 Sektion 25 av The Story of Jösta Berling. Det här är en LibriVox rekord, eller LibriVox rekord som är i den publiska domen. För mer information om att vara med, visst visst LibriVox.org, ljudit av Lars Rolander. The Story of Jösta Berling av Selma Lagerlöf. Translaterat från Sverige med Polin-Bankroftflack. Part 2, chapter 10. Patron Julius. Patron Julius carried down his red-painted wooden chest from the pensioners wing. He filled with fragrant brandy, a green keg, which had followed him on many journeys. And in the big card luncheon box, he put butter, bread, and seasoned cheese, deliciously shading in green and brown. Fat ham and pancakes swimming in raspberry jam. Then Patron Julius went about and said farewell, with tears in his eyes, to all the glory of Ikeby. He caressed for the last time the worn balls in the bowling alley and the round cheek junsters on the estate. He went about to the arbors in the garden and the grottos in the park. He was in stable and cowhouse, patted the horse's necks, shook the angry bull's horns, and let the calves lick his bare hand. Finally he went with weeping eyes to the main building, where the furball breakfast awaited him. Woe to our existence, how can it be full of so much darkness? There was poison in the food, gull and the wine. The pensioner's throats were compressed by emotion, as well as his own. A mist of tears dimmed the eyes. The farewell speech was broken by sobs. Woe to our existence. His life would be from now on one long desire. He would never smile again. His bullets should die from his memory as flowers die in the autumn ground. He should grow pale and thin, wither like a frostbitten rose, like a thirsting lily. Nevermore should the pensioner see poor Julius. Heavy foreboding traversed his soul. Just as shadows of windswept clouds traversed our newly tilled fields, he would go home to die. Plooming with hells and well-being he now stood before them. Never again should they see him so. Nevermore should they gestingly ask him when he last saw his feet. Nevermore should they wish for his cheeks for bowls. In liver and lungs the disease had already settled. It was gnoing and consuming. He had felt it long. His days were numbered. Oh, will the Ikeby pensioners but remember death. Oh, may they never forget him. Duty called him. There in his home sat his mother and waited for him. For seventeen years she had waited for him to come home from Ikeby. Now she had written a summoning letter and he would obey. He knew that it would be his death, but he would obey like a good son. Oh, the glorious feasts. Oh, the fair shores. The proud falls. Oh, the wild adventures. The white smooth floors. The beloved pensioners' wing. Oh, violins and horns. Oh, life of happiness and pleasure. It was death to be parted from all that. Then Patron Julius went out into the kitchen and said farewell to the servants of the house. Each and all, from the housekeeper to kitchen girl, he embraced and kissed in overflowing emotion. The maid swept and lamented over his fate that such a kind and merry gentleman should die, that they should never see him again. Patron Julius gave command that his chaise should be dragged out of the carriage house and his horse taken out of the stable. His voice almost failed him when he gave that order. So the chaise might not mold in peace at Ikeby, so old kaise must be parted from the well-known manger. He did not wish to say anything hard about his mother, but she ought to have thought of the chaise and kaise if she did not think of him. How would they bear the long journey? The most bitter of all was to take leave of the pensioners. Little round Patron Julius, more built to roll than to walk, felt himself tragic to his very fingertips. He felt himself the great Athenian, who calmly emptied the poison cup in the circle of weeping students. He felt himself the old King Jösta, who prophesised to Swedish people that they someday should wish to tear him up from the dust. Finally he sang his best ballad for them. He thought of the swan who dies in singing. It was so he hoped that they would remember him, a kingly spirit which does not blower itself to complaining, but goes its way, born on melody. At last the last cup was emptied, the last song sang, the last embrace given. He had his coat on, and he held the whip in his hand. There was not a dry eye about him. His own were so filled by Soros rising mist that he could not see anything. Then the pensioners seized him and lifted him up. Cheers thundered about him. They put him down somewhere, he did not see where. A whip cracked, the carriage seemed to move under him, he was carried away. When he recovered the use of his eyes, he was out on the highway. The pensioners had really whipped and been overcome by deep regret. Still their grief had not stifled all the heart's glad emotions. One of them, was it just a burling the poet or Beren Kreuz, the card playing old warrior, or the life where he cousin Christopher, had arranged it so that old Kaisa did not have to be taken from her stall, not the mouldering she's from the coach house. Instead a big spotted ox had been harnessed to a hay wagon, and after the red chest the green keg and the carved luncheon box had been put in there. Patron Julius himself, whose eyes were dim with tears, was lifted up, not onto the luncheon box, nor onto the chest, but onto the spotted ox's back. For so is man too weak to meet sorrow in all his bitterness. The pensioners honestly mourned for their friend was going away to die. That withered lily, that mortally wounded singing swan. Yet the oppression of their hearts was relieved when they saw him depart, riding on the big ox's back, while his fat body was shaken with sobs. His arms outspread for the last embrace sank down in despair, and his eyes sought sympathy in an unkind heaven. Out on the highway the mists began to clear for Patron Julius, and he perceived that he was sitting on the shaking back of an animal. And then people say that he began to ponder on what can happen in seventeen long years. Old Kaisa was visibly changed, could the oats and clover of Ekibi cost so much, and he cried. I do not know if the stones in the road or the birds in the bushes heard it, but true it is that he cried. The devil may torture me if you have not got horns, Kaisa. After another period of consideration, he let himself slide gently down from the back of the ox, climbed up into the wagon, sat down on the luncheon box, and drove on deep in his thoughts. After a while when he has almost reached Ruby, he hears singing. It was the merry young ladies from Barria and some of the judges' pretty daughters who were walking along the road. They had fastened their lunch baskets on long sticks which rested on their shoulders like guns, and they were marching bravely on in the summer sea, singing in good time. Wither away, Patron Julius, they cried when they met him, without noticing the cloud of grief which obscured his brow. I'm departing from the home of sin and vanity, answered Patron Julius. I will dwell no longer among idlers and malefactors. I'm going home to my mother. Oh, they cried. It is not true. You do not want to leave Ekby, Patron Julius. Yes, he said, and struck his wooden chest with his fist, as Lot fled from Sodom and Gomorrah. So do I flee from Ekby. There is not a righteous man there, but when the earth crumbles away under them and the sulfur rain patters down from the sky, I shall rejoice in God's just judgment. Farewell, girls, beware of Ekby. Whereupon he wished to continue on his way, but that was not at all their plan. They meant to walk up to Dundercliffe to climb it, but the road was long and they felt inclined to ride in Julius' wagon to the foot of the mountain. Inside of two minutes the girls had got their way. Patron Julius turned back and directed his course towards Dundercliffe. Smiling his sat on his chest while the wagon was filled with girls. Along the road grew daisies and buttercups. The ox had to rest every now and then for a while. Then the girls climbed out and picked flowers. Soon Gordy rest hung on Julius' head and the ox's horns. Further on they came upon bright young birches and dark older bushes. They got out and broke branches to dawn the wagon. It looked soon like a moving grove. It was fun and play the whole day. Patron Julius became milder and brighter as the day went on. He divided his provisions among the girls and sang ballads for them. When they stood on the top of Dundercliffe with the wide panorama lying below, so proud and beautiful that tears came into their eyes at its loveliness. Julius felt his heart beat violently, words poured from his lips, and he spoke of his beloved land. Ah, barremland, he said, ever beautiful, ever glorious, often when I have seen thee before me on a map I have wondered what thou might represent. But now I understand what thou art. Thou art an old pious hermit who sits quiet in dreams with crossed legs and hands resting in his lap. Thou hast a pointed cap drawn down over thy half shut eyes. Thou art a muser, a holy dreamer, and thou art very beautiful. Wide forests are thy dress, long bands of blue water and parallel chains of blue hills border it. Thou art so simple that strangers do not see how beautiful thou art. Thou art poor as the devout desire to be. Thou sit still while veins, waves wash thy feet and thy cross its legs. To the left thou hast thy fields of ore and thy ironworks. There is thy beating heart. To the north thou hast the dark beautiful regions of the wildness of mystery. There is thy dreaming head. When I see thee gigantic serious, my eyes are filled with