These mines, long the most precious natural resource of the State, ultimately fell beneath the yoke of the English, because of debts contracted by the mine owners with the English, a nation which stands forever ready to serve those whom she fancies she may one day be in a position to dominate and engulf, after having upset their balance of trade or having whittled away their strength by dint of usurious loans.
Once at Taperg, my imagination was filled with these thoughts just prior to my descent into these subterranean depths, wherein the luxury and the avarice of a handful of men was capable of dominating so many others.
Only recently returned from Italy, I was under the impression that these quarries doubtless resembled the Catacombs of Rome or Naples. I was mistaken. Though situated far deeper in the bowels of the earth, I was to discover there a solitude less terrifying.
At Uppsala I had been provided with a highly cultivated man to act as my guide, a man well versed in letters and with a knowledge both profound and broad. Fortunately for me, Falkeneim (for that was his name) spoke impeccable German and English, the only languages in common use in the North, through which I was able to communicate with him. We found that we both preferred the former language, and settled upon it; conversation on all subjects was thus no problem for us, and ’twas easy for me to learn from his lips the tale that I shall shortly relate.
With the aid of a basket and a pulley and rope—an apparatus so designed that the descent could be made without the slightest danger—we reached the bottom of that mine, and in the twinkling of an eye found ourselves some hundred and twenty fathoms beneath the surface of the earth. ’Twas with considerable amazement that I saw in these depths a veritable subterranean city: streets, houses, churches, inns, much hustle and bustle, work being performed, police, judges: in short, everything the most civilized city of Europe might offer.
After having surveyed these singular dwellings, we went into a tavern, where Falkeneim was able to order from the innkeeper all that we needed to quench our thirst and satisfy our hunger: a beer of excellent quality, dried fish, and a kind of Swedish bread commonly used in rural areas made of the bark of pine and birch trees, mixed with straw, some wild roots, and kneaded together with oatmeal. Does one need any more to satisfy one’s veritable needs? The philosopher who travels the ways and byways of the world in search of knowledge must learn to adapt himself to every time and clime, to every custom and religion, to all kinds of lodging and food, and leave to the indolent voluptuary of the capital his prejudices . . . his luxury . . . that shameless luxury which, never satisfied by real needs, daily creates factitious ones, to the detriment of one’s health and fortune.
We were just finishing our frugal meal when one of the mine workers, dressed in a blue jacket and breeches, his head covered with an inadequate and ill-fitting blond wig, came over and greeted Falkeneim in Swedish. Out of deference to me, my guide having answered him in German, the prisoner (for such he was) forthwith began to converse in that language. This poor wretch, seeing that I was the sole reason for their conversing in German, and thinking to discern my nationality, paid me a compliment in French, which he spoke to perfection, then turned back to Falkeneim and asked him if he had any news from Stockholm. He spoke of the King, mentioned several persons of the Court, and did so with an ease and assurance that caused me to study him more attentively. He asked Falkeneim whether he deemed it possible that he might one day be pardoned, to which my guide replied negatively, shaking his head with a show of regret.
The prisoner immediately departed, his eyes filled with chagrin, after having refused to share our food or drink, despite our insistence. A moment later he returned and asked Falkeneim whether he might entrust him with a letter that he would hasten to write. My companion promised to do whatever the prisoner desired, and the latter withdrew a second time.
As soon as he was outside:
“Who is that man?” I asked Falkeneim.
“One of the foremost noblemen of all Sweden,” he replied.
“Your words amaze me!”
