The Saga of Gosta Berling

by Selma Lagerlof

  The centuries-old eyes flash with anger and desire.

  “Give me the brown ham!” she repeats. “Otherwise it will go badly for you.”

  “I would rather give it to the magpies than to someone like you.”

  Then the old woman shakes under the storm of wrath. She extends her rune-inscribed staff toward the heights and swings it wildly. Her lips utter peculiar words. Her hair stands straight up, her eyes shine, her face is distorted.

  “It is you that the magpies will eat!” she shrieks at last.

  Then she leaves, muttering curses, swinging the staff wildly. She turns homeward. She walks no farther toward the south. Now the daughter of the wilderness has performed the errand for whose sake she has marched down from the mountains.

  Countess Märta remains standing on the stairs and laughs at her unreasonable wrath. But soon the laughter will fall silent on her lips, for there they come! She cannot believe her eyes. She thinks she is dreaming, but there they come, the magpies that will eat her.

  From park and orchard they swoop down toward her, dozens of magpies with claws extended and beaks stretched out to peck. They come with howling and laughter. Black and white wings shimmer before her eyes. As in delirium she sees behind this swarm all the magpies of the district approaching, the whole sky full of black and white wings. In the sharp sunlight of forenoon the metallic colors of their wings glisten. Their throats are ruffled up as on angry birds of prey. In tighter and tighter circles the animals fly around the countess, aiming with beaks and claws at her face and hands. Then she has to flee into the vestibule and close the door. She leans against it, panting with anxiety, while the laughing magpies circle outside.

  With that she is also closed off from the sweetness and greenery of summer and from the joy of life. After this, for her there were only closed rooms and drawn curtains; for her, despair; for her, anxiety; for her, confusion bordering on madness.

  This story may also well be seen as madness, yet it must be true. Hundreds of people will recognize it and testify that such is the old legend.

  The birds settled down on the stair railing and the roof of the house. They sat as if they were simply waiting for the countess to show herself, to be able to throw themselves over her. They took up residence in the park, and there they stayed. It was impossible to chase them from the estate. It only got worse if you shot at them. For one that fell, ten new ones came flying. At times large groups had to leave to get food, but faithful sentries always remained. And if Countess Märta showed herself, if she looked out through a window or simply pulled back a curtain for a moment, if she tried to go out on the steps—they came at once. The entire terrible swarm rushed up toward the house with thundering wing strokes, and the countess fled into her innermost room.

  She lived in the bedroom within the red parlor. I have often heard the room described such as it was during that time of terror, when Borg was besieged by magpies. Heavy blankets before the doors and windows, dense rugs on the floor, stealthy, whispering people.

  In the countess’s heart pale dismay resided. Her hair turned gray. Her skin became wrinkled. She became an old woman in a month. She could not steel her heart with doubts about hateful magic. She leaped up from the night’s dreams with loud cries that the magpies were eating her. She wept throughout the day about this fate, which she could not avoid. Fleeing people, afraid that the swarm of birds would follow on the heels of anyone coming in, most often she sat silently with her hands before her face, rocking back and forth in her armchair, listless and dejected in the stifling air, at times leaping up with cries of complaint.

  No one had a more bitter life. Can anyone keep from pitying her?

  I do not have much more to tell about her now, and what I have told has not been good. It is as if my conscience struck me. Yet she was good-hearted and full of life when she was young, and many amusing stories about her have gladdened my heart, although here has not been the place to tell them.

  But it is the case, although this poor wanderer did not know it, that the soul is the eternal hungerer. He cannot live on frivolity and play. If he does not get nourishment, like a wild animal he will first tear apart others and finally himself.

  This is the meaning of the story.

  CHAPTER 20

  MIDSUMMER

  It was midsummer then, as it is now as I am writing. The most magnificent time of the year had arrived.

  That was the time of year when Sintram, the malevolent iron mill owner at Fors, grew anxious and sorrowful. He was annoyed by the victory march of light through the hours of the day, and by the defeat of darkness. He was angry at the leaf garb that enveloped the trees, and at the motley carpet that clad the ground.