tears. Thou art stern in thy beauty. Thou art meditation, poverty, resignation. And yet I see in thy sternest the tender features of kindness. I see thee and worship if I only look into the deep forest. If only the hem of thy garment touches me, my spirit is healed. Hour after hour, year after year I have gazed into thy holy countenance. What mystery are you hiding under lowered eyelids, thou spirit of resignation. Has thou sold the enigma of life and death? Or are thou wondering still, thou holy, thou giant like? For me thou art the keeper of great serious thoughts. But I see people crawl on thee and about thee. Creatures who never seem to see the majesty of earnestness on thy brow. They only see the beauty of thy face and thy limbs. And are so charmed by that they forget all else. Woe is me, woe to us all children of Bermland. Beauty, beauty and nothing else we demand of life. We children of renunciation, of seriousness, of poverty. Raise our hands in one long prayer and ask the one good beauty. May life be like a rose bush with blossoms of love, wine and pleasure. And may its roses be within every man's reach. Yes, that is what we wish and our land wears the features of sternness, earnestness, renunciation. Our land is the eternal symbol of meditation, but we have no thoughts. Oh Bermland, beautiful and glorious. So he spoke with tears in his eyes and with voice vibrating with inspiration. The young girls heard him with wonder and not without emotion. They had little guessed the depth of feeling which was hidden under that surface, glittering with jests and laughter. When it drew towards evening and they once more climbed into the hay wagon, the girls hardly knew whether Patron Julius drew them until they stopped before the steps at Ekeby. Now we will go in here and have a dance girls, said Patron Julius. Vad did the pensioners say when they saw Patron Julius come with a withered breath round his hat and the hay cart full of girls? We might have known that the girls had carried him off, they said. Otherwise we should have had him back here several hours earlier. For the pensioners remembered that this was exactly the 17th time Patron Julius had tried to leave Ekeby, once for every departing year. Now Patron Julius had already forgotten both this attempt and all the others. His conscience slept once more its year long sleep. He was a doubty man, Patron Julius. He was light in the dance, gay at the car table. Pen, pencil and fiddle bow lay equally well in his hand. He had an easily moved heart, fair words on his tongue, a throat full of songs. But what would have been the good of all that if he had not possessed a conscience, which made itself be felt only once a year, like the dragonflies, which free themselves from the gloomy depths and take wings to live only a few hours in the light of day and in the glory of the sun. End of section 25 of the story of Josta Barling, read by Lars Rolander. Part 26 of the story of Josta Barling. 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 Josta Barling by Selma Lagerlöv, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part 2, chapter 11, The Plaster Saints. Svartföre church is white both outside and in. The walls are white, the pulpit, the seats, the galleries, the roof, the window sashes, the altar cloth, everything is white. In Svartföre church are no decorations, no pictures, no coats of arms. Over the altar stands only a wooden cross with a white linen cloth, but it was not always so. Once the roof was covered with paintings, and many colored images of stone and plaster stood in that house of God. Once many years ago an artist in Svartföre had stood and watched the summer sky and the path of the clouds across the sun. He had seen those white shining clouds which in the morning float low on the horizon, piled themselves up higher and higher and raised themselves to storm the heavens. They set up sails like ships, they raised standards like warriors, they encroached on the whole sky. They placed themselves before the sun, those growing monsters and took on wonderful shapes. There was a devouring lion, it changed into a powder lady. There was a giant with outstretched arms, he laid himself down as a dreaming swings. Some adorned their white nakedness with gold-borded mantles, others spread roosh over snowy cheeks. There were plains, there were forests, there were walled castles with high towers. The white clouds were lords of the summer sky, they filled the whole blue arch, they reached up to the sun and hid it. Oh, how beautiful thought the gentle artist, if the longing spirits could climb up on those towering mountains and be carried on those rocking ships ever higher and higher upwards. And all at once he understood that the white clouds were the vessels on which the souls of the blessed were carried. He saw them there, they stood on the gliding masses with lilies in their hands and golden crowns on their heads. Space echoed with their song, angels circled down on broad strong wings to meet them. Oh, what a host there were, as the clouds spread out more and more were visible. They lay on the cloud beds like water lilies on a pond, they adorned them as lilies adorned the meadow. Cloud after cloud rolled up and all were filled with heavenly hosts in armor of silver, of immortal singers in purple-borded mantles. That artist had afterwards painted the roof in the Svatra church. He had wished to reproduce there the mounting clouds of the summer day, which bore the blessed to the kingdom of heaven. The hand which had guided the pencil had been strong, but also rather stiff, so that the clouds resembled more the curling locks of a full-bottom wig than mountains of soft mist. And the form the holy ones had taken for the painter's fancy, he was not able to give them again. But instead clothed them in long red cloaks and stiff bishops miters, or in black robes with stiff ruffles. He had given them big heads and small bodies, and he had provided them with handkerchiefs and prayer books. Latin sentences flew out of their mouths, and for them whom he meant to be the greatest, he had constructed solid wooden chairs on the backs of the clouds, so that they could be carried sitting comfortably to the everlasting life. But everyone knew that spirits and angels had never shown themselves to the poor artist, and so they were not much surprised that he had not been able to give them celestial beauty. The good master's pious work had seemed to many wonderfully fine, and much holy emotion had it awakened. It would have been worthy to have been looked at by our eyes as well. But during the pensioner's year Count Dona had the whole church whitewashed. Then the paintings on the roof were destroyed, and all the plaster saints were also taken away. Alas, the plaster saints! There was Saint Olaf with crown on helm, an axe in his hand and a kneeling giant under his feet. On the pulpit was a unit in a red jacket and blue skirt, with a sword in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Instead of the Assyrian general's head, there was a mysterious queen of Sheba in a blue jacket and red skirt, with a webbed foot on one leg and her hands full of civilian books. There was a grey Saint Jorran lying alone on a beach in the choir, for both horse and dragon had been broken away. There was Saint Christopher with a flowering staff, and Saint Eric with scepter and axe dressed in the flowing, brocaded cloak. These saints were always losing their scepters or their ears or hands, and had to be mended and cleaned. The congregation wearied of it, and longed to be rid of them. But the peasants would never have done the saints any injury, if Count Henrik Dona had not existed. It was he who had them taken away. When Count Dona had caused his marriage to be declared null and void, instead of seeking out his wife and having it made legal, much indignation had arisen. For everyone knew that his wife had left his house only not to be tortured to death. It seemed now as if he wanted to win back God's grace and men's respect by a good work, and so he had swat for church repaired. He had the whole church whitewashed and the paintings torn down. He and his men carried the images out in a boat, and sank them in the depths of the loven. Hur kunde he dare to lay his hand on those mighty ones of the Lord? Did the hand which struck a full of fairness hid, no longer hold a sword? Had Sheba's queen forgotten all secret knowledge, which won't smore deeply than a poisoned arrow? Saint Olaf, Saint Olaf old Viking, Saint Jöran old dragon killer, the noise of your deeds is then dead. But it was best that the saints did not wish to use force against their destroyers. Since the Swartre peasants would not pay for paint for their robes and gilding for their crowns. They allowed Count Dona to carry them out and sink them in loven's bottomless depths. They would not stand there and disfigure God's house. I thought of that boat with its load of saints gliding over loven's surface on a quiet summer evening in August. The man who rode took slow strokes and threw timorous glances at the strange passengers which lay in the bow and stern. But Count Dona, who was also there, was not afraid. He took them one by one and threw them into the water. His brow was clear and he breathed deep. He felt like a defender of the pure evangelical religion and no miracle was performed in the old saint's honor. Silent and ejected they sank down into annihilation. But the next Sunday morning Swartre church stood gleamingly white. No images disturbed the peace of meditation. Only with the eyes of the soul could the virtues contemplate the glory