 section 18 of INVISIBLE LINKS 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. INVISIBLE LINKS by Selma Lagerlööv. Translated by Pauline van Grosflak. A Fallen King. Part 1 Mine was the Kingdom of Fancy. Now I am a Fallen King. Snoilski. The wooden shoes clattered in uneasy measure on the pavements. The street boys hurried by. They shouted. They whistled. The houses shook. And from the courts the echo rushed out like a chain dog from his kennel. Faces appeared behind the window-paints. Had anything happened? Was anything going on? The noise passed on towards the suburbs. The servant girls hastened after following the street boys. They clasped their hands and screamed. Preserve us! Preserve us! Is it murder? Is it fire? No one answered. The clattering was heard far away. After the maids came hiring wise matrons of the town. They asked, What is it? What is disturbing the morning calm? Is it a wedding? Is it a funeral? Is it a conflagration? What is the watchman doing? Shall the town burn up before he begins to sound the alarm? The whole crowd stopped before the shoemaker's little house in the suburbs. The little house that had vines climbing about the doors and windows. And in front between street and house a yard-wide garden. Summer houses of straw, arbours fit for a mouse, pasts for a kitten. Everything in the best of order. Peas and beans, roses and lavender. A mouthful of grass, three gooseberry bushes, and an apple tree. The street boys who stood nearest started and consulted. Through the shining black window-pains their glances penetrated no further than to the white lace curtains. One of the boys climbed up on the vines and pressed his face against the pane. What do you see? whispered the others. What do you see? The shoemaker's shop and the shoemaker's bench, grease-pots and bundles of leather, lasts and pegs, rings and straps. Don't you see anybody? He sees the apprentice who is repairing a shoe. Nobody else. Nobody else? Big black flies crawl over the pane and make his sight uncertain. Do you see nobody except the apprentice? Nobody? The master's chair is empty. He looked once, twice, three times. The master's chair was empty. The crowd stood still, guessing and wondering. So it was true. The old shoemaker had absconded. Nobody would believe it. They stood and waited for a sign. The cat came out on the steep groove. He stretched out his claws and slid down to the gutter. Yes, the master was away. The cat could hunt as he pleased. The sparrows fluttered and chirped quite helpless. A white chicken looked round the corner of the house. He was almost full-grown. His comb shone red as wine. He peered and spied, crowd and called. The hens came, a row of white hens at full speed, bodice rocking, wings fluttering, yellow legs like drumsticks. The hens hopped among the stacked peas. Battles began, hen we broke out. A hen fled with a full pea pod, two cocks pector in the neck. The cat left the sparrow nests to look on. Plump, there he fell down in the midst of the flock. The hens fled in a long scurrying line. The crowd thought, It must be true that the shoemaker has run away. One can see by the cat and the hens that the master is away. The uneven street, muddy from the autumn rains, resounded with talk. Doors stood open. Windows swung. Heads were put together in wandering whisperings. He has run off. The people whispered. The sparrow chirped. The wooden shoes clattered. He has run away. The old shoemaker has run away. The owner of the little house. The young wife's husband. The father of the beautiful child. He has run away. Who can understand it? Who can explain it? There is an old song. Old husband in the cottage. Young lover in the wood. Wife who runs away. Child who cries. Home without a mistress. The song is old. It is often sung. Everybody understands it. This was a new song. The old man was gone. On the workshop table lays explanation that he never meant to come back. Beside it, a letter had also lain. The wife had read it, but no one else. The young wife was in the kitchen. She was doing nothing. The neighbors went backwards and forwards. Arranging busily, set out the cups, made up the fire, boiled the coffee, wept a little, and wiped away the tears with a dish towel. The good women of the quarters had stiffly about the walls. They knew what was suitable in a house of mourning. They kept silent by force, mourned by force. They celebrated their holiday by supporting the forsaken wife in her grief. Coarse hands lay quiet in their laps. Weather-beaten skin lay in deep wrinkles. Thin lips were pressed together over toothless jaws. The wife sat among the bronze-yew women, gently blonde, with a sweet face like a dove. She did not weep, but she trembled. She was so afraid that the fear was almost killing her. She bit her teeth together so that no one should hear how they chattered. When steps were heard, when the clattering sounded, when someone spoke to her, she started up. She sat with her husband's letter in her pocket. She thought of now one line in it, and now another. There stood. I can bear no longer to see you both. And in another place, I know now that you and Ericsson mean to elope. And again, you shall not do that, for people's evil talk would make you unhappy. I shall disappear so that you can get a divorce and be properly married. Ericsson is a good workman and can support you well. Then farther down, let people say what they will about me. I am content if only they do not think any evil of you, for you could not bear it. She did not understand it. She had not meant to deceive him. Even if she had liked to chat with a young apprentice, what had her husband to do with that? Love is an illness, but it is not mortal. She had meant to bear it through life with patience. How had her husband discovered her most secret thoughts? She was tortured at the thought of him. He must have grieved and brooded. He had wept over his years. He had raged over the young man's strength and spirits. He had trembled at the whisperings, at the smiles, at the hand pressures. In burning madness, in glowing jealousy, he had made it into a whole elopement history, of which there was as yet nothing. She thought how old he must have been that night when he went. His back was bent, his hands shook. The agony of many long nights had made him so. He had gone to escape that existence of passionate doubting. She remembered other lines in the letter. It is not my intention to destroy your character. I have always been too old for you. And then another. You shall always be respected and honoured. Only be silent, and all the shame will fall on me. The wife felt deeper and deeper remorse. Was it possible that people would be deceived? Would it do to lie so too before God? Why did she sit in the cottage, pitied like a mourning mother, honoured like a bride on her wedding day? Why was it not she who was homeless, friendless, despised? How can such things be? How can God let himself be so deceived? Over the great dresser hung a little bookcase. On the top shelf stood a big book with brass claps. Behind those claps was hidden the story of a man and a woman who lied before God and men, who has suggested to you woman to do such things. Look, young men stand outside to lead you away. The woman stared at the book, listened for the young men's footsteps. She trembled at every knock, shuddered at every step. She was ready to stand up and confess, ready to fall down and die. The coffee was ready. The women glided sedately forward to the table. They filled their cups, took a lump of sugar in their mouths, and began to sip their boiling coffee silently and decently. The wives of mechanics first, the scrub women lost, but the wife did not see what was going on. Remorse made her quite beside herself. She had a vision. She sat at night out in a freshly plowed field. Round about her sat great birds with mighty wings and pointed beaks. They were gray, scarcely perceptible against the gray ground, but they held watch over her. They were passing sentence upon her. Suddenly they flew up and sank down over her head. She saw their sharp claws, their pointed beaks, their beating wings coming nearer and nearer. It was like a deadly rain of steel. She bent her head and knew that she must die. But when they came near, quite near to her, she had to look up. Then she saw that the gray birds were all these old women. One of them began to speak. She knew what was proper, what was fitting in a house of mourning. They had now been silent long enough, but the wife started up as from a blow. What did the woman mean to say? You much weak's wife, unawake, confess. You have lied long enough before God and before us. We are your judges. We will judge you and rend you to pieces. No, the woman began to speak of husbands, and the others chimed in as the occasion demanded. What was said was not in the husband's praise. All the evil husbands had done was dragged forward. It was a consolation for a deserted wife. Injury was heaped upon injury. Strange beings these