The Saga of Gosta Berling

by Selma Lagerlof

  While he read the introduction, wave after wave of blood rushed up to his face; this was anger.

  Yes, it was true that he’d been drunk, but who had the right to accuse him on that account? Had anyone seen the parsonage where he had to live? The spruce forest was dark and gloomy and grew right up to the windows. Water dripped down through the black ceiling, along the damp, moldy walls. Wasn’t liquor a necessity to keep your courage up, when rain or drifting snow swept in through cracked windowpanes, when the poorly tended earth wouldn’t yield bread enough to keep hunger at bay?

  His next thought was that he was precisely the kind of minister they deserved. They drank, all of them. Why should he alone restrain himself? The man who buried his wife got drunk at the funeral reception; the father who had christened his child had a drinking bout afterward. The churchgoers drank on the way home from church; most of them were drunk by the time they arrived home. It served them right to have a drunken minister.

  It was while making his official rounds, when dressed in his thin vestments he’d driven for miles across frozen lakes, where all the cold winds seemed to meet; it was as he was tossed around on these same lakes in a boat in storm and pouring rain; it was when he had to get out of the sleigh in a blizzard and clear a path for the horse through drifts as high as a house, or as he waded through the forest marsh, it was then that he’d learned to love liquor.

  The days of that year had plodded along in heavy gloom. Farmers and gentry kept all their thoughts fixed on matters of the soil, but in the evening their spirits cast off their chains, liberated by liquor. Inspiration came, hearts were warmed, life became radiant, song resounded, there was a scent of roses. Then the serving room at the inn had become a Mediterranean flower garden to him: grapes and olives hung down above his head, marble pillars glistened in the dark foliage, wise men and poets strolled under palms and plantains.

  No, he, the minister up there in the pulpit, knew that without liquor, life couldn’t go on in this part of the country; all of his listeners knew that, yet now they wanted to condemn him.

  They wanted to tear the minister’s gown off of him, because he had entered the house of their God drunk. Oh, all of these people, did they themselves have, could they believe that they had, any other God than liquor!

  He had read the introduction, and he lowered his head to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

  There was dead silence in the church during the prayer. But suddenly with both hands the minister took firm hold of the cords that fastened his vestments. It seemed to him as though the whole congregation, with the bishop in the lead, was stealing up the stairs of the pulpit to tear the vestments off of him. He got down on his knees without turning his head, but he could just feel them tugging, and he saw them so clearly, the bishop and the other clergymen, the deans, the church wardens, the organist and the whole congregation in a long line, tearing and pulling to get his vestments loose. And he imagined to himself vividly how all of these people who were tugging so eagerly would fall over one another on the steps when his vestments came loose, and the whole line down there, who hadn’t been able to actually pull on this clothing, but rather just on the coattails of those standing in front of them, would also fall down.

  He saw this so clearly that he had to smile, there on his knees, but at the same time a cold sweat broke out on his brow. The whole thing was simply too dreadful.

  So, he was now to be a condemned man because of liquor. He would be a defrocked minister. Was there anything more wretched on this earth?

  He would become one of the beggars on the road, lying intoxicated by the edge of the ditch, go dressed in rags, associate with vagabonds.

  The prayer was over. He should start reading his sermon. Then a thought occurred to him and halted the words on his lips. He realized that this was the last time he would get to stand up there in the pulpit and proclaim the glory of God.

  For the last time—this touched the minister. He forgot all about liquor and the bishop. He thought that he must use this opportunity to bear witness to the glory of God.

  He imagined that the church floor, with all the listeners, sank deep, deep down, and that the roof was lifted off the church, so that he was looking into heaven. He stood alone, completely alone in his pulpit; his spirit took flight toward the open skies above him, his voice became strong and powerful, and he proclaimed the glory of God.

  He was a man of inspiration. He abandoned what he’d written; thoughts came down upon him like a flock of tame doves. He felt as though it wasn’t he who was speaking, but he also realized that this was the greatest thing on earth, and that no one could reach higher in radiance and majesty than he, who was standing there proclaiming the glory of God.

  As long as inspiration’s tongue of flame burned over him, he spoke, but when it died out and the roof lowered back down onto the church, and the floor came up again from far, far below, then he bowed his head and wept, at the thought that life had given him his best hour, and now it was over.

  After the service came the inquiry and congregational meeting. The bishop asked if the congregation had any complaints against their minister.

  The minister was no longer angry and defiant like before the sermon. Now he felt ashamed and lowered his head. Oh, all those miserable drinking stories that would now be told!

  But there were none. It was completely silent around the large table in the parish hall.

  The minister looked up, first at the organist, no, he was silent; then at the church wardens, then at the wealthy farmers and the owners of the ironworks; they all kept silent. They kept their lips pressed tightly together and looked with some embarrassment down at the table.

  “They’re waiting for someone to go first,” thought the minister.

  One of the church wardens cleared his throat.

  “I think that we have an exceptional minister,” he said.

  “Reverend, you’ve heard for yourself how he preaches,” the organist put in.

  The bishop said something about the numerous cancellations of services.

