He had given the crown prince his word of honor not to leave Värmland and not to mention who he was unnecessarily. And so he was sent to Ekeby with a personal letter from the crown prince, who recommended him most highly. Then the cavaliers’ wing opened its doors to him.
At first there was much speculation about who the notorious man hiding under an assumed name was. But by and by he was transformed into a cavalier and a Värmlander. Everyone called him cousin Kristoffer, without really knowing how he got that particular appellation.
But it is not good for a bird of prey to live in a cage. It is understandable that he is used to something other than jumping from perch to perch and taking food out of his caretaker’s hand. In times past, the incitement of slaughter and mortal danger set his pulse aflame. The somnolence of peace revolts him.
It is also true that the other cavaliers were not mere domesticated birds either, but in none of them did the blood burn as hot as in cousin Kristoffer. A bear hunt was the only thing capable of enlivening his slackened lust for life, a bear hunt or a woman, a particular woman.
He livened up when, ten years earlier, he had seen Countess Märta, who by then was already a widow, for the first time. A woman changeable as war, exhilarating as danger, a sparkling, extravagant being. He loved her.
And now he sat there getting old and gray, not able to ask her to be his wife. Now he had not seen her for five years. Little by little he was withering and dying, as captive eagles do. With each year he got drier and colder. He had to creep farther down into the fur and closer to the fire.
So there he sits, freezing, ruffled and gray, the morning of the day on whose evening the Easter firecrackers would be shot off and the Easter witch would be burned. The cavaliers are all out, but he is sitting inside in the chimney corner.
Oh, cousin Kristoffer, cousin Kristoffer, do you not know?
Smiling he has arrived, the enticing spring.
Up leaps nature from indolent sleep, and in the blue sky butterfly-winged spirits tumble in boisterous play. Thick as roses on a wild bush their faces glitter up among the clouds.
The earth, the great mother, is coming alive. Giddy as a child she rises up from her bath in the spring flood, from the shower of spring rain. Stone and soil glisten with desire. “Into the circle of life!” rejoices the smallest of things. “We will journey as wings in clear air. We will shimmer in the blushing cheeks of young girls.”
The lusty spring spirits swim on air and water into bodies, quiver like eels in the blood, set the heart swaying. It is the same sound everywhere. In hearts and flowers, in everything that can sway and tremble, the butterfly-winged ones cling tightly and ring it out as with a thousand tocsins: “Joy and delight, joy and delight! He has arrived, the smiling spring.”
But cousin Kristoffer sits quietly, understanding nothing. He leans his head against his stiffened fingers and dreams of showers of bullets and of honor, grown on the fields of war. In his mind’s eye he conjures laurels and roses that do not need the feeble beauty of spring to blossom.
It is too bad about him, though, the lonely old invader, sitting up there in the cavaliers’ wing, without a people, without a country, he who never hears a word of the language of his homeland, he who will have an unmarked grave in the churchyard in Bro. Is it his fault that he is an eagle, born to pursue and kill?
Oh, cousin Kristoffer, you have sat dreaming in the cavaliers’ wing long enough. Get up and drink the sparkling wine of life in the high castles! Know, cousin Kristoffer, that this day a letter has come to the major, a royal letter, stamped with the seal of the realm of Svea! It is addressed to the major, but its contents concern you. It will be marvelous to see you, as you read the letter, old bird of prey. Your eye will begin to shine and your head will be raised. You will see the door of your cage open and free space granted to your longing wings.
Cousin Kristoffer is digging deep down at the bottom of his clothes trunk. Then he anxiously pulls out the stored gold-laced uniform and puts it on. He presses the plume-adorned hat on his head, and soon he is fleeing Ekeby, riding on his splendid white saddle horse.
This, however, is something different than sitting frozen in the chimney corner. Now he too sees that spring has come.
He raises himself in the saddle and sets off at a gallop. His fur-lined dolman flutters. The plume of the hat sways. The man is rejuvenated like the earth itself. He has awakened from a long winter. Old gold can still gleam. The bold warrior’s face under the three-cornered hat is a proud sight.
