 Section 18 of the Story of Jösta Wärling This is a 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 Wärling by Selma Lagerlö Translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft-Flaq Part 2 Chapter 3 Penitence Dear friends, if it should ever happen that you meet a pitiful wretch on your way, a little distressed creature who lets his hat hang on his back and holds his shoes in his hand, so as not to have any protection from the heat of the sun and the stones of the road, one without defence, who of his own free will calls down destruction on his head. Well, pass him by in silent fear. It is a penitent, do you understand? A penitent on his way to the holy Sepulcher. The penitent must wear a coarse cloak and live on water and dry bread, even if he were a king. He must walk and not ride. He must beg. He must sleep among pistols. He must wear the hard gravestones with kneeling. He must swing the thorny scourge over his back. He can know no sweetness except in suffering, no tenderness except in grief. The young Countess Elizabeth was once one who wore the heavy cloak and trod the thorny paths. Her heart accused her of sin. It longed for pain as one where it longs for a warm bath. Dyer disaster she brought down on herself while she descended rejoicing into the night of suffering. Her husband, the young Count, with the old man's head, came home to borrow the morning after the night when the mill and smithy at Iqibi were destroyed by the spring flood. He had hardly arrived before Countess Matta had him summoned into her and told him wonderful things. Your wife was out last night, Henry. She was gone many hours. She came home with a man. I heard how he said good night to her. I know too who he is. I heard both when she went and when she came. She is deceiving you, Henry. She is deceiving you, the hypocritical creature, who hangs knitted curtains in all the windows only to cause me discomfort. She has never loved you, my poor boy. Her father only wanted to have her well married. She took you to be provided for. She managed her affair so well that Count Henry became furious. He wished to get a divorce. He wished to send his wife home to her father. No, my friends had Countess Matta. In that way she would be quite given over to evil. She is spoiled and badly brought up. But let me take her in hand. Let me lead her to the path of duty. And the Count called in his Countess to tell her that she now was to obey his mother in everything. Many angry words the young man let the young woman hear. He stretched his hands to heaven and accused it of having let his name be dragged in the dirt by a shameless woman. He shook his clenched fist before her face and asked her what punishment she thought great enough for such a crime as hers. She was not at all afraid. She thought that she had done right. She said that she had already caught a serious cold and that might be punishment enough. Elizabeth says Countess Matta, this is not a matter to joke about. We too, answers the young woman, have never been able to agree about the right time to joke and to be serious. But you ought to understand, Elizabeth, that no honorable woman leaves her home to roam about in the middle of the night with a known adventurer. Then Elizabeth D'Orna saw that her mother-in-law meant her ruin. She saw that she must fight to the last gasp, lest Countess Matta should succeed in drawing down upon her a terrible misfortune. Henry, she begs, do not let your mother come between us. Let me tell you how it all happened. You are just, you will not condemn me unheard. Let me tell you all, and you will see that I only acted as you have taught me. The Count nodded a silent consent, and Countess Elizabeth told how she had come to drive Yostabaling into the evil way. She told of everything which had happened in the little blue cabinet, and how she had felt herself driven by her conscience to go and save him she had wronged. I had no right to judge him, she said, and my husband has himself taught me that no sacrifice is too great when one will make amends for a wrong. Is it not so, Henry? The Count turned to his mother. What has my mother to say about this, he asked. His little body was now quite stiff with dignity, and his high narrow forehead lay in majestic folds. I answered the Countess, I say that Anna Schranhoek is a clever girl, and she knew what she was doing when she told Elizabeth that story. You are pleased to misunderstand me, said the Count. I ask what you think of this story, has Countess Martadona tried to persuade her daughter, my sister, to marry a dismissed priest? Countess Marta was silent an instant. I'll ask that Henry, so stupid, so stupid, now he was quite on the wrong track. Her hound was pursuing the hunter himself, and letting the hare get away. But if Martadona was without an answer for an instant, it was not longer. Dear friend, she said with a shrug, there is a reason for letting all those old stories about that unhappy man rest. The same reason which makes me beg you to suppress all public scandal, it is most probable that he has perished in the night. She spoke in a gentle, commiserating tone, but there was not a word of truth in what she said. Elizabeth has slept late today, and therefore has not heard that people have already been sent out on to the lake to look for her burling. He has not returned to Ikeby, and they fear that he has drowned. The ice broke up this morning. See, the storm has split it into a thousand pieces. Countess Elizabeth looked out, the lake was almost open. Then in despair she threw herself on her knees before her husband, and confession rushed from her lips. She had wished to escape God's justice. She had lied and dissembled. She had thrown the white mantle of innocence over her. Condemn me. Turn me out. I have loved him. Be in no doubt but that I have loved him. I tear my hair. I rend my clothes with grief. I do not care for anything when he is dead. I do not care to shield myself. You shall know the whole truth. My heart's love I have taken from my husband, and given to a stranger. Oh, I am one of them whom a forbidden love has tempted. You desperate young thing, lie there at your judge's feet and tell them all. Welcome, martyrdom. Welcome, disgrace. Welcome. Oh, how shall you bring the bolt of heaven down on your young head? Tell your husband how frightened you were when the pain came over you, mighty and irresistible. How you shuddered for your heart's wretchedness. You would rather have met the ghosts of the graveyard than the demons in your own soul. Tell them how you felt yourself unworthy to tread the earth. With prayers and tears you have struggled. Oh, God save me. Oh, son of God, cast her out of devils. Save me, you have prayed. Tell them how you thought it best to conceal it all. No one should know your wretchedness. You thought that it was God's pleasure to have it so. You thought too that you went in God's ways when you wished to save the man you loved. He knew nothing of your love. He must not be lost for your sake. Did you know what was right? Did you know what was wrong? God alone knew it, and he had passed sentence upon you. He had struck down your heart's idol. He had led you on to the great healing way of penitence. Tell them that you know that salvation is not to be found in concealment. Devils love darkness. Let your judge's hands close on the scourge. The punishment shall fall like soothing balm on the wounds of sin. Your heart longs for suffering. Tell them all that while you kneel on the floor and wring your hands in fierce sorrow. Speaking in the wild accents of despair, with a shrill laugh greeting the thought of punishment and dishonour, until at last your husband ceases you and drags you up from the floor. Conduct yourself as it behooves a counter-stona, or I must ask my mother to chastise you like a child. Do with me what you will. Then the count pronounced his sentence. My mother has interceded for you. Therefore you may stay in my house, but hereafter it is she who commands and you who obey. See the way of the penitent. The young countess has become the most humble of servants. How long? Oh, how long? How long shall a proud heart be able to bend? How long can impatient lips keep silent? How long a passionate hand be held back? Sweet is the misery of humiliation. When the back aches from the heavy work, the heart is at peace. To one who sleeps a few short hours on a hard bed of straw, sleep comes uncalled. Let the older woman change herself into an evil spirit to torture the younger. She thanks her benefactress, as yet the evil is not dead in her. Hunt her up at four o'clock every morning. Impose on the inexperienced workwoman an unreasonable day's work at the heavy weaving loom. It is well, the penitent has perhaps not strength enough to swing the scourge with the required force. When the time for the great spring washing comes, countess Matta has her stand at the tub in the wash house. She comes herself to oversee her work. Note, in the country in Sweden in the old days, they used to wash twice a year, in spring and autumn. The water is too cold in your tub, she says, and takes boiling water from a kettle and pour it over her bare arms. The day is cold, the washer women have to stand by the lake and rinse out the clothes. Squalls rush by and drench them with sleet. Dripping wet and heavy as sleet are the washer women's skirts. Hard is the work with the wooden clapper, the blood bursts from the delicate nails. But countess Elisabeth does not complain. Praised be the goodness of God, the scourge's thorny knots fall softly as if they were rose leaves on the penitent's back. The young woman soon hears that just a boiling is alive. Her mother-in-law had only wanted to cheat her into a confession. Well, what