Judge sits still a moment more, and then he pushes the heavy chair
back, rises, and walks around the table and up to the plaintiff.

"Thank you!" he says and gives her his hand.

She has laid down the Bible and stands wiping away the tears with the
crumpled up handkerchief.

"Thank you!" says the Judge once more, taking her hand and shaking it as
if it belonged to a real man's man.


II

Let no one imagine that the girl who had passed through such a trying
ordeal at the bar of justice thought that she had done anything
praiseworthy! On the contrary, she considered herself disgraced before
the whole court room. She did not understand that there was something
honorable in the fact that the Judge had gone over and shaken hands with
her. She thought it simply meant that the trial was over and that she
might go her way.

Nor did she observe that people gave her kindly glances and that there
were several who wanted to press her hand. She stole by and wanted only
to go. There was a crush at the door. The court was over and many in
their hurry to get out made a rush for the door. She drew aside and was
about the last person to leave the court room because she felt that
every one else ought to go before her.

When she finally came out, Gudmund Erlandsson's cart stood in waiting at
the door. Gudmund was seated in the cart, holding the reins, and was
apparently waiting for some one. As soon as he saw her among all the
people who poured out of the court room, he called to her: "Come here,
Helga! You can ride with me since we are going in the same direction."

Although she heard her name, she could not believe that it was she whom
he was calling. It was not possible that Gudmund Erlandsson wanted to
ride with her. He was the most attractive man in the whole parish, young
and handsome and of good family connections and popular with every one.
She could not imagine that he wished to associate with her.

She was walking with the head shawl drawn far down on her forehead, and
was hastening past him without either glancing up or answering.

"Don't you hear, Helga, that you can ride with me?" said Gudmund, and
there was a friendly note in his voice. But she couldn't grasp that
Gudmund meant well by her. She thought that, in one way or another, he
wished to make sport of her and was only waiting for those who stood
near by to begin tittering and laughing. She cast a frightened and
indignant glance at him, and almost ran from the Court House grounds to
be out of earshot when the laughter should start in.

Gudmund was unmarried at that time and lived at home with his parents.
His father was a farm-owner. His was not a large farm and he was not
rich, but he made a good living. The son had gone to the Court House to
fetch some deeds for his father, but as there was also another purpose
in the trip, he had groomed himself carefully. He had taken the
brand-new trap with not a crack in the lacquering, had rubbed up the
harness and curried the horse until he shone like satin. He had placed a
bright red blanket on the seat beside him, and himself he had adorned
with a short hunting-jacket, a small gray felt hat, and top boots, into
which the trousers were tucked. This was no holiday attire, but he
probably knew that he looked handsome and manly.

Gudmund was seated alone in the cart when he drove from home in the
morning, but he had agreeable things to think of and the time had not
seemed long to him. When he had arrived about half-way, he came across
a poor young girl who was walking very slowly and looked as though she
were scarcely able to move her feet because of exhaustion. It was autumn
and the road was rain-soaked, and Gudmund saw how, with every step, she
sank deeper into the mud. He stopped and asked where she was going. When
he learned that she was on her way to the Court House, he invited her to
ride. She thanked him and stepped up on the back of the cart to the
narrow board where the hay sack was tied, as though she dared not touch
the red blanket beside Gudmund. Nor was it his meaning that she should
sit beside him. He didn't know who she was, but he supposed her to be
the daughter of some poor backwoodsman and thought the rear of the cart
was quite good enough for her.

When they came to a steep hill and the horse began to slow up, Gudmund
started talking. He wanted to know her name and where she was from. When
he learned that her name was Helga, and that she came from a backwoods
farm called Big Marsh, he began to feel uneasy. "Have you always lived
at home on the farm or have you been out to service?" he asked.

The past year she had been at home, but before this she had been working
out.

"Where?" asked Gudmund hastily.

He thought it was a long while before the answer was forthcoming. "At
the West Farm, with Per Mårtensson," she said finally, sinking her voice
as if she would rather not have been heard.

But Gudmund heard her. "Indeed! Then it is you who--" said he, but did
not conclude his meaning. He turned from her, and sat up straight in his
seat and said not another word to her.

Gudmund gave the horse rap upon rap and talked loudly to himself about
the wretched condition of the road and was in a very bad humor.

The girl sat still for a moment; presently Gudmund felt her hand upon
his arm. "What do you wish?" he asked without turning his head.

Oh, he was to stop, so she could jump out.

"Why so?" sneered Gudmund. "Aren't you riding comfortably?"

"Yes, thank you, but I prefer to walk."

Gudmund struggled a little with himself. It was provoking that he should
have bidden a person of Helga's sort to ride with him to-day of all
days! But he thought also that since he had taken her into the wagon,
he could not drive her out.

"Stop, Gudmund!" said the girl once again. She spoke in a very decided
tone, and Gudmund drew in the reins.

"It is she, of course, who wishes to step down," thought he. "I don't
have to force her to ride against her will."

She was down on the road before the horse had time to stop. "I thought
you knew who I was when you asked me to ride," she said, "or I should
not have stepped into the cart."

Gudmund muttered a short good-bye and drove on. She was doubtless right
in thinking that he knew her. He had seen the girl from the marsh croft
many times as a child, but she had changed since she was grown up. At
first he was very glad to be rid of the travelling companion, but
gradually he began to feel displeased with himself. He could hardly have
acted differently, yet he did not like being cruel to any one.

Shortly after Gudmund had parted from Helga, he turned out of the road
and up a narrow street, and came to a large and fine estate. As Gudmund
drew up before the gate, the house door opened and one of the daughters
appeared.

Gudmund raised his hat; at the same time a faint flush covered his face.
"Wonder if the Juryman is at home?" said he.

"No, father has gone down to the Court House," replied the daughter.

"Oh, then he has already gone," said Gudmund. "I drove over to ask if
the Juryman would ride with me. I'm going to the Court House."

"Father is always so punctual!" bewailed the daughter.

"It doesn't matter," said Gudmund.

"Father would have been pleased, I dare say, to ride behind such a fine
horse and in such a pretty cart as you have," remarked the girl
pleasantly.

Gudmund smiled a little when he heard this commendation.

"Well, then, I must be off again," said he.

"Won't you step in, Gudmund?"

"Thank you, Hildur, but I'm going to the Court House, you know. It won't
do for me to be late."

Now Gudmund takes the direct road to the Court House. He was very well
pleased with himself and thought no more of his meeting with Helga. It
was fortunate that only Hildur had come out on the porch and that she
had seen the cart and blanket, the horse and harness. She had probably
taken note of everything.

This was the first time Gudmund had attended a Court. He thought that
there was much to see and learn, and remained the whole day. He was
sitting in the court room when Helga's case came up; saw how she
snatched the Bible and hugged it close, and saw how she defied both
court attendants and Judge. When it was all over and the Judge had
shaken hands with Helga, Gudmund rose quickly and went out. He hurriedly
hitched the horse to the cart and drove up to the steps. He thought
Helga had been brave, and now he wished to honor her. But she was so
frightened that she did not understand his purpose, and stole away from
his intended honor.

The same day Gudmund came to the marsh croft late in the evening. It was
a little croft, which lay at the base of the forest ridge that enclosed
the parish. The road leading thither was passable for a horse only in
winter, and Gudmund had to go there on foot. It was difficult for him to
find his way. He came near breaking his legs on stumps and stones, and
he had to wade through brooks which crossed the path in several places.
Had it not been for the bright moonlight, he could not have found his
way to the croft. He thought it was a very hard road that Helga had to
tramp this day.

Big Marsh croft lay on the clearing about half-way up the ridge. Gudmund
had never been there before, but he had often seen the place from the
valley and was sufficiently familiar with it to know that he had gone
aright.

All around the clearing lay a hedge of brushwood, which was very thick
and difficult to get through. It was probably meant to be a kind of
defence and protection against the whole wilderness that surrounded the
croft. The cabin stood at the upper edge of the enclosure. Before it
stretched a sloping house-yard covered with short, thick grass; and
below the yard lay a couple of gray outhouses and a larder with a
moss-covered roof. It was a poor and humble place, but one couldn't deny
that it was picturesque up there. The marsh, from which the croft had
derived its name, lay somewhere near and sent forth mists which rose,
beautiful, splendid, and silvery, in the moonlight, forming a halo
around the marsh. The highest peak of the mountain loomed above the
mist, and the ridge, prickly with pines, was sharply outlined against
the horizon. Over the valley shone the moon. It was so light that one
could distinguish fields and orchards and a winding brook, over which
the mists curled, like the faintest smoke. It was not very far down
there, but the peculiar thing was that the valley lay like a world
apart, with which the forest and all that belonged to it seemed to have
nothing in common. It was as if the people who lived here in the forest
must ever remain under the shadow of these trees. They might find it
quite as hard to feel contented down in the valley as woodcock and
eagle-owl and lynx and star-flowers.

Gudmund tramped across the open grass-plot and up to the cabin. There a
gleam of firelight streamed through the window. As there were no shades
at the windows, he peeped into the cabin to see if Helga was there. A
small lamp burned on the table near the window, and there sat the master
of the house, mending old shoes. The mistress was seated farther back in
the room, close to the fireplace, where a slow fire burned. The
spinning-wheel was before her, but she had paused in her work to play
with a little child. She had taken it up from the cradle, and Gudmund
heard how she prattled to it. Her face was lined and wrinkled and she
looked severe. But, as she bent over the child, she had a mild
expression and she smiled as tenderly at the little one as his own
mother might have done.

Gudmund peered in, but could not see Helga in any corner of the cabin.
Then he thought it was best to remain outside until she came. He was
surprised that she had not reached home. Perhaps she had stopped on the
way somewhere to see an acquaintance and to get some food and rest? At
all events, she would have to come back soon if she wished to be indoors
before it was very late at night.

Gudmund stood still a moment and listened for footsteps. He thought that
never before had he sensed such stillness. It was as though the whole
forest held its breath and stood waiting for something extraordinary to
happen.

No one tramped in the forest, no branch was broken, and no stone rolled
down.

"Surely, Helga won't be long in coming! I wonder what she will say when
she sees that I'm here?" thought Gudmund. "Perhaps she will scream and
rush into the forest and will not dare come home the whole night!"

At the same time it struck him as rather strange that now, all of a
sudden, he had so much business with that marsh croft girl!

On his return from the Court House to his home, he had, as usual, gone
to his mother to relate his experiences of the day. Gudmund's mother was
a sensible and broad-minded woman who had always understood how to treat
her son, and he had as much confidence in her now as when he was a
child. She had been an invalid for several years and could not walk, but
sat all day in her chair. It was always a good hour for her when Gudmund
came home from an outing and brought her the news.

When Gudmund had told his mother about Helga from Big Marsh, he observed
that she became thoughtful. For a long while she sat quietly and looked
straight ahead. "There seems to be something good in that girl still,"
she remarked. "It will never do to condemn a person because she has once
met with misfortune. She might be very grateful to any one who helped
her now."

Gudmund apprehended at once what his mother was thinking of. She could
no longer help herself, but must have some one near her continually, and
it was always difficult to find anybody who cared to remain in that
capacity. His mother was exacting and not easy to get on with, and,
moreover, all young folk preferred other work where they could have more
freedom. Now, it must have occurred to his mother that she ought to take
Helga from Big Marsh into her service, and Gudmund thought this a
capital idea. Helga would certainly be very devoted to his mother.

"It will be hard for the child," remarked the mother after a little, and
Gudmund understood that she was thinking seriously of the matter.

"Surely the parents would let it stay with them?" said Gudmund.

"It does not follow that she wants to part with it."

"She will have to give up thinking of what she wants or doesn't want. I
thought that she looked starved out. They can't have much to eat at the
croft," said the son.

To this his mother made no reply, but began to talk of something else.
It was evident that some new misgivings had come to her, which hindered
her from coming to a decision.

Then Gudmund told her of how he had found a pretext for calling at the
Juryman's at Älvåkra and had met Hildur. He mentioned what she had said
of the horse and wagon, and it was easily seen that he was pleased with
the meeting. His mother was also very much pleased. Where she sat in the
cottage, unable to move from her chair, it was her constant occupation
to spin plans for her son's future, and it was she who had first hit
upon the idea that he should try and set his cap for the pretty daughter
of the Juryman. It was the finest match he could make.

The Juryman was a yeoman farmer. He owned the largest farm in the parish
and had much money and power. It was really absurd to hope that he would
be satisfied with a son-in-law with no more wealth than Gudmund, but it
was also possible that he would conform to his daughter's wishes. That
Gudmund could win Hildur if he so wished, his mother was certain.

This was the first time Gudmund had betrayed to his mother that her
thought had taken root in him, and they talked long of Hildur and of all
the riches and advantages that would come to the chosen one. Soon there
was another lull in the conversation, for his mother was again absorbed
in her thoughts. "Couldn't you send for this Helga? I should like to see
her before taking her into my service," said the mother finally.

"It is well, mother, that you wish to take her under your wing,"
remarked Gudmund, thinking to himself that if his mother had a nurse
with whom she was satisfied, his wife would have a pleasanter life here.
"You'll see that you will be pleased with the girl," he continued.

"Then, too, it would be a good deed to take her in hand," added the
mother.

As it grew dusk, the invalid retired, and Gudmund went out to the
stable to tend the horses. It was beautiful weather, with a clear
atmosphere, and the whole tract lay bathed in moonlight. It occurred to
him that he ought to go to Big Marsh to-night and convey his mother's
greeting. If the weather should continue clear on the morrow, he would
be so busy taking in oats that neither he nor any one else would find
time to go there.

Now that Gudmund was standing outside the cabin at Big Marsh croft
listening, he certainly heard no footsteps. But there were other sounds
which at short intervals pierced through the stillness. He heard a soft
weeping, a very low and smothered moaning, with now and then a sob.
Gudmund thought that the sounds came from the outhouse lane, and he
walked toward it. As he was nearing, the sobs ceased; but it was evident
that some one moved in the woodshed. Gudmund seemed to comprehend
instantly who was there. "Is it you, Helga, who sit here and weep?"
asked Gudmund, placing himself in the doorway so that the girl could not
rush away before he had spoken with her.

Again it was perfectly still. Gudmund had guessed rightly that it was
Helga who sat there and wept; but she tried to smother the sobs, so
that Gudmund would think he had heard wrongly and go away. It was pitch
dark in the woodshed, and she knew that he could not see her.

But Helga was in such despair that evening it was not easy for her to
keep back the sobs. She had not as yet gone into the cabin to see her
parents. She hadn't had the courage to go in. When she trudged up the
steep hill in the twilight and thought of how she must tell her parents
that she was not to receive any assistance from Per Mårtensson in the
rearing of her child, she began to fear all the harsh and cruel things
she felt they would say to her and thought of burying herself in the
swamp. And in her terror she jumped up and tried to rush past Gudmund;
but he was too alert for her. "Oh, no! You sha'n't get by before I have
spoken with you."

"Only let me go!" she said, looking wildly at him.

"You look as though you wanted to jump into the river," said he; for now
she was out in the moonlight and he could see her face.

"Well, what matters it if I did?" said Helga, throwing her head back and
looking him straight in the eye. "This morning you didn't even care to
have me ride on the back of your cart. No one wants to have anything to
do with me! You must surely understand that it is best for a miserable
creature like me to put an end to herself."

Gudmund did not know what to do next. He wished himself far away, but he
thought, also, that he could not desert a person who was in such
distress. "Listen to me! Only promise that you will listen to what I
have to say to you; afterwards you may go wherever you wish."

She promised.

"Is there anything here to sit on?"

"The chopping-block is over yonder."

"Then go over there and sit down and be quiet!"

She went very obediently and seated herself.

"And don't cry any more!" said he, for he thought he was beginning to
get control over her. But he should not have said this, for immediately
she buried her face in her hands and cried harder than ever.

"Stop crying!" he said, ready to stamp his foot at her. "There are
those, I dare say, who are worse off than you are."

"No, no one can be worse off!"

"You are young and strong. You should see how my mother fares! She is so
wasted from suffering that she cannot move, but she never complains."

"She is not abandoned by everybody, as I am."

"You are not abandoned, either. I have spoken with my mother about you."

There was a pause in the sobs. One heard, as it were, the great
stillness of the forest, which always held its breath and waited for
something wonderful. "I was to say to you that you should come down to
my mother to-morrow that she might see you. Mother thinks of asking if
you would care to take service with us."

"Did she think of asking _me_?"

"Yes; but she wants to see you first."

"Does she know that--"

"She knows as much about you as all the rest do."

The girl leaped up with a cry of joy and wonderment, and the next moment
Gudmund felt a pair of arms around his neck. He was thoroughly
frightened, and his first impulse was to break loose and run; but he
calmed himself and stood still. He understood that the girl was so
beside herself with joy that she didn't know what she was doing. At that
moment she could have hugged the worst ruffian, only to find a little
sympathy in the great happiness that had come to her.

"If she will take me into her service, I can live!" said she, burying
her head on Gudmund's breast and weeping again. "You may know that I was
in earnest when I wished to go down into the swamp," she said. "You
deserve thanks for coming. You have saved my life." Until then Gudmund
had been standing motionless, but now he felt that something tender and
warm was beginning to stir within him. He raised his hand and stroked
her hair. Then she started, as if awakened from a dream, and stood up
straight as a rod before him. "You deserve thanks for coming," she
repeated. She had become flame-red in the face, and he too reddened.

"Well, then, you will come home to-morrow," he said, putting out his
hand to say good-bye.

"I shall never forget that you came to me to-night!" said Helga, and her
great gratitude got the mastery over her shyness.

"Oh, yes, it was well perhaps that I came," he said quite calmly, and he
felt rather pleased with himself. "You will go in now, of course?"

"Yes, now I shall go in."

Gudmund suddenly felt himself rather pleased with Helga too--as one
usually is with a person whom one has succeeded in helping. She lingered
and did not want to go. "I would like to see you safely under shelter
before I leave."

"I thought they might retire before I went in."

"No, you must go in at once, so that you can have your supper and rest
yourself," said he, thinking it was agreeable to take her in hand.

She went at once to the cabin, and he accompanied her, pleased and proud
because she obeyed him.

When she stood on the threshold, they said good-bye to each other again;
but before he had gone two paces, she came after him. "Remain just
outside the door until I am in. It will be easier for me if I know that
you are standing without."

"Yes," said he, "I shall stand here until you have come over the worst
of it."

Then Helga opened the cabin door, and Gudmund noticed that she left it
slightly ajar. It was as if she did not wish to feel herself separated
from her helper who stood without. Nor did he feel any compunction about
hearing all that happened within the cabin.

The old folks nodded pleasantly to Helga as she came in. Her mother
promptly laid the child in the crib, and then went over to the cupboard
and brought out a bowl of milk and a bread cake and placed them on the
table.

"There! Now sit down and eat," said she. Then she went up to the
fireplace and freshened the fire. "I have kept the fire alive, so you
could dry your feet and warm yourself when you came home. But eat
something first! It is food that you need most."

All the while Helga had been standing at the door. "You mustn't receive
me so well, mother," she said in a low tone. "I will get no money from
Per. I have renounced his help."

"There was some one here from the Court House this evening who had been
there and heard how it turned out for you," said the mother. "We know
all."

Helga was still standing by the door, looking out, as if she knew not
which was in or out.

Then the farmer put down his work, pushed his spectacles up on his
forehead, and cleared his throat for a speech of which he had been
thinking the whole evening. "It is a fact, Helga," said he, "that mother
and I have always wanted to be decent and honorable folk, but we have
thought that we had been disgraced on your account. It was as though we
had not taught you to distinguish between good and evil. But when we
learned what you did to-day, we said to each other--mother and I--that
now folks could see anyway that you have had a proper bringing up and
right teaching, and we thought that perhaps we might yet be happy in
you. And mother did not want that we should go to bed before you came
that you might have a hearty welcome home."


III

Helga from the marsh croft came to Närlunda, and there all went well.
She was willing and teachable and grateful for every kind word said to
her. She always felt herself to be the humblest of mortals and never
wanted to push herself ahead. It was not long until the household and
the servants were satisfied with her.

The first days it appeared as if Gudmund was afraid to speak to Helga.
He feared that this croft girl would get notions into her head because
he had come to her assistance. But these were needless worries. Helga
regarded him as altogether too fine and noble for her even to raise her
eyes to. Gudmund soon perceived that he did not have to keep her at a
distance. She was more shy of him than of any one else.

The autumn that Helga came to Närlunda, Gudmund paid many visits to
Älvåkra, and there was much talk about the good chance he stood of being
the prospective son-in-law of this estate. That the courtship had been
successful all were assured at Christmas. Then the Juryman, with his
wife and daughter, came over to Närlunda, and it was evident that they
had come there to see how Hildur would fare if she married Gudmund.

This was the first time that Helga saw, at close range, her whom Gudmund
was to marry. Hildur Ericsdotter was not yet twenty, but the marked
thing about her was that no one could look at her without thinking what
a handsome and dignified mistress she would be some day. She was tall
and well built, fair and pretty, and apparently liked to have many about
her to look after. She was never timid; she talked much and seemed to
know everything better than the one with whom she was talking. She had
attended school in the city for a couple of years and wore the prettiest
frocks Helga had ever seen, but yet she didn't impress one as being
showy or vain. Rich and beautiful as she was, she might have married a
gentleman at any time, but she always declared that she did not wish to
be a fine lady and sit with folded hands. She wanted to marry a farmer
and look after her own house, like a real farmer's wife.

Helga thought Hildur a perfect wonder. Never had she seen any one who
made such a superb appearance. Nor had she ever dreamed that a person
could be so nearly perfect in every particular. To her it seemed a
great joy that in the near future she was to serve such a mistress.

Everything had gone off well during the Juryman's visit. But whenever
Helga looked back upon that day, she experienced a certain unrest. It
seems that when the visitors had arrived, she had gone around and served
coffee. When she came in with the tray, the Juryman's wife leaned
forward and asked her mistress if she was not the girl from the marsh
croft. She did not lower her voice much, and Helga had distinctly heard
the question.

Mother Ingeborg answered yes, and then the other had said something
which Helga couldn't hear. But it was to the effect that she thought it
singular they wanted a person of that sort in the house. This caused
Helga many anxious moments. She tried to console herself with the
thought that it was not Hildur, but her mother, who had said this.

One Sunday in the early spring Helga and Gudmund walked home together
from church. As they came down the slope, they were with the other
church people; but soon one after another dropped off until, finally,
Helga and Gudmund were alone.

Then Gudmund happened to think that he had not been alone with Helga
since that night at the croft, and the memory of that night came
forcibly back to him. He had thought of their first meeting often enough
during the winter, and with it he had always felt something sweet and
pleasant thrill through his senses. As he went about his work, he would
call forth in thought that whole beautiful evening: the white mist, the
bright moonlight, the dark forest heights, the light valley, and the
girl who had thrown her arms round his neck and wept for joy. The whole
incident became more beautiful each time that it recurred to his memory.
But when Gudmund saw Helga going about among the others at home, toiling
and slaving, it was hard for him to think that it was she who had shared
in this. Now that he was walking alone with her on the church slope, he
couldn't help wishing for a moment that she would be the same girl she
was on that evening.

Helga began immediately to speak of Hildur. She praised her much: said
she was the prettiest and most sensible girl in the whole parish, and
congratulated Gudmund because he would have such an excellent wife. "You
must tell her to let me remain always at Närlunda," she said. "It will
be a pleasure to work for a mistress like her."

Gudmund smiled at her enthusiasm, but answered only in monosyllables, as
though he did not exactly follow her. It was well, of course, that she
was so fond of Hildur, and so happy because he was going to be married.

"You have been content to be with us this winter?" he asked.

"Indeed I have! I cannot begin to tell you how kind mother Ingeborg and
all of you have been to me!"

"Have you not been homesick for the forest?"

"Oh, yes, in the beginning, but not now any more."

"I thought that one who belonged to the forest could not help yearning
for it."

Helga turned half round and looked at him, who walked on the other side
of the road. Gudmund had become almost a stranger to her; but now there
was something in his voice, his smile, that was familiar. Yes, he was
the same man who had come to her and saved her in her greatest distress.
Although he was to marry another, she was certain that he wanted to be a
good friend to her, and a faithful helper.

She was very happy to feel that she could confide in him, as in none
other, and thought that she must tell him of all that had happened to
her since they last talked together. "I must tell you that it was rather
hard for me the first weeks at Närlunda," she began. "But you mustn't
speak of this to your mother."

"If you want me to be silent, I'll be silent."

"Fancy! I was so homesick in the beginning that I was about to go back
to the forest."

"Were you homesick? I thought you were glad to be with us."

"I simply could not help it," she said apologetically. "I understood, of
course, how well it was for me to be here; you were all so good to me,
and the work was not so hard but that I could manage with it, but I was
homesick nevertheless. There was something that took hold of me and
wanted to draw me back to the forest. I thought that I was deserting and
betraying some one who had a right to me, when I wanted to stay here in
the village."

"It was perhaps--" began Gudmund, but checked himself.

"No, it was not the boy I longed for. I knew that he was well cared for
and that mother was kind to him. It was nothing in particular. I felt as
though I were a wild bird that had been caged, and I thought I should
die if I were not let out."

"To think that you had such a hard time of it!" said Gudmund smiling,
for now, all at once, he recognized her. Now it was as if nothing had
come between them, but that they had parted at the forest farm the
evening before.

Helga smiled again, but continued to speak of her torments. "I didn't
sleep a single night," said she, "and as soon as I went to bed, the
tears started to flow, and when I got up of a morning, the pillow was
wet through. In the daytime, when I went about among all of you, I could
keep back the tears, but as soon as I was alone my eyes would fill up."

"You have wept much in your time," said Gudmund without looking the
least bit sympathetic as he pronounced the words.

Helga thought that he was laughing to himself all the while. "You surely
don't comprehend how hard it was for me!" she said, speaking faster and
faster in her effort to make him understand her. "A great longing took
possession of me and carried me out of myself. Not for a moment could I
feel happy! Nothing was beautiful, nothing was a pleasure; not a human
being could I become attached to. You all remained just as strange to me
as you were the first time I entered the house."

"But didn't you say a moment ago that you wished to remain with us?"
said Gudmund wonderingly.

"Of course I did!"

"Then, surely, you are not homesick now?"

"No, it has passed over. I have been cured. Wait, and you shall hear!"

As she said this, Gudmund crossed to the other side of the road and
walked beside her, laughing to himself all the while. He seemed glad to
hear her speak, but probably he didn't attach much importance to what
she was relating. Gradually Helga took on his mood, and she thought
everything was becoming easy and light. The church road was long and
difficult to walk, but to-day she was not tired. There was something
that carried her. She continued with her story because she had begun it,
but it was no longer of much importance to her to speak. It would have
been quite as agreeable to her if she might have walked silently beside
him.

"When I was the most unhappy," she said, "I asked mother Ingeborg one
Saturday evening to let me go home and remain over Sunday. And that
evening, as I tramped over the hills to the marsh, I believed positively
that I should never again go back to Närlunda. But at home father and
mother were so happy because I had found service with good and
respectable people, that I didn't dare tell them I could not endure
remaining with you. Then, too, as soon as I came up into the forest all
the anguish and pain vanished entirely. I thought the whole thing had
been only a fancy. And then it was so difficult about the child. Mother
had become attached to the boy and had made him her own. He wasn't mine
any more. And it was well thus, but it was hard to get used to."

"Perhaps you began to be homesick for us?" blurted Gudmund.

"Oh, no! On Monday morning, as I awoke and thought of having to return
to you, the longing came over me again. I lay crying and fretting
because the only right and proper thing for me to do was to go back to
Närlunda. But I felt all the same as though I were going to be ill or
lose my senses if I went back. Suddenly I remembered having once heard
some one say that if one took some ashes from the hearth in one's own
home and strewed them on the fire in the strange place, one would be rid
of homesickness."

"Then it was a remedy that was easy to take," said Gudmund.

"Yes, but it was supposed to have this effect also: afterwards one could
never be content in any other place. If one were to move from the
homestead to which one had borne the ashes, one must long to get back
there again just as much as one had longed before to get away from
there."

"Couldn't one carry ashes along wherever one moved to?"

"No, it can't be done more than once. Afterwards there is no turning
back, so it was a great risk to try anything like that."