His ride is remarkable. From the ground brooks spurt and anemones spiral up where he rides along. The migrating birds shout and rejoice around the released prisoner. All of nature takes part in his delight.
Magnificent as a triumphator he comes. Spring itself rides ahead on a floating cloud. He is light and airy, a spirit of light. He has the krummhorn at his mouth and bubbles with happiness as he moves up and down in the saddle. And round about cousin Kristoffer a troop of old brothers in arms caracoles their horses: there is fortune, standing on tiptoe in the saddle, and honor on its stately courser, and love on its fiery Arabian. Remarkable is the ride, remarkable is the rider. The polyglot song thrush calls to him, “Cousin Kristoffer! Cousin Kristoffer! Where are you riding? Where are you riding?”
“To Borg to propose, to Borg to propose,” answers cousin Kristoffer.
“Don’t go to Borg, don’t go to Borg! An unmarried man has no sorrow,” shrieks the song thrush after him.
But he does not listen to the warning. Uphill and downhill he rides, until finally he arrives. He leaps out of the saddle and is led in to see the countess.
Everything goes well. The Countess Märta is gracious toward him. Cousin Kristoffer sees that she will not refuse to bear his glorious name or rule at his castle. He sits, delaying the moment of rapture when he will show her the royal letter. He enjoys this expectation.
She talks and entertains him with a thousand stories. He laughs at everything, admires everything. But as they are sitting in one of the rooms where the Countess Elisabet has hung up Mamsell Marie’s curtains, the countess also starts to tell the story about them. And she makes it as amusing as she can.
“Look,” she says at last, “see how wicked I am! These curtains are hanging here now so that I will think about my sin daily, hourly. It is a penance without equal. Oh, these horrible scalloped curtains!”
The great warrior cousin Kristoffer looks at her with burning glances.
“I am also old and poor,” he says, “and I have sat in the chimney corner for ten years and longed for my beloved. Do you, gracious countess, laugh at that too?”
“That is another matter!” the countess exclaims.
“God has taken fortune and fatherland from me and forced me to eat another’s bread,” cousin Kristoffer says seriously. “I have had to learn to have respect for poverty, I have.”
“You too!” cries the countess, holding up her hands. “How virtuous people are! Oh, how virtuous they have become!”
“Yes,” says the man, “make note, countess, that if one day God were to give me back wealth and power, then I would make better use of them than to share them with the sort of worldly woman, the sort of made-up, heartless Jezebel, who makes a joke out of poverty.”
“You are right about that, cousin Kristoffer.”
And then cousin Kristoffer marches out of the room and rides home to Ekeby again. But the genies do not follow him, the song thrush does not call to him, and he can no longer see the smiling spring.
He comes to Ekeby as the Easter firecrackers are to be shot off and the Easter witch burned. The Easter witch is a large doll made of straw, with a face made of rags on which eyes, nose, and mouth are drawn with coal. She has on the pauper’s discarded clothes. The long-shafted oven rake and broom are set beside her, and she has the butterhorn around her neck. She is ready for a witch’s ride.
Major Fuchs loads his shotgun and fires it straight up in the air, time after time. A bonfire of dry stic
ks is lit; the witch is thrown on it and is soon burning lustily. No doubt the cavaliers are doing all they can to destroy the power of evil in an old, proven manner.
Cousin Kristoffer stands watching with a gloomy expression. Suddenly he pulls the great royal letter out of his sleeve and casts it on the fire. God alone knows what he was thinking. Perhaps he imagined that it was Countess Märta herself who was burning over there on the bonfire. Perhaps he thought that because this woman, when all was said and done, was only made of rags and straw, that there was nothing of value left on the earth.
He goes into the cavaliers’ wing again, lights the fire, and hides his uniform. He sits down again in the chimney corner, and with each day he becomes more and more bushy and gray. He is dying little by little, as old eagles do in captivity.