husbands. They beat us, they drink up our money, they pawn our furniture. Why on earth had our Lord created them? The tongues became like dragon's fangs. They spat venom, they spouted fire. Each one added her word. Anecdotes were piled upon anecdotes. A wife fled from her home before a drunken husband. Wives slayed for idle husbands. Wives were deserted for other women. The tongues whistled like whip lashes. The mystery of homes was laid bare. Long litanies were read from the tyranny of the husband deliver us, good Lord. Illness and poverty, the children's death, the winter's cold, trouble with the old people. Everything was the husband's fault. The slaves hissed at their masters. They turned their stings against them before whose feet they crept. The deserted wife felt how it cut and stabbed in her ears. She dared to defend the incorrigible ones. My husband, she said, is good. The women started up, hissed and snorted. He has run away. He is no better than anybody else. He who is an old man ought to know better than to run away from wife and child. Can you believe that he is better than the others? The wife trembled. She felt as if she was being dragged through prickly bramble bushes. Her husband considered a sinner. She flushed with shame, wished to speak, but was silent. She was afraid. She had not the power. But why did God keep silent? Why did God let such things be? If she should take the letter and read it aloud, then the stream of poison would be turned. The venom would sprinkle upon her. The horror of death came over her. She did not dare. She half wished that an insolent hand had been thrust into her pocket and had drawn out the letter. She could not give herself as a prize. Within the workshop was heard a shoemaker's hammer. Did no one hear how it hammered in triumph? She had heard that hammering and had been vexed by it the whole day. But none of the women understood it. Omniscient God has thou no servant who could read hearts. She would gladly accept her sentence if only she did not need to confess. She wished to hear someone say, Who has given you the idea to lie before God? She listened for the sound of the young man's footsteps in order to fall down and die. End of Part 1 of A Fallen King. From Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlööf. Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flack. Read by Lars Rolander. Section 19 of Invisible Links. Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlööf. Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flack. A Fallen King. Part 2. Several years after this a divorced woman was married to a shoemaker who had been apprenticed to her husband. She had not wished it, but had been drawn to it, as a pickerel is drawn to the side of a boat when it has been caught on the line. The fisherman lets it play. He lets it rush here and there. He lets it believe it is free. But when it is tired out, when it can do no more, then he drags with a light pull, then he lifts it up and jerks it down into the bottom of the boat before it knows what it is all about. The wife of the absconded shoemaker had dismissed her apprentice and wished to live alone. She had wished to show her husband that she was innocent. But where was her husband? Did he not care for her faithfulness? She suffered want. Her child went in rags. How long did her husband think that she could wait? She was unhappy when she had no one upon whom she could depend. Ericsson succeeded. He had a shop in the town. His shoe stood on glass shelves behind broad-plate glass windows. His workshop grew. He hired an apartment and put plush furniture in the parlor. Everything waited only for her. When she was too worried of poverty, she came. She was very much afraid in the beginning. But no misfortunes befell her. She became more confident as time went on, and more happy. She had people's regard, and knew within herself that she had not discerned it. That kept her conscience awake, so that she became a good woman. Her first husband, after some years, came back to the house in the suburbs. It was still his, and he settled down again there and wished to begin work. But he got no work, nor would anybody have anything to do with him. He was despised, while his wife enjoyed great honour. It was nevertheless he who had done right, and she who had done wrong. The husband kept his secret, but it almost suffocated him. He felt how he sank, because everybody considered him bad. No one had any confidence in him. No one would trust any work to him. He took what company he could get, and learned to drink. While he was going downhill, the Salvation Army came to town. It hired a big haul and began his work. From the very first evening all the loafers gathered at the meetings to make a disturbance. When it had gone on for about a week, much weak came to take part in the fun. There was a crowd in the street, a crowd in the doorway. Sharp elbows and angry tongues were there. Street boys and soldiers, maids and scrub women, peaceable police and stormy rabble. The army was new and the fashion. The well-to-do and the war frats everybody went to the Salvation Army. Within the hall was low-studied. At the farthest end was an empty platform, unpainted benches, borrowed chairs, an uneven floor, blotches on the ceiling, lamps that smoked. The iron stove in the middle of the floor gave out warmth and coal-gas. All the places were filled in a moment. Near the platform sat the women, demure as if in church, and back of them workmen and suing women. Farthest away sat the boys on one another's knees, and in the doorway there was a fight among those who could not get in. The platform was empty, the clock had not struck, the entertainment had not begun. One whistled, one laughed, then benches were kicked to pieces. The war cry flew like kite between the groups, the public were enjoying themselves. A side door opened, cold air streamed into the room. The fire flamed up, there was silence. Attentive expectation filled the hall. At last they came, three young women carrying guitars and with faces almost hidden by broad-brimmed hats. They fell on their knees as soon as they had ascended the steps of the platform. One of them prayed aloud. She lifted her head, but closed her eyes. Her voice cut like a knife. During the prayer there was silence. The street boys and loafers had not yet begun. They were waiting for the confessions and the inspiring music. The women settled down to their work. They sang and prayed, sang and preached. They smiled and spoke of their happiness. In front of them they had an audience of ruffians. They began to rise. They climbed upon the benches. A threatening noise passed through the strong. The women on the platform caught glimpses of dreadful faces through the smoky air. The men had wet dirty clothes, which smelled badly. They spat tobacco every other second, swore with every word. Those women who were to struggle with them spoke of their happiness. How brave that little army was! Ah, is it not beautiful to be brave? Is it not something to be proud of, to have God on one side? It was not worthwhile to laugh at them in their big hats. It was most probable that they would conquer the hard hands, the cruel faces, the blaspheming lips. Sing with us, cried the Salvation Army soldiers. Sing with us. It is good to sing. They started a well-known melody. They struck their guitars and repeated the same verse over and over. They got one or two of those sitting nears to join in, but now sounded down by the door a light street song. Notes struggled against notes. Words against words. Guitar against whistle. The women's strong train voices contested with a boy's horse falsetto, with a men's growling boss. When the street song was almost conquered, they began to stamp and whistle down by the door. The Salvation Army song sank like a wounded warrior. The noise was terrifying. The women fell on their knees. They knelt as if powerless. Their eyes were closed. Their bodies rocked in silent pain. The noise died down. The Salvation Army captain began instantly. Lord, all these thou wilt make thine own. We thank thee, Lord, that thou wilt lead them all into thy host. We thank thee, Lord, that it is granted to us to lead them to thee. The crowd hissed, howled, screamed. It was as if all those throats had been tickled by a sharp knife. It was as if the people had been afraid to be won over, as if they had forgotten that they had come there of their own will. But the woman continued, and it was her sharp, piercing voice which conquered they had to hear. You shout and scream. The old serpent within you is twisting and raging. But this is just the sign. Blessings on the old serpent's roaring. It shows that he is tortured, that he is afraid. Laugh at us. Break our windows. Drive us away from the platform. Tomorrow you will belong to us. We shall possess the earth. How can you withstand us? How can you withstand God? Then the captain commanded one of her comrades to come forward and make her confession. She came smiling. She stood