"I shouldn't have taken chances on a thing of that kind," said Gudmund,
and she could hear that he was laughing at her.

"But I dared, all the same," retorted Helga. "It was better than having
to appear as an ingrate in your mother's eyes and in yours, when you had
tried to help me. I brought a little ashes from home, and when I got
back to Närlunda I watched my opportunity, when no one was in, and
scattered the ashes over the hearth."

"And now you believe it is ashes that have helped you?"

"Wait, and you shall hear how it turned out! Immediately I became
absorbed in my work and thought no more about the ashes all that day. I
grieved exactly as before and was just as weary of everything as I had
been. There was much to be done that day, both in the house and out of
it, and when I finished with the evening's milking and was going in, the
fire on the hearth was already lighted."

"Now I'm very curious to hear what happened," said Gudmund.

"Think! Already, as I was crossing the house yard, I thought there was
something familiar in the gleam from the fire, and when I opened the
door, it flashed across my mind that I was going into our own cabin and
that father and mother would be sitting by the hearth. This flew past
like a dream, but when I came in, I was surprised that it looked so
pretty and homelike in the cottage. To me your mother and the rest of
you had never appeared as pleasant as you did in the firelight. It
seemed really good to come in, and this was not so before. I was so
astonished that I could hardly keep from clapping my hands and shouting.
I thought you were all so changed. You were no longer strangers to me
and I could talk to you about all sorts of things. You can understand,
of course, that I was happy, but I couldn't help being astonished. I
wondered if I had been bewitched, and then I remembered the ashes I had
strewn over the hearth."

"Yes, it was marvellous," said Gudmund. He did not believe the least
little bit in witchcraft and was not at all superstitious; but he didn't
dislike hearing Helga talk of such things. "Now the wild forest girl has
returned," thought he. "Can anybody comprehend how one who has passed
through all that she has can still be so childish?"

"Of course it was wonderful!" said Helga. "And the same thing has been
coming back all winter. As soon as the fire on the hearth was burning, I
felt the same confidence and security as if I had been at home. But
there must be something extraordinary about this fire--not with any
other kind of fire, perhaps--only that which burns on a hearth, with all
the household gathered around it, night after night. It gets sort of
acquainted with one. It plays and dances for one and talks to one, and
sometimes it is ill-humored. It is as if it had the power to create
comfort and discomfort. I thought now that the fire from home had come
to me and that it gave the same glow of pleasure to every one here that
it had done back home."

"What if you had to leave Närlunda?" said Gudmund.

"Then I must long to come back again all my life," said she. And the
quiver in her voice betrayed that this was spoken in profound
seriousness.

"Well, I shall not be the one to drive you away!" said Gudmund. Although
he was laughing, there was something warm in his tone.

They started no new subject of conversation, but walked on in silence
until they came to the homestead. Now and then Gudmund turned his head
to look at her who was walking at his side. She had gathered strength
after her hard time of the year before. Her features were delicate and
refined; her hair was like an aureole around her head, and her eyes were
not easy to read. Her step was light and elastic, and when she spoke,
the words came readily, yet modestly. She was afraid of being laughed
at, still she had to speak out what was in her heart.

Gudmund wondered if he wished Hildur to be like this, but he probably
didn't. This Helga would be nothing special to marry.

A fortnight later Helga heard that she must leave Närlunda in April
because Hildur Ericsdotter would not live under the same roof with her.
The master and mistress of the house did not say this in so many words,
but the mistress hinted that when the new daughter-in-law came, they
would in all probability get so much help from her they would not
require so many servants. On another occasion she said she had heard of
a good place where Helga would fare better than with them.

It was not necessary for Helga to hear anything further to understand
that she must leave, and she immediately announced that she would move,
but she did not wish any other situation and would return to her home.

It was apparent that it was not of their own free will they were
dismissing Helga from Närlunda.

When she was leaving, there was a spread for her. It was like a party,
and mother Ingeborg gave her such heaps of dresses and shoes that she,
who had come to them with only a bundle under her arm, could now barely
find room enough in a chest for her possessions.

"I shall never again have such an excellent servant in my house as you
have been," said mother Ingeborg. "And do not think too hard of me for
letting you go! You understand, no doubt, that it is not my will, this.
I shall not forget you. So long as I have any power, you shall never
have to suffer want."

She arranged with Helga that she was to weave sheets and towels for her.
She gave her employment for at least half a year.

Gudmund was in the woodshed splitting wood the day Helga was leaving. He
did not come in to say good-bye, although his horse was at the door. He
appeared to be so busy that he didn't take note of what was going on.
She had to go out to him to say farewell.

He laid down the axe, took Helga's hand, and said rather hurriedly,
"Thank you for all!" and began chopping again. Helga had wanted to say
something about her understanding that it was impossible for them to
keep her and that it was all her own fault. She had brought this upon
herself. But Gudmund chopped away until the splinters flew around him,
and she couldn't make up her mind to speak.

But the strangest thing about this whole moving affair was that the
master himself, old Erland Erlandsson, drove Helga up to the marsh.

Gudmund's father was a little weazened man, with a bald pate and
beautiful and knowing eyes. He was very timid, and so reticent at times
that he did not speak a word the whole day. So long as everything went
smoothly, one took no notice of him, but when anything went wrong, he
always said and did what there was to be said and done to right matters.
He was a capable accountant and enjoyed the confidence of every man in
the township. He executed all kinds of public commissions and was more
respected than many a man with a large estate and great riches.

Erland Erlandsson drove Helga home in his own wagon, and he wouldn't
allow her to step down and walk up any of the hills. When they arrived
at the marsh croft, he sat a long while in the cabin and talked with
Helga's parents, telling them of how pleased he and mother Ingeborg had
been with her. It was only because they did not need so many servants
that they were sending her home. She, who was the youngest, must go.
They had felt that it was wrong to dismiss any of those who were old in
their service.

Erland Erlandsson's speech had the desired effect, and the parents gave
Helga a warm welcome. When they heard that she had received such large
orders that she could support herself with weaving, they were satisfied,
and she remained at home.


IV

Gudmund thought that he had loved Hildur until the day when she exacted
from him the promise that Helga should be sent away from Närlunda; at
least up to that time there was no one whom he had esteemed more highly
than Hildur. No other young girl, to his thinking, could come up to her.
It had been a pleasure for him to picture a future with Hildur. They
would be rich and looked up to, and he felt instinctively that the home
Hildur managed would be good to live in. He liked also to think that he
would be well supplied with money after he had married her. He could
then improve the land, rebuild all the tumble-down houses, extend the
farm, and be a real landed proprietor.

The same Sunday that he had walked home from church with Helga, he had
driven over to Älvåkra in the evening. Then Hildur had started talking
about Helga and had said that she wouldn't come to Närlunda until that
girl was sent away. At first Gudmund had tried to dismiss the whole
matter as a jest, but it was soon obvious that Hildur was in earnest.
Gudmund pleaded Helga's cause exceedingly well and remarked that she was
very young when first sent out to service and it was not strange that
things went badly when she came across such a worthless fellow as Per
Mårtensson. But since his mother had taken her in hand, she had always
conducted herself well. "It can't be right to push her out," said he.
"Then, perhaps, she might meet with misfortune again."

But Hildur would not yield. "If that girl is to remain at Närlunda,
then I will never come there," she declared. "I cannot tolerate a person
of that kind in my home."

"You don't know what you are doing," said Gudmund. "No one understands
so well as Helga how to care for mother. We have all been glad that she
came to us. Before she came, mother was often peevish and depressed."

"I shall not compel you to send her away," said Hildur, but it was clear
that if Gudmund were to take her at her word, in this instance, she was
ready to break the engagement.

"It will probably have to be as you wish," said Gudmund. He did not feel
that he could jeopardize his whole future for Helga's sake, but he was
very pale when he acquiesced, and he was silent and low-spirited the
entire evening.

It was this which had caused Gudmund to fear that perhaps Hildur was not
altogether what he had fancied her. He did not like, I dare say, that
she had pitted her will against his. But the worst of it was that he
could not comprehend anything else than that she was in the wrong. He
felt that he would willingly have given in to her had she been
broad-minded, but instead, it seemed to him, she was only petty and
heartless. Once his doubts were awakened, it was not long before he
perceived one thing and another which were not as he wished. "Doubtless
she is one of those who think first and foremost of themselves," he
muttered every time he parted from her, and he wondered how long her
love for him would last if it were put to the test. He tried to console
himself with the idea that all people thought of themselves first, but
instantly Helga flashed into his mind. He saw her as she stood in the
court room and snatched the Bible, and heard how she cried out: "I
withdraw the suit. I am still fond of him and I don't want him to swear
falsely." It was thus he would have Hildur. Helga had become for him a
standard by which he measured people. Though certainly there were many
who were equal to her in affection!

Day by day he thought less of Hildur, but it did not occur to him that
he should relinquish his prospective bride. He tried to imagine his
discouragement was simply an idle whim. Only a few weeks ago he regarded
her as the best in the world!

Had this been at the beginning of the courtship, he would have
withdrawn, perhaps, but now the banns were already published and the
wedding day fixed, and in his home they had begun repairing and
rebuilding. Nor did he wish to forfeit the wealth and the good social
position which awaited him. What excuse could he offer for breaking the
engagement? That which he had to bring against Hildur was so
inconsequential that it would have turned to air on his lips had he
attempted to express it.

But the heart of him was often heavy, and every time he had an errand
down to the parish or the city he bought ale or wine at the shops to
drink himself into a good humor. When he had emptied a couple of
bottles, he was again proud of the marriage and pleased with Hildur.
Then he didn't understand what it was that pained him.

Gudmund often thought of Helga and longed to meet her. But he fancied
that Helga believed him a wretch because he had not kept the promise
which he voluntarily made her, but had allowed her to go away. He could
neither explain nor excuse himself, therefore he avoided her.

One morning, when Gudmund was walking up the road, he met Helga, who had
been down in the village to buy milk. Gudmund turned about and joined
her.

She didn't appear to be pleased with his company and walked rapidly, as
if she wished to get away from him, and said nothing. Gudmund, too, kept
still because he didn't quite know how he should begin the
conversation.

A vehicle was seen on the road, far behind. Gudmund was absorbed in
thought and did not mark it, but Helga had seen it and turned abruptly
to him: "It is not worth your while to be in my company, Gudmund, for,
unless I see wrongly, it is the Juryman from Älvåkra and his daughter
who come driving back there."

Gudmund glanced up quickly, recognized the horse, and made a movement as
if to turn back; but the next instant he straightened up and walked
calmly at Helga's side until the vehicle had passed. Then he slackened
his pace. Helga continued to walk rapidly, and they parted company
without his having said a word to her. But all that day he was better
satisfied with himself than he had been in a long while.


V

It was decided that Gudmund and Hildur's wedding should be celebrated at
Älvåkra the day following Palm Sunday. On the Friday before, Gudmund
drove to town to make some purchases for the home-coming banquet, which
was to be held at Närlunda the day after the wedding. In the village he
happened across a number of young men from his parish. They knew it was
his last trip to the city before the marriage and made it the occasion
for a carouse. All insisted that Gudmund must drink, and they succeeded
finally in getting him thoroughly intoxicated.

He came home on Saturday morning so late that his father and the men
servants had already gone out to their work, and he slept on until late
in the afternoon. When he arose and was going to dress himself, he
noticed that his coat was torn in several places. "It looks as though I
had been in a fight last night," said he, trying to recall what he had
been up to. He remembered this much: he had left the public tavern at
eleven o'clock in company with his comrades; but where they had gone
afterwards, he couldn't remember. It was like trying to peer into a
great darkness. He did not know if they had only driven around on the
streets or if they had been in somebody's home. He didn't remember
whether he or some one else had harnessed the horse and had no
recollection whatever of the drive home.

When he came into the living-room of the cottage, it was scoured and
arranged for the occasion. All work was over for the day, and the
household were having coffee. No one spoke of Gudmund's trip. It seemed
to be a matter agreed upon that he should have the freedom of living as
he chose these last weeks.

Gudmund sat down at the table and had his coffee like the others. As he
sat pouring it from the cup into the saucer and back into the cup again
to let it cool, mother Ingeborg, who had finished with hers, took up the
newspaper, which had just arrived, and began reading. She read aloud
column after column, and Gudmund, his father, and the rest sat and
listened.

Among other things which she read, there was an account of a fight that
had taken place the night before, on the big square, between a gang of
drunken farmers and some laborers. As soon as the police turned up, the
fighters fled, but one of them lay dead on the square. The man was
carried to the police station, and when no outward injury was found on
him, they had tried to resuscitate him. But all attempts had been in
vain, and at last they discovered that a knife-blade was imbedded in the
skull. It was the blade of an uncommonly large clasp-knife that had
pierced the brain and was broken off close to the head. The murderer had
fled with the knife-handle, but as the police knew perfectly well who
had been in the fight, they had hopes of soon finding him.

While mother Ingeborg was reading this, Gudmund set down the
coffee-cup, stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a clasp-knife, and
glanced at it carelessly. But almost immediately he started, turned the
knife over, and poked it into his pocket as quickly as though it had
burned him. He did not touch the coffee after that, but sat a long
while, perfectly still, with a puzzled expression on his face. His brows
were contracted, and it was apparent that he was trying with all his
might to think out something.

Finally he stood up, stretched himself, yawned, and walked leisurely
toward the door. "I'll have to bestir myself. I haven't been out of
doors all day," he said, leaving the room.

About the same time Erland Erlandsson also arose. He had smoked out his
pipe, and now he went into the side room to get some tobacco. As he was
standing in there, refilling his pipe, he saw Gudmund walking along. The
windows of the side room did not, like those of the main room, face the
yard, but looked out upon a little garden plot with a couple of tall
apple trees. Beyond the plot lay a bit of swamp land where in the spring
of the year there were big pools of water, but which were almost dried
out in the summer. Toward this side it was seldom that any one went.
Erland Erlandsson wondered what Gudmund was doing there, and followed
him with his eyes. Then he saw that the son stuck his hand into his
pocket, drew out some object, and flung it away in the morass. Thereupon
he walked back across the little garden plot, leaped a fence, and went
down the road.

As soon as his son was out of sight, Erland, in his turn, betook
himself, as he should have done, to the swamp. He waded out into the
mire, bent down, and picked up something his foot had touched. It was a
large clasp-knife with the biggest blade broken off. He turned it over
and over and examined it carefully while he still stood in the water.
Then he put it into his pocket, but he took it out again and looked at
it before returning to the house.

Gudmund did not come home until the household had retired. He went
immediately to bed without touching his supper, which was spread in the
main room.

Erland Erlandsson and his wife slept in the side room. At daybreak
Erland thought he heard footsteps outside the window. He got up, drew
aside the curtain, and saw Gudmund walking down to the swamp. He
stripped off stockings and shoes and waded out into the water, tramping
back and forth, like one who is searching for something. He kept this up
for a long while, then he walked back to dry land, as if he intended to
go away, but soon turned back to resume his search. A whole hour his
father stood watching him. Then Gudmund went back to the house again and
to bed.

On Palm Sunday Gudmund was to drive to church. As he started to hitch up
the horse, his father came out. "You have forgotten to polish the
harness to-day," he said, as he walked by; for both harness and cart
were muddy.

"I have had other things to think of," said Gudmund listlessly, and
drove off without doing anything in the matter.

After the service Gudmund accompanied his betrothed to Älvåkra and
remained there all day. A number of young people came to celebrate
Hildur's last evening as a maid, and there was dancing till far into the
night. Intoxicants were plentiful, but Gudmund did not touch them. The
whole evening he had scarcely spoken a word to any one, but he danced
wildly and laughed at times, loudly and stridently, without any one's
knowing what he was so amused over.

Gudmund did not come home until about two in the morning, and when he
had stabled the horse he went down to the swamp back of the house. He
took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded
into the water and mud. It was a light spring night, and his father was
standing in the side room behind the curtain, watching his son. He saw
how he walked bending over the water and searching as on the previous
night. He went up on land between times, but after a moment or two he
would wade again through the mud. Once he went and fetched a bucket from
the barn and began dipping water from the pools, as if he intended to
drain them, but really found it unprofitable and set the bucket aside.
He tried also with a pole-net. He ploughed through the entire
swamp-ground with it, but seemed to bring up nothing but mud. He did not
go in until the morning was so well on that the people in the house were
beginning to bestir themselves. Then he was so tired and spent that he
staggered as he walked, and he flung himself upon the bed without
undressing.

When the clock struck eight, his father came and waked him. Gudmund lay
upon the bed, his clothing covered with mud and clay, but his father did
not ask what he had been doing. He simply said, "It is time now to get
up," and closed the door.

After a while Gudmund came down stairs, dressed in his wedding clothes.
He was pale, and his eyes wore a troubled expression, but no one had
ever seen him look so handsome. His features were as if illumined by an
inner light. One felt that one was looking upon something no longer made
up of flesh and blood,--only of soul and will.

It was solemnly ceremonious down in the main room. His mother was in
black, and she had thrown a pretty silk shawl across her shoulders,
although she was not to be at the wedding. Fresh birch leaves were
arranged in the fireplace. The table was spread, and there was a great
quantity of food.

When they had breakfasted, mother Ingeborg read a hymn and something
from the Bible. Then she turned to Gudmund, thanked him for having been
a good son, wished him happiness in his new life, and gave him her
blessing. Mother Ingeborg could arrange her words well, and Gudmund was
deeply moved. The tears welled to his eyes time and again, but he
managed to choke them back. His father, too, said a few words. "It will
be hard for your parents to lose you," he said, and again Gudmund came
near breaking down. All the servants came forward and shook hands with
him and thanked him for the past. Tears were in his eyes all the while.
He pulled himself together and made several attempts to speak, but
could scarcely get a word past his lips.

His father was to accompany him to the wedding and be one of the party.
He went out and harnessed the horse, after which he came back and
announced that it was time to start. When Gudmund was seated in the
cart, he noticed that it was cleansed and burnished. Everything was as
bright and shiny as he himself always wished it to be. At the same time
he saw, also, how neat everything about the place looked. The driveway
had been laid with new gravel; piles of old wood and rubbish, which had
lain there all his life, were removed. On each side of the entrance door
stood a birch branch, as a gate of honor. A large wreath of blueberry
hung on the weather-vane, and from every aperture peeped light green
birch-leaves. Again Gudmund was ready to burst into tears. He grasped
his father's hand hard when he was about to start; it was as though he
wished to prevent his going.

"Is there something--?" said the father.

"Oh, no!" said Gudmund. "It is best, I dare say, that we go ahead."

Gudmund had to say one more farewell before he was very far from the
homestead. It was Helga from Big Marsh, who stood waiting at the hedge,
where the foliage path leading from her home opened into the highway.
The father was driving and stopped when he saw Helga.

"I have been waiting for you, as I wanted to wish you happiness to-day,"
said Helga.

Gudmund leaned far out over the cart and shook hands with Helga. He
thought that she had grown thin and that her eyelids were red. Very
probably she had lain awake and cried all night and was homesick for
Närlunda. But now she tried to appear happy and smiled sweetly at him.
Again he felt deeply moved but could not speak.

His father, who was reputed never to speak a word until it was called
forth by extreme necessity, joined in: "That good wish, I think, Gudmund
will be more glad over than any other."

"Yes, of that you may be sure!" said Gudmund. He shook hands with Helga
once more, and then they drove on.

Gudmund leaned back in the cart and looked after Helga. When she was
hidden from view by a couple of trees, he hastily tore aside the apron
of the carriage, as if he wished to jump out.

"Is there anything more you wish to say to Helga?" asked his father.

"No, oh, no!" answered Gudmund and turned round again.

Suddenly Gudmund leaned his head against his father's shoulder and burst
out crying.

"What ails you?" asked Erland Erlandsson, drawing in the reins so
suddenly that the horse stopped.

"Oh, they are all so good to me and I don't deserve it."

"But you have never done anything wrong, surely?"

"Yes, father, I have."

"That we can't believe."

"I have killed a human being!"

The father drew a deep breath. It sounded almost like a sigh of relief,
and Gudmund raised his head, astonished, and looked at him. His father
set the horse in motion again; then he said calmly, "I'm glad you have
told of this yourself."

"Did you know it already, father?"

"I surmised last Saturday evening that there was something wrong. And
then I found your knife down in the morass."

"So it was you who found the knife!"

"I found it and I noticed that one of the blades had been broken off."

"Yes, father, I'm aware that the knife-blade is gone, but still I
cannot get it into my head that I did it."

"It was probably done in the drunkenness and delirium."

"I know nothing; I remember nothing. I could see by my clothes that I
had been in a fight and I knew that the knife-blade was missing."

"I understand that it was your intention to be silent about this," said
the father.

"I thought that perhaps the rest of the party were as irresponsible as
myself and _I_ couldn't remember anything. There was perhaps no other
evidence against me than the knife, therefore I threw it away."

"I comprehend that you must have reasoned in that way."

"You understand, father, that I do not know who is dead. I had never
seen him before, I dare say. I have no recollection of having done it. I
didn't think I ought to suffer for what I had not done knowingly. But
soon I got to thinking that I must have been mad to throw the knife into
the marsh. It dries out in summer, and then any one might find it. I
tried last night and the night before to find it."

"Didn't it occur to you that you should confess?"

"No! Yesterday I thought only of how I could keep it a secret, and I
tried to dance and be merry, so that no one would mark any change in
me."

"Was it your intention to go to the bridal altar to-day without
confessing? You were assuming a grave responsibility. Didn't you
understand that if you were discovered you would drag Hildur and her kin
with you into misery?"

"I thought that I was sparing them most by saying nothing."

They drove now as fast as possible. The father seemed to be in haste to
arrive, and all the time he talked with his son. He had not said so much
to him in all his life before.

"I wonder how you came to think differently?" said he.

"It was because Helga came and wished me luck. Then there was something
hard in me that broke. I was touched by something in her. Mother, also,
moved me this morning, and I wanted to speak out and tell her that I was
not worthy of your love; but then the hardness was still within me and
made resistance. But when Helga appeared, it was all over with me. I
felt that she really ought to be angry with me who was to blame for her
having to leave our home."

"Now I think you are agreed with me that we must let the Juryman know
this at once," said the father.

"Yes," answered Gudmund in a low tone. "Why, certainly!" he added almost
immediately after, louder and firmer. "I don't want to drag Hildur into
my misfortune. This she would never forgive me."

"The Älvåkra folk are jealous of their honor, like the rest," remarked
the father. "And you may as well know, Gudmund, that when I left home
this morning I was thinking that I must tell the Juryman your position
if you did not decide to do so yourself. I never could have stood
silently by and let Hildur marry a man who at any moment might be
accused of murder."

He cracked the whip and drove on, faster and faster. "This will be the
hardest thing for you," said he, "but we'll try and have it over with
quickly. I believe that, to the Juryman's mind, it will be right for you
to give yourself up, and they will be kind to you, no doubt."

Gudmund said nothing. His torture increased the nearer they approached
Älvåkra. The father continued talking to keep up his courage.

"I have heard something of this sort before," said he. "There was a
bridegroom once who happened to shoot a comrade to death during a hunt.
He did not do it intentionally, and it was not discovered that he was
the one who had fired the fatal shot. But a day or two later he was to
be married, and when he came to the home of the bride, he went to her
and said: 'The marriage cannot take place. I do not care to drag you
into the misery which awaits me.' But she stood, dressed in bridal
wreath and crown, and took him by the hand and led him into the
drawing-room, where the guests were assembled and all was in readiness
for the ceremony. She related in a clear voice what the bridegroom had
just said to her. 'I have told of this, that all may know you have
practised no deceit on me.' Then she turned to the bridegroom. 'Now I
want to be married to you at once. You are what you are, even though you
have met with misfortune, and whatever awaits you, I want to share it
equally with you.'"

Just as the father had finished the narrative, they were on the long
avenue leading to Älvåkra. Gudmund turned to him with a melancholy
smile. "It will not end thus for us," he said.

"Who knows?" said the father, straightening in the cart. He looked upon
his son and was again astonished at his beauty this day. "It would not
surprise me if something great and unexpected were to come to him,"
thought he.

There was to have been a church ceremony, and already a crowd of people
were gathered at the bride's home to join in the wedding procession. A
number of the Juryman's relatives from a distance had also arrived. They
were sitting on the porch in their best attire, ready for the drive to
church. Carts and carriages were strung out in the yard, and one could
hear the horses stamping in the stable as they were being curried. The
parish fiddler sat on the steps of the storehouse alone, tuning his
fiddle. At a window in the upper story of the cottage stood the bride,
dressed and waiting to have a peep at the bridegroom before he had time
to discover her.

Erland and Gudmund stepped from the carriage and asked immediately for a
private conference with Hildur and her parents. Soon they were all
standing in the little room which the Juryman used as his study.

"I think you must have read in the papers of that fight in town last
Saturday night, where a man was killed," said Gudmund, as rapidly as if
he were repeating a lesson.

"Oh, yes, I've read about it, of course," said the Juryman.

"I happened to be in town that night," continued Gudmund. Now there was
no response. It was as still as death. Gudmund thought they all glared
at him with such fury that he was unable to continue. But his father
came to his aid.

"Gudmund had been invited out by a few friends. He had probably drunk
too much that night, and when he came home he did not know what he had
been doing. But it was apparent that he had been in a fight, for his
clothes were torn."

Gudmund saw that the dread which the others felt increased with every
word that was said, but he himself was growing calmer. There awoke in
him a sense of defiance, and he took up the words again: "When the paper
came on Saturday evening and I read of the fight and of the knife-blade
which was imbedded in the man's skull, I took out my knife and saw that
a blade was missing."

"It is bad news that Gudmund brings with him," said the Juryman. "It
would have been better had he told us of this yesterday."

Gudmund was silent; and now his father came to the rescue again. "It was
not so easy for Gudmund. It was a great temptation to keep quiet about
the whole affair. He is losing much by this confession."

"We may be glad that he has spoken now, and that we have not been
tricked and dragged into this wretched affair," said the Juryman
bitterly.

Gudmund kept his eyes fixed on Hildur all the while. She was adorned
with veil and crown, and now he saw how she raised her hand and drew out
one of the large pins which held the crown in place. She seemed to do
this unconsciously. When she observed that Gudmund's glance rested upon
her, she stuck the pin in again.

"It is not yet fully proved that Gudmund is the slayer," said his
father, "but I can well understand that you wish the wedding postponed
until everything has been cleared up."

"It is not worth while to talk of postponement," said the Juryman. "I
think that Gudmund's case is clear enough for us to decide that all is
over between him and Hildur now."

Gudmund did not at once reply to this judgment. He walked over to his
betrothed and put out his hand. She sat perfectly still and seemed not
to see him. "Won't you say farewell to me, Hildur?"

Then she looked up, and her large eyes stared coldly at him. "Was it
with that hand you guided the knife?" she asked.

Gudmund did not answer her, but turned to the Juryman. "Now I am sure of
my case," he said. "It is useless to talk of a wedding."

With this the conference was ended, and Gudmund and Erland went their
way.

They had to pass through a number of rooms and corridors before they
came out, and everywhere they saw preparations for the wedding. The door
leading to the kitchen was open, and they saw many bustling about in
eager haste. The smell of roasts and of baking penetrated the air; the
whole fireplace was covered with large and small pots and pans, and the
copper saucepans, which usually decorated the walls, were down and in
use. "Fancy, it is for my wedding that they are puttering like this!"
thought Gudmund, as he was passing.

He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of all the wealth of this old peasant
estate as he wandered through the house. He saw the dining-hall, where
the long tables were set with a long row of silver goblets and
decanters. He passed by the clothes-press, where the floor was covered
with great chests and where the walls were hung with an endless array of
wearing apparel. When he came out in the yard, he saw many vehicles, old
and new, and fine horses being led out from the stable, and gorgeous
carriage robes placed in the carriages. He looked out across a couple of
farms with cow-sheds, barns, sheep-folds, storehouses, sheds, larders,
and many other buildings. "All this might have been mine," he thought,
as he seated himself in the cart.

Suddenly he was seized with a sense of bitter regret. He would have
liked to throw himself out of the cart and go in and say that what he
had told them was not true. He had only wished to joke with them and
frighten them. It was awfully stupid of him to confess. Of what use had
it been to him to confess? The dead was dead. No, this confession
carried nothing with it save his ruin.