He is not a prisoner anymore, but he does not care to make use of his freedom. Space stands open to him. Battlefields, honor, life await him. But he no longer has the strength to spread his wings in flight.
CHAPTER 15
THE PATHS OF LIFE
Toilsome are the pathways that people must wander on this earth.
Desert paths, marsh paths, mountain paths.
Why does so much sorrow go undisturbed, until it gets lost in the desert or sinks into the marsh or falls on the mountain? Where are the little flower gatherers, where are the little fairy-tale princesses, out of whose tracks roses grow, where are they who should strew flowers across the toilsome ways?
Now Gösta Berling, the poet, has decided to marry. He is only seeking a bride who is poor enough, lowly enough, rejected enough for an insane minister.
Beautiful and noble women have loved him, but they may not come forward to compete for his hand. The disowned one chooses among the disowned.
Who should he choose, who should he seek out?
Sometimes a poor girl comes to Ekeby from a deserted forest village far up in the hills and sells brooms. In this village, where constant poverty and great misery prevail, there are many who do not have full possession of their mental faculties, and the girl with the brooms is one of them.
But she is beautiful. Her ample black hair forms such thick braids that they scarcely fit on her head, her cheeks are finely rounded, her nose straight and properly proportioned, her eyes blue. She has a melancholy, Madonna-like type of beauty, such as you still find in beautiful girls on the shores of Löven’s long lake.
Well, there of course Gösta has found his fiancée! A half-crazy broom girl will be a good wife for an insane minister. Nothing would be more suitable.
He only needs to travel to Karlstad for the rings, and then they may once again have a joyful day on the shore of Löven. They may laugh at Gösta Berling once again when he gets engaged to the broom girl, when he celebrates the wedding with her! Let them laugh! Has he ever come up with a more comical prank?
Must not the disowned go the way of the disowned, the way of wrath, the way of sorrow, the way of misfortune? What does it matter if he falls, if he is ruined? Is there anyone who cares to stop him? Is there anyone who extends him a supporting hand or a refreshing drink? Where are the little flower gatherers, where are the little fairy-tale princesses, where are they who should strew roses across toilsome ways?
No, no, the young, gentle countess at Borg must not disturb Gösta Berling in his plans. She must think about her reputation, she must think about her husband’s anger and her mother-in-law’s hatred, she must not do anything to hold him back.
During the long church service in Svartsjö church she will bow her head, clasp her hands, and pray for him. During sleepless nights she may weep and worry about him, but she has no flowers to strew on the path of the disowned, no drop of water to give him who thirsts. She does not reach out her hand to pull him back from the edge of the abyss.
Gösta Berling does not care to wrap his chosen one in silk and jewelry. He lets her go from farm to farm with brooms, as is her habit, but when he has gathered all the excellent men and women of the region at a great banquet at Ekeby, he will announce his engagement. Then he will call her in from the kitchen, as she has arrived from her long wanderings, with the dust and dirt of the road on her clothes, perhaps ragged, perhaps uncombed, with confused eyes, with a confused flow of words on her lips. And he will ask the guests if he hasn’t chosen a suitable bride, if the insane minister shouldn’t be proud of such a lovely fiancée, of this gentle Madonna face, of these blue, dreamy eyes.
It was his intention that no one should know anything ahead of time, but he did not succeed in keeping the secret, and one of those who found out was the young Countess Dohna.
But what could she do to hinder him? The engagement day is near, its late twilight hour has arrived. The countess stands at the window in the blue study and looks northward. She almost believes that she can see Ekeby, although tears and mist obscure it. She sees so well how the large three-story house radiates with three illuminated rows of windows, she imagines how the champagne is being poured into the glasses, how the toasts resound, and how Gösta Berling announces his engagement to the broom girl.
What if she were near him now and very slowly placed her hand on his arm or simply gave him a friendly glance, would he not then turn away from the wicked way of the disowned? If a word from her has driven him to such a desperate action, would not a word from her then stop him?