of heaven and the faces of the blessed. But the earth, men's beloved dwelling, is green, the sky is blue, the world glows with colors. Why should the church be white, white as winter, naked as poverty, pale as grief? It does not glitter with whorefrost like a wintry wood. It does not shine in pearls and lace like a white bride. The church stands in white, cold whitewash, without an image, without a picture. That Sunday Count Dona sat in a flower-trimmed armchair in the choir, to be seen and to be praised by all men. He who had had the old benches mended, destroyed the disfiguring images, had set new glass in all the broken windows, and had the whole church whitewashed, should now be honored. If he wished to soften the Almighty's anger, it was right that he had adorned his temple as well as he knew how. But why did he take praise for it? He who came with implacable sterness on his conscience, ought to have fallen on his knees and begged his brothers and sisters in the church to implore God to suffer him to come into his sanctuary. It would have been better for him if he had stood there like a miserable culprit, than that he should sit honored and blessed in the choir and receive praise because he had wished to make his peace with God. When the service was over and the last sound sung, no one left the church, for the clergyman was to make a speech of thanks to the Count, but it never went so far. For the doors were thrown open, back into the church came the old saints, dripping with lovens water, stained with green slime and brown mud. De måste ha hört att det här är en praise av dem som har kastat dem, som har drit dem ut av Gud's holy house, och har sannat dem i det kolde. De solvade vägen ska vara sann. De olja sannade ville ha sina skäl i entretenement. De inte älskar vägen, monotonus rippel. De är använda till sann och prayer. De höll sina sann och läggde det alla att hända, så länge de trodde att det skulle vara till honom av Gud. Men det var inte så. Här sitter Count Dona i honom och glori i den choir, och vill att vara beskatt och prövd i den huset av Gud. De kan inte svara sånt. Däremot har de vissnit från deras vatterig grädd, och skickat in i den kirken. Det är lätt för alla. Här är St. Olaf med kronan och St. Erik med en klock med kolde, och de gräder St. Jöran och St. Kristoffer. Något mer. The Queen of Sheba and Judith hade inte kommit. Men när folk hade skickat lite från deras vatterig grädd, en ordubbel vissnit på den kirken. Pensioner! Ja, naturligtvis är det pensioner. De går upp till Count, utan en ord, och lyft sin kär till sina händer och lägg honom från kirken och lägg honom på slåpet. De säger ingenting och ser inte på rätt eller på lägg honom. De märkligt lägger Count Dona ut i den huset av Gud, och när det är slut så går de igen tillbaka. Den nära väg till lagen. De hade ingen vissnit, utan hade de väst mycket tid i förutsättningarna. Det var plötsligt. Vi, de ekibet pensioner, har vår egen opinion. Count Dona är inte värt att bli trött i Gud's hus. Så vi lägg honom ut, lägg honom som vill lägg honom igenom. Men han inte lägg honom. The clergyman's speech of thanks was never made. The people streamed out of the church. There was no one who did not think the pensioners had acted rightly. They thought of the fair young Countess who had been so cruelly tortured at Bori. They remembered her who had been so kind to the poor, who had been so sweet to look upon that it had been a consolation for them to see her. It was a pity to come with wild pranks into the church, but both the clergyman and the congregation knew that they had been about to play a greater trick on the omniscient, and they stood ashamed before the misguided old madmen. When man is silent, the stones must speak, they said. But after that day Count Henrik was not happy at Bori. One dark night in the beginning of August, a closed carriage drove close up to the big steps. All the servants stationed themselves about it, and Countess Matta came out wrapped in shawls with a thick wail over her face. The Count led her, but she trembled and shuddered. It was with the greatest difficulty that they could persuade her to go through the hall and down the steps. At last she reached the carriage, the Count sprang in after her, the doors were slammed too, and the coachman started the horses off at a gallop. The next morning when the magpies awoke, she was gone. The Count lived from that time on far away in the south of Sweden. Bori var såld och har blivit ownerna många gånger. Ingen kan hjälpa henne, men de har blivit glada i sitt possession. END OF SEKTION 26 OF THE STORY OF JUSTABÄRLING Redd by Lars Rolander SEKTION 27 OF THE STORY OF JUSTABÄRLING Det här är LibriVox rekordning, eller LibriVox rekordning är i publisk domen. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. THE STORY OF JUSTABÄRLING by Selma Lagerlö. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. PART 2 CHAPTER XII God's Wayfarer God's Wayfarer, Captain Lennart, came one afternoon in August, wandering up to the Brube Inn and walked into the kitchen there. He was on his way to his home, Helge Säter, which lies a couple of miles northwest of Brube, close to the edge of the wood. Captain Lennart did not then know that he was to be one of God's wanderers on the earth. His heart was full of joy that he should see his home again. He had suffered a hard fate, but now he was at home, and all would be well. He did not know that he was to be one of those who may not rest under their own roof, nor warm themselves at their own fires. God's Wayfarer, Captain Lennart, had a cheerful spirit. As he found no one in the kitchen, he poked about like a wild boy. He threw the cat at the dog's head and laughed till it rang through the house, when the two comrades let the heat of the moment break through old friendship and fought with tooth and nail and fiery eyes. The innkeeper's wife came in, attracted by the noise. She stopped on the threshold and looked at the man who was laughing at the struggling animals. She knew him well, but when she saw him last, he had been sitting in the prison van with handcuffs on his wrists. She remembered it well, five years and a half ago, during the winter fair in Karlstad. Thieves had stolen the jewels of the governor's wife. Many rings, bracelets and buckles, much priced by the noble lady, for most of them were heirlooms and presents, had then been lost. They had never been found, but a rumor spread through the land that Captain Lennart at Helgesheter was the thief. He had never been able to understand how such a rumor had started. He was such a good and honorable man. He lived happily with his wife, whom he had only a few years before brought home, for he had not been able to afford to marry before. Had he not a good income from his pay and his estate, what could tempt such a man to steal old bracelets and rings, and still more strange it seemed to her that such a rumor could be so believed, so proven that Captain Lennart was discharged from the army, lost his order of the sword and was condemned to five years hard labor. He himself had said that he had been at the market, but had left before he heard anything of the theft. On the highway he had found an ugly old buckle, which he had taken home and given to the children. The buckle, however, was of gold and belonged to the stolen things. That was the cause of his misfortune. It had all been Sintram's work. He had accused him and given the condemning testimony. It seemed as if he wanted to get rid of Captain Lennart for a short time after a lawsuit was opened against himself because it had been discovered that he had sold powder to the Norwegians during the war of 1814. People believed that he was afraid of Captain Lennart's testimony, as it was he was acquitted on the ground of not proven. She could not stare at him enough. His hair had grown gray and his back bent. He must have suffered, but he still had his friendly face and his cheerful spirit. He was still the same Captain Lennart who had led her forward to the altar as a bride and danced at her wedding. She felt sure he would still stop and chat with everybody he met on the road and throw a copper to every child. He would still say to every wrinkled old woman that she grew junger and prettier every day. And he would still sometimes place himself on a barrel and play the fiddle for those who danced about the maple. Well, Mother Karin, he began, are you afraid to look at me? He had come especially to hear how it was in his home and whether they expected him. They must know that he had worked out his time. The innkeeper's wife gave him the best of news. His wife had worked like a man. She had leased the estate from the new owner and everything had succeeded for her. The children were healthy and it was a pleasure to see them. And of course they expected him. His wife was a hard woman who never spoke of what she thought. But she knew that no one was allowed to eat with Captain Leonard's spoon or to sit in his chair while he was away. This spring, no day had passed without her coming out to the stone at the top of Brubihil and looking down the road. And she had put in order new clothes for him. Home woven clothes on which she herself had done nearly all the work. By that one could see that he was expected even if she said nothing. They don't believe it then? Said Captain Leonard. No Captain answered the peasant woman. No body believes it. Then Captain Leonard would stop no longer. Then he wished to go home. It happened that outside the door he met some dear old friends. The pensioner said Ekibi had just come to the inn. Syndrome had invited them