These last weeks he had not been very enthusiastic over this marriage.
But now, when he must renounce it, he realized what it was worth to him.
It meant much to lose Hildur Ericsdotter and all that went with her.
What did it matter that she was domineering and opinionated? She was
still the peer of all in these regions, and through her he would have
come by great power and honor.

It was not only Hildur and her possessions he was missing, but minor
things as well. At this moment he should have been driving to the
church, and all who looked upon him would have envied him. And it was
to-day that he should have sat at the head of the wedding table and been
in the thick of the dancing and the gayety. It was his great luck-day
that was going from him.

Erland turned time and again to his son and looked at him. Now he was
not so handsome or transfigured as he had been in the morning, but sat
there listless and heavy and dull-eyed. The father wondered if the son
regretted having confessed and meant to question him about it, but
thought it best to be silent.

"Where are we driving to now?" asked Gudmund presently. "Wouldn't it be
as well to go at once to the sheriff?"

"You had better go home first and have a good sleep," said the father.
"You have not had much sleep these last nights, I dare say."

"Mother will be frightened when she sees us."

"She won't be surprised," answered the father, "for she knows quite as
much as I do. She will be glad, of course, that you have confessed."

"I believe mother and the rest of you at home are glad to get me into
prison," snarled Gudmund.

"We know that you are losing a good deal in acting rightly," said the
father. "We can't help but be glad because you have conquered yourself."

Gudmund felt that he could not endure going home and having to listen to
all who would commend him because he had spoiled his future. He sought
some excuse that he might escape meeting any one until he had recovered
his poise. Then they drove by the place where the path led to Big Marsh.
"Will you stop here, father? I think I'll run up to see Helga and have a
talk with her."

Willingly the father reined in the horse. "Only come home as quickly as
you can, that you may rest yourself," said he.

Gudmund went into the woods and was soon out of sight. He did not think
of seeking Helga; he was only thinking of being alone, so that he
wouldn't have to control himself. He felt an unreasonable anger toward
everything, kicked at stones that lay in his path, and paused sometimes
to break off a big branch only because a leaf had brushed his cheek.

He followed the path to Big Marsh, but walked past the croft and up the
hill which lay above it. He had wandered off the path, and in order to
reach the hill-top he must cross a broad ridge of sharp, jagged rocks.
It was a hazardous tramp over the sharp rock edges. He might have broken
both arms and legs had he made a misstep. He understood this perfectly,
but went on as if it amused him to run into danger. "If I were to fall
and hurt myself, no one can find me up here," thought he. "What of it? I
may as well die here as to sit for years within prison walls."

All went well, however, and a few moments later he was up on High Peak.
Once a forest fire had swept the mountain. The highest point was still
bare, and from there one had a seven-mile outlook. He saw valleys and
lakes, dark forest tracts and flourishing towns, churches and manors,
little woodland crofts and large villages. Far in the distance lay the
city, enveloped in a white haze from which a pair of gleaming spires
peeped out. Public roads wound through the valleys, and a railway train
was rushing along the border of the forest. It was a whole kingdom that
he saw.

He flung himself upon the ground, all the while keeping his eyes riveted
upon the vast outlook. There was something grand and majestic about the
landscape before him, which made him feel himself and his sorrows small
and insignificant.

He remembered how, when a child, he had read that the tempter led Jesus
up to a high mountain and showed him all the world's glories, and he
always fancied that they had stood up here on Great Peak, and he
repeated the old words: "All these things will I give thee if thou wilt
fall down and worship me."

All of a sudden he was thinking that a similar temptation had come to
him these last days. Certainly the tempter had not borne him to a high
mountain and shown him all the glories and powers of this world! "Only
be silent about the evil which you think you have done," said he, "and I
will give you all these things."

As Gudmund thought on this, a grain of satisfaction came to him. "I have
answered no," he said, and suddenly he understood what it had meant for
him. If he had kept silent, would he not have been compelled to worship
the tempter all his life? He would have been a timid and faint-hearted
man; simply a slave to his possessions. The fear of discovery would
always have weighed upon him. Nevermore would he have felt himself a
free man.

A great peace came over Gudmund. He was happy in the consciousness that
he had done right. When he thought back to the past days, he felt that
he had groped his way out of a great darkness. It was wonderful that he
had come out right finally. He asked himself how he had ever happened to
go astray. "It was because they were so kind to me at home," he thought,
"and the best help was that Helga came and wished me happiness."

He lay up there on the mountain a little longer, but presently he felt
that he must go home to his father and mother and tell them that he was
at peace with himself. When he rose to go, he saw Helga sitting on a
ledge a little farther down the mountain.

Where she sat, she had not the big, broad outlook which he enjoyed; only
a little glint of the valley was visible to her. This was in the
direction where Närlunda lay, and possibly she could see a portion of
the farm. When Gudmund discovered her, he felt that his heart, which all
the day before had labored heavily and anxiously, began to beat lightly
and merrily; at the same time such a thrill of joy ran through him that
he stood still and marvelled at himself. "What has come over me? What is
this?" he wondered, as the blood surged through his body and happiness
gripped him with a force that was almost painful. At last he said to
himself in a surprised tone: "Why, it is she that I'm fond of! Think,
that I did not know it until now!"

It took hold of him with the strength of a loosened torrent. He had been
bound the whole time he knew her. All that had drawn him to her he had
held back. Now, at last, he was freed from the thought of marrying some
one else--free to love her.

"Helga!" he cried, rushing down the steep to her. She turned round with
a terrified shriek. "Don't be frightened! It is only I."

"But are you not at church being married?"

"No, indeed! There will be no wedding to-day. She doesn't want
me--she--Hildur."

Helga rose. She placed her hand on her heart and closed her eyes. At
that moment she must have thought it was not Gudmund who had come. It
must be that her eyes and ears were bewitched in the forest. Yet it was
sweet and dear of him to come, if only in a vision! She closed her eyes
and stood motionless to keep this vision a few seconds longer.

Gudmund was wild and dizzy from the great love that had flamed up in
him. As soon as he came down to Helga, he threw his arms around her and
kissed her, and she let it happen, for she was absolutely stupefied with
surprise. It was too wonderful to believe that he, who should now be
standing in church beside his bride, actually could have come here to
the forest. This phantom or ghost of him that had come to her may as
well kiss her.

But while Gudmund was kissing Helga, she awoke and pushed him from her.
She began to shower him with questions. Was it really he? What was he
doing in the forest? Had any misfortune happened to him? Why was the
wedding postponed? Was Hildur ill? Did the clergyman have a stroke in
church?

Gudmund had not wished to talk to her of anything in the world save his
love, but she forced him to tell her what had occurred. While he was
speaking she sat still and listened with rapt attention.

She did not interrupt him until he mentioned the broken blade. Then she
leaped up suddenly and asked if it was his clasp-knife, the one he had
when she served with them.

"Yes, it was just that one," said he.

"How many blades were broken off?" she asked.

"Only one," he answered.

Then Helga's head began working. She sat with knit brows trying to
recall something. Wait! Why, certainly she remembered distinctly that
she had borrowed the knife from him to shave wood with the day before
she left. She had broken it then, but she had never told him of it. He
had avoided her, and at that time he had not wished to hold any converse
with her. And of course the knife had been in his pocket ever since and
he hadn't noticed that it was broken.

She raised her head and was about to tell him of this, but he went on
talking of his visit that morning to the house where the wedding was to
have been celebrated, and she wanted to let him finish. When she heard
how he had parted from Hildur, she thought it such a terrible misfortune
that she began upbraiding him. "This is your own fault," said she. "You
and your father came and frightened the life out of her with the
shocking news. She would not have answered thus had she been mistress of
herself. I want to say to you that I believe she regrets it at this very
moment."

"Let her regret it as much as she likes, for all of me!" said Gudmund.
"I know now that she is the sort who thinks only of herself. I am glad
I'm rid of her!"

Helga pressed her lips, as if to keep the great secret from escaping.
There was much for her to think about. It was more than a question of
clearing Gudmund of the murder; the wretched affair had also dragged
with it enmity between Gudmund and his sweetheart. Perhaps she might try
to adjust this matter with the help of what she knew.

Again she sat silent and pondered until Gudmund began telling that he
had transferred his affections to her.

But to her this seemed to be the greatest misfortune he had met with
that day. It was bad that he was about to miss the advantageous
marriage, but still worse were he to woo a girl like herself. "No, such
things you must not say to me," she said, rising abruptly.

"Why shouldn't I say this to you?" asked Gudmund, turning pale. "Perhaps
it is with you as with Hildur--you are afraid of me?"

"No, that's not the reason."

She wanted to explain how he was seeking his own ruin, but he was not
listening to her. "I have heard said that there were women-folk in olden
times who stood side by side with men when they were in trouble; but
that kind one does not encounter nowadays."

A tremor passed through Helga. She could have thrown her arms around his
neck, but remained perfectly still. To-day it was she who must be
sensible.

"True, I should not have asked you to become my wife on the day that I
must go to prison. You see, if I only knew that you would wait for me
until I'm free again, I should go through all the hardship with courage.
Every one will now regard me as a criminal, as one who drinks and
murders. If only there were some one who could think of me with
affection!--this would sustain me more than anything else."

"You know, surely, that I shall never think anything but good of you,
Gudmund."

Helga was so still! Gudmund's entreaties were becoming almost too much
for her. She didn't know how she should escape him. He apprehended
nothing of this, but began thinking he had been mistaken. She could not
feel toward him as he did toward her. He came very close and looked at
her, as though he wanted to look through her. "Are you not sitting on
this particular ledge of the mountain that you may look down to
Närlunda?"

"Yes."

"Don't you long night and day to be there?"

"Yes, but I'm not longing for any person."

"And you don't care for me?"

"Yes, but I don't want to marry you."

"Whom do you care for, then?"

Helga was silent.

"Is it Per Mårtensson?"

"I have already told you that I liked him," she said, exhausted by the
strain of it all.

Gudmund stood for a moment, with tense features, and looked at her.
"Farewell, then! Now we must go our separate ways, you and I," said he.
With that he made a long jump from this ledge of the mountain down to
the next landing and disappeared among the trees.


VI

Gudmund was hardly out of sight when Helga rushed down the mountain in
another direction. She ran past the marsh without stopping and hurried
over the wooded hills as fast as she could and down the road. She
stopped at the first farmhouse she came to and asked for the loan of a
horse and car to drive to Älvåkra. She said that it was a matter of life
and death and promised to pay for the help. The church folk had already
returned to their homes and were talking of the adjourned wedding. They
were all very much excited and very solicitous and were eager to help
Helga, since she appeared to have an important errand to the home of the
bride.

At Älvåkra Hildur Ericsdotter sat in a little room on the upper floor
where she had dressed as a bride. Her mother and several other peasant
women were with her. Hildur did not weep; she was unusually quiet, and
so pale that she looked as though she might be ill at any moment. The
women talked all the while of Gudmund. All blamed him and seemed to
regard it as a fortunate thing that she was rid of him. Some thought
that Gudmund had shown very little consideration for his parents-in-law
in not letting them know on Palm Sunday how matters stood with him.
Others, again, said that one who had had such happiness awaiting him
should have known how to take better care of himself. A few
congratulated Hildur because she had escaped marrying a man who could
drink himself so full that he did not know what he was doing.

Amid this, Hildur was losing her patience and rose to go out. As soon as
she was outside the door, her best friend, a young peasant girl, came
and whispered something to her. "There is some one below who wants to
speak with you."

"Is it Gudmund?" asked Hildur, and a spark of life came into her eyes.

"No, but it may be a messenger from him. She wouldn't divulge the nature
of her errand to any one but yourself, she declared."

Hildur had been sitting thinking all day that some one must come who
could put an end to her misery. She couldn't comprehend that such a
dreadful misfortune should come to her. She felt that something ought to
happen that she might again don her crown and wreath, so they could
proceed with the wedding. When she heard now of a messenger from
Gudmund, she was interested and immediately went out to the kitchen hall
and looked for her.

Hildur probably wondered why Gudmund had sent Helga to her, but she
thought that perhaps he couldn't find any other messenger on a holiday,
and greeted her pleasantly. She motioned to Helga to come with her into
the dairy across the yard. "I know no other place where we can be
alone," she said. "The house is still full of guests."

As soon as they were inside, Helga went close up to Hildur and looked
her square in the face. "Before I say anything more, I must know if you
love Gudmund."

Hildur winced. It was painful for her to be obliged to exchange a single
word with Helga, and she had no desire to make a confidant of her. But
now it was a case of necessity, and she forced herself to answer, "Why
else do you suppose I wished to marry him?"

"I mean, do you still love him?"

Hildur was like stone, but she could not lie under the other woman's
searching glance. "Perhaps I have never loved him so much as to-day,"
she said, but she said this so feebly that one might think it hurt her
to speak out.

"Then come with me at once!" said Helga. "I have a wagon down the road.
Go in after a cloak or something to wrap around you; then we'll drive to
Närlunda."

"What good would it do for me to go there?" asked Hildur.

"You must go there and say you want to be Gudmund's, no matter what he
may have done, and that you will wait faithfully for him while he is in
prison."

"Why should I say this?"

"So all will be well between you."

"But that is impossible. I don't want to marry any one who has been in
prison!"

Helga staggered back, as though she had bumped against a wall, but she
quickly regained her courage. She could understand that one who was rich
and powerful, like Hildur, must think thus. "I should not come and ask
you to go to Närlunda did I not know that Gudmund was innocent," said
she.

Now it was Hildur who came a step or two towards Helga. "Do you know
this for certain, or is it only something which you imagine?"

"It will be better for us to get into the cart immediately; then I can
talk on the way."

"No, you must first explain what you mean; I must know what I'm doing."

Helga was in such a fever of excitement that she could hardly stand
still; nevertheless she had to make up her mind to tell Hildur how she
happened to know that Gudmund was not the murderer.

"Didn't you tell Gudmund of this at once?"

"No, I'm telling it now to Hildur. No one else knows of it."

"And why do you come to me with this?"

"That all may be well between you two. He will soon learn that he has
done no wrong; but I want you to go to him as if of your own accord, and
make it up."

"Sha'n't I say that I know he is innocent?"

"You must come entirely of your own accord and must never let him know I
have spoken to you; otherwise he will never forgive you for what you
said to him this morning."

Hildur listened quietly. There was something in this which she had never
met with in her life before, and she was striving to make it clear to
herself. "Do you know that it was I who wanted you to leave Närlunda?"

"I know, of course, that it was not the folk at Närlunda who wished me
away."

"I can't comprehend that you should come to me to-day with the desire to
help me."

"Only come along now, Hildur, so all will be well!"

Hildur stared at Helga, trying all the while to reason it out. "Perhaps
Gudmund loves you?" she blurted out.

And now Helga's patience was exhausted. "What could I be to him?" she
said sharply. "You know, Hildur, that I am only a poor croft girl, and
that's not the worst about me!"

The two young women stole unobserved from the homestead and were soon
seated in the cart. Helga held the reins, and she did not spare the
horse, but drove at full speed. Both girls were silent. Hildur sat
gazing at Helga. She marvelled at her and was thinking more of her than
of anything else.

As they were nearing the Erlandsson farm, Helga gave the reins to
Hildur. "Now you must go alone to the house and talk with Gudmund. I'll
follow a little later and tell that about the knife. But you mustn't say
a word to Gudmund about my having brought you here."

Gudmund sat in the living-room at Närlunda beside his mother and talked
with her. His father was sitting a little way from them, smoking. He
looked pleased and said not a word. It was apparent that he thought
everything was going now as it should and that it was not necessary for
him to interfere.

"I wonder, mother, what you would have said if you had got Helga for a
daughter-in-law?" ventured Gudmund.

Mother Ingeborg raised her head and said in a firm voice, "I will with
pleasure welcome any daughter-in-law if I only know that she loves you
as a wife should love her husband."

This was barely spoken when they saw Hildur Ericsdotter drive into the
yard. She came immediately into the cottage and was unlike herself in
many respects. She did not step into the room with her usual briskness,
but it appeared almost as though she were inclined to pause near the
door, like some poor beggarwoman.

However, she came forward finally and shook hands with mother Ingeborg
and Erland. Then she turned to Gudmund: "It is with you that I would
have a word or two."

Gudmund arose, and they went into the side room. He arranged a chair for
Hildur, but she did not seat herself. She blushed with embarrassment,
and the words dropped slowly and heavily from her lips. "I was--yes, it
was much too hard--that which I said to you this morning."

"We came so abruptly, Hildur," said Gudmund.

She grew still more red and embarrassed. "I should have thought twice.
We could--it would of course--"

"It is probably best as it is, Hildur. It is nothing to speak of now,
but it was kind of you to come."

She put her hands to her face, drew a breath as deep as a sigh, then
raised her head again.

"No!" she said, "I can't do it in this way. I don't want you to think
that I'm better than I am. There was some one who came to me and told me
that you were not guilty and advised me to hurry over here at once and
make everything right again. And I was not to mention that I already
knew you were innocent, for then you wouldn't think it so noble of me to
come. Now I want to say to you that I wish I had thought of this myself,
but I hadn't. But I have longed for you all day and wished that all
might be well between us. Whichever way it turns out, I want to say that
I am glad you are innocent."

"Who advised you to do this?" asked Gudmund.

"I was not to tell you that."

"I am surprised that any one should know of it. Father has but just
returned from the Sheriff. He telegraphed to the city, and an answer has
come that the real murderer has already been found."

As Gudmund was relating this, Hildur felt that her legs were beginning
to shake, and she sat down quickly in the chair. She was frightened
because Gudmund was so calm and pleasant, and she was beginning to
perceive that he was wholly out of her power. "I can understand that you
can never forget how I behaved to you this forenoon."

"Surely I can forgive you that," he said in the same even tone. "We will
never speak of the matter again."

She shivered, dropped her eyes, and sat as though she were expecting
something. "It was simply a stroke of good fortune, Hildur," he said,
coming forward and grasping her hand, "that it is over between us, for
to-day it became clear to me that I love another. I think I have been
fond of her for a long time, but I did not know it until to-day."

"Whom do you care for, Gudmund?" came in a colorless voice from Hildur.

"It doesn't matter. I shall not marry her, as she does not care for me,
nor can I marry anyone else."

Hildur raised her head. It was not easy to tell what was taking place in
her. At this moment she felt that she, the rich farmer's daughter, with
all her beauty and all her possessions, was nothing to Gudmund. She was
proud and did not wish to part from him without teaching him that she
had a value of her own, apart from all the external things. "I want you
to tell me, Gudmund, if it is Helga from Big Marsh whom you love."

Gudmund was silent.

"It was she who came to me and taught me what I should do that all might
be well between us. She knew you were innocent, but she did not say so
to you. She let me know it first."

Gudmund looked her steadily in the eyes. "Do you think this means that
she has a great affection for me?"

"You may be sure of it, Gudmund. I can prove it. No one in the world
could love you more than she does."

He walked rapidly across the floor and back, then he stopped suddenly
before Hildur. "And you--why do you tell me this?"

"Surely I do not wish to stand beneath Helga in magnanimity!"

"Oh, Hildur, Hildur!" he cried, placing his hands on her shoulders and
shaking her to give vent to his emotion. "You don't know, oh, you don't
know how much I like you at this moment! You don't know how happy you
have made me!"

Helga sat by the roadside and waited. With her cheek resting on her
hand, she sat and pictured Hildur and Gudmund together and thought how
happy they must be now.

While she sat thus, a servant from Närlunda came along. He stopped when
he saw her. "I suppose you have heard that affair which concerns
Gudmund?"

She had.

"It was not true, fortunately. The real murderer is already in custody."

"I knew it couldn't be true," said Helga.

Thereupon the man went, and Helga sat there alone, as before. So they
knew it already down there! It was not necessary for her to go to
Närlunda and tell of it.

She felt herself so strangely shut out! Earlier in the day she had been
so eager. She had not thought of herself--only that Gudmund and Hildur's
marriage should take place. But now it flashed upon her how alone she
was. And it was hard not to be something to those of whom one is fond.
Gudmund did not need her now, and her own child had been appropriated by
her mother, who would hardly allow her to look at it.

She was thinking that she had better rise and go home, but the hills
appeared long and difficult to her. She didn't know how she should ever
be able to climb them.

A vehicle came along now from the direction of Närlunda. Hildur and
Gudmund were seated in the cart. Now they were probably on their way to
Älvåkra to tell that they were reconciled. To-morrow the wedding would
take place.

When they discovered Helga, they stopped the horse. Gudmund handed the
reins to Hildur and jumped down. Hildur nodded to Helga and drove on.

Gudmund remained standing on the road and facing Helga. "I am glad you
are sitting here, Helga," he said. "I thought that I would have to go up
to Big Marsh to meet you."

He said this abruptly, almost harshly; at the same time he gripped her
hand tightly. And she read in his eyes that he knew now where he had
her. Now she could no more escape from him.




The Silver Mine


King Gustaf the Third was travelling through Dalecarlia. He was pressed
for time, and all the way he wanted to drive like lightning. Although
they drove with such speed that the horses were extended like stretched
rubber bands and the coach cleared the turns on two wheels, the King
poked his head out of the window and shouted to the postilion: "Why
don't you go ahead? Do you think you are driving over eggs?"

Since they had to drive over poor country roads at such a mad pace, it
would have been almost a miracle had the harness and wagon held
together! And they didn't, either; for at the foot of a steep hill the
pole broke--and there the King sat! The courtiers sprang from the coach
and scolded the driver, but this did not lessen the damage done. There
was no possibility of continuing the journey until the coach was mended.

When the courtiers looked round to try and find something with which the
King could amuse himself while he waited, they noticed a church spire
looming high above the trees in a grove a short distance ahead. They
intimated to the King that he might step into one of the coaches in
which the attendants were riding and drive up to the church. It was a
Sunday, and the King might attend service to pass the time until the
royal coach was ready.

The King accepted the proposal and drove toward the church. He had been
travelling for hours through dark forest regions, but here it looked
more cheerful, with fairly large meadows and villages, and with the Dal
River gliding on, light and pretty, between thick rows of alder bushes.

But the King had ill-luck to this extent: the bellringer took up the
recessional chant just as the King was stepping from the coach on the
church knoll and the people were coming out from the service. But when
they came walking past him, the King remained standing, with one foot in
the wagon and the other on the footstep. He did not move from the
spot--only stared at them. They were the finest lot of folk he had ever
seen. All the men were above the average height, with intelligent and
earnest faces, and the women were dignified and stately, with an air of
Sabbath peace about them.

The whole of the preceding day the King had talked only of the desolate
tracts he was passing through, and had said to his courtiers again and
again, "Now I am certainly driving through the very poorest part of my
kingdom!" But now, when he saw the people, garbed in the picturesque
dress of this section of the country, he forgot to think of their
poverty; instead his heart warmed, and he remarked to himself: "The King
of Sweden is not so badly off as his enemies think. So long as my
subjects look like this, I shall probably be able to defend both my
faith and my country."

He commanded the courtiers to make known to the people that the stranger
who was standing amongst them was their King, and that they should
gather around him, so he could talk to them.

And then the King made a speech to the people. He spoke from the high
steps outside the vestry, and the narrow step upon which he stood is
there even to-day.

The King gave an account of the sad plight in which the kingdom was
placed. He said that the Swedes were threatened with war, both by
Russians and Danes. Under ordinary circumstances it wouldn't be such a
serious matter, but now the army was filled with traitors, and he did
not dare depend upon it. Therefore there was no other course for him to
pursue than to go himself into the country settlements and ask his
subjects if they would be loyal to their King and help him with men and
money, so he could save the Fatherland.

The peasants stood quietly while the King was speaking, and when he had
finished they gave no sign either of approval or disapproval.

The King himself thought that he had spoken very well. The tears had
sprung to his eyes several times while he was speaking. But when the
peasants stood there all the while, troubled and undecided, and could
not make up their minds to answer him, the King frowned and looked
displeased.

The peasants understood that it was becoming monotonous for the King to
wait, and finally one of them stepped out from the crowd.

"Now, you must know, King Gustaf, that we were not expecting a royal
visit in the parish to-day," said the peasant, "and therefore we are not
prepared to answer you at once. I advise you to go into the vestry and
speak with our pastor, while we discuss among ourselves this matter
which you have laid before us."

The King apprehended that a more satisfactory response was not to be had
immediately, so he felt that it would be best for him to follow the
peasant's advice.

When he came into the vestry, he found no one there but a man who looked
like a peasant. He was tall and rugged, with big hands, toughened by
labor, and he wore neither cassock nor collar, but leather breeches and
a long white homespun coat, like all the other men.

He arose and bowed to the King when the latter entered.

"I thought I should find the parson in here," said the King.

The man grew somewhat red in the face. He thought it annoying to mention
the fact that he was the parson of this parish, when he saw that the
King had mistaken him for a peasant. "Yes," said he, "the parson is
usually on hand in here."

The King dropped into a large armchair which stood in the vestry at that
time, and which stands there to-day, looking exactly like itself, with
this difference: the congregation has had a gilded crown attached to the
back of it.

"Have you a good parson in this parish?" asked the King, who wanted to
appear interested in the welfare of the peasants.

When the King questioned him in this manner, the parson felt that he
couldn't possibly tell who he was. "It's better to let him go on
believing that I'm only a peasant," thought he, and replied that the
parson was good enough. He preached a pure and clear gospel and tried to
live as he taught.

The King thought that this was a good commendation, but he had a sharp
ear and marked a certain doubt in the tone. "You sound as if you were
not quite satisfied with the parson," said the King.

"He's a bit arbitrary," said the man, thinking that if the King should
find out later who he was, he would not think that the parson had been
standing here and blowing his own horn, therefore he wished to come out
with a little fault-finding also. "There are some, no doubt, who say the
parson wants to be the only one to counsel and rule in this parish," he
continued.

"Then, at all events, he has led and managed in the best possible way,"
said the King. He didn't like it that the peasant complained of one who
was placed above him. "To me it appears as though good habits and
old-time simplicity were the rule here."

"The people are good enough," said the curate, "but then they live in
poverty and isolation. Human beings here would certainly be no better
than others if this world's temptations came closer to them."

"But there's no fear of anything of the sort happening," said the King
with a shrug.

He said nothing further, but began thrumming on the table with his
fingers. He thought he had exchanged a sufficient number of gracious
words with this peasant and wondered when the others would be ready with
their answer.

"These peasants are not very eager to help their King," thought he. "If
I only had my coach, I would drive away from them and their palaver!"

The pastor sat there troubled, debating with himself as to how he should
decide an important matter which he must settle. He was beginning to
feel happy because he had not told the King who he was. Now he felt that
he could speak with him about matters which otherwise he could not have
placed before him.

After a while the parson broke the silence and asked the King if it was
an actual fact that enemies were upon them and that the kingdom was in
danger.

The King thought this man ought to have sense enough not to trouble him
further. He simply glared at him and said nothing.

"I ask because I was standing in here and could not hear very well,"
said the parson. "But if this is really the case, I want to say to you
that the pastor of this congregation might perhaps be able to procure
for the King as much money as he will need."

"I thought you said just now that every one here was poor," said the
King, thinking that the man didn't know what he was talking about.

"Yes, that is true," replied the rector, "and the parson has no more
than any of the others. But if the King would condescend to listen to me
for a moment, I will explain how the pastor happens to have the power to
help him."

"You may speak," said the King. "You seem to find it easier to get the
words past your lips than your friends and neighbors out there, who
never will be ready with what they have to tell me."

"It is not so easy to reply to the King! I'm afraid that, in the end, it
will be the parson who must undertake this on behalf of the others."

The King crossed his legs, folded his arms, and let his head sink down
on his breast. "You may begin now," he said in the tone of one already
asleep.

"Once upon a time there were five men from this parish who were out on a
moose hunt," began the clergyman. "One of them was the parson of whom
we are speaking. Two of the others were soldiers, named Olaf and Eric
Svärd; the fourth man was the innkeeper in this settlement, and the
fifth was a peasant named Israel Per Persson."

"Don't go to the trouble of mentioning so many names," muttered the
King, letting his head droop to one side.

