It is quite certain the sun loves the open places outside the small
village churches. Has no one ever noticed that one never sees so much
sunshine as during the morning service outside a small, whitewashed
church? Nowhere else does one see such radiant streams of light, nowhere
else is the air so devoutly quiet. The sun simply keeps watch that no
one remains on the church hill gossiping. It wants them all to sit
quietly in church and listen to the sermon--that is why it sends such a
wealth of sunny rays on to the ground outside the church wall.
Perhaps one must not take it for granted that the sun keeps watch
outside the small churches every Sunday; but so much is certain, that
the morning Ingrid had been placed in the grave in the churchyard at
Raglanda, it spread a burning heat over the open space outside the
church. Even the flint stones looked as if they might take fire as they
lay and sparkled in the wheel-ruts. The short, down-trodden grass
curled, so that it looked like dry moss, whilst the yellow dandelions
which grew amongst the grass spread themselves out on their long stems,
so that they became as large as asters.
A man from Dalarne came wandering along the road--one of those men who
go about selling knives and scissors. He was clad in a long, white
sheep-skin coat, and on his back he had a large black leather pack. He
had been walking with this burden for several hours without finding it
too hot, but when he had left the highroad, and came to the open place
outside the church, he stopped and took off his hat in order to dry the
perspiration from his forehead.
As the man stood there bare-headed, he looked both handsome and clever.
His forehead was high and white, with a deep wrinkle between the
eyebrows; the mouth was well formed, with thin lips. His hair was parted
in the middle; it was cut short at the back, but hung over his ears, and
was inclined to curl. He was tall, and strongly, but not coarsely,
built; in every respect well proportioned. But what was wrong about him
was his glance, which was unsteady, and the pupils of his eyes rolled
restlessly, and were drawn far into the sockets, as if to hide
themselves. There was something drawn about the mouth, something dull
and heavy, which did not seem to belong to the face.
He could not be quite right, either, or he would not have dragged that
heavy pack about on a Sunday. If he had been quite in his senses, he
would have known that it was of no use, as he could not sell anything in
any case. None of the other men from Dalarne who walked about from
village to village bent their backs under this burden on a Sunday, but
they went to the house of God free and erect as other men.
But this poor fellow probably did not know it was a holy day until he
stood in the sunshine outside the church and heard the singing. He was
sensible enough at once to understand that he could not do any business,
and then his brain began to work as to how he should spend the day.
He stood for a long time and stared in front of him. When everything
went its usual course, he had no difficulty in managing. He was not so
bad but that he could go from farm to farm all through the week and
attend to his business, but he never could get accustomed to the
Sunday--that always came upon him as a great, unexpected trouble.
His eyes became quite fixed, and the muscles of his forehead swelled.
The first thought that took shape in his brain was that he should go
into the church and listen to the singing, but he would not accept this
suggestion. He was very fond of singing, but he dared not go into the
church. He was not afraid of human beings, but in some churches there
were such quaint, uncanny pictures, which represented creatures of which
he would rather not think.
At last his brain worked round to the thought that, as this was a
church, there would probably also be a churchyard, and when he could
take refuge in a churchyard all was well. One could not offer him
anything better. If on his wanderings he saw a churchyard, he always
went in and sat there awhile, even if it were in the middle of a
workaday week.
Now that he wanted to go to the churchyard a new difficulty suddenly
arose. The burial-place at Raglanda does not lie quite near the church,
which is built on a hill, but on the other side of the road; and he
could not get to the entrance of the churchyard without passing along
the road where the horses of the church-goers were standing tied up.
All the horses stood with their heads deep in bundles of hay and
nosebags, chewing. There was no question of their being able to do the
man any harm, but he had his own ideas as to the danger of going past
such a long row of animals.
Two or three times he made an attempt, but his courage failed him, so
that he was obliged to turn back. He was not afraid that the horses
would bite or kick. It was quite enough for him that they were so near
that they could see him. It was quite enough that they could shake their
bridles and scrape the earth with their hoofs.
At last a moment came when all the horses were looking down, and seemed
to be eating for a wager. Then he began to make his way between them. He
held his sheepskin cloak tightly around him so that it should not flap
and betray him, and he went on tiptoe as lightly as he could. When a
horse raised its eyelid and looked at him, he at once stopped and
curtsied. He wanted to be polite in this great danger, but surely
animals were amenable to reason, and could understand that he could not
bow when he had a pack full of hardware upon his back; he could only
curtsy.