brave and undaunted and told the story of her sin and her conversion to the mockers. Where had that kitchen girl learned to stand smiling under all that scorn? Some of those who had come to scoff grew pale. Where had these women found their courage and their strength? Some ones stood behind them. The third woman stepped forward. She was a beautiful child, daughter of rich parents, with a sweet, clear voice. She did not tell of herself. Her testimony was one of the usual songs. It was like the shadow of a victory. The audience forgot itself and listened. The child was lovely to look at, sweet to hear. But when she ceased, the noise became even more dreadful. Down by the door they built a platform of benches, climbed up and confessed. It became worse and worse in the hall. The stove became red hot, devoured air and belched heat. The respectable women on the front benches looked about for a way to escape. But there was no possibility of getting out. The soldiers on the platform perspired and wilted. They cried and prayed for strength. Suddenly a breath came through the air. A whisper reached their ear. They knew not from where, but they felt a change. God was with them. He fought for them. To the struggle again, the captain stepped forward and lifted the Bible over her head. Stop! Stop! We feel that God is working among us. A conversion is near. Help us to pray. God will give us a soul. They fell on their knees in silent prayer. Some in the hall joined in the prayer. All felt an intense expectation. Was it true? Was something great taking place in a fellow creature's soul here in their midst? Should it be granted to them to see it? Could it be influenced by these women? For the moment the crowd was won. They were now just as eager for a miracle as lately for blasphemy. No one dared to move. All panted from excitement. But nothing happened. Oh God! Thou forsakesth us! Thou forsakesth us! Thou forsakesth us! Oh God! The beautiful salvation soldier began to sing. She chose the mildest of melodies. Oh my beloved! Will Thou not come soon? Touching as a praying child, the song entered their souls, like a caress, like a blessing. The crowd was silent, wrapped in those notes. Mountains and forests long. Heaven and earth languish. Man, everything in the world thirsts that you shall open your soul to the light. Then glory will spread over the earth. Then the beasts will rise up from their degradation. Oh my beloved! Will Thou not come soon? It is not true that Thou dost linger in lofty halls. In the dark wood, in the miserable hovels Thou dwellst. And Thou wilt not come. My bright heaven does not tempt thee. Oh my beloved! Will Thou not come soon? In the hall more and more began to sing the burden. Voice after voice joined in. They did not rightly know what words they used. The tune was enough. All their longings could sing itself free in those tomes. They sang too, down by the door. Hearts were bursting. Wills were subdued. It no longer sounded like a pitiful lament, but strong, imperative commanding. Oh my beloved! Will Thou not come soon? Down by the door in the worst of the crowd stood Matsvik. He looked much intoxicated, but that evening he had not drunk. He stood and thought, if I might speak, if I might speak. It was the strangest room he had ever seen. The most wonderful chance. His voice seemed to say to him, These are the rushes to which you can whisper. The waves which will bear your voice. The singer started. It was as if they had heard a lion roar in their ears. A mighty, terrible voice spoke dreadful words. It scoffed at God. Why did men serve God? He forsook all those who served him. God failed his own son. God helped no one. The voice grew louder, more like a roar every minute. No one could have believed that human lungs could have such strength. No one had ever heard such ravings burst from bruised hearts. All bent their heads like wonders in the desert when the storm beats on them. Terrible, terrible words. They were like thundering hammer strokes against God's throne, against him who had tortured Job, who let the martyrs suffer, who let those who professed his faith burn at the stake. A few had at first tried to laugh. Some of them had thought that it was a joke, but now they heard quaking that it was in earnest. Already some rose up to flee to the platform. They asked the protection of the Salvation Army from him who drew down upon them the wrath of God. The voice asked them in hissing tones what rewards they expected for their trouble in serving God. They need not count on heaven. God was not free-handed with his heaven. A man, he said, had done more good than was needed to be blessed. He had brought greater offerings than God demanded. But then he had been tempted to sin. Life is long. He paid out his hard-earned grace already in this world. He would go the way of the damned. The speech was the terrifying north wind which drives the ship into the harbor. While the scover spoke, women rushed up to the platform. The Salvation Army soldiers' hands were embraced and kissed. They were scarcely able to receive them all. The boys and the old men praised God. He who spoke continued. The words intoxicated him. He said to himself, I speak, I speak. At last I speak. I tell them my secret, and yet I do not tell them. For the first time since he made the great sacrifice, he was free from care. Please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Lars Rolander Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöf Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flack A Fallen King Part 3 It was a Sunday afternoon in the height of the summer. The town looked like a desert of stones like a moon landscape. There was not a cat to be seen nor a sparrow hardly fly on the sunny wall. Not a chimney smoke. There was not a breath of air in the sultry streets. The whole was only stony feed out of which grew stone walls. Where were the dogs and the people? Where were the young ladies in narrow skirts and wide sleeves, long gloves and red sunshades? Where were the soldiers and the fine people, the Salvation Army and the street boys? Wither had all those gay picnickers gone in the dewy cool of the morning. All the baskets and accordions and bottles which the steamer landed. And what had happened to the procession of good Templars? Banners fluttered, drums thundered. Boys swarmed, stamped and hurried, or what had happened to the blue awnings under which the little one slept while father and mother pushed them solemnly up the street. All were on their way out to the wood. They complained of the long streets. It seemed as if the stone houses followed them. At last, at last they caught a glimpse of green and just outside the town where the road wound over flat moist fields where the song of lark sounded loudest, where the clover steamed with honey. There lay the first of those left behind, heads in the moss, noises in the grass, bodies bathed in sunshine and fragrance, souls refreshed with idleness and rest. On the way to the wood, toiled bicyclists and bearers of luncheon baskets. Boys came with troubles and shiny knapsacks. Girls danced in clouds of dust. Sky and banners and children and trumpets. Mechanics and their families and crowds of laborers. The rearing horses of an omnibus waved their forelegs over the crowd. A young man, half drunk, jumped up on the wheel. He was pulled down and lay kicking on his back in the dust of the road. In the wood a nightingale trilled and sang, piped and gurgled. The birches were not thriving, their trunks were black. The beaches built high temples, layer upon layer of streaky green. A toad sat and took aim with its tongue. It caught a fly at every shot. A hedgehog trotted about in the dry rustling beach-leaves. Dragonflies started about with glittering wings. The people sat down around the luncheon baskets. The piping, chirping crickets tried to make their Sunday a glad one. Suddenly the hedgehog disappeared, terrified he rolled himself up in his prickles. The crickets crept into the grass, quite silenced. The nightingale sang as if its throat would burst. It was guitars, guitars. The Salvation Army marched forward under the beaches. The people started up from their rest under the trees. The dancing green and crooked ground were deserted. The swings and merry-go-rounds had an hour's rest. Everybody followed the Salvation Army's camp. The benches filled and listeners sat on every hillock. The army had waxed strong and powerful. About many a fair cheek was tied the Salvation Army hat. Many a strong man wore the red shirt. There was peace and order in the crowd. Bad words did not venture to pass the lips. Earth rumbled harmlessly behind teeth. And Mats Wieck, the shoemaker, the terrible Buzzfiemer, stood now as standard bearer by the platform. He too was one of the believers. The red flag caressed his grey head. The Salvation Army soldiers had not forgotten the old man. They had him to thank for their first victory. They had come to him in his loneliness. They washed his floor and