The Saga of Gosta Berling

by Selma Lagerlof

  That Sunday Count Dohna sat in a flower-bedecked armchair in the choir so as to be seen and praised by every person. Now he would be honored, he who had the old pews repaired, had the disfiguring images destroyed, had new glass installed in all the broken windows, and had the entire church coated with whitewash. He was of course free to do that sort of thing. If he wanted to appease the wrath of the Almighty, then it was good that he adorned His temple to the best of his understanding. But why then did he accept praise for it?

  He, who came with unreconciled severity on his conscience, he might have gotten down on his knees down by the pillory and begged his brothers and sisters in the church to call upon God, that He might tolerate him in His sanctuary. It would have been better for him if he had stood there like a poor miscreant, than to sit honored and blessed up in the choir and accept praise, because he had wanted to become reconciled with his God.

  Oh, count, of course He had expected you at the pillory. He could not let himself be mocked, just because the people had not dared accuse you. He is still the zealous God, who lets stones speak when people remain silent.

  When the service was over and the final hymn sung, no one left the church; instead the minister went up to the pulpit to say a word of thanks to the count. But it did not get that far.

  For the doors were thrown open, and there came the old saints into the church again, dripping with the water of Löven, soiled with green mud and brown muck. They must have sensed that here the praises would be spoken of him who had cast them into annihilation, who drove them out of God’s sacred house and lowered them into the cold, dissolving waves. The old saints wished to have a word too in the matter.

  They do not love the monotonous lapping of the waves. They are used to hymn singing and prayers. They kept silent and let everything happen, as long as they believed that it would redound to the glory of God. But this was not the case. Here sits Count Dohna in honor and glory up in the choir and wants to be adored and praised in the house of God. They could not tolerate that sort of thing. So they have risen up from their wet grave and marched into the church, recognizable to all the people. There goes Saint Olaf with the crown on his hat, and Saint Erik with the golden flowers on his cowl, and the gray Saint George and Saint Christopher, no others: the Queen of Sheba and Judith had not come.

  But when the people have managed to recover from their astonishment, an audible whisper goes through the church: “The cavaliers!”

  Yes, of course it is the cavaliers. And they go right up to the count without saying a word and lift up his chair on their shoulders and carry him out of the church and set him down on the church green.

  They say nothing and look neither to the right nor to the left. They simply carry Count Dohna out of the house of God, and once this is done, they go away again, taking the nearest route down to the lake.

  They were not accosted, nor did they waste much time in explaining their intention. It was clear enough: “We, cavaliers of Ekeby, have our own opinion. Count Dohna is not worthy of being praised in the house of God. Therefore we are carrying him out. May anyone who wishes cart him back in again.”

  But he was not carried in. The minister’s word of thanks was never said. The people streamed out of the church. There was no one who did not believe that the cavaliers had acted rightly.

  They remembered the light, young countess, who had been so cruelly tormented there at Borg. They remembered her, who had been so good to poor people, who had been so sweet to look at that it had been a consolation for them to look at her.

  It was a sin to come to church with wild pranks, but both the minister and the congregation felt that they themselves had been on the verge of making a greater mockery of the Omniscient. And they stood ashamed before the wild old lunatics.

  “When the people are silent, stones must speak,” they said.

  But after that day Count Henrik could not be happy at Borg. One dark night at the beginning of August a covered coach drove right up to the large staircase. All the servants positioned themselves around it, and Countess Märta came out, concealed in shawls, with a thick veil before her face. The count led her, but she trembled and shook. It was with the utmost difficulty that they were able to get her to cross the vestibule and staircase.

  When she was in the coach, the count leaped up after her, the doors slammed shut, and the coachman let the horses set off as if out of control. When the magpies awoke the next morning, she was gone.

  The count later lived a long time in the south. Borg was sold and has changed owners many times. Everyone has to love it; there must be but few who have owned it in happiness.

  CHAPTER 25

  GOD’S PILGRIM

  God’s pilgrim, Captain Lennart, came wandering one afternoon in August up to the Broby inn and went into the kitchen there. He was on his way to his home, Helgesäter, which is a mile or so northwest of Broby, close by the edge of the forest.

  Captain Lennart did not yet know that he would become one of God’s pilgrims on this earth. His heart was filled with anticipation and happiness at getting to see his home again. He had experienced a dark fate, but now he was home, and now everything would be fine. He did not know that he would become one of those who are not allowed to rest under their own roof, not warm themselves at their own stove.

  God’s pilgrim, Captain Lennart, had a cheerful disposition. Not finding anyone in the kitchen, he rearranged things in there as if he had been a giddy lad. In haste he disturbed the selvage in the weaving and upset the thread of the spinning wheel. He tossed the cat down on the dog’s head and laughed so it sounded around the house, as the two comrades let the heat of the moment breach longtime friendship and attacked each other with claws extended, savage eyes, and bristling fur.