He sighed deeply, for in this world it was a sad and troublesome thing
to be so afraid of all four-footed animals as he was. He was really not
afraid of any other animals than goats, and he would not have been at
all afraid of horses and dogs and cats had he only been quite sure that
they were not a kind of transformed goats. But he never was quite sure
of that, so as a matter of fact it was just as bad for him as if he had
been afraid of all kinds of four-footed animals.
It was no use his thinking of how strong he was, and that these small
peasant horses never did any harm to anyone: he who has become possessed
of such fears cannot reason with himself. Fear is a heavy burden, and it
is hard for him who must always carry it.
It was strange that he managed to get past all the horses. The last few
steps he took in two long jumps, and when he got into the churchyard he
closed the gate after him, and began to threaten the horses with his
clenched fist.
'You wretched, miserable, accursed goats!'
He did that to all animals. He could not help calling them goats, and
that was very stupid of him, for it had procured him a name which he did
not like. Everyone who met him called him the 'Goat.' But he would not
own to this name. He wanted to be called by his proper name, but
apparently no one knew his real name in that district.
He stood a little while at the gate, rejoicing at having escaped from
the horses, but he soon went further into the churchyard. At every cross
and every stone he stopped and curtsied, but this was not from fear:
this was simply from joy at seeing these dear old friends. All at once
he began to look quite gentle and mild. They were exactly the same
crosses and stones he had so often seen before. They looked just as
usual. How well he knew them again! He must say 'Good-morning' to them.
How nice it was in the churchyard! There were no animals about there,
and there were no people to make fun of him. It was best there, when it
was quite quiet as now; but even if there were people, they did not
disturb him. He certainly knew many pretty meadows and woods which he
liked still better, but there he was never left in peace. They could not
by any means compare with the churchyard. And the churchyard was better
than the forest, for in the forest the loneliness was so great that he
was frightened by it. Here it was quiet, as in the depths of the
forest; but he was not without company. Here people were sleeping under
every stone and every mound; just the company he wanted in order not to
feel lonely and strange.
He went straight to the open grave. He went there partly because there
were some shady trees, and partly because he wanted company. He thought,
perhaps, that the dead who had so recently been laid in the grave might
be a better protection against his loneliness than those who had passed
away long ago.
He bent his knees, with his back to the great mound of earth at the edge
of the grave, and succeeded in pushing the pack upwards, so that it
stood firmly on the mound, and he then loosened the heavy straps that
fastened it. It was a great day--a holiday. He also took off his coat.
He sat down on the grass with a feeling of great pleasure, so close to
the grave that his long legs, with the stockings tied under the knee,
and the heavy laced shoes dangled over the edge of the grave.
For a while he sat still, with his eyes steadily fixed upon the coffin.
When one was possessed by such fear as he was, one could not be too
careful. But the coffin did not move in the least; it was impossible to
suspect it of containing any snare.
He was no sooner certain of this than he put his hand into a side-pocket
of the pack and took out a violin and bow, and at the same time he
nodded to the dead in the grave. As he was so quiet he should hear
something pretty.
This was something very unusual for him. There were not many who were
allowed to hear him play. No one was ever allowed to hear him play at
the farms, where they set the dogs at him and called him the 'Goat'; but
sometimes he would play in a house where they spoke softly, and went
about quietly, and did not ask him if he wanted to buy any goat-skins.
At such places he took out his violin and treated them to some music;
and this was a great favour--the greatest he could bestow upon anybody.
As he sat there and played at the edge of the grave it did not sound
amiss; he did not play a wrong note, and he played so softly and gently
that it could hardly be heard at the next grave. The strange thing about
it was that it was not the man who could play, but it was his violin
that could remember some small melodies. They came forth from the violin
as soon as he let the bow glide over it. It might not, perhaps, have
meant so much to others, but for him, who could not remember a single
tune, it was the most precious gift of all to possess such a violin that
could play by itself.
Whilst he played he sat with a beaming smile on his face. It was the
violin that spoke and spoke; he only listened. Was it not strange that
one heard all these beautiful things as soon as one let the bow glide
over the strings? The violin did that. It knew how it ought to be, and
the Dalar man only sat and listened. Melodies grew out of that violin as
grass grows out of the earth. No one could understand how it happened.
Our Lord had ordered it so.
The Dalar man intended to remain sitting there the whole day, and let
the dear tunes grow out of the violin like small white and many-coloured
flowers. He would play a whole meadowful of flowers, play a whole long
valleyful, a whole wide plain.
But she who lay in the coffin distinctly heard the violin, and upon her
it had a strange effect. The tones had made her dream, and what she had
seen in her dreams caused her such emotion that her heart began to beat,
her blood to flow, and she awoke.
