 Sektion 31 av The Story of Jösta Berling. Det här är en LibriVox-rekord eller LibriVox-rekord som är i den publiska domen. För mer information eller att vilja, visst visst LibriVox.org. Riddning av Lars Rolander. The Story of Jösta Berling by Selma Lagerlöf. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Fluck. Part 2, chapter 16. The Draft. If dead things love, if earth and water distinguish friends from enemies, I should like to possess their love. I should like the green earth not to feel my step as a heavy burden. I should like her to forgive that she for my sake is wounded by plough and harrow and willingly to open for my dead body. And I should like the waves whose shining mirror is broken by my oars to have the same patience with me as a mother has with an eager child when it climbs up on her knee, careless of the uncrumpled silk of her dress. The spirit of life still wells in dead things. Have you not seen it? When strife and hate filled the earth, dead things must suffer too. Then the waves are wild and ravenous. Then the fields are niggardly as a miser. What a woe to him for whose sake the woods sigh and the mountains sweep. Memorable was the year when the pensioners were in power. If one could tell of everything which happened that year through the people by lurven's shores, a world would be surprised. For then old love wakened, then new was kindled, old hate placed up, and long cherished revenge seized its prey. From Ekeby this restless infection went forth. It spread first through the manners and estates and drove men to ruin and to crime. It ran from village to village, from cottage to cottage. Everywhere hearts became wild and brains confused. Never did the dance world so merrily at the crossroads. Never was the beer barrel so quickly emptied. Never was so much grain turned into brandy. Never were there so many balls. Never was the way shorter from the angry word to the knife thrust. But the uneasiness was not only among men. It spread through all living things. Never had wolfen bear ravaged so fiercely. Never had fox and owl howled so terribly and plundered so boldly. Never did the sheep go so often astray in the wood. Never did so much sickness rage among the cattle. He will see how everything hangs together, must leave the towns and live in a lonely hut at the edge of the forest. Then he will learn to notice nature's every sign and to understand how the dead things depend on the living. He will see that when there is restlessness on the earth, the peace of the dead things is disturbed. The people know it. It is in such times that the wood nymph puts out the charcoal kiln. The sea nymph breaks the boat to pieces. The river spritesens illness. The goblin stars the cow. And it was so that year. Never had the spring fresh its done so much damage. The mill and smithy at Ikeby were not the only offerings. Never had the lightning laid waste so much already before midsummer. After midsummer came the draft. As long as the long days lasted, no rain came. From the middle of June till the beginning of September, the country was bathed in continual sunshine. The rain refused to fall, the earth to nourish, the winds to blow. Sunshine only streamed down on earth. The grass was not yet high and could not grow. The rye was without nourishment, just when it should have collected food in its ears. The wheat, from which most of the bread was baked, never came up more than a few inches. The laid soternips never sprouted. Not even the potatoes could draw sustenance from that petrified earth. At such times they begin to be frightened, far away in the forest huts. And from the mountains the terror comes down to the calmer people on the plain. There is someone whom God's hand is seeking, say the people. And each one beats his breast and says, is it I? Is it from horror of me that the rain holds back? Is it in wrath against me that the stern earth dries up and hardens? And the perpetual sunshine? Is it to heap coals of fire on my head? Or if it is not I, who is it whom God's hand is seeking? It was a Sunday in August. The service was over. The people wandered in groups along the sunny roads. On all sides they saw burned woods and ruined crops. There had been many forest fires, and what they had spared insects had taken. The gloomy people did not lack for subjects of conversation. There were many who could tell how hard it had been in the years of famine of 1808 and 90. And in the cold winter of 1812, when the sparrows froze to death. They knew how to make bread out of bark and how the cows could be taught to eat moss. There was one woman who had tried a new kind of bread of cranberries and cornmeal. She had a sample with her and let the people taste it. She was proud of her invention. But over them all floated the same question. It's start from every eye was whispered by every lip. Who is it, O Lord, whom thy hand seeks? A man in the gloomy crowd, which had gone westward and struggled up Ruby Hill, stopped a minute before the path which led up to the house of the mean Ruby clergyman. He picked up a dry stick from the ground and threw it upon the path. Dry as that stick have the prayers been, which he has given our Lord, said the man. He who walked next to him also stopped. He took up a dry branch and threw it where the stick had fallen. That is the proper offering to that priest, he said. The third in the crowd followed the other's example. He has been like the draft, sticks and straw are all that he has let us keep. The fourth said, we give him back what he has given us. And the fifth, for a perpetual disgrace I throw this to him. May he dry up and wither away like this branch. Dry food for the dry priest, said the six. The people who came after see what they are doing and hear what they say. Now they get the answer to their long questioning. Give him what belongs to him, he has brought the draft on us. And each one stops, each one says his word and throws his branch before he goes on. In the corner by the path there soon lies a pile of sticks and straw. A pile of shame for the Ruby clergyman. That was their only revenge. No one lifted his hand against the clergyman or said an angry word to him. Desperate hearts cast off parts of their burden by throwing a dry branch on the pile. They did not revenge themselves. They only pointed out the guilty one to the God of retribution. If we have not worshipped you rightly, it is that man's fault. Be pitiful Lord and let him alone suffer. We mark him with shame and dishonor. We are not with him. It soon became the custom for everyone who passed the vickerage to throw a dry branch on the pile of shame. The old miser soon noticed the pile by the roadside. He had it carried away. Some said that he heated his stove with it. The next day a new pile had collected on the same spot. And as soon as he had that taken away, a new one was begun. The dry branches lay there and said, shame, shame to the Ruby clergyman. Soon the people's meaning became clear to him. He understood that they pointed to him as the origin of their misfortune. It was in rough at him God let the earth languish. He tried to laugh at them and their branches. But when it had gone on a week he laughed no more. Oh, what childishness, how can those dry sticks injure him? He understood that the hate of years sought an opportunity of expressing itself. What of that? He was not used to love. For all this he did not become more gentle. He had perhaps wished to improve after the old lady had visited him. Now he could not. He would not be forced to it. But gradually the pile grew too strong for him. He thought of it continually and the feeling which everyone cherished took root also in him. He watched the pile, counted the branches which had been added each day. The thought of it encroached upon all other thoughts. The pile was destroying him. Every day he felt more and more the people were right. He grew thin and very old in a couple of weeks. He suffered from remorse and in disposition. But it was as if everything depended on that pile. It was as if his remorse would grow silent and the weight of years be lifted off him. If only the pile would stop growing. Finally he sat there the whole day and watched. But the people were without mercy. At night there were always new branches thrown on. One day just a bärling passed along the road. The brooby clergyman sat at the roadside, old and haggard. He sat and picked out the dry sticks and laid them together in rows and piles, playing with them as if he were a child again. Just I was grieved at his misery. What are you doing, pastor, he says, and leaves out of the carriage. Oh, I'm sitting here and picking. I'm not doing anything. You had better go home and not sit here in the dust. It is best that I sit here. Then just a bärling sits down beside him. It is not so easy to be a priest, he says, after a while. It is all very well down here where there are people. Answers the clergyman. It is worse up there. Just understands what he means. He knows those parishes in northern Värmdagen, where sometimes there is not even a house for the clergyman. Where there are not more than a couple of people in ten miles of country. Where the clergyman is the only educated man. The Brubbi minister had been in such a parish for over twenty years. That is where we are sent when we are young, says Yasta. It is impossible to hold out with such a life, and so one is ruined forever. There are many who have gone under up there. Yes, says the Brubbi clergyman. A man is destroyed by loneliness. A man comes, says Yasta, eager and ardent, exhorts and admonishes, and thinks that all will be well, that the people will soon turn to better ways. Yes, yes, but soon he sees that words do not help. Poverty stands in the way. Poverty prevents all improvement. Poverty, repeats