thither to celebrate his birthday. And the pensioners did not hesitate a minute before shaking the convict's hand and welcoming him home. Even Syndrome did it. Dear Leonard, he said, were you certain that God had any meaning in it at all? Do you not think I know, cried Captain Leonard, that it was not our Lord who saved you from the block? The others laughed, but Syndrome was not at all angry. He was pleased when people spoke of his compact with the devil. Yes, then they took Captain Leonard in with them again to empty a glass of welcome. After he could go his way. But it went badly for him. He had not drunk such treacher's things for five years. Perhaps he had eaten nothing the whole day and was exhausted by his long journey on foot. The result was that he was quite confused after a couple of glasses. When the pensioners had got him into a state when he no longer knew what he was doing, they forced on him glass after glass and they meant no harm by it. It was with good intention towards him. He had not tasted anything good for five years. Otherwise he was one of the most sober of men. It is also easy to understand that he had no intention to get drunk. He was to have gone home to wife and children. But instead he was lying on the bench in the bar room and was sleeping there. While he lay there, temptingly unconscious, just I took a piece of charcoal and a little cranberry juice and painted him. He gave him the face of a criminal. He thought that most suitable for one who came direct from jail. He painted a black eye, drew a red scar across his nose, plastered his hair down on his forehead in metal tangles and smeared his whole face. He laughed at it for a while. Then just I wished to wash it off. Let it be, said Sintram, so that he can see it when he wakes. It will amuse him. So they left it as it was and thought no more of the captain. The feasting lasted the whole night. They broke up a daybreak. There was more wine than scents in their heads. The question was what they should do with Captain Leonard. We will go home with him, said Sintram. Think how glad his wife will be. It will be a pleasure to see her joy. I am moved when I think of it. Let us go home with him. They were all moved at the thought. Heavens how glad she would be. They took life into Captain Leonard and lifted him into one of the carriages, which the sleeping rooms had long since driven up. And so the whole mob drew up to Helgesheter. Some of them half asleep nearly fell out of the carriage. Others sang to keep awake. They looked a little better than a company of trams with dull eyes and swollen faces. They arrived at last, left the horses in the backyard and marched with a certain solemnity up to the steps. Beren, Kroids, and Juyus supported Captain Leonard between them. Call yourself together, Leonard. They said to him, you are at home. Don't you see that you are at home? He got his eyes open and was almost sober. He was touched that they had accompanied him home. Friends, he said, and stopped to speak to them all. Have asked God friends why so much evil has passed over me. Shut up, Leonard. Don't preach, Christbären Kroids. Let him go on, says Sintram. He speaks well. Have asked him and not understood. Understand now. He wanted to show me what friends I had. Friends who follow me home to see mine and my wife's joy. For my wife is expecting me. What are five years of misery compared to that? Now hard fists pounded on the door. The pensioners had no time to hear more. Within there was commotion. The maids awoke and looked out. They threw on their clothes, but did not dare to open for that crowd of men. At last the bolt was drawn. The captain's wife herself came out. What do you want? She asked. It was Beren Kroids so answered. We are here with your husband. They pushed forward Captain Leonard and she saw him real towards her. Drank with the price fighters face. And behind him she saw the crowd of drunken reeling men. She took a step back. He followed without stretched arms. You left me as a thief. She cried and come home as a vagabond. Whereupon she turned to go in. He did not understand. He wished to follow her. But she struck him a blow on the breast. Do you think that I will receive such a man as you as master in my house and my children. The door slammed and the key turned in the lock. Captain Leonard threw himself against the door and began to shake it. The pensioners could not help it. They began to laugh. He had been so sure of his wife. And now she would have nothing to do with him. It was absurd they thought. When Captain Leonard heard them laughing. He rushed after them and wished to beat them. They ran away and lept into their carriages. He after them. But in his eagerness he stumbled over stone and fell. He got up again but pursued them no farther. A thought struck him in his confusion. In this world nothing happens without God's will. Nothing. Where will thou lead me? He said. I am a feather driven by thy breath. I am thy plaything. Wither wilt thou send me. Why dost thou shut the doors of my home to me? He turned away from his home believing that it was God's will. When the sun rose he stood at the top of Brubihil and looked out over the valley. Ah, little did the poor people in the valley know that the rescuer was near. No mothers as yet lifted their children on their arms that they might see him as he came. The cottages were not clean and in order with the black hearth hidden by Freydran Juniper. As yet the men did not work with eager industry in the fields that his eyes might be gladdened by the sight of cared for crops and well dug ditches. Allas, where he stood his sorrowful eyes saw the ravages of the draft, how the crops were burned up and how the people scarcely seemed to trouble themselves to prepare the earth for the coming year. He looked up at the blue mountains and the sharp morning sun showed him the blackened stretches where the forest fires had passed. He understood by many small signs by the tumbledown fences by the small amount of wood which had been carted home and sought that the people were not looking after their affairs that want had come and that they sought consolation in indifference and brandy. Captain Lennart stod there on Brubbe Hill and began to think that God perhaps needed him. He was not called home by his wife. The pensioners could not at all understand what their fault had been. Sintrum held his time. His wife was much blamed through all the neighborhood because she had been too proud to receive such a good husband. People said that anyone who tried to talk to her of him was instantly interrupted. She could not bear to hear his name spoken. Captain Lennart did nothing to give her other thoughts. It was a day later. An old peasant is lying on his deathbed. He is taken the sacrament and his strength is gone. He must die. Restless as one who is set off on a long journey, he has his bed moved from the kitchen to the bedroom and from the bedroom back to the kitchen. By that they understand more than by the heavy rattling and the failing eyes that his time has come. Proud about him stand his wife, his children and servants. He has been fortunate, rich, esteemed. He is not forsaken on his deathbed. The old man speaks of himself as if he stood in the presence of God. And with sighs and confirming words, those about him bear witness that he speaks the truth. I have been an industrious worker and a kind master, he says. I have loved my wife like my right hand. I have not let my children grow up without discipline and care. I have not drunk. I have not moved my boundary line. I have not hurrid my horse up the hills. I have not let the cows starve in winter. I have not let the sheep be tortured by their wool in summer. And round about him the weeping servants repeat like an echo. He has been a kind master. He has not hurrid the horse up the hills. Not let the sheep sweet in their wool in summer. But through the door unnoticed a poor man has come in to ask for a little food. He also hears the words of the dying man from where he stands silent by the door. And the sick man resumes, I have opened up the forest. I have drained the meadows. I drove the plow in straight furrows. I built three times as big a barn for three times as big a harvest as in my father's time. Of shining money I had three silver goblets mate. My father only made one. God shall give me a good place in his heaven. Our lord will receive our master well, say the servants. The man by the door hears the words and terror fills him who for five long years has been God's plaything. He goes up to the sick man and takes his hand. Friend, friend, he says and his voice trembles. Have you considered who the lord is before whose face you soon must appear? He is a great God, a terrible God. The earth is his pasture. The storm is his horse. Wide heaven shake under the weight of his foot and you stand before him and say, I have plowed straight furrows. I have sowed rye. I have chopped wood. Will you praise yourself to him and compare yourself to him? You do not know how mighty the lord is to whose kingdom you are going. Do not come before your God with big words, continues the wayfarer. The mighty on the earth I like threshed out straw in his barn. His day's work is to make suns. He has dug out oceans and raised up mountains. Bend before him. Lie low in the dust before your lord, your God. Catch like a child at the hem of his garment and beg for protection. Humble yourself before your creator. The sick man's eyes stand wide open. His hands are clasped, but his face lights up and the rattling ceases. Soll, soll! Price the man, as surely as you now in