But all she had lived through while she lay there, apparently dead, the
thoughts she had had, and also her last dream--everything vanished in
the same moment she awoke to consciousness. She did not even know that
she was lying in her coffin, but thought she was still lying ill at home
in her bed. She only thought it strange that she was still alive. A
little while ago, before she fell asleep, she had been in the pangs of
death. Surely, all must have been over with her long ago. She had taken
leave of her adopted parents, and of her brothers and sisters, and of
the servants. The Dean had been there himself to administer the last
Communion, for her adopted father did not think he could bear to give it
to her himself. For several days she had put away all earthly thoughts
from her mind. It was incomprehensible that she was not dead.
She wondered why it was so dark in the room where she lay. There had
been a light all the other nights during her illness. And then they had
let the blankets fall off the bed. She was lying there getting as cold
as ice. She raised herself a little to pull the blankets over her. In
doing so she knocked her head against the lid of the coffin, and fell
back with a little scream of pain. She had knocked herself rather
severely, and immediately became unconscious again. She lay as
motionless as before, and it seemed as if life had again left her.
The Dalar man, who had heard both the knock and the cry, immediately
laid down his violin and sat listening; but there was nothing more to be
heard--nothing whatever. He began again to look at the coffin as
attentively as before. He sat nodding his head, as if he would say 'Yes'
to what he was himself thinking about, namely, that nothing in this
world was to be depended upon. Here he had had the best and most silent
of comrades, but had he not also been disappointed in him?
He sat and looked at the coffin, as if trying to see right through it.
At last, when it continued quite still, he took his violin again and
began to play. But the violin would not play any longer. However gently
and tenderly he drew his bow, there came forth no melody. This was so
sad that he was nearly crying. He had intended to sit still and listen
to his violin the whole day, and now it would not play any more.
He could quite understand the reason. The violin was uneasy and afraid
of what had moved in the coffin. It had forgotten all its melodies, and
thought only of what it could be that had knocked at the coffin-lid.
That is how it is one forgets everything when one is afraid. He saw
that he would have to quiet the violin if he wanted to hear more.
He had felt so happy, more so than for many years. If there was really
anything bad in the coffin, would it not be better to let it out? Then
the violin would be glad, and beautiful flowers would again grow out of
it.
He quickly opened his big pack, and began to rummage amongst his knives
and saws and hammers until he found a screw-driver. In another moment he
was down in the grave on his knees and unscrewing the coffin-lid. He
took out one screw after the other, until at last he could raise the lid
against the side of the grave; at the same moment the handkerchief fell
from off the face of the apparently dead girl. As soon as the fresh air
reached Ingrid, she opened her eyes. Now she saw that it was light. They
must have removed her. Now she was lying in a yellow chamber with a
green ceiling, and a large chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. The
chamber was small, but the bed was still smaller. Why had she the
sensation of her arms and legs being tied? Was it because she should lie
still in the little narrow bed? It was strange that they had placed a
hymn-book under her chin; they only did that with corpses. Between her
fingers she had a little bouquet. Her adopted mother had cut a few
sprigs from her flowering myrtle, and laid them in her hands. Ingrid was
very much surprised. What had come to her adopted mother? She saw that
they had given her a pillow with broad lace, and a fine hem-stitched
sheet. She was very glad of that; she liked to have things nice. Still,
she would rather have had a warm blanket over her. It could surely not
be good for a sick person to lie without a blanket. Ingrid was nearly
putting her hands to her eyes and beginning to cry, she was so bitterly
cold. At the same moment she felt something hard and cold against her
cheek. She could not help smiling. It was the old, red wooden horse, the
old three-legged Camilla, that lay beside her on the pillow. Her little
brother, who could never sleep at night without having it with him in
his bed, had put it in her bed. It was very sweet of her little brother.
Ingrid felt still more inclined to cry when she understood that her
little brother had wanted to comfort her with his wooden horse.
But she did not get so far as crying. The truth all at once flashed upon
her. Her little brother had given her the wooden horse, and her mother
had given her her white myrtle flowers, and the hymn-book had been
placed under her chin, because they had thought she was dead.
Ingrid took hold of the sides of the coffin with both hands and raised
herself. The little narrow bed was a coffin, and the little narrow
chamber was a grave. It was all very difficult to understand. She could
not understand that this concerned her, that it was she who had been
swathed like a corpse and placed in the grave. She must be lying all the
same in her bed, and be seeing or dreaming all this. She would soon find
out that this was no reality, but that everything was as usual.