She shudders at the sin that he will commit against this poor, unfortunate child. She shudders at his sin against the poor being, who will now be enticed into loving him, perhaps simply for a one-day joke. Perhaps too—and then she shudders even more at the sin he commits against himself—in order to be chained fast to his life, like an oppressive burden, and for all time take from his spirit the power to reach the heights.
And ultimately the guilt was hers. She had thrown him out onto the wicked way with a word of condemnation. She, who had come to bless, to alleviate, why had she twisted yet another spike in the sinner’s crown of thorns?
Yes, now she knows what she will do. She will have the black horses harnessed to the sleigh, hurry across Löven, storm into the Ekeby estate, place herself before Gösta Berling and tell him that she does not despise him, that she did not know what she was saying when she chased him away from her home. . . . No, she still could not do any such thing, she would be ashamed and dare not say a word. She, who was married, must be careful. There would be so much slander if she did such a thing. But if she did not do it, what would happen to him?
She had to go.
Then she thinks that such a journey is impossible. This year no more horses can travel across the ice of Löven. The ice is melting, it has already come apart from land. The ice lies loose, cracked, terrible to see. Water purls up and down through it; in some places it has collected in black pools, in other places the ice is blinding white. For the most part it is gray, however, dirty from melting snow, and the pathways go like long black strips across its surface.
How can she think about going? Old Countess Märta, her mother-in-law, would never allow such a thing. She had to sit next to her the whole evening in the drawing room and listen to those old court stories, which are the old woman’s amusement.
Yet, the night is coming, and her husband is away, now she is free.
She cannot drive, she dares not call the servants, but her anxiety drives her out of her home. She can do nothing else.
Toilsome are the pathways people wander on the earth: desert paths, marsh paths, mountain paths.
But this nighttime pathway across melting ice, what should I compare it to? Is it not the pathway that the little flower gatherers themselves must go, an uncertain, tottering, slippery way, the way of those who wish to heal inflicted wounds, the way of those who wish to set things right, the way of the light foot, the quick eye, and the brave, loving heart?
It was past midnight when the countess reached the shore of Ekeby. She had fallen on the ice, she had jumped across wide fissures, she had hurried across places where her footsteps were filled with purling wat
er, she had slipped, she had crawled.
It had been a toilsome journey. She had wept as she went. She was wet and tired, and out there on the ice the darkness, desolation, and emptiness had given rise to gruesome thoughts.
Now finally at Ekeby she had to wade in foot-deep water in order to reach land. And when she had come onto the shore, she had no courage for anything other than sitting down on a stone and weeping from fatigue and helplessness.
Toilsome ways walk the children of humankind, and the little flower gatherers collapse at times next to their baskets, just when they have caught up to the person’s path they want to strew with flowers.
This young, noble lady was, however, a charming little heroine. She had not walked such pathways in her bright homeland. Well might she sit at the edge of this horrible, dreadful lake, wet, tired, unhappy as she is, and think about the gentle, flower-edged paths of her southern fatherland.
For her it is no longer a question of south and north. She stands in the midst of life. She is not crying from homesickness. She is crying, this little flower gatherer, this little heroine, because she is so tired that she will not catch up to the person’s pathway that she wants to strew with flowers. She cries because she believes that she has come too late.
Then people come running along the shore. They hurry past her without seeing her, but she hears their words.
“If the dam collapses, then the smithy will go,” says one. “And the mill and the workshops and the blacksmiths’ houses,” another fills in.
Then she gets new courage, gets up, and follows them.
Ekeby mill and smithy were on a narrow point, around which the Björksjö River roared. It came rushing down toward the point, whipped white in the massive falls above, and at that time a massive breakwater was in front of the point to protect the built-up ground from the water. But the dam had gotten old, and the cavaliers were in charge. In their time the dance went over the hills at the ironworks, but no one took the time to see how the current and cold and time were working on the old stone dam.
The Saga of Gosta Berling Page 25