the clergyman. Poverty has ruined my life. The young minister comes up there, continues Yasta. Poor as all the others. He says to the drunkard, stop drinking. Then the drunkard answers, interrupts the clergyman. Give me something which is better than brandy. Brandy is first in winter, coolness in summer. Brandy is a warm house and a soft bed. Give me those and I will drink no more. And then resumes Yasta. The minister says to the thief, you shall not steal and to the cruel husband. You shall not beat your wife and to the superstitious. You shall believe in God and not in devils and goblins. But the thief answers, give me bread. And the cruel husband says, make us rich and we will not quarrel. And the superstitious say, teach us better. But who can help them without money? It is true, true every word, cried the clergyman. They believe in God but more in the devil and most in the mountain goblin. The crops were all turned into the still. There seemed to be no end to the misery. In most of the great cottages there was want. Hidden sorrow made the women's tongues bitter. Discomfort drew their husbands to drink. They could not look after their fields or their cattle. They made a fool of their minister. What could a man do with them? They did not understand what I said to them from the pulpit. They did not believe what I wanted to teach them. And no one to consult. No one who could help me to keep up my courage. There are those who have stood out, says Yosta. God's grace has been so great to some that they have not returned from such a life broken men. They have had strength. They have born the loneliness, the poverty and hopelessness. They have done what little good they could and have not dispaired. Such men have always been and still are. I greet them as heroes. I will honour them as long as I live. I was not able to stand out. I could not, added the clergyman. The minister up there thinks, says Yosta musingly, that he will be a rich man, an exceedingly rich man. No one who is poor can struggle against evil, and so he begins to hoard. If he had not hoarded, he would have drunk, answers the old man. He sees so much misery. Or he would become dull and lazy and lose all strength. It is dangerous for him who is not born there to come there. He has to harden himself to hoard. He pretends at first, then it becomes a habit. He has to be hard, both to himself and to others continues Yosta. It is hard to amass. He must endure hate and scorn. He must go cold and hungry and harden his heart. It almost seems as if he had forgotten why he had began to hoard. The broby clergyman looked startled at him. He wondered if Yosta sat there and made a fool of him. But Yosta was only eager and earnest. It was as if he was speaking of his own life. It was so with me, says the old man quietly. But God watches over him, interrupts Yosta. He wakes in him the thoughts of his youth when he has amassed enough. He gives the minister a sign when his people need him. Men if the minister does not obey the sign, Yosta berling. He cannot withstand it, says Yosta and smiles. He is so moved by the thought of the warm cottage, which he will help the poor to build. The clergyman looks down on the little heaps he had raised from the sticks of the pile of shame. The longer he talks with Yosta, the more he's convinced that the latter is right. He had always had the thought of doing good someday when he had enough. Of course he had had that thought. My does he never build the cottages, he asks shyly. He's ashamed. Many would think that he did what he always had meant to do through fear of the people. He cannot bear to be forced, is that it? He can however do much good secretly. Much help is needed this year. He can find someone who will dispense his gifts. I understand what it all means, Christ Yosta, and his eyes shown. Thousands shall get bread this year from one whom they load with curses. It shall be so, Yosta. A feeling of transport came over the two who had so failed in the vocation they had chosen. The desire of their youthful days to serve God and man filled them. They gloated over the good deeds they would do. Yosta would help the minister. We will get bread to begin with, says the clergyman. We will get teachers. We will have a survey or come and divide up the land. Then the people shall learn how to till their fields and tend their cattle. We will build roads and open new districts. We will make locks at the forts at Barry so that there will be an open way between Leuven and Werner. All the riches of the forest will be of double blessing when the way to the sea is opened. Your head shall be weighed down by blessings, Christ Yosta. The clergyman looks up. They read in one another's eye the same burning enthusiasm. But at the same moment the eyes of both fall on the pile of shame. Yosta, says the old man. All that needs a young man's strength. But I am dying. You see what is killing me. Get rid of it. How, Yosta burling. Yosta moves close up to him and looks sharply into his eyes. Pray to God for rain, he says. You are going to preach next Sunday. Pray for rain. The old clergyman sinks down in terror. If you are in earnest, if you are not he who has brought the draught to the land. If you had meant to serve the most high with your hardness, pray God for rain. That shall be the token. By that we shall know if God wishes what we wish. When Yosta drew down Brubihil, he was astonished at himself and at the enthusiasm which had taken hold of him. But it could be a beautiful life. Yes, but not for him. Up there they would have none of his services. In the Brubid church the sermon was over and the usual prayers read. The minister was just going to step down from the pulpit, but he hesitated. Finally he fell on his knees and prayed for rain. He prayed as a desperate man praise, with few words, without coherency. If it is my sin which has called down thy wrath, let me alone suffer. If there is any pity in thee, thou God of mercy, let it rain. Take the shame from me, let it rain in answer to my prayer. Let the rain fall on the fields of the poor. Give thy people bread. The day was hot, the sultraness was intolerable. The congregation sat as if in torpor. But at these broken words, this horse despair, everyone had awakened. If there is a way of expiation for me, give rain. He stopped speaking. The door stood open. There came a violent gust of wind. It rushed along the ground, whirled into the church in a cloud of dust full of sticks and straw. The clergyman could not continue. He staggered down from the pulpit. The people trembled. Could that be an answer? But the gust was only the forerunner of the thunderstorm. It came rushing with an unheard of violence. When the sound was sung and the clergyman stood by the altar, the lightning was already flashing. And the thunder crashing, drowning the sound of his voice. As the sexton struck up the final march, the first drops were already pattering against the green windowpains. And the people hurred out to see the rain. But they were not content with that. Some wept, others laughed while they let the torrents stream over them. Ah, how great had been their need. How unhappy they had been. But God is good. God let it rain. What joy! What joy! The Brubbi clergyman was the only one who did not come out into the rain. He lay on his knees before the altar and did not rise. The joy had been too violent for him. He died of happiness. End of section 31 of the story of Jösta Berling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 32 of the story of Jösta Berling. This is the LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Jösta Berling by Selma Lagerlöv, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Banker of Flak. Part 2, chapter 17, The Child's Mother. The child was born in a peasants house east of the Clark River. The child's mother had come seeking employment one day in early June. She had been unfortunate, she had said to the master and mistress, and her mother had been so hard to her that she had had to run away from home. She called herself Elizabeth Karlsdottor, but she would not say from whence she came, for then perhaps they would tell her parents that she was there. And if they should find her, she would be tortured to death, she knew it. She asked for no pay, only food and a roof over her head. She could work, weave or spin and take care of the cows, whatever they wanted, if they wished she could also pay for herself. She had been clever enough to come to the farm of spare food with her shoes under her arm. She had coarse hands, she spoke the country dialect, and she wore a peasant woman's clothes. She was believed. The master thought she looked sickly and did not count much on her fitness for work, but somewhere the poor thing must be, and so she was allowed to stop. There was something about her which made everyone on the farm kind to her. She had come to a good place, the people were serious and reticent. Her mistress liked her. When she discovered that she could weave, they borrowed a loom from the vickridge, and the child's mother worked at it the whole summer. It never occurred to anyone that she needed to be spared. She had to work like a peasant girl the whole time. She liked to have much work, she was not unhappy. Life among the peasants pleased her, although she lacked all her accustomed conveniences. But everything was taken so simply and quietly there. Everyone's thoughts were on his or her work. The days passed so uniform and monotonous that one mistook the day and thought it was the middle of the week when Sunday came. One day at the end of August there had been haste with a oat crop, and the child's mother had gone out with the others to bind the sheaves. She had strained herself and the child had been born, but too soon she had expected it in