All at once she found the explanation of the whole thing--'I often have
such strange dreams. This is only a vision'--and she sighed, relieved
and happy. She laid herself down in her coffin again; she was so sure
that it was her own bed, for that was not very wide either.
All this time the Dalar man stood in the grave, quite close to the foot
of the coffin. He only stood a few feet from her, but she had not seen
him; that was probably because he had tried to hide himself in the
corner of the grave as soon as the dead in the coffin had opened her
eyes and begun to move. She could, perhaps, have seen him, although he
held the coffin-lid before him as a screen, had there not been something
like a white mist before her eyes so that she could only see things
quite near her distinctly. Ingrid could not even see that there were
earthen walls around her. She had taken the sun to be a large
chandelier, and the shady lime-trees for a roof. The poor Dalar man
stood and waited for the thing that moved in the coffin to go away. It
did not strike him that it would not go unrequested. Had it not knocked
because it wanted to get out? He stood for a long time with his head
behind the coffin-lid and waited, that it should go. He peeped over the
lid when he thought that now it must have gone. But it had not moved; it
remained lying on its bed of shavings.
He could not put up with it any longer; he must really make an end of
it. It was a long time since his violin had spoken so prettily as
to-day, he longed to sit again quietly with it. Ingrid, who had nearly
fallen asleep again, suddenly heard herself addressed in the sing-song
Dalar dialect:
'Now, I think it is time you got up.'
As soon as he had said this he hid his head. He shook so much over his
boldness that he nearly let the lid fall.
But the white mist which had been before Ingrid's eyes disappeared
completely when she heard a human being speaking. She saw a man standing
in the corner, at the foot of the coffin, holding a coffin-lid before
him. She saw at once that she could not lie down again and think it was
a vision. Surely he was a reality, which she must try and make out. It
certainly looked as if the coffin were a coffin, and the grave a grave,
and that she herself a few minutes ago was nothing but a swathed and
buried corpse. For the first time she was terror-stricken at what had
happened to her. To think that she could really have been dead that
moment! She could have been a hideous corpse, food for worms. She had
been placed in the coffin for them to throw earth upon her; she was
worth no more than a piece of turf; she had been thrown aside
altogether. The worms were welcome to eat her; no one would mind about
that.
Ingrid needed so badly to have a fellow-creature near her in her great
terror. She had recognized the Goat directly he put up his head. He was
an old acquaintance from the parsonage; she was not in the least afraid
of him. She wanted him to come close to her. She did not mind in the
least that he was an idiot. He was, at any rate, a living being. She
wanted him to come so near to her that she could feel she belonged to
the living and not to the dead.
'Oh, for God's sake, come close to me!' she said, with tears in her
voice.
She raised herself in the coffin and stretched out her arms to him.
But the Dalar man only thought of himself. If she were so anxious to
have him near her, he resolved to make his own terms.
'Yes,' he said, 'if you will go away.'
Ingrid at once tried to comply with his request, but she was so tightly
swathed in the sheet that she found it difficult to get up.
'You must come and help me,' she said.
She said this, partly because she was obliged to do it, and partly
because she was afraid that she had not quite escaped death. She must be
near someone living.
He actually went near her, squeezing himself between the coffin and the
side of the grave. He bent over her, lifted her out of the coffin, and
put her down on the grass at the side of the open grave.
Ingrid could not help it. She threw her arms round his neck, laid her
head on his shoulder and sobbed. Afterwards she could not understand how
she had been able to do this, and that she was not afraid of him. It was
partly from joy that he was a human being--a living human being--and
partly from gratitude, because he had saved her.
What would have become of her if it had not been for him? It was he who
had raised the coffin-lid, who had brought her back to life. She
certainly did not know how it had all happened, but it was surely he who
had opened the coffin. What would have happened to her if he had not
done this? She would have awakened to find herself imprisoned in the
black coffin. She would have knocked and shouted; but who would have
heard her six feet below the ground? Ingrid dared not think of it; she
was entirely absorbed with gratitude because she had been saved. She
must have someone she could thank. She must lay her head on someone's
breast and cry from gratitude.
The most extraordinary thing, almost, that happened that day was, that
the Dalar man did not repulse her. But it was not quite clear to him
that she was alive. He thought she was dead, and he knew it was not
advisable to offend anyone dead. But as soon as he could manage, he
freed himself from her and went down into the grave again. He placed the
lid carefully on the coffin, put in the screws and fastened it as
before. Then he thought the coffin would be quite still, and the violin
would regain its peace and its melodies.