  “The minister has the right to be sick, just like anybody else,” the farmers declared.

  The bishop alluded to their dissatisfaction with the minister’s way of living.

  They defended him with a single voice. He was so young, their minister, there was nothing wrong with him. No, if he would always just preach the way he had today, they wouldn’t exchange him for the bishop himself.

  There were no accusers, nor could there be a judge.

  The minister felt how his heart expanded and how easily the blood was flowing through his veins. No, that he no longer walked among enemies, that he had won them over, when he thought it least likely that he would be allowed to continue to be a minister!

  After the inquiry, the bishop and the other clergymen and the deans and the most distinguished men of the parish had dinner at the parsonage.

  One of the neighbor ladies had taken over the arrangements for the meal, for the minister was a bachelor. She had arranged everything in the best manner, and it opened his eyes to the fact that the parsonage was really not so bad. The long dinner table was set out under the spruce trees, and looked very attractive with a white tablecloth, with blue and white china, with glistening glasses and folded napkins. Two birches arched over the entrance, juniper boughs were strewn across the floor of the vestibule, a wreath of flowers was hanging from the ridge of the roof, flowers were placed in all the rooms, the smell of mold was driven out, and the green windowpanes glistened jauntily in the sunshine.

  The minister was thoroughly delighted. He thought that he would never drink again.

  There was no one who was not pleased at the dinner table. Those who had been broad-minded and forgiving were pleased with themselves, and the distinguished ministers were pleased, because they had avoided a scandal.

  The good bishop raised his glass and said that he had set out on this journey with a heavy heart, for he had heard some bad rumors. He had gone out to meet a Saul; bu
t see, Saul was already transformed into a Paul, who would work harder than all the rest. And the pious man spoke further of the rich gifts that their young brother possessed, and praised them. Not so that he might feel proud, but rather so that he would exert all his energies to keep close watch on himself, as one who bears an excessively heavy and valuable burden on his shoulders must do.

  The minister did not get drunk that afternoon, but he was intoxicated. All this great, unexpected happiness was a heady experience. Heaven had allowed the fiery tongue of inspiration to flame over him, and the people had given him their love. The blood still continued to flow feverishly and at a furious pace through his veins when evening came and the guests had gone. Far into the night he sat awake in his room, letting the night air stream in through the open window so as to cool this fever of happiness, this sweet unrest, which wouldn’t allow him to sleep.

  Then a voice was heard.

  “Are you awake, minister?”

  A man came walking across the grass up to the window. The minister looked out and recognized Captain Kristian Bergh, one of his faithful drinking companions. He was a wayfaring man without house or farm, this Captain Kristian, and a giant in body and strength; he was as large as Gurlita Bluff and as stupid as a mountain troll.

  “Of course I’m up, Captain Kristian,” the minister replied. “Do you think this is a night for sleeping?”

  And hear now what this Captain Kristian tells him! The giant has had his suspicions, he has realized that now the minister is going to be afraid to drink. He would never have any peace again, thought Captain Kristian, for these clergymen from Karlstad, who had been there once, could come again and take the vestments from him at any time, if he drank.

  But now Captain Kristian has set his heavy hand to the good work, now he has fixed it so that those clergymen will never come again, not them and not the bishop either. After this the minister and his friends will be able to drink as much as they want there in the parsonage.

  Hear what a great deed he has carried out, he, Captain Kristian, the strong captain!

  When the bishop and the two other clergymen had climbed into the covered cart and the doors had been securely closed behind them, then he had climbed up onto the driver’s seat and driven them a good ten miles in the light summer night.

  And then Kristian Bergh had let the reverends feel how precariously life is seated in the human body. He let the horses run at a frenzied pace. That would serve them right, for not allowing an honorable man to have a drink.

  Do you think he drove them along the road, do you think he avoided bumps? He drove across ditches and fields of stubble, he drove at a dizzying gallop along hillsides, he drove along the lakeshore, the water whirling around the wheels, he came close to getting stuck in the marsh, and took off across bare rock, so that the horses stood sliding on stiffened legs. And all the while the bishop and the clergymen sat behind the leather curtains, faces wan, mumbling prayers. They had never had a worse journey.

  And imagine how they must have looked, when they arrived at the inn at Rissäter, alive, but shaking like buckshot in a leather pouch.

  “What’s this supposed to mean, Captain Kristian?” says the bishop, as he opens the carriage door for them.

  “It means that the bishop should think twice before he comes here on another inquiry about Gösta Berling,” says Captain Kristian, and he has thought that sentence out beforehand so as not to forget what he wanted to say.

  “Then tell Gösta Berling,” says the bishop, “that neither I nor any other bishop will be coming to see him again.”

  See, the strong Captain Kristian tells about this deed, standing by the open window in the summer night. For Captain Kristian had only just left the horses at the inn, and then he came down to the minister with the news.

  “Now you can be calm, minister and dear friend,” he says.

  Ah, Captain Kristian! The clergymen sat with wan faces behind the leather curtains, but the minister in the window looks a great deal paler in the light summer night. Ah, Captain Kristian!

