The Wonderful Adventure of Nils Holgersson

by Selma Lagerlof

  They already owned a large farm, but if the lake level were lowered, such an extensive part of the lake bed would fall to them that their property would be almost doubled. For that reason they had been more eager for the enterprise than any of the other shore owners. The others had been anxious about the expense and that the draining would not be any more successful than the last time. Per Ola’s father was aware that he was the one who had prevailed upon them to agree to the undertaking. He had used all of his persuasive powers to be able to leave his son a farm twice as big as the one his father had left him.

  He wondered now if there was some meaning from God in this, that Tåkern had taken his son from him the day before he was to sign a contract for its draining. His wife did not need to say much to him before he answered, ‘It may be that God does not want us to disturb his order. I will speak with the others about this tomorrow, and I think we will decide that everything should be left as it is.’

  While the farm folk talked about this, Caesar was lying in front of the stove. He raised his head and listened very carefully. When he thought he was sure of his case, he went up to the mistress, took hold of her skirt and led her towards the door. ‘But Caesar!’ she said, trying to get loose. ‘Do you know where Per Ola is?’ she exclaimed after that. Caesar barked happily and threw himself towards the door. She opened it and Caesar rushed off down towards Tåkern. The mistress was so certain that he knew where Per Ola was that she simply ran after him. And no sooner had they come down to the shore than they heard a child crying out on the lake.

  Per Ola had had the best day of his life together with Thumbkin and the birds, but now he had started to cry, because he was hungry and afraid of the dark. And he was happy when Father and Mother and Caesar came and got him.

  Twenty

  The Prophecy

  Friday, 22 April

  The boy was sleeping one night on an islet in Tåkern when he was awoken by the strokes of oars. As he opened his eyes, such a strong light shone into them that it made him blink.

  At first he could not comprehend what was shining so brightly out here on the lake, but soon he saw a rowboat at the edge of the reeds, which had a large, burning tar torch set up on an iron rod in the stern. The red flame of the torch was clearly reflected in the night-black lake, and the dazzling glow must have lured the fish, because around the flame in the depths a number of dark streaks were seen, constantly moving and changing places.

  Two old men were in the rowboat. One sat at the oars, the other stood on the bench in the stern, holding a short spear in his hands, which was furnished with rough barbs. The one who was rowing appeared to be a poor fisherman. He was little, dried up and weather beaten and wore a thin, worn coat. You could see that he was so used to being out in all kinds of weather that he did not think about the cold. The other was well fed and well dressed and looked like an authoritative, self-confident farmer.

  ‘Hold still now!’ the farmer said when they were right in front of the islet where the boy was. At that moment he thrust the spear down into the water. When he raised it, a long, splendid eel followed along out of the depths.

  ‘See there!’ he said, while he released the eel from the fishing spear. ‘That one’s not bad at all. Now I think we’ve got enough that we can return home.’

  His comrade did not raise the oars, but instead sat looking around. ‘It’s beautiful out here on the lake in the evening,’ he said. And it was, too. It was completely calm, so that the whole surface of the water was undisturbed and at rest, with the exception of the streak where the boat had passed through, which shone like a road of gold in the torchlight. The sky was clear and deep blue and densely pierced by stars. The shores were hidden by the islands of reeds, except to the west. There, Omberg shot up high and dark, seeming much more massive than usual, and cut off a large, triangular piece of the canopy of the sky.

  The other one turned his head to get the torchlight out of his eyes, and looked around. ‘Yes, it’s beautiful here in Östergötland,’ he said. ‘But the best thing about the province is still not its beauty.’

  ‘So what’s the best thing about it?’ the rower asked.

  ‘Well, that it has always been a respected and honoured province.’

  ‘That may be true, of course.’

  ‘And then this, that you know that it will always remain so.’

  ‘How in the world can you know that?’ the one sitting by the oars asked.

  The farmer straightened up, supporting himself against the spear. ‘There is an old story that has passed from father to son in my family, and in it you find out what the fate of Östergötland will be.’

  ‘Then why don’t you tell it to me?’ said the rower.

  ‘We don’t usually tell it to just anyone, but I don’t want to keep it secret from an old friend, either.

  ‘On Ulvåsa, here in Östergötland,’ he continued, and now you could hear by his tone of voice that he was relating something that he had heard from others and knew by heart, ‘many years ago there lived a woman who had the gift that she could see into the future and tell folk what was going to happen to them, just as surely and precisely as if it had already happened. For this she became widely renowned and it is easy to understand that people would come from near and far to visit her in order to find out what they would have to look forward to, whether good or bad.

  ‘One day, when the Ulvåsa woman was sitting in her room spinning, as was customary in the past, a poor farmer came in and sat on the bench far down by the door. “I wonder what you’re sitting there thinking about, dear lady?” the farmer said after a while.

  ‘“I’m thinking about high and holy things,” she answered.

  ‘“Then it probably wouldn’t do for me to ask about something that’s on my mind,” said the farmer.