In the meantime Ingrid sat on the grass and tried to collect her
thoughts. She looked towards the church and discovered the horses and
the carriages on the hillside. Then she began to realize everything. It
was Sunday; they had placed her in the grave in the morning, and now
they were in church.
A great fear now seized Ingrid. The service would, perhaps, soon be
over, and then all the people would come out and see her. And she had
nothing on but a sheet! She was almost naked. Fancy, if all these people
came and saw her in this state! They would never forget the sight. And
she would be ashamed of it all her life.
Where should she get some clothes? For a moment she thought of throwing
the Dalar man's fur coat round her, but she did not think that that
would make her any more like other people.
She turned quickly to the crazy man, who was still working at the
coffin-lid.
'Oh,' she said, 'will you let me creep into your pack?'
In a moment she stood by the great leather pack, which contained goods
enough to fill a whole market-stall, and began to open it.
'You must come and help me.'
She did not ask in vain. When the Dalar man saw her touching his wares
he came up at once.
'Are you touching my pack?' he asked threateningly.
Ingrid did not notice that he spoke angrily; she considered him to be
her best friend all the time.
'Oh, dear good man,' she said, 'help me to hide, so that people will not
see me. Put your wares somewhere or other, and let me creep into the
pack, and carry me home. Oh, do do it! I live at the Parsonage, and it
is only a little way from here. You know where it is.'
The man stood and looked at her with stupid eyes. She did not know
whether he had understood a word of what she said. She repeated it, but
he made no sign of obeying her. She began again to take the things out
of the pack. Then he stamped on the ground and tore the pack from her.
However should Ingrid be able to make him do what she wanted?
On the grass beside her lay a violin and a bow. She took them up
mechanically--she did not know herself why. She had probably been so
much in the company of people playing the violin that she could not bear
to see an instrument lying on the ground.
As soon as she touched the violin he let go the pack, and tore the
violin from her. He was evidently quite beside himself when anyone
touched his violin. He looked quite malicious.
What in the world could she do to get away before people came out of
church?
She began to promise him all sorts of things, just as one promises
children when one wants them to be good.
'I will ask father to buy a whole dozen of scythes from you. I will lock
up all the dogs when you come to the Parsonage. I will ask mother to
give you a good meal.'
But there was no sign of his giving way. She bethought herself of the
violin, and said in her despair:
'If you will carry me to the Parsonage, I will play for you.'
At last a smile flashed across his face. That was evidently what he
wanted.
'I will play for you the whole afternoon; I will play for you as long as
you like.'
'Will you teach the violin new melodies?' he asked.
'Of course I will.'
But Ingrid now became both surprised and unhappy, for he took hold of
the pack and pulled it towards him. He dragged it over the graves, and
the sweet-williams and southernwood that grew on them were crushed under
it as if it were a roller. He dragged it to a heap of branches and
wizened leaves and old wreaths lying near the wall round the churchyard.
There he took all the things out of the pack, and hid them well under
the heap. When it was empty he returned to Ingrid.
'Now you can get in,' he said.
Ingrid stepped into the pack, and crouched down on the wooden bottom.
The man fastened all the straps as carefully as when he went about with
his usual wares, bent down so that he nearly went on his knees, put his
arms through the braces, buckled a couple of straps across his chest,
and stood up. When he had gone a few steps he began to laugh. His pack
was so light that he could have danced with it.
* * * * *
It was only about a mile from the church to the Parsonage. The Dalar man
could walk it in twenty minutes. Ingrid's only wish was that he would
walk so quickly that she could get home before the people came back from
church. She could not bear the idea of so many people seeing her. She
would like to get home when only her mother and the maid-servants were
there.
Ingrid had taken with her the little bouquet of flowers from her adopted
mother's myrtle. She was so pleased with it that she kissed it over and
over again. It made her think more kindly of her adopted mother than she
had ever done before. But in any case she would, of course, think kindly
of her now. One who has come straight from the grave must think kindly
and gently of everything living and moving on the face of the earth.
She could now understand so well that the Pastor's wife was bound to
love her own children more than her adopted daughter. And when they were
so poor at the Parsonage that they could not afford to keep a nursemaid,
she could see now that it was quite natural that she should look after
her little brothers and sisters. And when her brothers and sisters were
not good to her, it was because they had become accustomed to think of
her as their nurse. It was not so easy for them to remember that she had
come to the Parsonage to be their sister.
And, after all, it all came from their being poor. When father some day
got another living, and became Dean, or even Rector, everything would
surely come right. Then they would love her again, as they did when she
first came to them. The good old times would be sure to come back again.
Ingrid kissed her flowers. It had not been mother's intention, perhaps,
to be hard; it was only worry that had made her so strange and unkind.