  Everything was enveloped in beauty. The road, gray and dusty as it was, even the road had its edge of flowers: yellow and violet midsummer blossoms, wild chervil, and babies’-slippers.

  When the splendor of Midsummer Day was upon the hills and the sound of bells from Bro church was borne by the quivering air all the way up to Fors, when the inexpressible stillness of the holiday reigned over the countryside, then he rose up in anger. It seemed to him as if God and men dared forget that he existed, and he too decided to go to the church. Those who rejoiced at summer would see him, Sintram, lover of darkness without morning, of death without resurrection, of winter without spring.

  He put on his wolf-skin fur and shaggy bellows gloves. He had the red horse harnessed to a racing sleigh and put sleigh bells in the shiny, scroll-adorned harness. Outfitted as though the temperature were twenty below zero, he drove to the church. He believed that the creaking under the runners came from the severe cold. He believed that the white foam on the horse’s back was hoarfrost. He felt no heat. Cold radiated from him like heat from the sun.

  He drove along across the broad plain north of Bro church. Large, wealthy villages were in his way and fields over which singing larks fluttered. Never have I heard larks sing as over these fields. I have often wondered if he was able to make himself deaf to these hundreds of singers.

  There was much he had to travel past on the way, which would have annoyed him if he had granted it a glance. He would have seen two bowing birches at every cottage door, and through open windows he would see into rooms whose ceilings and walls were covered with flowers and green branches. The smallest beggar lass walked on the highway with a bunch of lilacs in her hand, and every farm wife had a little bunch of flowers stuck in her kerchief.

  Maypoles with shriveled blossoms and drooping wreaths were raised on the farmyards. Around them the grass was trampled down, for the merry dance had gone on there in the summer night.

  Down on Löven the log rafts crowded together. The small white sails were raised in honor of the day, although no wind filled them, and the top of every mast wore a green wreath.

  On the many roads that lead to Bro the churchgoers came walking. The women were especially stately in their light, handwoven summer dresses, which were made ready just for this day. Everyone was dressed for celebration.

  And the people could not stop rejoicing at the holiday peace and rest from daily labor, at the sweet warmth, at the promising harvest, and at the wild strawberries that had started to ripen along the roadside. They took note of the stillness in the air, the cloudless sky, and the lark song and said, “It seems that this day belongs to our Lord.”

  Then Sintram came driving along. He swore, swinging the whip over the toiling horse. The sand creaked unpleasantly under the runners, the shrill clang of the sleigh bells deadened the sound of the church bells. His forehead was furrowed in anger under his fur cap.

  Then the churchgoers shuddered and thought they had seen the evil one himself. Not even today, the festival of summer, could they forget evil and cold. Bitter is their lot, who wander on the earth.

  The people, who were standing in the shadow of the church or sitting on the churchyard wall, waiting for the service to begin, looked at him with quiet wonder as he walked up toward the church door. A moment ag
o the magnificent day had filled their hearts with gladness that they could walk the paths of earth and enjoy the sweetness of existence. Now, when they saw Sintram, a sense of strange misfortune came over them.

  Sintram entered the church and took his place in his seat, throwing the gloves onto the pew, so that the rattling of wolf claws sewn into the leather was heard throughout the church. And a few women, who had already taken a place in the front pews, fainted when they saw the furry figure and had to be carried out.

  But no one dared drive out Sintram. He disturbed the people’s devotions, but he was much too feared for anyone to dare order him to leave the church.

  The old minister spoke in vain about the light festival of summer. No one was listening to him. The people were thinking only about evil and cold and about the strange misfortune that the malevolent mill owner portended for them.