  ‘“There’s probably nothing on your mind other than harvesting a lot of grain on your fields. But I often get questions from the Emperor about the fate of his crown and from the Pope about the fate of his keys.”

  ‘“Yes, that sort of thing must not be easy to answer,” the farmer said. “I’ve also heard that no one usually leaves here without being dissatisfied with what he has heard.”

  ‘When the farmer said this, he saw that the Ulvåsa woman bit her lip and moved higher up on the bench. “I see. So that’s what you’ve heard about me,” she said. “Then you can try asking me about what you want to know, then you’ll see if I can give you an answer that satisfies you.”

  ‘After this the farmer did not hesitate to state his business. He said that he had come to ask about the fate of Östergötland in the future. There was nothing he held so dear as his home region, and he thought that he would feel happy even to his final hour if he could get a good answer to that question.

  ‘“If there isn’t anything else you want to know,” the wise woman said, “then I think you’ll be pleased. Because here, where I am sitting, I can tell you that the fate of Östergötland is that it will always have something to pride itself on ahead of all other provinces.”

  ‘“Yes, that was a good answer, dear lady,” the farmer said, “and now I would be completely satisfied if I could just understand how such a thing is possible.”

  ‘“Why shouldn’t it be possible?” the Ulvåsa woman said. “Don’t you know that Östergötland is widely renowned already? Or do you think that there is any province in Sweden that can pride itself on having two such convents at the same time as the ones in Alvastra and Vreta and such a beautiful cathedral as the one in Linköping?”

  ‘“That may be so,” said the farmer, “but I’m an old man and I know that human nature is fickle. I fear that there will come a time when t
hey will not want to give us any honour, either for Alvastra or Vreta or for our cathedral.”

  ‘“You may be right in that,” the Ulvåsa woman said, “but you don’t need to doubt my prophecy on that account. I will now have a new convent built on the Vadstena estate and it will become the most famous in the north. Both high and low will make pilgrimage there, and everyone will praise this province, because it has such a holy place within its boundaries.”

  ‘The farmer replied that he was quite happy to find this out. But he knew that everything was perishable and he really wondered what could give the country esteem, if the Vadstena convent ever came into disrepute.

  ‘“You are not easy to please,” the Ulvåsa woman said, “but I can see so far ahead that I can tell you that before the Vadstena convent has lost its sheen, next to it a castle will be erected that will be the most magnificent of its time. Kings and princes will visit it and it will bring honour to the whole province that it has such a jewel.”

  ‘“I am also very happy to hear this,” the farmer said. “But I’m an old man and I know how things go with all the wonders of this world. And if the castle falls into decay, I really wonder what could draw people’s attention to this province.”

  ‘“You want to know a lot,” said the Ulvåsa woman, “but I can see so far into time that I can observe how there will be life and activity up in the forests around Finspång. I see how foundries and smithies are erected there, and I think that the whole province will be honoured because iron will now be produced within its limits.”

  ‘The farmer did not deny that he was incredibly happy to hear this. But if it were to turn out so bad that the Finspång mill also sank in regard, then it would probably not be possible that anything new might arise on which Östergötland could pride itself.

  ‘“You are not easy to satisfy,” the Ulvåsa woman said, “but I can see so far ahead that I observe how farms as big as castles are built up along the lakeshores by lords who have waged war in foreign lands. I think that those estates will bring the province as much honour as anything else I have spoken of.”

  ‘“But if there comes a time when no one praises the big estates any longer?” the farmer persisted.

  ‘“You don’t need to be anxious anyway,” said the Ulvåsa woman. “I see now how mineral springs ripple on Medevi meadows near the shore of Vättern. I think that the wells at Medevi will bring the country as much renown as it can want.”

  ‘“That was a big thing to learn,” the farmer said. “But if there comes a time when people look for their health at other springs?”

  ‘“You should not worry yourself for that reason,” the Ulvåsa woman answered. “I see how people swarm and labour from Motala to Mem. They are digging a waterway right through the country, and then the praise of Östergötland will again be on everyone’s lips.”

  ‘But the farmer looked worried anyway.

  ‘“I see that the rapids in Motala River are starting to drive wheels,” the Ulvåsa woman said, and now a couple of red patches appeared on her cheeks, because she was starting to get impatient. “I hear hammer mills booming in Motala and weaving machines clattering in Norrköping.”

  ‘“Yes, that’s good to know,” said the farmer, “but everything is changeable, and I’m afraid that this too can be neglected and forgotten.”

  ‘Now, when the farmer was still not satisfied, the woman’s patience ran out. “You say that everything is changeable,” she said, “but now I’m going to mention something that will always be the same. And that is, that there will always be arrogant and stubborn farmers like yourself here in the province until the end of the world!”

  ‘The Ulvåsa woman had barely said this before the farmer stood up, happy and satisfied, and thanked her for this good news. Now he was finally satisfied, he said.

  ‘“Truly, now I understand what you mean,” the Ulvåsa woman said then.