mended his clothes. They did not refuse to associate with him. And at their meetings he was allowed to speak. Ever since he had broken his silence, he was happy. He stood no longer as an enemy of God. There was a raging power in him. He was happy. He was happy when he could let it out. When souls were shaken by his lion voice, he was happy. He spoke always of himself. He always told his own story. He described the fate of the misjudged. He spoke of sacrifices of life itself. Made without a hope of reward, without acknowledgement. He disguised what he related. He told his secret, and yet did not tell it. He became a poet. He had the power of winning hearts, for his sake crowds gathered in front of the Salvation Army Platform. He drew them by the fantastic images which filled his deceased brain. He captivated them with the words of affecting lament, which the oppression of his heart had taught him. Perhaps his spirit in days of old had visited this world of death and change. Perhaps he had then been a mighty scald, skillful in playing on heartstrings. But for some evil deed he had been commended to begin again his earthly life, to live by the work of his hands without the knowledge of the strength of his spirit. But now his grief had broken his spirit's chains. His soul was a newly released bird, timid and confused, but still rejoicing in its freedom. It flew onward over the old battlefields. The wild ignorant singer, the black thrush which had grown among starlings, listened diffidently to the words which came to his lips. Where did he get the power to compel the crowd to listen in ecstasy to his speech? Where did he get the power to force proud men down upon their knees, ringing their hands? He trembled before he began to speak. Then a quiet confidence came over him. From the inexhaustible depths of his suffering rose ever torrents of agonized words. Those speeches were never printed. They were hunting cries, ringing trumpet notes, rousing, animating, terrifying, urgent, not to capture, not to give again. They were lightning flashes and rolling thunder. They shook hearts with terrible alarms, but they were transient. Never could they be caught. The cataract can be measured to its last drop. The display of foam can be painted, but not the elusive, delirious, swift, growing, mighty stream of those speeches. That day in the wood he asked the gathering if they knew how they should serve God, as Uriah served his king. Then he, the man in the pulpit, became Uriah. He rode through the desert with the letter of his king. He was alone, the solitude terrified him. His thoughts were gloomy, but he smiled when he thought of his wife. The desert became a flowering meadow when he remembered his wife. Springs gushed up from the ground at the thought of her. His camel fell. His soul was filled with forebodings of evil. Misfortune, he thought, is a vulture which loves the desert. He did not turn, but went onward with the king's letter. He trod upon thorns. He walked among serpents and scorpions. He thirsted and hungered. He saw caravans drag their dark length through the sands. He did not join them. He dared not seek strangers. He, who bears a royal letter, must go alone. He saw at eventide the white tents of shepherds. He was tempted as if by his wife's smiling dwelling. He thought he saw white males waving to him. He turned away from the tents out into solitude. Woe to him if they had stolen the letter of his king. He hesitates when he sees searching brigands pursuing him. He thinks of the king's letter. He reads it in order to then destroy. He reads it and finds new courage. Stand up, warrior of Judah. He does not destroy the letter. He does not give himself up to the robbers. He fights and conquers. And so onward, onward, he bears his sentence of death through a thousand dangers. It is so God's will shall be obeyed through tortures unto death. While weak spoke, his divorced wife stood and listened to him. She had gone out to the wood that morning, beaming and contented on her husband's arm. Most matron-like, respectable in every fold. Her daughter and the apprentice carried the luncheon basket. The maid followed with the youngest child. There had been nothing but content, happiness, calm. There they had lain in a thicket. They had eaten and drank, played and laughed, never a thought of the past. Conscience was as silent as a satisfied child. In the beginning, when her first husband had slunk half-drunk by her window, she had felt a prick in her soul. Then she had heard that he had become the idol of the Salvation Army. She was therefore quite calm. Now she had come to hear him. And she understood him. He was not speaking of Yoraya. He was telling about himself. He was writhing at the thought of his own sacrifice. He tore bits from his own heart and threw them out among the people. She knew that rider in the desert, that conqueror of brigands, and that unappeased agony stared at her like an open grave. Night came. The wood was deserted, farewell grass and flowers, wide heaven along farewell. Snakes began to crawl about the tufts of grass. Turtles crept along the paths. The wood was ugly. Everybody longed to be back in the stone desert, the moon landscape. That is the place for men. End of Part 3 of A Fallen King From Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlö Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flak Read by Lars Rolander Section 21 of Invisible Links 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 Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlö Translated by Pauline Bancroft Flak A Fallen King Part 4 Dame Anna Ericsson invited all her old friends. The mechanics' wives from the suburbs and the poor scrub women came to her for a cup of coffee. The same were there who had been with her on the day of her desertion. One was new, Maria Andersson, the captain of the Salvation Army. Anna Ericsson had now been many times to the Salvation Army. She had heard her husband. He always told about himself. He disguised his story. She recognized it always. He was Abraham. He was Job. He was Jeremiah whom the people threw into her well. He was Elisha whom the children at the wayside revealed. The pain seemed bottomless to her. His sorrow seemed to her to borrow all voices to make itself masks of everything it met. She did not understand that her husband talked himself well, that pleasure in his power of fancy played and smiled in him. She had dragged her daughter with her. The daughter had not wished to go. She was serious, modest and conscientious. Nothing of youth played in her veins. She was born old. She had grown up in shame of her father. She walked upright or stare as if saying, Look, the daughter of a man who is despised. Look if my dress is soiled. Is there anything to blame in my conduct? Her mother was proud of her. Yet sometimes she sighed. Alas, if my daughter's hands were less white, perhaps her caresses would be warmer. The girls had scornfully smiling. She despised theatricals. When her father rose up to speak, she wished to go. Her mother's hands seized hers fast as a vice. The girls had still. The torrent of words began to roar over her. But that which spoke to her was not so much the words as her mother's hand. The hand writhed. Convulsions passed through it. It lay in hers limp as if dead. It caught wildly about, hot with fever. Her mother's face betrayed nothing. Only her hand suffered and struggled. The old speaker described a martyrdom of silence. The friend of Jesus Sleil, his sister sent a message to him. But his time had not come. For the sake of God's kingdom, Lazarus must die. He now let all doubting, all slander be heaped upon Christ. He described his suffering. His own compassion tortured him. He passed through the agony of death. He as well as Lazarus. Still he had to keep silence. Only one word had he needed to say to win back the respect of his friends. He was silent. He had to hear the lamentations of the sisters. He told them the truth in words which they did not understand. Enemies mocked at him. And so on always more and more affecting. Anna Ericsson's hand still lay in that of her daughter. It confessed and acknowledged. The man there bears the martyr's crown of silence. He is wrongly accused. With a word he could set himself free. The girl followed her mother home. They went in silence. The girl's face was like stone. She was pondering, searching for everything which memory could tell her. Her mother looked anxiously at her. What did she know? The next day Anna Ericsson had her coffee party. The talk turned on the day's market. On the price of wooden shoes. On pilfering maids. The women chatted and laughed. They poured their coffee into the saucer. They were mild and unconcerned. Anna Ericsson could not understand why she had been afraid of them. Why she had always believed that they would judge her. When they were provided with their second cup. When they sat alighted with the coffee trembling on the edge of their cups. And their saucers were filled with