  Then the proprietress came in, attracted by the din. She remained standing on the threshold watching the man, who was laughing at the struggling animals. She knew him well, but when she last saw him, he had been sitting on the prisoners’ cart in handcuffs. She remembered it well. Five and a half years ago, thieves had stolen the governor’s wife’s jewelry during the winter market in Karlstad. Many rings, bracelets, and clasps, valued highly by the noble lady, for most of them were legacies and gifts, had then been lost. They were never recovered. But a rumor soon ran around the countryside that Captain Lennart at Helgesäter might be the thief.

  The woman had never been able to understand how such a rumor could have arisen. Was he not a good and honorable man, this Captain Lennart? He lived happily with his wife, whom he had only brought home a few years ago, for he was older before he had the means to get married. Did he not have a good livelihood nowadays from his salary and the little farm? What could entice such a man to steal old bracelets and rings? And it seemed even stranger to her that such a rumor could be so believed, so fully substantiated, that Captain Lennart was fired, lost his military position, and was sentenced to five years hard labor.

  He said himself that he had been at the market, but left before he heard talk of the theft. On the highway he found an ugly old clasp, which he had taken home with him and given to the children. This clasp, however, was gold, and was one of the stolen items. It became the cause of his misfortune. But it had really all been Sintram’s fault. The malevolent mill owner had played informer and given the damning testimony. It seemed as though he needed to be rid of Captain Lennart, for shortly thereafter a case was opened against Sintram, that he had sold powder to the Norwegians during the war of 1814. People thought that he had been afraid of the testimony Captain Lennart might have given against him. Now he was set free due to lack of evidence.

  The innkeeper could not get her fill of looking at him. He had acquired gray hair and a stooped back; he had no doubt had a difficult time. But he still had his amiable face and his cheerful temperament. He was still the same Captain Lennart who had led her up to the altar when she was a bride, and danced at her wedding. He would surely still stand and talk to every person he encountered on the road and toss a coin to ev
ery child. He would still say to every wrinkled old lady that she got younger and more beautiful day by day, and he would once again get up on a barrel and play fiddle for those who were dancing around the maypole. Oh, good Lord, yes!

  “Well, mother Karin,” he began, “don’t you dare to look at me?”

  He had actually come there to hear how things were going in his home and if they expected him. They might know, of course, that he had served his sentence by this time.

  The innkeeper gave him nothing but good news. His wife had been as capable as a man. She had rented the cottage and farm from the new officer, and everything had gone well for her. The children were healthy, and it was a joy to see them. And of course they expected him. The captain’s wife was a stern woman who never said what she was thinking, but the innkeeper knew that no one had been allowed to eat with Captain Lennart’s spoon or sit in his chair while he was away. Now in spring not a day had gone by without her going up to the stone on top of the Broby hills to look down toward the road to see if he wasn’t coming. And she had arranged new clothes for him, homespun clothes, on which she herself had done most of the work. See, by such things it could be known that he was expected, even if she said nothing.

  “They don’t believe it then?” said Captain Lennart.

  “No, captain,” answered the farm woman. “No one believes it.”

  Then Captain Lennart did not stay inside the kitchen any longer, as he wanted to go home.

  It happened that he met dear old friends just outside. The cavaliers at Ekeby had just arrived at the inn. Sintram had invited them there to celebrate his birthday. And the cavaliers did not hesitate a moment to shake the prisoner’s hand and welcome him home. Sintram did so too.

  “Dear Lennart,” he said, “be sure that God had some meaning with this!”

  “Watch it, scoundrel,” shouted Captain Lennart. “Don’t you think I know that it wasn’t our Lord who saved you from the scaffold?”

  The others laughed. But Sintram did not become the least bit angry. He had nothing at all against someone alluding to his pact with the devil.

  Yes, so then they took Captain Lennart in with them again to empty a welcome glass with him. Then he could go right on. But then things went badly for him. He had not drunk such treacherous things in five years. He had perhaps not eaten the entire day, and he was worn out by his long wandering. Consequently his head got dizzy from a few glasses.

  When the cavaliers got him to the point that he no longer knew what he was doing, they forced glass after glass into him, and they meant nothing bad by it; they had purely good intentions toward him, who had not tasted anything good for five years.

  Otherwise he was the most sober of men. He probably did not intend to become intoxicated either; after all, he was going home to his wife and children. But instead he remained lying on the bench in the inn and fell asleep there.

  As he was lying there, temptingly unconscious, Gösta took a piece of coal and a little lingonberry juice and painted him. He gave him a true criminal physiognomy; he thought that well suited someone who came directly from prison. He gave him a black eye, drew a red scar across his nose, brushed his hair down onto his forehead in tangled tufts, and blackened his whole face.

  They laughed at that awhile, and then Gösta wanted to wash it off.

  “Let it be,” said Sintram, “so that he gets to see it when he wakes up! It will amuse him.”

  So it stayed the way it was, and the cavaliers thought no more about the captain. The banquet lasted the whole night. The party broke up at daybreak. Then there was more wine than sense in their brains.

  The question now was what they would do with Captain Lennart. “We should drive him home,” said Sintram. “Think how happy his wife will be! It will be a joy to see her delight. I’m moved when I think about it. Let us drive home with him!”