"Those men were good hunters," continued the parson, "who usually had
luck with them; but that day they had wandered long and far without
getting anything. Finally they gave up the hunt altogether and sat down
on the ground to talk. They said there was not a spot in the whole
forest fit for cultivation; all of it was only mountain and swamp land.
'Our Lord has not done right by us in giving us such a poor land to live
in,' said one. 'In other localities people can get riches for themselves
in abundance, but here, with all our toil and drudgery, we can scarcely
get our daily bread.'"

The pastor paused a moment, as if uncertain that the King heard him, but
the latter moved his little finger to show that he was awake.

"Just as the hunters were discussing this matter, the parson saw
something that glittered at the base of the mountain, where he had
kicked away a moss-tuft. 'This is a queer mountain,' he thought, as he
kicked off another moss-tuft. He picked up a shiver of stone that came
with the moss and which shone exactly like the other. 'It can't be
possible that this stuff is lead,' said he. Then the others sprang up
and scraped away the turf with the butt end of their rifles. When they
did this, they saw plainly that a broad vein of ore followed the
mountain. 'What do you think this might be?' asked the parson. The men
chipped off bits of stone and bit into them. 'It must be lead, or zinc
at least,' said they. 'And the whole mountain is full of it,' added the
innkeeper."

When the parson had got thus far in his narrative, the King's head was
seen to straighten up a little and one eye opened. "Do you know if any
of those persons knew anything about ore and minerals?" he asked.

"They did not," replied the parson.

Then the King's head sank and both eyes closed.

"The clergyman and his companions were very happy," continued the
speaker, without letting himself be disturbed by the King's
indifference; "they fancied that now they had found that which would
give them and their descendants wealth. 'I'll never have to do any more
work,' said one. 'Now I can afford to do nothing at all the whole week
through, and on Sundays I shall drive to church in a golden chariot!'
They were otherwise sensible men, but the great find had gone to their
heads and they talked like children. Still they had enough presence of
mind to put back the moss-tufts and conceal the vein of ore. Then they
carefully noted the place where it was, and went home. Before they
parted company, they agreed that the parson should travel to Falun and
ask the mining expert what kind of ore this was. He was to return as
soon as possible, and until then they promised one another on oath not
to reveal to a single soul where the ore was to be found."

The King's head was raised again a trifle, but he did not interrupt the
speaker with a word. It appeared as though he was beginning to believe
that the man actually had something of importance he wished to say to
him, since he didn't allow himself to be disturbed by his indifference.

"Then the parson departed with a few samples of ore in his pocket. He
was just as happy in the thought of becoming rich as the others were. He
was thinking of rebuilding the parsonage, which at present was no better
than a peasant's cottage, and then he would marry a dean's daughter whom
he liked. He had thought that he might have to wait for her many years!
He was poor and obscure and knew that it would be a long while before he
should get any post that would enable him to marry.

"The parson drove over to Falun in two days, and there he had to wait
another whole day because the mining expert was away. Finally, he ran
across him and showed him the bits of ore. The mining expert took them
in his hand. He looked at them first, then at the parson. The parson
related how he had found them in a mountain at home in his parish, and
wondered if it might not be lead.

"'No, it's not lead,' said the mining expert.

"'Perhaps it is zinc, then?' asked the parson.

"'Nor is it zinc,' said the mineralogist.

"The parson thought that all the hope within him sank. He had not been
so depressed in many a long day.

"'Have you many stones like these in your parish?' asked the
mineralogist.

"'We have a whole mountain full,' said the parson.

"Then the mineralogist came up closer, slapped the parson on the
shoulder, and said, 'Let us see that you make such good use of this that
it will prove a blessing both to yourselves and to the country, for this
is silver.'

"'Indeed?' said the parson, feeling his way. 'So it is silver!'

"The mineralogist began telling him how he should go to work to get
legal rights to the mine and gave him many valuable suggestions; but the
parson stood there dazed and didn't listen to what he was saying. He was
only thinking of how wonderful it was that at home in his poor parish
stood a whole mountain of silver ore, waiting for him."

The King raised his head so suddenly that the parson stopped short in
his narrative. "It turned out, of course, that when he got home and
began working the mine, he saw that the mineralogist had only been
fooling him," said the King.

"Oh, no, the mineralogist had not fooled him," said the parson.

"You may continue," said the King, as he settled himself more
comfortably in the chair to listen.

"When the parson was at home again and was driving through the parish,"
continued the clergyman, "he thought that first of all he should inform
his partners of the value of their find. And as he drove alongside the
innkeeper Sten Stensson's place, he intended to drive up to the house to
tell him they had found silver. But when he stopped outside the gate,
he noticed that a broad path of evergreen was strewn all the way up to
the doorstep.

"'Who has died in this place?' asked the parson of a boy who stood
leaning against the fence.

"'The innkeeper himself,' answered the boy. Then he let the clergyman
know that the innkeeper had drunk himself full every day for a week.
'Oh, so much brandy, so much brandy has been drunk here!'

"'How can that be?' asked the parson. 'The innkeeper used never to drink
himself full.'

"'Oh,' said the boy, 'he drank because he said he had found a mine. He
was very rich. He should never have to do anything now but drink, he
said. Last night he drove off, full as he was, and the wagon turned over
and he was killed.'

"When the parson heard this, he drove homeward. He was distressed over
what he had heard. He had come back so happy, rejoicing because he could
tell the great good news.

"When the parson had driven a few paces, he saw Israel Per Persson
walking along. He looked about as usual, and the parson thought it was
well that fortune had not gone to his head too. Him he would cheer at
once with the news that he was a rich man.

"'Good day!' said Per Persson. 'Do you come from Falun now?'

"'I do,' said the parson. 'And now I must tell you that it has turned
out even better than we had imagined. The mineralogist said it was
silver ore that we had found.'

"That instant Per Persson looked as though the ground under him had
opened! 'What are you saying, what are you saying? Is it silver?'

"'Yes,' answered the parson. 'We'll all be rich men now, all of us, and
can live like gentlemen.'

"'Oh, is it silver!' said Per Persson once again, looking more and more
mournful.

"'Why, of course it is silver,' replied the parson. 'You mustn't think
that I want to deceive you. You mustn't be afraid of being happy.'

"'Happy!' said Per Persson. 'Should I be happy? I believed it was only
glitter that we had found, so I thought it would be better to take the
certain for the uncertain: I have sold my share in the mine to Olaf
Svärd for a hundred dollars.' He was desperate, and when the parson
drove away from him, he stood on the highway and wept.

"When the clergyman got back to his home, he sent a servant to Olaf
Svärd and his brother to tell them that it was silver they had found.
He thought that he had had quite enough of driving around and spreading
the good news.

"But in the evening, when the parson sat alone, his joy asserted itself
again. He went out in the darkness and stood on a hillock upon which he
contemplated building the new parsonage. It should be imposing, of
course, as fine as a bishop's palace. He stood out there long that
night; nor did he content himself with rebuilding the parsonage! It
occurred to him that, since there were such riches to be found in the
parish, throngs of people would pour in and, finally, a whole city would
be built around the mine. And then he would have to erect a new church
in place of the old one. Towards this object a large portion of his
wealth would probably go. And he was not content with this, either, but
fancied that when his church was ready, the King and many bishops would
come to the dedication. Then the King would be pleased with the church,
but he would remark that there was no place where a king might put up,
and then he would have to erect a castle in the new city."

Just then one of the King's courtiers opened the door of the vestry and
announced that the big royal coach was mended.

At the first moment the King was ready to withdraw, but on second
thought he changed his mind. "You may tell your story to the end," he
said to the parson. "But you can hurry it a bit. We know all about how
the man thought and dreamed. We want to know how he acted."

"But while the parson was still lost in his dreams," continued the
clergyman, "word came to him that Israel Per Persson had made away with
himself. He had not been able to bear the disappointment of having sold
his share in the mine. He had thought, no doubt, that he could not
endure to go about every day seeing another enjoying the wealth that
might have been his."

The King straightened up a little. He kept both eyes open. "Upon my
word," he said, "if I had been that parson, I should have had enough of
the mine!"

"The King is a rich man," said the parson. "He has quite enough, at all
events. It is not the same thing with a poor curate who possesses
nothing. The unhappy wretch thought instead, when he saw that God's
blessing was not with his enterprise: 'I will dream no more of bringing
glory and profit to myself with these riches; but I can't let the silver
lie buried in the earth! I must take it out, for the benefit of the
poor and needy. I will work the mine, to put the whole parish on its
feet.'

"So one day the parson went out to see Olaf Svärd, to ask him and his
brother as to what should be done immediately with the silver mountain.
When he came in the vicinity of the barracks, he met a cart surrounded
by armed peasants, and in the cart sat a man with his hands tied behind
him and a rope around his ankles.

"When the parson passed by, the cart stopped, and he had time to regard
the prisoner, whose head was tied up so it wasn't easy to see who he
was. But the parson thought he recognized Olaf Svärd. He heard the
prisoner beg those who guarded him to let him speak a few words with the
parson.

"The parson drew nearer, and the prisoner turned toward him. 'You will
soon be the only one who knows where the silver mine is,' said Olaf.

"'What are you saying, Olaf?' asked the parson.

"'Well, you see, parson, since we have learned that it was a silver mine
we had found, my brother and I could no longer be as good friends as
before. We were continually quarrelling. Last night we got into a
controversy over which one of us five it was who first discovered the
mine. It ended in strife between us, and we came to blows. I have killed
my brother and he has left me with a souvenir across the forehead to
remember him by. I must hang now, and then you will be the only one who
knows anything about the mine; therefore I wish to ask something of
you.'

"'Speak out!' said the parson. 'I'll do what I can for you.'

"'You know that l am leaving several little children behind me,' began
the soldier, but the parson interrupted him.

"'As regards this, you can rest easy. That which comes to your share in
the mine, they shall have, exactly as if you yourself were living.'

"'No,' said Olaf Svärd, 'it was another thing I wanted to ask of you.
Don't let them have any portion of that which comes from the mine!'

"The parson staggered back a step. He stood there dumb and could not
answer.

"'If you do not promise me this, I cannot die in peace,' said the
prisoner.

"'Yes,' said the parson slowly and painfully. 'I promise you what you
ask of me.'

"Thereupon the murderer was taken away, and the parson stood on the
highway thinking how he should keep the promise he had given him. On
the way home he thought of the wealth which he had been so happy over.
But if it really were true that the people in this community could not
stand riches?--Already four were ruined, who hitherto had been dignified
and excellent men. He seemed to see the whole community before him, and
he pictured to himself how this silver mine would destroy one after
another. Was it befitting that he, who had been appointed to watch over
these poor human beings' souls, should let loose upon them that which
would be their destruction?"

All of a sudden the King sat bolt upright in his chair. "I declare!"
said he, "you'll make me understand that a parson in this isolated
settlement must be every inch a man."

"Nor was it enough with what had already happened," continued the
parson, "for as soon as the news about the mine spread among the
parishioners, they stopped working and went about in idleness, waiting
for the time when great riches should pour in on them. All the
ne'er-do-wells there were in this section streamed in, and drunkenness
and fighting were what the parson heard talked of continually. A lot of
people did nothing but tramp round in the forest searching for the mine,
and the parson marked that as soon as he left the house people followed
him stealthily to find out if he wasn't going to the silver mountain and
to steal the secret from him.

"When matters were come to this pass, the parson called the peasants
together to vote. To start with, he reminded them of all the misfortunes
which the discovery of the mountain had brought upon them, and he asked
them if they were going to let themselves be ruined or if they would
save themselves. Then he told them that they must not expect him, who
was their spiritual adviser, to help on their destruction. Now he had
decided not to reveal to any one where the silver mine was, and never
would he himself take riches from it. And then he asked the peasants how
they would have it henceforth. If they wished to continue their search
for the mine and wait upon riches, then he would go so far away that not
a hearsay of their misery could reach him; but if they would give up
thinking about the silver mine and be as heretofore, he would remain
with them. 'Whichever way you may choose,' said the parson, 'remember
this, that from me no one shall ever know anything about the silver
mountain!'"

"Well," said the King, "how did they decide?"

"They did as their pastor wished," said the parson. "They understood
that he meant well by them when he wanted to remain poor for their
sakes. And they commissioned him to go to the forest and conceal the
vein of ore with evergreen and stone, so that no one would be able to
find it--neither they themselves nor their posterity."

"And ever since the parson has been living here just as poor as the
rest?"

"Yes," answered the curate, "he has lived here just as poor as the
rest."

"He has married, of course, and built himself a new parsonage?" said the
King.

"No, he couldn't afford to marry, and he lives in the old cabin."

"It's a pretty story that you have told me," said the King. After a few
seconds he resumed: "Was it of the silver mountain that you were
thinking when you said that the parson here would be able to procure for
me as much money as I need?"

"Yes," said the other.

"But I can't put the thumb-screws on him," said the King. "Or how would
you that I should get such a man to show me the mountain--a man who has
renounced his sweetheart and all the allurements of life?"

"Oh, that's a different matter," said the parson. "But if it's the
Fatherland that is in need of the fortune, he will probably give in."

"Will you answer for that?" asked the King.

"Yes, that I will answer for," said the clergyman.

"Doesn't he care, then, what becomes of his parishioners?"

"That can rest in God's hand."

The King rose from the chair and walked over to the window. He stood for
a moment and looked upon the group of people outside. The longer he
looked, the clearer his large eyes shone, and his figure seemed to grow.
"You may greet the pastor of this congregation, and say that for
Sweden's King there is no sight more beautiful than to see a people such
as this!"

Then the King turned from the window and looked at the clergyman. He
began to smile. "Is it true that the pastor of this parish is so poor
that he removes his black clothes as soon as the service is over and
dresses himself like a peasant?" asked the King.

"Yes, so poor is he," said the curate, and a crimson flush leaped into
his rough-hewn face.

The King went back to the window. One could see that he was in his best
mood. All that was noble and great within him had been quickened into
life. "You must let that mine lie in peace," said the King. "Inasmuch
as you have labored and starved a lifetime to make this people such as
you would have it, you may keep it as it is."

"But if the kingdom is in danger?" said the parson.

"The kingdom is better served with men than with money," remarked the
King. When he had said this, he bade the clergyman farewell and went out
from the vestry.

Without stood the group of people, as quiet and taciturn as they were
when he went in. As the King came down the steps, a peasant stepped up
to him.

"Have you had a talk with our pastor?" said the peasant.

"Yes," said the King. "I have talked with him."

"Then of course you have our answer?" said the peasant. "We asked you to
go in and talk with our parson, that he might give you an answer from
us."

"I have the answer," said the King.




The Airship


Father and the boys are seated one rainy October evening in a
third-class railway coach on their way to Stockholm. The father is
sitting by himself on one bench, and the boys sit close together
directly opposite him, reading a Jules Verne romance entitled "Six Weeks
in a Balloon." The book is much worn. The boys know it almost by heart
and have held endless discussions on it, but they always read it with
the same pleasure. They have forgotten everything else to follow the
daring sailors of the air all over Africa, and seldom raise their eyes
from the book to glance at the Swedish towns they are travelling
through.

The boys are very like each other. They are the same height, are dressed
alike, with blue caps and gray overcoats, and both have large dreamy
eyes and little pug noses. They are always good friends, always
together, do not bother with other children, and are forever talking
about inventions and exploring expeditions. In point of talent they are
quite unlike. Lennart, the elder, who is thirteen, is backward in his
studies at the High School and can hardly keep up with his class in any
theme. To make up for this, he is very handy and enterprising. He is
going to be an inventor and works all the time on a flying-machine which
he is constructing. Hugo is a year younger than Lennart, but he is
quicker at study and is already in the same grade as his brother. He
doesn't find studying any special fun, either; but, on the other hand,
he is a great sportsman--a ski-runner, a cyclist, and a skater. He
intends to start out on voyages of discovery when he is grown up. As
soon as Lennart's airship is ready, Hugo is going to travel in it in
order to explore what is still left of this globe to be discovered.

Their father is a tall thin man with a sunken chest, a haggard face, and
pretty, slender hands. He is carelessly dressed. His shirt bosom is
wrinkled and the coat band pokes up at the neck; his vest is buttoned
wrongly and his socks sag down over his shoes. He wears his hair so long
at the neck that it hangs on his coat collar. This is due not to
carelessness, but to habit and taste.

The father is a descendant of an old musical family from far back in a
rural district, and he has brought with him into the world two strong
inclinations, one of which is a great musical talent; and it was this
that first came into the light. He was graduated from the Academy in
Stockholm and then studied a few years abroad, and during these study
years made such brilliant progress that both he and his teacher thought
he would some day be a great and world-renowned violinist. He certainly
had talent enough to reach the goal, but he lacked grit and
perseverance. He couldn't fight his way to any sort of standing out in
the world, but soon came home again and accepted a situation as organist
in a country town. At the start he felt ashamed because he had not lived
up to the expectations of every one, but he felt, also, that it was good
to have an assured income and not be forced to depend any longer upon
the charity of others.

Shortly after he had got the appointment, he married, and a few years
later he was perfectly satisfied with his lot. He had a pretty little
home, a cheerful and contented wife, and two little boys. He was the
town favorite, feted, and in great demand everywhere. But then there
came a time when all this did not seem to satisfy him. He longed to go
out in the world once more and try his luck; but he felt bound down at
home because he had a wife and children.

More than all, it was the wife who had persuaded him to give up this
journey. She had not believed that he would succeed any better now than
before. She felt they were so happy that there was no need for him to
strive after anything else. Unquestionably she made a mistake in this
instance, but she also lived to regret it bitterly, for, from that time
on, the other family trait showed itself. When his yearning for success
and fame was not satisfied, he tried to console himself with drinking.

Now it turned out with him, as was usual with folk of his family--he
drank inordinately. By degrees he became an entirely different person.
He was no longer charming or lovable, but harsh and cruel; and the
greatest misfortune of all was that he conceived a terrible hatred for
his wife and tortured her in every conceivable way, both when he was
drunk and when he wasn't.

So the boys did not have a good home, and their childhood would have
been very unhappy had they not been able to create for themselves a
little world of their own, filled with machine models, exploring
schemes, and books of adventure. The only one who has ever caught a
glimpse of this world is the mother. The father hasn't even a suspicion
of its existence, nor can he talk with the boys about anything that
interests them. He disturbs them, time and again, by asking if they
don't think it will be fun to see Stockholm; if they are not glad to be
out travelling with father, and other things in that way, to which the
boys give brief replies, in order that they may immediately bury
themselves in the book again. Nevertheless the father continues to
question the boys. He thinks they are charmed with his affability,
although they are too bashful to show it.

"They have been too long under petticoat rule," he thinks. "They have
become timid and namby-pamby. There will be some go in them now, when I
take them in hand."

Father is mistaken. It is not because the boys are bashful that they
answer him so briefly; it simply shows that they are well brought up and
do not wish to hurt his feelings. If they were not polite, they would
answer him in a very different manner. "Why should we think it fun to be
travelling with father?" they would then say. "Father must think himself
something wonderful, but we know, of course, that he is only a poor
wreck of a man. And why should we be glad to see Stockholm? We
understand very well that it is not for our sakes that father has taken
us along, but only to make mother unhappy!"

It would be wiser, no doubt, if the father were to let the boys read
without interrupting them. They are sad and apprehensive, and it
irritates them to see him in a good humor. "It is only because he knows
that mother is sitting at home crying that he is so happy to-day," they
whisper to each other.

Father's questions finally bring matters to this pass: the boys read no
more, although they continue to sit bent over the book. Instead, their
thoughts begin in bitterness to embrace all that they have had to endure
on their father's account.

They remember the time when he drank himself full in the morning and
came staggering up the street, with a crowd of school boys after him,
who poked fun at him. They recall how the other boys teased them and
gave them nicknames because they had a father who drank.

They have been put to shame for their father. They have been forced to
live in a state of constant anxiety for his sake, and as soon as they
were having any enjoyment, he always came and spoiled their fun. It is
no small register of sins that they are setting down against him! The
boys are very meek and patient, but they feel a greater and greater
wrath springing up in them.

He should at least understand that, as yet, they cannot forgive him for
the great wrong he did them yesterday. This was by far the worst wrong
he had ever done them.

It seems that, last year, mother and the boys decided to part from
father. For a number of years he had been persecuting and torturing her
in every possible way, but she was loath to part from him and remained,
so that he wouldn't go altogether to rack and ruin. But now, at last,
she wanted to do it for the sake of her boys. She had noticed that their
father made them unhappy, and realized that she must take them away from
this misery and provide them with a good and peaceable home.

When the spring school-term was over, she sent them to her parents in
the country, and she herself went abroad in order to obtain a divorce in
the easiest way possible. She regretted that, by going about it in this
way, it would appear as though it were her fault that the marriage was
dissolved; but that she must submit to. She was even less pleased when
the courts turned the boys over to the father because she was a run-away
wife. She consoled herself with the thought that he couldn't possibly
wish to keep the children; but she had felt quite ill at ease.

As soon as the divorce was settled, she came back and took a small
apartment where she and the boys were to live. In two days she had
everything in readiness, so that they could come home to her.

It was the happiest day the boys had experienced. The entire apartment
consisted of one large living-room and a big kitchen, but everything was
new and pretty, and mother had arranged the place so cosily. The big
room she and they were to use daytimes as a work-room, and nights they
were to sleep there. The kitchen was light and comfortable. There they
would eat, and in a little closet off the kitchen mother had her bed.

She had told them that they would be very poor. She had secured a place
as singing-teacher at the girls' school, and this was all they had to
live upon. They couldn't afford to keep a servant, but must get along
all by themselves. The boys were in ecstasies over everything--most of
all, because they might help along. They volunteered to carry water and
wood. They were to brush their own shoes and make their own beds. It was
only fun to think up all that they were going to do!

There was a little wardrobe, in which Lennart was to keep all his
mechanical apparatus. He was to have the key himself, and no one but
Hugo and he should ever go in there.

But the boys were allowed to be happy with their mother only for a
single day. Afterwards their father spoiled their pleasure, as he had
always done as far back as they could remember. Mother told them she had
heard that their father had received a legacy of a few thousand kronor,
and that he had resigned from his position as organist and was going to
move to Stockholm. Both they and mother were glad that he was leaving
town, so they would escape meeting him on the streets. And then a friend
of father's had called on mother to tell her that father wanted to take
the boys with him to Stockholm.

Mother had wept and begged that she might keep her boys, but father's
messenger had answered her that her husband was determined to have the
boys under his guardianship. If they did not come willingly, he would
let the police fetch them. He bade mother read through the divorce
papers, and there it said plainly that the boys would belong to their
father. This, of course, she already knew. It was not to be gainsaid.

Father's friend had said many nice things of father and had told her of
how much he loved his sons, and for this reason he wanted them to be
with him. But the boys knew that father was taking them away solely for
the purpose of torturing mother. She would have to live in a state of
continual anxiety for them. The whole thing was nothing but malice and
revenge!

But father had his own way, and here they were now, on their way to
Stockholm. And right opposite them their father sits, rejoicing in the
thought that he has made their mother unhappy. With every second that
passes, the thought of having to live with father becomes more
repellent. Are they then wholly in his power? Will there be no help for
this?

Father leans back in his seat, and after a bit he falls asleep.
Immediately the boys begin whispering to each other very earnestly. It
isn't difficult for them to come to a decision. The whole day they have
been sitting there thinking that they ought to run away. They conclude
to steal out on the platform and to jump from the train when it goes
through a big forest. Then they will build them a hut in the most
secluded spot in the forest, and live all by themselves and never show
themselves to a human being.

While the boys are laying their plans, the train stops at a station, and
a peasant woman, leading a little boy by the hand, comes into the coupé.
She is dressed in black, with a shawl on her head, and has a kind and
friendly appearance. She removes the little one's overcoat, which is wet
from the rain, and wraps a shawl around him. Then she takes off his
shoes and stockings, dries his little cold feet, takes from a bundle dry
shoes and stockings and puts them on him. Then she gives him a stick of
candy and lays him down on the seat with his head resting on her lap,
that he might sleep.

First one boy, then the other casts a glance over at the peasant woman.
These glances become more frequent, and suddenly the eyes of both boys
fill with tears. Then they look up no more, but keep their eyes
obstinately lowered.

It seems that when the peasant woman entered some one else--some one who
was invisible and imperceptible to all save the boys--came into the
coupé. The boys fancied that she came and sat down between them and took
their hands in hers, as she had done late last night, when it was
settled that they must leave her; and she was talking to them now as she
did then. "You must promise me that you will not be angry with father
for my sake. Father has never been able to forgive me for preventing him
from going abroad. He thinks it is my fault that he has never amounted
to anything and that he drinks. He can never punish me enough. But you
mustn't be angry at him on that account. Now, when you are to live with
father, you must promise me that you will be kind to him. You mustn't
quarrel with him and you are to look after his needs as well as you can.
This you must promise me, otherwise I don't know how I can ever let you
go." And the boys promised. "You mustn't run away from father, promise
me that!" mother had said. That they had also promised.

The boys are as good as their word, and the instant they happen to think
that they had given mother these promises, they abandon all thought of
flight. Father sleeps all the while and they remain patiently in their
places. Then they resume their reading with redoubled zeal, and their
friend, the good Jules Verne, soon takes them away from many heavy
sorrows to Africa's happy wonder world.

Far out on the south side of the city, father has rented two rooms and a
kitchen on the ground floor, with an entrance from the court and an
outlook over a narrow yard. The apartment has long been in use; it has
gone from family to family, without ever having been renovated. The wall
paper is full of tears and spots; the ceilings are sooty; a couple of
window-panes are cracked, and the kitchen floor is so worn that it is
full of ruts. Expressmen have brought the furniture cases from the
railway station and have left them there, helter skelter. Father and the
boys are now unpacking. Father stands with axe raised to hack open a
box. The boys are taking out glass and porcelain ware from another box,
and are arranging them in a wall cupboard. They are handy and work
eagerly, but the father never stops cautioning them to be careful, and
forbids their carrying more than one glass or plate at a time. Meanwhile
it goes slowly with father's own work. His hands are fumbly and
powerless, and he works himself into a sweat without getting the lock
off the box. He lays down the axe, walks around the box, and wonders if
it's the bottom that is uppermost. Then one of the boys takes hold of
the axe and begins to bend the lock, but father pushes him aside. "That
lock is nailed down too hard. Surely you don't imagine that you can
force the lock when father couldn't do it? Only a regular workman can
open that box," says father, putting on his hat and coat to go and fetch
the janitor.

Father is hardly outside the door when an idea strikes him. Instantly he
understands why he has no strength in his hands. It is still quite early
in the morning and he has not consumed anything which could set the
blood in motion. If he were to step into a café and have a cognac, he
would get back his strength and could manage without help. This is
better than calling the janitor.

Then father goes into the street to try and hunt up a café. When he
returns to the little apartment on the court, it is eight o'clock in the
evening.

In father's youth, when he attended the Academy, he had lived at the
south end of the city. He was then a member of a double quartette,
mostly made up of choristers and petty tradesmen, who used to meet in a
cellar near Mosebacke. Father had taken a notion to go and see if the
little cellar was still there. It was, in fact, and father had the luck
to run across a pair of old comrades who were seated there having their
breakfast. They had received him with the greatest delight, had invited
him to breakfast, and had celebrated his advent in Stockholm in the
friendliest way possible. When the breakfast was over, finally, father
wanted to go home and unpack his furniture, but his friends persuaded
him to remain and take dinner with them. This function was so long drawn
out that he hadn't been able to go home until around eight o'clock. And
it had cost him more than a slight effort to tear himself away from the
lively place that early.

When father comes home, the boys are in the dark, for they have no
matches. Father has a match in his pocket, and when he has lighted a
little stump of a candle, which luckily had come along with their
furnishings, he sees that the boys are hot and dusty, but well and happy
and apparently very well pleased with their day.

In the rooms the furniture is arranged alongside the walls, the boxes
have been removed and straw and papers have been swept away. Hugo is
just turning down the boys' beds in the outer room. The inner room is to
be father's bedroom, and there stands his bed, turned down with as great
care as he could possibly wish.

Now a sudden revulsion of feeling possesses him. When he came home, he
was displeased with himself because he had gone away from his work and
had left the boys without food; but now, when he sees that they are in
good spirits and not in any distress, he regrets that, for their sakes,
he should have left his friends; and he becomes irritable and
quarrelsome.