bread she began to speak. Her words were a little solemn. But her voice was calm. Young people are imprudent. A girl who marries without thinking seriously what she's doing can come to great grief. Who has met with worse than I? They all knew it. They had been with her and had mourned with her. Young people are imprudent. One holds one's tongue when one ought to speak. For shame's sake. Wonders not to speak for fear of what people will say. He who has not spoken at the right time may have to repent it a whole lifetime. They all believed that this was true. She had heard weak yesterday as well as many times before. Now she must tell them all something about him. An aching pain came over her when she thought of what he had suffered for her sake. Still she thought that he who had been old ought to have had more sense than to take her, a young girl for his wife. I did not dare to say it in my youth. But he went away from me out of pity, for he thought that I wanted to have Ericsson. I have his letter about it. She read the letter aloud for them. A tear glided demurely down her cheek. He had seen falsely in his jealousy. Between Ericsson and me there was nothing then. It was four years before we were married. But I will say it now, for weak is too good to be misjudged. He did not run away from wife and child from light motives, but with good intention. I want this to be known everywhere. Captain Anderson will perhaps read the letter aloud at the meeting. I wish weak to be redressed. I know too that I have been silent too long. But one does not like to give up everything for a drunkard. Now it is another matter. The women sat as if turned to stone. Anna Ericsson, her voice trembling a little, said with a faint smile. Now perhaps you will never care to come to see me again. Oh yes indeed, you were so young. It was nothing which you could help. It was his fault for having such ideas. She smiled. These were the heartbeats which would have torn her to pieces. The truth was not dangerous nor lying either. The young men were not waiting outside her door. Did she know or did she not know that her eldest daughter had that very morning left her home and had gone to her father? The sacrifice which Mats Week had made to save his wife's honour became known. He was admired. He was derided. His letter was read aloud at the meeting. Some of those present wept with emotion. People came and pressed his hands on the street. His daughter moved to his house. For several evenings after he was silent at the meetings. He felt no inspiration. At last they asked him to speak. He mounted the platform, folded his hands together and began. When he had said a couple of words he stopped, confused. He did not recognise his own voice. Where was the lion's roar? Where the raging north wind? And where the torrent of words? He did not understand. Could not understand. He staggered back. I cannot. He muttered. God gives me no strength to speak yet. He sat down on a bench and buried his head in his hands. He gathered all his power of thought to discover first what he wanted to talk about. Did he have to consider so in the old days? Could he consider now? His head whirled. Perhaps it would go if he should stand up again, place himself where he was accustomed to stand, and begin with his usual prayer. He tried. His face turned ashy-gray. All glances were turned towards him. A cold sweet trickle down his forehead. He found not a word on his lips. He sat down in his place and wept, moaning heavily. The gift was taken from him. He tried to speak, tried silently to himself. What should he talk about? His sorrow was taken from him. He had nothing to say to people which he was not allowed to tell them. He had no secret to disguise. He did not need to Romans. Romans left him. It was the agony of death. It was a struggle for life. He wished to hold fast that which was already gone. He wished to have his grief again in order to be able again to speak. His grief was gone. He could not get it back. He staggered forward like a drunken man to the platform again and again. He stammered out a few meaningless words. He repeated like a lesson learned by heart what he had heard others say. He tried to imitate himself. He looked for devotion in the glances, for trembling silence, quickening breaths, he perceived nothing that which had been his joy was taken from him. He sank back into the darkness. He cursed that he by his discourse had converted his wife and daughter. He possessed the most precious of gifts and lost it. His pain was extreme. But it is not by such grief that genius lives. He was a painter without hands, a singer who had lost his voice. He had only spoken of his sorrow. What should he speak of now? He prayed, O God, when honor is dumb and misjudgment speaks, give me back misjudgment. When happiness is dumb, but sorrow speaks, give me back sorrow. But the crown was taken from him. He sat there more miserable than the most miserable, for he had been cast down from the heights of life. He was a fallen king. End of Part 4 of A Fallen King from Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöf, translated by Pauline Bancroft's flak. Read by Lars Rolander. Section 22 of Invisible Links 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. Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöf, translated by Pauline Bancroft's flak. A Christmas Guest One of those who had lived the life of a pensioner at Ekeby was little Raster, who could transpose music and play the flute. He was of low origin and poor, without home and without relations. Hard times came to him when the company of pensioners were dispersed. He then had no horse, no carry-all, no fur coat, nor red-painted luncheon basket. He had to go on foot from house to house and carry his belongings tied in a blue striped cotton handkerchief. He buttoned his coat all the way up to his chin so that no one should need to know in what condition his shirt and waistcoat were. And in its deep pockets he kept his most precious possessions, his flute taken to pieces, his flat brandy bottle, and his music pen. His profession was to copy music, and if it had been as in the old days, there would have been no lack of work for him. But with every passing year music was less practised in Wärmland. The guitar with its mouldy, silken ribbon and its worn screws and the dented horn with faded tassels and cord were put away in the lumber room in the attic. And the dust settled inches deep on the long iron-bound violin boxes. Yet the less little Raster had to do with flute and music pen, so much more the more must he return to the brandy flask, and at last he became quite a drunkard. It was a great pity. He was still received at the manor houses as an old friend, but there were complaints when he came and joy when he went. There was an odour of dirt and brandy about him, and if he had only a couple of glasses of wine or one toddy, he grew confused and told unpleasant stories. He was the torment of the hospitable houses. One Christmas he came to Lövdala, where Liljekruna, the great violinist, had his home. Liljekruna had also been one of the pensioners of Ekeby, but after the death of the major's wife, he returned to his quiet farm and remained there. Raster came to him a few days before Christmas in the midst of all the preparations and asked for work. Liljekruna gave him a little copying to keep him busy. You ought to have let him go immediately, said his wife. Now he will certainly take so long with that that we will be obliged to keep him over Christmas. He must be somewhere, answered Liljekruna, and he offered Raster toddy and brandy, sat with him and lived over again with him the whole Ekeby time, but he was out of spirits and disgusted by him, like everyone else, although he would not let it be seen, for old friendship and hospitality were sacred to him. In Liljekruna's house, for three weeks now, they had been preparing to receive Christmas. They had been living in discomfort and bustle, had set up with diff plights and torches till their eyes grew red, had been frozen in the outhouse with the salting of meat and in the brew house with the brewing of the beer, but both the mistress and the servants gave themselves up to it all without grumbling. When all the preparations were done and the holy evening come, a sweet enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen all times, so that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment would flow of themselves without effort. Everyone's feet would wish to twirl in the dance and from memory's dark corners words and melodies would rise, although no one could believe that they were there, and then everyone was so good, so good. Now, when Raster came, the whole household at Löfdala thought that Christmas was spoiled. The mistress and the older children and the old servants were all of the same opinion. Raster caused them a suffocating disgust. They were moreover afraid that when he and Liljekruna began to rake up the old memories, the artist's blood would flame up in the great violinist and his home would lose him. Formally he had not been able to remain long at home. No one can describe how they loved their master on the farm since they had had him with them a couple of years and what he had to give, how much he was to his home, especially at Christmas. He did not take his place of any sofa or rocking stool, but on a high narrow wooden bench in the corner of the fireplace. When he had settled there, he started off on adventures. He traveled about the earth, climbed up to the stars, and even higher, he played and talked by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened. Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that one soul shone on it. Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmastime. Pleasure, the spring sun, and when Little Ruster came their Christmas piece was destroyed. They had worked in vain if he was coming to tempt away their master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit at the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil the Christmas pleasure. On the fore-known of Christmas Eve, Little Ruster had his music written out and he said something about going, although of course he meant to stay. Lily Kroona had been influenced by the general feeling and therefore said quite lukewarmly and indifferently that Ruster had better stay when he was over Christmas. Little Ruster was inflammable and proud. He twirled his moustache and shook back the black artist's hair that stood like a dark cloud over his head. What did Lily Kroona mean? Should he stay because he had nowhere else to go? Oh, only think how they stood and waited for him in the big ironworks in the parish of Bro. The guest room was in order. The glass of welcome filled. He was in great haste. He only did not know to which he ought to go first. Very well answered Lily Kroona. You may go, if you will. After dinner, Little Ruster borrowed horse and sleigh, coat and furs. The stable boy from Levdala was to take him to some place in Bro and drive quickly back for its threatened snow. No one believed that he was expected or that there was a single place in the neighborhood where he was welcome. But they were so anxious to be rid of him that they put the thought aside and let him depart. He wished it himself, they said, and then they thought that now they would be glad. But when they gathered in the dining room at five o'clock to drink tea and to dance around the Christmas tree, Lily Kroona was silent and out of spirits. He did not seat himself on the bench. He touched neither tea nor punch. He could not remember any polka, the violin was out of order. Those who could play and dance had to do it without him. Then his wife grew uneasy. The children were discontented. Everything in the house went wrong. It was the most lamentable Christmas eve. The porridge turned sour, the candles sputtered, the wood smoked, the wind stirred up the snow and blew bitter cold into the rooms. The stable boy who had driven Ruster did not come home. The cook wept, the maids scalded. Finally Lily Kroona remembered that no sheaves had been put out for the sparrows and he complained aloud of all the women about him who abandoned old customs and were newfangled and heartless. They understood well enough that what tormented him was remorse that he had let little Ruster go away from his home on Christmas eve. After a while he went to his room, shut the door and began to play as he had not played since he had ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn, full of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make me as small-minded as yourselves but I turn to larger things, to the open. Commonplace people, slaves of the home hold me prisoner if it is in your power. When his wife heard the music she said, Tomorrow he is gone if God does not work a miracle in the night. Our inhospitableness has brought on just what we thought we could avoid. In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the snowstorm. He went from one house to the other and asked if there was any work for him to do but he was not received anywhere. They did not even ask him to get out of the sledge. Some had their houses full of guests, other were going away on Christmas day. Drive to the next neighbor, they all said. He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary day but not of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve came but once a year and the children had been rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They could not put that man at a table where there were children. Formerly they had been glad to see him but not since he had become a drunkard. Where should they put the fellow moreover? The servants' room was too plain and the guest room too fine. So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in the blinding snow. His wet moustache hung limply down over his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and blurred but the brandy was blown out of his brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed. Was it possible? Was it possible that no one wished to receive him? Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how miserable and degraded he was and he understood that he was odious to people. It is the end of me, he thought, no more copying of music, no more flute playing, no one on earth needs me, no one has compassion on me. The storm whirled and played tore apart the drifts and piled them up again, took a pillar of snow in its arms and danced out into the plain, lifted one flake up to the clouds and chased another down into a ditch. It is so, it is so, said little Ruster, while one dances and whirls, it is play, but when must be buried in the drift and forgotten, it is sorrow and grief. But down they all have to go and now it was his turn to think that he had now come to the end. He no longer asked where the man was driving him. He thought that he was driving in the land of death. Little Ruster made no offerings to the gods that night. He did not curse flute playing or the life of a pensioner. He did not think that it had been better for him if he had plowed the earth or soon shoes. But he mourned that he was now a worn-out instrument which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of no one, for he knew that when the horn is cracked and the guitar will not stay in tune, they must go. He became all at once a very humble man. He understood that it was the end of him on this Christmas Eve. Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he understood nothing, was good for nothing, and had no friends. The sledge stops and suddenly it is light about him and hears friendly voices and there is someone who is helping him into a warm room and someone who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat is pulled off him and several people cry that he is welcome and warm hands rub life into his benumbed fingers. He was so confused by it all that he did not come to his senses for nearly a quarter of an hour. He could not possibly comprehend that he had come back to Ljövdala, that he had not been at all conscious that the stable boy had grown tired of driving about in the storm and had turned home. Nor did he understand why he was now so well received in Liliyekruna's house. He could not know that Liliyekruna's wife understood what a weary journey he had made that Christmas Eve when he had been turned away from every door where he had knocked. She felt such compassion on him that she forgot her own troubles. Liliyekruna went on with the while playing up in his room. He did not know that Raster had come. The latter sat meanwhile in the dining room with the wife and the children. The servants who used also to be there on Christmas Eve had moved out into the kitchen away from their mistress's trouble. The mistress of the house lost no time in settling Raster to work. You hear, I suppose, you said that Liliyekruna does nothing but play all the evening, and I must attend to setting the table and the food. The children are quite forsaken. They were the smallest. Children were the kind of people with whom little Raster had leased intercourse. He had met them neither in the bachelor's wing nor in the campaign tent, neither in wayside inns nor on the highways. He was almost shy of them and did not know what he ought to say that was fine enough for them. He took out his flute and taught them how to finger the stops and holes. There was one of four years and one of six. They had a lesson on the flute and were deeply interested in it. This is A, he said, and this is C. And then he blew the notes. Then the young people wished to know what kind of an A and C it was that was to be played. Raster took out his score and made a few notes. No, they said, that is not right. They went away for an A, B, C book. Little Raster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it and they did not know it. What they knew was not very much. Raster grew eager. He lifted the little boys up, each one on his knees and began to teach