  They were moved, all of them, by the thought. Lord God, how she would be happy, the stern wife up at Helgesäter!

  They shook life into Captain Lennart and lifted him up into one of the carriages, which the sleepy stable hands had driven up long ago. And then the entire troupe drove up to Helgesäter. Some were half asleep and about to fall out of the carriage, others sang to keep themselves awake. Altogether they looked no better than a band of vagabonds, sluggish and with swollen faces.

  In the meantime they arrived, left the horses at the back, and marched up to the staircase with a certain solemnity. Beerencreutz and Julius led Captain Lennart between them.

  “Pull yourself together, Lennart,” they said to him, “you’re home now. Don’t you see that you’re home?”

  He raised his eyes and became almost sober. He was moved that they had accompanied him home.

  “Friends,” he said, stopping to speak to them all, “I have asked God, friends, why so much evil has been allowed to befall me.”

  “Oh, hush, Lennart, don’t preach!” roars Beerencreutz.

  “Let him go on!” says Sintram. “He speaks well.”

  “Have asked him and not understood, you see. He wanted to show me what kind of friends I had. Friends, who follow me home to see my happiness, and my wife’s. For my wife is expecting me. What are five years of misery compared to this?”

  Now hard fists pounded against the door. The cavaliers did not have time to hear more.

  There was movement inside. The maids awoke and looked out. They threw on clothes, but dared not open for this band of men. Finally the bolt was pulled aside. The captain’s wife herself emerged.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  It was Beerencreutz who replied.

  “We are here with your husband.”

  They pushed Captain Lennart forward, and she saw him stagger toward her, drunk, with the face of a criminal.

  She took a step back; he followed with open arms. “You left as a thief,” she exclaimed, “and come home like a vagabond!” With that she intended to go inside.

  He did not understand. He wanted to follow her, but then she gave him a shove on the chest.

  “Do you think that I intend to take in someone like you as master of my house and my children?”

  The door slammed shut, and the bolt came down into the lock.

  Captain Lennart rushed toward the door and began to shake it.

  Then the cavaliers could not help it; they began to laugh. He had been so sure of that wife of his, and now she did not want to hear about him. It was ridiculous, they thought.

  When Captain Lennart heard they were laughing, he rushed at them and wanted to strike them. They ran away and jumped up into the carriages. He followed, but in his eagerness he tripped over a stone and fell flat. He got up again, but made no further pursuit. One thought struck him in his confusion. In this world nothing happens without God’s will, nothing.

  “Where will you lead me?” he said. “I am a feather, driven by the exhalation of your breath. I am your toy ball. Where will you lead me? Why do you close the gates of my home to me?”

  He wandered away from his home, believing that this was the will of God.

  As the sun came up, he was standing at the height of the Broby hills looking out over the valley. Oh, did the poor folk of the valley not know that their savior was approaching! No poor or distressed person had bound wreaths of withered lingonberry branches to hang above their cabin door. No leaves of scented lavender and flowers from the headland were placed on the thresholds he would soon cross. Mothers did not lift their children on their arms so they could see him as he came. The interiors of the cabins were not polished and fine, with the blackened hearth concealed by scented juniper. The men were not working with eager diligence in the fields, so that his glances might delight in tended fields and well-dug ditches.

  Ah, where he stood his anxious gaze saw how drought had ravaged, how the harvests were burned up, and how the people hardly seemed to care about preparing the earth for the coming year’s harvest. He looked up toward the blue hills, and the sharp sun of morning showed him the areas bur
ned brown, across which the forest fires had ravaged. He saw the roadside birches almost destroyed by drought. He understood by many small signs, by the odor of mash as he passed by a farm, by the tumble-down fences, by the pitiful quantity of timber brought home and chopped, that the people were not taking care of themselves, that distress had come, and that the people sought consolation in indifference and liquor.

  But perhaps it was just as well for him that he saw what he saw. It was not granted to him to see verdant harvests sprout forth on his own fields, to watch the glowing coals die down on his own hearth, to feel his children’s soft hands resting in his, to have a pious wife as his support. Perhaps it was just as well for him, whose mind was weighed down by heavy sorrow, that others existed to whom he might give consolation in their poverty. Perhaps it was just as well for him that this was such a bitter time, when the barrenness of nature came to visit the poorer people with want, and when many whose lot had been more fortunate did their part to ruin it.

  Captain Lennart stood there on the Broby hills and started to think that perhaps God needed him.

  It should be noted that later the cavaliers could not understand at all what culpability they had in the hardness of the captain’s wife. Sintram kept silent. Much censorious talk went around the region about this wife, who had been too proud to take in such a good husband. It was said that anyone who tried to talk with her about her husband was immediately interrupted. She could not bear to hear his name mentioned. Captain Lennart did nothing to change her mind.

  It is one day later.

  An old farmer is lying on his deathbed in Högberg village. He has taken the sacrament, and his life’s energies are exhausted; he must die.

  Restless as one who will begin a long journey, he has his bed moved from the kitchen to the main room and from the main room to the kitchen. By this it is understood, more than by heavy wheezing and failing gaze, that his hour has come.