your last hour humble yourself before your God. Will he take you like a child on his arm and carry you into the glory of his heaven? The old man gives a last sigh and all is over. Captain Leonard bends his head and prays. Everyone in the room prays with heavy sighs. When they look up, the old peasant lies in quiet peace. His eyes seem still to shine with a reflection of glorious visions. His mouth smiles. His face is beautiful. He has seen God. He has seen God, says the sun, and closes the dead man's eyes. He saw heaven opening of the children and servants. The old wife lays her shaking hand on Captain Leonard's. You helped him over the worst, Captain. It was that hour which drove Captain Leonard out among the people. Else he would have gone home and let his wife see his real face. But from that time he believed that God needed him. He became God's wayfarer who came with help to the poor. Distress was great and there was much suffering which good sense and kindness could help better than gold and power. Captain Leonard came one day to the poor peasants who lived in the neighborhood of Gurlita Cliff. Among them there was great want. There were no more potatoes and the rye could not be sown as they had no seed. Then Captain Leonard took a little boat and rode across the lake to Foch and asked Sintram to give them rye and potatoes. Sintram received him well. He took him to the big well-stocked grain houses and down into the cellar where the potatoes of last year's crop were. And let him fill all the bags and sacks he had with him. But when Sintram saw the little boat he thought that it was too small for such a load. He had the sacks carried to one of his big boats and his servant, Big Mons, rode it across the lake. Captain Leonard had only his empty boat to attend to. He came however after Mons for the latter was a master of rowing and a giant in strength. Captain Leonard sits and dreams while he rows across the beautiful lake and thinks of the little seed-corns wonderful fate. They were to be thrown out on the black earth among stones and stubble but they would sprout and take root in the wilderness. He thinks how the soft light green shoots will cover the earth and how finally when the airs are filled with soft sweet kernels the sky will pass and the straws fall. And the flail thunder over them and the mill crush the kernels to meal and the meal be baked into bread. Ah, how much hunger will be satisfied by the grain in the boat in front of him. Sintram's servant landed at the pier of the Gurlita people and many hungry men came down to the boat. Then the man said as his master had ordered, the master sends him all the grain peasants, he has heard that you have no brandy. Then the people became as mad, they rushed down to the boat and ran out into the water to cease on bags and sacks but that had never been Captain Leonard's meaning. He had now come and he was furious when he saw what they were doing. He wanted to have the potatoes for food and the rye for seed. He had never asked for malt. He called to the people to leave the sacks alone but they did not obey. May the rye turn to sand in your mouth and the potatoes to stone in your throats. He cried for he was very angry because they had taken the grain. It looked as if Captain Leonard had worked a miracle. Two women who were fighting for a bag tore a hole in it and found only sand. The men who lifted up the potato sacks felt how heavy they were as it filled with stones. It was all sand and stones, only sand and stones. The people stood in silent terror of God's miracle worker who had come to them. Captain Leonard was himself for a moment seized with astonishment. Only months laughed. Go home fellow said Captain Leonard. Before the peasants understand that there has never been anything but sand in these sacks. Otherwise I'm afraid they will sink your boat. I'm not afraid said the man. Go said Captain Leonard with such an imperious voice that he went. Then Captain Leonard let the people know that Sintram had fooled them. But they would not believe anything but that a miracle had happened. The story of it spread soon and as the people's love of the supernatural is great. It was generally believed that Captain Leonard could work wonders. He won great power among the peasants and they called him God's Wayfarer. End of section 27 of the story of Jösta Berling. Red by Lars Rolander. Section 28 of the story of Jösta Berling. This 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 Lagerlöf. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part 2 Chapter 13. The Churchyard. It was a beautiful evening in August. The loven lay like a mirror. He swaled the mountains. It was the cool of the evening. There came Birnkreuz the Colonel with the white moustaches. Short, strong as a wrestler. And with a pack of cards in his coat pocket. To the shore of the lake. He sat down in a flat-bottom boat. With him were Major Anders Fuchs his old brother at arms. And little ruster. The flute player who had been drummer in the Wärmland chasseurs. And during many years had followed the Colonel as his friend and servant. On the other shore of the lake lies the churchyard. The neglected churchyard of the Svartfjö parish. Spärrsliset with crooked rattling iron crosses. Full of hillocks like an unplugged meadow. Overgrown with sedges and striped grasses. Which had been so there as a reminder that no man's life is like another's. But changes like the leaf of the grass. There are no gravel walks there. No shading trees except the big linden on the forgotten grave of some old priest. A stone wall rough and high encloses the miserable feet. Miserable and desolate is the churchyard. Ugly as the face of a miser. Which has withered at the laments of those whose happiness he has stolen. And yet they who rest there are blessed. They who have been sunk into consecrated earth. The sound of psalms and prayers. Aquilon the gambler, he who died last year at Ekeby. Had had to be buried outside the wall. That man who once had been so proud and courtly. The brave warrior. The bold hunter. The gambler who held fortune in his hand. He had ended by squandering his children's inheritance. All that he had gained himself. All that his wife had saved. Wife and children he had forsaken many years before. To lead the life of a pensioner at Ekeby. One evening in the past summer he had played away the farm. Which gave them their means of substance. Rather than to pay his debt. He had shocked himself. But the suicides body was buried outside the moskron ball. Or the miserable churchyard. Since he died the pensioners had only been twelve. Since he died no one had come to take the place of the thirteenth. No one but the devil who on Christmas Eve had crept out of the furnace. The pensioners had found his fate more bitter than that of his predecessors. Of course they knew that one of them must die each year. What harm was there in that? Pensioners may not be old. And their dim eyes no longer distinguish the cards. And their trembling hands no longer lift the glass. What is life for them? And what are they for life? But to lie like a dog by the churchyard wall. Where the protecting sods may not rest in peace. But are trodden by gracing sheep. Wounded by spade and plow. Where the wanderer goes by without slackening his pace. And where the children play without subduing their laughter and jests. To rest there where the stone wall prevents the sun from coming. When the angel of the day of doom wakes with his trump it's the dead within. Oh, to lie there. Berenkreuz rose his boat over the loven. He passes in the evening over the lake of my dreams. About whose shores I have seen God's wonder. And from whose depths my magic palace rises. He rose by logons lagoon. Where the pine stand right up from the water. Growing on low circular shores. And where the ruin of the tumble down biking castle still remains on the steep summit of the island. He rose under the pine grow on Boris point. Where one old tree still hangs on thick roots of the cleft. Where a mighty bear had been caught. And where old mounds and graves bear witness of the age of the place. He rose to the other side of the point. Gets out below the churchyard. And then walks over moored fields. Which belong to the counted bori to Aquilon's grave. Arrived there he bends down and pats the turf. As one lightly caresses the blanket under which a sick friend is lying. Then he takes out a pack of cards. And sits down beside the grave. He is so lonely outside here Johan Fredrik. He must long sometimes for a game. It is a sin and a shame that such a man shall lie here. Says the great bear hunter Anders Fuchs. And sits down at his side. But little ruster the flute player speaks with broken voice. While the tears run from his small red eyes. Next to you Colonel. Next to you he was the finest man I have ever known. These three worthy men sit round the grave. And deal the cards seriously and with seal. I look out over the world. I see many graves. The rest the mighty ones of the earth. Way down by marble. Funeral marches thunder over them. Standards are sunk over those graves. I see the graves of those who have been much loved. Flowers wet with tears. The rest with kisses rest lightly on their green salts. I see forgotten graves. Arrogant graves. Lying resting places and others which say nothing. But never before did I see the right power and the joker. With the bells in his cap. Offered as entertainment to a grave's occupant. Johan Fredrikas one. Says the Colonel proudly. Did I not know it? I taught him to play. Yes now we are dead. We three and he alone alive. Thereupon he gathers together the cards. Rises and goes followed by the others. Back to it. May the dead man have known and felt that not everyone has forgotten him or his forsaken grave. Strange homage wild hearts bring to them they love. But he who lies outside the wall. He who's dead body was not allowed to rest in consecrated ground. He ought to be glad that not everyone has rejected him. Friends and friends. Children of men. When I die I shall surely rest in the middle of the churchyard. In the tomb of my ancestors. I shall not have robbed my family of their means of substance. Nor lifted my hand against my own life. But certainly I have not one such love. Surely will no one do as much for me as the pensioners did for that culprit. It is certain that not everyone has done as much for me as the pensioners did. No one will come in the evening when the sun sets and lonely and dreary in the garden of the dead. To place between my bony fingers the many colored cards. Not even will anyone come which would please me more for cards tempt me little. With fiddle and bow to the grave. That my spirit which wonders about the mouldering dust may rock in the flow of melody. Like a swan on glittering waves. End of section 28 of the story of Justa Berling. Red by Lars Rolander. Section 29 of the story of Justa 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 Justa Berling by Selma Lagerlöf. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part 2 Chapter 14. Old Songs. Marianne Sinclair sat one quiet afternoon at the end of August in her room. And arranged her old letters and other papers. Round about her was disorder. Great leather trunks and ironbound boxes had been dragged into the room. Her clothes covered the chairs and sofas. From attics and wardrofs and from the stain chests of drawers everything had been taken out. The listening silk and linen. Jewels spread out to be polished. Shoals and furs to be selected and inspected. Marianne was making herself ready for a long journey. She was not certain if she should ever return to her home. She was at a turning point in her life. And therefore burnt a mass of old letters and diaries. She did not wish to be weighed down with records of the past. As she sits there she finds a bundle of old verses. They were copies of old ballads which her mother used to sing to her when she was little. She untied the string which held them together and began to read. She smiled sadly when she had read for a while. The old song spoke strange wisdom. Have no faith in happiness. Have no faith in the appearance of happiness. Have no faith in roses. Trust not laughter, they said. See the lovely maiden ballboy drives in a golden coach. And her lips smile but she is as sorrowful as if hooves and wings. Are passing over her life's happiness. Trust not the dance, they said. Many footwork's lightly over polished floor while the heart is heavy as lead. Trust not the jest, they said. Many a one goes to the feast with jesting lips while she longs to die for pain. In what shall one believe in tears and sorrow? He who is sorrowful can force himself to smile but he who is glad cannot weep. But joy is only sorrow disguised. There is nothing real on earth but sorrow. She went to the window and looked out into the garden where her parents were walking. They went up and down the broad pass and talked of everything which met their eyes. The grass and the birds. See said Marianne. There goes a heart which sighs with sorrow because it has never been so happy before. And she thought suddenly that perhaps everything really depended on the person himself. That sorrow and joy depended on the different ways of looking at things. She asked herself if it was joy or sorrow which had passed over her that year. She hardly knew herself. She had lived through a bitter time. Her soul had been sick. She had been bowed down to the earth by her deep humiliation. For when she returned to her home she had said to herself, I will remember no evil of my father but her heart. I will remember no evil of my father but her heart did not agree. He has caused me such mortal pain it said. He has parted me from him I loved. He made me desperate when he struck my mother. I wish him no harm but I am afraid of him. And then she noticed how she had to force herself to sit still when her father sat down beside her. She longed to flee from him. She tried to control herself. She talked with him as usual and was almost always with him. She could conquer herself but she suffered beyond endurance. She ended by detesting everything about him. His coarse loud voice, his heavy tread, his big hands. She wished him no harm but she could no longer be near him without a feeling of fear and repulsion. Her repressed heart revenged itself. You would not let me love it said. But I am never the less your master. You shall end by hating. A custom as she was to observe everything which stirred within her. She sought to well how this repulsion became stronger. How it grew each day. At the same time she seemed to be tied forever to her home. She knew that it would be best for her to go away among people. But she could not bring herself to it since her illness. It would never be any better. She would only be more and more tortured. And some day her self control would give way. And she would burst out before her father and show him the bitterness of her heart. And then there would be strife and unhappiness. So had the spring and early summer passed. In July she had become engaged to Baron Adrian in order to have her own home. One fine foreknown Baron Adrian had galloped up to the house riding a magnificent horse. His usar jacket had shown in the sun. His purse and sword and belt had glittered and flashed to say nothing of his own fresh face and smiling eyes. Melchier Sinclair had stood on the steps and welcomed him when he came. Marianne had sat at the window and sewed. She had seen him come and now heard every word he said to her father. Good day, sir sunshine, Craig Melchier. How fine you are. You are not out to woo. Yes, yes, uncle, that is just what I am. He answered and laughed. Is there no shame in you boy? What have you to maintain a wife with? Nothing, uncle. Had I anything I would never get married. Do you say that, do you say that, sir sunshine, but that fine jacket, you have had money enough to get you that? On credit, uncle. And the horse you're riding that is worth a lot of money, I can tell you. Where did you get that? The horse is not mine, uncle. This was more than Melchier could withstand. God be with you boy, he said. You do indeed need a wife who has something. If you can win Marianne, take her. So everything had been made clear between them before Baron Adrian had even dismounted. But Melchier Sinclair knew very well what he was about, for Baron Adrian was a fine fellow. Then the suitor had come in to Marianne and immediately burst out with his errand. Oh Marianne, dear Marianne, I have already spoken to uncle. I would like so much to have you for my wife. Say that you will, Marianne. She had got at the truth. The old Baron, his father, had let himself be cheated into buying some used up mines again. The old Baron had been buying mines all his life and never had anything been found in them. His mother was anxious, he himself was in debt, and now he was proposing to her in order to thereby save the home of his ancestors and his Ossar jacket. His home was here to be. He lay on the other side of the lake, almost opposite Pjörne. She knew him well, they were of the same age and playmates. You might marry me Marianne. I lead such a wretched life. I have to ride on borrowed horses and cannot pay my tailor's bills. I can't go on. I shall have to resign, and then I shall shoot myself. But Adrian, what kind of a marriage would it be? We are not in the least in love with one another. Oh, as for love I care nothing for all that nonsense, he had then explained. I like to ride a good horse and to hunt, but I am no pensioner. I am a worker. If I only could get some money so that I could take charge of this state at home, and give my mother some peace in her old age, I should be happy. I should both plow and sow for I like work. Then he had looked at her with his honest eyes, and she knew that he spoke the truth, and that he was a man to depend upon. She engaged herself to him, chiefly to get away from her home, but also because she had always liked him. But never would she forget that month which followed the August evening when her engagement was announced, all that time of madness. Baron Adrian became each day sadder and more silent. He came very often to Björne, sometimes several times a day, but she could not help noticing how depressed he was. With others he could still jest, but with her he was impossible, silent and bored. She understood what was the matter. It was not so easy as he had believed to marry an ugly woman. No one knew better than she how ugly she was. She had shown him that she did not want any caressis or lovemaking, but he was nevertheless tortured by the thought of her as his wife, and it seemed worse to him day by day. Why did he care? Why did he not break it off? She had given hints which were plain enough. She could do nothing. Her father had told her that her reputation would not bear any more ventures in being engaged. Then she had despised them both and anyway seemed good enough to get away from them. But only a couple of days after the great engagement feast a sudden and wonderful change had come. In the path in front of the steps at Björne lay a big stone. Which caused much trouble and vexation. Carriages rolled over it, horses and people tricked