them. Lily Kruna's wife went out and in and listened quite in amazement. It sounded like a game all the time, but they learned. Raster kept on for a while, but he was absent from what he was doing. He was turning over the old thoughts from out in the storm. It was good and pleasant, but nevertheless it was the end of him. He was worn out. He ought to be thrown away. And all of a sudden he put his hands before his face and began to weep. Lily Kruna's wife came quickly up to him. Raster, she said, I can understand you to think that all is over for you. You cannot make a living with your music, and you are destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Raster. Yes, sobbed the little flute player. Do you see that to sit us tonight with the children? That would be something for you. If you would teach children how to read and write, you would be welcomed everywhere. That is no less important an instrument on which to play, Raster, than flute and violin. Look at them, Raster. She placed the two children in front of him, and he looked up, blinking as if he had looked at the sun. It seemed as if his little blurred eyes could not meet those of the children which were big, clear, and innocent. Look at them, Raster, repeated Lily Kroona's wife. I dare not, said Raster, for it was like a purgatory to look through the beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their souls. Lily Kroona's wife laughed loud and joyously. Then you must accustomed yourself to them, Raster. You can stay in my house as schoolmaster this year. Lily Kroona heard his wife laugh out of his room. What is it? he said. What is it? Nothing, she answered, but that Raster has come again and that I have engaged him as schoolmaster for our little boys. Lily Kroona was quite amazed. Do you dare? he said. Do you dare? Has he promised to give up? No, said the wife. Raster has promised nothing, but there is much about which he must be careful when he has to look little children in the eyes every day. If it had not been Christmas, perhaps I would not have ventured. But when our lord dared to place a little child who was his own son among us sinners, so can I also dare to let my little children try to save a human soul. Lily Kroona could not speak, but every feature and wrinkle in his face twitched and twisted as always when he heard anything noble. Then he kissed his wife's hand as gently as a child who asks for forgiveness and cried aloud. All the children must come and kiss their mother's hand. They did so, and then they had a happy Christmas in Lily Kroona's house. End of the Christmas Guest from Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöf Translated by Pauline Bancroft-Flack Read by Lars Rolander Section 23 of Invisible Links 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 Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöf Translated by Pauline Bancroft-Flack Uncle Ruben There was once, nearly eight years ago, a little boy who went out into the marketplace to spin his top. The little boy's name was Ruben. He was not more than three years old, but he swung his little whip as bravely as anybody and made the top spin so that it was a pleasure to see it. On that day, eighty years ago, it was beautiful spring weather. It was in the month of March and the town was divided into two worlds. One white and warm where the sun shone and one cold and dark where it was in shadow. The whole marketplace was in the sun except a narrow edge along one row of houses. Now it happened that the little boy, brave as he was, grew tired of spinning his top and looked about for some place to rest. It was not hard to find. There were no benches or seats but every house was supplied with stone steps. Little Ruben could not imagine anything better. He was a conscientious little fellow. He had a vague feeling that his mother did not like to have him sit on strange people's steps. His mother was poor but just on that account it must never look as if they wanted to take anything of anybody. So he went and sat on their own stone steps for they also lived on the marketplace. The steps lay in the shadow and it was very cold there. The little fellow leaned his head against the railing drew up his legs and made himself comfortable. For a little while he watched the sunlight dance out in the marketplace and the boys running and spinning tops. Then he shut his eyes and went to sleep. He must have slept an hour. When he awoke he did not feel so well as when he fell asleep. Everything felt so dreadfully uncomfortable. He went into his mother crying and his mother saw that he was ill and put him to bed. And in a couple of days the boy was dead. But that is not the end of the story. It happened that his mother mourned for him from the depth of her heart with a sorrow which defies death. His mother had several other children. Many cares occupied her time and thoughts. But there was always a corner in her heart where her son Reuben dwelt undisturbed. He was ever alive to her. When she saw a group of children playing in the marketplace he too was running there and when she went about her house she believed fully and firmly that the little boy was still sleeping and sleeping out on those dangerous stone steps. Certainly none of her living children were so constantly in her thoughts as her dead one. Some years after his death little Reuben had a sister and when she grew to be old enough to run out on the marketplace and spin tops it happened that she too sat down on the stone steps to rest. But her mother felt instantly that if someone had pulled her skirt she came out and ceased the little sister so roughly when she lifted her up that she remembered it as long as she lived. And as little did she forget how strange her mother's face was and how her voice trembled when she said Do you know that you once had a little brother whose name was Reuben and he died because he sat on a cold cold? You do not want to die and leave your mother, Bertha? Brother Reuben soon became just as living to his brothers and sisters as to his mother. She was able to make them see with her eyes and they too soon saw him sitting out on the stone steps. And it naturally never occurred to them to sit down there. Yes, whenever they saw anyone sitting on stone steps or on a stone railing or on a stone by the roadside they felt a prick in their heart and thought of Brother Reuben. Besides Brother Reuben was always placed highest of all the children when they spoke of him among themselves. For they all knew that they were a troublesome and fatiguing family who only gave their mother care and inconvenience. They did not believe that she would grieve much at losing any of them but as she really mourned for Brother Reuben it was certain that he must have been much better than they were. They would often think oh, if we could only give mother as much joy as Brother Reuben and yet no one knew anything more about him than that he had played top and caught cold on the stone steps. But he must have been something wonderful as their mother had such a love for him. He was wonderful too. He was more of a joy to his mother than any of the children. Her husband died and she worked in care and want but the children had so strong a faith in their mother's grief for the little three-year-old boy that they were convinced that if he had lived she would not have mourned over her mother's fortunes and every time they saw their mother weep they thought that it was because Brother Reuben was dead or because they were not like Brother Reuben. Soon enough an ever-growing desire was born in them to rival their little dead brother in their mother's affection. There was nothing that they would not have done for her if she had only cared as much for them as for him I think that Brother Reuben did more good than any of the other children. Fancy that when the eldest brother had earned his first money by rowing a stranger over the river he came and gave it to his mother without reserving a penny. Then his mother looked so happy that he swelled with pride and could not help betraying how ambitious beyond measure he had been. Mother Am I not now as good as Brother Reuben? His mother looked at him questioningly. She seemed as she was comparing his fresh glowing face with a little pale boy out on the stone steps and she would have liked to have answered yes if she had been able but she could not. I am very fond of you Ivan but you will never be like Reuben. It was beyond their powers all the children realized it and yet they could not help trying. They grew up strong and capable they worked their way up to wealth and consideration while Brother Reuben only sat still on his stone steps but he still had a start he could not be overtaken and at every success every improvement as they by degrees were able to offer their mother a good home and comfort it had to be reward enough for them for their mother to say ah if my little Reuben could have seen that. Brother Reuben followed his mother through the whole of her life even to her