He sees, no doubt, that the boys are proud of all the work they have
accomplished and expect him to praise them; but this he is not at all
inclined to do. Instead, he asks who has been here and helped them, and
begs them to remember that here in Stockholm one gets nothing without
money, and that the janitor must be paid for all he does. The boys
answer that they have had no assistance and have got on by themselves.
But father continues to grumble. It was wrong of them to open the big
box. They might have hurt themselves on it. Had he not forbidden them to
open it? Now they would have to obey him. He is the one who must answer
for their welfare.

He takes the candle, goes out into the kitchen, and peeps into the
cupboards. The scanty supply of glass and porcelain is arranged on the
shelves in an orderly manner. He scrutinizes everything very carefully
to find an excuse for further complaint.

All of a sudden he catches sight of some leavings from the boys' supper,
and begins immediately to grumble because they have had chicken. Where
did they get it from? Do they think of living like princes? Is it his
money they are throwing away on chicken? Then he remembers that he had
not left them any money. He wonders if they have stolen the chicken and
becomes perturbed. He preaches and admonishes, scolds and fusses, but
now he gets no response from the boys. They do not bother themselves
about telling him where they got the chicken, but let him go on. He
makes long speeches and exhausts his forces. Finally he begs and
implores.

"I beseech you to tell me the truth. I will forgive you, no matter what
you have done, if you will only tell me the truth!"

Now the boys can hold in no longer. Father hears a spluttering sound.
They throw off the quilts and sit up, and he notices that they are
purple in the face from suppressed laughter. And as they can laugh now
without restraint, Lennart says between the paroxysms, "Mother put a
chicken in the food sack which she gave us when we left home."

Father, draws himself up, looks at the boys, wants to speak, but finds
no suitable words. He becomes even more majestic in his bearing, looks
with withering scorn at them, and goes to his room without further
parley.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has dawned upon father how handy the boys are, and he makes use of
this fact to escape hiring servants. Mornings he sends Lennart into the
kitchen to make coffee and lets Hugo lay the breakfast-table and fetch
bread from the baker's. After breakfast he sits down on a chair and
watches how the boys make up the beds, sweep the floors, and build a
fire in the grate. He gives endless orders and sends them from one task
to another, only to show his authority. When the morning chores are
over, he goes out and remains away all the forenoon. The dinner he lets
them fetch from a cooking-school in the neighborhood. After dinner he
leaves the boys for the evening, and exacts nothing more of them than
that his bed shall be turned down when he comes home.

The boys are practically alone almost the entire day and can busy
themselves in any way they choose.

One of their most important tasks is to write to their mother. They get
letters from her every day, and she sends them paper and postage, so
that they can answer her. Mother's letters are mostly admonitions that
they shall be good to their father. She writes constantly of how lovable
father was when she first knew him, of how industrious and thrifty he
was at the beginning of his career. They must be tender and kind to him.
They must never forget how unhappy he is. "If you are very good to
father, perhaps he may feel sorry for you and let you come home to me."

Mother tells them that she has called to see the dean and the
burgomaster to ask if it were not possible to get back the boys. Both of
them had replied that there was no help for her. The boys would have to
stay with their father. Mother wants to move to Stockholm that she may
see her boys once in a while, at least, but every one advises her to
have patience and abide her time. They think father will soon tire of
the boys and send them home. Mother doesn't quite know what she should
do. On the one hand she thinks it dreadful that the boys are living in
Stockholm with no one to look after them, and on the other hand she
knows that if she were to leave her home and her work, she could not
take them and support them, even if they were freed. But for Christmas,
at all events, mother is coming to Stockholm to look after them.

The boys write and tell her what they do all day, hour by hour. They let
mother know that they cook for father and make his bed. She apprehends
that they are trying to be kind to him for her sake, but she probably
perceives that they like him no better now than formerly.

Her little boys appear to be always alone. They live in a large city,
where there are lots of people, but no one asks after them. And perhaps
it is better thus. Who can tell what might happen to them were they to
make any acquaintances?

They always beg of her not to be uneasy about them. They tell how they
darn their stockings and sew on their buttons. They also intimate that
Lennart has made great headway with his invention and say that when this
is finished all will be well.

Mother lives in a state of continual fear. Night and day her thoughts
are with her boys. Night and day she prays God to watch over her little
sons, who live alone in a great city, with no one to shield them from
the temptations of the destroyer, and to keep their young hearts from
the desire for evil.

       *       *       *       *       *

Father and the boys are sitting one morning at the Opera. One of
father's old comrades, who is with the Royal Orchestra, has invited him
to be present at a symphony rehearsal, and father has taken the boys
along. When the orchestra strikes up and the auditorium is filled with
tone, father is so affected that he can't control himself, and begins to
weep. He sobs and blows his nose and moans aloud, time and again. He
puts no restraint upon his feelings, but makes such a noise that the
musicians are disturbed. A guard comes along and beckons him away, and
father takes the boys by the hand and slinks out without a word of
protest. All the way home his tears continue to flow.

Father is walking on, with a boy on each side, and he has kept their
hands in his all the while. Suddenly the boys start crying. They
understand now for the first time how much father has loved his art. It
was painful for him to sit there, besotten and broken, and listen to
others playing. They feel sorry for him who had never become what he
might have been. It was with father as it might be with Lennart were he
never to finish his flying-machine, or with Hugo if he were not to make
any voyages of discovery. Think if they should one day sit like old
good-for-nothings and see fine airships sailing over their heads which
they had not invented and were not allowed to pilot!

       *       *       *       *       *

The boys were sitting one morning on opposite sides of the
writing-table. Father had taken a music roll under his arm and gone out.
He had mumbled something about giving a music lesson, but the boys had
not for a moment been tempted into believing this true.

Father is in an ugly mood as he walks up the street. He noticed the look
the boys exchanged when he said that he was going to a music lesson.
"They are setting themselves up as judges of their father," he thinks.
"I am too indulgent toward them. I should have given them each a sound
box on the ear. It's their mother, I dare say, who is setting them
against me. Suppose I were to keep an eye on the fine gentlemen?" he
continues. "It would do no harm to find out how they attend to their
lessons."

He turns back, walks quietly across the court, opens the door very
softly, and stands in the boys' room without either of them having heard
him coming. The boys jump up, red in the face, and Lennart quickly
snatches a bundle of papers which he throws into the table drawer.

When the boys had been in Stockholm a day or two, they had asked which
school they were to attend, and the father had replied that their
school-going days were over now. He would try and procure a private
tutor who would teach them. This proposition he had never carried into
effect, nor had the boys said anything more about going to school. But
in less than a week a school chart was discovered hanging on the wall in
the boys' room. The school books had been brought forth, and every
morning they sat on opposite sides of an old writing-table and studied
their lessons aloud. It was evident that they had received letters from
their mother counselling them to try and study, so as not to forget
entirely what they had learned.

Now, as father unexpectedly comes into the room, he goes up to the chart
first and studies it. He takes out his watch and compares. "Wednesday,
between ten and eleven, Geography." Then he comes up to the table.
"Shouldn't you have geography at this hour?"

"Yes," the boys reply, growing flame-red in the face.

"Have you the geography and the map?"

The boys glance over at the book shelf and look confused. "We haven't
begun yet," says Lennart.

"Indeed!" says father. "You must have been up to something else." He
straightens up, thoroughly pleased with himself. He has an advantage,
which he doesn't care to let go until he has browbeaten them very
effectually.

Both boys are silent. Ever since the day they accompanied father to the
Opera, they have felt sympathy for him, and it has not been such an
effort for them to be kind to him as it was before. But, naturally, they
haven't for a moment thought of taking father into their confidence. He
has not risen in their estimation although they are sorry for him.

"Were you writing letters?" father asks in his severest tone.

"No," say both boys at the same time.

"What were you doing?"

"Oh, just talking."

"That isn't true. I saw that Lennart hid something in the drawer of the
table."

Now both boys are mum again.

"Take it out!" shouts the father, purple with rage. He thinks the sons
have written to his wife, and, since they don't care to show the letter,
of course there is something mean about him in it.

The boys do not stir, and father raises his hand to strike Lennart, who
is sitting before the table drawer.

"Don't touch him!" cries Hugo. "We were only talking over something
which Lennart has invented."

Hugo pushes Lennart aside, opens the drawer, and pulls out the paper,
which is scrawled full of airships of the most extraordinary shapes.
"Last night Lennart thought out a new kind of sail for his airship. It
was of this we were speaking."

Father wouldn't believe him. He bends over, searches in the drawer, but
finds only sheets of paper covered with drawings of balloons,
parachutes, flying-machines, and everything else appertaining to
air-sailing.

To the great surprise of the boys, father does not cast this aside at
once, nor does he laugh at their attempts, but examines closely sheet
after sheet. As a matter of fact, father, too, has a little leaning
toward mechanics, and was interested in things of this sort in days gone
by, when his brain was still good for something. Soon he begins to ask
questions as to the meaning of one thing and another, and inasmuch as
his words betray that he is deeply interested and understands what he
sees, Lennart fights his bashfulness, and answers him, hesitatingly at
first and then more willingly.

Soon father and boys are absorbed in a profound discussion about
airships and air-sailing. After they are fairly well started, the boys
chatter unreservedly and give father a share in their plans and dreams
of greatness. And while the father comprehends, of course, that the boys
cannot fly very far with the airship which they have constructed, he is
very much impressed. His little sons talk of aluminum motors,
aeroplanes, and balancers, as though they were the simplest things in
the world. He had thought them regular blockheads because they didn't
get on very fast at school. Now, all at once, he believes they are a
pair of little scientists.

The high-soaring thoughts and aspirations father understands better than
anything else; he cognizes them. He himself has dreamed in the same
way, and he has no desire to laugh at such dreams.

Father doesn't go out again that morning, but sits and chats with the
boys until it is time to fetch the food for dinner and set the table.
And at that meal father and the boys are real good friends, to their
great and mutual astonishment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The hour is eleven at night, and father is staggering up the street. The
little boys are walking on either side of him, and he holds their hands
tightly clasped in his all the while.

They have sought him out in one of his haunts, where they have stationed
themselves just inside the door. Father sits by himself at a table with
a big brown toddy in front of him, and listens to a ladies' orchestra
which is playing at the other end of the hall. After a moment's
hesitancy he rises reluctantly and goes over to the boys. "What is it?"
he asks. "Why do you come here?"

"Father was to come home," they say. "This is the fifth of December.
Father promised--"

Then he remembers that Lennart had confided to him that it was Hugo's
birthday and that he had promised him to come home early. But this he
had entirely forgotten. Hugo was probably expecting a birthday present
from him, but he had not remembered to get him one.

At any rate, he has gone with the boys and is walking along, displeased
with them and with himself. When he comes home, the birthday table is
laid. The boys had wished to give a little party. Lennart had creamed
some pancakes, which are now a few hours old and look like pieces of
leather. They had received a little money from their mother, and with
this they had bought nuts, raisins, and a bottle of soda-water.

This fine feast they did not care to enjoy all by themselves, and they
had been sitting and waiting for father to come home and share it with
them. Now, since they and father have become friends, they cannot
celebrate such a big event without him. Father understands it all, and
the thought of being missed flatters him and puts him in a fairly good
humor. Half full as he is, he plumps himself down at the table. Just as
he is about to take his place he stumbles, clutches at the table-cloth,
falls, and draws down on the floor everything on the table. As he raises
himself, he sees how the soda flows out over the floor and pickles and
pancakes are strewn about among bits of porcelain and broken glass.

Father glances at the boys' long faces, rips out an oath, and makes a
rush for the door, and he doesn't come back home until on towards
morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

One morning in February, the boys are coming up the street with their
skates dangling from their shoulders. They are not quite like
themselves. They have grown thin and pale and look untidy and uncared
for. Their hair is uncut; they are not well washed and they have holes
in both stockings and shoes. When they address each other, they use a
lot of street-boy expressions, and one and another oath escapes from
their lips.

A change has taken place in the boys. It had its beginning on the
evening when their father forgot to come home to help celebrate Hugo's
birthday. It was as if until that time they had been kept up by the hope
that soon their father would be a changed man.

At first they had counted on his tiring of them and sending them home.
Later, they had fancied that he would become fond of them and give up
drinking for their sakes, and they had even imagined that mother and he
might become reconciled and that all of them would be happy. But it
dawned upon them that night that father was impossible. He could love
nothing but drink. Even if he were kind to them for a little while, he
didn't really care for them.

A heavy hopelessness fell upon the boys; nothing would ever be changed
for them. They should never get away from father. They felt as though
they were doomed to sit shut in a dark prison all their lives. Not even
their great plans for the future could comfort them. In the way that
they were bound down, these plans could never be carried out. Only
think, they were not learning anything! They knew enough of the
histories of great men to know that he who wants to accomplish anything
noteworthy must first of all have knowledge.

Still the hardest blow was that mother did not come to them at
Christmas. In the beginning of December she had fallen down stairs and
broken her leg, and was forced to lie in a hospital during the Christmas
holidays, therefore she could not come to Stockholm. Now that mother was
up, her school had begun again. Apart from this, she had no money with
which to travel. The little that she had saved was spent while she lay
ill.

The boys felt themselves deserted by the whole world. It was obvious
that it never would be any better for them, no matter how good they
were! So, gradually, they ceased to exert themselves with the sort of
things that were tiresome. They might just as well do that which amused
them.

The boys began to shirk their morning studies. No one heard their
lessons, so what was the use of their studying? There had been good
skating for a couple of days and they might as well play truant all day.
On the ice there were always throngs of boys, and they had made the
acquaintance of a number who also preferred skating to being shut in the
house with their books.

It has turned out to be such a fine day that it is impossible to think
of staying indoors. The weather is so clear and sunny that the school
children have been granted skating leave. The whole street is filled
with children, who have been home to get their skates and are now
hurrying down to the ice.

The boys, as they move among the other children, appear solemn and
low-spirited. Not a smile lights up their faces. Their misfortune is so
heavy that they cannot forget it for a second.

When they come down on the ice, it is full of life and movement. All
along the edges it is bordered with a tight mass of people; farther
out, the skaters circle around one another, like gnats, and still
farther out, solitary black specks that float along at lightning speed
are seen.

The boys buckle on their skates and join the other skaters. They skate
very well, and as they glide out on the ice, full speed, they get color
in their cheeks and their eyes sparkle, but not for a moment do they
appear happy, like other children.

All of a sudden, as they are making a turn toward land, they catch sight
of something very pretty. A big balloon comes from the direction of
Stockholm and is sailing out toward Salt Lake. It is striped in reds and
yellows, and when the sun strikes it it glitters like a ball of fire.
The basket is decorated with many-hued flags, and as the balloon does
not fly very high the bright color-play can be seen quite plainly.

When the boys spy the balloon, they send up a shriek of delight. It is
the first time in their lives that they have seen a big balloon sailing
through the air. All the dreams and plans which have been their
consolation and joy during the many trying days come back to them when
they see it. They stand still that they may observe how the ropes and
lines are fastened; and they take note of the anchor and the sand bags
on the edge of the car.

The balloon moves with good speed over the ice-bound fiord. All the
skaters, big and little, dart around one another, laughing and hooting
at it when it first comes into sight, and then they bound after it. They
follow it out to sea, in a long swaying line, like a drag line. The
air-sailors amuse themselves by scattering handfuls of paper strips in a
variety of colors, which come circling down slowly through the blue air.

The boys are foremost in the long line that is chasing after the
balloon. They hurry forward, with heads thrown back, and gaze steadily
turned upward. Their eyes dance with delight for the first time since
they parted from their mother. They are beside themselves with
excitement over the airship and think of nothing else than to follow it
as long as possible.

But the balloon moves ahead rapidly, and one has to be a good skater not
to be left behind. The crowd chasing after it thins down, but in the
lead of those who keep up the pursuit the two little boys are seen.
Afterwards people said there was something strange about them. They
neither laughed nor shouted, but on their upturned faces there was a
look of transport--as though they had seen a heavenly vision.

The balloon also affects the boys like a celestial guide, who has come
to lead them back to the right path and teach them how to go forward
with renewed courage. When the boys see it, their hearts bound with
longing to begin work again on the great invention. Once more they feel
confident and happy. If only they are patient, they'll probably work
their way toward success. A day will surely come when they can step into
their own airship and soar aloft in space. Some day _they_ will be the
ones who travel up there, far above the people, and _their_ airship will
be more perfect than the one they now see. Theirs shall be an airship
that can be steered and turned, lowered and raised, sail against wind
and without wind. It shall carry them by day and by night, wherever they
may wish to travel. They shall descend to the highest mountain peaks,
travel over the dreariest deserts, and explore the most inaccessible
regions. They shall behold all the glories of the world.

"It isn't worth while to lose heart, Hugo," says Lennart. "We'll have a
fine time if we can only finish it!"

Father and his ill-luck are things which do not concern them any more.
One who has something as great to strive for as they have cannot let
himself be hindered by anything so pitiable!

The balloon gains in speed the farther out it comes. The skaters have
ceased following it. The only ones who continue the chase are the two
little boys. They move ahead as swiftly and lightly as if their feet had
taken on wings.

Suddenly the people who stand on the shore and can look far out across
the fiord send up a great cry of horror and fear. They see that the
balloon, pursued all the while by the two children, sails away toward
the fairway, where there is open sea. "Open sea! It is open sea out
there!" the people shout.

The skaters down on the ice hear the shouts and turn their eyes toward
the mouth of the fiord. They see how a strip of water shimmers in the
sunlight yonder. They see, also, that two little boys are skating toward
this strip, which they do not notice because their eyes are fixed on the
balloon; and not for a second do they turn them toward earth.

The people are calling out with all their might and stamping on the ice.
Fast runners are hurrying on to stop them; but the little ones mark
nothing of all this, where they are chasing after the airship. They do
not know that they alone are following it. They hear no cries back of
them. They do not hear the splash and roar of the water ahead of them.
They see only the balloon, which as it were carries them with it.
Lennart already feels his own airship rising under him, and Hugo soars
away over the North Pole.

The people on the ice and on the shore see how rapidly they are nearing
the open sea. For a second or two they are in such breathless suspense
that they can neither move nor cry out. It seems as if the two children
are under a magic spell--in their chase after a shining heavenly vision.

The air-sailors up in the balloon have also caught a glimpse of the
little boys. They see that they are in danger and scream at them and
make warning gestures; but the boys do not understand them. When they
notice that the air-sailors are making signs at them, they think they
want to take them up into the car. They stretch their arms toward them,
overjoyed in the hope of accompanying them through the bright upper
regions.

At this moment the boys have reached the sailing channel, and, with arms
uplifted, they skate down into the water and disappear without a cry for
help. The skaters, who have tried to reach them in time, are standing a
couple of seconds later on the edge of the ice, but the current has
carried their bodies under the ice, and no helping hand can reach
them.




The Wedding March


Now I'm going to tell a pretty story.

A good many years ago there was to be a very big wedding at Svartsjö
parish in Vermland.

First, there was to be a church ceremony and after that three days of
feasting and merrymaking, and every day while the festivities lasted
there was to be dancing from early morning till far into the night.

Since there was to be so much dancing, it was of very great importance
to get a good fiddler, and Juryman Nils Olafsson, who was managing the
wedding, worried almost more over this than over anything else.

The fiddler they had at Svartsjö he did not care to engage. His name was
Jan Öster. The Juryman knew, to be sure, that he had quite a big name;
but he was so poor that sometimes he would appear at a wedding in a
frayed jacket and without shoes to his feet. The Juryman didn't wish to
see such a ragtag at the head of the bridal procession, so he decided to
send a messenger to a musician in Jösse parish, who was commonly called
Fiddler Mårten, and ask him if he wouldn't come and play at the wedding.

Fiddler Mårten didn't consider the proposition for a second, but
promptly replied that he did not want to play at Svartsjö, because in
that parish lived a musician who was more skilled than all others in
Vermland. While they had him, there was no need for them to call
another.

When Nils Olafsson received this answer, he took a few days to think it
over, and then he sent word to a fiddler in Big Kil parish, named Olle
in Säby, to ask him if he wouldn't come and play at his daughter's
wedding.

Olle in Säby answered in the same way as Fiddler Mårten. He sent his
compliments to Nils Olafsson, and said that so long as there was such a
capable musician as Jan Öster to be had in Svartsjö, he didn't want to
go there to play.

Nils Olafsson didn't like it that the musicians tried in this way to
force upon him the very one he did not want. Now he considered that it
was a point of honor with him to get another fiddler than Jan Öster.

A few days after he had the answer from Olle in Säby, he sent his
servant to fiddler Lars Larsson, who lived at the game lodge in Ullerud
parish. Lars Larsson was a well-to-do man who owned a fine farm. He was
sensible and considerate and no hotspur, like the other musicians. But
Lars Larsson, like the others, at once thought of Jan Öster, and asked
how it happened that he was not to play at the wedding.

Nils Olafsson's servant thought it best to say to him that, since Jan
Öster lived at Svartsjö, they could hear him play at any time. As Nils
Olafsson was making ready to give a grand wedding, he wished to treat
his guests to something a little better and more select.

"I doubt if you can get any one better," said Lars Larsson.

"Now you must be thinking of answering in the same way as fiddler Mårten
and Olle in Säby did," said the servant. Then he told him how he had
fared with them.

Lars Larsson paid close attention to the servant's story, and then he
sat quietly for a long while and pondered. Finally he answered in the
affirmative: "Tell your master that I thank him for his invitation and
will come."

The following Sunday Lars Larsson journeyed down to Svartsjö. He drove
up to the church knoll just as the wedding guests were forming into line
to march to the church. He came driving in his own chaise and with a
good horse and dressed in black broadcloth. He took out his fiddle from
a highly polished box. Nils Olafsson received him effusively, thinking
that here was a fiddler of whom he might be proud.

Immediately after Lars Larsson's arrival, Jan Öster, too, came marching
up to the church, with his fiddle under his arm. He walked straight up
to the crowd around the bride, exactly as if he were asked to come and
play at the wedding.

Jan Öster had come in the old gray homespun jacket which they had seen
him wearing for ages. But, as this was to be such a grand wedding, his
wife had made an attempt at mending the holes at the elbow by sewing big
green patches over them. Jan Öster was a tall handsome man, and would
have made a fine appearance at the head of the bridal procession, had he
not been so shabbily dressed, and had his face not been so lined and
seamed by worries and the hard struggle with misfortune.

When Lars Larsson saw Jan Öster coming, he seemed a bit displeased. "So
you have called Jan Öster, too," he said under his breath to the Juryman
Nils Olafsson, "but at a grand wedding there's no harm in having two
fiddlers."

"I did not invite him, that's certain!" protested Nils Olafsson. "I
can't comprehend why he has come. Just wait, and I'll let him know that
he has no business here!"

"Then some practical joker must have bidden him," said Lars Larsson.
"But if you care to be guided by my counsel, appear as if nothing were
wrong and go over and bid him welcome. I have heard said that he is a
quick-tempered man, and who knows but he may begin to quarrel and fight
if you were to tell him that he was not invited?"

This the Juryman knew, too! It was no time to begin fussing when the
bridal procession was forming on the church grounds; so he walked up to
Jan Öster and bade him be welcome. Thereupon the two fiddlers took their
places at the head of the procession. The bridal pair walked under a
canopy, the bridesmaids and the groomsmen marched in pairs, and after
them came the parents and relatives; so the procession was both imposing
and long.

When everything was in readiness, a groomsman stepped up to the
musicians and asked them to play the Wedding March. Both musicians swung
their fiddles up to their chins, but beyond that they did not get. And
thus they stood! It was an old custom in Svartsjö for the best fiddler
to strike up the Wedding March and to lead the music.

The groomsman looked at Lars Larsson, as though he were waiting for him
to start; but Lars Larsson looked at Jan Öster and said, "It is you, Jan
Öster, who must begin."

It did not seem possible to Jan Öster that the other fiddler, who was as
finely dressed as any gentleman, should not be better than himself, who
had come in his old homespun jacket straight from the wretched hovel
where there were only poverty and distress. "No, indeed!" said he. "No,
indeed!"

He saw that the bridegroom put forth his hand and touched Lars Larsson.
"Larsson shall begin," said he.

When Jan Öster heard the bridegroom say this, he promptly lowered his
fiddle and stepped aside.

Lars Larsson, on the other hand, did not move from the spot, but
remained standing in his place, confident and pleased with himself. Nor
did he raise the bow. "It is Jan Öster who shall begin," he repeated
stubbornly and resistingly, as one who is used to having his own way.

There was some commotion among the crowds over the cause of the delay.
The bride's father came forward and begged Lars Larsson to begin. The
sexton stepped to the door of the church and beckoned to them to hurry
along. The parson stood waiting at the altar.

"You can ask Jan Öster to begin, then," said Lars Larsson. "We musicians
consider him to be the best among us."

"That may be so," said a peasant, "but we peasants consider you the best
one."

Then the other peasants also gathered around them. "Well, begin, why
don't you?" they said. "The parson is waiting. We'll become a
laughing-stock to the church people."

Lars Larsson stood there quite as stubborn and determined as before. "I
can't see why the people in this parish are so opposed to having their
own fiddler placed in the lead."

Nils Olafsson was perfectly furious because they wished in this way to
force Jan Öster upon him. He came close up to Lars Larsson and
whispered: "I comprehend that it is you who have called hither Jan
Öster, and that you have arranged this to do him honor. But be quick,
now, and play up, or I'll drive that ragamuffin from the church grounds
in disgrace and by force!"

Lars Larsson looked him square in the face and nodded to him without
displaying any irritation. "Yes, you are right in saying that we must
have an end of this," said he.

He beckoned to Jan Öster to return to his place. Then he himself walked
forward a step or two, and turned around that all might see him. Then
he flung the bow far from him, pulled out his case-knife, and cut all
four violin strings, which snapped with a sharp twang. "It shall not be
said of me that I count myself better than Jan Öster!" said he.

It appears that for three years Jan Öster had been musing on an air
which he couldn't get out over the strings because at home he was bound
down by dull, gray cares and worries, and nothing ever happened to him,
either great or small, to lift him above the daily grind. But when he
heard Lars Larsson's strings snap, he threw back his head and filled his
lungs. His features were rapt, as though he were listening to something
far away; and then he began to play. And the air which he had been
musing over for three years became all at once clear to him, and as the
tones of it vibrated he walked with proud step down to the church.

The bridal procession had never before heard an air like that! It
carried them along with such speed that not even Nils Olafsson could
think of staying back. And every one was so pleased both with Jan Öster
and with Lars Larsson that the entire following entered the church,
their eyes brimming with tears of joy.




The Musician


No one in Ullerud could say anything of fiddler Lars Larsson but that he
was both meek and modest in his later years. But he had not always been
thus, it seems. In his youth he had been so overbearing and boastful
that people were in despair about him. It is said that he was changed
and made over in a single night, and this is the way it happened.

Lars Larsson went out for a stroll late one Saturday night, with his
fiddle under his arm. He was excessively gay and jovial, for he had just
come from a party where his playing had tempted both young and old to
dance. He walked along, thinking that while his bow was in motion no one
had been able to sit still. There had been such a whirl in the cabin
that once or twice he fancied the chairs and tables were dancing too! "I
verily believe they have never before had a musician like me in these
parts," he remarked to himself. "But I had a mighty rough time of it
before I became such a clever chap!" he continued. "When I was a child,
it was no fun for me when my parents put me to tending cows and sheep
and when I forgot everything else to sit and twang my fiddle. And just
fancy! they wouldn't so much as give me a real violin. I had nothing to
play on but an old wooden box over which I had stretched some strings.
In the daytime, when I could be alone in the woods, I fared rather well;
but it was none too cheerful to come home in the evening when the cattle
had strayed from me! Then I heard often enough, from both father and
mother, that I was a good-for-nothing and never would amount to
anything."

In that part of the forest where Lars Larsson was strolling a little
river was trying to find its way. The ground was stony and hilly, and
the stream had great difficulty in getting ahead, winding this way and
that way, rolling over little falls and rapids--and yet it appeared to
get nowhere. The path where the fiddler walked, on the other hand, tried
to go as straight ahead as possible. Therefore it was continually
meeting the sinuous stream, and each time it would dart across it by
using a little bridge. The musician also had to cross the stream
repeatedly, and he was glad of it. He thought it was as though he had
found company in the forest.