October. Now the farmer's wife stood with the child in the living room to warm it by the fire, for the poor little thing was shivering in the August heat. The child's mother lay in a room beyond and listened to what they said of the little one. She could imagine how the men and maids came up and looked at him. –Such a poor little thing, they all said, and then followed always without faith. Poor little thing with no father. –They did not complain of the child's crying. They thought a child needed to cry, and when everything was considered, the child was strong for its age. Had it but a father, all would have been well. –The mother lay and listened and wondered. The matter suddenly seemed to her incredibly important. How would he get through life the poor little thing? She had made her plans before. She would remain at the farmhouse the first year. Then she would hire a room and earn her bread at the loom. She meant to earn enough to feed and clothe the child. –Her husband could continue to believe that she was unworthy. She had thought that the child perhaps would be a better man if she alone brought it up than if a stupid and conceited father should guide it. But now, since the child was born, she could not see the matter in the same way. Now she thought that she had been selfish. –The child must have a father, she said to herself. –If he had not been such a pitiful little thing, if he had been able to eat and sleep like other children, if his head had not always sunk down on one shoulder, and if he had not so nearly died when the attack of cramp came, it would not have been so important. –It was not so easy to decide, but decide she must immediately. –The child was three days old, and the peasants in Värmlands seldom wait longer to have the child baptized. Under what name should the baby be entered in the church register, and what would the clergyman want to know about the child's mother? –It was an injustice to the child to let him be entered as fatherless. –If he should be a weak and sickly man, how could she take the responsibility of depriving him of the advantages of birth and riches? –The child's mother had noticed that there is generally great joy and excitement when a child comes into the world. –Now it seemed to her that it must be hard for this baby to live whom everyone pitted. –She wanted to see him sleeping on silk and lace, as it behooves accounts some. –She wanted to see him encompassed with joy and pride. –The child's mother began to think that she had done its father too great an injustice. –Had she the right to keep him for herself, that she could not have. –Such a precious little thing, whose worth it is not in the power of man to calculate, should she take that for her own. –That would not be honest. –But she did not wish to go back to her husband. –She feared that it would be her death. –But the child was in greater danger than she. –He might die any minute, and he was not baptized. –That which had driven her from her home, the grievous sin which had dwelt in her heart, was gone. –She had now no love for any other than the child. –It was not too heavy a duty to try to get him his right place in life. –The child's mother had the farmer and his wife called and told them everything. –The husband journeyed to Bori to tell Count Dona that his countess was alive and that there was a child. –The peasant came home late in the evening. –He had not met the count, for he had gone away, but he had been to the minister at Zvartfe –and talked with him of the matter. –Then the countess heard that her marriage had been declared invalid, and that she no longer had a husband. –The minister wrote a friendly letter to her and offered her a home in his house. –A letter from her own father to Count Henry, which must have reached Bori a few days after a flight, was also sent to her. –It was just that letter in which the old man had begged the count to hasten to make his marriage legal, –which had indicated to the count the easiest way to be rid of his wife. –It is easy to imagine that the child's mother was seized with anger more than sorrow when she heard the peasant's story. –She lay awake the whole night. The child must have a father she thought over and over again. –The next morning the peasant had to drive to Ekibi for her and go for just a barling. –Just to ask the silent man many questions, but could find out nothing. –Yes, the countess had been in his house the whole summer. She had been well and had worked. –Now a child was born. The child was weak, but the mother would soon be strong again. –Just to ask if the countess knew that the marriage had been annulled. –Yes, she knew it now. She had heard it yesterday. –And as long as the drive lasted, just had alternately fever and chills. –What did she want of him? Why did she send for him? –He thought of the life that summer on Leuven's shores. –They had let the days go by with jests and laughter and pleasure parties, –while she had worked and suffered. –He had never thought of the possibility –of ever seeing her again. –Ah, if he had dared to hope, –he would have then come into her presence a better man. –What had he now to look back on but the usual follies? –About eight o'clock in the evening he arrived and was immediately taken to the child's mother. –It was dark in the room. He could scarcely see her where she lay. –The farmer and his wife came in also. –Now you must know that she whose white face –shown in the dimness was always the noblest and the purest he knew. –The most beautiful soul which had ever arrayed itself in earthly dust. –When he once again felt the bliss of being near her, he longed to throw himself on his knees –and thanked her for having again appeared to him. –But he was so overpowered by emotion that he could neither speak nor act. –Dear Countess Elizabeth, he only cried. –Could evening just stop? –She gave him her hand which seemed once more to have become soft and transparent. –She lay silent while he struggled with his emotion. –The child's mother was not shaken by any violently raging feelings when she saw your star. –It surprised her only that he seemed to consider her of chief importance, when he ought to understand that it now only concerned the child. –Just, she said gently, you must help me now as you once promised. –You know that my husband has abandoned me, so that my child has no father. –Yes, Countess, but that can certainly be changed. Now that there is a child, the Count can be forced to make the marriage legal. You may be certain that I shall help you. –The Countess smiled. –Do you think that I will force myself upon Count Dona? –The blood surged up to just us head. –What did she wish then? –What did she want of him? –Come here, your star, she said, and again stretched out her hand. –You must not be angry with me for what I am going to say, but I thought that you who are, who are… –A dismissed priest, a drunkard, a pensioner, a badonas murderer, I know the whole list. –Are you already angry, your star? –I would rather that you did not say anything more, but the child's mother continued. –There are many, your star, who would have liked to be your wife out of love, but it is not so with me. If I loved you, I should not dare to speak as I am speaking now. –For myself I would never ask such a thing, your star, but do you see, I can do it for the sake of the child. –You must understand what I mean to beg of you. Of course it is a great degradation for you, since I am an unmarried woman who has a child. I did not think that you would be willing to do it because you are worse than others, although, yes, I did think of that too, but first I thought that you could be willing because you are kind, your star, because you are a hero and can sacrifice yourself, but it is perhaps too much to ask. Perhaps such a thing would be impossible for a man. If you despise me too much, if it is too loathsome for you to give your name to another man's child, say so. I shall not be angry. I understand that it is too much to ask, but the child is sick justa. It is cruel at his baptism not to be able to give the name of his mother's husband. He hearing her experienced the same feeling as when that spring day he had put her on land and left her to her fate. Now he had to help her to ruin her life, her whole future life, he who loved her had to do it. I will do everything you wish, Countess, he said. The next day he spoke to the dean at Peru, for there the bands were to be called. The good old dean was much moved by his story and promised to take all the responsibility of giving her away. Yes, he said, you must help her, your stump, otherwise she might become insane. She thinks that she has injured the child by depriving it of its position in life. She has a most sensitive conscience, that woman. But I know that I shall make her unhappy, cried justa, that you must not do, your stump. You must be a sensible man now with wife and child to care for. The dean had to journey down to Swattschö, and speak to both the minister there and the judge. The end of it all was that the next Sunday, the first of September, the bands were called in Swattschö, between Jösta Berling and Elisabeth von Toren. Then the child's mother was carried with the greatest care to Ekibi, and there the child was baptized. The dean talked to her and told her that she could still recall her decision to marry such a man as Jösta Berling. She ought to first write to her father. I cannot repent, she said, think if my child should die before it had a father. When the bands had been thrice asked, the child's mother had been well and up several days. In the afternoon the dean came to Ekibi and married her to Jösta Berling. Men no one thought of it as a wedding. No guests were invited. They only gave the child a father, nothing more. The child's mother