But now it would not matter how unkind they were to her. In the future
nothing could hurt her, for now she would always be glad, simply because
she was alive. And if things should ever be really bad again, she would
only think of mother's myrtle and her little brother's horse.
It was happiness enough to know that she was being carried along the
road alive. This morning no one had thought that she would ever again go
over these roads and hills. And the fragrant clover and the little birds
singing and the beautiful shady trees, which had all been a source of
joy for the living, had not even existed for her. But she had not much
time for reflection, for in twenty minutes the Dalar man had reached the
Parsonage.
No one was at home but the Pastor's wife and the maid-servants, just as
Ingrid had wished. The Pastor's wife had been busy the whole morning
cooking for the funeral feast. She soon expected the guests, and
everything was nearly ready. She had just been into the bedroom to put
on her black dress. She glanced down the road to the church, but there
were still no carriages to be seen. So she went once again into the
kitchen to taste the food.
She was quite satisfied, for everything was as it ought to be, and one
cannot help being glad for that, even if one is in mourning. There was
only one maid in the kitchen, and that was the one the Pastor's wife had
brought with her from her old home, so she felt she could speak to her
in confidence.
'I must confess, Lisa,' she said, 'I think anyone would be pleased with
having such a funeral.'
'If she could only look down and see all the fuss you make of her,' Lisa
said, 'she would be pleased.'
'Ah!' said the Pastor's wife, 'I don't think she would ever be pleased
with me.'
'She is dead now,' said the girl, 'and I am not the one to say anything
against one who is hardly yet under the ground.'
'I have had to bear many a hard word from my husband for her sake,' said
the mistress.
The Pastor's wife felt she wanted to speak with someone about the dead
girl. Her conscience had pricked her a little on her account, and this
was why she had arranged such a grand funeral feast. She thought her
conscience might leave her alone now she had had so much trouble over
the funeral, but it did not do so by any means. Her husband also
reproached himself, and said that the young girl had not been treated
like one of their own children, and that they had promised she should be
when they adopted her; and he said it would have been better if they had
never taken her, when they could not help letting her see that they
loved their own children more. And now the Pastor's wife felt she must
talk to someone about the young girl, to hear whether people thought she
had treated her badly.
She saw that Lisa began to stir the pan violently, as if she had
difficulty in controlling her anger. She was a clever girl, who
thoroughly understood how to get into her mistress's good books.
'I must say,' Lisa began, 'that when one has a mother who always looks
after one, and takes care that one is neat and clean, one might at
least try to obey and please her. And when one is allowed to live in a
good Parsonage, and to be educated respectably, one ought at least to
give some return for it, and not always go idling about and dreaming. I
should like to know what would have happened if you had not taken the
poor thing in. I suppose she would have been running about with those
acrobats, and have died in the streets, like any other poor wretch.'
A man from Dalarne came across the yard; he had his pack on his back,
although it was Sunday. He came very quietly through the open
kitchen-door, and curtsied when he entered, but no one took any notice
of him. Both the mistress and the maid saw him, but as they knew him,
they did not think it necessary to interrupt their conversation.
The Pastor's wife was anxious to continue it; she felt she was about to
hear what she needed to ease her conscience.
'It is perhaps as well she is gone,' she said.
'Yes, ma'am,' the servant said eagerly; 'and I am sure the Pastor thinks
just the same. In any case he soon will. And the mistress will see that
now there will be more peace in the house, and I am sure the master
needs it.'
'Oh!' said the Pastor's wife, 'I was obliged to be careful. There were
always so many clothes to be got for her, that it was quite dreadful. He
was so afraid that she should not get as much as the others that she
sometimes even had more. And it cost so much, now that she was grown
up.'
'I suppose, ma'am, Greta will get her muslin dress?'
'Yes; either Greta will have it, or I shall use it myself.'
'She does not leave much behind her, poor thing!'
'No one expects her to leave anything,' said her adopted mother. 'I
should be quite content if I could remember ever having had a kind word
from her.'
This is only the kind of thing one says when one has a bad conscience,
and wants to excuse one's self. Her adopted mother did not really mean
what she said.
The Dalar man behaved exactly as he always did when he came to sell his
wares. He stood for a little while looking round the kitchen; then he
slowly pushed the pack on to a table, and unfastened the braces and the
straps; then he looked round to see if there were any cats or dogs
about. He then straightened his back, and began to unfasten the two
leather flaps, which were fastened with numerous buckles and knots.