of that? See the hand of God. He had won over the sinner to the path of atonement. She grieves for only one thing. How shall it be with her mother-in-law whose heart God for her sake has hardened? Ah, he will judge her mildly. She must show anger to help the sinner to win back God's love. She did not know that often a soul that has tried all other pleasures turns to delight in cruelty. In the suffering of animals and men, weakened emotions find a source of joy. The older woman is not conscious of any malice. She thinks she's only correcting a vant on wife. So she lies awake sometimes at night, and brawls of a new methods of torture. One evening she goes through the house, and has the countess light her with a candle. She carries it in her hand without a candlestick. The candle is burned out, says the young woman. When there is an end to the candle, the candlestick must burn, answers countess Mattam. And they go on until the reeking week goes out in the scorched hand. But that is childishness. There are tortures for the soul which are greater than any suffering of the body. Countess Mattam invites guests, and makes the mistress of the house herself wait on them at her own table. That is the penitence great day. Strangers shall see her in her humiliation. They shall see that she is no longer worthy to sit at her husband's table. Oh, with what scorn their cold eyes will rest on her. Worse, much worse it is. Not an eye meets hers. Everybody at the table sits silent and depressed. Men and women equally out of spirits. But she gathers it all to lay it like coals of fire on her head. Is her sin so dreadful? Is it a disgrace to be near her? Then temptation comes. Anna Scharnock who has been her friend and the judge at Mönchgeru. Anna's neighbor at the table. Take hold of her when she comes. Snatch the dish from her, push up a chair, and will not let her escape. Sit there, child, sit there, says the judge. You have done no wrong. And with one voice all the guests declare that if she does not sit down at the table, they must all go. They are no executioners. They will not do Matadona's bidding. They are not so easily deceived as that sheep-like count. Oh, good gentleman, oh beloved friends, do not be so charitable. You force me to cry out my sin. There is someone whom I have loved too dearly. Child, you do not know what sin is. You do not understand how guiltless you are. Just a bearing did not even know that you liked him. Take your proper place in your home. You have done no wrong. They keep up her courage for a while, and are themselves suddenly gay as children. Laughter and jests ring about the board. These impetuous emotional people, they are so good, but still they are sent by the tempter. They want to make her think that she is a martyr, and openly scoff at Countess Marta as if she were a witch. But they do not understand. They do not know how the soul longs for purity, nor how the penitent is driven by his own heart to expose himself to the stones of the way and the heat of the sun. Sometimes Countess Marta forces her to sit the whole day long, quietly in the bay window, and then she tells her endless stories of just a bearing, priest and adventurer. If her memory does not hold out, she romances only to contrive that his name the whole day shall sound in the young woman's ears. That is what she fears most. On those days she feels that her penance will never end. Her love will not die. She thinks that she herself will die before it. Her strength begins to give way. She is often very ill. But where is your hero tarrying? asked the Countess spitefully. From day to day I have expected him at the head of the pensioners. Why does he not take body by storm, set you up on a throne and throw me and your husband bound into a dungeon cell? Are you already forgotten? She is almost ready to defend him and say that she herself had forbidden him to give her any help. But now it is best to be silent, to be silent and to suffer. Day by day she is more and more consumed by the fire of irritation. She has incessant fever, and is so weak that she can scarcely hold herself up. She longs to die. Life's strongest forces are subdued. Love and joy do not dare to move. She no longer fears pain. It is as if her husband no longer knew that she existed. He sits shut up in his room almost the whole day and studies indecipherable manuscripts and essays in old stained print. He reads Charters of Nobility on parchment from which the seal of Sweden hangs, large on poten, stamped in red wax and kept in a turned wooden box. He examines old coats of arms with lilies on a white field and griffins on a blue. Such things he understands, and such he interprets with ease. And he reads over and over again speeches and arbitrary notices of the noble Count's daughter, where their exploits are compared to those of the heroes of Israel and the gods of Greece. Those old things have always given him pleasure, but he does not trouble himself to think a second time of his young wife. Countess Matta has said a word which killed the love in him. She took you for your money. No one can bear to hear such a thing. It quenches all love. Now it was quite one to him what happened to the young woman. If his mother could bring her to the path of duty so much the better, Count Henry had much admiration for his mother. This misery went on for a month. Still it was not such a stormy and agitated time as it may sound when it is all compressed into a few written pages. Countess Elizabeth was always outwardly calm. Once only when she heard that just a baling might be dead, emotion overcame her. But her grief was so great that she had not been able to preserve her love for her husband, that she would probably have let Countess Matta torture her to death if her old housekeeper had not spoken to her one evening. You must speak to the Count Countess, she said. Good heavens, you are such a child. You do not perhaps know yourself, Countess, what you have to expect. But I see well enough what the matter is. But that was just what she could not say to her husband while he cherished such a black suspicion of her. That night she dressed herself quietly and went out. She wore an ordinary peasant girl's dress and had a bundle in her hand. She meant to run away from her home and never come back. She did not go to escape pain and suffering, but now she believed that God had given her a sign that she might go, that she must preserve her body's health and strength. She did not turn to the west across the lake, for there lived one whom she loved very dearly. Nor did she go to the north, for there many of her friends lived. Nor to watch the south, for far, far to the south lay her father's home, and she did not wish to come a step nearer. But to the east she went, for there she knew she had no home, no beloved friend, no acquaintance, no help nor comfort. She did not go with a light step, for she thought that she had not yet appeased God, but still she was glad that she hereafter might bear the burden of her sin among strangers. There in different glasses should rest on her, soothing as cold steel laid on a swollen limb. She meant to continue her wandering until she found a lowly cottage at the edge of the wood, where no one should know her. You can see what has happened to me and my parents have turned me off, she meant to say. Let me have food and a roof over my head here, until I can earn my bread. I am not without money. So she went on in the bright due night, for the month of May had passed during her suffering. Alas, the month of May, that fair time when the birches mingled their pale green with the darkness of the pine forest, and when the south wind comes again, satiated with warmth. Ah, May, you dear bright month, have you ever seen a child who is sitting on its mother's knee, listening to fairy stories? As long as the child is told of cruel giants, and of the bitter suffering of beautiful princesses, it holds its head up and its eyes open. But if the mother begins to speak of happiness and sunshine, the little one closes its eyes and falls asleep with its head against her breast. And see, fair month of May, such a child am I too. Others may listen to tales of flowers and sunshine. But for myself I choose the dark nights, full of visions and adventures, bitter destinies, sorrowful sufferings of wild hearts. End of Section 18 of the Story of Justa Berling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 19 of the Story of Justa Berling This is the 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 Lagelöv, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Section 19 of the Story of Justa Berling The Iron from Ekiby Spring had come, and the iron from all the mines in Wärmland was to be sent to Gothenburg. But at Ekiby they had no iron to send. In the autumn there had been a scarcity of water. In the spring the pensioners had been in power. In their time strong bitter ale foamed down the broad granite slope of Björkse Falls, and Löfven's long lake was filled not with water, but with brandy. In their time no iron was brought to the forge. The smith stood in the shirt sleeves and clogged by the hearth, and turned enormous roasts on long spits, while the boys on long tongs held larded capoons over the coals. In those days they slept on the carpenter's bench and played cards on the anvil. In those days no iron was forged. But the spring came, and in the wholesale office in Gothenburg they began to expect the iron from Ekiby. They looked up the contract made with the major and his wife, where there were promises of the delivery of many hundreds of toms. But what did the pensioners care for the contract? They thought of pleasure and fiddling and feasting. Iron came from Stømne, iron from Sölje, from Ödeholm it came, and