  The minister even raised his arm and aimed a dreadful blow against the giant’s rough, stupid face, but he restrained himself. He pulled down the window with a crash and stood in the middle of the room, shaking his clenched fist toward the sky.

  He, who had felt the fiery tongue of inspiration, he, who had been able to proclaim the glory of God, stood there thinking that God had played a terrible joke on him.

  Wouldn’t the bishop believe that Captain Kristian had been sent by the minister? Wouldn’t he believe that he had been a hypocrite and a liar all day? Now he would pursue the inquiry against him in earnest; now he would have him suspended and defrocked.

  When morning came, the minister had left the parsonage. He did not stay to defend himself. God had mocked him. God was not willing to help him. He knew that he would be defrocked. It was God’s will. So he might as well leave at once.

  This happened in the early 1820s in a far-off parish in western Värmland.

  This was the first misfortune that befell Gösta Berling; it would not be the last.

  For such foals, as cannot bear the spur or the lash, find life difficult. With every pain that befalls them, they bolt away on wild paths toward gaping abysses. As soon as the path is stony and the journey troublesome, they know no other recourse than to upset their load and run off in madness.

  II. THE BEGGAR

  One cold day in December a beggar came wandering up the hills of Broby. He was dressed in the shabbiest rags, and his shoes were so worn that his feet were wet from the cold snow.

  Löven is a long, narrow lake in the province of Värmland, laced up in a few places by long, narrow straits. To the north it extends up toward the forests of Finnmark, to the south down toward Vänern. Several parishes spread out along its shores, but Bro parish is the largest and wealthiest. It occupies a good part of the shores of the lake on both the east and west side, but the largest farmsteads are on the west side—manor houses such as Ekeby and Björne, widely known for wealth and beauty, and the large village of Broby with its inn, courthouse, sheriff’s residence, parsonage, and marketplace.

  Broby sits on a steep incline. The beggar had gone past the inn, which sits at the foot of the hill, and was plodding up toward the parsonage, which sits farthest up.

  Walking ahead of him on the hill was a little girl, who was pulling a sled loaded with a sack of flour. The beggar caught up with the girl and started talking with her.

  “Such a little horse for such a big load,” he said.

  The child turned around and looked at him. She was a little thing, twelve years old with piercing, sharp eyes and a pinched mouth.

  “God grant that the horse were smaller and the load larger, then it would last that much longer,” the girl replied.

  “Is this your own fodder you’re dragging home then?”

  “God help me but I have to get my food myself, little as I am.”

  The beggar took hold of the sled handle to push it.

  The girl turned around and looked at him.

  “You mustn’t think you’ll get anything for it,” she said.

  The beggar started to laugh.

  “You must be the daughter of the minister at Broby.”

  “Yes, yes, so I am. Many a girl has a poorer father; no one has a worse one. That’s the plain truth, though it’s a shame that his own child should have to say it.”

  “He sounds stingy and mean, this father of yours.”

  “He is stingy, and he is mean, but his daughter will likely be even worse, if she lives, people say.”

  “I think people are right. I would just like to know where you came across that sack of flour.”

  “Well, there won’t be any harm in telling you about it. I took grain from Father’s grain bin this morning, and now I’ve been to the mill.”

  “Won’t he see you when you come dragging it home with you?”

  “You must have left your master too soon. Father is away vi
siting a sick person, don’t you see?”

  “Someone is driving up the hill behind us. I hear the creaking from under the runners. What if it’s him who’s coming!”

  The girl listened, peering, then she started to wail.

  “It’s Father,” she sobbed. “He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me.”

  “Well, now, good counsel is hard to find and quick thinking better than silver and gold,” said the beggar.

  “Look,” said the child, “you can help me. Take the rope and pull the sled, then Father will think it’s yours.”

  “Then what shall I do with it?” asked the beggar, putting the rope across his shoulders.

  “Pull it wherever you want to for now, but come up to the parsonage with it when it gets dark. You can be sure I’ll be watching you. You must come with the sack and the sled, do you understand?”

  “I’ll have to try.”

  “God have mercy on you, if you don’t come,” called the girl, as she ran away from him, hurrying home before her father.

  The beggar turned the sled with a heavy heart and pushed it down to the inn.

  The poor wretch had had a dream, as he walked in the snow with half-naked feet. He had been thinking about the great forests north of Löven, about the great Finnmark forests.

  Down here in Bro parish, where he was now traveling along the strait that connects upper and lower Löven, in these parts renowned for wealth and joyfulness, with estate next to estate, ironworks by ironworks: here every road was too heavy for him, every room too narrow, every bed too hard. Here he must bitterly long for the peace of the great, endless forests.

  Here he could hear flails pounding at every barn, as if the grain would never be completely threshed. Loads of timber and charcoal wagons came unceasingly down from the inexhaustible forests. Endless ore carts traversed the roads in deep tracks, which hundreds of predecessors had carved out. Here he saw sledges, filled with passengers, hurry between the farms, and it seemed to him as though joy were holding the reins, and beauty and love were standing on the runners. Oh, how the poor wretch longed to be up in the peace of the great, endless forests!