shone with a quiet joy as if she had attained a great end in life. The bridegroom was in despair. He thought how she had thrown away her life by a marriage with him. He saw with dismay how he scarcely existed for her. All her thoughts were with her child. A few days after the father and mother were mourning, the child had died. Many thought that the child's mother did not mourn so violently nor so deeply as they had expected. She had a look of triumph. It was as if she rejoiced that she had thrown away her life for the sake of the child. When he joined the angels, he would still remember that a mother on earth had loved him. All this happened quietly and unnoticed. When the bands were published for Jösta Berling and Elisabeth von Thurn in the Swatry church, most of the congregation did not even know who the bride was. The clergyman and the gentry who knew the story said little about it. It was as if they were afraid that someone who had lost faith in the power of conscience should wrongly interpret the young woman's action. They were so afraid, so afraid lest someone should come and say, see now, she could not conquer her love for Jösta. She has married him under a plausible pretext. Ah, the old people were always so careful of that young woman. Never could they bear to hear anything evil of her. They would scarcely acknowledge that she had sinned. They would not agree that any fault stained that soul, which was so afraid of evil. Another great event happened just then, which also caused Jösta's marriage to be little discussed. Major Samseelius had met with an accident. He had become more and more strange and misanthropic. His chief intercourse was with animals, and he had collected a small menagerie at share. He was dangerous too, for he always carried a loaded gun, and shot it off time after time without paying much attention to his aim. One day he was bitten by a tame bear, which he had shot without intending it. The wounded animal threw itself on him, and succeeded in giving him a terrible bite in the arm. The beast broke away and took refuge in the forest. The major was put to bed and died of the wound, but not till just before Christmas. Had his wife known that he lay ill, she could have resumed her sway over Ekeby, but the pensioners knew that she would not come before their year was out. End of section 32 of the story of Jösta Berling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 33 av the story of Jösta Berling. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Jösta Berling by Selma Lagerlöv, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroftflack. Part 2, chapter 18, Amor vinkit omja. Under the stairs of the gallery in the Svartfjö church is a lumber room filled with the grave diggers worn out shovels, with broken benches, with rejected inlabels, and other rubbish. There, where the dust lies thickest and seems to hide it from every human eye, stands a chest inlaid with mother of pearl in the most perfect mosaik. If one scrapes the dust away, it seems to shine and glitter like a mountain wall in a fairy tale. The chest is locked and the key is in good keeping. It may not be used. No mortal men may cast a glance into that chest. No one knows what is in it. First, when the 19th century has reached its close, may the key be placed in the lock, the cover be lifted, and the treasures which it guarded be seen by men. So has he who owned the chest ordained. On the brass plate of the cover stands an inscription. Labor vinkit omja. But another inscription would be more appropriate. Amor vinkit omja, ought to stand there. For the chest in the rubbish room under the gallery stairs is a testimony of the omnipotence of love. O Eros, all conquering God, thou, O love, art indeed eternal. Old are people on the earth, but thou hast followed them through the ages. Where are the gods of the east, the strong heroes who carried weapons of thunderballs? They who, on the shores of holy rivers, took offerings of honey and milk. They are dead. Dead is Bale, the mighty warrior, and Top, the hawk-headed champion. The glorious ones are dead, who rested on the cloud banks of Olympus. So to the mighty who dwelt in the turret in Valhalla. All the old gods are dead, except Eros. Eros, the all-powerful. His work is in everything you see. He supports the rays. See him everywhere. Wither can you go without finding the print of his foot. What has your air perceived where the humming of his wings has not been the key note? He lives in the hearts of men and in the sleeping germ. See with trembling his presence in inanimate things. What is there which does not long and desire? What is there which escapes his dominion? All the gods of revenge will fall. All the powers of strength and might. Thou, O love, art eternal. Old Uncle Eberhardt is sitting at his writing desk. A splendid piece of furniture with a hundred drawers, with marble top and ornaments of blackened bras. He works with eagerness and diligence alone in the pensioner's wing. O Eberhardt, why do you not wonder about wood and field in these last days of the departing summer, like the other pensioners. No one, you know, worships unpunish the goddess of wisdom. Your back is bent with sixty hands some years. The hair which covers your head is not your own. The wrinkles crowd one another on your brow, which arches over hollow eyes. And the decay of old age is drawn in the thousand lines about your empty mouth. O Eberhardt, why do you not wonder about wood and field. Death parts you just so much the sooner from your desk, because you have not let life tempt you from it. Uncle Eberhardt draws a thick stroke under his last line. From the desk's innumerable drawers he drags out yellowed closely scribbled manuscripts. All the different parts of his great work. That work which is to carry on Eberhardt Berigrens name through all time. But just as he has piled up manuscript on manuscript, and is staring at them in silent rapture, the door opens and in walks the young countess. There she is, the old men's young mistress, she whom they wait on and adore more than grandparents wait on and adore the first grandson. There she is, whom they had found in poverty and in sickness, and to whom they had now given all the glory of the world. Just as the king in the fairy tale did to the beautiful beggar girl he found in the forest. It is for her that the horn and violin now sound at the ekeby. For her everything moves, breathes, works on the great estate. She is well again, although still very weak. Time goes slowly for her alone in the big house, and as she knows that the pensioners are away she wishes to see what it looks like in the pensioners wing, that notorious room. So she comes softly in and looks up at the whitewashed walls and the yellow striped bed curtains. But she is embarrassed when she sees that the room is not empty. Uncle Eberhardt go solemnly towards her, and leads her forward to the great pile of paper. Look, Countess, he says, now my work is ready. Now shall what I have written go out into the world. Now great things are going to happen. What is going to happen, Uncle Eberhardt? Oh, Countess, it is going to strike like a thunderbolt, a bolt which enlightens and kills, ever since Moses dragged him out of Sinai's thundercloud and put him on the throne of grace in the innermost sanctuary of the temple. Ever since then he has set secure the old Jehovah. But now men shall see what he is. Imagination, emptiness, exhalation, the stillborn child of our own brain. He shall sink into nothingness, said the old man, and ladies wrinkled hand on the pile of manuscript. It stands here, and when people read this they will have to believe. They will rise up and acknowledge their own stupidity. They will use crosses for kindling wood, churches for store houses, and clergymen will plow the earth. Oh, Uncle Eberhardt, says the Countess with a slight shudder. Are you such a dreadful person? Do such dreadful things stand there? Dreadful, repeated the old man. It is only the truth. But we are like little boys who hide their faces in a woman's skirt as soon as they meet a stranger. We have accustomed ourselves to hide from the truth, from the eternal stranger. But now he shall come and dwell among us. Now he shall be known by all. By all? Not only by philosophers, but by everybody. Do you understand Countess by everybody? And so your va shall die? He and all angels, all saints, all devils, all lies. Who shall then rule the world? Do you believe that anyone has ruled it before? Do you believe in that providence which looks after sparros and the hair of your head? No one has ruled it. No one shall rule it. But we, we people, what will we become? The same which we have been, dust. That which is burnt out can burn no longer. It is dead. We about whom the fire of life flickers are only fuel. Lives sparks fly from one to another. We are lighted, flame up and die out. That is life. Oh Eberhard, is there no life of the spirit? None. No life beyond the grave? None. No good, no evil, no aim, no hope? None. The young woman walks over to the window. She looks out at the autumn's yellowed leaves. At Darlias and Aster's, which hang their heavy heads on broken stalks. She sees the lurven's black waves. The autumn's dark storm clouds. And for a moment she inclines towards repudiation. Uncle Eberhard, she says. How ugly and gray the world is. How profitless everything is. I should like to lie down and die. But then she hears a murmur in her soul. The vigor of life and its strong emotions cry out for the happiness of living. Is there nothing she breaks out which can give life beauty since you have taken from me god and immortality? Work, answers the old man. But she looks out again and a feeling of scorn for that poor wisdom creeps over her. The unfathomable rise is