from Munchfors, and from all of the many mines. But where is the iron from Ekiby? Is Ekiby no longer the chief of Värmlands ironworks? Does no one watch over the honour of the old estate? Like ashes for the wind it is left in the hands of shiftless pensioners. Well, but if the Ekiby hammers have rested, they must have worked at our six other estates. There must be there enough and more than enough iron. So just a bailing sets out to talk with the managers of the six mines. He travelled ten miles or so to the north till he came to Lötafors. It is a pretty place, there can be no doubt of that. The upper loven lies spread out before it, and close behind it lies Görlita Cliff, with steeply rising top and a look of wildness and romance which well suits an old mountain. But the smithy, that is not as it ought to be. The swing-wheel is broken, and has been so a whole year. Well, why has it not been mended? The carpenter, my dear friend, the carpenter, the only one in the whole district who could mend it, been busy somewhere else. We have not been able to forge a single ton. Why did you not send after the carpenter? Send after, as if we had not sent after him every day, but he has not been able to come. He was busy building bowling alleys and summer houses at Ekiby. He goes further to the north to Björn Idet, also a beautiful spot. But iron, is there any iron? No, of course not. They had had no coal, and they had not been able to get any money from Ekiby to pay charcoal burners and teamsters. There had been no work all winter. Then Jösta turns to the south. He comes to Hån, and to Løvstafors, far in the woods. But he fares no better there. Nowhere have they iron, and everywhere it seems to be the pensioner's own fault that such is the case. So Jösta turns back to Ekiby, and the pensioners with gloomy looks take into consideration the fifty tons or so which are in stock. And their heads are weighed down with grief, for they hear how all nature snares at Ekiby, and they think that the ground shakes with sobs, that the trees threaten them with angry gestures, and that the grass and weeds lament that the honour of Ekiby is gone. But why so many words, and so much perplexity? There is the iron from Ekiby. There it is, loaded on barges on the Klar River, ready to sail down the stream, ready to be weighed at Karlstad, ready to be conveyed to Gothenburg. So it is saved the honour of Ekiby. But how is it possible? At Ekiby there was not more than fifty tons of iron. At the six other mines there was no iron at all. How is it possible that full loaded barges shall now carry such an enormous amount of iron to the scales at Karlstad? Yes, one may well ask the pensioners. The pensioners are themselves on board the heavy ugly vessels. They mean to escort the iron from Ekiby to Gothenburg. They are going to do everything for their dear iron, and not forsake it until it is unloaded on the wharf in Gothenburg. They are going to load and unload, manage sails and rudder. They are the very ones for such an undertaking. Is there a shawl in the Klar River, or a reef in the Banner, which they do not know? If they love anything in the world, it is the iron on those barges. They treat it like the most delicate glass. They spread cloths over it. Not a bit may lie bare. It is those heavy grey bars which are going to retrieve the honour of Ekiby. No stranger may cast indifferent glances on them. None other pensioners have remained at home. Uncle Eberhardt has left his desk, and cousin Christopher has come out of his corner. No one can hold back when it is a question of the honour of Ekiby. Everyone knows that often in life occurs such coincidences, as that which now followed. He who still can be surprised may wonder that the pensioners should be lying with their barges at the ferry over the Klar River, just on the morning after when Countess Elizabeth had started on her wanderings toward the east. But it would certainly have been more wonderful if the young woman had found no help in her need. It now happened that she who had walked the whole night was coming along the highway which led down to the ferry, just as the pensioners intended to push off, and they stood and looked at her while she talked to the ferryman, and he untied his boat. She was dressed like a peasant girl, and they never guessed who she was. But still they stood and stared at her, because there was something familiar about her. As she stood and talked to the ferryman, a cloud of dust appeared on the highway, and in that cloud of dust they could catch a glimpse of a big jello coach. She knew that it was from Bori, that they were out to look for her, and that she would now be discovered. She could no longer hope to escape in the ferryman's boat, and the only hiding place she saw was the pensioners' barges. She rushed down to them without seeing who it was on board, and well it was that she did not see, for otherwise she would rather have thrown herself under the horse's feet than have taken her flight thither. When she came on board she only screamed, hide me, hide me, and then she tripped and fell on the pile of iron. But the pensioners bade her be calm. They pushed off hurriedly from the land, so that the barge came out into the current, and board down towards Karlstad, just as the coach reached the ferry. In the carriage sat Count Henrik and Countess Matta. The Count ran forward to ask the ferryman if he had seen his Countess, but as Count Henrik was a little embarrassed to have to ask about a runaway wife, he only said, Something has been lost. Really? said the ferryman. Something has been lost. I ask if you have seen anything. What are you asking about? Yes, it makes no difference, but something has been lost. I ask if you have ferried anything over the river today. By these means he could find out nothing, and Countess Matta had to go and speak to the man. She knew in a minute that she whom they sought was on board one of the heavily gliding barges. Who are the people on those barges? Oh, they are the pensioners as we call them. Ah, says the Countess. Yes, then your wife is in good keeping, Henrik. We might as well go straight home. On the barge there was no such great joy as Countess Matta believed, as long as the yellow coach was in sight, the frightened young woman shrank together on the load motionless and silent, staring at the shore. Probably she first recognized the pensioners when she had seen the yellow coach drive away. She started up, it was as if she wanted to escape again, but she was stopped by the one standing nearest and she sank back on the load with a faint moan. The pensioners dared not speak to her nor ask her any questions. She looked as if on the verge of madness. Their careless heads began verily to be heavy with responsibility. This iron was already a heavy load for unaccustomed shoulders, and now they had to watch over a young high-born lady who had run away from her husband. When they had met this young woman at the balls of the winter, one and another of them had thought of a little sister whom he had once loved. When he played and romped with that sister, he needed to handle her carefully, and when he talked with her, he had learned to be careful not to use bad words. If a strange boy had chased her too wildly in their play, or had sung poor songs for her, he had thrown himself on him with boundless fury, and almost pounded the life out of him. For his little sister should never hear anything bad, nor suffer any pain, nor ever be met with anger and hate. Countess Elizabeth had been like a joyous sister to them all. When she had laid her little hands in their hardfists, it had been as if she had said, Feel how fragile I am, but you are my big brother. You shall protect me both from others and from yourself, and they had been courtly nights as long as they had been with her. Now the pensioners looked upon her with terror and did not quite recognize her. She was worn and thin. Her neck was without roundness, her face transparent. She must have struck herself during her wanderings, for from a little wound on her temple, blood was trickling, and her curly light hair which shaded her brow was sticky with it. Her dress was soiled from her long walk on the wet pass, and her shoes were muddy. The pensioners had a dreadful feeling, that this was a stranger. The Countess Elizabeth they knew never had such wild glittering eyes. Their poor little sister had been hunted nearly to madness. It was as if a soul come down from other spaces was struggling with the right soul for the mastery of her tortured body. But there was no need for them to worry over what they should do with her. The old thought soon waked in her. Temptation had come to her again. God wished to try her once more. See, she is among friends, thus she intend to leave the path of the penitent. She rises and cries that she must go. The pensioners tried to calm her. They told her that she was safe. They would protect her from all persecution. She only begged to be allowed to get into the little boat, which was towed after the barge, and rode to the land to continue her wandering. But they could not let her go. What would become of her? It was better to remain with them. They were only poor old men, but they would surely find some way to help her. Then she wrung her hands and begged them to let her go. But they could not grant her prayer. She was so exhausted and weak that they thought that she would die by the roadside. Just a bearing stood a short distance away and looked down into the water. Perhaps the young woman would not wish to see him. He did not know it, but his thoughts played and smiled. Nobody knows where she is, he thought. We can take her with us to Ekby. We will keep her hidden there. We pensioners, and we