deathbed it was he who robbed the death pangs of their sting since she knew that they bore her to him in the midst of her greatest suffering the mother could smile at the thought that she was going to meet little Reuben and so died one whose faithful love had exalted and defied a poor little three-year-old boy. But neither was that the end of little little Reuben's story. To all the brothers and sisters he had become a symbol of their life of endeavor of their love for their mother of all the touching memories from the years of struggle and failure there was always something rich and warm in their voices when they spoke of him so he also glided into the lives of the children of his brothers and sisters. His mother's love had raised him to greatness and the great influence generation after generation. Sister Bertha had a son who had much to do with Uncle Reuben. He was four years old the day he sat on the curb stone and stared down into the gutter. It was full of rainwater. Sticks and straws were carried across in wild swirlings down to the sea. The little boy sat and looked on with that pleasant calm that people feel in following the adventurous existence of others when they themselves are in safety. But his peaceful philosophizing was interrupted by his mother who the moment she saw him thought of the stone steps at home and of her brother. Oh my dear little boy she said do not sit there. Do you know that your mama had a little brother whose name was Reuben and he was four years old just like you. He died because he sat on just such a curb stone and caught cold. The little boy did not like being disturbed in his pleasant thoughts. He sat still and philosophized while his jello pearly hair fell down into size. Bertha would not have done it for anyone else but for her dear brother's sake she shook a little boy quite roughly and so he learned respect for Uncle Reuben. Another time this little yellow head man had fallen onto the ice. He had been thrown down out of sheer spite by a big naughty boy and there he sat and cried to show how badly he had been treated especially as his mother could not be very far off. But he had forgotten that his mother was first and last Uncle Reuben's sister. When she caught sight of Axel sitting on the ice she did not come with anything soothing or consoling but only with that everlasting. Do not sit so, my little boy. Think of Uncle Reuben who died when he was five years old just as you are now because he sat down in a snowdrift. The boy stood up instantly when he heard her speak of Uncle Reuben but he felt chill in his very heart. How could Mama talk about Uncle Reuben when her little boy was in such distress? Axel had no objection through sitting and dying wherever he pleased but now it seemed as if he wished to take his own Mama away from him and that Axel could not bear. So he learned to hate Uncle Reuben. High up on the stairway in Axel's home was a stone railing which was dizzily beautiful to sit on. Far below lay the stone floor of the hall and he who sat stride up there could dream that he was being born along over Abysses. Axel called the balustrade a good-steed grain. On his back he bounded over burning ramparts into an enchanted castle. There he sat proud and bold with his long curls waving and fought St. George's fight with the dragon and as yet it had not occurred to Uncle Reuben to want to ride there but of course he came just as the dragon was writhing in the agony of death and Axel sat in lofty consciousness of victory he heard his nurse call Axel do not sit there think of Uncle Reuben who died when he was eight years old just as you are now because he sat and rode on the stone railing you must never sit there again. Such a jealous old putting head that Uncle Reuben he could not bear it of course because Axel was killing dragons and rescuing princesses if he did not look out he would show that he could win glory too if he should jump down to that stone floor and dash his brains out he would feel himself thrown into the shade that big liar poor Uncle Reuben the poor good little boy who went to play top out in the sunny marketplace now he was to learn what it was to be a great man it was in the country at Uncle Ivan's a number of the cousins had gathered in the beautiful garden Axel was there filled with his hatred of his Uncle Reuben he was longing to know if he was tormenting any other besides himself but there was something which made him afraid to ask it was as if he was going to commit some sacrilege at last the children were left to themselves no big people were present then Axel asked if they had ever heard of Uncle Reuben he saw how all the eyes flashed and that many small fists were clenched but it seemed as if the little mouse had been taught respect for Uncle Reuben hush said the whole crowd no said Axel I want to know if there is anyone else who tortures for I think he is the most troublesome of all uncles that one brave word broke the dam which had held in the indignation of those tormented child-hearts there was a great murmuring and shouting so must a crowd of nihilists look when they wild an autocrat the poor great man's register of sins was unrolled Uncle Reuben persecuted the children of all his brothers and sisters Uncle Reuben died wherever he chose Uncle Reuben was always the same age as the child whose peace he wished to disturb and they had to show respect to him although he was quite plainly a liar they might hate him in the most silent depths but overlook him or show him disrespect no then they were stopped what an air the old people put on when they spoke of him had he ever really done anything so wonderful to sit down and die was nothing so surprising and whatever great thing he may have done it was certain that he was now abusing his power he closed the children in everything that they wanted to do the old scarecrow he drove them from a noonday nap in the grass he had discovered their best hiding places in the park and forbidden them to go there his last performance was to ride on barbaric horses and to drive in the hay rigging they were all sure that the poor thing had never been more than three years old and now he fell upon the big children of 14 and insisted that he was their age it was the most provoking thing it was perfectly incredible what came to light about him he had fished from the dam he had rowed in the little flat-bottom boat he had climbed up in the willow which hangs over the water and in which it was so nice to sit yes he had even slept on the powder horn but they were all certain that there was no escape from his tyranny it was a relief to have spoken out but not a remedy they could not rebel against Uncle Ruben you never would have believed it but when these children grew to be big and had children of their own they immediately began to make use of Uncle Ruben just as their parents had done before them and their children again the young people who are growing up now have learned their lesson so well that it happened one summer out in the country that a five-year-old boy came up to his old grandmother Bertha who had sat down on the steps while waiting for the carriage grandmother once had a brother whose name was Ruben you are quite right my little boy grandmother said and stood up instantly that was as much of a sign to the young people as if they had seen an old royalist bow before King Charles portrait it made them understand that Uncle Ruben always must remain great however he abused his position only because he had been so deeply loved in these days when all greatness is so carefully examined he has to be used with greater moderation than formerly the limit for his age is lower trees, boats and powder horns are safe from him but nothing of stone which can be sat upon can escape him and the children the children of the day treat him quite otherwise than their parents did they criticize him openly and frankly their parents no longer understand how to inspire blind, terrified obedience little boring school girls discuss Uncle Ruben and wonder if he's anything but a myth a six year old child proposes that he should prove by experiment that it is impossible to catch a mortal cold on stone steps but that is only a passing mood admiration in their heart of hearts is just as convinced of Uncle Ruben's greatness as the preceding one and obey him just as they did the day will come when those scoffers will go down to the home of their ancestors try to find the old stone steps and race on it a tablet with a golden inscription they joke about Uncle Ruben for a few years but as soon as they are grown and have children to bring up they will become convinced of the use and need of the great man oh my little child do not sit on those stone steps your mother's mother had an uncle whose name was Ruben he died when he was your age because he sat down to rest on just such steps so it will be as long as the world lasts end of Uncle Ruben from Invisible Links by Selma Lagerlöre translated by Pauline Bancroft Flak read by Lars Rolander