“He is fortunate indeed to be here. Our sovereign’s leniency in his behalf might be likened to the generosity of Augustus with what regards Cinna. That man you just saw is Count Oxtiern, one of the Senators most ardently against the King during the Revolution of 1772.2 After peace had been restored, he was further guilty of unparalleled crimes. After he had been tried and found guilty by the laws of the land, the King, remembering the hate that Oxtiern had evinced against him, summoned him and said: ‘Count Oxtiern, the judges have decreed your death . . . ’twas not so many years ago you decreed my banishment from the land; ’tis for this reason I intend to spare your life: I wish to show you that the heart of him whom you deemed unworthy of the throne was none the less not utterly without virtue.’ Oxtiern fell at Gustavus’ feet, a torrent of tears issuing from his eyes. ‘I should have preferred to pardon you completely,’ said the King, helping Oxtiern to his feet, ‘but the enormity of your acts made this impossible. I am sending you to the mines. I do not claim you will be happy there, but at least you will be alive. You may go.’ Thus Oxtiern was brought to this place; ’tis he you have just seen. Come now, let us be going,” added Falkeneim, “ ’tis growing late. We shall fetch his letter on our way out.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” I then said to my guide, “were it necessary to spend a full week here, you have piqued my curiosity uncommonly; I refuse to leave these entrails of the earth so long as you have not revealed to me the reasons which have brought this poor wretch hither. Though a criminal, he has a most interesting face; why, the man is not a day over forty! I should like to see him set free. He might turn over a new leaf, and lead an honest life.”
“Oxtiern, honest? Never . . . never . . .”
“For pity’s sake, Monsieur, satisfy my curiosity!”
“All right, I shall,” Falkeneim replied. “Besides, that will give him time to write his letters. I shall send word to him that he need not hasten. Come, let us repair to this back room, where we will be less disturbed than here next to the street. . . . Still, I am most reluctant to discover these things to you, ’twill erase from your heart any feeling of pity the villain may have aroused in you. I should prefer that you remain in ignorance, and that he thus lose none of your good will toward him.”
“Monsieur,” I said to Falkeneim, “the failings of man teach me to know him better; my sole purpose in traveling is to study. The further he has deviated from the barriers which Nature or man-made laws have imposed upon him, the more interesting is he as a subject of study, the more worthy to be examined and the more deserving of my compassion. Virtue needs naught but worship, its career is one of happiness . . . it could not be otherwise, a thousand arms open to receive its disciples if ever adversity overtakes them. But no one opens his arms to the guilty person. . . . People blush to be in his presence, are embarrassed to offer him their tears, as though terrified of contagion; he is banished from every heart: pride impels us to heap abuse upon him whom we ought to succor out of a feeling of humanity. Therefore, Monsieur, when can we find a mortal more interesting than he who, from the pinnacle of fame and fortune, has suddenly fallen into the pit of misfortune, who, born to greatness, experiences naught but the pangs of disappointment, of disgrace . . . who is henceforth surrounded by naught save the calamities of poverty, and whose heart is filled with the shafts of remorse or the serpents of despair? Such a man, my dear friend, is full worthy of my pity. I shall not add my voice to those fools who say: ‘He has no one to blame but himself,’ nor shall I join the chorus of hardhearted souls who, to justify their induration, cry out: ‘Why, the man is all too guilty.’ Eh! What does it matter to me what bounds he has exceeded, what rules or laws he has scorned, what he has done! He is a man, and therefore weak . . . he is a criminal, he is miserable, he has my pity. . . . Speak up, Falkeneim, pray do, I am burning to hear what you have to tell.”
And my worthy friend related to me the following tale in these terms:
In the
early years of the present century, a German nobleman, Roman Catholic by religion, was obliged to flee his own country over a matter which is far from being a discredit to him. Knowing that, although we have abjured our papistic errors, the Roman religion was none the less tolerated in our provinces, he came to Stockholm. A young and handsome man, with a strong bent for the military and eager for a taste of glory, he caught the fancy of Charles XII and had the honor of accompanying him on several of his expeditions. He took part in the unfortunate battle of Poltava, remained with the King in his refuge at Bendery, shared his imprisonment in the Turkish dungeons, and returned with him to Sweden. When in 1718 our country lost this hero beneath the walls of Fredrikshald, in Norway, Sanders (’tis the name of the man of whom I am speaking) had by this time attained the rank of colonel in our armies, and ’twas in this capacity he retired from service and went to live in Norrköping, a commercial city fifteen leagues from Stockholm, situated on the canal which, in the province of Ostergötland, joins Lake Vättern to the Baltic Sea. There Sanders married and had a son, whom the later Kings Frederick I and Adolphus-Frederick accepted into their service as his father had been accepted before him. Through his own merit, the young man advanced in the King’s service until, like his father, he attained the rank of colonel. Although still a young man, he retired to Norrköping, his birthplace, and there he married the daughter of a rather impecunious merchant. This worthy lady died twelve years later, after having given birth to a daughter, Ernestine, who is the subject of the present tale.