will be good to her. She shall be our queen, our mistress, but no one shall know that she is there. We will guard her so well, so well. She perhaps would be happy with us. She would be cherished like a daughter by all the old men. He had never dared to ask himself if he loved her. She could not be his without sin, and he would not drag her down to anything low and wretched. That he knew, but to have her concealed at Ekby, and to be good to her after others had been cruel, and to let her enjoy everything pleasant in life. Ah, what a dream! What a blissful dream! But he wakened out of it, for the young Countess was in dire distress, and her words had the piercing accent of despair. She had thrown herself upon her knees in the midst of the pensioners, and begged them to be allowed to go. God has not yet pardoned me, she cried. Let me go! Just I saw that none of the others meant to obey her, and understood that he must do it. He who loved her must do it. He felt difficulty in walking, as if his every limb resisted his will. But he dragged himself to her, and said that he would take her on shore. She rose instantly. He lifted her down into the boat, and rode her to the east shore. He landed at a little pathway, and helped her out of the boat. What is to become of you Countess, he said. She lifted her finger solemnly, and pointed towards heaven. If you are in need Countess, he could not speak. His voice failed him, but she understood him, and answered, I will send you word when I need you. I would have liked to protect you from all evil, he said. She gave him her hand in farewell, and he was not able to say anything more. Her hand lay cold and limp in his. She was not conscious of anything but those inward voices, which forced her to go among strangers. She hardly knew that it was the man she loved whom she now left. So he let her go, and rode out to the pensioners again. When he came up on the barge, he was trembling with fatigue, and seemed exhausted and faint. He had done the hardest work of his life, it seemed to him. For the few days he kept up his courage until the honour of Ikebi was saved. He brought the iron to the weighing office on Karnike Point. Then, for a long time, he lost all strength and love of life. The pensioners noticed no change in him as long as they were on board. He strained every nerve to keep his hold on gaiety and carelessness, for it was by gaiety and carelessness that the honour of Ikebi was to be saved. How should their venture at the weighing office succeed, if they came with anxious faces and ejected hearts? If what rumor says is true, that the pensioners that time had more sand than iron on their barges, if it is true that they kept bringing up and down the same bars to the weighing office at Karnike Point, until the many hundred tons were weighed, if it is true that all that could happen because the keeper of the public scales and his men were so well entertained out of the hampers and wine cases brought from Ikebi. One must know that they had to be gay on the iron barges. Who can know the truth now? But if it was so, it is certain that Jostabaaling had no time to grieve of the joy of adventure and danger he felt nothing. As soon as he dared, he sank into a condition of despair. As soon as the pensioners had got their certificate of weighing, they loaded their iron on a bark. It was generally the custom that the captain of the vessel took charge of the load to Gothenburg and the Bermnan mines had no more responsibility for their iron when they had got their certificate that the consignment was filled. But the pensioners would do nothing by halves. They were going to take the iron all the way to Gothenburg. On the way they met with misfortune. A storm broke out in the night. The vessel was disabled, drove on a reef, and sank with all her precious load. But if one saw the matter rightly, what did it matter if the iron was lost? The honour of Ikebi was saved. The iron had been weighed at the weighing office at Karnike Point. And even if the major had to sit down and in a curt letter inform the merchants in the big town that he would not have their money, as they had not got his iron, that made no difference either. Ikebi was so rich, and its honour was saved. But if the harbours and locks, if the mines and charcoal kilns, if the schooners and barges begin to whisper of strange things, if a gentle murmur goes through the forests that the journey was afraud, if it is asserted through the whole of Wärmdön, that there were never more than fifty miserable tons on the barges, and that the shipwreck was arranged intentionally, a bold exploit had been carried out, and a real pensioner's prank accomplished. By such things the honour of the oldest day is not blemished. But it happened so long ago now. It is quite possible that the pensioners bought the iron, or that they found it in some hitherto unknown storehouse. The truth will never be made clear in the matter. The keeper of the scales will never listen to any tales of fraud, and he ought to know. When the pensioners reached home they heard news. Count Dorna's marriage was to be annulled. The count had sent his steward to Italy to get proofs that the marriage had not been legal. He had come back late in the summer with satisfactory reports. What these were? Well, that I do not know with certainty. One must treat old tales with care. They are like faded roses. They easily drop their petals if one comes too near to them. People say that the ceremony in Italy had not been performed by a real priest. I do not know. But it is certainly true that the marriage between Count Dorna and Elisabeth Fontoren was declared at the court at Bori never to have been any marriage. Of this the young woman knew nothing. She lived among peasants in some out-of-the-way place if she was living. End of section 19 of the story of Justa Berling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 20 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 Flak. Part 2 Chapter 5. Lilja Kronas Home. Among the pensioners was one whom I have often mentioned as a great musician. He was a tall, heavily built man with a big head and bushy black hair. He was certainly not more than 40 years old at that time. But he had an ugly, large featured face and a pompous manner. This made many think him old. He was a good man, but low-spirited. One afternoon he took his violin under his arm and went away from Ekeby. He said no farewell to anyone, although he never meant to return. He loathed the life there ever since he had seen Countess Elizabeth in her trouble. He walked without resting the whole evening and the whole night until at early sunrise he came to a little farm called Lövdala which belonged to him. It was so early that nobody was as yet awake. Lilja Kronas sat down on the green bench outside the main building and looked at his estate. A more beautiful place did not exist. The lawn in front of the house lay in a gentle slope and was covered with fine, light green grass. There never was such a lawn. The sheep were allowed to graze there and the children to romp there in their games. But it was always just as even and green. The sky never passed over it. But at least once a week the mistress of the house had all sticks and straws and dry leaves swept from the fresh grass. He looked at the grave while walking in front of the house and suddenly drew his feet back. The children had late in the evening raked it and his big feet had done terrible harm to the fine work. Think how everything grew there. The six mountain ashes which guarded the place were high as beaches and wide spreading as oaks. Such trees had never been seen before. They were beautiful with their thick trunks covered with yellow leachens and with big white flower clusters sticking out from the dark foliage. It made him think of the sky and its stars. It was indeed wonderful how the trees grew there. There stood an old willow so thick that the arms of two men could not meet about it. It was now rotten and hollow and the lighting had taken the top of it. But it would not die. Every spring a cluster of green shoots came up out of the shattered trunk to show that it was alive. That hawthorn by the east gable had become such a big tree that it overshadowed the whole house. The roof was white with its dropping petals for the hawthorn had already blossomed and the birches which stood in small clumps here and there in the pastures they certainly had found their paradise on his farm. They developed there in so many different grows as if they had meant to imitate all other trees. One was like a linden thick and leafy with a wide spreading arch. Another stood close and tall like a poplar and a third drooped its branches like a weeping willow. No one was like another and they were all beautiful. Then he rose and went round the house. There lay the garden so wonderfully beautiful that he had to stop and draw a long breath. The apple trees in bloom. Yes of course he knew that. He had seen it on all the other farms but in no other place did they bloom as they did in that garden. There he had seen them blossom since he was a child. He walked with clasped hands and careful step up and down the gravel path. The ground was white and the trees were white here and there with a touch of pink. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He knew every tree as one knows one's brothers and sisters and playmates. The astrakhan trees were quite white also the winter fruit trees but the russet blossoms were pink and the crab apple almost red. The most beautiful was the old wild apple tree whose little bigger apples nobody could eat. It was not stingy with its blossoms. It looked like a great snow drift in the morning light. For remember that it was early in the morning. The dew made every leaf shine all dust was washed away. Behind the forest-clad hills close under which the farm lay came the first rays of sun. It was as if the tops of the pines had been set on fire by them. Over the clover meadows, over rye and corn fields and over the sprouting oat shots lay the lightest of mists like a thin veil and the shadows fell sharp as in moonlight. He stood and looked at the big vegetable beds between the paths. He knows that mistresses and maids have been at work here. They have dug, raked, pulled up weeds and turned the earth until it has become fine and light. After they have made the beds even and the edges straight they have taken tapes and pigs and marked out rows and squares. They have sewed and set out until all the rows and squares have been filled and the children have been with them and have been so happy and eager to be allowed to help although it has been hard work for them to stand bent and stretch their arms out over the broad beds and of great assistance have they been as anyone can understand. Now what they have sewn began to come up. God bless them! They stood there so bravely, both peas and beans with their two thick cotter-doms, and how thick and nice had both carrots and beets come up. The funniest of all were the little crinkled parsley leaves which lifted a little earth above them and played boo-peep with life as yet. And here was a little bed where the lines did not go so evenly and where the small squares seemed to be an experiment map of everything which could be set or so. That was the children's garden. And Liliakruna put his violin hastily up to his chin and began to play. The birds began to sing in the big shrubbery which protected the garden from the north wind. It was not possible for anything gifted with voice to be silent. So glorious was the morning. The fiddle-bow moved quite of itself. Liliakruna walked up and down the path and played. No, he thought, there is no more beautiful place what was Ikeby compared to Løfdaland. His home had a thatched roof and was only one story high. It lay at the edge of the wood with a mountain above it and the long valley below it. There was nothing wonderful about it. There was no lake there, no waterfall, no park, but it was beautiful just the same. It was beautiful because it was a good peaceful home. Life was easy to live there. Everything which in other places caused bitterness and hate was there smooth away with gentleness. So shall it be in a home. Within in the house the mistress lies and sleeps in a room which opens on the garden. She wakes suddenly and listens, but she does not move. She lies smiling and listening. Then the musician comes nearer and nearer and at last it sounds as if he has stopped under her window. It is indeed not the first time she has heard the violin under her window. He was in the habit of coming so, her husband, when they had done something unusually wild there at Ikeby. He stands there and confesses and begs for forgiveness. He describes to her the dark powers which tempt him away from what he loves best, from her and the children, but he loves them. Oh, of course he loves them. While he plays, she gets up and puts on her clothes without quite knowing what she's doing. She's so taken up with his playing. It is not luxury and good cheer which tempt me away, he plays, not love for other women, nor glory, but life's seductive changes. It's sweetness, it's bitterness, it's riches. I must feel about me, but now I have had enough of it. Now I am tired and satisfied. I shall never again leave my home, forgive me, have mercy upon me. Then she draws aside the curtain and opens the window, and he sees her beautiful kind face. She is good and she is wise. Her glasses bring blessings like the suns on everything they meet. She directs and tends. Where she is, everything grows and flourishes. She bears happiness within her. He swings himself up onto the window sill to her, and is happy as a young lover. Then he lifts her out into the garden and carries her down under the apple trees. There he explains for her how beautiful everything is and shows her the vegetable beds and the children's garden and the funny little parsley leaves. When the children awake, there is joy and rapture that father has come. They take possession of him. He must see all that is new and wonderful, the little nail manufacturing which pounce away in the brook, the bird's nest in the willow, and the little minnows in the pond, which swim in thousands near the surface of the water. Then father, mother and children take a long walk in the fields. He wants to see how close the rice stands, how the clover is growing, and how the potatoes are beginning to poke up their crumpled leaves. He must see the cows when they come in from the pasture, visit the newcomers in the barn, and she-paws look for eggs and give all the horses sugar. The children hang at his heels the whole day, no lessons, no work, only to wonder about with their father. In the evening he plays polkas for them, and all day he has been such a good comrade and playfellow that they fall asleep with a pious prayer that father may always stay with them. He stays eight long days and is joyous as a boy the whole time. He could stand it no longer. It was too much happiness for him. Ekibi was a thousand times worse, but Ekibi lay in the midst of the world of events. Oh, how much there was there to dream of and to play of! How could he live separated from the pensioner's deeds and from Leuven's long lake, about which adventure's wild chase rushed onward? On his own estate everything went on in its calm, wanted way. Everything flourished and grew under the gentle, mistresses' care. Everyone was happy there. Everything which anywhere else could have cause discord and bitterness passed over there without complaints or pain. Everything was as it should be. If now the master of the house longed to live as pensioner at Ekibi, what then? Does it help to complain of heaven's sun, because it disappears every evening in the west and leaves the earth in darkness? What is so unconquerable as submission? What is so certain of victory as patience? End of Section 20 of the Story of Jösta Bärling, read by Lars Rolander. Section 21 of the Story of Jösta 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 Jösta Bärling by Selma Lagerlöf, translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part 2, Chapter 6, The Witch of Dobrum The Witch of Dobrum walks on loven's shores. People have seen her there, little and bent, in a leather skirt and a belt of silver plates. Why has she come out of the wolf holes to a human world? What does the old creature of the mountains want in the green of the valley? She comes begging. She's mean, greedy for gifts, although she's so rich. In the clefts of the mountain she hides heavy bars of white silver, and in the rich meadows far away on the heights feed her great flocks of black cattle with golden horns. Still she wonders about in birch bark shoes and greasy leather skirt soiled with a dirt of a hundred years. She smokes moss in her pipe and begs of the poorest. Shame on one who is never grateful, never gets enough. She's old. When did the rosy glory of youth dwell in that broad face with its brown greasy skin, in the flat nose and the small eyes which gleam in the surrounding dirt like holes of fire in gray ashes? When did she sit as a young girl on the mountainside and answer with her horn the shepherd boys' love songs? She has lived several hundred years. The oldest do not remember the time when she did not wonder through the land. Their fathers had seen her old when they were young, nor is she yet dead. I who write myself have seen her. She's powerful. She does not bend for anyone. She can summon the hail. She can guide the lightning. She can lead the herds astray and set wolves on the sheep. Little good can she do, but much evil. It is best to be on good terms with her. If she should beg for your only goat and a whole pound of wool, give it to her. If you don't, the horse will fall or the cottage will burn or the cow will sicken or the child will die. A welcome guest she never is, but it is best to meet her with smiling lips. Who knows for a sake the bearer of disastrous roaming through the valley. She does not come only to fill her beggar's pouch. Evil omens go with her. The army worm shows itself. Foxes and owls howl and hoot in the twilight. Red and black serpents, which sweet venom, crawl out of the wood up to the very threshold. Charms can she charm. Filters can she brew. She knows all herbs. Everybody trembles with fear when they see her. But the strong daughter of the wilderness goes calmly on her way among them, protected by their dreed. The exploits of her herds, the exploits of her race are not forgotten, nor are her own. As the cat trusts in its claws, so does she trust in her wisdom and in the strength of her divinely inspired prophecies. No king is more sure of his might than she of the kingdom of fear in which she rules. The witch of Dover has wandered through many villages. Now she has come to Bori and does not fear to wander up to the castle. She seldom goes to the kitchen door. Right up the terrace steps she comes. She plants her broad birch bark shoes on the flower-borded gravel walks, as calmly as if she were tramping up mountain paths. Countess Matas just come out on the steps to admire the beauty of the dune day. Below her two maids have stopped on their way to the storehouse. They have come from the smoke house where the bacon is being smoked and are carrying newly-cured hams on a pool between them. Well, our gracious Countess, feel and smell, say the maids. Are the hams smoked enough? Countess Matta mistresses at Bori at that time, leans over the railing