before her. She feels the spirit welling in everything. She is sensible of the power which lies bound in seemingly dead material. But which can develop into a thousand forms of shifting life. Dissily she seeks for a name for the presence of god spirit in nature. Oh Eberhard, she says. What is work? Is it a god? Has it any meaning in itself? Name another. I know no other, answered the old man. Then she finds the name which she is seeking. A poor, often solid name. Uncle Eberhard, why do you not speak of love? A smile glides over the empty mouth where the thousand wrinkles cross. Here, says the philosopher, and strikes the heavy packet with his clenched hand. Here all the gods are slain, and I have not forgotten Eros. What is love but a longing of the flesh? In what does he stand higher than the other requirements of the body? Make hunger a god? Make fatigue you a god? They are just as worthy. Let there be an end to such absurdities. Let the truth live. The young countess sinks her head. It is not so. All that is not true, but she cannot contest it. Your words have wounded my soul, she says. But still I do not believe you. The gods of revenge and violence you may be able to kill. No others. But the old man takes her hand, lays it on the book, and swears in the fanaticism of unbelief. When you have read this, you must believe. May it never come before my eyes, she says. For if I believe that, I cannot live. And she goes sadly from the philosopher. But he sits for a long time and thinks when she has gone. Those old manuscripts scribbled over with heathenish confessions have not yet been tested before the world. Uncle Eberhard's name has not yet reached the heights of fame. His great work lies hidden in a chest in the lumber room under the gallery stairs in the Svartse church. He shall first see the light of day at the end of the century. But why has he done this? Was he afraid not to have proved his point? Did he fear persecutions? You little know, Uncle Eberhard. Understand it now, he has loved the truth, not his own glory. So he has sacrificed the latter, not the former, in order that a deeply loved child might die in the belief in that she has most cared for. Oh love, thou art indeed eternal. End of section 33 of the story of Jösta Berling, read by Lars Prolander. Section 34 of the story of Jösta Berling. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Prolander. The story of Jösta Berling by Selma Lagerow, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Banker of Tflakt. Part two, chapter 19, The Broon Girl. No one knows the place in the lee of the mountain where the pines grow thickest and deep layers of moss cover the ground. How should anyone know it? No man's foot has ever trodden it before. No man's tongue has given it a name. No path leads to that hidden spot. It is the most solitary tract in the forest, and now thousands of people are looking for it. What an endless procession of seekers, they would fill the brew church. Not only brew but levix and svartfe. All who live near the road rush out and ask, has anything happened? Is the enemy upon us? Where are you going? Tell us where? We are searching, they answer. We have been searching for two days. We shall go on today, but afterwards we can do no more. We are going to look through the Björnewood and the Ferkled Heights west of Ekeby. It was from Nygård, a poor district far away among the eastern mountains. The procession had first started. The beautiful girl with a heavy black hair and the red cheeks had disappeared a week before. The broom girl to Hungjusta Beiling had wished to engage himself, had been lost in the great forests. No one had seen her for a week. So the people started from Nygård to search through the wood, and everybody they met joined in the search. Sometimes one of the newcomers asks, You men from Nygård, how has it all happened? Why do you let that beautiful girl go alone in strange paths? The forest is deep and God has taken away her reason. No one disturbs her, they answer. She disturbs no one, she goes as safely as a child. Who is safer than one God himself must care for? She has always come back before. So have the searching crowd gone through the eastern woods, which shut in Nygård from the plain. Now on the third day it passes by the blue church towards the woods west of Ekeby. But wherever they go a storm of wandering rages, Constantly a man from the crowd has to stop to answer questions. What do you want? What are you looking for? We are looking for the blue eyed dark haired girl. She has laid herself down to die in the forest. She has been gone a week. Why has she laid herself down to die in the forest? Was she hungry? Was she unhappy? She has not suffered want, but she had a misfortune last spring. She has seen that mad priest just abbelling and loved him for many years. She knew no better, God had taken away her wits. Last spring the misfortune happened, but for that he had never looked at her. Then he said to her that she should be his sweetheart. It was only in jest, he let her go again, but she could not be consoled. She kept coming to Ikeby. She went after him wherever he went. He worried of her. When she was there last, they set the dogs on her. Since then no one has seen her. To the rescue, to the rescue. A human life is concerned. A human being has laid herself down to die in the wood. Perhaps she's already dead. Perhaps too she's still wandering there without finding the right way. The forest is wide and her reason is with God. Come everybody, men and women and children. Who can dare to stay at home? Who knows if God does not intend to use just him? Come all of you that your soul may not someday wander helpless in dry places. Seek rest and find none. Come, God has taken her reason and the forest is wide. It is wonderful to see people unite for some great object, but it is not hunger nor the fear of God, nor war which has driven these out. Their trouble is without profit. They're striving without reward. They are only going to find a fool. So many steps, so much anxiety, so many prayers it all costs, and yet it will only be rewarded by the recovery of a poor misguided girl whose reason is with God. Those anxious searches fill the highway. With earnest eyes they gorge the forest. They go forward sadly, for they know that they are more probably searching for the dead than the living. Ah, that black thing at the foot of the cliff. It is not an until after all. But a fallen tree, praised be heaven, only a fallen tree. But they cannot see distinctly. The pines grow so thick. It is the third day of the search. They are used to the work. They search under the sloping rock, on which the foot can slide. Under fallen trees, where arm or leg easily could have been broken. Under the thick growing pines branches, trailing over soft moss, inviting to rest. The bear's den, the fox's hole, the badger's deep home, the red cranberry slope, the silver fir, the mountain, which the forest fire laid waste a month ago, the stone which they joined through. All that have they found, but not the place under the rock where the black thing is lying. No one has been there to see if it is an until or a tree trunk or a human being. Alas, it is indeed a human being, but no one has been there to see her. The evening sun is shining on the other side of the wood, but the young woman is not found. What should they do now? Should they search through the wood once more? The wood is dangerous in the dark. There are bottomless bogs and deep clefts, and what could they who had found nothing when the sun was shining find when it was gone. Let us go to Ikeby, Christ won in the crowd. Let us go to Ikeby, they all cried together. Let us ask those pensioners why they let loose the dogs on one whose reason God had taken, why they drew a fool to despair. Our poor hungry children weep. Our clothes are torn. The potatoes rot in the ground. Our horses are running loose. Our cows get no care. We are nearly dead with fatigu. And the fault is theirs. Let us go to Ikeby and ask about this. During this cursed year we've had to suffer everything. The winter will bring us starvation. Whom does God's hand see? It was not the ruby clergyman. His prayers could reach God's air. Who then, if not the pensioners? Let us go to Ikeby. They have ruined this state. They have driven the major swipe to beg on the highway. It is their fault that we have no work. The famine is there doing. Let us go to Ikeby. So the dark embedded men crowd down to Ikeby. Hungry women with weeping children in their arms follow them. And last come the cripples and the old men. And the bitterness spreads like an ever-increasing storm from the old men to the women, from the women to the strong men at the head of the train. It is the autumn flood which is coming. Pensioners, do you remember the spring flood? A cottager who's plowing in a pasture at the edge of the wood. Her's the people's mad cries. He throws himself on one of his horses and gallops down to Ikeby. Disaster is coming, he cries. The bears are coming. The wolves are coming. The goblins are coming to take Ikeby. He writes about the holy state wild with terror. All the devils in the forest are let loose, he cries. They are coming to take Ikeby. Save yourselves who can. The devils are coming to burn the house and to kill the pensioners. And behind him can be heard the din and cries of the rushing horde. Does it know what it wants? That storming stream of bitterness. Does it want fire or murder or plunder? They are not human beings. They are wild beasts. Death to Ikeby. Death to the pensioners. Here brandy flows in streams. Here gold lies piled in the walls. Here the storehouses are filled with grain and meat. Why should the honest starve and the guilty have plenty? But now your time is out. The measure is