Where he was tramping it was light summer-night. The sun had not yet
come up, but its being away made no difference, for it was as light as
day all the same.

Still the light was not quite what it is in the daytime. Everything had
a different color. The sky was perfectly white, the trees and the
growths on the ground were grayish, but everything was as distinctly
visible as in the daytime, and when Lars Larsson paused on any of the
numerous bridges and looked down into the stream, he could distinguish
every ripple on the water.

"When I see a stream like this in the wilderness," he thought, "I am
reminded of my own life. As persistent as this stream have I been in
forcing my way past all that has obstructed my path. Father has been my
rock ahead, and mother tried to hold me back and bury me between
moss-tufts, but I stole past both of them and got out in the world.
Hay-ho, hi, hi! I think mother is still sitting at home and weeping for
me. But what do I care! She might have known that I should amount to
something some day, instead of trying to oppose me!"

Impatiently he tore some leaves from a branch and threw them into the
river.

"Look! thus have I torn myself loose from everything at home," he said,
as he watched the leaves borne away by the water. "I am just wondering
if mother knows that I'm the best musician in Vermland?" he remarked as
he went farther.

He walked on rapidly until he came across the stream again. Then he
stopped and looked into the water.

Here the river went along in a struggling rapid, creating a terrible
racket. As it was night, one heard from the stream sounds quite
different from those of the daytime, and the musician was perfectly
astonished when he stood still and listened. There was no bird song in
the trees and no music in the pines and no rustling in the leaves. No
wagon wheels creaked in the road and no cow-bells tinkled in the wood.
One heard only the rapid; but because all the other things were hushed,
it could be heard so much better than during the day. It sounded as
though everything thinkable and unthinkable was rioting and clamoring in
the depths of the stream. First, it sounded as if some one were sitting
down there and grinding grain between stones, and then it sounded as
though goblets were clinking in a drinking-bout; and again there was a
murmuring, as when the congregation had left the church and were
standing on the church knoll after the service, talking earnestly
together.

"I suppose this, too, is a kind of music," thought the fiddler,
"although I can't find anything much in it! I think the air that I
composed the other day was much more worth listening to."

But the longer Lars Larsson listened to the music of the rapid, the
better he thought it sounded.

"I believe you are improving," he said to the rapid. "It must have
dawned upon you that the best musician in Vermland is listening to you!"

The instant he had made this remark, he fancied he heard a couple of
clear metallic sounds, as when some one picks a violin string to hear if
it is in tune.

"But see, hark! The Water-Sprite himself has arrived. I can hear how he
begins to thrum on the violin. Let us hear now if you can play better
than I!" said Lars Larsson, laughing. "But I can't stand here all night
waiting for you to begin," he called to the water. "Now I must be going;
but I promise you that I will also stop at the next bridge and listen,
to hear if you can cope with me."

He went farther and, as the stream in its winding course ran into the
wood, he began thinking once more of his home.

"I wonder how the little brooklet that runs by our house is getting on?
I should like to see it again. I ought to go home once in a while, to
see if mother is suffering want and hardship since father's death. But
busy as I am, it is almost impossible. As busy as I am just now, I say,
I can't look after anything but the fiddle. There is hardly an evening
in the week that I am at liberty."

In a little while he met the stream again, and his thoughts were turned
to something else. At this crossing the river did not come rushing on in
a noisy rapid, but glided ahead rather quietly. It lay perfectly black
and shiny under the night-gray forest trees, and carried with it one and
another patch of snow-white scum from the rapids above.

When the musician came down upon the bridge and heard no sound from the
stream but a soft swish now and then, he began to laugh.

"I might have known that the Water-Sprite wouldn't care to come to the
meeting," he shouted. "To be sure, I have always heard that he is
considered an excellent performer, but one who lies still forever in a
brook and never hears anything new can't know very much! He perceives,
no doubt, that here stands one who knows more about music than he,
therefore he doesn't care to let me hear him."

Then he went farther and lost sight of the river again. He came into a
part of the forest which he had always thought dismal and bleak to
wander through. There the ground was covered with big stone heaps, and
gnarled pine stumps lay uprooted among them. If there was anything
magical or fearsome in the forest, one would naturally think that it
concealed itself here.

When the musician came in among the wild stone blocks, a shudder passed
through him, and he began to wonder if it had not been unwise of him to
boast in the presence of the Water-Sprite. He fancied the large pine
roots began to gesticulate, as if they were threatening him. "Beware,
you who think yourself cleverer than the Water-Sprite!" it seemed as if
they wanted to say.

Lars Larsson felt how his heart contracted with dread. A heavy weight
bore down upon his chest, so that he could scarcely breathe, and his
hands became ice-cold. Then he stopped in the middle of the wood and
tried to talk sense to himself.

"Why, there's no musician in the waterfall!" said he. "Such things are
only superstition and nonsense! It's of no consequence what I have said
or haven't said to him."

As he spoke, he looked around him, as if for some confirmation of the
truth of what he said. Had it been daytime, every tiny leaf would have
winked at him that there was nothing dangerous in the wood; but now, at
night, the leaves on the trees were closed and silent and looked as
though they were hiding all sorts of dangerous secrets.

Lars Larsson grew more and more alarmed. That which caused him the
greatest fear was having to cross the stream once more before it and the
road parted company and went in different directions. He wondered what
the Water-Sprite would do to him when he walked across the last
bridge--if he might perhaps stretch a big black hand out of the water
and drag him down into the depths.

He had worked himself into such a state of fright that he thought of
turning back. But then he would meet the stream again. And if he were to
turn out of the road and go into the wood, he would also meet it, the
way it kept bending and winding itself!

He felt so nervous that he didn't know what to do. He was snared and
captured and bound by that stream, and saw no possibility of escape.

Finally he saw before him the last bridge crossing. Directly opposite
him, on the other side of the stream, stood an old mill, which must have
been abandoned these many years. The big mill-wheel hung motionless over
the water. The sluice-gate lay mouldering on the land; the mill-race was
moss-grown, and its sides were lined with common fern and beard-moss.

"If all had been as formerly and there were people here," thought the
musician, "I should be safe now from all danger."

But, at all events, he felt reassured in seeing a building constructed
by human hands, and, as he crossed the stream, he was scarcely
frightened at all. Nor did anything dreadful happen to him. The
Water-Sprite seemed to have no quarrel with him. He was simply amazed to
think he had worked himself into a panic over nothing whatever.

He felt very happy and secure, and became even happier when the mill
door opened and a young girl came out to him. She looked like an
ordinary peasant girl. She had a cotton kerchief on her head and wore a
short skirt and full jacket, but her feet were bare.

She walked up to the musician and said to him without further ceremony,
"If you will play for me, I'll dance for you."

"Why, certainly," said the fiddler, who was in fine spirits now that he
was rid of his fear. "That I can do, of course. I have never in my life
refused to play for a pretty girl who wants to dance."

He took his place on a stone near the edge of the mill-pond, raised the
violin to his chin, and began to play.

The girl took a few steps in rhythm with the music; then she stopped.
"What kind of a polka are you playing?" said she. "There is no vim in
it."

The fiddler changed his tune; he tried one with more life in it.

The girl was just as dissatisfied. "I can't dance to such a draggy
polka," said she.

Then Lars Larsson struck up the wildest air he knew. "If you are not
satisfied with this one," he said, "you will have to call hither a
better musician than I am."

The instant he said this, he felt that a hand caught his arm at the
elbow and began to guide the bow and increase the tempo. Then from the
violin there poured forth a strain the like of which he had never before
heard. It moved in such a quick tempo he thought that a rolling wheel
couldn't have kept up with it.

"Now, that's what I call a polka!" said the girl, and began to swing
round.

But the musician did not glance at her. He was so astonished at the air
he was playing that he stood with closed eyes, to hear better. When he
opened them after a moment, the girl was gone. But he did not wonder
much at this. He continued to play on, long and well, only because he
had never before heard such violin playing.

"It must be time now to finish with this," he thought finally, and
wanted to lay down the bow. But the bow kept up its motion; he couldn't
make it stop. It travelled back and forth over the strings and jerked
the hand and arm with it; and the hand that held the neck of the violin
and fingered the strings could not free itself, either.

The cold sweat stood out on Lars Larsson's brow, and he was frightened
now in earnest.

"How will this end? Shall I sit here and play till doomsday?" he asked
himself in despair.

The bow ran on and on, and magically called forth one tune after
another. Always it was something new, and it was so beautiful that the
poor fiddler must have known how little his own skill was worth. And it
was this that tortured him worse than the fatigue.

"He who plays upon my violin understands the art. But never in all my
born days have I been anything but a bungler. Now for the first time I'm
learning how music should sound."

For a few seconds he became so transported by the music that he forgot
his evil fate; then he felt how his arm ached from weariness and he was
seized anew with despair.

"This violin I cannot lay down until I have played myself to death. I
can understand that the Water-Sprite won't be satisfied with less."

He began to weep over himself, but all the while he kept on playing.

"It would have been better for me had I stayed at home in the little
cabin with mother. What is all the glory worth if it is to end in this
way?"

He sat there hour after hour. Morning came on, the sun rose, and the
birds sang all around him; but he played and he played, without
intermission.

As it was a Sunday that dawned, he had to sit there by the old mill all
alone. No human beings tramped in this part of the forest. They went to
church down in the dale, and to the villages along the big highway.

Forenoon came along, and the sun stepped higher and higher in the sky.
The birds grew silent, and the wind began to murmur in the long pine
needles.

Lars Larsson did not let the summer day's heat deter him. He played and
played. At last evening was ushered in, the sun sank, but his bow needed
no rest, and his arm continued to move.

"It is absolutely certain that this will be the death of me!" said he.
"And it is a righteous punishment for all my conceit."

Far along in the evening a human being came wandering through the wood.
It was a poor old woman with bent back and white hair, and a countenance
that was furrowed by many sorrows.

"It seems strange," thought the player, "but I think I recognize that
old woman. Can it be possible that it is my mother? Can it be possible
that mother has grown so old and gray?"

He called aloud and stopped her. "Mother, mother, come here to me!" he
cried.

She paused, as if unwillingly. "I hear now with my own ears that you are
the best musician in Vermland," said she. "I can well understand that
you do not care any more for a poor old woman like me!"

"Mother, mother, don't pass me by!" cried Lars Larsson. "I'm no great
performer--only a poor wretch. Come here that I may speak with you!"

Then the mother came nearer and saw how he sat and played. His face was
as pale as death, his hair dripped sweat, and blood oozed out from under
the roots of his nails.

"Mother, I have fallen into misfortune because of my vanity, and now I
must play myself to death. But tell me, before this happens, if you can
forgive me, who left you alone and poor in your old age!"

His mother was seized with a great compassion for the son, and all the
anger she had felt toward him was as if blown away. "Why, surely I
forgive you!" said she. And as she saw his anguish and bewilderment and
wanted him to understand that she meant what she said, she repeated it
in the name of God.

"In the name of God our Redeemer, I forgive you!"

And when she said this, the bow stopped, the violin fell to the ground,
and the musician arose saved and redeemed. For the enchantment was
broken, because his old mother had felt such compassion for his distress
that she had spoken God's name over him.




The Legend of the Christmas Rose


Robber Mother, who lived in Robbers' Cave up in Göinge forest, went down
to the village one day on a begging tour. Robber Father, who was an
outlawed man, did not dare to leave the forest, but had to content
himself with lying in wait for the wayfarers who ventured within its
borders. But at that time travellers were not very plentiful in Southern
Skåne. If it so happened that the man had had a few weeks of ill luck
with his hunt, his wife would take to the road. She took with her five
youngsters, and each youngster wore a ragged leathern suit and
birch-bark shoes and bore a sack on his back as long as himself. When
Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no one dared refuse to
give her whatever she demanded; for she was not above coming back the
following night and setting fire to the house if she had not been well
received. Robber Mother and her brood were worse than a pack of wolves,
and many a man felt like running a spear through them; but it was never
done, because they all knew that the man stayed up in the forest, and he
would have known how to wreak vengeance if anything had happened to the
children or the old woman.

Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came one
day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the bell of the
cloister gate and asked for food. The watchman let down a small wicket
in the gate and handed her six round bread cakes--one for herself and
one for each of the five children.

While the mother was standing quietly at the gate, her youngsters were
running about. And now one of them came and pulled at her skirt, as a
signal that he had discovered something which she ought to come and see,
and Robber Mother followed him promptly.

The entire cloister was surrounded by a high and strong wall, but the
youngster had managed to find a little back gate which stood ajar. When
Robber Mother got there, she pushed the gate open and walked inside
without asking leave, as it was her custom to do.

Övid Cloister was managed at that time by Abbot Hans, who knew all about
herbs. Just within the cloister wall he had planted a little herb
garden, and it was into this that the old woman had forced her way.

At first glance Robber Mother was so astonished that she paused at the
gate. It was high summertide, and Abbot Hans' garden was so full of
flowers that the eyes were fairly dazzled by the blues, reds, and
yellows, as one looked into it. But presently an indulgent smile spread
over her features, and she started to walk up a narrow path that lay
between many flower-beds.

In the garden a lay brother walked about, pulling up weeds. It was he
who had left the door in the wall open, that he might throw the weeds
and tares on the rubbish heap outside.

When he saw Robber Mother coming in, with all five youngsters in tow, he
ran toward her at once and ordered them away. But the beggar woman
walked right on as before. She cast her eyes up and down, looking now at
the stiff white lilies which spread near the ground, then on the ivy
climbing high upon the cloister wall, and took no notice whatever of the
lay brother.

He thought she had not understood him, and wanted to take her by the arm
and turn her toward the gate. But when the robber woman saw his purpose,
she gave him a look that sent him reeling backward. She had been walking
with back bent under her beggar's pack, but now she straightened
herself to her full height. "I am Robber Mother from Göinge forest; so
touch me if you dare!" And it was obvious that she was as certain she
would be left in peace as if she had announced that she was the Queen of
Denmark.

And yet the lay brother dared to oppose her, although now, when he knew
who she was, he spoke reasonably to her. "You must know, Robber Mother,
that this is a monks' cloister, and no woman in the land is allowed
within these walls. If you do not go away, the monks will be angry with
me because I forgot to close the gate, and perhaps they will drive me
away from the cloister and the herb garden."

But such prayers were wasted on Robber Mother. She walked straight ahead
among the little flower-beds and looked at the hyssop with its magenta
blossoms, and at the honeysuckles, which were full of deep
orange-colored flower clusters.

Then the lay brother knew of no other remedy than to run into the
cloister and call for help.

He returned with two stalwart monks, and Robber Mother saw that now it
meant business! With feet firmly planted she stood in the path and began
shrieking in strident tones all the awful vengeance she would wreak on
the cloister if she couldn't remain in the herb garden as long as she
wished. But the monks did not see why they need fear her and thought
only of driving her out. Then Robber Mother let out a perfect volley of
shrieks, and, throwing herself upon the monks, clawed and bit at them;
so did all the youngsters. The men soon learned that she could overpower
them, and all they could do was to go back into the cloister for
reinforcements.

As they ran through the passage-way which led to the cloister, they met
Abbot Hans, who came rushing out to learn what all this noise was about.

Then they had to confess that Robber Mother from Göinge forest had come
into the cloister and that they were unable to drive her out and must
call for assistance.

But Abbot Hans upbraided them for using force and forbade their calling
for help. He sent both monks back to their work, and although he was an
old and fragile man, he took with him only the lay brother.

When Abbot Hans came out in the garden, Robber Mother was still
wandering among the flower-beds. He regarded her with astonishment. He
was certain that Robber Mother had never before seen an herb garden; yet
she sauntered leisurely between all the small patches, each of which
had been planted with its own species of rare flower, and looked at them
as if they were old acquaintances. At some she smiled, at others she
shook her head.

Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him to
love anything earthly and perishable. Wild and terrible as the old woman
looked, he couldn't help liking that she had fought with three monks for
the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to her and
asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her.

Robber Mother turned defiantly toward Abbot Hans, for she expected only
to be trapped and overpowered. But when she noticed his white hair and
bent form, she answered peaceably, "First, when I saw this, I thought I
had never seen a prettier garden; but now I see that it can't be
compared with one I know of."

Abbot Hans had certainly expected a different answer. When he heard that
Robber Mother had seen a garden more beautiful than his, a faint flush
spread over his withered cheek. The lay brother, who was standing close
by, immediately began to censure the old woman. "This is Abbot Hans,"
said he, "who with much care and diligence has gathered the flowers
from far and near for his herb garden. We all know that there is not a
more beautiful garden to be found in all Skåne, and it is not befitting
that you, who live in the wild forest all the year around, should find
fault with his work."

"I don't wish to make myself the judge of either him or you," said
Robber Mother. "I'm only saying that if you could see the garden of
which I am thinking you would uproot all the flowers planted here and
cast them away like weeds."

But the Abbot's assistant was hardly less proud of the flowers than the
Abbot himself, and after hearing her remarks he laughed derisively. "I
can understand that you only talk like this to tease us. It must be a
pretty garden that you have made for yourself amongst the pines in
Göinge forest! I'd be willing to wager my soul's salvation that you have
never before been within the walls of an herb garden."

Robber Mother grew crimson with rage to think that her word was doubted,
and she cried out: "It may be true that until to-day I had never been
within the walls of an herb garden; but you monks, who are holy men,
certainly must know that on every Christmas Eve the great Göinge forest
is transformed into a beautiful garden, to commemorate the hour of our
Lord's birth. We who live in the forest have seen this happen every
year. And in that garden I have seen flowers so lovely that I dared not
lift my hand to pluck them."

The lay brother wanted to continue the argument, but Abbot Hans gave him
a sign to be silent. For, ever since his childhood, Abbot Hans had heard
it said that on every Christmas Eve the forest was dressed in holiday
glory. He had often longed to see it, but he had never had the good
fortune. Eagerly he begged and implored Robber Mother that he might come
up to the Robbers' Cave on Christmas Eve. If she would only send one of
her children to show him the way, he could ride up there alone, and he
would never betray them--on the contrary, he would reward them, in so
far as it lay in his power.

Robber Mother said no at first, for she was thinking of Robber Father
and of the peril which might befall him should she permit Abbot Hans to
ride up to their cave. At the same time the desire to prove to the monk
that the garden which she knew was more beautiful than his got the
better of her, and she gave in.

"But more than one follower you cannot take with you," said she, "and
you are not to waylay us or trap us, as sure as you are a holy man."

This Abbot Hans promised, and then Robber Mother went her way. Abbot
Hans commanded the lay brother not to reveal to a soul that which had
been agreed upon. He feared that the monks, should they learn of his
purpose, would not allow a man of his years to go up to the Robbers'
Cave.

Nor did he himself intend to reveal his project to a human being. And
then it happened that Archbishop Absalon from Lund came to Övid and
remained through the night. When Abbot Hans was showing him the herb
garden, he got to thinking of Robber Mother's visit, and the lay
brother, who was at work in the garden, heard Abbot Hans telling the
Bishop about Robber Father, who these many years had lived as an outlaw
in the forest, and asking him for a letter of ransom for the man, that
he might lead an honest life among respectable folk. "As things are
now," said Abbot Hans, "his children are growing up into worse
malefactors than himself, and you will soon have a whole gang of robbers
to deal with up there in the forest."

But the Archbishop replied that he did not care to let the robber loose
among honest folk in the villages. It would be best for all that he
remain in the forest.

Then Abbot Hans grew zealous and told the Bishop all about Göinge
forest, which, every year at Yuletide, clothed itself in summer bloom
around the Robbers' Cave. "If these bandits are not so bad but that
God's glories can be made manifest to them, surely we cannot be too
wicked to experience the same blessing."

The Archbishop knew how to answer Abbot Hans. "This much I will promise
you, Abbot Hans," he said, smiling, "that any day you send me a blossom
from the garden in Göinge forest, I will give you letters of ransom for
all the outlaws you may choose to plead for."

The lay brother apprehended that Bishop Absalon believed as little in
this story of Robber Mother's as he himself; but Abbot Hans perceived
nothing of the sort, but thanked Absalon for his good promise and said
that he would surely send him the flower.

       *       *       *       *       *

Abbot Hans had his way. And the following Christmas Eve he did not sit
at home with his monks in Övid Cloister, but was on his way to Göinge
forest. One of Robber Mother's wild youngsters ran ahead of him, and
close behind him was the lay brother who had talked with Robber Mother
in the herb garden.

Abbot Hans had been longing to make this journey, and he was very happy
now that it had come to pass. But it was a different matter with the
lay brother who accompanied him. Abbot Hans was very dear to him, and he
would not willingly have allowed another to attend him and watch over
him; but he didn't believe that he should see any Christmas Eve garden.
He thought the whole thing a snare which Robber Mother had, with great
cunning, laid for Abbot Hans, that he might fall into her husband's
clutches.

While Abbot Hans was riding toward the forest, he saw that everywhere
they were preparing to celebrate Christmas. In every peasant settlement
fires were lighted in the bath-house to warm it for the afternoon
bathing. Great hunks of meat and bread were being carried from the
larders into the cabins, and from the barns came the men with big
sheaves of straw to be strewn over the floors.

As he rode by the little country churches, he observed that each parson,
with his sexton, was busily engaged in decorating his church; and when
he came to the road which leads to Bösjo Cloister, he observed that all
the poor of the parish were coming with armfuls of bread and long
candles, which they had received at the cloister gate.

When Abbot Hans saw all these Christmas preparations, his haste
increased. He was thinking of the festivities that awaited him, which
were greater than any the others would be privileged to enjoy.

But the lay brother whined and fretted when he saw how they were
preparing to celebrate Christmas in every humble cottage. He grew more
and more anxious, and begged and implored Abbot Hans to turn back and
not to throw himself deliberately into the robber's hands.

Abbot Hans went straight ahead, paying no heed to his lamentations. He
left the plain behind him and came up into desolate and wild forest
regions. Here the road was bad, almost like a stony and burr-strewn
path, with neither bridge nor plank to help them over brooklet and
rivulet. The farther they rode, the colder it grew, and after a while
they came upon snow-covered ground.

It turned out to be a long and hazardous ride through the forest. They
climbed steep and slippery side paths, crawled over swamp and marsh, and
pushed through windfall and bramble. Just as daylight was waning, the
robber boy guided them across a forest meadow, skirted by tall, naked
leaf trees and green fir trees. Back of the meadow loomed a mountain
wall, and in this wall they saw a door of thick boards. Now Abbot Hans
understood that they had arrived, and dismounted. The child opened the
heavy door for him, and he looked into a poor mountain grotto, with bare
stone walls. Robber Mother was seated before a log fire that burned in
the middle of the floor. Alongside the walls were beds of virgin pine
and moss, and on one of these beds lay Robber Father asleep.

"Come in, you out there!" shouted Robber Mother without rising, "and
fetch the horses in with you, so they won't be destroyed by the night
cold."

Abbot Hans walked boldly into the cave, and the lay brother followed.
Here were wretchedness and poverty! and nothing was done to celebrate
Christmas. Robber Mother had neither brewed nor baked; she had neither
washed nor scoured. The youngsters were lying on the floor around a
kettle, eating; but no better food was provided for them than a watery
gruel.

Robber Mother spoke in a tone as haughty and dictatorial as any
well-to-do peasant woman. "Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, Abbot
Hans," said she; "and if you have food with you, eat, for the food which
we in the forest prepare you wouldn't care to taste. And if you are
tired after the long journey, you can lie down on one of these beds to
sleep. You needn't be afraid of oversleeping, for I'm sitting here by
the fire keeping watch. I shall awaken you in time to see that which you
have come up here to see."

Abbot Hans obeyed Robber Mother and brought forth his food sack; but he
was so fatigued after the journey he was hardly able to eat, and as soon
as he could stretch himself on the bed, he fell asleep.

The lay brother was also assigned a bed to rest upon, but he didn't dare
sleep, as he thought he had better keep his eye on Robber Father to
prevent his getting up and capturing Abbot Hans. But gradually fatigue
got the better of him, too, and he dropped into a doze.

When he woke up, he saw that Abbot Hans had left his bed and was sitting
by the fire talking with Robber Mother. The outlawed robber sat also by
the fire. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a dull, sluggish appearance.
His back was turned to Abbot Hans, as though he would have it appear
that he was not listening to the conversation.

Abbot Hans was telling Robber Mother all about the Christmas
preparations he had seen on the journey, reminding her of Christmas
feasts and games which she must have known in her youth, when she lived
at peace with mankind. "I'm sorry for your children, who can never run
on the village street in holiday dress or tumble in the Christmas
straw," said he.

At first Robber Mother answered in short, gruff sentences, but by
degrees she became more subdued and listened more intently. Suddenly
Robber Father turned toward Abbot Hans and shook his clenched fist in
his face. "You miserable monk! did you come here to coax from me my wife
and children? Don't you know that I am an outlaw and may not leave the
forest?"

Abbot Hans looked him fearlessly in the eyes. "It is my purpose to get a
letter of ransom for you from Archbishop Absalon," said he. He had
hardly finished speaking when the robber and his wife burst out
laughing. They knew well enough the kind of mercy a forest robber could
expect from Bishop Absalon!

"Oh, if I get a letter of ransom from Absalon," said Robber Father,
"then I'll promise you that never again will I steal so much as a
goose."

The lay brother was annoyed with the robber folk for daring to laugh at
Abbot Hans, but on his own account he was well pleased. He had seldom
seen the Abbot sitting more peaceful and meek with his monks at Övid
than he now sat with this wild robber folk.

Suddenly Robber Mother rose. "You sit here and talk, Abbot Hans," she
said, "so that we are forgetting to look at the forest. Now I can hear,
even in this cave, how the Christmas bells are ringing."

The words were barely uttered when they all sprang up and rushed out.
But in the forest it was still dark night and bleak winter. The only
thing they marked was a distant clang borne on a light south wind.

"How can this bell ringing ever awaken the dead forest?" thought Abbot
Hans. For now, as he stood out in the winter darkness, he thought it far
more impossible that a summer garden could spring up here than it had
seemed to him before.

When the bells had been ringing a few moments, a sudden illumination
penetrated the forest; the next moment it was dark again, and then the
light came back. It pushed its way forward between the stark trees, like
a shimmering mist. This much it effected: The darkness merged into a
faint daybreak. Then Abbot Hans saw that the snow had vanished from the
ground, as if some one had removed a carpet, and the earth began to take
on a green covering. Then the ferns shot up their fronds, rolled like a
bishop's staff. The heather that grew on the stony hills and the
bog-myrtle rooted in the ground moss dressed themselves quickly in new
bloom. The moss-tufts thickened and raised themselves, and the spring
blossoms shot upward their swelling buds, which already had a touch of
color.

Abbot Hans' heart beat fast as he marked the first signs of the forest's
awakening. "Old man that I am, shall I behold such a miracle?" thought
he, and the tears wanted to spring to his eyes. Again it grew so hazy
that he feared the darkness would once more cover the earth; but almost
immediately there came a new wave of light. It brought with it the
splash of rivulet and the rush of cataract. Then the leaves of the trees
burst into bloom, as if a swarm of green butterflies came flying and
clustered on the branches. It was not only trees and plants that awoke,
but crossbeaks hopped from branch to branch, and the woodpeckers
hammered on the limbs until the splinters fairly flew around them. A
flock of starlings from up country lighted in a fir top to rest. They
were paradise starlings. The tips of each tiny feather shone in
brilliant reds, and, as the birds moved, they glittered like so many
jewels.

Again, all was dark for an instant, but soon there came a new light
wave. A fresh, warm south wind blew and scattered over the forest
meadow all the little seeds that had been brought here from southern
lands by birds and ships and winds, and which could not thrive elsewhere
because of this country's cruel cold. These took root and sprang up the
instant they touched the ground.

When the next warm wind came along, the blueberries and lignon ripened.
Cranes and wild geese shrieked in the air, the bullfinches built nests,
and the baby squirrels began playing on the branches of the trees.

Everything came so fast now that Abbot Hans could not stop to reflect on
how immeasurably great was the miracle that was taking place. He had
time only to use his eyes and ears. The next light wave that came
rushing in brought with it the scent of newly ploughed acres, and far
off in the distance the milkmaids were heard coaxing the cows--and the
tinkle of the sheep's bells. Pine and spruce trees were so thickly
clothed with red cones that they shone like crimson mantles. The juniper
berries changed color every second, and forest flowers covered the
ground till it was all red, blue, and yellow.