The story opens three years ago, at which time Sanders must have been about forty-two. His daughter was then sixteen, and was very rightly judged to be one of the most beautiful creatures ever to grace our fair land. She was tall, a perfect model for an artist’s brush; noble and proud in bearing, she had black eyes as beautiful as they were lively, extremely long hair of the same color, which as you know is exceedingly rare in our part of the world. In spite of her dark hair and eyes, she had the most beautiful, the most alabaster skin. People found that she somewhat resembled our beautiful Countess de Sparre, the illustrious friend of our learned Christina, and ’tis indeed true.
Young Mademoiselle Sanders had not reached the age of sixteen without her heart already having made a choice. Having often heard her mother complain how cruel it was for a young wife who adored her husband to be constantly separated from him by the duties of a State to which he owes total allegiance and which detains him now in one city, now in another, Ernestine, with her father’s approval, had decided to marry a young man, Herman by name, who was of the same religion as she and who intended to enter the world of commerce. Herman’s training for that profession was presently taking place in the offices of M. Scholtz, the most famous merchant in Norrköping and one of the richest in all Sweden.
Herman was the scion of a merchant family. But he had lost his parents while he was still very young, and his father, upon his deathbed, had commended him to his former associate Scholtz. Thus he shared their dwelling, and having been found deserving of their full confidence by his seriousness of purpose and his diligence, Herman had been placed in charge of the business’ funds and books, although he was not yet twenty-two. ’Twas at this juncture that the head of the business died, leaving no heirs. Herman henceforth found himself dependent upon Scholtz’s widow, an arrogant and haughty woman who, in spite of all her husband’s instructions, seemed firmly resolved to get rid of the young man if he did not straightway accept the plans she had in mind for him.
Herman was a perfect match for Ernestine, as handsome as she was beautiful, adoring her as much as she loved him; there was also little doubt that the widow Scholtz was not blind to his qualities and that she, still attractive at forty, was enamored of him. But Herman, whose heart was taken, made not the slightest move to respond to his patroness’ prepossession, and although he strongly suspected her feelings toward him, he wisely feigned to be unaware of them.
Ernestine Sanders, however, was alarmed by Madame Scholtz’s passion; she knew her to be a bold and enterprising woman, jealous and hot-tempered; a rival such as she worried her prodigiously. Furthermore, she herself was far from being as good a match for Herman as was Madame Scholtz: her father had no dowry to offer her, and although her mother had left her a modest inheritance, how could she pretend to compete with the impressive fortune that Madame Scholtz could offer her young treasurer?
Colonel Sanders approved of his daughter’s choice; as she was his only child, he adored her, and he knew that Herman possessed some wealth, that he was intelligent, was a young man of high principles, and that, furthermore, he had won Ernestine’s heart; thus he had no intention of raising the least objection to so suitable a match. But fate does not always will what is best. It seems, in fact, to take pleasure in unsettling the best-laid plans of men, in order that from these inconstancies they may derive lessons and so learn never to count upon anything in this world, whose most certain laws are instability and disorder.
“Herman,” the widow said one day to Ernestine’s lover,3 “by now you have had sufficient training in the world of commerce to make a decision concerning your future. The money your parents left you has, thanks to my husband and me, increased in value more than enough to allow you to live comfortably. Set up your own establishment, my friend, I soon plan to retire. We can reconcile our accounts at the first possible occasion.”