'He need not trouble about opening his pack to-day,' Lisa said; 'it is
Sunday, and he knows quite well we don't buy anything on Sundays.'
She, however, took no notice of the crazy fellow, who continued to
unfasten his straps. She turned round to her mistress. This was a good
opportunity for insinuating herself.
'I don't even know whether she was good to the children. I have often
heard them cry in the nursery.'
'I suppose it was the same with them as it was with their mother,' said
the Pastor's wife; 'but now, of course, they cry because she is dead.'
'They don't understand what is best for them,' said the servant; 'but
the mistress can be certain that before a month is gone there will be no
one to cry over her.'
At the same moment they both turned round from the kitchen range, and
looked towards the table, where the Dalar man stood opening his big
pack. They had heard a strange noise, something like a sigh or a sob.
The man was just opening the inside lid, and out of the pack rose the
newly-buried girl, exactly the same as when they laid her in the coffin.
And yet she did not look quite the same. She looked almost more dead now
than when she was laid in her coffin. Then she had nearly the same
colour as when she was alive; now her face was ashy-gray, there was a
bluish-black shadow round her mouth, and her eyes lay deep in her head.
She said nothing, but her face expressed the greatest despair, and she
held out beseechingly, and as if to avert their anger, the bouquet of
myrtle which she had received from her adopted mother.
This sight was more than flesh and blood could stand. Her mother fell
fainting to the ground; the maid stood still for a moment, gazing at the
mother and daughter, covered her eyes with her hands, and rushed into
her own room and locked the door.
'It is not me she has come for; this does not concern me.'
But Ingrid turned round to the Dalar man.
'Put me in your pack again, and take me away. Do you hear? Take me away.
Take me back to where you found me.'
The Dalar man happened to look through the window. A long row of carts
and carriages was coming up the avenue and into the yard. Ah, indeed!
then he was not going to stay. He did not like that at all.
Ingrid crouched down at the bottom of the pack. She said not another
word, but only sobbed. The flaps and the lids were fastened, and she was
again lifted on to his back and carried away. Those who were coming to
the funeral feast laughed at the Goat, who hastened away, curtsying and
curtsying to every horse he met.
V
Anna Stina was an old woman who lived in the depths of the forest. She
gave a helping hand at the Parsonage now and then, and always managed
opportunely to come down the hillside when they were baking or washing.
She was a nice, clever old woman, and she and Ingrid were good friends.
As soon as the young girl was able to collect her thoughts, she made up
her mind to take refuge with her.
'Listen,' she said to the Dalar man. 'When you get onto the highroad,
turn into the forest; then go straight on until you come to a gate;
there you must turn to the left; then you must go straight on until you
come to the large gravel-pit. From there you can see a house: take me
there, and I will play to you.'
The short and harsh manner in which she gave her orders jarred upon her
ears, but she was obliged to speak in this way in order to be obeyed; it
was the only chance she had. What right had she to order another person
about--she who had not even the right to be alive?
After all this she would never again be able to feel as if she had any
right to live. This was the most dreadful part of all that had happened
to her: that she could have lived in the Parsonage for six years, and
not even been able to make herself so much loved that they wished to
keep her alive. And those whom no one loves have no right to live. She
could not exactly say how she knew it was so, but it was as clear as
daylight. She knew it from the feeling that the same moment she heard
that they did not care about her an iron hand seemed to have crushed her
heart as if to make it stop. Yes, it was life itself that had been
closed for her. And the same moment she had come back from death, and
felt the delight of being alive burn brightly and strongly within her,
just at that moment the one thing that gave her the right of existing
had been torn from her.
This was worse than sentence of death. It was much more cruel than an
ordinary sentence of death. She knew what it was like. It was like
felling a tree--not in the usual manner, when the trunk is cut through,
but by cutting its roots and leaving it standing in the ground to die by
itself. There the tree stands, and cannot understand why it no longer
gets nourishment and support. It struggles and strives to live, but the
leaves get smaller and smaller, it sends forth no fresh shoots, the bark
falls off, and it must die, because it is severed from the spring of
life. Thus it is it must die.
At last the Dalar man put down his pack on the stone step outside a
little house in the midst of the wild forest. The door was locked, but
as soon as Ingrid had got out of the pack she took the key from under
the doorstep, opened the door, and walked in.
Ingrid knew the house thoroughly and all it contained. It was not the
first time she had come there for comfort; it was not the first time she
had come and told old Anna Stina that she could not bear living at home
any longer--that her adopted mother was so hard to her that she would
not go back to the Parsonage. But every time she came the old woman had
talked her over and quieted her. She had made her some terrible coffee
from roasted peas and chicory, without a single coffee-bean in it, but
which had all the same given her new courage, and in the end she had
made her laugh at everything, and encouraged her so much, that she had
simply danced down the hillside on her way home.