overflowing pensioners. In the wood lies one who condemns you. We are her deputies. The pensioners stand in the big building and see the people coming. They know already why they are denounced. For once they are innocent. If that poor girl has lain down to die in the wood, it is not because they have set the dogs on her. That they have never done. But because just a bärling a week ago was married to Countess Elisabeth. But what good is it to speak to that mob? They are tired. They are hungry. Revenge drives them on. Plander tempts them. They rush down with wild cries. And before them rides the cottageer whom fear has driven mad. The pensioners have hidden the young Countess in their innermost room. Lövenborg and Eberhard are to sit there and guard her. The others go out to meet the people. They are standing on the steps before the main building, unarmed, smiling as the first of the noisy crowd reached the house. And the people stopped before that little group of quiet men. They had wanted to throw them down on the ground and trampled them under their iron shodd heels. As the people at the Lund ironworks used to do with the manager and overseer 50 years ago. But they had expected closed doors, raised weapons. They had expected resistance and fighting. Dear friends, say the pensioners. Dear friends, you are tired and hungry. Let us give you a little food and first a glass of Ekibius own home brewed brandy. The people will not listen. They scream and threaten. But the pensioners are not discouraged. Only wait, they say. Only wait a second. See, Ekibius stands open. The cellar doors are open. The store rooms are open. The dairy is open. Your women are dropping with fatigue. The children are crying. Let us get them food first. Then you can kill us. We will not run away. The attic is full of apples. Let us go after apples for the children. And hour later the feasting is in full swing at Ekibius. The biggest feast the big house has ever seen is celebrated there that autumn night under the shining full moon. Wood piles have been lighted. The whole estate flames with bonfires. The people sit about in groups enjoying warmth and rest while all the good things of the earth are scattered over them. Resolute men have gone to the farmyard and taken what was needed. Carves and sheep have been killed and even one or two oxen. The animals have been cut up and roasted in a trice. Those starving hundreds are devouring the food. Animal after animal is led out and slaughtered. It looks as if the whole barn would be emptied in one night. They had just baked that day. Since the young Countess Elizabeth had come there had once more been industry indoors. It seemed as if the young woman never for an instant remembered that she was just a barlings wife. Neither he nor she acted as if it were so. But on the other hand she made herself the mistress of Ekibius. As a good and capable woman always must do. She tried with burning seal to remedy the waste and the shiftlessness which rained in the house. And she was obeyed. The servants felt a certain pleasure in again having a mistress over them. But what did it matter that she had filled the rafters with bread that she had made cheeses and churned and brewed during the month of September. Out to the people with everything there is so that they may not burn down Ekibius and kill the pensioners. Out with bread, butter, cheese. Out with the beer barrels. Out with the hams from the storehouse. Out with the brandy kegs. Out with the apples. How can all the riches of Ekibius suffice to diminish the people's anger? If we get them away before any dark deed is done we may be glad. It is all done for the sake of her who is now mistress at Ekibius. The pensioners are brave men. They would have defended themselves if they had followed their own will. They would rather have driven away the marauders with a few sharp shots but for her who is gentle and mild and begs for the people. As the night advances the crowds become gentler. The warmth and the rest and the food and the brandy assortj their terrible madness. They begin to jest and laugh. As it draws towards midnight it looks as if they were preparing to leave. The pensioners stop bringing food and wine. Drawing corks and pouring ale. They draw a sigh of relief in the feeling that the danger is over. But just then a light is seen in one of the windows of the big house. All who see it utter a cry. It is a young woman who is carrying the light. It had only been for a second. The vision disappeared but the people think they have recognized the woman. She had thick black hair and red cheeks. They cry. She's here. They have hidden her here. Oh pensioners have you her here. Have you got our child who's recent goddess taken here at Ekibi? What are you doing with her? You let us grieve for her a whole week. Search for three whole days. Away with wine and food. Shame to us that we accepted anything from your hands. First out with her. Then we shall know what we have to do to you. The people are quick. Quicker still are the pensioners. They rush in and bar the door. But how could they resist such a mass? Door after door is broken down. The pensioners are thrown one side. They are unarmed. They are wedged in the crowd so that they cannot move. The people will come in to find the broom girl. In the innermost room they find her. No one has time to see whether she is light or dark. They lift her up and carry her out. She must not be afraid they say. They are here to save her. But they who now stream from the building are met by another procession. In the most lonely spot in the forest the body of a woman who had fallen over high cliff and died in the fall no longer rests. A child had found her. Searchers who had remained in the wood had lifted her on their shoulders. Here they come. In death she is more beautiful than in life. Lovely she lies with her long black hair. Fair is the form since the eternal peace rests upon it. Lifted high on the men's shoulders trees carried through the crowd with bent heads all do homage to the majesty of death. She has not been dead long, the men whisper. She must have wandered in the woods till today. We think that she wanted to escape from us who were looking for her and so fell over the cliff. But if this is the broom girl who is the one who has been carried out of Ekeby. The procession from the wood meets the procession from the house. Bonfires are burning all over the yard. The people can see both the women and recognize them. The other is the young countess at body. Oh, what is the meaning of this? Is this a new crime? Why is the young countess here at Ekeby? Why have they told us that she was far away or dead? In the name of justice ought we not to throw ourselves on the pensioners and trample them to dust under iron shot heels. Then a ringing voice is heard. Just a baling has climbed up on the balustrade and is speaking. Listen to me, you monsters, you devils. Do you think there are no guns and powder at Ekeby? You mad men. Do you think that I have not wanted to shoot you like mad dogs if she had not begged for you? Oh, if I had known that you would have touched her, not one of you should have been left alive. Why are you raging here tonight and threatening us with murder and fire? What have I to do with your crazy girls? Do I know where they run? I have been too kind to that one. That is the matter. I ought to have set the dogs on her. It would have been better for us both, but I did not. Nor have I ever promised to marry her. That I have never done. Remember that. But now I tell you that you must let her whom you have dragged out of the house go. Let her go, I say, and may the hands who have touched her burn in everlasting fire. Do you not understand that she is as much above you as heaven is above the earth? She is as delicate as you are coarse, as good as you are bad. Now I will tell you who she is. First she's an angel from heaven. Secondly she has been tied to the count at Bori, but her mother-in-law tortured her night and day. She had to stand at the lake and wash clothes like an ordinary maid. She was beaten and tormented as none of your women have ever been. Yes, she was almost ready to throw herself into the river as we all know because they were torturing the life out of her. I wonder which one of you was there then to save her life. Not one of you was there, but we pensioners, we did it. And when she afterwards gave birth to a child off in a farmhouse and the count sent her the message, we were married in foreign land. We did not follow law and order. You are not my wife. I am not your husband. I care nothing for your child. Yes, when that was so, and she did not want the child to stand fatherless in the church register, then you would have been proud enough if she had said to one of you, come and marry me. I must have a father for the child, but she choose none of you. She took just a bowling, the penniless priest, who may never speak the word of God, yes. I tell you peasants that I have never done anything harder, for I was so unworthy of her that I did not dare to look her in the eyes, nor did I dare to say no, for she was in despair. And now you may believe what evil you like of us pensioners, but to her we have done what good we could. And it is thanks to her that you have not all been killed tonight. But now I tell you, let her go and go yourselves, for I think the earth will open and swallow you up. And as you go, pray God to forgive you for having frightened and greed one who is so good and innocent. And now be off, we have had enough of you. Long before he had finished speaking, those who had carried out the countess had put her down on one of the stone steps, and now a big peasant came thoughtfully up to her and stretched out his great hand. Thank you and good night, he