and looks at the hams. But in the same instant the old fin-woman lays her hand on one of them. The daughter of the mountains is not accustomed to beg and pray. Is it not by her grace that flowers thrive and people live? Frost and storm and floods are all in her power to send. Therefore she does not need to pray and beg. She lays her hand on what she wants and it is hers. Countess Matta, however, knows nothing of the old woman's power. Away with you beggar woman, she says. Give me the ham, says the witch. She smirred Christ the Countess and she orders the maids to go to the storehouse with their burden. The eyes of the old woman flame with rage and greed. Give me the brown ham, she repeats. Or it will go ill with you. I would rather give it to the magpies than to such as you. Then the old woman is shaken by a storm of rage. She stretches towards heaven her runic staff and waves it wildly. Her lips utter strange words. Her hair stands on end. Her eyes shine. Her face is distorted. You shall be eaten by magpies yourself. She screams at last. Then she goes mumbling curses, brandishing her stick. She turns towards home. Father, towards the south, does she not go. She has accomplished her errand for which she had traveled down from the mountains. Countess Matta remains standing on the steps and laughs at her extravagant anger. But on her lips the laugh will soon die away. For there they come. She cannot believe her eyes. She thinks that she's dreaming. But there they come. The magpies who are going to eat her. From the park and the garden they swoop down on her. Magpies by scores, with claws ready to cease and bills stretched out to strike. They come with wild screams. Black and white wings gleam before her eyes. She sees as in delirium behind this swarm the magpies of the whole neighborhood approaching. The whole heaven is full of black and white wings. In the bright morning sun the metallic colors of the feathers glisten. In smaller and smaller circles the monsters fly about the countess aiming with beaks and claws at her face and hands. She has to escape into the hall and shut the door. She leans against it, panting with terror while the screaming magpies circle about outside. From that time on she is shut in from the sweetness and green of the summer and from the joy of life. For her were only closed rooms and drawn curtains for her despair, for her terror, for her confusion bordering on madness. Mad this story too may seem, but it must also be true. Hundreds will recognize it and bear witness that such is the old tale. The birds settle down on the railing and the roof. They sat as if they only waited till the countess should show herself to throw themselves upon her. They took up their abode in the park and there they remained. It was impossible to drive them away. It was only worse if they shot them. For one that fell, ten came flying. Sometimes great flocks flew away to get food but faithful sentries always remained behind. And if countess Matta showed herself if she looked out of a window or only drew aside the curtain for an instant, if she tried to go out on the steps they came directly. The whole terrible swarm whirled up to the house on thundering wings and the countess fled into her inner room. She lived in the bedroom beyond the red drawing room. I have often heard the room described as it was during that time of terror when Bori was besieged by the magpies. Heavy quilts before the doors and windows thick carpets on the floor softly treading whispering people. In the countess's heart dwelt wild terror. Her hair turned gray. Her face became wrinkled. She grew old in a month. She could not steal her heart to doubt of hateful magic. She started up from her dreams with wild cries that the magpies were eating her. She wept for days over this fate which she could not escape. Shunning people afraid that the swarm of birds should follow on the heels of anyone coming in. She sat mostly silent with her hands before her face rocking backwards and forwards in her chair. Low spirited and depressed in the close air sometimes starting up lamentation. No one's life could be more bitter. Can anyone help pitting her? I have not much more to tell of her now and what I have said has not been good. It is as if my conscience smote me. She was good-hearted and cheerful when she was young and many merry stories about her have gladdened my heart although there has been no space to tell them here. So although that poor wayfarer did not know it that the soul is ever hungry on frivolity and play it cannot live if it gets no other food it will like a wild beast first tear others to pieces and then itself. That is the meaning of the story. End of section 21 of the story of just a barreling read by Lars Rolander. Section 22 of the story of just a barreling 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 just a barreling by Selma Lagerlöf translated from the Swedish language. Part 2 Chapter 7 Midsummer Midsummer was hot then as now when I am writing. It was the most beautiful season of the year. It was the season when Sintrum the wicked Iron Master at Foch fretted and grieved. He resented the sun's triumphal march through the hours of the day and the overthrow of darkness. He raged at the leafy dress which clothed the trees and at the many-colored carpet which covered the ground. Everything arrayed itself in beauty. The road grey and dusty as it was had its border of flowers yellow and purple Midsummer blossoms while parsley and asters. When the glory of Midsummer lay on the mountains and the sound of the bear bells from the church at Brough was born on the quivering air even as far as Foch. When the unspeakable stillness of the sabbat day rained in the land then he rose in wrath. It seemed to him as if God and men dared to forget that he existed and he decided to go to church he too. Those who rejoiced at the summer should see him Sintrum lover of darkness without morning of death without resurrection of winter without spring. He put on his wolfskin coat and shaggy fur gloves. He had the red horse harnessed in a sledge and fastened bells to the shining horse collar. Equipped as if it were 30 degrees below zero he drove to church. He believed that the grinding under the runners was from the severe cold. He believed that the white foam on the horse's back was horfraust. He felt no heat. Cold streamed from him as warmth from the sun. He drove over the white plain north of the Brough church large rich villages lay near his way and fields of grain over which singing larks fluttered. Never have I heard larks sing as in those fields. He wondered how he could shut his ears to those hundreds of songsters. He had to drive by many things on the way which would have enraged him if he had given them a glance. He would have seen two bending birches at the door of every house and through open windows he would have looked into rooms whose ceilings and walls were covered with flowers and green branches. The smallest beggar child went and shook lilacs in her hand and every peasant woman had a little nosuke stuck in her neckerchief. May pools with faded flowers and drooping rests stood in every yard. Round about them the grass was trodden down for the merry dance had word there through the summer night. Below on the loven crowded the floats of timber. The little white sails were hoisted in honor of them. Although no wind filled them and every mast head for a green breath. On the many roads which led to brew the congregation came walking. The women were especially magnificent in the light summer dresses which had been made ready just for that day. All were dressed in their best and the people could not help rejoicing at the piece of the day and the rest were warm, the promising harvest and the wild strawberries which were beginning to redden at the edge of the road. They noticed the stillness of the air and the song of the larks and said it is plain that this is the Lord's Day. Then Sintrum drew up. He swore and swung his whip over the straining horse. The sand grated horribly under the rummlers. The sleigh bells shrill clang drowned the sound of the church bells. His brow lay in angry wrinkles under his fur cap. The churchgoers shuddered and thought they had seen the evil one himself. Not even today on the summer's festival might they forget evil and cold. Victor is the lot of those who wonder upon earth. The people who stood in the shadow of the church or sat on the churchyard wall and waited for the beginning of the service saw him with calm wonder when he came up to the church door. The glorious day had filled their hearts with joy that they were walking the paths of earth and enjoying the sweetness of existence. Now when they saw Sintrum foreboding of strange disaster came over them. Sintrum entered the church so that the rattle of the wolves claws which were sued into the skin was heard through the church. And several women who had already taken their places on the front benches fainted when they saw the shaggy form and had to be carried out. But no one dared to drive out Sintrum. He disturbed the people's devotions but he was too much feared for anyone to venture to order him to the church. In vain the old clergyman spoke of the summer's bright festival. Nobody listened to him. The people only thought of evil and cold and of the strange disaster which the wicked iron master announced to them. When it was over they saw him walk out on to the slope of the hill where the brood church stands. He looked down on the three points of the west shore out into the loven. And they saw how he clenched his fist and shook it over the sound and its green banks. Then his glance turned further south over the lower loven to the misty shores which seemed to shut in the lake and northward