Even if Anna Stina had been at home, and had made some of her terrible
coffee, it would probably not have helped Ingrid this time. But the old
woman was down at the Parsonage to the funeral feast, for the Pastor's
wife had not forgotten to invite any of those of whom Ingrid had been
fond. That, too, was probably the result of an uneasy conscience.
But in Anna's room everything was as usual. And when Ingrid saw the
sofa with the wooden seat, and the clean, scoured table, and the cat,
and the coffee-kettle, although she did not feel comforted or cheered,
she felt that here was a place where she could give vent to her sorrow.
It was a relief that here she need not think of anything but crying and
moaning.
She went straight to the settle, threw herself on the wooden seat, and
lay there crying, she did not know for how long.
The Dalar man sat outside on the stone step; he did not want to go into
the house on account of the cat. He expected that Ingrid would come out
and play to him. He had taken the violin out long ago. As it was such a
long time before she came, he began to play himself. He played softly
and gently, as was his wont. It was barely possible for the young girl
to hear him playing.
Ingrid had one fit of shivering after the other. This was how she had
been before she fell ill. She would no doubt be ill again. It was also
best that the fever should come and put an end to her in earnest.
When she heard the violin, she rose and looked round with bewildered
glance. Who was that playing? Was that her student? Had he come at last?
It soon struck her, however, that it was the Dalar man, and she lay down
again with a sigh. She could not follow what he was playing. But as soon
as she closed her eyes the violin assumed the student's voice. She also
heard what he said; he spoke with her adopted mother and defended her.
He spoke just as nicely as he had done to Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren. Ingrid
needed love so much, he said. That was what she had missed. That was
why she had not always attended to her work, but allowed dreams to fill
her mind. But no one knew how she could work and slave for those who
loved her. For their sake she could bear sorrow and sickness, and
contempt and poverty; for them she would be as strong as a giant, and as
patient as a slave.
Ingrid heard him distinctly and she became quiet. Yes, it was true. If
only her adopted mother had loved her, she would have seen what Ingrid
was worth. But as she did not love her, Ingrid was paralyzed in her
efforts. Yes, so it had been.
Now the fever had left her, she only lay and listened to what the
student said. She slept a little now and then; time after time she
thought she was lying in her grave, and then it was always the student
who came and took her out of the coffin. She lay and disputed with him.
'When I am dreaming it is you who come,' she said.
'It is always I who come to you, Ingrid,' he said. 'I thought you knew
that. I take you out of the grave; I carry you on my shoulders; I play
you to sleep. It is always I.'
What disturbed and awoke her was the thought that she had to get up and
play for the Dalar man. Several times she rose up to do it, but could
not. As soon as she fell back upon the settle she began to dream. She
sat crouching in the pack and the student carried her through the
forest. It was always he.
'But it was not you,' she said to him.
'Of course it was I,' he said, smiling at her contradicting him. 'You
have been thinking about me every day for all these years; so you can
understand I could not help saving you when you were in such great
danger.'
Of course she saw the force of his argument; and then she began to
realize that he was right, and that it was he. But this was such
infinite bliss that she again awoke. Love seemed to fill her whole
being. It could not have been more real had she seen and spoken with her
beloved.
'Why does he never come in real life?' she said, half aloud. 'Why does
he only come in my dreams?'
She did not dare to move, for then love would fly away. It was as if a
timid bird had settled on her shoulder, and she was afraid of
frightening it away. If she moved, the bird would fly away, and sorrow
would overcome her.
When at last she really awoke, it was twilight. She must have slept the
whole afternoon and evening. At that time of the year it was not dark
until after ten o'clock. The violin had ceased playing, and the Dalar
man had probably gone away.
Anna Stina had not yet come back. She would probably be away the whole
night. It did not matter to Ingrid; all she wanted was to lie down again
and sleep. She was afraid of all the sorrow and despair that would
overwhelm her as soon as she awoke. But then she got something new to
think about. Who could have closed the door? who had spread Anna Stina's
great shawl over her? and who had placed a piece of dry bread beside her
on the seat? Had he, the Goat, done all this for her? For a moment she
thought she saw dream and reality standing side by side, trying which
could best console her. And the dream stood joyous and smiling,
showering over her all the bliss of love to comfort her. But life, poor,
hard, and bitter though it was, also brought its kindly little mite to
show that it did not mean to be so hard upon her as perhaps she thought.