on it. The maids who came with heavy milk cans ran against it and spilled the milk. But the stone remained because it had already lain there so many years. It had been there in the time of Sinclair's parents long before anyone had thought of building at Björne. He did not see why he should take it up. But one day at the end of August two maids who were carrying a heavy tub tripped over the stone. They fell, hurt themselves badly and the feeling against the stone grew strong. It was early in the morning. Melker was out on his morning walk. But as the workmen were about the house between eight and nine Madame Gustava had several of them come and dig up the big stone. They came with iron levers and spades, dug and strained and at last got the old disturber of the piece up out of his hole. Then they carried him away to the backyard. It was work for six men. The stone was hardly taken up before Melker came home. You can't believe that he was angry. It was no longer the same place he thought. Who had dared to move the stone? Madame Gustava had given the order. Those women had no heart in their bodies. Did not his wife know that he loved that stone? And then he went direct to the stone. Lifted it and carried it across the yard to the place where it had lain. And there he flung it down. And it was a stone which six men could scarcely lift. That deed was mightily admired through the whole of Värmland. While he carried the stone across the yard Marian had stood at the dining room window and looked at him. He was her master, that terrible man with his boundless strength. An unreasonable capricious master who thought of nothing but his own pleasure. They were in the midst of breakfast and she had a carving knife in her hand. Involuntarily she lifted the knife. Madame Gustava seized her by the wrist. Marian, what is the matter, mother? Oh, Marian, you looked so strange, I was frightened. Marian looked at her. She was a little dry woman, grey and wrinkled already at fifty. She loved like a dog without remembering knocks and blows. She was generally good-humoured and yet she made a melancholy impression. She was like a storm with tree by the sea. She had never had quiet to grow. She had learned to use mean shifts to lie when needed and often made herself out more stupid than she was to escape taunts. In everything she was the tool of her husband. Would you agree much if father died? Asked Marian. Marian, you are angry with your father. You are always angry with him. Why cannot everything be forgotten since you have got a new fiance? Oh, mother, it is not my fault. Can I help shuddering at him? Do you not see what he is? Why should I care for him? He is violent, he is uncouth. He has tortured you till you are prematurely old. Why is he our master? He behaves like a madman. Why shall I honour and respect him? He is not good. He is not charitable. I know that he is strong. He is capable of beating us to death at any moment. He can turn us out of the house when he will. Is that why I should love him? But then Madame Gustave had been as never before. She had found strength and courage and had spoken weighty words. You must take care, Marian. It almost seems to me as if your father was right when he shot you out last winter. You shall see that you will be punished for this. You must teach yourself to bear without hating, Marian, to suffer without revenge. Oh, mother, I'm so unhappy. Immediately after they heard in the hall the sound of a heavy fall. They never knew if Melchor Sinclair had stood on the steps and through the open dining room door had heard Marian's words. Or if it was only overexertion which had been the cause of the stroke. When they came out he lay unconscious. They never dared to ask him the cause. He himself never made any sign that he had heard anything. Marian never dared to think the thought out that she had involuntarily revenge herself. But the sight of her father lying on the very steps where she had learned to hate him took all bitterness from her heart. He soon returned to consciousness and when he had kept quiet a few days he was like himself and yet not at all like. Marian saw her parents walking together in the garden. It was always so now. He never went out alone, grumble at guests and at everything which separated him from his wife. Old age had come upon him. He could not bring himself to write a letter. His wife had to do it. He never decided anything by himself but asked her about everything and let it be as she decided. And he was always gentle and kind. He noticed the change which had come over him and how happy his wife was. She's well off now, he said one day to Marian and pointed to Madame Gustava. Oh dear Melkure, she cried, you know very well that I would rather have you strong again. And she really meant it. It was her joy to speak of him as he was in the days of his strength. She told how he held his own in riot and revel as well as any of the acme pensioners. How he had done good business and earned much money just when she thought that he in his madness would lose house and lands. But Marian knew that she was happy in spite of all her complaints to be everything to her husband enough for her. They both looked old, prematurely broken. Marian thought that she could see their future life. He would get greatfully weaker and weaker. Other strokes would make him more helpless and she would watch over him until death parted them. But the end might be far distant. Madame Gustava could enjoy her happiness in peace still for a time. It must be so, Marian thought. Life owed her some compensation. For her too it was better. No fretting despair forced her to marry to get another master. Her wounded heart had found peace. She had to acknowledge that she was a truer, richer, nobler person than before. What could she wish undone of what had happened? Was it true that all suffering was good? Could everything be turned to happiness? She had begun to consider everything good which could help to develop her to a higher degree of humanity. The old songs were not right. Sorrow was not the only lasting thing. She would now go out into the world and look about for some place where she was needed. If her father had been in his old mode. He would never have allowed her to break her engagement. Now Madame Gustava had arranged the matter. Marian had even been allowed to give Baron Adrian the money he needed. She could think of him too with pleasure. She would be free from him. With his bravery and love of life he had always reminded her of justa. Now she should see him glad again. He would again be that sunny night who had come in his glory to her father's house. She would get him lands where he could plow and dig as much as his heart desired. And she would see him lead a beautiful bride to the altar. With such thoughts she sits down and writes to give him back his freedom. She writes gentle persuasive words, sense wrapped up in jests. And yet so that he must understand how seriously she means it. While she writes she hears hoof beats on the road. My dear sir sunshine she thinks it is the last time. Baron Adrian immediately after comes into her room. What Adrian are you coming in here? And she looks dismayed at all her packing. He is shy and embarrassed and stammers out an excuse. I was just writing to you, she says. Look you might as well read it now. He takes the letter and she sits and watches him while he reads. She longs to see his face light up with joy. But he has not read far before he grows fiery red. Throws the letter on the floor, stamps on it and swears terrible oaths. Marianne tremol slightly. She's no novice in the study of love. Still she has not before understood this inexperienced boy, this great child. Adrian, dear Adrian, she says. What kind of comedy have you played with me? Come and tell me the truth. He came and almost suffocated her with caresses. Poor boy. So he had cared and longed. After a while she looked out. There walked Madame Gustava and talked with her husband of flowers and birds. And here she sat and chatted of love. Life has let us both feel it's serious side, she thought and smiled sadly. It wants to comfort us. We have each got her big child to play with. However it was good to be loved. It was sweet to hear him whisper of the magic of power which he possessed. Of how he had been ashamed of what he had said at their first conversation. He had not then known what charm she had. Oh, no man could be near her without loving her. But she had frightened him. He had felt so strangely subdued. It was not happiness nor unhappiness. But she would try to live with this man. She began to understand herself. And thought of the words of the old songs about the turtle dove. It never drinks clear water. But first muddies it with its foot. So that it may better suit its sorrowful spirit. So too should she never go to the spring of life. And drink pure, unmixed happiness. Travel with sorrow. Life pleased her best. End of section 29 of the story of Jösta Berling. Red by Lars Rolander. Section 30 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.com. Reading by Lars Rolander. The story of Jösta Berling by Selma Lagerlöf. Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part two, chapter 15. Death the Deliverer. My pale friend death the Deliverer came in August when the nights were white with moonlight to the house of Captain Uggla. But he did not dare to go direct into that hospitable home for they are few who love him and he does not wish to be greeted with weeping rather with quiet joy. He who comes to set free the soul from the fetters of pain. He who delivers the soul from the burden of the body and lets it enjoy the beautiful life of the swears. In the old grove behind the house crept death. In the grove which then was young and full of green my pale friend hid himself by day. But at night he stood at the edge of the wood white and pale with his kite glittering in the moonlight. Death stood there and the creatures of the night saw him. Evening after evening the people at Bärja heard how the fox howled to foretell his coming. The snake crawled up the sandy path to the very house. He could not speak but they well understood that he came as a presage. And in the apple tree outside the window of the captain's wife the owl hooted for everything in nature feels death and trembles. It happened that the judge from Mönker ridd who had been at a festival at the Breaux Deinerie drew by Bärja at two o'clock in the night and saw a candle burning in the window of the guest room. He plainly saw the yellow flame and the white candle and wondering he afterwards told of the candle which had burned in the summer night. The gay daughters at Bärja laughed and said that the judge had the gift of second sight. For there were no candles in the house. They were already burnt up in March. And the captain swore that no one had slept in the guest room for days and weeks but his wife was silent and grew pale. For that white candle with a clear flame used to show itself when one of her family should be set free by death. A short time after Ferdinand came home from a surveying journey in the northern forests he came pale and ill with an incurable disease of the lungs and as soon as his mother saw him she knew that her son must die. He must go that good son who had never given his parents a sorrow. He must leave earth's pleasures and happiness and the beautiful beloved bride who awaited him and the richest states which should have been his. At last when my pale friend had waited a month he took heart and went one night up to the house. He thought how hunger and privation had there been met by glad faces. So why should not he too be received with joy? That night the captain's wife who lay awake heard a knocking on the window pane and she sat up in bed and asked who is it who knocks and the old people tell that death answered her it is death who knocks. Then she rose up opened her window and saw bats and owls fluttering in the moonlight but death she did not see. Come she said half aloud friend and deliverer why have you lingered so long I have been waiting I have called come and set my son free. The next day she sat by her son sickbed and spoke to him of the blissfulness of the liberated spirit and of its glorious life. So Ferdinand died enchanted by bright visions smiling at the glory to come. Death had never seen anything so beautiful for of course there were some who wept by Ferdinand Ugglas deathbed but the sick man himself smiled at the man with the sky when he took his place on the edge of the bed and his mother listened to the death rattled as if to sweet music she trembled less death should not finish his work and when the end came tears fell from her eyes but they were tears of joy which wet her son's stiffened face never had death been so fitted as at Ferdinand Ugglas burial it was a wonderful funeral procession which passed under the lindens in front of the flower decked coffin beautiful children walked and strode flowers there was no mourning dress no crepe for his mother had wished that he who died with joy should not be followed to the good refuge by a gloomy funeral procession but by a shining wedding train following the coffin went Anna Shanher the dead man's beautiful glowing bride she had set a bridal wreath on her head hung a bridal veil over her and arrayed herself in a bridal dress a white shimmering satin so adorn she went to be wedded at the grave to a mouldering bridegroom behind her they came two by two dignified old ladies and stately men the ladies came in shining buckles and broaches with strings of milk white pearls and bracelets of gold ostrich feathers nodded in their bonnets of silk and lace and from their shoulders floated thin silken shawl of addresses of many colours satin and their husbands came in their best array in high coloured coats with gilded buttons with swelling ruffles and in wests of stiff brocade or richly embroidered velvet it was a wedding procession the captain's wife had wished it so she herself walked next after Anna Shanher led by her husband if she had possessed a dress of shining brocade she would have worn it if she had possessed jewels and a gay bonnet she would have worn them too to do honour to her son on his festival day she only had the black silk dress and the yellowed laces which had adorned so many feasts and she wore them here too although all the guests came in their best array there was not a dry eye when they walked forward to the grave men and women wept not so much for the dead as for themselves there walked the bride there the bridegroom was carried there they themselves wondered decked out for a feast and yet who is there who walks earth's green pathways and does not know that his lot is affliction, sorrow, unhappiness and death they wept at the thought that nothing on earth could save them the captain's wife did not weep but she was the only one whose eyes were dry when the prayers were red and the grave filled in all went away to the carriages only the mother and Anna Scharnet lingered by the grave to bid their dead a last goodbye the older woman sat down on the gray mound and Anna placed herself at her side Anna said the captain's wife I have said to God let death come and take away my son let him take away him I love most and only tears of joy shall come to my eyes with anuptial pomp I will follow him to his grave and my red rose push which stands outside my chamber window will I move to him in the graveyard and now it has come to pass my son is dead I have greeted death like a friend called him by the tenderest names I have wept tears of joy over my son's dead face and in the autumn when the leaves are fallen I shall plant my red rose push here but do you know you will sit here at my side why I have sent such prayers to God she looked questioningly at Anna Scharnet but the girl sat silent and pale beside her perhaps she was struggling to silence inward voices which already there on the grave of the dead began to whisper to her that now at last she was free the fault is yours said the captain's wife the girl sank down as from a blow she did not answer a word Anna Scharnet you were once proud and self-willed you played with my son took him and cast him off but what of that he had to accept it as well as another perhaps to he and we all loved your money as much as you but you came back you came with a blessing to our home you were gentle and mild strong and kind when you came again you cherished us with love you made us so happy Anna Scharnet and we poor people lay at your feet and yet and yet I have wished that you had not come then had I not needed to pray to God to shorten my son's life at Christmas he could have born to loose you but after he had learned to know you such as you now are he would not have had the strength you know Anna Scharnet who today have put on your bridal dress to follow my son that if he had lived you would never have followed him in that attire to the brew church for you did not love him I saw that you only came out of pity for you wanted to relieve our hard lot you did not love him do you not think that I know love that I see it when it is there and understand when it is lacking then I thought may God take my son's life before he has his eyes opened oh if you had loved him oh if you had never come to us and sweetened our lives when you did not love him I knew my duty if he had not died I should have been forced to tell him that you did not love him that you were marrying him out of pity I must have made him set you free and then his life's happiness would have been gone that is why I prayed to God that he might die that I should not need to disturb the peace of his heart and I have rejoiced over his sunken cheeks exalted over his rattling breath tremble less death should not complete his work she stopped speaking and waited for an answer but Anna Scharne could not speak she was still listening to the many voices in her soul then the mother cried out in despair oh how happy are they who may mourn for their dead they who may weep streams of tears I must stand with dry eyes by my son's grave I must rejoice over his death how unhappy I am then Anna Scharne pressed her hands against her breast she remembered that winter night when she had sworn by her love to be these poor people's support and comfort and she trembled had it all been in vain was not her sacrifice one of those which God accepts should it all be turned to a curse but if she sacrificed everything would not God then give his blessing to the work and let her bring happiness be a support, a help to these people what is required for you to be able to mourn for your son she asked that I shall not believe the testimony of my old eyes if I believe that you love my son then I would grieve for his death the girl rose up her eyes burning she tore off her veil and spread it over the grave she tore off her breath and laid it beside it see how I love him she cried I give him my breath and veil I consecrate myself to him I will never belong to another then the captain's wife rose too she stood silent for a while her whole body was shaking and her face twitched but at last the tears came tears of grief end of section 30 of the story of Jösta Bärling red by Lars Rolander