it flew miles beyond Gurlita Cliff up to Björnidet where the lake began. He looked to the west and east of this border the valley and he clenched his fist again and everyone felt that if he had held a bundle of thunderbolts in his right hand he would have hurled them in wild joy out over the peaceful country and spread sorrow and death as far as he could. For now he had so accustomed his heart to evil that he knew no pleasure except in suffering. By degrees he had taught and wretched. He was more insane than the most violent madman but that no one understood. Strange stories went about the land after that day. It was said that when the sexton came to shut up the church the bit of the key broke because a tightly folded paper had been stuck in the keyhole. He gave it to the dean. It was as was to be expected a letter meant for a being in the other world. People whispered of what had stood there. The dean had burned the paper but the sexton had looked on while the devil's trash burnt. The letters had shown bright red on a black crown. He could not help reading. He read, people said that syndrome wished to lay the country waste as far as the brute church tower was visible. He wished to see the forest to see bear and fox living in men's dwellings. The fields should lie uncultivated and neither dog nor cock should be heard in the neighborhood. He wished to serve his master by causing every man's ruin. That was what he promised. And the people looked to the future in silent despair for they knew that his power was great, that he hated everything living, that the wilderness spread through the valley and that he would gladly take pestilence or famine or war into his service to drive away everyone who loved good joy bringing work. End of section 22 of the story of just a bearling read by Lars Rolander. Section 23 of the story of just a bearling. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are available on the web link domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. The story of just a bearling by Selma Lagerlö translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Part 2 Chapter 8 Madame Musika When nothing could make the pensioners decided to seek help of the good Madame Musika who is a powerful fairy and consoles many who are unhappy. So one evening in July they had the doors of the big drawing room at Ickeby opened and the shutters taken down. The sun and air were let in. The late evening's big red sun, the cool mild steaming air. The striped covers were taken off the furniture. The piano was opened and the net about the Venetian chandelier taken away. The golden griffins under the white marble tabletops again reflected the light. The white goddesses danced above the mirror. The variegated flowers on the silka must glisten in the evening glow. Roses were picked and brought in. The whole room was filled with their fragrance. There were colorful roses with unknown names which had been brought to Ickeby from foreign lands. There were yellow ones in whose veins the blood shown red as in a human beings and cream white roses with curled edges and pink roses with broad petals which on their outside edge were as colorless as water and dark red with black shadows. They carried in all which had come from far distant lands to rejoice the eyes of lovely women. The music and music stands were brought in and the brass instruments and bows and violins of all sizes for good madame Musica shall now reign at Ickeby and try to console just a bearling. Madame Musica has chosen the Oxford Symphony of Haydn and has had the pensioners practice it. Julius conducts and each of the others attends to his own instrument. All the pensioners can play. They would not otherwise be pensioners. When everything is ready Justa is sent for. He is still weak and low spirited but he rejoices in the beautiful room and in the music he soon shall hear. For everyone knows that for him who suffers and is in pain Madame Musica is the best company. She is gay and playful like a child. She is fiery and captivating like a young woman. She is good and wise like the old who have lived a good life and then the pensioners began to play so gently so murmuringly soft. It goes well it goes brilliantly well from the dead notes of Madame Musica herself. Spread out your magic cloak dear Madame Musica and take Justa Bailing to the land of gladness for he used to live. Alas that it is Justa Bailing who sits there pale and depressed and whom the old men must amuse as if he were a child. There will be no more joy now in Wormland. I know why the old people loved him. I know how long he lived and how gloom can creep over the spirit in those lonely farmhouses. I understand how it felt when he came. Ah, fancy a Sunday afternoon when work is laid aside and the thoughts are dull. Fancy an obstinate north wind whipping cold into the room a cold which no fire can relieve. Fancy the single tallow candle which has to be continually snuffed fancy the monotonous sound of psalms from the kitchen. Well, and then bells come ringing eager feet stamp off the snow in the hall and Justa Bailing comes into the room. He laughs and jokes he's life he's warmth he opens the piano and he plays so that they are surprised at the old strings. He can sing all songs play any tune he makes all the inmates of the house happy he was never cold he was never tired the mourner forgot his sorrows when he saw him. Ah, what a good heart he had how compassionate he was to the weak and poor and what a genius he was. Yes, you ought to have heard the old people talk of him but now just as they were playing he burst into tears he thinks life is so sad he rests his head in his hands and weeps the pensioners are dismayed these are not mild healing tears such as Madame Musica generally calls for he is sobbing like one in despair at their wit's end they put their instruments away and the good Madame Musica who loves Justa Barling she too almost loses courage but then she remembers that she has still a mighty champion among the pensioners it is the gentle Leuvenbury he who had lost his fiancée in the muddy river and who is more Justa Barling's slave than any of the others he steals away to the piano in the pensioners' wing Leuvenbury has a great wooden table on which he has painted a keyboard and set up a music stand there he can sit for hours at a time and let his fingers fly over the black and white keys there he practices both scales and studies and there he plays his Beethoven he never plays anything but Beethoven but the old man never ventures on any other instrument than the wooden table for the piano he has a respectful ave it tempts him but it frightens him even more the clashing instrument on which so many polkas have been drummed is a sacred thing to him he has never dared to touch it think of that wonderful thing with its many strings which could give life to the great master's works he only needs to put his ear to it his ear and antes and skirt so smurmering there but he has never played on such a thing he will never be rich enough to buy one of his own and on this he has never dared to play the major's wife was not so willing either to open it for him he has heard how polkas and waltzes have been played on it but in such profane music the noble instrument could only clash and complain no, if Beethoven should come then it would let its true clear sound be heard now he thinks that the moment is come for him and Beethoven he will take courage and touch the holy thing and let his young lord and master be gladdened by the sleeping harmonies he sits down and begins to play he is uncertain and nervous but he greets him through a couple of bars tries to bring out the right ring prones tries again and puts his hands before his face and begins to weep yes, it is a bitter thing the sacred thing is not sacred there are no clear pure tones hidden and dreaming in it there are no mighty thunders no rushing hurricanes there are no pure tones hidden and dreaming in it none of the endless harmonies direct from heaven had remained there it is an old worn out piano and nothing more but then madame musica gives the colonel a hint he takes ruster with him and they go to the pensioner's wing and get loevenboy's table where the keys are painted see here loevenboy says pere and croix when they come back here is your piano play for justa then loevenboy stops crying and sits down to play beathoven for his sorrowful young friend now he would certainly be glad again in the old man's head sound the most heavenly tunes he cannot think but that justa hears how beautifully he is playing he meets with no more difficulties he plays his runs and trills with the greatest ease he would have liked that the master himself could have heard him the longer he plays the more he is carried away he hears every note with unearthly clearness he sits there glowing with enthusiasm and emotion hearing the most wonderful tones certain that justa must hear them too and be comforted justa satan looked at him at first he was angry at his foolery but gradually he became a milder mood he was irresistible the old man as he sat and enjoyed his beathoven and justa began to think how this man too who now was so gentle and so careless had been sunk in suffering how he too had lost her whom he loved and now he sat beamingly happy at his wooden table nothing more was needed to add to his bliss he felt humbled what justa he said to him can you no longer bear and suffer you who have been hardened by poverty all your life you who have heard every tree in the forest every tuft in the meadow preach of resignation and patience you who have been brought up in a land where the winter is severe and the summer short have you forgotten to endure ah justa a man must bear all that life offers with