  ‘“Yes, dear lady,” said the farmer, “I mean that everything that kings and convent folk and gentlemen and townspeople build and establish is only in existence for a few years. But when you tell me that in Östergötland there will always be farmers who love honour and are persistent, then I know too that it will maintain its old honour. Because only those who go bowed under endless labour with the earth can keep this country in well-being and reputation from age to age.”’

  Twenty-One

  Homespun Cloth

  Saturday, 23 April

  The boy was moving along high up in the air. He had the big Östgöta plain below him and he was counting the many white churches that rose up out of small clumps of trees. It did not take long before he made it to fifty. Then he got confused and lost count.

  The vast majority of the farms were built with large, white-painted two-storey houses, which looked so stately that the boy could not help marvelling at them. ‘No peasants must live in this country,’ he said to himself, ‘because I don’t see any farmsteads.’

  Then all the wild geese shrieked at once, ‘Here the farmers live like gentry! Here the farmers live like gentry!’

  Ice and snow had vanished on the plain and the spring work had started. ‘What kind of long crayfish are those creeping along across the fields?’ the boy asked after a while.

  ‘Ploughs and oxen! Ploughs and oxen!’ all the wild geese answered.

  The oxen moved so slowly on the fields that you could hardly tell they were moving, and the geese called to them, ‘You won’t get there till next year! You won’t get there till next year!’ But the oxen did not owe them a response. They raised their muzzles in the air and bellowed, ‘We get more done in an hour than the likes of you do your whole life!’

  In some places the ploughs were drawn by horses. They moved along with much greater eagerness and speed than the oxen, but the geese could not refrain from teasing them as well. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to do ox work?’ they called to the horses. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to do ox work?’

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed to be so lazy?’ the horses whinnied back.

  While horses and oxen were out at work, the stable ram walked around at home on the farmyard. He was newly clipped and volatile, knocking down the little boys, driving the watchdog into his kennel and then going around boasting as if he were the sole master of the yard.

  ‘Ram, ram, what have you done with your wool?’ the wild geese asked as they flew past up in the air.

  ‘I’ve sent it to Drag’s factories in Norrköping,’ the ram answered with a long bleat.

  ‘Ram, ram, what have you done with your horns?’ the geese asked. But to his great sorrow the ram had never had any horns, and you could not annoy him more than by asking about them. He ran around a long time, butting in the air, he was so angry.

  On the road came a man who was driving ahead of him a herd of Skåne hogs that were no more than a few weeks old and would be sold in this part of the country. They plodded along so pluckily, as little as they were, and kept close by each other as if to get protection. ‘Oink, oink, oink! We have left our mother and father too soon! Oink, oink, oink! What will be the fate of us poor children?’ said the little pigs. Not even the wild geese had the heart to make fun of such small wretches. ‘It will be better for you than you can ever believe!’ they called as they flew past.

  The wild geese were never in such a good mood as when they got to travel over flat country. Then they were in no hurry, but instead they flew from farm to farm and joked with the domestic animals.

  While the boy was riding along over the plain, he happened to think of a fairy tale he had heard some time long ago. He did not really remember it, but there was something about a kirtle that was half sewn of gold-woven velvet and half of
grey homespun. But the owner of the kirtle adorned the homespun cloth with so many pearls and precious stones that it glistened more lovely and more costly than the golden cloth.

  He remembered that part about the homespun cloth when he looked down at Östergötland, because it consisted of one large plain that was squeezed in between two hilly forested sections, one to the north and one to the south. Both of the forest heights were a beautiful blue and shimmered in the morning light, as if they were covered with gold veils, and the plain, which simply spread out in one bare winter field after another, was in itself no more beautiful to look at than grey homespun.

  But the people must have been contented on the plain, because it was generous and good, and they had tried to adorn it in the best way. Where the boy was moving along high up, he thought that cities and farms, churches and factories, castles and railway stations were strewn out over it like small and large pieces of jewellery. The tile roofs glistened and the windowpanes shone like jewels. Yellow highways, shiny railway tracks and blue canals ran between the towns like silk-sewn coils. Linköping sat around its cathedral like a pearl setting around a precious stone, and the farms in the country were like small breastpins and buttons. There was not much order in the pattern, but it was a magnificence that you never tired of looking at.

  The geese had left the Omberg area and flew towards the east along the Göta Canal. It was also in the process of getting ready for the summer. Workers were repairing the banks of the canal and coating the sluice gates with tar.

  Yes, work was going on everywhere to welcome spring in the cities too. Painters and masons stood on scaffolding outside the buildings and made them nice, while servant girls climbed up in the open windows and washed the panes. Down by the harbour, sailboats and steamers were being cleaned.

  At Norrköping the wild geese left the flat country and flew up towards Kolmården. For a while they had followed an old, hilly country road which wound along ravines and continued under wild rock walls, when the boy suddenly let out a cry. He had been swinging his foot back and forth and one wooden shoe had slipped off him.