said. We wish you no harm, countess. After him came another and shook her hand. Thanks, and good night. You must not be angry with us. Justus sprang down and placed himself beside her. Then they took his hand too. So they came forward slowly, one after another, to bid them good night before they went. They were once more subdued, again were they human beings, as they were when they left their homes that morning, before hunger and revenge had made them wild beasts. They looked in the countess's face, and justus saw that the innocence and gentleness they saw there brought tears into the eyes of many. There was in them all a silent adoration of the noblest they had ever seen. They could not all shake her hand. There were so many, and the young woman was tired and weak. But they all came and looked at her, and could take justus hand. His arm could stand a shaking. Justus stood as if in a dream, that evening a new love sprang up in his heart. Oh, my people, he thought! Oh, my people, how I love you! He felt how he loved all that crowd who were disappearing into the darkness with the dead girl at the head of the procession, with their coarse clothes and evil smelling shoes, those who lived in the gray huts at the edge of the wood, those who could not write and often not read, those who had never known the fullness and richness of life, only the struggle for their daily bread. He loved them with a painful burning tenderness which forced the tears from his eyes. He did not know what he wanted to do for them, but he loved them, each and all, with their faults, their vices, and their weaknesses. Oh, Lord God, if the day could come when he too should be loved by them. He awoke from his dream. His wife laid her hand on his arm. The people were gone. They were alone on the steps. Oh, justa! Justa, how could you? She put her hands before her face and wept. It is true what I said, he cried. I have never promised the broom girl to marry her. Come here next Friday and you shall see something funny, was all I ever said to her. It is not my fault that she cared for me. Oh, it was not that. But how could you say to the people that I was good and pure? Justa, justa, do you not know that I loved you when I had no right to do it? I was ashamed, justa. I was ready to die of shame. And she was shaken by sobs. He stood and looked at her. Oh, my friend, my beloved, he said quietly. How happy you are, who are so good. How happy to have such a beautiful soul. End of section 34 of the story of Justa Bärling read by Lars Rolander. Section 35 of the story of Justa Bärling This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Justa Bärling by Selma Lageröv. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Banker of Fluck. Part 2, chapter 20, Kevenhüller. In the year 1770 in Germany, the afterwards learned and accomplished Kevenhüller was born. He was the son of a count and could have lived in lofty palaces and ridden at the emperor's side if he had so wished, but he had not. He could have liked to fasten windmill sails on the castle's highest tower, turned the hall into a locksmith's workshop, and the boudoir into a watchmaker's. He would have liked to fill the castle with whirling wheels and working levers, but when he could not do it, he left all the pomp and apprenticed himself to a watchmaker. There he learned everything there was to learn about cog wheels, springs, and pendulums. He learned to make sund aisles and star-d aisles, cocks with singing canary birds, and horn-blowing shepherds, chimes which filled a whole church tower with their wonderful machinery, and watch works so small that they could be set in a locket. When he had got his patent of mastership, he bound his knapsack on his back, took his stick in his hand, and wandered from place to place to study everything that went with rollers and wheels. Gevenhüller was no ordinary watchmaker. He wished to be a great inventor and to improve the world. When he had so wandered through many lands, he turned his steps towards Varmland, to there study mill wheels and mining. One beautiful summer morning, it so happened that he was crossing the marketplace of Karlstad. But the same beautiful summer morning, he had pleased the wood-nymph to extend her walk as far as the town. The noble lady came also cross the marketplace from the opposite direction, and so met Gevenhüller. That was a meeting for a watchmaker's apprentice. She had shining green eyes and a mass of light hair, which almost reached the ground, and she was dressed in green, changeable silk. She was the most beautiful woman Gevenhüller had ever seen. He stood as if he had lost his wits and stared at her as she came towards him. She came direct from the deepest thicket of the wood, where the ferns are as high as trees, where the giant ferns shut out the sun, so that it can only fall in golden drops on the yellow moss. I should like to have been in Gevenhüller's place to see her as she came with ferns and pine needles tangled in her yellow hair, and a little black snake about her neck. How the people must have stared at her. Horses bolted, frightened by her long floating hair. The street boys ran after her. The men dropped their meat axes to gape at her. She herself went calm and majestic, only smiling a little at the excitement, so that Gevenhüller saw her small pointed teeth shine between her red lips. She had hung a cloak over her shoulders so that none should see who she was, but as ill luck would have it, she had forgotten to cover her tail. He dragged along the paving stones. Gevenhüller saw the tail. He was sorry that a noble lady should make herself the laughing stock of the town, so he bowed and said cautiously, Would it not please your grace to lift your train? The wooden inf was touched not only by his kindness, but by his politeness. She stopped before him and looked at him, so that he thought that shining sparks passed from her eyes into his brain. Gevenhüller, she said, Hereafter you shall be able, with your two hands, for execute whatever work you will, but only one of each kind. She said it and she could keep her word, for who does not know that the wooden inf has the power to give genius and wonderful powers to those who win her favor. Gevenhüller remained in Karlstad and hired a workshop there. He hammered and worked night and day. In a week he had made a wonder. It was a carriage which went by itself. It went uphill and downhill. When faster or slow could be steered and turned, we stopped and started as one wished. Gevenhüller became famous. He was so proud of his carriage that he journeyed up to Stockholm to show it to the king. He did not need to wait for post horses nor to scold ostlers. He proudly rode in his own carriage and was there in a few hours. He rode right up to the palace and the king came out with his court ladies and gentlemen and looked at him. They could not praise him enough. The king then said, You might give me that carriage, Gevenhüller. And although he answered no, the king persisted and wished to have the carriage. Then Gevenhüller saw that in the king's train stood a court lady with light hair and a green dress. He recognized her and he understood that it was she who had advised the king to ask him for his carriage. He was in despair. He could not bear that another should have his carriage nor did he dare to say no to the king. Therefore he drove it with such speed against the palace wall that it was broken into a thousand pieces. When he came home to Karlstad he tried to make another carriage, but he could not. Then he was dismayed at the gift the woodnymph had given him. He had left the life of ease at his father's castle to be a benefactor to many, not to make wonders which only one could use. What good was it to him to be a great master? Yes, the greatest of all masters if he could not duplicate his marvels so that they were of use to thousands. And he's so longed for quiet, sensible work that he became a stone cutter and mason. It was then he built the great stone tower down by the west bridge, and he meant to build walls and portals and courtyards, ramparts and turrets so that a veritable castle should stand by the Klar River. And there he should realize his childhood stream, everything which had to do with industry and handicraft should have a place in the castle halls. White millers and blacksmiths, watchmakers with green shades before their strained eyes, diers with dark hands, weavers, turners, filers, all should have their workshops in his castle. And everything went well. Of the stones he himself had used, he had with his own hand built the tower. He had fastened windmill sails on it for the tower was to be a mill, and now he wanted to begin on the smitting. But one day he stood and watched how the light strong winds turned before the wind, then his old longing came over him. He shot himself in his workshop, tasted no food, looked no rest, and worked unceasingly. At the end of a week he had made a new marble. One day he climbed up on the roof of his tower, and began to fasten wings to his shoulders. Two street boys saw him, and they gave a cry which was heard through the whole town. They started off, panting they run up the streets and down the streets, knocking on all the doors and screaming as they ran. Kevin Hiller is going to fly, Kevin Hiller is going to fly. He stood calmly on the tower roof and fastened on his wings. And in the meantime crowds of people came running through the narrow streets of old Karlstad. Soon the bridge was black with him, the marketplace was packed, and the banks of the river swarmed with people. Kevin Hiller at last got his wings on and set out, gave a couple of flaps with him, and then he was out in the air. He lay and floated high above the earth. He drew in the air with long breaths. It was strong