Abbot Hans bent down to the earth and broke off a wild strawberry
blossom, and, as he straightened up, the berry ripened in his hand.

The mother fox came out of her lair with a big litter of black-legged
young. She went up to Robber Mother and scratched at her skirt, and
Robber Mother bent down to her and praised her young. The horned owl,
who had just begun his night chase, was astonished at the light and went
back to his ravine to perch for the night. The male cuckoo crowed, and
his mate stole up to the nests of the little birds with her egg in her
mouth.

Robber Mother's youngsters let out perfect shrieks of delight. They
stuffed themselves with wild strawberries that hung on the bushes, large
as pine cones. One of them played with a litter of young hares; another
ran a race with some young crows, which had hopped from their nest
before they were really ready; a third caught up an adder from the
ground and wound it around his neck and arm.

Robber Father was standing out on a marsh eating raspberries. When he
glanced up, a big black bear stood beside him. Robber Father broke off
an osier twig and struck the bear on the nose. "Keep to your own ground,
you!" he said; "this is my turf." Then the huge bear turned around and
lumbered off in another direction.

New waves of warmth and light kept coming, and now they brought with
them seeds from the star-flower. Golden pollen from rye fields fairly
flew in the air. Then came butterflies, so big that they looked like
flying lilies. The bee-hive in a hollow oak was already so full of honey
that it dripped down on the trunk of the tree. Then all the flowers
whose seeds had been brought from foreign lands began to blossom. The
loveliest roses climbed up the mountain wall in a race with the
blackberry vines, and from the forest meadow sprang flowers as large as
human faces.

Abbot Hans thought of the flower he was to pluck for Bishop Absalon; but
each new flower that appeared was more beautiful than the others, and he
wanted to choose the most beautiful of all.

Wave upon wave kept coming until the air was so filled with light that
it glittered. All the life and beauty and joy of summer smiled on Abbot
Hans. He felt that earth could bring no greater happiness than that
which welled up about him, and he said to himself, "I do not know what
new beauties the next wave that comes can bring with it."

But the light kept streaming in, and now it seemed to Abbot Hans that it
carried with it something from an infinite distance. He felt a celestial
atmosphere enfolding him, and tremblingly he began to anticipate, now
that earth's joys had come, the glories of heaven were approaching.

Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their songs,
the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no more. The
glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop beating; the
eyes wept without one's knowing it; the soul longed to soar away into
the Eternal. From far in the distance faint harp tones were heard, and
celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him.

Abbot Hans clasped his hands and dropped to his knees. His face was
radiant with bliss. Never had he dreamed that even in this life it
should be granted him to taste the joys of heaven, and to hear angels
sing Christmas carols!

But beside Abbot Hans stood the lay brother who had accompanied him. In
his mind there were dark thoughts. "This cannot be a true miracle," he
thought, "since it is revealed to malefactors. This does not come from
God, but has its origin in witchcraft and is sent hither by Satan. It is
the Evil One's power that is tempting us and compelling us to see that
which has no real existence."

From afar were heard the sound of angel harps and the tones of a
Miserere. But the lay brother thought it was the evil spirits of hell
coming closer. "They would enchant and seduce us," sighed he, "and we
shall be sold into perdition."

The angel throng was so near now that Abbot Hans saw their bright forms
through the forest branches. The lay brother saw them, too; but back of
all this wondrous beauty he saw only some dread evil. For him it was the
devil who performed these wonders on the anniversary of our Saviour's
birth. It was done simply for the purpose of more effectually deluding
poor human beings.

All the while the birds had been circling around the head of Abbot Hans,
and they let him take them in his hands. But all the animals were afraid
of the lay brother; no bird perched on his shoulder, no snake played at
his feet. Then there came a little forest dove. When she marked that the
angels were nearing, she plucked up courage and flew down on the lay
brother's shoulder and laid her head against his cheek.

Then it appeared to him as if sorcery were come right upon him, to tempt
and corrupt him. He struck with his hand at the forest dove and cried in
such a loud voice that it rang throughout the forest, "Go thou back to
hell, whence thou art come!"

Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery
touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent
greeting.

But when the lay brother's words sounded, their song was hushed and the
holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the mild
warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold in a
human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet; frost came,
all the growths shrivelled up; the animals and birds hastened away; the
rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped from the trees,
rustling like rain.

Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with bliss,
was now contracting with insufferable agony. "I can never outlive this,"
thought he, "that the angels from heaven had been so close to me and
were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas carols for me and
were driven to flight."

Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and at the
last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try and find a
blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers froze and how
the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his heart caused him
even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell prostrate on the
ground and lay there.

When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to
the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went
out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow.

Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood that
it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from him the
cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its last drop.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Abbot Hans had been carried down to Övid, those who took charge of
the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around something
which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When they finally got
his hand open, they found that the thing which he had held in such an
iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which he had torn from among
the moss and leaves.

When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he
took them and planted them in Abbot Hans' herb garden.

He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from
them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the
autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the
flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them.

But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of Abbot
Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And look! as
he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs, he saw
that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore beautiful
flowers with silver white leaves.

He called out all the monks at Övid, and when they saw that this plant
bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as if dead,
they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked by Abbot Hans
from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest. Then the lay brother asked
the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop Absalon.

And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers and
said: "Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he promised to
pick for you from the garden in Göinge forest."

When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the earth
in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if he had
met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said, "Abbot Hans
has faithfully kept his word and I shall also keep mine." And he ordered
that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber who was outlawed
and had been forced to live in the forest ever since his youth.

He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for the
Robbers' Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the robber
came toward him with axe uplifted. "I'd like to hack you monks into
bits, as many as you are!" said he. "It must be your fault that Göinge
forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom."

"The fault is mine alone," said the lay brother, "and I will gladly die
for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans." And he drew
forth the Bishop's letter and told the man that he was free. "Hereafter
you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw and celebrate
your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished to have it," said
he.

Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother
said in his name, "Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber
Father will keep his."

When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in and
lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer that
his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.

But Göinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour's
birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which
Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named CHRISTMAS ROSE. And each year
at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks and
white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once grown in
the great Christmas garden at Göinge forest.




A Story from Jerusalem


In the old and time-honored mosque, El Aksa, in Jerusalem, there is a
long, winding path leading from the main entrance up to a very deep and
wide window-niche. In this niche a very old and much worn rug is spread;
and upon this rug, day in and day out, sits old Mesullam, who is a
fortune-teller and dream-interpreter, and who for a paltry penny serves
the visitors to the mosque by prying into their future destinies.

It happened one afternoon, several years ago, that Mesullam, who sat as
usual in his window, was so ill-natured that he wouldn't even return the
greetings of the passers-by. No one thought, however, of feeling
offended at his rudeness, because every one knew that he was grieving
over a humiliation which had been put upon him that day.

At that time a mighty monarch from the Occident was visiting Jerusalem,
and in the forenoon the distinguished stranger with his retinue had
wandered through El Aksa. Before his arrival the superintendent of the
mosque had commanded the servants to scour and dust all the nooks and
corners of the old building, at the same time giving orders that
Mesullam should move out of his accustomed place. He had found that it
would be simply impossible to let him remain there during the visit of
the distinguished guest. It was not only that his rug was very ragged,
or that he had piled up around him a lot of dirty sacks in which he kept
his belongings, but Mesullam himself was anything but an ornament to the
mosque! He was, in reality, an inconceivably ugly old negro. His lips
were enormous, his chin protruded aggressively, his brow was exceedingly
low, and his nose was almost like a snout; and in addition to these,
Mesullam had a coarse and wrinkled skin and a clumsy, thick-set body,
which was carelessly draped in a dirty white shawl. So one can't wonder
that he was forbidden to show himself in the mosque while the honored
guest was there!

Poor Mesullam, who knew well enough that, despite his ugliness, he was a
very wise man, experienced a bitter disappointment in that _he_ was not
to see the royal traveller. He had hoped that he might give him some
proofs of the great accomplishments which he possessed in occult things
and in this way add to his own glory and renown. Since this hope had
miscarried, he sat hour after hour in a queer position, and mourned,
with his long arms stretched upward and his head thrown far back, as
though he were calling upon heaven for justice.

When it drew on toward evening, Mesullam was wakened from his state of
all-absorbing grief by a cheery voice calling him. It was a Syrian who,
accompanied by another traveller, had come up to the soothsayer. He told
him that the stranger whom he was conducting wished for a proof of
Oriental wisdom, and that he had spoken to him of Mesullam's ability to
interpret dreams.

Mesullam answered not a word to this, but maintained his former attitude
rigidly. When the guide asked him again if he would not listen to the
dreams the stranger wished to relate to him and interpret them, his arms
dropped and he crossed them on his breast. Assuming the attitude of a
wronged man, he answered that this evening his soul was so filled with
his own troubles that he couldn't judge anything clearly which concerned
another.

But the stranger, who had a buoyant and commanding personality, didn't
seem to mind his objections. As there was no chair handy, he kicked
aside the rug and seated himself in the window-niche. Then he began, in
a clear and vibrant voice, to narrate a few dreams, which later were
translated for the soothsayer by the guide.

"Tell him," said the traveller, "that a few years ago I was at Cairo, in
Egypt. Since he is a learned man, naturally he knows there is a mosque
there, called El Azhar, which is the most celebrated institution of
learning in the Orient. I went there one day to visit it, and found that
the whole colossal structure--all its rooms and arcades, all its
entrances and halls were filled with students. There were old men who
had devoted their entire lives to the quest for knowledge, and children
who were just learning to form their letters. There were giantesque
negroes from the heart of Africa; lithe, handsome youths from India and
Arabia; far-travelled strangers from Barbary, from Georgia, from every
land where the natives embrace the doctrines of the Koran. Close to the
pillars--I was told that in El Azhar there were as many teachers as
there were pillars--the instructors were squatted on their rugs, while
their students, who were arranged in a circle around them, eagerly
followed their lectures, which were accompanied by swaying movements of
their bodies. And tell him that, although El Azhar is in no way
comparable to the great Occidental seats of learning, I was nevertheless
astonished at what I saw there. I remarked to myself: 'Ah, this is
Islam's great stronghold and defence! From here Mohammed's young
champions go out. Here, at El Azhar, the potions of wisdom that keep the
Koran's doctrines healthy and vigorous are blended.'"

All of this the traveller said almost in one breath. Now he made a
pause, so that the guide would have an opportunity to interpret for the
soothsayer. Then he continued:

"Now tell him that El Azhar made such a powerful impression upon me that
on the following night I saw it again in a dream. I saw the white marble
structure and the many students dressed in white mantles and white
turbans--as is the custom at El Azhar. I wandered through halls and
courts and was again astonished at what a splendid fortress and wall of
protection this was for Mohammedanism. Finally--in the dream--I came to
the minaret upon which the prayer-crier stands to inform the faithful
that the hour of prayer has struck. And I saw the stairway which winds
up to the minaret, and I saw a prayer-crier walking up the steps. He
wore a black mantle and a white turban, like the others, and as he went
up the stairs I could not at first see his face, but when he had made a
few turns on the spiral stairway, he happened to turn his face toward
me, and then I saw that it was _Christ_."

The speaker made a short pause, and his chest was expanded for a deep
inhalation. "I shall never forget, although it was only a dream," he
exclaimed, "what an impression it made upon me to see Christ walking up
the steps to the minaret in El Azhar! To me it seemed so glorious and
significant that he had come to this stronghold of Islam to call out the
hours of prayer that I leaped up in the dream and awaked."

Here the traveller made another pause to let the guide interpret for the
soothsayer. But this appeared to be well-nigh useless labor. Mesullam
sat all the while, with his hands on his sides, rocking back and forth,
and with his eyes half closed. He seemed to want to say: "Inasmuch as I
cannot escape these importunate people, at least I will let them see
that I don't care to listen to what they have to say. I'll try and rock
myself to sleep. It will be the best way to show them how little I care
about them."

The guide intimated to the traveller that all their trouble would be in
vain and they wouldn't hear a sensible word from Mesullam while he was
in this mood. But the European stranger seemed to be entranced by
Mesullam's indescribable ugliness and extraordinary behavior. He looked
at him with the pleasure of a child when it is watching a wild animal in
a menagerie, and he desired to continue the interview.

"Tell him that I wouldn't have troubled him to interpret this dream," he
said, "had it not, in a certain sense, come to me again. Let him know
that two weeks ago I visited the Sophia Mosque at Constantinople, and
that I, after wandering through this magnificent building, stepped up on
a minaret in order to get a better view of the auditorium. Tell him,
also, that they allowed me to come into the mosque during a service,
when it was filled with people. Upon each of the innumerable prayer rugs
which covered the whole floor of the main hall, a man was standing and
saying his prayers. All who took part in the service simultaneously made
the same movements. All fell upon their knees and threw themselves on
their faces and raised themselves, at the same time whispering their
prayers very low; but from the almost imperceptible movements of so many
lips came a mysterious murmur, which rose toward the high arches and
died away, time and again. Then there came melodious responses from
remote passages and galleries. It was so strange altogether that one
wondered if it was not the Spirit of God that poured into the old
sanctuary."

The traveller made another pause. He observed Mesullam carefully, while
the guide interpreted his speech. It actually appeared as if he had
tried to win the negro's approbation with his eloquence. And it seemed,
too, as though he would succeed, for Mesullam's half-closed eyes flashed
once, like a coal that is beginning to take fire. But the soothsayer,
stubborn as a child that will not let itself be amused, dropped his head
on his breast and began an even more impatient rocking of his body.

"Tell him," resumed the stranger, "tell him that I have never seen
people pray with such fervor! To me it seemed as if it was the sublime
beauty of this marvellous structure which created this atmosphere of
ecstasy. Verily this is still an Islam bulwark! This is the home of
devoutness! From this great mosque emanate the faith and enthusiasm
which make Islam a mighty power."

Here he paused again, noting carefully Mesullam's play of features
during its interpretation. Not a trace of interest was discernible in
them. But the stranger was evidently a man who liked to hear himself
talk. His own words intoxicated him; he would have become ill-natured
had he not been allowed to proceed.

"Well," said he, when it was his turn again to speak, "I cannot rightly
explain what happened to me. Possibly the faint odor from the hundreds
of oil lamps, together with the low murmurings of the devotees, lulled
me into a kind of stupefaction. I could not help but close my eyes as I
stood leaning against a pillar. Soon sleep, or rather insensibility,
overcame me. Probably it did not last more than a minute, but during
this interval I was entirely removed from reality. While in this trance
I could see the whole Sophia Mosque before me, with all the praying
people; but now I saw what I had not hitherto observed. Up in the dome
were scaffoldings, and on these stood a number of workmen with paint
pots and brushes.

"Tell him, if he does not already know it," continued the narrator,
"that Sophia Mosque was once a Christian church, and that its arches and
dome are covered with sacred Christian mosaics, although the Turks have
painted out all these pictures with plain yellow paint. And it appeared
to me as if the yellow paint in the dome had peeled off in a couple of
places and that the painters had clambered up on the scaffolding to
touch up the picture. But, look! when one of them raised his brush to
fill in the color, another large piece scaled off, and suddenly one saw
from behind it a beautiful painting of the _Christ_ emerge. Again the
painter raised his arm to paint out the picture, but the arm, which
appeared to be numb and powerless, dropped down before this beautiful
face; at the same time the paint dropped from the entire dome and arch,
and Christ was visible there in all his glory, among angels and heavenly
hosts. Then the painter cried out, and all the worshippers down on the
floor of the mosque raised their heads. And when they saw the heavenly
hosts surrounding the Saviour, they sent up a cry of joy, and when I
witnessed this joy, I was seized with such strong emotion that I waked
instantly. Then everything was like itself. The mosaics were hidden
under the yellow paint and the devotees continued all the while to
invoke Allah."

When the interpreter had translated this, Mesullam opened one eye and
regarded the stranger. He saw a man who he thought resembled all other
Occidentals that wandered through the mosque. "I don't believe the
pale-faced stranger has seen any visions," thought he. "He has not the
dark eyes that can see what is behind the veil of mystery. I think,
rather, that he came here to make sport of me. I must beware lest on
this accursed day I be overtaken by another humiliation."

The stranger spoke anon: "You know, O Dream Interpreter!" turning now
direct to Mesullam, as if he thought that he could understand him,
despite his foreign tongue--"you know that a distinguished foreigner is
visiting Jerusalem at present, and on his account they have talked of
opening the walled-up gate in Jerusalem's ring-wall--the one they call
'the Golden' and which is believed to be the gate through which Jesus
rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. They have actually been thinking of
doing the distinguished traveller the honor of letting him ride into the
city through a gate which has been walled up for centuries; but they
were held back by an old prophecy which foretells that when this gate is
opened the Occidentals will march in through it to take possession of
Jerusalem.

"And now you shall hear what happened to me last night. The weather was
superb; it was glorious moonlight, and I had gone out alone to take a
quiet promenade around the Holy City. I walked outside the ring-wall on
the narrow path that extends all round the wall, and my thoughts were
borne so far back into distant ages that I scarcely remembered where I
was. All of a sudden I began to feel tired. I wondered if I should not
soon come to a gate in the wall, through which I might get into the city
and thus return to my quarters by a shorter road. Well, just as I was
thinking of this, I saw a man open a large gate in the wall directly in
front of me. He opened it wide and beckoned to me that I might pass in
through it. I was absorbed in my dreams and hardly knew how far I had
been walking. I was somewhat surprised that there was a gate here, but I
thought no more about the matter and walked through it. As soon as I had
passed through the deep archway, the gate closed with a sharp clang.
When I turned round, there was no opening visible, only a walled-up
gate--the one called the Golden. Before me lay the temple place, the
broad Haram plateau, in the centre of which Omar's Mosque is enthroned.
And you know that no gate in the ring-wall leads thither but the Golden,
which is not only closed but walled up.

"You can understand that I thought I'd gone mad; that I dreamed I had
tried in vain to find some explanation of this. I looked around for the
man who had let me in. He had vanished and I could not find him. But, on
the other hand, I saw him all the plainer in memory--the tall and
slightly bent figure, the beautiful locks, the mild visage, the parted
beard. It was _Christ_, soothsayer, _Christ_ once again.

"Tell me now, you who can look into the hidden, what mean my dreams?
What, more than all, can be the meaning of my having really and truly
passed through the Golden Gate? Even at this moment I do not know how it
happened, but I have done so. Tell me, now, what these three things can
mean!"

The interpreter translated this for Mesullam, but the soothsayer was all
the while in the same suspicious and crabbed mood. "I am certain that
this stranger wants to poke fun at me," he thought. "Perchance he would
provoke me to anger with all this talk about Christ?"

He would have concluded not to answer at all; but when the interpreter
insisted, he muttered a few words.

"What does he say?" asked the traveller eagerly.

"He says he has nothing to say to you but that dreams are dreams."

"Then tell him from me," retorted the stranger, somewhat exasperated,
"that this is not always true. It depends entirely upon who dreams
them."

Before these words had been interpreted to Mesullam, the European had
arisen and with quick and elastic step had walked toward the long
passage-way.

But Mesullam sat still and mused over his answer for five minutes. Then
he fell upon his face, utterly undone. "Allah, Allah! Twice on the same
day Fortune has passed by me without my having captured her. What hath
thy servant done to displease thee?"




Why the Pope Lived to be so Old


It happened at Rome in the early nineties. Leo XIII was just then at the
height of his fame and greatness. All true Catholics rejoiced at his
successes and triumphs, which in truth were sublime. And, even for those
who could not grasp the great political events, it was plain that the
power of the Church was again coming to the front. Any one at all could
see that new cloisters were going up everywhere and that throngs of
pilgrims were beginning to pour into Italy, as in olden times. In many,
many places one saw the old, dilapidated churches in process of
restoration, damaged mosaics being put in order, and the treasure-vaults
of the churches being filled with golden relic-boxes and jewelled
exhibits.

Right in the midst of this progressive period the Roman people were
alarmed by the news that the Pope had been taken ill. He was said to be
in a very precarious condition; it was even rumored that he was dying.

His condition was, too, in a great degree serious. The Pope's physicians
issued bulletins which inspired but little hope. It was maintained that
the Pope's great age--he was then eighty years old--made it seem almost
incredible that he could survive this attack.

Naturally, the Pope's illness caused great unrest. In all the churches
in Rome prayers were said for his recovery. The newspapers were filled
with communications regarding the progress of the illness. The Cardinals
were beginning to take steps and measures for the new Papal election.

Everywhere they bemoaned the approaching demise of the brilliant leader.
They feared that the good fortune which had followed the Church's
standard under Leo XIII might not be faithful to it under the leadership
of his successor. There were many who had hoped that this Pope would
succeed in winning back Rome and the Ecclesiastical States. Others,
again, had dreamed that he would bring back into the bosom of the Church
some of the large Protestant countries.

For each second that was passing, fear and anxiety grew apace. As night
came on, in many homes the inmates would not retire. The churches were
kept open until long past midnight, that the anxious ones might have an
opportunity to go in and pray.

Among these throngs of devotees there was certainly more than one poor
soul who cried out: "Dear Lord, take my life instead of his! Let him,
who has done so much for Thy glory, live, and extinguish instead my
life-flame, which burns to no one's use!"

But if the Angel of Death had taken one of these devotees at his word
and had suddenly stepped up to him, with sword raised, to exact the
fulfilment of his promise, one might wonder somewhat as to how he would
have behaved. No doubt he would have recalled instantly such a rash
proffer and begged for the grace of being allowed to live out all the
years of his allotted time.

At this time there lived an old woman in one of the dingy ramshackle
houses along the Tiber. She was one of those who have the kind of spirit
that thanks God every day for life. Every morning she used to sit at the
market-place and sell garden truck. And this was an occupation that was
very congenial to her. She thought nothing could be livelier than a
market of a morning. All tongues were wagging--all were harking their
commodities, and buyers crowded in front of the stalls, selected and
bargained, and many a good sally passed between buyer and seller.
Sometimes the old woman was successful in making a good deal and in
selling out her entire stock; but even if she couldn't sell so much as a
radish, she loved to be standing amongst flowers and green things in the
fresh morning air.

In the evening she had another and an even greater pleasure. Then her
son came home and visited with her. He was a priest, but he had been
assigned to a little church in one of the humble quarters. The poor
priests who served there had not much to live upon, and the mother
feared that her son was starving. But from this, also, she derived much
pleasure, for it gave her the opportunity of stuffing him full of
delicacies when he came to see her. He struggled against it, as he was
destined for a life of self-denial and strict discipline, but his mother
became so distressed when he said no that he always had to give in.
While he was eating she trotted around in the room and chattered about
all that she had seen in the morning during market hours. These were all
very worldly matters, and it would occur to her sometimes that her son
might be offended. Then she would break off in the middle of a sentence
and begin to talk of spiritual and solemn things, but the priest
couldn't help laughing. "No, no, mother Concenza!" he said, "continue in
your usual way. The saints know you already, and they know what you are
up to."

Then she, too, laughed and said: "You are quite right. It doesn't pay to
pretend before the good Lord."

When the Pope was taken ill, Signora Concenza must also have a share in
the general grief. Of her own accord it certainly never would have
occurred to her to feel troubled about his passing. But when her son
came home to her, she could neither persuade him to taste of a morsel of
food nor to give her a smile, although she was simply bubbling over with
stories and interpolations. Naturally she became alarmed and asked what
was wrong with him. "The Holy Father is ill," answered the son.

At first she could scarcely believe that this was the cause of his
downheartedness. Of course it was a sorrow; but she knew, to be sure,
that if a Pope died, immediately there would come another. She reminded
her son of the fact that they had also mourned the good Pio Nono. And,
you see, the one who succeeded him was a still greater Pope. Surely the
Cardinals would choose for them a ruler who was just as holy and wise as
this one.

The priest then began telling her about the Pope. He didn't bother to
initiate her into his system of government, but he told her little
stories of his childhood and young manhood. And from the days of his
prelacy there were also things to relate--as, for instance, how he had
at one time hunted down robbers in southern Italy, how he had made
himself beloved by the poor and needy during the years when he was a
bishop in Perugia.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out: "Ah, if he were not so
old! If he might only be allowed to live many more years, since he is
such a great and holy man!"

"Ah, if only he were not so old!" sighed the son.

But Signora Concenza had already brushed the tears from her eyes. "You
really must bear this calmly," said she. "Remember that his years of
life are simply run out. It is impossible to prevent death from seizing
him."

The priest was a dreamer. He loved the Church and had dreamed that the
great Pope would lead her on to important and decisive victories. "I
would give my life if I could purchase new life for him!" said he.

"What are you saying?" cried his mother. "Do you really love him so
much? But, in any case, you must not express such dangerous wishes.
Instead, you should think of living a good long time. Who knows what may
happen? Why couldn't you, in your turn, become Pope?"

A night and a day passed without any improvement in the Pope's
condition. When Signora Concenza met her son the following day, he
looked completely undone. She understood that he had passed the whole
day in prayer and fasting, and she began to feel deeply grieved. "I
verily believe that you mean to kill yourself for the sake of that sick
old man!" said she.

The son was hurt by again finding her without sympathy, and tried to
persuade her to sympathize a little with his grief. "You, truly, more
than any one else, ought to wish that the Pope might live," he said. "If
he may continue to rule, he will name my parish priest for bishop before
the year shall have passed and, in that event, my fortune is made. He
will then give me a good place in a cathedral. You shall not see me
going about any more in a worn-out cassock. I shall have plenty of
money, and I shall be able to help you and all your poor neighbors."

"But if the Pope dies?" asked Signora Concenza breathlessly.

"If the Pope dies, then no one can know--If my parish priest doesn't
happen to be in favor with his successor, we must both remain where we
now are for many years to come."

Signora Concenza came close to her son and regarded him anxiously. She
looked at his brow, which was covered with wrinkles, and at his hair
that was just turning gray. He looked tired and worn. It was actually
imperative that he should have that place at the cathedral right away.
"To-night I shall go to church and pray for the Pope," thought she. "It
won't do for him to die."

After supper she bravely conquered her fatigue and went out on the
streets. Great crowds of people thronged there. Many were only curious
and had gone out because they wished to catch the news of the death at
first hand; but many were really distressed and wandered from church to
church to pray.

As soon as Signora Concenza had come out on the street, she met one of
her daughters, who was married to a lithographer. "Oh, mother, but you
do right to come out and pray for him!" exclaimed the daughter. "You
can't imagine what a misfortune it would be if he were to die! My
Fabiano was ready to take his own life when he learned that the Pope was
ill."

She related how her husband, the lithographer, had but just struck off
hundreds of thousands of the Pope's pictures. Now, if the Pope were to
die, he wouldn't be able to sell half of them--no, not even a quarter of
them. He would be ruined. Their entire fortune was at stake.

She rushed on to gather some fresh news, wherewith she might comfort her
poor husband, who did not dare venture out, but sat at home and brooded
over his misfortune. Her mother stood still on the street, mumbling to
herself: "It won't do for him to die. It will never do for him to die!"

She walked into the first church she came to. There she fell upon her
knees and prayed for the life of the Pope.

As she arose to leave, she happened to lift her eyes to a little votive
tablet which hung on the wall just above her head. The tablet was a
representation of Death raising a terrifying two-edged sword to mow down
a young girl, while her mother, who had cast herself in his path, tries
in vain to receive the blow in place of her child.

She stood long before the picture, musing. "Signor Death is a careful
arithmetician," she remarked. "One has never heard of his agreeing to
exchange an old person for a young one."

She remembered her son's words that he would be willing to die in the
Pope's stead, and a shudder passed through her whole body. "Think, if
Death were to take him at his word!"

"No, no, Signor Death!" she whispered. "You mustn't believe him. You
must understand that he didn't mean what he said. He wants to live. He
doesn't want to leave his old mother, who loves him."

For the first time the thought struck her that if any one should
sacrifice himself for the Pope, it were better that she did it--she, who
was already old and had lived her life.