“Whatever you wish, Madame,” said Herman. “You are aware of my honesty and disinterest. I am as little concerned about my money which is in your hands as you must be about your money which I control in managing your affairs.”
“But Herman, have you no plans to establish your own business?”
“I am still young, Madame.”
“All the more reason for some sensible and impressionable young woman to judge you an attractive match. I am certain you must already have someone in mind whom you assuredly would make happy.”
“I wish to have a greater fortune before I reach such a stage.”
“A woman would help you to amass it.”
“When I marry, I want my fortune already made, so that I can devote my full attention to my wife and children.”
“You mean to say there is no woman in the world who has caught your fancy?”
“There is one whom I revere as I would my own mother, to whom my services are dedicated as long as she vouchsafes to accept them.”
“’Tis not to these sentiments I am referring, my friend. I am grateful for them, but ’tis not upon such that a marriage is founded. Herman, I wish to know whether you have found anyone with whom you would like to share your life?”
“No, Madame.”
“In that case why do you spend all your time at the Sanders’? What keeps constantly enticing you back to that man’s house? He is a military man, you are a merchant. You should spend more time frequenting persons of your own profession, my friend, and forget those who are not.”
“Madame knows that I am Catholic. The Colonel is too. Thus we often meet to pray together . . . to visit together those chapels which are open to us.”
“I have never held your religion against you, although I do not share your belief, and indeed am perfectly convinced of the uselessness of all that nonsense, of whatever persuasion. You must confess, Herman, that I have never interfered with you on that score.”
“Well, Madame, that is why—for religion—that I sometimes call upon the Colonel.”
“Herman, there is another reason for these frequent visits, something you are hiding from me: you love Ernestine, that mere wisp of a child who, to my mind, has neither wit nor beauty but who, to hear the townsfolk talk, is one of the wonders of all Sweden. . . . Yes, Herman, you love her . . . you love her, I say, and I know it.”
“Mademoiselle Ernestine Sanders thinks well of me, I believe, Madame. But her birth . . . her station . . . Were you aware, Madame, that her grandfather, Colonel Sanders, was a close friend of Charles XII, and originally a high-ranking nobleman from Wes
tphalia?”
“I was.”
“Well, then, Madame, would she make a suitable match for me?”
“I assure you most emphatically, Herman, that I think she would not. What you need is a mature woman, one who would attend to your fortune and give it her constant attention; a woman, in one word, of my age and position.”
Herman blushed and turned away. . . . As at that point tea was served, the conversation was interrupted, and Herman, after luncheon was over, returned to his occupations.
“Oh! my dear Ernestine,” said Herman the following day to Sanders’ daughter, “ ’tis all too true that that cruel woman has designs upon me, of that there can no longer be any doubt. You are aware of her temper, her moods, her jealousy, and her influence in the town.4 Ernestine, I fear the worst.”
And as the Colonel entered at this point, they informed him of their apprehensions.
Sanders was a former soldier, a man of exceeding good sense who preferred not to create any trouble for himself in the town, and clearly perceiving that the protection he was granting Herman was going to draw down upon him the wrath both of Madame Scholtz and of all her friends, he thought it best to advise the youths to surrender to circumstance. He attempted to make Herman see that the widow upon whom he was dependent would, in fact, make a far better match for him than Ernestine, and that, at his age, he should value far more a fat purse than a pretty face.
“’Tis not that I refuse you my daughter’s hand, my boy,” quoth the Colonel. “I know you and I esteem you. You have won the heart of her whom you adore, and I have no desire to create any obstacles to your happiness; but I am as much loath to prepare something you may live to regret. You are both young; at your age you are blind to all save love, you fancy that love is all you need to live. You are mistaken; without wealth love wilts and withers away, and the choice one makes when prompted by love alone is oft a poor one, which is soon followed by remorse.”
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 77