a brave heart and smiling lip for he is no man regret as much as you like if you have lost what you hold dearest let remorse tear at your vitals but show yourself a man let your glance shine with gladness and meet your friends with cheerful words life is hard nature is hard but they both give courage and cheerfulness as compensations for their hardness for no one could hold out courage and cheerfulness it is as if they were the first duties of life you have never failed in them before and shall not now are you worse than Leuvenborg who sits there at his wooden piano than all the other pensioners you know well enough that none of them have escaped suffering and then justa looks at them oh such a performance they are all sitting there so seriously and listening to this music which nobody hears suddenly Leuvenborg is waked from his dreams by a merry laugh he stands from the keys and listens as if in rapture it is justa Bailing's old laugh his good kind infectious laugh it is the sweetest music the old man has heard in all his life did I not say that B. Toeven would help you justa he cries now you are yourself again so did the good madame Musica cure justa Bailing in his hypochondria end of section 23 of the story of justa Bailing read by Lars Rolander section 24 of the story of justa Bailing 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 Bailing by Selma Lagerlö translated from the Swedish by Pauline van Croft Fluck part 2 chapter 9 the Bruby clergyman Eros all powerful God you know well that it often seems as if a man should have freed himself from your might all the tender feelings which unite mankind seem dead in his heart madness stretches its claws after the unhappy one but then you come in all your power and like the great saint staff the dried up heart bursts into bloom no one is so mean as the Bruby clergyman no one more divided by malice and uncharitableness from his fellow man his runes are unheated in the winter he sits on an unpainted wooden seat he dresses in rags lives on dry bread and is furious if a beggar enters his door he lets the horse starve in the stable and sells the hay his cows nibble the dry grass at the roadside and the moss on the wall the bleeding of the hungry sheep and we heard far along the highway the peasants throw him presents of food which their dogs will not eat of clothes which their poor disdain his hand is stretched out to beg his back bent to thank he begs of the rich lends to the poor if he sees a piece of money his heart aches with longing till he gets it into his pocket unhappy is he who has not his affairs in order on the day of payment he was married late in life but it had been better if he had never been exhausted and overworked his wife died his daughter serves with strangers he is old but age grants him no relief in his struggling the madness of avarice never leaves him but one fine day in the beginning of August a heavy coach drawn by four horses drives up Brooby Hill a delicate old lady comes driving in great state with coachmen and footmen and ladies made she comes to meet the Brooby clergyman she had loved him in the days of her youth he had been tutor at her father's house and they had loved one another although her proud family had separated them and now she is turning up Brooby Hill to see him before she dies all that is left to her in life is to see once again the beloved of her youth she sits in the great carriage and dreams she is not driving up Brooby Hill to a poor little pasteridge she is on her way to the cool leafy arbor down in the park where her lover is waiting she sees him he is young he can kiss, he can love now when she knows that she soon shall meet him his image rises before her with singular clearness he is so handsome so handsome he can adore, he can burn he feels her whole being with rapture now she is shallow, withered and old perhaps he will not recognize her with her 60 years but she has not come to be seen but to see to see the beloved of her youth who has gone through life untouched by time who is ever young, beautiful, glowing she has come from so far away that she has not heard a word of the Brooby clergyman the coach clatters up the hill and at the summit the pasteridge is visible for the love of God there is a beggar at the wayside a copper for a poor man the noble lady gives him a piece of silver and asks where the Brooby pasteridge is the pasteridge is in front of you he says but the clergyman is not at home there is no one at the pasteridge the little lady seems to fade away the cool arbor vanishes her lover is not there she expects after 40 years to find him there what had the gracious lady to do at the vicarage she had come to meet the minister she had known him in the old days 40 years and 400 miles have separated them and for each 10 miles she has come nearer she has left behind her a year with its burden of sorrows and memories so that when she now comes to the vicarage she is a girl of 20 again without a care or a regret the beggar stands and looks at her sees her change under his eyes from 20 to 60 and from 60 back again to 20 the minister is coming home this afternoon he says the gracious lady would do best to drive down to the Brooby Inn and come again later in the afternoon the beggar can answer for it the minister will be at home a moment after the heavy coach with the little faded lady rolls down the hill to the inn but the beggar stands trembling and looks after her he feels that he ought to fall on his knees and kiss the wheel tracks elegant newly shaven and washed in shoes with shining buckles with the silk stockings with ruffles and frills the brooby clergyman stands at noon that same day before the dean's wife at Broo a fine lady he says accounts daughter do you think that I poor man can ask her to come into my house my floors are black my drawing room without furniture the dining room ceiling is green with mildew and damp help me remember that she's a noble counts daughter say that you have gone away my dear lady she has come 400 miles to see me poor man she does not know how it is I have not a bed to offer her I have not a bed for her servants well let her go again dear heart do you not understand what I mean I would rather give everything I possess everything that I have gathered together by industry in striving than that she should go without my having received her under my roof she was 20 when I saw her last and it is now 40 years ago help me that I may see her in my house here is money if money can help but here more than money is needed oh Eros women love you they would rather go a hundred steps for you than one for other gods in the deanery of Broo the rooms are emptied the kitchen is emptied the laundry is emptied wagons are piled up and driven to the vicarage when the dean comes home from the communion service he will find empty rooms look in through the kitchen door to ask after his dinner and find no one there no dinner, no wife, no maids what was to be done Eros has so wished it a little later in the afternoon the heavy coach comes clattering up Brooby Hill and the little lady sits and wonders if any new mischance shall happen if it is really true that she is now going to meet her life's only joy then the coach swings into the vicarage there comes someone there he comes he lifts her out of the carriage he takes her on his arm strong as ever she is clasped in an embrace as warm as of old forty years ago she looks into his eyes which glow as they did when they had only seen five and twenty a storm of emotion comes over her warmer than ever she remembers that he once carried her up the steps to the terrace she, who believed that her love had lived all these years had forgotten what it was to be clasped in strong arms to look into young glowing eyes she does not see that he is old she only sees eyes she does not see the black floors the milledude ceilings she only sees his glowing eyes the brooby clergyman is a stately man a handsome man in that hour he grows handsome when he looks at her she hears his voice his clear strong voice caressingly it sounds he only speaks so to her why did he need furniture from the denary for his empty rooms why food, why servants the old lady would never have missed anything she hears his voice and sees his eyes never never before has she been so happy she knows that he has been married but she does not remember it how could she remember such a thing she is twenty he twenty-five shall he become the mean brooby clergyman that smiling youth the wailing of the poor the curses of the defrauded the scornful jibes the caricatures the snares all that as yet does not exist for him his heart burns only with a pure and innocent love never shall that proud youth love gold so that he will creep after it in the dirt beg it from the wayfarer suffer humiliation suffer disgrace suffer cold suffer hunger to get it shall he starve his child torture his wife for that same miserable gold it is impossible such he can never be he is a good man like all others he is not a monster the beloved of his youth does not walk by the side of a despised wretch unworthy of the profession he has dared to undertake oh Eros not that evening that evening he is not the brooby clergyman nor the next day either nor the day after the day after that she goes what a dream what a beautiful dream for these three days not a cloud she journeyed smiling home to her castle and her memories she never heard his name again she never asked after him she wanted to dream that dream as long as she lived the brooby clergyman sat in his lonely home and wept she had made him young must he now be old again should the evil spirit return and he be despisable contemptible as he had been end of section 24 of the story of Josta Berling read by Lars Rolander