and pure. His breast expanded, and the old night's blood began to seep in him. He tumbled like a pigeon, he hoved like a hawk. His flight was as swift as the swallows, as sure as the falcons. If he had only been able to make such a pair of wings for every one of them, if he had only been able to give them all the power to raise themselves in this pure air, he could not enjoy it alone. Ah, that wouldn't if he could only meet her. Then he saw with eyes which were almost blinded by the dazzling sunlight, how someone came flying towards him. Great wings like his own, and between the wings floated a human body. He saw floating yellow hair, billowy greensill, wild shining eyes. It was she, it was she. Heavenhealer did not stop to consider. With furious speed he threw himself upon her to kiss her, or to strike her. He was not sure which, but at any rate to force her to remove the curse from his existence. He did not look where he was going. He saw only the flying hair and the wild eyes. He came close up to her and stretched out his arms to see her. But his wings caught in hers, and hers were the stronger. His wings were torn and destroyed. He himself was swung round and hurled down. He knew not whither. When he returned to consciousness, he lay on the roof of his own tower with a broken flying machine by his side. He had flown right against his own mill. The sails had caught him, whirled him round a couple of times, and then thrown him down on the tower roof. So that was the end. Heavenhealer was again a desperate man. He could not bear the thought of honest work, and he did not dare to use his magic power. If he should make another wonder and should then destroy it, his heart would break with sorrow. And if he did not destroy it, he would certainly go mad at the thought that he could not do good to others with it. He looked up his knapsack and stick, let the mill stand as it was, and decided to go out and search for the woodmelf. In the course of his journeys he came to Ikeby, a few years before the major's wife was driven out. There he was well received, and there he remained. The memories of his childhood came back to him, and he allowed them to call him Count. His hair grew gray and his brain slept. He was so old that he could no longer believe in the feats of his youth. He was not the man who could work wonders. It was not he who had made the automatic carriage and the flying machine. Oh no, tails, tails. But then it happened that the major's wife was driven from Ikeby, and the pensioners were masters of the great estate. Then a life began there which had never been worse. A storm passed over the land, men ward on earth and souls in heaven. Wolves came from Dovre with witches on their backs, and the woodmelf came to Ikeby. The pensioners did not recognize her. They thought that she was a poor and distressed woman whom a cruel mother-in-law had hunted to despair, so they gave her shelter, revered her like a queen, and loved her like a child. Kevin Heeler alone saw who she was. At first he was dazzled like the others, but one day she wore a dress of green shimmering silk, and when she had that on, Kevin Heeler recognized her. There she sat on silken cushions, and all the old men made themselves ridiculous to serve her. One was cooked and another footman, one reader, one court musician, one shoemaker, they all had their occupations. They said she was ill, the odious witch, but Kevin Heeler knew what that illness meant. She was laughing at them all. He warned the pensioners against her. Look at her small pointed teeth, he said, and her wild shining eyes, she is the woodniff. All evil is about in these terrible times. I tell you she's the woodniff. Come hither for our ruin. I have seen her before. But when Kevin Heeler saw the woodniff, and had recognized her, the desire for work came over him. It began to burn and seep in his brain. His fingers ached with longing to bend themselves about hammer and file. He could hold out no longer. With a bitter heart he put on his working blouse and shot himself in, in an old smithy, which was to be his workshop. A cry went out from Ikeby over the whole of Värmland. Kevin Heeler has begun to work. A new wonder was to see the light. What should it be? Will it teach us to walk on the water or to raise a ladder to the stars? One night, the first or second of October, he had the wonder ready. He came out of the workshop and had it in his hand. It was a wheel which turned incessantly, as it turned the spokes glowed like fire, and it gave out warmth and light. Kevin Heeler had made a sun. When he came out of the workshop with it, the night grew so light that the sparrows began to chirp and the clouds to burn as if at dawn. There should never again be darkness or cold on earth, his head whirled when he thought of it. The sun would continue to rise and set, but when it disappeared, thousands and thousands of his fireways should flame through the land, and the air would quiver with warmth, as on the hottest summer day. Harvest should ripen in midwinter, while strawberries should cover the hillsides the whole year round, the ice should never bind the water. His firewheel should create a new world. It should be first to the poor and the sun to the miners. It should give power to the mills, life to nature, a new rich and happy existence to mankind. But at the same time, he knew that it was all a dream and that the woodnymph would never let him duplicate his wheel. And in his anger and longing for revenge he thought that he would kill her and then he no longer knew what he was doing. He went to the main building and in the hall under the stairs he put down his firewheel. It was his intention to set fire to the house and burn up the witch in it. Then he went back to his workshop and sat there silently listening. There was shouting and crying outside. Now they could see that a great deed was done. Yes, run, scream, ring the alarm, but she's burning in there, the woodnymph whom you laid on silken cushions. May she rid in torment, may she flee before the flames from the room to room. Ah, how the green silk will blaze and how the flames will play in her torrents of hair. Courage, flames, courage, catch her, set fire to her, witch is burn. Fear not her magic flames, let her burn. There is one who for her sake must burn his whole life through. Bells rang, wagons came rattling, pumps were brought out, water was carried up from the lake, people came running from all the neighbouring villages. There were cries and wailings and commands. That was the roof which had fallen in. There was the terrible crackling and roaring of a fire, but nothing disturbed Kevin Hiller. He sat on the chopping block and rubbed his hands. Then he heard a crash as if the heavens had fallen and he started up in triumph. Now it is done, he cried. Now she cannot escape, now she is crushed by the beams or burned up by the flames. Now it is done. And he thought of the honour and glory of the Ichibi which had to be sacrificed to get her out of the world. The magnificent halls where so much happiness had well, the tables which had grown under dainty dishes, the precious old furniture, silver and china which could never be replaced. And then he sprang up with a cry. His fire wheel, his son, the model on which everything depended had he not put it under the stairs to cause the fire. Kevin Hiller looked down on his self, paralyzed with his may. Am I going mad? He said. How could I do such a thing? At the same moment the door of the workshop opened and the wood-nymph walked in. She stood on the threshold, smiling and fair. Her green dress had neither hold nor stain. No smoke darkened her yellow hair. She was just as he had seen her in the marketplace at Karlstad in his young days. Her tail hung between her feet and she had all the wildness and fragrance of the wood about her. Ichibi is burning, she said and laughed. Kevin Hiller had the sledgehammer lifted and meant to throw it at her head. But then he saw that she had his fire wheel in her hand. See what I have saved for you, she said. Kevin Hiller threw himself on his knees before her. You have broken my courage. You have rent my wings and you have ruined my life. Have grace, have pity on me. She climbed up on the bench and sat there just as young and mischievous as when he saw her first. I see that you know who I am, she said. I know you. I have always known you, said the unfortunate man. You are a genius, but set me free. Take back your gift. Let me be an ordinary person. Why do you persecute me? Why do you destroy me? Mad man, said the wood-nymph. I have never wished you any harm. I gave you a great reward, but I can also take it from you if you wish. But consider well. You will repent it. No, no, he cried. Take from me the power of working wonders. First you must destroy this, she said, and threw the fire wheel on the ground in front of him. He did not hesitate. He swang the sledgehammer over the shining sun. Sparks flew about the room, splinters and flames danced about him, and then his last wonder lay in fragments. Yes, so I take my gift from you, said the wood-nymph. As she stood in the door, and the glare from the fire streamed over her, he looked at her for the last time. More beautiful than ever before, she seemed to him, and no longer malicious, only stern and proud. Mad man, she said, did I ever forbid you to let others copy your works? I only wish to protect the man of genius from a mechanic's labor. Whereupon she went. Kevin Hiller was insane for a couple of days. Then he was as usual again. But in his madness he had burned down Ikeby. No one was hurt. Stil, det var en bra sorg till pensioner att hospitalen, där de tyckte så många bra saker, skulle ha hänt en sån sak i sin tid. End av sektorn 35 av Justa Verling. Red Vailage Rulander