  When everything was done, the malevolent man was seen climbing out on the edge of the hill where Bro church sits. He looked down on Broby Sound and followed with his gaze past the parsonage and the triple promontories on the left bank out to Löven. And it was seen how he clenched his fist and shook it over the sound and its verdant shores. Then his gaze swept southward over lower Löven all the way to the blue-tinged promontories that seemed to close off the lake. And northward his gaze flew for miles past Gurlita Bluff up to Björnidet, where the lake ends. He looked west and east, where the long hills edge the lake, and he clenched his fist again. And everyone felt that if he had a bundle of lightning bolts in his hand he would have hurled them in wild delight out over the calm countryside and spread misery and death as far as he was able. For now he had so accustomed his heart to evil that he knew no joy other than in misery. Little by little he had learned to love everything ugly and base. He was crazier than the wildest lunatic, but no one realized this.

  Then there was strange talk throughout the countryside. It was said that when the church sexton came to close the church, the bit of the key broke, because a tightly rolled-up piece of paper was inserted into the lock. This he gave to the minister. It was, as one might well understand, a writing intended for a being in the other world.

  It was whispered about what was written there. The minister had burned up the paper, but the church sexton had watched while the diabolic thing burned. The letters had shown clear red on a black background. He had not been able to keep from reading. He read, it was said, that the malevolent one wanted to lay the land desolate as far as the steeple of Bro church was visible. He wanted to see the forest hide the church away. He wanted to see bear and fox in the dwelling places of people. He wanted the fields to lie uncultivated, and neither dog nor rooster should be heard in these parts. The malevolent one wanted to serve his master by being the cause of every man’s misfortune. This was what he had promised.

  And the people bided their time in silent desperation, for they knew that the malevolent one’s power was great, that he hated all living things, that he wanted to see the wilderness force its way down over the valley, and that he would gladly take the plague or starvation or war into his service to drive away everyone who loved good, joy-bringing labor.

  CHAPTER 21

  LADY MUSICA

  As nothing could make Gösta Berling happy since he had helped the young countess to flee, the cavaliers decided to seek help from the good Lady Musica, who is a powerful sylph and comforts many who are unhappy.

  To that end, one evening in July they threw open the doors to the large drawing room at Ekeby and raised the window latches. The sun shone and air was let in; the large, red sun of late evening, the gentle, vaporous air of cool evening.

  The striped covers were taken off the furniture, the piano was opened, and the gauze around the Venetian chandeliers was removed. The golden griffins under the white marble tabletops could again shine in the light. The white goddesses danced in the black field above the mirror. The silk damask’s multiform flowers shimmered in the glow of evening. And roses were picked and brought in. The entire room was filled with their scent. There were marvelous roses with unfamiliar names, transported to Ekeby from foreign lands. There were yellow roses, in whose veins the blood shimmers red like in a person, and the cream-whites with ragged edges, and the pinks with large leaves, which become colorless at the very edge like water, and the dark reds with black shadows. They brought in all of Altringer’s roses, which had come from foreign lands to delight the eyes of beautiful women.

  Then sheet music and music stands and brass instruments and bows and fiddles of all sizes were brought in, for now it is the good Lady Musica who will rule at Ekeby and try to console Gösta Berling.

  Lady Musica has selected the Oxford Symphony by the amiable Papa Haydn, and the cavaliers rehearse it. Squire Julius wields the baton, and each of the others tends to his own instrument. All of the cavaliers can play an instrument. Otherwise they would not be cavaliers.

  When all is ready, word is sent to Gösta. He is still weak and disheartened, but he delights in the grand room and the beautiful music he will soon hear. For it is commonly known that the good Lady Musica is the best company for anyone who is suffering. She is merry and playful as a child. She is fiery and captivating as a young woman. She is good and wise as the elderly who have lived a good life.

  And then the cavaliers play, so slowly, so gently murmuring.

  Little Ruster takes the matter to heart. He reads the music with his glasses on his nose, kissing gentle tones from the flute and letting his fingers play around the keys and holes. Uncle Eberhard sits bent over the cello; his wig has slipped onto his ear, his lips tremble with emotion. Bergh proceeds proudly with his long bassoon. Sometimes he forgets himself and lets loose the full force of his lungs, but then Julius thumps him with the baton right on his thick skull.