When she left the church, she happened into the company of some nuns of
the saintliest and most devout appearance, who lived in the northern
part of the country. They had travelled down to Rome to obtain a little
help from the Pope's treasury. "We are actually in the most dire need of
aid," they told old Concenza. "Only think! our convent was so old and
dilapidated that it blew down during the severe storm of last winter. We
may not now present our case to him. If he should die, we must return
home with an unaccomplished mission. Who can know if his successor will
be the sort of man who will trouble himself to succor poor nuns?"

It seemed as if all the people were thinking the same thoughts. It was
very easy to get into converse with any one. Each and all whom Signora
Concenza approached let her know that the Pope's death would be for them
a terrible misfortune.

The old woman repeated again and again to herself: "My son is right. It
will never do for the Pope to die."

A nurse was standing among a group of people, talking in a loud voice.
She was so affected that the tears streamed down her cheeks. She related
how five years ago she had been ordered away, to serve at a leper
hospital on an island at the other end of the globe. Naturally, she had
to obey orders; but she did so against her wishes. She had felt a
horrible dread of this mission. Before she left Rome, she was received
by the Pope, who had given her a special blessing and had also promised
her that if she came back alive she should have another audience with
him. And it was upon this that she had lived during the five years she
had been away--only on the hope that she might see the Holy Father once
more in this life! This had helped her to go through all the horrors.
And now, when she had got home at last, she was met by the news that he
lay upon his death-bed! She could not even see him!

She was in extreme despair, and old Concenza was deeply moved. "It would
really be much too great a sorrow for every one if the Pope were to
die," thought she, as she wandered farther up the street.

When she observed that many of the passers-by looked perfectly exhausted
from weeping, she thought with a sense of relief: "What a joy it would
be to see everybody's happiness if the Pope should recover!" And she,
like many others who have a buoyant disposition, was apparently no more
afraid of dying than of living; so she said to herself: "If I only knew
how it could be done, I would gladly give the Holy Father the years that
are left to me of life."

She said this somewhat in jest, but back of the words there was also
seriousness. She truly wished that she might realize something in that
way. "An old woman could not wish for a more beautiful death," thought
she. "I would be helping both my son and my daughter, and, besides, I
should make great masses of people happy."

Just as this thought stirred within her, she raised the patched curtain
which hung before the entrance of a gloomy little church. It was one of
the very old churches--one of those which appear to be gradually sinking
into the earth because the city's foundation has, in the intervening
years, raised itself several metres all around them. This church in its
interior had preserved somewhat of its ancient gloom, which must have
come down through the dark ages during which it had sprung into
existence. Involuntarily a shudder passed through one as one stepped in
under its low arches, which rested upon uncommonly thick pillars, and
saw the crudely painted saints' pictures that glimpsed down at one from
walls and altars.

When Signora Concenza came into this old church, which was thronged with
worshippers, she was seized with a mysterious awe and reverence. She
felt that in this sanctuary there verily lived a Deity. Beneath the
massive arches hovered something infinitely mighty and mysterious,
something which inspired such a sense of annihilating superiority that
she felt nervous about remaining in there. "Ah, this is no church where
one goes to hear a mass or to confessional," remarked Signora Concenza
to herself. "Here one comes when one is in great trouble, when one can
be helped in no other way than through a miracle."

She lingered down by the door and breathed in this strange air of
mystery and gloom. "I don't even know to whom this old church is
dedicated; but I feel that here there must be some one who is able to
grant us that which we pray for."

She sank down among the kneeling people, who were so many that they
covered the floor from the altar to the door. All the while that she
herself was praying, she heard around her sighs and sobs. All this grief
went to her heart and filled it with greater and greater compassion.
"Oh, my God, let me do something to save the old man!" she prayed. "In
the first place, I ought to help my children, and then all the other
people."

Every once in a while a thin little monk stole in among the praying and
whispered something in their ears. The one to whom he was speaking
instantly stood up and followed him into the sacristy.

Signora Concenza soon apprehended what there was in question. "They are
of the kind who give pledges for the Pope's recovery," thought she.

The next time the little monk made his rounds, she rose up and went with
him. It was a perfectly involuntary action. She fancied that she was
being impelled to do this by the power which ruled in the old church.

As soon as she came into the sacristy, which was even more archaic and
more mystical than the church itself, she regretted it. "What have I to
do in here?" she asked herself. "What have I to give away? I own nothing
but a couple of cartloads of garden truck. I certainly can't present the
saints with a few baskets of artichokes!"

At one side of the room there was a long table at which a priest stood
recording in a register all that was pledged to the saints. Concenza
heard how one promised to present the old church with a sum of money,
while a second promised to give his gold watch, and a third her pearl
earrings.

Concenza stood all the while down by the door. Her last poor copper had
been spent to procure a few delicacies for her son. She saw a number of
persons who appeared to be no richer than herself buying wax candles and
silver hearts. She turned her skirt pocket inside out, but she could not
afford even that much.

She stood and waited so long that finally she was the only stranger in
the sacristy. The priests walking about in there looked at her a little
astonished. Then she took a step or two forward. She seemed at the start
uncertain and embarrassed, but after the first move she walked lightly
and briskly up to the table. "Your Reverence!" she said to the priest,
"write that Concenza Zamponi, who was sixty last year, on Saint John the
Baptist's Day, gives all her remaining years to the Pope, that the
thread of his life may be lengthened!"

The priest had already begun writing. He was probably very tired after
having worked at this register the whole night, and thought no more
about the sort of things he was recording. But now he stopped short in
the middle of a word and looked quizzically at Signora Concenza. She met
his glance very calmly.

"I am strong and well, your Reverence," said she. "I should probably
have lived out my allotted seventy years. It is at least ten years that
I am giving to the Holy Father."

The priest marked her zeal and reverence and offered no objections. "She
is a poor woman," thought he. "She has nothing else to give."

"It is written, my daughter," he said.

When old Concenza came out from the church, it was so late that the
commotion had ceased and the streets were absolutely deserted. She found
herself in a remote part of the city, where the gas lamps were so far
apart that they dispelled only a very little of the darkness. All the
same, she walked on briskly. She felt very solemn within and was certain
that she had done something which would make many people happy.

As she walked up the street, she suddenly got the impression that a live
being circled above her head. In the darkness, between the tall houses,
she thought she could distinguish a pair of large wings, and she even
fancied she heard the sound of their beating.

"What is this?" said she. "Surely it can't be a bird! It is much too big
for that." All at once she thought she saw a face which was so white
that it illuminated the darkness. Then an unspeakable terror seized her.
"It is the Angel of Death hovering over me," thought she. "Ah, what have
I done? I have placed myself in the dreaded one's power!"

She started to run, but she could hear the rustle of the strong wings
and was convinced that Death was pursuing her.

She fled with breathless haste through several streets, thinking all the
while that Death was coming nearer and nearer her. She already felt his
wings brushing against her shoulder.

Suddenly she heard a whizzing in the air, and something heavy and sharp
struck her head. Death's two-edged sword had reached her. She sank to
her knees. She knew that she must lose her life.

A few hours later, old Concenza was found on the street by two workmen.
She lay there unconscious, stricken with apoplexy. The poor woman was
immediately removed to a hospital, where they succeeded in bringing her
to, but it was apparent that she could not live very long.

There was time, at all events, to send for her children. When, in a
state of despair, they reached her sick-bed, they found her very calm
and happy. She couldn't speak many words to them, but she lay and
caressed their hands. "You must be happy," said she, "happy, happy!"
Evidently she did not like their crying. She also bade the nurses smile
and show their joy. "Cheerful and happy," said she; "now you must be
cheerful and happy!" She lay there with hunger in her eyes, waiting to
see a little joy in their faces.

She grew more and more impatient with her children's tears and with the
solemn faces of the nurses. She began to utter things which no one could
comprehend. She said that in case they were not glad she might just as
well have lived. Those who heard her thought she was raving.

Suddenly the doors opened, and a young physician came into the
sick-room. He was waving a newspaper and calling in a loud voice: "The
Pope is better. He will live. A change has taken place in the night."

The nurses silenced him, so that he shouldn't disturb the dying woman,
but Signora Concenza had already heard him.

She had also marked a spark of joy--a gleam of happiness which could not
be concealed--pass through those who stood around her bed.

There she lay looking about her, with something far-seeing in her gaze.
It was as though she were looking out over Rome, where the people were
now thronging up and down the streets and greeting one another with the
joyful news.

She raised her head as high as she could and said: "So am I--I am very
happy. God has allowed me to die that he may live. I don't mind dying
when I have made so many people happy."

She lay down again, and a few seconds later she was dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

But they say in Rome that, after his recovery, the Holy Father
entertained himself one day by looking through the church records of
pious pledges which had been offered for his recovery.

Smilingly he read the long lists of little gifts until he came to the
record where Concenza Zamponi had presented him with her remaining
years of life. Instantly he became very serious and thoughtful.

He made inquiries about Concenza Zamponi and learned that she had died
on the night of his recovery. He then bade them call to him her son,
Dominico, and questioned him minutely as to her last moments.

"My son," said the Pope to him when he had spoken, "your mother has not
saved my life, as she believed in her last hour; but I am deeply moved
by her love and self-sacrifice."

He let Dominico kiss his hand, whereupon he dismissed him.

But the Romans assure you that, although the Pope would not admit that
his span of years had been lengthened by the poor woman's gift, he was
nevertheless certain of it. "Why else should Father Zamponi have had
such a meteoric career?" asked the Romans. "He is already a bishop and
it is whispered that he will soon be a Cardinal."

And in Rome they never feared after that that the Pope would die, not
even when he was mortally ill. They were prepared to have him live
longer than other people. His life had of course been lengthened by all
the years that poor Concenza had given him.




The Story of a Story


Once there was a story that wanted to be told and sent out in the world.
This was very natural, inasmuch as it knew that it was already as good
as finished. Many, through remarkable deeds and strange events, had
helped create it; others had added their straws in it by again and again
relating these things. What it lacked was merely a matter of being
joined together, so that it could travel comfortably through the
country. As yet it was only a confused jumble of stories--a big,
formless cloud of adventures rushing hither and thither like a swarm of
stray bees on a summer's day, not knowing where they will find some one
who can gather them into a hive.

The story that wanted to be told had sprung up in Vermland, and you may
be sure that it circled over many mills and manors, over many parsonages
and many homes of military officers, in the beautiful province, peering
through the windows and begging to be cared for. But it was forced to
make many futile attempts, for everywhere it was turned away. Anything
else was hardly to be expected. People had many things of much more
importance to think of.

Finally the story came to an old place called Mårbacka. It was a little
homestead, with low buildings overshadowed by giant trees. At one time
it had been a parsonage, and it was as if this had set a certain stamp
upon the place which it could not lose. They seemed to have a greater
love for books and reading there than elsewhere, and a certain air of
restfulness and peace always pervaded it. There rushing with duties and
bickering with servants were never met with, nor was hatred or
dissension given house room, either. One who happened to be a guest
there was not allowed to take life too seriously, but had to feel that
his first duty was to be light-hearted and believe that for one and all
who lived on this estate our Lord managed everything for the best.

As I think of the matter now, I apprehend that the story of which I am
speaking must have lingered thereabouts a great many years during its
vain longing to be told. It seems to me as though it must have enwrapped
the place, as a mist shrouds a mountain summit, now and then letting one
of the adventures of which it consisted rain down upon it.

They came in the form of strange ghost stories about the superintendent
of the foundries, who always had black bulls hitched to his wagon when
he drove home at night from a revel. And in his home the Evil One
himself used to sit in the rocker and rock while the wife sat at the
piano and played. They came as true stories from the neighboring
homestead, where crows had persecuted the mistress until she didn't dare
venture outside the door; from the Captain's house, where they were so
poor that everything had to be borrowed; from the little cottage down by
the church, where there lived a lot of young and old girls who had all
fallen in love with the handsome organ builder.

Sometimes the dear adventures came to the homestead in an even more
tangible form. Aged and poverty-stricken army officers would drive up to
the doorstep behind rickety old horses and in rickety carryalls. They
would stop and visit for weeks, and in the evenings, when the toddy had
put courage into them, they would talk of the time when they had danced
in stockingless shoes, so that their feet would look small, of how they
had curled their hair and dyed their mustaches. One of them told how he
had tried to take a pretty young girl back to her sweetheart and how he
had been hunted by wolves on the way; another had been at the Christmas
feast where an angered guest had flung all the hazel-hens at the wall
because some one had made him believe they were crows; a third had seen
the old gentleman who used to sit at a plain board table and play
Beethoven.

But the story could reveal its presence in still another way. In the
attic hung the portrait of a lady with powdered hair, and when any one
walked past it he was reminded that it was a portrait of the beautiful
daughter of the Count, who had loved her brother's young tutor, and had
called to see him once when she was an old gray-haired lady and he an
old married man. In the lumber room were heaped up bundles of documents
containing deeds of purchase and leases signed by the great lady, who
once ruled over seven foundries which had been willed to her by her
lover. If one entered the church, one saw in a dusty little cabinet
under the pulpit the chest filled with infidel manuscripts, which was
not to be opened until the beginning of the new century. And not very
far from the church is the river, at the bottom of which rests a pile of
sacred images that were not allowed to remain in the pulpit and chancel
they once had ornamented.

It must have been because so many legends and traditions hovered around
the farm that one of the children growing up there longed to become a
narrator. It was not one of the boys. They were not at home very much,
for they were away at their schools almost the whole year; so the story
did not get much of a hold upon them. But it was one of the girls--one
who was delicate and could not romp and play like other children, but
found her greatest enjoyment in reading and hearing stories about all
the great and wonderful things which had happened in the world.

However, at the start it was not the girl's intention to write about the
stories and legends surrounding her. She hadn't the remotest idea that a
book could be made of these adventures, which she had so often heard
related that to her they seemed the most commonplace things in the
world. When she tried to write, she chose material from her books, and
with fresh courage she strung together stories of the Sultans in
"Thousand and One Nights," Walter Scott's heroes, and Snorre Sturleson's
"Kings of Romance."

Surely it is needless to state that what she wrote was the least
original and the crudest that has ever been put upon paper. But this
very naturally she herself did not see. She went about at home on the
quiet farm, filling every scrap of paper she could lay her hands on
with verse and prose, with plays and romances. When she wasn't writing,
she sat and waited for success. And success was to consist in this: Some
stranger who was very learned and influential, through some rare freak
of fortune, was to come and discover what she had written and find it
worth printing. After that, all the rest would come of itself.

Meanwhile nothing of the sort happened. And when the girl had passed her
twentieth year, she began to grow impatient. She wondered why success
did not come her way. Perhaps she lacked knowledge. She probably needed
to see a little more of the world than the homestead in Vermland. And
seeing that it would be a long time before she could earn her livelihood
as an author, it was necessary for her to learn something--find some
work in life--that she might have bread while she waited for herself. Or
maybe it was simply this--that the story had lost patience with her.
Perhaps it thought thus: "Since this blind person does not see that
which lies nearest her eyes, let her be forced to go away. Let her tramp
upon gray stone streets; let her live in cramped city rooms with no
other outlook than gray stone walls; let her live among people who hide
everything that is unusual in them and who appear to be all alike. It
may perchance teach her to see that which is waiting outside the gate of
her home--all that lives and moves between the stretch of blue hills
which she has every day before her eyes."

And so, one autumn, when she was two-and-twenty, she travelled up to
Stockholm to begin preparing herself for the vocation of teacher.

The girl soon became absorbed in her work. She wrote no more, but went
in for studies and lectures. It actually looked as though the story
would lose her altogether.

Then something extraordinary happened. This same autumn, after she had
been living a couple of months amidst gray streets and house walls, she
was walking one day up Malmskillnad Street with a bundle of books under
her arm. She had just come from a lecture on the history of literature.
The lecture must have been about Bellman and Runeberg, because she was
thinking of them and of the characters that live in their verses. She
said to herself that Runeberg's jolly warriors and Bellman's
happy-go-lucky roisterers were the very best material a writer could
have to work with. And suddenly this thought flashed upon her: Vermland,
the world in which you have been living, is not less remarkable than
that of Fredman or Fänrik Stål. If you can only learn how to handle it,
you will find that your material is quite as good as theirs.

This is how it happened that she caught her first glimpse of the story.
And the instant she saw it, the ground under her seemed to sway. The
whole long Malmskillnad Street from Hamn Street Hill to the fire-house
rose toward the skies and sank again--rose and sank. She stood still a
long while, until the street had settled itself. She gazed with
astonishment at the passers-by, who walked calmly along, apparently
oblivious to the miracle that had taken place.

At that moment the girl determined that she would write the story of
Vermland's Cavaliers, and never for an instant did she relinquish the
thought of it; but many and long years elapsed before the determination
was carried out.

In the first place she had entered upon a new field of labor, and she
lacked the time needful for the carrying out of a great literary work.
In the second place she had failed utterly in her first attempts to
write the story.

During these years many things were constantly happening which helped
mould it. One morning, on a school holiday, she was sitting at the
breakfast-table with her father, and the two of them talked of old
times. Then he began telling of an acquaintance of his youth, whom he
described as the most fascinating of men. This man brought joy and cheer
with him wherever he went. He could sing; he composed music; he
improvised verse. If he struck up a dance, it was not alone the young
folk who danced, but old men and old women, high and low. If he made a
speech, one had to laugh or cry, whichever he wished. If he drank
himself full, he could play and talk better than when he was sober, and
when he fell in love with a woman, it was impossible for her to resist
him. If he did foolish things, one forgave him; if he was sad at times,
one wanted to do anything and everything to see him glad again. But any
great success in life he had never had, despite his wealth of talents.
He had lived mostly at the foundries in Vermland as private tutor.
Finally he was ordained as a minister. This was the highest that he had
attained.

After this conversation she could see the hero of her story better than
heretofore, and with this a little life and action came into it. One
fine day a name was given to the hero and he was called Gösta Berling.
Whence he got the name she never knew. It was as if he had named
himself.

Another time, she came home to spend the Christmas holidays. One
evening the whole family went off to a Christmas party a good distance
from home in a terrible blizzard. It turned out to be a longer drive
than one would have thought. The horse ploughed his way ahead at a
walking pace. For several hours she sat there in the sleigh in the
blinding snowstorm and thought of the story. When they arrived finally,
she had thought out her first chapter. It was the one about the
Christmas night at the smithy.

What a chapter! It was her first and for many years her only one. It was
first written in verse, for the original plan was that it should be a
romance cycle, like "Fänrik Stål's Sagas." But by degrees this was
changed, and for a time the idea was that it should be written as drama.
Then the Christmas night was worked over to go in as the first act. But
this attempt did not succeed, either; at last she decided to write the
story as a novel. Then the chapter was written in prose. It grew
enormously long, covering forty written pages. The last time it was
rewritten it took up only nine.

After a few more years came a second chapter. It was the story of the
Ball at Borg and of the wolves that hunted Gösta Berling and Anna
Stjernhök.

In the beginning this chapter was not written with the thought that it
could come into the story, but as a sort of chance composition to be
read at a small social gathering. The reading, however, was postponed,
and the novelette was sent to _Dagny_. After a time the story was
returned as unavailable for the magazine. It was in reality not
available anywhere. As yet it was altogether lacking in artistic
smoothness.

Meanwhile the author wondered to what purpose this unluckily born
novelette could be turned. Should she put it into the story? To be sure,
it was an adventure by itself--and ended. It would look odd among the
rest, which were better connected. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad
idea, she thought then, if all the chapters of the story were like this
one--almost finished adventures? This would be difficult to carry out,
but it might possibly be done. There would doubtless be gaps in the
continuity here and there, but that should give to the book great
strength and variety.

Now two important matters were settled: The story was to be a novel, and
each chapter should be complete in itself. But nothing much had been
gained hereby. She who had been fired with the idea of writing the story
of Vermland's Cavaliers when she was two-and-twenty, at this stage was
nearing the thirties and had not been able to write more than two
chapters. Where had the years gone? She had been graduated from the
Teachers' College and for several years past had been a teacher at
Landskrona. She had become interested in much and had been occupied with
many things, but the story was just as unwritten. A mass of material had
certainly been collected, but why was it so hard for her to write it
down? Why did the inspiration never come to her? Why did the pen glide
so slowly over the paper? She certainly had her dark moments at that
time! She began to think that she never would finish her novel. She was
that servant who buried his talent in the ground and never tried to use
it.

As a matter of fact, all this occurred during the eighties, when stern
Realism was at its height. She admired the great masters of that time,
never thinking that one could use any other style in writing than the
one they employed. For her own part, she liked the Romanticists better,
but Romanticism was dead, and she was hardly the one to think of
reviving its form and expression! Although her brain was filled to
overflowing with stories of ghosts and mad love, of wondrously beautiful
women and adventure-loving cavaliers, she tried to write about it in
calm, realistic prose. She was not very clear-visioned. Another would
have seen that the impossible was impossible.

Once she wrote a couple of chapters in another style. One was a scene
from Svartsjö churchyard; the other was about the old philosopher, Uncle
Eberhard, and his infidel manuscripts. She scribbled them mostly in fun,
with many ohs and ahs in the prose, which made it almost rhythmical. She
perceived that in this vein she could write. There was inspiration in
this--she could feel it. But when the two short chapters were finished,
she laid them aside. They were only written in fun. One could not write
a whole book in that vein.

But now the story had been waiting long enough. It thought, no doubt, as
it did at the time when it sent her out in the world: "Again I must send
this blinded person a great longing which will open her eyes."

The longing came over her in this manner: The homestead where she had
grown up was sold. She journeyed to the home of her childhood to see it
once again before strangers should occupy it.

The evening before she left there, perhaps nevermore to see the dear old
place, she concluded in all meekness and humility to write the book in
her own way and according to her own poor abilities. It was not going to
be any great masterwork, as she had hoped. It might be a book at which
people would laugh, but anyway she would write it--write it for herself,
to save for herself what she could still save of the home--the dear old
stories, the sweet peace of the care-free days, and the beautiful
landscape with the long lakes and the many-hued blue hills.

But for her, who had hoped that she might yet learn to write a book
people would care to read, it seemed as though she had relinquished the
very thing in life she had been most eager to win. It was the hardest
sacrifice she had made thus far.

A few weeks later, she was again at her home in Landskrona, seated at
her writing-desk. She began writing--she didn't know exactly what it was
to be--but she was not going to be afraid of the strong words, the
exclamations, the interrogations, nor would she be afraid to give
herself with all her childishness and all her dreams! After she had come
to this decision, the pen began to move almost by itself. This made her
quite delirious. She was carried away with enthusiasm. Ah, this was
writing! Unfamiliar thoughts and things, or, rather, things she never
had surmised were stored away in her brain, crowded down upon the paper.
The pages were filled with a haste of which she had never dreamed. What
had hitherto required months--no, years--to work out, was now
accomplished in a couple of hours. That evening she wrote the story of
the young countess' tramp over the ice on River Löven, and the flood at
Ekeby.

The following afternoon she wrote the scene in which the gouty ensign,
Rutger von Örneclou, tries to raise himself in bed to dance the Cachuca,
and the evening of the next day appeared the story of the old _Mamsell_
who went off to visit the parsimonious Broby clergyman.

Now she knew for certain that in this style she could write the book;
but she was just as certain that no one would have the patience to read
it through.

However, not many chapters let themselves be written like this--in one
breath. Most of them required long and arduous labor, and there were
only little snatches of time in the afternoons which she could devote to
authorship. When she had been writing about half a year, reckoning from
the day when she had gone in for romanticism with a vengeance, about a
dozen chapters were written. At this rate the book would be finished in
three or four years.

It was in the spring of this year, 1890, that _Idun_ invited prize
competitors to send in short novelettes of about one hundred printed
pages. This was an outlet for a story that wanted to be told and sent
into the world. It must have been the story itself that prompted her
sister to suggest to her that she make use of this opportunity. Here, at
last, was a way of finding out if her story was so hopelessly bad! If it
received the prize, much would be gained; if it didn't, she simply stood
in exactly the same position as before.

She had nothing against the idea, but she had so little faith in herself
that she couldn't come to any conclusion.

Finally, just eight days before the time for submitting manuscripts had
expired, she decided to take from the novel five chapters which were
sufficiently well connected to pass for a novelette, and chance it with
these. But the chapters were far from ready. Three of them were loosely
written, but of the remaining two there was barely an outline. Then the
whole thing must be legibly copied, of course. To add to this, she was
not at home just then, but was visiting her sister and brother-in-law,
who still lived in Vermland. And one who has come to visit with dear
friends for a short time cannot spend the days at a writing-desk. She
wrote therefore at night, sitting up the whole week until four in the
mornings.

Finally there were only twenty-four hours of the precious time left, and
there were still twenty pages to be written.

On this the last day they were invited out. The whole family were going
on a little journey to be gone for the night. Naturally, she had to
accompany the rest. When the party was over and the guests dispersed,
she sat up all night writing in the strange place.

At times she felt very queer. The place where she was visiting was the
very estate on which the wicked Sintram had lived. Fate, in a singular
way, had brought her there on the very night when she must write about
him who sat in the rocker and rocked.

Now and then she looked up from her work and listened in the direction
of the drawing-room for the possible sound of a pair of rockers in
motion. But nothing was heard. When the clock struck six the next
morning, the five chapters were finished.

Along in the forenoon they travelled home on a little freight steamer.
There her sister did up the parcel, sealed it with sealing-wax, which
had been brought from home for this purpose, wrote the address, and sent
off the novelette.

This happened on one of the last days in July. Toward the end of August
_Idun_ contained a notice to the effect that something over twenty
manuscripts had been received by the editors, but that one or two among
them were so confusedly written they could not be counted in.

Then she gave up waiting for results. She knew, of course, which
novelette was so confusedly written that it could not be counted in.

One afternoon in November she received a curious telegram. It contained
simply the words "Hearty Congratulations," and was signed by three of
her college classmates.

For her it was a terribly long wait until dinner-time of the following
day, when the Stockholm papers were distributed. When the paper was in
her hands, she had to search long without finding anything. Finally, on
the last page she found a little notice in fine print which told that
the prize had been awarded to her.

To another it might not have meant so much, perhaps, but for her it
meant that she could devote herself to the calling which all her life
she had longed to follow.

There is but little to add to this: The story that wanted to be told and
sent out in the world was now fairly near its destination. Now it was to
be written, at least, even though it might take a few years more before
it was finished.

She who was writing it had gone up to Stockholm around Christmas time,
after she had received the prize.

The editor of _Idun_ volunteered to print the book as soon as it was
finished.

If she could ever find time to write it!

The evening before she was to return to Landskrona, she spent with her
loyal friend, Baroness Adlersparre[1], to whom she read a few chapters
aloud.

[Footnote 1: Baroness Adlersparre--pen name, Esselde--was a noted
Swedish writer, publisher, and philanthropist, and a contemporary of
Fredrika Bremer.]

"Esselde" listened, as only she could listen, and she became interested.
After the reading she sat silently and pondered. "How long will it be
before all of it is ready?" she asked finally.

"Three or four years."

Then they parted.

The next morning, two hours before she was to leave Stockholm, a message
came from Esselde bidding her come to her before the departure.

The old Baroness was in her most positive and determined mood. "Now you
must take a leave of absence for a year and finish the book. I shall
procure the money."

Fifteen minutes later the girl was on her way to the Principal of the
Teachers' College to ask her assistance in securing a substitute.

At one o'clock she was happily seated in the railway carriage. But now
she was going no farther than Sörmland, where she had good friends who
lived in a charming villa.

And so they--Otto Gumaelius and his wife--gave her the freedom of their
home--freedom to work, and peace, and the best of care for nearly a
year, until the book was finished.

Now, at last, she could write from morning till night. It was the
happiest time of her life.

But when the story was finished at the close of the summer, it looked
queer. It was wild and disordered, and the connecting threads were so
loose that all the parts seemed bent upon following their old
inclination to wander off, each in its own way.

It never became what it should have been. Its misfortune was that it
had been compelled to wait so long to be told. If it was not properly
disciplined and restrained, it was mostly because the author was so
overjoyed in the thought that at last she had been privileged to write
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR


    JERUSALEM, A Novel
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    CHRIST LEGENDS
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF NILS
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NILS
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    LEGEND OF THE SACRED IMAGE
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)

    MIRACLES OF ANTICHRIST
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach_)

    STORY OF GÖSTA BERLING
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach_)

    FROM A SWEDISH HOMESTEAD
    (_Trans. from Swedish by Jessie Bröchner_)





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