  It goes well, it goes brilliantly. From the lifeless sheet music they conjure up Lady Musica herself. Spread out your magic mantle, Lady Musica, and bring Gösta Berling to the land of delight, where he used to live!

  Oh, to think that it is Gösta Berling who sits there pale and disheartened, and whom the old gentlemen now must amuse, as if he were a child! Now there is a shortage of joy in Värmland.

  I understand why the old men loved him. I know how long the winter evenings can be and how gloom can steal its way into the mind on isolated, desolate farms. I well understand how it felt when he arrived.

  Imagine a Sunday afternoon, when work was set aside and thoughts were sluggish! Imagine a stubborn north wind, whipping cold into the room, cold against which no fire could bring relief! Imagine a single tallow candle that must constantly be trimmed! Imagine the monotone singing of hymns coming from the kitchen.

  Well, and then sleigh bells jingle, then rapid feet stomp off the snow out on the landing, then Gösta Berling enters the room. He laughs and jokes. He is life, he is warmth. He opens the lid of the piano, and he plays so that the old strings astonish you. He can sing all songs, play all melodies. He makes all the inhabitants of the house happy. Never was he cold, never was he tired. The sorrowful person forgot his sorrows when he saw him. Oh, what a good heart he had! How compassionate he was to the weak and poor! And what a genius he was! Yes, you should have heard the old people talk about him.

  But now, as they are playing, he bursts into tears. He thinks that life, all of life, is so miserable. He leans his head against his hands and weeps. The cavaliers are dismayed. These are not the gentle, healing tears that Lady Musica usually evokes. He is sobbing in despair. They set their instruments aside, completely at a loss.

  The good Lady Musica, who is fond of Gösta Berling, is about to lose heart, but then she reminds herself that she still has a mighty champion among the cavaliers.

  It is gentle Lövenborg, who lost his fiancée in the turbid river, and who is Gösta Berling’s slave more than any of the others. Now he steals over to the piano. He walks around it, touching it carefully, caressing the keys with a soft hand.

  Up in the cavaliers’ wing Lövenborg has a large wooden table,
on which he has painted a keyboard and set up a music holder. There he can sit for hours and let his fingers run across the black and white keys. There he practices scales and études, and there he plays his Beethoven. He never plays anything but Beethoven. Lady Musica has stood by him with particular favor, so that he has been able to transcribe many of the thirty-six sonatas.

  But the old man never dares attempt any instrument other than the wooden table. He has a reverential terror of the piano. It entices him, but it frightens him even more. The blaring instrument, on which so many polskas have thundered forth, is his shrine. He has never dared touch it. Just imagine the marvelous thing with its many strings, which could give life to the great master’s works! He only needs to set his ear next to it, and immediately he hears the andantes and scherzos murmuring within. Yes, the piano is just the right altar where Lady Musica should be worshipped. But he has never played on such a thing. Of course he has never been rich enough to buy one for himself, and he has never dared play this one. The majoress has not been willing to open it for him either.

  He has no doubt heard how polskas and waltzes have been played and Bellman melodies clinked on it too. But during such unholy music the magnificent instrument could only blare and complain. No, if Beethoven were to come, then it would let its proper, pure tone be heard.

  Now he thinks that the hour may have come for him and Beethoven. He will pluck up courage and touch the shrine and let his young master be gladdened by the slumbering euphony.

  He sits down and begins to play. He is uncertain and agitated, but he stumbles his way through a few measures, seeking to find the right tone, wrinkles his brow, tries it over again, and then puts his hands to his face and cries.

  Yes, dear Lady Musica, this is bitter for him. The shrine is of course no shrine. No clear, pure tones lie dreaming within, there is no muffled, powerful thunder, no powerfully roaring hurricane. None of the endless euphony that murmured through the air of paradise has been left behind here. This is an old, blaring piano and nothing else.